Where Stories go to Die...

I'm going to tell you something that your other writer friends won't:

(Sometimes you have to let a story die.)

GASP!!!

This is NOT the same as giving up. And it's NOT the same as expecting perfection with the first draft. I'm not telling you to stop writing. 

The truth is, though, sometimes we as writers get in the way of our own stories. Sometimes all we can see is our own expectations of what we think the story SHOULD BE rather than what it NEEDS TO BE. And sometimes the story we WANT to write isn't the story we NEED to write.

FUCK what you want to write. Throw that shit away. Delete it. Burn it. Get quiet, banish your demons (or learn to dance with them), and MAKE ROOM FOR THE STORY YOU NEED TO WRITE.

And tell me about it! Does this sound familiar to you? Have you ever wrestled with the stories in your head? Leave me a comment here and tell me about it! Or follow me on twitter and talk to me there. That's where I live anyway.

Adventures in Fiction Writing! Part One: Characters

Afternoon Darlings!

If you follow me on twitter (and you should! Click here to join my adoring following) you probably already know that last year I wrote the first draft of a YA (that's Young Adult for you non-literary readers) novel called Road to Nowhere. I wrote the first words of the story on June 7th, and the last passage on Christmas Day. Romantic, huh?

The novel grew out of a writing prompt that my boyfriend Brandon picked out for me from a book that's literally FULL of them. He gave me the prompt: Newspaper headline ROAD TO NOWHERE SET FOR REPAVING and I sat down to write on it for 30 minutes. I reported on my initial efforts here. (Check it out!)

I've taken the month of January off from the WIP (that's Work-In_Progress for you non-literary readers. What a vocabulary lesson this is becoming for you!) to clear my head so I can dive into the dreaded Suicidal Second Draft with what I hope will be fresh eyes and a clear perspective. I've also decided, because I love you all so much and because misery loves company (mostly because misery loves company), that I will make the revise/rewrite/edit process a public one, here on my blog. So come along, friends! This should be an interesting ride!! 

My Adventures in Fiction Writing series kicks off with a post about CHARACTERS. What about  characters? We love characters, we hate characters. We write characters, we kill characters. Characters whisper scenes in our heads and yell at us when we write their voices wrong and sometimes change appearances halfway through a story.

Gah. I've turned into one of those annoying writers who talks about characters not only as if they're alive, but as if they're sentient and control me. ...
dsofjsdnfs;ljdkn;jdsgndjfsgn;dfjytuygbjhdbsjhbdfs
*Sounds of a scuffle*

This is Cobalt, star of ROAD TO NOWHERE. You will ignore everything Shana wrote about characters above.
poijojnlnljnibweASSDfzsfgfdbfdm   sd;fnsdlkfnsdljfnsfSd...../////
*Thud* *THUMP*

AHEM! This is me again. Cobalt's back where he belongs. Now where was I? Oh yeah: CHARACTERS.

Look, this isn't going to be a writing lesson. I'm not your fucking teacher. I don't have an MFA in creative writing. (That's Masters of Fine Arts. Pay attention please.) I am an educated woman, but everything I know about writing I've learned the hard way, and all of it is probably only true for me.

My truth is my truth and your truth is yours. But MY truth becomes clear when you share YOUR truth with me, and vice versa. That's equally true in fiction as in life. Entiende?

Here's a character chart I drew up when I was about halfway through my novel's first draft.

Notice how sparse it is. See how in the box for Mayor Orange there's only one descriptive term: FAT. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, Mayor Orange is fat. Below him , in the box I intended to fill with adjectives that describe Cobalt (introduced above), is one phrase: TOO-LONG BANGS. So, Mayor Orange (first name Princeton) is fat and Cobalt has bangs that fall into his eyes.

What's the deal with this? The thing is, I'm not a visual reader. Therefore, I'm not a visual writer. When I read your characters I don't tend to pay much attention to your description of their appearances, because I almost never remember it, anyway. I'm way more interested in how your characters speak and what they say and especially how they behave.


