emminz - Tumblr blog

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It didn’t stick! I’m going to reblog this every time I relearn the same lesson

BREAKING NEWS: Writer discovers for the millionth time that they can write whatever they want. Join us now to see if the lesson will stick.

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"Would you like to stay here then? A day, a week, however long you please. I have space to spare and could use the company."

She nodded at the candle a few times, placed it on the shelf beside the bundle of grey, and turned her faded eyes to him. "I will stay, but on this condition: if you thrice lay a hand on me, I will go the way I came, and you will never see me or mine again. Twice I will forgive you, but a third I will not bear."

With broad smiles, he took her hand and kissed it. "I accept your condition without one of my own. You are welcome here."

(Alternative cover for The Silver Skin)

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(Find The Silver Skin on Wattpad here)

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Going public with a short story about love and boundaries on the Irish coast

Based on a traditional Irish legend of a sea folk woman who marries a human and sacrifices her home for his. Immerse yourself in the atmosphere of the emerald isle in this ageless fairytale about jealousy and forgiveness.

"If you thrice lay a hand on me, I will go the way I came, and you will never see me or mine again. Twice I will forgive you, but a third I will not bear."

(Find it on Wattpad here)

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Three and Three Make Six - ch 16ish pt 1

Night fell upon Dunburgh with increased intensity when the pieces for executing the Chief’s plan began to fall into place. Vincent and Struan had worked together – alarmingly enough – to identify those who could introduce Freya to the circles where she needed to dwell to be seen by those whose eyes would lift her to be seen by all. Edwin had located them, and Dominic was able to provide a detailed plan for drawing their attention. Gale, for his part, had kept the maids distracted from snooping.

A woman by the title of Lady Vasques – though no one knew whether it truly belonged to her – was thought the ideal candidate for an introduction to the high society of Dunburgh. The heiress of an age-old merchant emporium, she possessed the right connections and stood to win the most and lose the least from whoever might ultimately claim the crown. A public declaration of support was too much to ask of her, but all Freya needed was a whisper in the correct ear and the right door left ajar at the right time.

Struan was able to charm the Lady into meeting the fallen queen, which he reported took rather little coaxing, causing Vincent to furrow his brow with worry.

“That doesn’t surprise me,” he said, looking concerned despite his words. “She is known to be a shrewd businesswoman. Appeals of sympathy will not work on her.”

“That’s all fine and dandy,” said Freya with rather too cheerful a tone. “I never planned to seek any from her. It’ll be business only. What else do we know about her?”

Vincent rubbed his temple and fetched from his pocket a long list of gathered intel, some as helpful as notes on what her servants had bought at the market that morning. Three apples. How scandalous.

“She is unmarried and has no children. Hates her younger sister, who was driven out of the city three years ago. Owns three homes, the location of one of which we have not been able to confirm. She has not declared any political stance whatsoever and appears to throw her influence behind whoever or whatever seems to be the winning cause.”

“Doesn’t she sound like a true delight?”

Struan smirked, leaning on the back of the chair before the dressing table in Chief and Freya’s room where the four had gathered. “Edwin reports she is in daily correspondence with some noble’s offspring at a grand house. Nobody interesting – boringly single, he confirms – but I doubt she would want that knowledge made public. Imagine what her enemies would do with it.”

“Isn’t blackmailing her with the information just what they would do?”

“Sure,” he shrugged, “but we’ll blackmail politely. There’s a difference. I can tell you from experience she’s not the most pleasant person you’ll meet. Wanted to smack her more than once, but I managed not to. If you want details on the love affair, you should ask Edwin before you meet her on Friday.”

“And today is?”

“Somewhere between Tuesday and Wednesday.”

“Wednesday by now,” Vincent confirmed with some dread.

Freya set her heart on asking Edwin about the affair next time she could catch him, which was admittedly not easy, the man being professionally elusive to the point of appearing invisible even to his allies. She resorted to waiting for him in his room when Thursday was turning to Friday and Vincent still lingering above the murky cloud of sleepiness. She intruded on his hospitality, and the two chatted about the history of the city.

She noted that he slept by the door, while Edwin slept, apparently, by the window at the end of the rectangular room, a small fireplace separating their sleeping spaces to ensure distance. The bed on the wall opposing Vincent’s was empty, and there Freya sat. Roaring laughter emitted from the adjoining room, where the three remaining downstairs-dwellers exchanged thoughts and stories from the past day. The atmosphere was never so lively on this side of the wall, where the two silent men engaged mostly in quiet rumination.

When Edwin entered, quiet as always, and caught sight of Freya, the master of disguise was too surprised to fully hide it. The lonesome room had become his sanctuary of normality and daily rhythm, the place where all followed a script. Each morning, he would wish Vincent good night, and they would both consider how unfitting a phrase it was, but neither would comment aloud, and both would go to sleep with the uneasy feeling that something was astray. Then, he would watch light climb higher on the other side of the flimsy curtain which reminded him more of the shrouds of the dead than luxurious blockers of daylight, and he would wonder whether he, too, had died long ago and now lived some waking dream.

