Ahh, the first day off of the week!
So let me update you loyal readers with a few things!
Until March 31st, 2017, I will be participating in a Novel Contest through Inkitt.com. (Although it asks you to sign in, it is totally free, and is basically just so you can add things to your personal reading lists.)
Anywho, this writing contest isn't just voting and such. There are several factors that go into judging all the fine stories that were submitted. Firstly, there is the count of 'reads' a story gets. This is basically every click my story gets that would send a reader to it's first chapter, as well as all subsequent clicks to other, later chapters.
I am currently at 94 'reads'!
And though that makes me feel wonderful, there is another aspect in which stories are judged. This is the over-all 'hooked-ness' of the readers who click on my story. This is judged by time spent reading a chapter, how many chapters are read in succession, if a free copy is downloaded for reading, if it is added to a reading list, etc... Inkitt will collect all of this data and analyse it to see if it is publish-worthy.
Every contestant gets 100 free copies that are available to readers. I am down to 89.
The number of copies left also factors in to where on the listing your story places. For example - contest entries with 0 copies left are usually at the top of the list. Therefore, people are far more likely to click on them and read them, as opposed to mine, which has 89 copies left, and takes 5 clicks of the "show me more" button to find.
SO I took the liberty of posting the link to said tale in my right hand link column there --->
It is The Cellar City Chronicles.
It is also Rated R, mature audiences only, at least 18+ please.
PLease enjoy and support your local Oru!
It would seem she very much needs the support that is sometimes very fleeting in these parts. Of time. And The World.
Oru
Friday, February 24, 2017
Tuesday, February 7, 2017
The Wedding
Someday, there will be an autumn night with a crisp, clean sky, free of clouds. The stars will shine in their sockets like diamonds and a cool breeze will drift lazily across the rolling yard. Several red and brown leaves will scatter into the paths of patrons as they arrive, all dressed to match their masks.
The invitation will be written on them, arriving like a mystery to their doorsteps. A singular note attached for a response says, 'This mask is your invitation & entry, so please dress to match.' On which will be the date and time, in silver or gold ink, scrawled like magical items.
The affair would be in and outdoors; a hall to eat with a lawn beside, tables dotted among the stars with lanterns burning and a few fire pits glowing, like the campfires of a traveling gypsy band on the road. Indoors shall be lit by crystal and candle; colored glass and paper to match the wedding party.
Each one wears a mask. All of them do. Including the bride and groom, situated as royalty among their subjects. A gown from a dream, dotted with shimmer and cut well out of fashion with the day and age of things. Tapered sleeves - or not. Perhaps a half cloak lined with deep, deep crimson satin. Or not. Perhaps a flowing sash & twist down the side of burgundy and deep-sea blue. Maybe. But out of a dream. Happy and smiling, mysterious eyes, surrounded by friends.
And the groom is so charming, like a prince from this fairy tale. Elegant and poised, a delicate smirk perched on his lips at all the little joys that his bride receives on this night. He is groomed and well-pressed, and shines like satin himself, and only shines brighter when the bride is near.
Their first dance is like the perfection of Fred Astaire and Ginger Rodgers. Like butterflies they swirl about the dance floor, enthralling their guests with a dream-like display, where their eyes are locked, and their bodies move without the second-guessing hesitation of beginners.
The banquet is home-made and with love, by friends who smile at the plentiful compliments. The speeches are tearful and humorous, with quick quips and sincerity enough to fill the room with light. The vows - oh the vows, all hand written. Gasping as if speaking their emotions for the first time, discovered anew in the beauty of their words. Hands held. A kiss, a kiss to soothe a tempest-sea, a kiss to level a mountain, a kiss that could shear a whole field of wheat, break down doors, shatter windows, stoke a dying ember into an inferno, a kiss is shared.
And celebration? Lasts until the wee hours of the morning, where the patrons finally seem to awaken, as if from a dream. Most seem to have lost their masks, and now look upon each other as if recognition had just touched them.
They smile.
The invitation will be written on them, arriving like a mystery to their doorsteps. A singular note attached for a response says, 'This mask is your invitation & entry, so please dress to match.' On which will be the date and time, in silver or gold ink, scrawled like magical items.