Of course, there are exceptions. If your character's appearance is an integral part of his/her, well, character, and if you repeat descriptions of it enough times I will remember it. Or if there's an aspect of your character's physical appearance that is an integral part of his/her personhood I'll remember that. For example, Rose the Hat's jaunty top hat in King's Doctor Sleep. Nearly every single time he mentioned Rose he described her hat, perched saucily atop her head at a gravity-defying angle. But you know what? The description never felt overdone. Moreover, it served to describe Rose herself, perched as she was at the top of the True Knot's society, which in turn perched saucily on top of our own society, at a gravity-defying angle.

Pretty deep, huh?

What else did Mr. King say about Rose? She was hot. Was she blonde? Don't think so. What color were her eyes? Don't remember. Don't care. But I'll always remember the hat.

And really I'm that flaky with my own characters, as well. I remember who the badasses are, and the villains. I can tell you which characters start out meek and discover their own strength during the journey. But who's the redhead? Which of the boys has freckles? Are you seriously asking me? I'm supposed to remember? So I made a chart.

I try to give each of my characters some physical trait that describes who they are in the story. I don't know that I'll get around to everyone, but so far I think I've touched each of the main characters.

Mayor (Princeton) Orange is fat, because he represents comfort and plenty. I mean this in both a nice, homey way as well as a selfish way.

Mayor Blue is skeletal and has the parched skin of a mummy because he is Want, and the death of hope.

Fern Viridian has brilliant green eyes and spiky red hair because she is all go, go, go! She has so much curiosity and energy that no one can stop her.

Midnight wears a John Cena tee shirt because she, too, will never give up. She wears a sparkly beaded headband to bring some light into Nowhere. During the story, she is scarred in a very meaningful way.

Navy's head was once shaved. Now his hair is growing back in patches. He wears a hoodie that's way too big for him. His shoes maybe fit two years ago. He cut the toes of the shoes open so his own toes would have some more room. Clearly, this is a neglected young man.

Amarillo Saffron has big, bouncy blonde curls, yellow-green eyes, and a winning smile. She also has spent much of her life trying to please others at the expense of herself. She thinks of herself as a pretty, delicate figurine to be perched someplace: pleasing to the eye but without any inherent strength. She discovers her strength during the story.

Cerulean Saffron has waist-length two-toned hair that she wears in her trademark blonde-and-blue braid that typically hangs over her shoulder. Why the two-toned hair? Duality. She is both of Somewhere and Nowhere. Like her older sister Amarillo, Cerulean is pretty, but in a sturdier, more matronly way.

Azure has blue eyes and strawberry blonde curls and a tiny body. She's 14, but looks more like 11. And that's all I have for her right now. Actually, I don't think this physical description really matches her character. Hmmm...I think I have some work to do with this one.

Denim is large and muscular. DEFINITELY need to work on this guy's physical appearance.

Mr. Scarlet is a main character without much in the way of physical description in the WIP. He doesn't even appear on my character chart. WTF is up with that?

(Yeah, I have a looooong way to go with this WIP. That much is clear.)

There are, of course, more characters than that in ROAD TO NOWHERE. But I think you get the idea. Even better, I've learned some more about my characters during this exercise. So it's a win-win!

And this concludes part one of my ongoing series this year, Adventures in Fiction Writing! Be sure to tune in next time when I write all about the Suicidal Second Draft!

AND REMEMBER:

21 Days of Words: SUCCESS!

Ladies and Gentlemen and Precociously Literate Children:

I am pleased to report that my 21 day writing challenge was a HUGE MOTHERFUCKING SUCCESS!!

I kept my commitment. I wrote every fucking day no matter how blocked, tired, or worn-out I felt. Some days I didn't write much. Other days I wrote a lot. But I wrote EVERY DAY. And since I didn't have any current works-in-progress at the beginning of the challenge I wrote all sorts of different, silly things. Sometimes I journaled. Sometimes I blogged. Most days I used prompts I picked or those picked by others.

And it was one of those prompts, picked by my awesome boyfriend Brandon, that proved to be the turning point for me. The prompt (a fake newspaper headline: "Road to nowhere set for repaving") began as just a silly lark but wound up opening up all new literary vistas for me. It's become my current work-in-progress. I'm writing it as a YA novel that I'm even considering trying to traditionally publish. Haven't decided yet. We'll see.

But I'm super excited about it. Squeeee!!

So thanks for all the moral support guys. You rock!! Writing rocks!! YAY FOR LITERACY!!

