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Post by readilygrey on Sept 2, 2012 21:31:21 GMT -5
Kids (and animals!) can do the creepiest things. Sometimes I think they really do see more than we do In the near future I'm going to try to write a small story and post the rough draft and the finished version just so you can see how different our writing process is.
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Post by PaperGrace on Sept 3, 2012 8:38:08 GMT -5
I have not ruled out the idea that The Doctor does in fact see something that I don't. *shudder* I would like that Grey. Then you can teach me how you do it, and maybe some day I'll finish something! I'm thinking that when I sit down to write my brain must reject anything that will need much revision, like a lazy kid that only wants to put together puzzles he's done a dozen times rather than try something new. This leaves me with writers block or 'permission' to write some little short thing totally off topic. I need to learn how to actually write what I intend. I want to be in charge sometimes! I'm so jealous of writers who have vision and follow through. I feel like any of my successful pieces are just luck.
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Post by PaperGrace on Sept 3, 2012 9:01:59 GMT -5
You must do the bulk of your editing before your fingers touch the keyboard I'm thinking that when I sit down to write my brain must reject anything that will need much revision, like a lazy kid that only wants to put together puzzles he's done a dozen times These are the same thing, aren't they? When I read your comment the first time I thought of it as 'writing a rough draft in my head', and then revising it when I wrote it down. That would be amazing. I totally wish I could do that. Instead it's like some insidious inner editor that only allows me to write safe things. It's unconscious too, and I don't know how to turn it off. I guess that's part of why I'm here. To learn how to write from scratch. To engage fully in the process. If I want to be a real writer I need to fix this.
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Post by scribbliz on Sept 3, 2012 10:08:56 GMT -5
papergrace, you are a real writer you may have room to improve (we all do!) and some room to grow and stretch, but that does not, in any way, mean you aren't a real writer! I know what you mean about writing only safe things, and I do believe that you can learn to take more risks with your writing, but please, be willing to take time for that to change. Just like learning new habits with housecleaning, I believe that you can learn new habits with writing, and that it will also take time. Hugs and prayers!
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Post by Freedom on Sept 16, 2012 14:17:56 GMT -5
I like trying to write something every day, but it's weird not knowing what is going to come out. Dittos Why things hatch out so whole I do not know. I wish I could direct it more firmly. Me too in one way, in another way I think it's a good thing that I'm not in charge, It is. I really would like to figure out how to plan something ahead of time, I'm getting more and more nervous about nanowrimo... it appears that I can write nearly every day, but not stay on topic. I have no idea where to go with the Lucy story that I started for example. I know that some people make detailed outlines to work from. Meh. Whenever I wrote a paper, if the teacher wanted to see the outline, I had to write the paper, then do the outline. I like my left brain and make it work pretty hard but I do not live there. papergrace, you are a real writer ! ^^^this^^^ You're the real deal. And IMO, we all are.
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Post by Freedom on Sept 16, 2012 14:19:57 GMT -5
From the perspective of The Doctor, based on eerie true events:
Despite my protests that I am not at all tired, Mommy turns out the lights. We lay on each side of her, little brother nursing, me twisting the sheets in my hands. I ask her for the rainbow song and she sings it for me, annoying me by starting from the very beginning instead of the part I like. "When all the world is a hopeless jumble, and the rain drops tumble all around; Heaven opens a magic lane." "No Mommy, do the rainbow." "When all the clouds darken up the sky-way, there's a rainbow highway to be found--leading from your window pane, to a place behind the sun, just a step beyond the rain." "Step on the rain!" Mommy laughs as she continues, finally, the good part! "Somewhere, over the rainbow, way up high..." "Mommy, who is that man?" "...there's a land that I heard of once in a lullabye." "Mommy, why is that man there?" "What man Snuggs?" "That man." I point to the tall figure standing next to our bedroom door. He is watching her carefully in the dark, his eyes following her movements as she detaches my sleeping brother from her breast and rolls over to join me. "Silly boy, there's no one here. It's just us. Daddy won't be home until late tonight, remember?" I sigh, "No, its not Daddy." The man stays in his place, between the door and the dresser, half in shadow. "He's right there." I point again. Can she not see him in the dim light from the alarm clock? If only there were a window in here, she'd have some moonlight to see by, or a street light or something. Why is she so calm? "I want window." "Buddy, there aren't any windows in here, you can't be seeing a man in the window." "Noooo! Not window." How is it that she knows what I'm going to do before I do it, but can't seem to understand me when I speak? It's so frustrating. And why isn't she telling me who this man is, or telling him to go away? "Go away. I don't want you." "Oh Snuggie, Mommy's not going anywhere. If you don't want to snuggle you can go sleep in your own bed." "Not my own bed. I don't want that man." "Snug, there is no one there. Just go to sleep." Mommy turns her back to me, adjusts the pillows again so that my brother will stay put. I can tell she's pretending to go to sleep. The man takes a few steps closer to the bed, still watching her. She stiffens, turns her head a bit and squints into the darkness. I can hear her heartbeat pick up. She pulls her feet up to meet mine, pulls her body as far up toward the head of the bed as she can; away from the man. He scowls and takes a few steps closer. Mommy gives a nervous chuckle. "Buddy, you have to stop squirming around so, you're making too much noise." "Not me Mommy, the man." "There's no one here." "That man is here." Mommy lunges for the lamp as the man climbs over the foot-board, her heart pounding so hard I can hear it through the mattress. We are all blinded momentarily by the bulb. "See buddy! There's no one there." The relief in her voice is obvious. "You were really starting to freak me out." The lamp stays on until Daddy comes home. Really really love this. Love it that Mommy is totally scared at one point -- suggests that she perceives the stranger in some way...
