My husband's cousin recently finished writing a novel. I had the honor of reading her manuscript. It was fantastic. Better than fantastic. Science-fictiony-actiony-love-story-ish genius. I was blown away by her talent and imagination.
You'd think that maybe reading it would further inspire me to dive into writing the story I started, right? Well....not really. I read the fluffy love story I had begun and thought, Wow. This is totally lame. I told my brother that I started writing a book, and he replied with "Are there vampires in it?" He was being silly. But no. No vampires. Nobody has any super powers. Boring. The two main characters teach high school. Super boring. In Idaho. Ultra Super boring. I've written the beginning of the worst book ever written ever.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Writing and Stealing
I've started writing a story. I find myself thinking of that silly segment on Letterman "Is this anything?", where they have someone on the stage doing something ridiculous (remember the big bald guy who could spin the smaller guy on his head?), and Dave and Paul decide if it is "something". I haven't decided if this is "anything" yet.
I find myself stealing things. Like names. Not on purpose, but it happens. For example, my hero's name was Matt Pomfrey. To which James immediately pointed out, "Oh you mean Madame Pomfrey, from Harry Potter?" Oops. I was going to name a character Jacob. That's a common name, right? Well I can't do that because everyone will assume he is a werewolf. My main character's name is Emily Morris (changed from Emily Morgan, who I remembered is friend of mine from high school). Her nickname is Mo, a name that my sister bestowed upon me a few years ago. That's all well and good...except she is a teacher. My cousin is a teacher. Her maiden name was Mouritsen. What did her students call her? Miss Mo. Oops, again.
I've also noticed that how well I write depends a great deal upon how I feel. If I don't feel well, I don't write well. The last couple of days I have been ill, and I haven't been able to go anywhere with my story. The ideas are cliched and stalled, and the words are cheap and childish. I'm not trying to write the next Crime and Punishment or anything, but it would be nice if it didn't suck.
I find myself stealing things. Like names. Not on purpose, but it happens. For example, my hero's name was Matt Pomfrey. To which James immediately pointed out, "Oh you mean Madame Pomfrey, from Harry Potter?" Oops. I was going to name a character Jacob. That's a common name, right? Well I can't do that because everyone will assume he is a werewolf. My main character's name is Emily Morris (changed from Emily Morgan, who I remembered is friend of mine from high school). Her nickname is Mo, a name that my sister bestowed upon me a few years ago. That's all well and good...except she is a teacher. My cousin is a teacher. Her maiden name was Mouritsen. What did her students call her? Miss Mo. Oops, again.
I've also noticed that how well I write depends a great deal upon how I feel. If I don't feel well, I don't write well. The last couple of days I have been ill, and I haven't been able to go anywhere with my story. The ideas are cliched and stalled, and the words are cheap and childish. I'm not trying to write the next Crime and Punishment or anything, but it would be nice if it didn't suck.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
The Love Story
Whether it's a tragic doomed romance, the intense story of the hero saving the damsel, the classic opposites attract scenario, or the cheerful "buddy" story that develops between friends, the best part of any story is the love story. People and relationships. That's what people identify with, and that's the part of the story I remember most. I think that stems from my ability to fall in love, romantically or otherwise. I call it an ability, but it is also a weakness.
Women often have a "built-in" motherly love. It's the reason we cry every time we watch Dumbo (and don't act like you don't know which scene I mean). Everyone needs a home, a meal, and a snuggle. My sister Tirra and I have particularly large soft spots in our hearts for animals. Just yesterday a friend of mine mentioned finding an abandoned and abused dog, and I of course wanted to take it home without hesitation (unfortunately I am not in a position to pay the pet deposit at my apartment, or the deed would have been done). Motherly love sometimes trickles into our romantic lives. We want to "fix" our mates. We date a man not for who is now, but for the man he has the potential to become. Then, down the road we realize that we don't really want to be our boyfriend's mother. And that he doesn't really want a girlfriend--he wants a mother--and we have only been enabling, not helping.
Oh romantic love. Nothing can fill the soul quite like it, and nothing can cause the same kind of heartache. In high school and college I was often pining over unrequited love. I fell in love easily and often, usually with someone who was both undeserving of my affection and in love with someone else. If he wasn't in love with someone else, he became so after spending time with me. On multiple occasions I was the girl that the "he" went out with that made him realize that he wanted to marry the "her". Then there were the times that the physical chemistry masked the lack of emotional connection. Inevitably, his brain would catch up (Abort mission! She likes you too much!) and he would end the relationship. Naturally I would be devastated. I still thought I was in love.