SNEAK PEEK: Road to Nowhere

Here's a little sneaky-poo from my #WIP, ROAD TO NOWHERE:

There was a billboard at the corner of Rainbow Street and Prism Boulevard, two blocks from City Hall, that overlooked the playground in Vibrant Colors Park:

A smiling mom and daughter were perched on the little girl's bed. The girl clutched a teddy bear. Mom held what appeared to be an inhaler, and was demonstrating the device's use to the girl. A banner splashed across the top of the billboard read: Neutral children sleep better, wake more refreshed. Be sure your child uses his emotion actuator each night. At the bottom of the billboard, in smaller type, was this message: Paid for by the Friends of Somewhere's Recycling Committee.

Follow me on twitter for updates as I continue to write! Look for these hashtags: #Wordmongering, #LetsWrite, #21DaysofWords, #WORDBITCHES, #AmWriting, #RoadToNowhere

What If...?

This writing exercise was inspired by two things:

A question asked by my boyfriend Brandon: "What if your mom had said yes all those years ago?"

And by an exercise in a writing book I found recently at the Goodwill, titled What If? Writing Exercises for Fiction Writers
The exercise is called creative wrong memory and it involves writing out a memory, but altering it in some way: adding color, changing the outcome, or changing the players. The idea behind this exercise is to learn how to mine your own memories for use in fiction.

So I combined this exercise with Brandon's question and came up with the following!

(A quick note on the formatting: the writing exercise advises the writer to use italics for any portion of the memory that is added or changed. So that's what I did. Thus, in order to indicate emphasis, I used bold.)

The day dawned crisp and sunny for everyone else in Santa Cruz. It was spring in the cute California beach town: the birds were chirping, the sea lions were barking, the hippies were sleeping it off in their vans.

My day, on the other hand, began on my knees in the bathroom of the Vertigo Cafe, with my face hovering inches over the toilet bowl. My friend John had taken me out to dinner the night before and I was saying goodbye to the chicken pot pie and garlic bread and mashed potatoes that I'd so eagerly scarfed down. I puked until I was empty and then kept at it for a while longer. Morning sickness was a real bitch.

I checked the wall clock behind the cash register when I left the bathroom after round fifteen or so. It was eight thirty in the morning. My mom was supposed to show up about three that afternoon. That left me with six-and-a-half hours to kill. I had no money, nowhere to go, a nauseous belly and three cigarettes in my pocket. But what else was new? Such was the life of a gutter punk.

The only good thing about being awake at that ungodly hour was that I had no competition for seats. Cafe Vertigo was the only coffee shop I'd ever heard of that stayed open until two in the morning, and from sundown til last call, any day of the week, the place was hopping. I'm talking standing room only. But today I had the place to myself. I grabbed a magazine, hopped up on the window seat, and settled in to wait.

Mom showed up thirty minutes late, true to form, with my little sister Melissa in tow. Melissa was my little sister only because she was three years younger than me, but at fourteen she was already tall enough to look down on me. I didn't know when that had happened. It had been more than a year since I'd seen her. God, everything changed.

Even my mom. It sounds stupid to say “She looked so old.” It sounded stupid to me even then, in my head. Because of course she was old. She was my mom. I'd gotten older and so had she. I guess that's what happens when you don't see people. They change and it surprises you.

“Look at you!” Mom said with a big grin on her face, “You look good!”

I smiled at the compliment but regretted it before I could manage a weak, “Thanks.” Was she for real? You look good? That was the first thing she thought to say to me when she came to visit me on the street?

Mom and Melissa headed to the counter to order coffee. I followed. Melissa ordered first: one coffee for her and one for me.

Mom ordered next: a cup of coffee for herself, then she turned around and asked me, “What kind of cigarettes do you smoke?”

“Um, Camel straights,” I said.

She added a pack to her order.

They paid, the cashier handed everyone their coffees, and then we moved back to our table. As we worked our way over, Melissa slipped a ten dollar bill into my hand.

“What is this?” I said.

“Take it,” she said.

“Thanks,” I said.

We settled into our seats, and that phony smile reappeared on my mother's face. “So how've you been?” She said.

“Good,” I said automatically.