The affair would be in and outdoors; a hall to eat with a lawn beside, tables dotted among the stars with lanterns burning and a few fire pits glowing, like the campfires of a traveling gypsy band on the road. Indoors shall be lit by crystal and candle; colored glass and paper to match the wedding party.
Each one wears a mask. All of them do. Including the bride and groom, situated as royalty among their subjects. A gown from a dream, dotted with shimmer and cut well out of fashion with the day and age of things. Tapered sleeves - or not. Perhaps a half cloak lined with deep, deep crimson satin. Or not. Perhaps a flowing sash & twist down the side of burgundy and deep-sea blue. Maybe. But out of a dream. Happy and smiling, mysterious eyes, surrounded by friends.
And the groom is so charming, like a prince from this fairy tale. Elegant and poised, a delicate smirk perched on his lips at all the little joys that his bride receives on this night. He is groomed and well-pressed, and shines like satin himself, and only shines brighter when the bride is near.
Their first dance is like the perfection of Fred Astaire and Ginger Rodgers. Like butterflies they swirl about the dance floor, enthralling their guests with a dream-like display, where their eyes are locked, and their bodies move without the second-guessing hesitation of beginners.
The banquet is home-made and with love, by friends who smile at the plentiful compliments. The speeches are tearful and humorous, with quick quips and sincerity enough to fill the room with light. The vows - oh the vows, all hand written. Gasping as if speaking their emotions for the first time, discovered anew in the beauty of their words. Hands held. A kiss, a kiss to soothe a tempest-sea, a kiss to level a mountain, a kiss that could shear a whole field of wheat, break down doors, shatter windows, stoke a dying ember into an inferno, a kiss is shared.
And celebration? Lasts until the wee hours of the morning, where the patrons finally seem to awaken, as if from a dream. Most seem to have lost their masks, and now look upon each other as if recognition had just touched them.
They smile.
Tuesday, December 13, 2016
Another Moment of Panic
SO sometimes I think I can submit things to publishers.
I'm sure I could. It would be easy. Now-a-days it is mostly just copy & paste, copy & paste, copy & paste, send, send, send. Put your name + 'Submission' in the subject line, write a goddamned query that outlines the story and the main character and lays out themes that are focal to the plot, and please also list any credentials that you may have that we say we aren't going to be influenced by when we read this.
I've got this problem. I Love-hate writing. (Love is capitalized, so that's the bigger half.) I want to be able to tell the damn story I want to tell. That's it. I want to be able to put it into words so that someone else can pick it up, read the damn thing, and then look at me with understanding and appreciation because they could see what I saw. I just want to share.
Writing is flipping hard. And Editing makes me want to die. Shoot me in the foot, club me over the head and toss me off the boat, die. What made perfect sense before becomes this shameful, slobbering mess of garbled nonsense drooling all over itself for attention. It's desperate, sloppy, half crippled, mangled by the elements, with blood trickling down its face from an open head wound that is causing severe memory loss and dementia.
Just being created in the first place seems to turn all of my stories into traumatized war zone survivors.
I end up looking at them and just freeze. Who ARE you!? Where the HELL is my story?! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH THEM!? I can't work with you, I barely KNOW you! What are you wearing? Where are your shoes? Wasn't your hair brown? Weren't you supposed to be funny and wacky? Where is your continuity? What the hell drugs are you on right now!?
SO. I look at the publishers and I get all excited. Not a lot are accepting submissions, you know. Writing is a very popular past-time. Lots of people are doing it. Everyone. In the world. Is submitting. Except me.
But then I think of the puss-oozing, infected injury that I have saved on my hard drive, and I run. LIKE HELL. That isn't what I want people to see! I want them to see what I see! Or rather, What I SAW. The glory, the awe, the emotions, the viscera, the inspiration, the glowing summer sunrise in a far off land.
They aren't finished. They aren't good enough to send out. SO I struggle, painfully, slowly, achingly, desperately to edit, chip and polish them. And underneath the ripped clothing I had so carefully laid out for them when this all began is more ripped, soiled clothing. And beneath that are muddy hand wraps and leg warmers, unecessary and too loud, and beneath that are mismatched socks, drawstring underwear, and then dirt. Dirt, dirt, dirt. Layers of the stuff. I have to scrape at it.
