Writer's Log: Insecurities and Language Barriers

Fri, 14 Jun 2013 16:12:41 GMT

So here I am. Back again to the drawing board and over-thinking every approach.

The problem, once again, is Kitsune.

I'm not sure why this story insists on being obstinate and not working with me when I want it to work. I love Moriko. I love Takeo. I don't know why every time I sit down, it has to be this grand battle between expectations and reality.

The truth is, when I sit down, I instantly start thinking of how un-poetic this new opening is, as compared to the old ones I've started and set aside. (I did notice that the opening in Scrivener came out really well, but I'm not sure if it was from the program or my mind-set at the time.)

So. I think it's time to just let it spill out.

Why isn't Kitsune working right now?

Because I'm putting so many expectations on it.

Because every single word has to be compared to Maggie Stiefvater or Laini Taylor or Nova Ren Suma. Every word has to shine. It has to overpower the reader with its beauty.

Because I put too much expectations on Moriko. I want her to say everything right the first time around. I don't give room for errors.

I want the story to be right the first time.

And I'm making it too hard.

What are some solutions?

The parents like the very first draft. Maybe I should use that as my blueprint.

Sumayyah Daud suggested bullet-pointing scenes in a notebook and then padding them up on paper. Maybe I should do that for the scenes of the first part, since that's the part that's driving me spare.

Remember that I have critique partners and friends who are going to look over this when it's done. Don't stress out over the writing.

Use the Scrivener coupon and transfer my writing to there. I hear too many good things about it, and I seem to have been doing good when I was using it myself.

Use these authors as an inspiration, not a yardstick for my own faults. Remember to steal like an artist. They are like fairy godmothers. Amparo said Nova Ren Suma is my spirit animal, so I should take it that way.

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Inkstains Contest 33: "The Bloodied Pen"

Sat, 07 May 2011 01:53:27 GMT

author's note: lydia, her love for poetry, and that rakish fiend gilbert all belong to me. do not touch, or you will find yourself dragged by your hair through a thicket of thorn bushes and the wrath of all originally minded, self-respecting authors from past and future. you have been warned.

The problem was that Lydia didn’t quite know what word rhymed properly with “murder”.

She held her quill above the paper, watching as the ink splattered like puddles of rain onto the worn road of parchment. It was a satisfying sight, but it would be more delightful - in her opinion at least - if the drab black were instead bright scarlet, drops wrought not from a well of liquid coal, but the neck of a man.

A certain irksome, handsome, utterly frustrating man.

There was no denying that Mister Gilbert Fairfax (of the Middleton Fairfaxes, mind you, not the scandalous Fairfax-Yorks of Edmonton who were tied up in the unpleasant coop against the governor not a decade ago) was handsome. And irksome. And, at least to poor Lydia, quite frustrating.

It had all started over a line of poetry.

Not just any line of poetry, to be sure. It was a line of Wordsworth, the type of perfectly balanced, nature-ornamented delicacy that Lydia would mentally balance on her tongue like a cube of sugar and savor slowly, closing her eyes for every single syllable. Poetry was Lydia’s first love, right after the smell of fresh soap on her newly washed fingers, and Mother’s hot biscuits for dinner on a cold winter night.

Her mother once said that it was a pity that all the good poets in England were either married, of a distasteful status or political party affiliation, or dying of lack of recognition for their greatness. Lydia, the twelfth daughter of fourteen, seemed destined to remain bound to the words that captured her soul and wither away slowly - but in a delicate, beautiful manner - beside the fireplace without her absence ever being noticed. Because she was always so quiet, you see.

Of course, Mr. Fairfax had taken it upon himself to change that.

There was a sickening snap, and Lydia looked down, bewildered, to find her reddened, and until that moment wonderfully scented, fingers coated in ink. It was just as well. Lydia was quite sure that the Muses who smiled down on all great poets had turned a blind eye when her name was mentioned in the Great Book of Inspiration Seekers. Any other worthy weaver of words would have refrained from alliterating “silent suffering screams” and added a little more drama to “bloodied hands fumbling in rope”.

Gilbert Fairfax deserved retribution in a way that a poem could not deliver - or, at the very least, a poem written at Lydia’s hands. Like all girls of her age, you see, Lydia had the zeal of youth on her side, and the female’s long-lasting ability to hold a grudge. He had ruined Lydia’s private sessions of poetry with the masters, and, come Hell or high water, he would pay.

And, like the snap of her quill, inspiration struck Lydia with all the passion of a knife sliding deep into flesh. She snatched up a new sheet of parchment, readied her weapon, and laid her trap with great fervour.

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just a spoonful of sugar

Writer's Log: Insecurities and Language Barriers

Inkstains Contest 33: "The Bloodied Pen"