A voice in the back of my head shouted: You have NOT been good! You've been fucking HOMELESS, and it's ALL HER FAULT. But I kept quiet.

“Did you have somewhere to sleep last night?” Mom asked.

“John got a motel room for me,” I said. Then, before I could chicken out, I blurted: “I'm pregnant.”

I took a big sip of the scalding coffee before anyone could ask me any questions. But nobody did.

“Wow!” Mom's eyes grew wide and her smile somehow intensified. “How wonderful!”

Melissa said nothing.

I blinked.

That was not the response I'd anticipated.

“Being pregnant is such a special time for a woman. I remember when I was pregnant with you, Shana.”

Continued smiling.

I opened and closed my mouth a few times before I stammered: “But I—I'm homeless. What am I going to do? I can't have a baby out here.”

I said the words, and they were like an incantation. For the first time since I peed in a cup at the Planned Parenthood and my condition was diagnosed it felt really real to me. Like it was really happening. I was really pregnant. There was a human being incubating in my womb, and in a matter of a few short months that baby was going to force it's way out of me.

What the fuck was I going to do?

No one said anything. Minutes ticked by and still no one said anything. Melissa stared at her coffee cup; I stared at my mom; and she just smiled that empty, sappy smile.

I lit a cigarette to fill the silence and sucked in its delicious poison gratefully.

“You're going to be okay, Shana,” Mom finally said, “You always figure something out.”

She meant for her words to be uplifting, but they weren't. I didn't want to hear about how I was going to fix the situation. I wanted to hear someone say they were going to rescue me. I wanted a hero. Because I'd never felt so helpless in my whole life.

“Tony's gone back home to Pennsylvania,” I said. “His mom won't send me a bus ticket so I can be with him. Not that I expected her to,” I added, “she doesn't even know me, but...I'm trying to get the money for one myself...John said he might be able to help...”

I let my voice trail off, hoping she would fill in the blank with something helpful like: “I'll buy you a bus ticket, Shana! Of course you need to be with the baby's father.”

But: “I hope you can find the money,” was what she actually said.

My own feeble hopes crashed to the floor.

Melissa's eyes flicked up from her coffee cup and met mine. It was just a moment, but it was long enough for me to see the hurt in her heart.

“We're gonna have to get going in a minute,” Mom said, “I promised Carlos we'd stop at Home Depot on our way back.”

They were going to leave. They were going to leave and then I'd be alone again. I panicked.

“Well, could I—I mean, could I maybe have dinner with you tonight?”

Melissa's head snapped up. “Yeah Mom, can she?”

Mom looked from me to Melissa and then back to me. In another timeline, this would be when she said no. It would be when she dragged my little sister out of the cafe and drove her home crying. It would be when she left me, her pregnant seventeen-year-old daughter, on the street. And it would be the last time I saw her for years.

But in this timeline Mom said yes.

“Fine Shana.” Heavy sigh. “You can have dinner with us. But you're not spending the night. So don't ask.”

“I won't,” I said.

“Yay!”Melissa said.

We stopped at Home Depot first like Mom promised my stepfather she would. She picked out planters for their backyard and Melissa and I played hide and seek among the two-by-fours. We laughed and laughed. My morning sickness was gone. For the first time in months I didn't feel like I had to watch my back. I felt like a kid again.

Me and Melissa were so busy having fun that when Mom was ready to go we were oblivious. She had to get one of the cashiers to call us three times over the loudspeaker before we noticed. Mom was so embarrassed! It was great.

On the ride to their house Mom gave us the low-down on how she wanted to handle dinner:

“You guys keep yourselves entertained outside or in Melissa's room until Carlos gets home. I want to be the one to tell him that we're having you over for dinner.”

I looked at Melissa. She rolled her eyes. I snickered.

“I'm serious Shana!” Mom said, glaring at me through the rear-view mirror. “The last time Carlos saw you wasn't the greatest time, if you remember.”

“I remember,” I said. And I did. I remembered my stepfather telling my mom he'd had enough of me. I remembered him telling her that either I had to go or he had to go. And I remembered her saying goodbye to me.

“I just want things to go as smoothly as possible,” Mom said, “so do what I say. All right?”

“Yes Mother,” Melissa and I chorused, then exploded in laughter. Mom heaved a weary sigh.