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Post by PaperGrace on Sept 27, 2012 17:33:23 GMT -5
;D Feels good to write again, even a little blurb. I posted a little something here just popping in to give myself a smiley face reward.
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Post by PaperGrace on Sept 28, 2012 21:27:35 GMT -5
;D Two days, two smileys. I wrote a letter to Christopher Robin from Winnie the Pooh in the same thread as yesterday. I meant to write something nice but...
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Post by PaperGrace on Sept 30, 2012 18:55:17 GMT -5
As requested by Husband, I'm doing a little bit of world building: Janna paced the square again counting her steps on each side. One hundred fifty two on this side, just like the last time she counted. She wrote the number in chalk on the wall. On to the right. One hundred fifty two paces. Yes. Chalking it on the wall she moved to the next one, holding her breath. One hundred fifty three. Janna looked at the chalk marks on the walls around her. Several times now she had counted this wall as being a step longer than the others. Just one step. Enough that the corner angles wouldn't be noticeably skewed. One more time she paced the odd wall, once more getting the same result. Her fingers moved deftly along the stones as she walked, searching for some difference, some flaw in the materials, some cunningly hidden catch. Was she going crazy? She'd been in this room for three cycles of sleeping and waking with no way to be sure how long that had been. The ceiling glowed constantly with a sort of phosphorescence that her eyes had slowly adjusted to, her mind desperately trying to assign it a color. Her pack was intact, the trail rations that were meant to last her the whole journey out to the ruins and back barely dented. She sucked slowly at the jerky she had put into her mouth upon waking, knowing that the salt wasn't doing her any favors. She had only two skins of water left. The ring she wore on her left hand would keep her alive when the water ran out, but how would that feel? How long before the thirst and the sense of being outside of time drove her to remove it? Janna fingered the dagger at her waist. Her hands searched the walls again. There had to be a way out. There had been a way in; when the trap triggered there had been a fall, and a normal, mundane grinding of stone. There had to be a way out.
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Post by PaperGrace on Oct 1, 2012 12:27:43 GMT -5
More world-building for Husband. Thousands of years passed between true-born kings. Each time the bloodline was carefully preserved for the first centuries, until war or famine, disease or madness called for an end to the carefully planned family unions. It was all wasted effort. It was foolish of the nobility to think they could capture the magic of true rulership, true oneness with the land through a simple breeding program. A soul is not hereditary. It doesn't pass down with the shape of the chin, the pigment in the eye, the arches of the feet. It can't be taught by tutors, handed down as family wisdom, whispered into a bassinet or from a death bed. Thousands of years pass, and the living rock shares its soul with one who is meant to rule. The land is in no hurry. It doesn't care about the fate of one nation or another. Power, fame, fortune, talent, station, these have no bearing on it's decision. It doesn't choose a worthy vessel, it shapes one. Today a true-born-king was born. There was no quaking of the earth, no starlight casting its eye on a humble dwelling, no choir or mystery. There was a grunt of effort, a tense moment with the more senior midwife sucking at the babe's nose and mouth, a soft wail of need, and then contentment and rest as babe was put to breast.
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Post by Freedom on Oct 1, 2012 15:52:40 GMT -5
Nice and nice!
Fav. parts:
The ceiling glowed constantly with a sort of phosphorescence that her eyes had slowly adjusted to, her mind desperately trying to assign it a color
It doesn't choose a worthy vessel, it shapes one
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Post by scribbliz on Oct 2, 2012 9:17:34 GMT -5
with the first one, i love how you portrayed her desparation...how strongly she NEEDS to get out, and the ring, I love the way you put that there with no real explaination, as though it were just a part of the world. with the second, my favorite line was "Thousands of years pass, and the living rock shares its soul with one who is meant to rule." It creates this feeling of immensity (sp?) and I really want to see where this story would go
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Post by PaperGrace on Oct 2, 2012 11:01:18 GMT -5
I should be working on my own world, the current one which so many of my short stories take place in, it has little blurbs as building blocks just waiting to be connected.
