Story Chain!

Deanna Barnhart's Gearin' Up to Get an Agent Blogfest is in its second week, and this one is awesome! All participants are helping to write a story, brilliantly pre-structured by Deanna. To see the list of participants, together with their prompts (and words-to-include), go here. To start at the beginning of the story (participants include a link to the blog after theirs, so you can follow straight through), go here. To just see the part before mine, go see Tayler Roseberry. (Fiona didn't post on time--or at all--so I skipped her. Sorry Fiona!)

My prompt is: Start the climax of the story. Your words are: song, prejudice, string


Here's my piece:


Dio was so startled, she didn't think. "Tony!"


"Dio? Where are you? I've been looking for you all day!"


Dio paused. What if this was the wrong Tony? "Um, I'm safe, I just--"


"You're at home?" Dio cursed the inventor of caller ID. Whoever it was must have been prejudiced against safety. "Hold tight, I'll be right there."


"No! Wait!" "Tony" hung up and Dio stared at the phone. Great.


Just then, in a flash of light, Roddern appeared in front of her.


"Roddern!" She rushed to hug him, but he grabbed her arms. 


"There's no time, Dio. The Grandoolex are planning an invasion. They want to destroy the fairies once and for all and they'll take mankind out with them. We have to seal all the portals. Now!"


"Seal all of them? How?"


Roddern shook his head. "I have no idea, but we only have about five minutes. I think I know what will help, though." He snapped his fingers and her book appeared in his hand. The Wish Granter. She'd never been one to trust in book titles before, but she fervently wished that this one was accurate.


Dio grabbed the book and frantically leafed through it, the smell of rotten eggs wafting up from its pages. There had to be something in here to stop the Grandoolex invasion.


From the couch, her mother cried out "Dio! Your necklace!" 


Confused, Dio reached into her shirt and pulled the circle out. It was glowing, pulsing in time with the frantic beating of her heart. "What do I do with it, Mom?"


Mom was breathing heavily. "You have to make it sing."


"Sing?"


Still panting, Mom gasped out, "Flowers open in your sun, rocks sing with your heart."


"What?" Dio had no idea what that meant, but mom was unconscious again.


She looked at Roddern. "Did you understand any of that?"


Roddern was staring at her mother and thinking hard. "I guess we need to make your heart sing."


Then he took two steps across the room, pulled her into his arms, and kissed her. 


Dio had been kissed before, but man! Roddern poured his whole self into the kiss. Despite the panic she'd been feeling a moment before, she melted into his arms and eagerly kissed him back.


After a moment, she felt a burning on her chest and pulled back long enough to see her necklace flashing a bright white light. Then it let out a piercing 5-note song and jerked upward. The thin chain broke like a piece of string and her rock hung suspended in the air for a heartbeat before bursting into a million pieces.




To continue on the chain, visit Angie Cothran next. She's scheduled to post at 11:30 PM EDT. Which means she gets an hour, so you know it'll be good!

How Do You Know When You're FINISHED?

Sunday night, my husband left on a week-long white-water rafting trip. It was rather sudden, actually, but he's off having a blast in an area with no cell reception. For the first time in our 11-year marriage, we will not be talking on the phone before bedtime.

Late Monday night, in response to the aforementioned departure of my sons' primary-care-giver, my mother-in-law generously agreed to double up on grandchildren and take my three boys a week early, the same week she's taking three of their cousins. That's six children aged ten and under. She's amazing, that woman. Truly.

So I'm all alone. By myself. Oh-so-lonely.

Whatever shall I do?

Oh, yeah. I can finish my edit!

After I finished the first draft, I let it sit for a month or so, edited it (cutting over 12,000 words), let it sit for another month while my awesome writer's group tore it to bits (though they mostly liked it), edited it again, sent it out to amazing beta readers who spotted more mistakes, rewrote the ending and the beginning again, let it sit for a few weeks, and now I'm over halfway through the edits suggested by my betas. I still need to hunt down wayward semicolons and over-used words and phrases, but then I'm rather at a loss about what else I can fix. I'm worried I'll do more harm than good if I keep fiddling. I know it's a bit long for my genre, but I don't know which scenes can be most easily sacrificed.