***

I heard Carlos slam through the front door about half past six. Melissa heard him too—I caught the look of fear that flickered over her face—but neither of us mentioned it, and the look was gone almost as fast as it came.

Melissa had been showing me the scrapbook she kept of the kids she babysat: a brother and sister, ages seven and three. After our stepfather came home we kept up the pretense of the show-and-tell for as long as we could, but the raised voices from the kitchen killed our high spirits. Before too long, Mom knocked on the door.

“Shana,” she said, pushing open the door without waiting for an invite, “I'm sorry honey but you're going to have to leave.”

Melissa started to cry.

“But we haven't eaten yet,” I said.

“I know,” she said. “This just isn't going to work out.”

“You'd let him do that?”

“Shana...”

Melissa cried harder.

“You'd seriously let him tell you not to feed your own daughter? Your pregnant daughter?”

“That's not fair.”

I stood up. “What the fuck do you know about fair?”

“Stop it Shana,” Mom snapped. “Don't make it worse. Just leave.”

“Are you giving me a ride?”

“No.”

“Of course not,” I said. “Am I supposed to hike the forty miles back to Santa Cruz?”

“I don't know. But that's not my problem. Figure something out. Or call your friend John.”

“I think he's visiting family in Santa Monica. Besides, I can't call him for everything. I'm not his responsibility. He's not my parent.”

“That's enough! Go. Now.”

I walked out of Melissa's room, down the hall, and into the entryway. Melissa's hysterical cries echoed throughout the house. I saw Carlos standing in the kitchen. He had his back to me. I flicked him off, then opened the door and walked out into the night.

Alone again.

Billionaire Playboy Seeks Mommy Figure

At the behest of my sexy, Batman-loving boyfriend Brandon, my writing prompt today was to compose a dating profile for Bruce Wayne/Batman.

Here's what I came up with:

I'm the man who has everything except a woman to share it with.

White male, 30-something, very physically fit, and more than comfortable financially.

You know my name, and have probably heard rumors of my sexual conquest of Gotham. I'm the “Billionaire Playboy,” right? Well, half of that is true. Few people know just how sensitive and lonely I am.

I'm looking for an understanding woman to share my days. Someone who can appreciate the finer things, yes, but also someone who understands discretion. Someone who gets both the light and dark sides of “Master Bruce Wayne.” Maybe someone who has experienced a trauma in her own life and thus knows where I come from emotionally?

Perhaps someone who can accept that I have an unusual and often dangerous job and won't ask prying questions? My work often keeps me out all night. Is it too much to ask that you have my slippers and cocoa at the ready when I return? After all, you look nice in that mink I bought you.

That's what I thought.

(Follow my 21-Day-Challenge here and on twitter with the hashtag #21DaysofWords!)

The People's Eyebrow

So it's Day 1 of my 21-Day-Challenge!! (Hashtag #21DaysofWords)

Tonight me and Brandon are also going to join countless other wrestling fans at a Ring of Honor (follow them on twitter!) show in San Antonio!! Soooooo excited!

So Brandon thought it would be fun for me to use a wrestling-related writing prompt today. I agreed, and we put the word out on twitter and facebook for ideas. We received several good ones, but I decided to go with this:

"The People's Eyebrow returns to the ring because..."

This awesome prompt was provided by my twitter friend James Neal (@BloodandBlade on twitter). Thanks James!

And here's what I came up with:

It was late-summer hot, the sort of hot that discourages all but the meanest of children and biting bugs from venturing out. Timmy and his little sister Sara played in their front yard. They weren't allowed to leave the small rectangle of parched grass that defined their space but that was okay. Today the lawn was a wrestling ring.

Sara raised one tiny fist to the sky and declared, in her squeaky little-girl voice: “The People's Eyebrow returns to the ring because...!”

“It's People's Elbow, dumbass!” Timmy said. He was ten and very worldly so he knew these things.

“I'm not a dumbass, you are!” Sara said.

“At least I know the difference between an eyebrow and an elbow,” her older brother retorted. “You can't even put Mr. Whiskers in a half-Nelson.”