When I'm working on things for Husband it is because he's trying to trick me into running a role-playing-game at home with friends. He's good at the mechanics of these things, but is bored and wants to play in a game with a rich fantasy world rather than doing the math of how many monsters should be in this linear dungeon. I don't often want to run game, because I get bored figuring out the encounters. I can write setting and populate the world with real seeming people all day, but I don't want to look up the stats for fighting things. Right now I'm taking various conventions of gaming (pit traps, magic rings, Destiny) and giving them more depth. It's actually pretty fun.
In my games, the guard on duty at the castle gate has a wife and kids. He isn't paying attention as the thief is sneaking up behind him because he's got a lot on his mind; his mother-in-law is planning on moving in with them as soon as she can, his son longs to be a bard and they're having trouble finding common ground to connect on, he suspects that his wife is unhappy but hasn't the faintest idea what to do about it.
Right now I've agreed to work on a game, that I probably will run. I'm thinking about exploring Destiny. I'm taking some of the black and white Human/Elf/'Good Humanoids' VS Monsters/'Bad Humanoids' out of it--not by shoehorning in moral quandaries about wiping out nests of goblins, which has been done ("But wait, that one seemed like it had feelings?!"). I think I'm going to take most of the non-humans out altogether.
So--in brief--expect more of this world building stuff, where I take tried and true tropes of the Fantasy RPG Genre and just run with them.
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Post by PaperGrace on Oct 2, 2012 12:22:56 GMT -5
"Master?" "What is it Pip?" "There is a group of adventurers here to see you." "See to their horses and show them into the Chapel." Bosch sighed. This was getting to be more than a little bothersome. He pulled his dressing gown tighter around his frail body and willed himself out of his stuffed chair by the fire. As soon as he was out of it's immediate glow the chill of the room carved its way past the feeble flesh and into his bones. I'm getting too old for this nonsense.
Darlax paced across the floor of the Chapel, his plate armor chaffing him as he made the circuit. What was taking the priest so long? Doesn't he know there is Evil about? His companions never seemed to understand the urgency of his quest either. Lorelai was always stopping to find out what sort of magics might be found in the area. Janna didn't seem to care about his calling at all as long as there was a challenge to be found. Marek was the worst, in fact Darlax wasn't sure if they were really on the same side at all. There was something unnerving in the way the man almost hungered for battle. Still, they'd been travelling together for the better part of six months now, and as he followed the trail of the Evil Sorcerer who had kidnapped the Baron's daughter, replacing her with a doppelganger empty of soul and morals, they had proven themselves capable and willing comrades in arms. Darlax cleared his throat for the fifteenth time in as many minutes and started to rub at a spot on his breastplate with a little cloth he carried for that purpose.
Marek stifled a snort as he watched the paladin buffing his chest. He remained seated on the steps to the altar, half reclined, eyes barely open. His sword lay beside him still in its sheath, it too seemed to be relaxing casually on the steps. To an outside observer he would appear to be paying no attention at all. In reality Marek knew exactly how many little faces had peered through the darkened glass at the back of the apse. He knew which of those faces had appeared twice. Marek was alive because Marek knew exactly what was going on around him at all times. Occasionally Janna would escape his notice. That just makes her that much more worth watching. Right now he knew that she was someplace to his right. He couldn't see her, but he knew where she was within a few inches. He knew precisely when the door would open, fully thirty seconds before it happened.
The door to the Chapel opened and an old man walked slowly in, assisted by another of the young boys who seemed to populate the place. He was dressed in clerical vestments, the deep blue color of his order setting off his milky blue eyes. Lorelai wondered if the cataracts were part of the deal when becoming a member of the clergy. It seemed there were only blind old men left in this order. Darlax had clear eyes now, sure, but how would they look in twenty years. Maybe it was from reading too many books in too poor a light. If that were the case the blue eyed paladin would have nothing to fear. Tavern signs taxed his abilities. Lorelai would have to be careful herself though. Maybe she could invent a spell that cast a regenerating light to read by... "Master, these are the adventurers that have just arrived. Two men and a woman." She could feel the eyes of the priests' young assistant on her. Is it my fault that magic favors silk as a conductor? Though her gown left little to the imagination it was enchanted to be as sturdy an armor as Janna's leathers were, and was warm and comfortable for travelling. The same couldn't be said for the clunky metal worn by the men in her party.
Janna watched the old man turn his face toward the rest of her companions. He nodded slowly to each one, then paused. After a few seconds he turned his face in her direction, raising an eyebrow. "That is two men, and two women Tal." The boy followed the clouded gaze of the old man, squinting into the shadows. Janna stepped away from the wall, and the boy let out a startled gasp. "So it is Sir." The old priest let out a low chuckle. "I trust the engraving underneath the donation plate amused you Miss?" "Quite educational." Janna's lips curled upward ever so slightly. Damn. He is good.
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Post by scribbliz on Oct 2, 2012 14:14:00 GMT -5
now that sounds like fun
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