By the end of the week, I might start calling my WIP a Manuscript.

By the end of the week, I just might be ready to --

See? I can't even say it. Or type it.

Because once I hit send on a... you know... reality will inevitably fall. Once I hit send, industry professionals will start to tell me that I'm not actually finished. Right? Everyone says so. Even if it's perfect, it won't please everyone. I don't need it to please everyone.

But what if it pleases no one?

What if ONE MORE edit would do the trick? Should I let it sit for another month and then read it again?

HOW DO YOU KNOW WHEN YOU'RE FINISHED?

Yes, I know that my awesome blogfest buddy over at Novel Thinking already asked this question last week. There were lots of great responses. I even chimed in (oh, the irony). What I really want is for someone to say "Yes! Robin! Finish this edit and send that sucker out!"

'Cause then I can blame you when it all goes pear-shaped.

Poetry Summer Week 7: Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

My boys enjoyed The Charge of the Light Brigade. There was fighting and dying in it, so they were quite pleased. They made me do it twice so I could get it word-perfect.

This week's poem is about fighting death, about struggling to stay in this life for as long as possible. I come from a long line of long-lived people, so I plan to hang out here for quite some time. Still, there are lots of different kinds of death. Hope can die. Resolve can die. Goodness can die. We should fight not just to stay alive, but to live as well as we can. To do the most good we can while we're here.

DO NOT GO GENTLE INTO THAT GOOD NIGHT

by Dylan Thomas

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rage at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

So I seem to be doing a lot of poems about death, dying, mayhem, and sorrow. I tried to think of a different poem for this week, but couldn't. I'd appreciate some suggestions for happy, insightful poems for future weeks, k? Anyone?

I'm an Aspiring Author! (Chantele proves it)

Well, in case this blog didn't do the trick, the cat's out of the bag: I'm an Aspiring Author! Head on over to Chantele Sedgewick's blog to see my interview!

Gearing Up To Get An Agent Blogfest: "I just had to ask...."

This is the first week of Deana Barnhart's Gearing Up to Get an Agent Blogfest, and this week we're doing random writer questions!

So this is probably the lamest question ever, but, I've been wondering for a long time: What the heck is a semicolon good for?

Now, I'm pretty good at google, and I've found an awesome website that actually has a rather helpful poster about it (you can view it and even BUY it). After reading the poster tips, I think I have a better grasp on the semicolon (sorry--attorneys never ask questions we don't already know the answers to), but now I'm wondering if I'm using it correctly. So here's some semicolons I've forced into my WIP. Please let me know if this is a correct usage of that dreaded punctuation mark:

It had been taped to her desk in biology—marked over with devil horns and a forked tail; stuck to the bathroom wall—with bat wings and fangs; and slipped inside her English book—with blacked out teeth and crossed eyes.

The website really wasn't much help on the above: it didn't cover semicolons being used with em-dashes. (Em-dashes I love. Probably too much.)

He had no idea why they so stubbornly lived where no one wanted them; but as long as they were here, he, his three older brothers, and the rest of the San Antonio pixies were forced to mingle with the humans.

I'm pretty sure this is right... right? How about this one?

All in all, it might have been mildly pleasant if not for three things: his lips slammed into hers with the full force of his teeth behind them, pressing with bruising, one-directional force; the arm around her waist caught her lower right wing, folding it back at a painful angle until she almost cried out; he was so much taller than Brina, her head was forced backward until her skull rested on the back of her neck.

See, I think this one is good, too. I'm mostly including it because I like it. ;) I really do wonder about the next one:

Pixie scientists worked with the human variety to develop soon-to-be-essential drugs: Yellow anti-depressants; Orange energy supplements; Red-enhanced testosterone (quickly outlawed in competitive sports); Purple sleep-aids; Blue erectile aids; Green-enhanced vitamins; and White-enhanced psychotropics.

Should those semicolons be commas? I think commas would work, but there's the parenthesis... which I should probably get rid of, huh?

Here's more em-dashes:

Moira’s mother was always pulling her away to have mini-lessons on court politics—also known as gossip; fashion—also known as how to look like a slut without being labeled one; and eligible crown princes—also known as future husband possibilities.