Mr. Whiskers was Sara's most beloved stuffed animal. Once he was velveteen-soft and the delicious pink of whipped cupcake frosting. Today his fur was coarse and dishwater-gray. Sara clutched him in one grimy hand and shouted: “Yes I can!” Even though she had no idea what a half-Nelson was.

“Oh yeah? Let's see it then!” Timmy said.

Sara threw Mr. Whiskers to the ground and flopped down on top of him. “Count to three, ref!” She hollered.

Timmy, who had been crouched down on his haunches, fell over on his back laughing. He laughed so loud it drowned out the roar of traffic rushing by. He hugged his arms to his belly and gulped and coughed and sputtered.

Sara jumped to her feet. Her cheeks were red with indignation. “Stop it Timmy!”

“You...you...” Her brother started, then dissolved into another fit of giggles.

“Shut up!”

“You think that was a half-Nelson?” He finally managed.

There came a stirring from a few feet away.

Brother and sister stopped fighting. Their heads swiveled in the direction of the sound.

“She's getting up,” Sara said.

In front of their yard, in the strip of pavement that was the no-man's land between sidewalk and the black tar of the street, lay Kelly. She was seventeen and dangerous, with white-blonde hair that fell to her waist, a body that made all the men in the neighborhood stare, and green eyes that flashed fire when she got wound up—and she was always getting wound up. Sara had heard her parents call Kelly a lush. She didn't know what that meant, but she knew that the older girl got dizzy and fell down on the street a lot.

Sara tiptoed up to the very edge of the lawn to get a better look. Her brother followed. They stood there in silence and watched Kelly's eyes flutter open, unseeing. Suddenly, a daring grin spread across Timmy's face. He took a step onto the sidewalk. Sara gasped.

“What are you doing?” She said.

“I'll show you a half-Nelson,” the boy said and joined the semi-conscious girl in the gutter.

Timmy lifted her torso and twisted it around so that she was facing away from him and he held her arms up over her head while squeezing her from behind. Or he tried. Her arms went up and then promptly flopped back down. Her head lolled on her neck. Her pretty green eyes remained open but they didn't register anything.

“See?” Timmy said. “This is how you do a half-Nelson.”

Sara watched, simultaneously fascinated and terrified by her brother's daring move. Cars thundered past him but he seemed oblivious. He squeezed tighter.

“She couldn't move, even if she wanted to,” the boy said.

Then Kelly blinked, and life returned to her eyes. Color flooded into her cheeks. Her neck muscles stiffened. Her hands clenched into fists.

“Gah!” She sputtered.

In one swift move, Kelly ripped her arms out of Timmy's grasp, whirled around, and shoved him—hard—into oncoming traffic.

“NOOO!” Sara screamed.

Timmy's limp body sailed into the grill of a Ford pickup. He hit the truck with a spine-cracking crunch, then bounced off and flew into the gutter on the opposite side of the street. He landed in a twisted, lifeless heap and lay there, unmoving.

Kelly watched everything from where she remained—in the gutter on this side of the street. She didn't say anything, but her expression changed from fury to confusion to horror. Sara dropped to her knees. Blades of grass scratched her skin. Her tormented cries echoed back and forth across the busy street. She wanted to go to her brother and comfort him, but she couldn't. She was rooted to the spot.

She wasn't allowed to leave the lawn.

LET'S FUCKING DO THIS!!! 21 Day Challenge Starts.....NOW!!

Are you ready for this?

I said: ARE YOU READY FOR THIS??

Yeah? FUCK YEAH!!

Tomorrow is June first, official launch day of my 21-Day Challenge!! If you'll remember, I'm challenging myself to DAILY WRITING. That's writing of any kind: blogging, journaling, fooling around with writing prompts...whatever. The plan is to cement daily writing as a habit again. Once upon a time this was a no-brainer, but I lost my writing mojo and I'm trying to get it back.

And, hopefully, all this random writing will either inspire a new project or rekindle a love of one of my ongoing WIPs.

Because today is Day 1 of my #Staycation I did a little sneak-preview writing exercise. Brandon kindly picked out a writing prompt from one of my books, and I sat down and gave it a whirl.

