Writing spree

Yesterday I did two reviews of other's people's writing. It's exhausting. I now have a greater appreciation for anyone willing to review my writing. I had a bit of a writing spree. I was able to write 1144 words on the Fairy Tale and 1171 words on a new contemporary romance. I have given up reading for the foreseeable future. I am saturated and satiated.

NaNoWrMo

November is National Novel Writing Month. Where aspiring and established novelists spend a month trying to write from scratch 50,000 words of a novel. Many of them spend the month of October doing outlines and figuring out plot points. Others do a more extensive outline with phases that go into more detail than a basic outline. The goal is to make a huge dent on a never before written novel. There is too much going on in my life to try and attempt it this year. I have set for myself a goal to write something every day of Novemenber on my novels. As you can see I have lots to work on and if I could put aside everything else and use my free time to write who knows what I could accomplish. I will post how I do each day.

Dragon's Lair

The sound pulled him back through the labyrinth of time and up from the roots of the world. He rolled open the outer lid of his golden orb, blinked once. A sigh expanded his scaly ribs and pushed a wisp of smoke from his snout. He shifted his head out from under his forearm. It sent a cascade of gold coins bouncing down the mound of his hoard.
Silence.
A shuddered sob came from the small cave. They were so fragile these pale human maidens. This one only cried when she thought he was asleep. Most didn’t survive the flight back to the mountain. Others refused to eat the offerings from his fresh kills and had wasted away. A few fled from his fortress only to die on the mountain side ill equipped to travel in the harsh wilderness.
Always the humans left the maidens with the tribute he collected each year; gold for a promise to hunt in other pastures, on other livestock. He didn’t understand their need to sacrifice their daughters. Every year he carried them away.
Metal clad lads with swords girded around their waists and a lance across their shoulders followed some. The bodies littered the rocky base of his fortress. If they had only come to rescue the women he would have gladly sent them back down the mountain with the maid in their arms. Always they thought first to kill the beast. He was too old and wise to become prey to heroes.
Of all the offerings this one he had come to love. Her hair matched the color of his golden treasure. He’d lined her cave with jewels and glittering coins. She had taught him to use his fire on the meat she ate. But most important she sang. She filled the vast chambers of his fortress with music.
He turned his head to peer into her small chamber. Her tiny hands covered her mouth; her eyes filled with horror. “No,” she cried flinging out her arms to him. A flash of light against metal caught his attention as a broadsword pierced the pupil of his eye and imbedded itself into his brain. His lungs disgorged its fire as he writhed in the throes of death. Finally he lay still as his life ebbed away. His weeping songbird draped across his neck while the knight filled saddle bags with gold.

Another Flash Fiction I wrote for a writing contest on writing.com. Genre: Fantasy

The Barn Cat

Pyewacket woke with the rooster’s cock-a-doodle-do. She stretched her front legs kneading the hay with her claws. Her tail twitched at the thought of pouncing on that cranky old bird. She had been up most of the night ridding the barn of mice. The farmer expected her to do her job. The rooster crowed on the barn roof again. She would have to find someplace else for her morning nap.
The hay stacked to the rafters made a stairway for Pyewacket. She jumped down from bale to bale. She stepped along the edge of the sheep’s feeding trough like a tightrope walker. Large black headed sheep lifted their faces to regard her and bleated their greeting. This was not the place for a nap.
Pyewacket trotted across the barnyard as chickens pecked at the corn the farmer had scattered earlier. Hens stretched up on their toes and flapped their wings when she got too close to their chicks. She jumped sideways to avoid beak and claw. This was not the place for a nap.
At the stable Pywacket made her way to a freshly cleaned stall. She squeezed through a broken plank at the bottom of the stall door. She lifted her paws high to walk through the fresh hay that filled the space; winding her way between the horses’ legs. A new born colt struggled to its feet tottered for a minute and then took three shaky steps to get a drink from its mother. This was not the place for a nap.
The screen door on the farm house screeched and banged shut. Pyewacket streaked across the lawn and found a bowl of warm fresh milk by the porch steps. She lapped the milk until her muzzle was white with cream. She cleaned it off with her rough tongue. The farmer’s wife sat on a chair shelling peas. Pyewacket jumped up on the farmer’s wife’s lap spilling the bowl. She found herself dumped back on the ground. This was not the place for a nap.
Around the corner of the house a basket sat under the oak tree. Nearby the empty clothes line stretched across a sunny spot in the yard; clothes pins dangling from the wires. Sun-baked clothes filled the basket. Pyewacket curled up on the pile of folded laundry. This was the perfect place for a nap.

This is a story I wrote for a writing contest this past month. The criteria was a children's story less than 400 words.

Summer is upon us.

I read and read and read some more, then I wonder why I have left my own writing to languish. Some of the things I have read are wonderful and I can't imagine ever writing with that quality and other things I read I wonder who thought that was good enough to publish.


One Kiss, Chapter 10 (506 words), 276 words were moved to a new story. Finished the outline for One Kiss. Heir, Chapter 19(2370 words)

Insights from other authors

I have had a dearth of my own writing; still I think, eat and breathe writing. I research what other writers have to say about writing and internalize what I learn to either use or to discard. The latest site is johndbrown.com/writers/. He has interesting things to say about what makes 'knock you head off' good writing. The stuff that flies off the shelves in bookstores and we tend to devour in one sitting. The type of story we get emotionally invested in and think about long after we have read the last page.
I recently read 'Kite Runner' by Khalad Housenni and he definitely is the type of writer that gets you emotionally invested in the story. I was more aware of the physical reaction to such strong emotions; tight chest, tingle through head and arms and even tears. We love these kinds of stories because we can have a whole range of emotional responses without having to leave the comfort of our living room couch. It's like the old saying, "They may forget what you said but they will never forget how you made them feel".
With my own writing I write the things I would like to read. So in my free moments, as was suggested by by an author, mayalassiter.com/blog/?p=715 I progress my story so that when I sit down to write I can write and not have to stew about ideas or fight off the worries of the world. 300+ words on Tree of Life.

Writing always on my mind

Less than three hundred words written today but it felt marvelous. I keep telling myself to stay on task and get one of these manuscripts finished and then another story intrigues me and before you know it I have written nine thousands words on it. I stall on that plot and then visit my other characters that have been patiently waiting for me to continue on with their story and inbetween I read. I read like a glutton. Young Adult fiction like; 'A Thousand Splendid Suns', 'Ophelia', 'City of Ember', 'Inkspell', etc. I love to read the scriptures, non-fiction like 'Merle's Door', the back of a cereal box.
I love references in stories about writing. The latest is from Lloyd Alexander's 'the Arkadians'. Fronto, the Poet turned talking donkey, says, "Prose however is a different piece of business. Tales, anecdotes, narratives. All quite simple. Any fool can tell a story. take a few odds and ends of things that happen to you, dress them up, shuffle them about, add a dash of excitement, a little color, and there you have it."