Should those semicolons be commas?

Help?

UPDATE: To answer some easier questions (maybe--no promises), visit this list of blogfest participants.

A Winning Team

In April, I did a blog-swap with Michelle Davidson and posted (on her blog) about how great it was to have writer friends. I used Shannon Hale and Stephenie Meyer as an example of a great writer-friendship.

I'm so smart.

Shannon announced today that Austenland will be made into a movie! Shannon co-wrote the screenplay, so we know it'll be awesome! Keri Russell will star as Jane, and JJ Field will play an-actor-playing-Mr. Darcy!  Filming begins this week in the UK.

Stephenie Meyer is producing it, through her production company, Fickle Fish Films (others are also involved).

I stole this picture from the Twilight Lexicon site:
http://www.twilightlexicon.com/2007/09/09/shannon-hale-interviews-stephenie/

I, for one, am excited. This is amazing news.

Poetry Summer Week 6: The Charge of the Light Brigade

My 10-year-old son had a lot of trouble with the phonetic spelling of the French pronunciation of English words in De Stove Pipe Hole, but he was able to catch the times when what I said didn't seem to match up with what he was reading. He did a good job. So did I. :)

This week I am turning down Dan Wells' sub-challenge to memorize The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock. With all due respect to the poetry masterpiece and to those who understand and like it, I've tried to read it several times now and got bored. If I don't like it enough to read it, I'm a-never gonna be able to memorize it. Sad but true. Besides, I'm using this poetry summer to memorize those poems that speak to me--mostly those which have spoken to me for years. Prufrock doesn't. Sorry, Dan.

The Charge of the Light Brigade, however, contains several lines that I've quoted over the years in conversation. Most particularly, the line "Theirs not to make reply, / Theirs not to reason why, / Theirs but to do & die" strike me as poignant. So many times we are called upon to do things we don't understand, with orders handed down by people who can't fully appreciate our individual circumstances. There is a virtue in being a good soldier in many instances, but blind obedience is always scary. This is one of the reasons I'd rather be issuing orders than taking commands.

This poem is not about the Revolutionary War, but I suspect that war in general suffers from many similar moments of blunder and tragedy. Therefore, in honor of America's fight for independence so long ago, on the eve of Independence Day, I present The Charge of the Light Brigade.

The Charge Of The Light Brigade

by Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Memorializing Events in the Battle of Balaclava, October 25, 1854
Written 1854

Half a league half a league, 
Half a league onward, 
All in the valley of Death 
Rode the six hundred: 
'Forward, the Light Brigade! 
Charge for the guns' he said: 
Into the valley of Death 
Rode the six hundred. 

'Forward, the Light Brigade!' 
Was there a man dismay'd ? 
Not tho' the soldier knew 
Some one had blunder'd: 
Theirs not to make reply, 
Theirs not to reason why, 
Theirs but to do & die, 
Into the valley of Death 
Rode the six hundred. 

Cannon to right of them, 
Cannon to left of them, 
Cannon in front of them 
Volley'd & thunder'd; 
Storm'd at with shot and shell, 
Boldly they rode and well, 
Into the jaws of Death, 
Into the mouth of Hell 
Rode the six hundred. 

Flash'd all their sabres bare, 
Flash'd as they turn'd in air 
Sabring the gunners there, 
Charging an army while 
All the world wonder'd: 
Plunged in the battery-smoke 
Right thro' the line they broke; 
Cossack & Russian 
Reel'd from the sabre-stroke,
Shatter'd & sunder'd. 
Then they rode back, but not 
Not the six hundred. 

Cannon to right of them, 
Cannon to left of them, 
Cannon behind them 
Volley'd and thunder'd; 
Storm'd at with shot and shell, 
While horse & hero fell, 
They that had fought so well 
Came thro' the jaws of Death, 
Back from the mouth of Hell, 
All that was left of them, 
Left of six hundred. 

When can their glory fade? 
O the wild charge they made! 
All the world wonder'd. 
Honour the charge they made! 
Honour the Light Brigade, 
Noble six hundred!

Anyone else have issues with being good little soldiers?

Check out the #PoetrySummer hastag on Twitter to see who else is playing.