Here's the prompt:

The headline in this morning's paper reads: “Road to Nowhere Set for Repaving”

And here's what I wrote:

Two mayors ate tough steaks and drank stale coffee in a diner off route 13. Mayor Orange was from Somewhere, Mayor Blue from Nowhere. They ate in a companionable silence. A newspaper lay on the table, folded so that the headline was visible: “Road to Nowhere Set for Repaving.” Mayor Orange paid the paper no mind. From time to time, Mayor Blue threw the headline a sour glance.

Mayor Orange's ample belly threatened to burst the buttons on his shirt. He belched affably and wiped gravy off his chins.

“This highway project will bring jobs and hope to your town, Blue. And if you don't mind my saying so, those are two things that are sorely needed in Nowhere. I don't understand your objections.”

Mayor Blue pushed his plate away with a scowl. His bony frame suggested that he'd pushed many full a plate away in his time.

“The citizens of Nowhere aren't looking for jobs! And they sure as hell aren't interested in hope.” He spat the word out like it tasted bad.

That's all that I got before I had to take The Teen to work. But I kinda like it as a start. It leaves me with a lot of questions: Who are Mayors Orange and Blue? What are Somewhere and Nowhere like? It sounds like Nowhere has been left to decay without jobs and reliable roads. Why? And why is the Mayor not happy with the coming improvements? If the citizens of Nowhere truly aren't interested in jobs and hope like he says, why not? What are they interested in?

I just may explore this one further during the Challenge!!


UPDATES WILL BE FORTHCOMING!! And look for my upcoming review of the Nancy Drew mystery series!!

21 Days in the Life of This Grrrl

*Gulp*

It's May. It's the end of May. June's fucking breathing down the back of our necks!

I don't want to say that 2013 has shaped up to be a literary failure of a year for me, but, well...

In 2011 I self-published 10 short thrillers and 1 memoir.
In 2012 I self-published 2 short erotic tales and 1 memoir.
In 2013 I embarked on a YA novel that sort of petered out, and then fell into a pit of blinding writer's block.

Draw your own conclusions.

I know, I know. It's not all about the numbers: numbers of books published, or numbers of books sold. It's not. My endlessly patient, loving and sexy boyfriend Brandon (Follow him on twitter!) tells me that whenever I get down. And I know he's right. But I'm a writer. Which means if I'm not writing, I'm just not myself. The world doesn't look the same. I can't think the same. I get all mentally constipated and cranky. It's uncomfortable for everyone around me.

But there's a bigger problem: when I get all stopped-up in the noggin, it's like I lose my inner story-teller. He's replaced by a flashing neon sign behind my eyes that says WHAT THE HELL AM I SUPPOSED TO WRITE?!?!?

I explained this to Brandon a few weeks ago, and because he's so incredibly thoughtful and believes so much in my writing he bought me a couple of books of writing prompts. (You can download them for your kindle!) I was sooooo excited! And I dove right in, promising myself and Brandon that I'd do a writing prompt each day until I got my spark back and could begin an actual project again.

It worked. For a few days. But then I got all lazy-writer again. And that's what brings me here today.

I've recently learned about a theory: The 21-Day Theory. It says that it takes 21 days to break or make a habit. That's it. Struggle through 21 days, and then you're Scott-free. Whatever habit you wanted to break will be broken. And whatever habit you wanted to make will be made.

Well I want to make a daily writing habit. I need to make a daily writing habit. I need to break this mental constipation. I need to see the world the right way again. I'm a writer, for fuck's sake. I live through WORDS. Stories. Tales.

So this is my grand announcement! Beginning June 1st (because it's my birthday month and because starting on the first of the month will just makes some sort of calendar-sense) I, Shana Hammaker aka @LiteraryGrrrl, will be doing a 21-day writing challenge!!

What will I be writing? Whatever. Certainly I'll be playing with the writing prompts. Sometimes I'll blog. I'm sure I'll do a bit of journaling. We all know how much I like to write about myself.

Of course I'll write between now and then. But the serious, down-and-dirty, I'm-gonna-fucking-do-this-because-I-mean-fucking-business begins June first.

And hopefully the mental constipation will be all cleared up by my birthday!! (That's June 25, y'all! Get ready!)

CROSS YOUR FINGERS FOR ME!!

More Writing Prompts!

This prompt was provided to me by Nick Gator on twitter:

When the Pope asks you to whack a guy, you whack a guy.