But I can hear it whimper when I scrape too hard. Or maybe thats me. And when I try to throw out the torn shirt, I realize it's their favorite, lucky shirt. It could be the only reason they survived. And maybe the dirty hand wraps are gifts from a dear friend they lost in the war. The legwarmers were the last remaining posession of a little girl it had saved from falling debris, and thus were given as thanks for my tale's heroic act.
And the story looks at me with such great sad eyes. And I know it blames me for the blood trickling down its face, dripping off of its chin. And the worst part, the absolute worst is that it wants me to fix it. It is begging for me to fix it. It howls at the moon, praying to be fixed. And I know that in order to fix it, I first have to tear it to pieces. I have to take the lucky shirt and patch it. I have to find the other matching socks. I have to run a load of wash, and throw the story into a boiling kettle to clear the filth. Then I have to perform surgery without anesthetic. I have to go in with sharpened pen and snip and stuff and clip and poke. I have to bear through the weeping and the screaming and the protests.
And then I can only hope that it survives.
.... No pressure though, I'll submit. Eventually. Sure. No pressure.
No pressure.
Oru
I'm sure I could. It would be easy. Now-a-days it is mostly just copy & paste, copy & paste, copy & paste, send, send, send. Put your name + 'Submission' in the subject line, write a goddamned query that outlines the story and the main character and lays out themes that are focal to the plot, and please also list any credentials that you may have that we say we aren't going to be influenced by when we read this.
I've got this problem. I Love-hate writing. (Love is capitalized, so that's the bigger half.) I want to be able to tell the damn story I want to tell. That's it. I want to be able to put it into words so that someone else can pick it up, read the damn thing, and then look at me with understanding and appreciation because they could see what I saw. I just want to share.
Writing is flipping hard. And Editing makes me want to die. Shoot me in the foot, club me over the head and toss me off the boat, die. What made perfect sense before becomes this shameful, slobbering mess of garbled nonsense drooling all over itself for attention. It's desperate, sloppy, half crippled, mangled by the elements, with blood trickling down its face from an open head wound that is causing severe memory loss and dementia.
Just being created in the first place seems to turn all of my stories into traumatized war zone survivors.
I end up looking at them and just freeze. Who ARE you!? Where the HELL is my story?! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH THEM!? I can't work with you, I barely KNOW you! What are you wearing? Where are your shoes? Wasn't your hair brown? Weren't you supposed to be funny and wacky? Where is your continuity? What the hell drugs are you on right now!?
SO. I look at the publishers and I get all excited. Not a lot are accepting submissions, you know. Writing is a very popular past-time. Lots of people are doing it. Everyone. In the world. Is submitting. Except me.
But then I think of the puss-oozing, infected injury that I have saved on my hard drive, and I run. LIKE HELL. That isn't what I want people to see! I want them to see what I see! Or rather, What I SAW. The glory, the awe, the emotions, the viscera, the inspiration, the glowing summer sunrise in a far off land.
They aren't finished. They aren't good enough to send out. SO I struggle, painfully, slowly, achingly, desperately to edit, chip and polish them. And underneath the ripped clothing I had so carefully laid out for them when this all began is more ripped, soiled clothing. And beneath that are muddy hand wraps and leg warmers, unecessary and too loud, and beneath that are mismatched socks, drawstring underwear, and then dirt. Dirt, dirt, dirt. Layers of the stuff. I have to scrape at it.
But I can hear it whimper when I scrape too hard. Or maybe thats me. And when I try to throw out the torn shirt, I realize it's their favorite, lucky shirt. It could be the only reason they survived. And maybe the dirty hand wraps are gifts from a dear friend they lost in the war. The legwarmers were the last remaining posession of a little girl it had saved from falling debris, and thus were given as thanks for my tale's heroic act.
And the story looks at me with such great sad eyes. And I know it blames me for the blood trickling down its face, dripping off of its chin. And the worst part, the absolute worst is that it wants me to fix it. It is begging for me to fix it. It howls at the moon, praying to be fixed. And I know that in order to fix it, I first have to tear it to pieces. I have to take the lucky shirt and patch it. I have to find the other matching socks. I have to run a load of wash, and throw the story into a boiling kettle to clear the filth. Then I have to perform surgery without anesthetic. I have to go in with sharpened pen and snip and stuff and clip and poke. I have to bear through the weeping and the screaming and the protests.
And then I can only hope that it survives.
.... No pressure though, I'll submit. Eventually. Sure. No pressure.
No pressure.
Oru
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