On a much different note: Conclusions are not my strong point. I have been sitting here for about ten minutes thinking about how to wrap up this post. I can't just end it with "I still thought I was in love". There's no sense of accomplishiment. No sense of my point being made. Nothing that ties it all together. Plus it is kind of whiny, which makes me seem altogether unhappy. I am not unhappy. I am very happy.
Who doesn't want a fairy tale ending? Oh I'm sure we can all think of several people who don't believe in happily-ever-afters, but isn't the point of fiction? To willingly suspend your disbelief and enjoy the ride? And isn't the ride more enjoyable when there is a charmingly flawed hero trying to capture the heart of the jaded heroine?
Women often have a "built-in" motherly love. It's the reason we cry every time we watch Dumbo (and don't act like you don't know which scene I mean). Everyone needs a home, a meal, and a snuggle. My sister Tirra and I have particularly large soft spots in our hearts for animals. Just yesterday a friend of mine mentioned finding an abandoned and abused dog, and I of course wanted to take it home without hesitation (unfortunately I am not in a position to pay the pet deposit at my apartment, or the deed would have been done). Motherly love sometimes trickles into our romantic lives. We want to "fix" our mates. We date a man not for who is now, but for the man he has the potential to become. Then, down the road we realize that we don't really want to be our boyfriend's mother. And that he doesn't really want a girlfriend--he wants a mother--and we have only been enabling, not helping.
Oh romantic love. Nothing can fill the soul quite like it, and nothing can cause the same kind of heartache. In high school and college I was often pining over unrequited love. I fell in love easily and often, usually with someone who was both undeserving of my affection and in love with someone else. If he wasn't in love with someone else, he became so after spending time with me. On multiple occasions I was the girl that the "he" went out with that made him realize that he wanted to marry the "her". Then there were the times that the physical chemistry masked the lack of emotional connection. Inevitably, his brain would catch up (Abort mission! She likes you too much!) and he would end the relationship. Naturally I would be devastated. I still thought I was in love.
On a much different note: Conclusions are not my strong point. I have been sitting here for about ten minutes thinking about how to wrap up this post. I can't just end it with "I still thought I was in love". There's no sense of accomplishiment. No sense of my point being made. Nothing that ties it all together. Plus it is kind of whiny, which makes me seem altogether unhappy. I am not unhappy. I am very happy.
Who doesn't want a fairy tale ending? Oh I'm sure we can all think of several people who don't believe in happily-ever-afters, but isn't the point of fiction? To willingly suspend your disbelief and enjoy the ride? And isn't the ride more enjoyable when there is a charmingly flawed hero trying to capture the heart of the jaded heroine?
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Thoughts on Writing
I've been thinking that I should write a novel. I was really good at writing stories in high school. The trouble was, I took an already existing story and embellished it beyond recognition, but coming up with an idea of my own was somewhat of a challenge. I find myself in the same predicament. I sit and think about subjects for a novel....A beautiful princess is locked in a tower and a prince has to save her. A fairy tale? Really? Real original, Melissa. A boy and a girl from feuding families fall in love, and they have to run away to get married and fake their deaths, but in a tragic twist of fate they actually kill themselves. Shakespeare. A troubled pilot goes to Fightertown USA and his reel dies in a horrible training accident. Isn't that a movie? An adolescent boy discovers he has powers and is invited to attend a school for wizardry. Nope. A high school girl falls in love with a vampire? Taken. A werewolf? Shoot.
Some common advice for writers is to write what you know. So what do I know? I know I live in a small town. I know my family is more important than anything else in the world. I know that even though I love my husband more than anything, sometimes I still need a best girlfriend (my mom is a good one). I know I post on Facebook way too much, and that oftentimes the posts are way too personal to be sharing with the world. I know that if you put a rice heating pad in the microwave too long it stinks up the whole apartment/office for the rest of the day. Hmm....maybe I should rephrase the question: What do I know that is interesting enough to write a book about?
Dot dot dot.
Some common advice for writers is to write what you know. So what do I know? I know I live in a small town. I know my family is more important than anything else in the world. I know that even though I love my husband more than anything, sometimes I still need a best girlfriend (my mom is a good one). I know I post on Facebook way too much, and that oftentimes the posts are way too personal to be sharing with the world. I know that if you put a rice heating pad in the microwave too long it stinks up the whole apartment/office for the rest of the day. Hmm....maybe I should rephrase the question: What do I know that is interesting enough to write a book about?
Dot dot dot.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)