And here's what I came up with!

“You're being such a dumbass,” Sheila said.

“I don't have a choice,” Kevin said.

“Of course you have a choice!” Sheila was getting loud now.

Kevin rolled up the car windows. “You're gonna get us caught!”

“I'm gonna get you caught? Oh that's rich! You're gonna get your own stupid ass caught because you don't know what you're doing! And for what—to impress that asshole Frankie. Notice he's not here? Hmm? He's not going down with you Kevin!”

Kevin had noticed that Frankie wasn't there, but he preferred to believe it was because Frankie trusted Kevin to get the job done by himself. Of course there was no arguing with Sheila. But that didn't stop Kevin from trying.

“When the Pope asks you to whack a guy, you whack a guy.”

“Frankie isn't the Pope. And we're not talking about you whacking a guy. We're talking about you holding up the Walgreens.” She nodded toward the building out the window.

“Just shut up,” Kevin said and opened his door. He slung one leg out, planted that foot on the ground, then slung the other leg out. “I've gotta do this, Sheila.” He said in a less-than-convincing tone.

He stood, tripped over his laces, and fell face-first into the pavement.

“Ow.”

“You're such a dumbass, Kevin,” Sheila said.

Writing Prompts

Nearly seventeen years ago I brought The Teen into this world. 

In celebration of that, my awesome-and-handsome boyfriend Brandon gave me two books of writing prompts a couple days ago, to help cure my recent bout of writer's block.

Isn't he awesome?

So I've decided to share some of my experiments with these writing prompts with you, my adoring fans, I mean my friends in the blogosphere. Not every one, just the ones I particularly like.

Here's the first. Enjoy!

Prompt: The briefcase was heavy in his hand and the gun tucked into his waistband felt awkward.

Here's what I came up with:

 The briefcase was heavy in Tim's hand and the gun tucked into his waistband felt awkward. Who the Hell did he think he was kidding? He was no G-man. What the fuck was a G-man anyway? Did anyone even say that outside of 70s-era Bond movies? Relax Tim, he told himself. It's all gonna go down nice and easy. In and out in 15 minutes. Just collect the money and go home and bang Shannon.

An image of Shannon popped up in his mind: she was bent over at the waist in their walk-in closet, reaching for a pair of heels he'd purposefully moved out of her reach so he could get a look at her juicy ass.

“Dammit!” She'd said. “Why do my things always move? It's like they're playing tricks on me.”

“What are you going on about?” He'd laughed then. “Your things don't move.”

“Yes they do!” She waved the heels in his face. “These were in front, by my flip-flops. Then all of a sudden they're way in the back by my suitcase. Now why would I put these heels by my suitcase?”

Shannon flipped her unruly curls off her forehead and added, “Hmmm?” Her cheeks were rosy with indignation.

Tim felt himself get hard. He could've taken her right then: just bent her over the bed, ripped off her teeny white shorts and taken her, but Shannon would never allow that. She'd just scoff and tell him to be a man. That's what she was always saying: Be a man, Tim!

That's what this job was about, wasn't it? Proving to Shannon that he could be a man?  

Some People Call Me a Space Cowboy: Writer's Block and Other Disasters

Most of life is rush, rush, rush.
                        Work, work, work.
        Bitch, bitch, bitch.
With some periodic breaks for sleep, sleep, sleep, and, if you're lucky:
                                          Laugh, laugh, laugh and love, love, love.




Here's the rub: you can't live like that. Living like that is a recipe for insanity.

I've been struggling with a shit ton of writer's block lately. Hence the existential angst. Do you write? Have you suffered from writer's block? Are you engaged in other artsy-fartsy-type creative endeavors? Can you relate to the Writer's Block?

I'd love to start a conversation about this. Who the fuck do we creative types think we are, getting all angsty about having to live real life without a creative outlet? Are we really so special that we have to invent crazy-ass syndromes all for ourselves? Or is the creative mind just a bit, oh, let's say, unique (read: insane) and thus really does need a creative outlet?

Talk to me! Leave a comment and tell me how you've worked through your own creative constipation! Or, if you think writers are full of shit when we talk about writer's block, or struggle with our muse, tell me that! I won't bite!

And follow me on twitter!