But now she was there, breaking the circle of despair, and before he could fully grasp the situation, Vincent was excusing himself and slipping out of the room like he had never belonged there. Then, it was just the two of them.

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Reblogging this now that I relearned this to see if it will stick

BREAKING NEWS: Writer discovers for the millionth time that they can write whatever they want. Join us now to see if the lesson will stick.

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“For example: A writer sets out to write science fiction but isn’t familiar with the genre, hasn’t read what’s been written. This is a fairly common situation, because science fiction is known to sell well but, as a subliterary genre, is not supposed to be worth study—what’s to learn? It doesn’t occur to the novice that a genre is a genre because it has a field and focus of its own; its appropriate and particular tools, rules, and techniques for handling the material; its traditions; and its experienced, appreciative readers—that it is, in fact, a literature. Ignoring all this, our novice is just about to reinvent the wheel, the space ship, the space alien, and the mad scientist, with cries of innocent wonder. The cries will not be echoed by the readers. Readers familiar with that genre have met the space ship, the alien, and the mad scientist before. They know more about them than the writer does. In the same way, critics who set out to talk about a fantasy novel without having read any fantasy since they were eight, and in ignorance of the history and extensive theory of fantasy literature, will make fools of themselves because they don’t know how to read the book. They have no contextual information to tell them what its tradition is, where it’s coming from, what it’s trying to do, what it does. This was liberally proved when the first Harry Potter book came out and a lot of literary reviewers ran around shrieking about the incredible originality of the book. This originality was an artifact of the reviewers’ blank ignorance of its genres (children’s fantasy and the British boarding-school story), plus the fact that they hadn’t read a fantasy since they were eight. It was pitiful. It was like watching some TV gourmet chef eat a piece of buttered toast and squeal, ‘But this is delicious! Unheard of! Where has it been all my life?’”

— Ursula K. Le Guin, Genre: A Word Only a Frenchman Could Love (via queenofattolia)

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On internal silence and what to do with it

Maybe the reason I feel so strange after taking a longer break is that I have my head to myself and know not what to do with it. It feels empty and bare without all the people usually in it. Now that I hear my thoughts, I see how meaningless they are.

I intend to put this to good use. Instead of having three large projects open and ongoing at once, I will try to cram into my head only the characters of one or two projects and see if that will help me focus. I have also managed to purge out some disused, half-thoughtout characters who were clearly just taking up space.

Still, I'm having difficulties getting the main characters back in. Better luck with the WP project, but the book MC eludes me. I think I lost her sometime in April, and the jealous diva is refusing to return. She shall have me all to herself once all this is finished.

She knows that a lie. There will be more tenants moving in.

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Bidding farewell to writing

Why, when you are all I live for, must you be so all-consuming?

Any moment not spent writing is a moment spent fretting about having lost the ability.

But the break is a welcome one. Take these people out of my head and let me be mine for a moment. Let me hear my own thoughts, and let them come to me in my own voice.

And let me read. God, let me read! Let me take a break and acquire new thoughts instead of polishing old ones.

I expect the break will not last a month. I expect you to come to me despite all the walls I build. Though, do I ever? You are the most welcome intruder.

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21.6.23

Despite much despair yesterday, wrote 2119 words.

Today not much time. Drafting story forward; got good ideas from Mr. Programmer. The man is a mine for mayhem.

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Distractions

Today I don't want to do anything. I don't want to transcribe. I don't want to write. Making one sentence feels like a chore.

I am looking forward to taking a long break next month.

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Poetry overcome!

I persevered in the battle with poetry! Meter and rhyming began to come naturally after enough struggling. I got much done yesterday and polished the rest today. I failed to make it perfect, but hey, I'm writing a story, not a guide to writing verse.

Not much new writing got done today, however. I spent the day despairing over having to transcribe all I had written yesterday by hand and proceeded to have a constant stream of distractions. Tomorrow shall be another day of distractions, and Wednesday even more so.

On Thursday, maybe, I will get to write more of the deeper points of route Z. I finally get the character, and wish I could sink myself into his world, but not much good can be done with a scatterbrain.

I got 2714 words of yesterday's writing transcribed, though in truth, that number includes some couplets from today. We shan't be too pedantic about it.

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Day 1 of blogging. Day 1151 of serious writing.

I suppose I should consider this day 168 of taking writing actually seriously.

Mr. Programmer and I discussed the Z storyline for the super secret VN project and now have a plan for how to proceed. The character still does not feel as clear to me as the others do, but having a plan to proceed with does give it some steam. I wish I could see and hear him as clearly as most of the others, but alas, some things take time, I suppose.

Yesterday was a day of distractions, next weekend will be spent at the summer cottage. Over the next week, I will try to push the VN and Wattpad projects to a point where I can abandon them during our extended trip and not have to maintain thoughts in working memory. During the trip, I'll be focusing on hunting for the fleeting main character of the story intended to be set where our trip is going to take us. I need to get a feel of her if I intend to ever be able to craft that story without it turning into a terrible self-insert.

All right, enough babbling for now. I have the house to myself, and I've got a horrid poetry scene to get through. The scene should not be horrid in the actual finished product, but why oh why must writing it be so difficult...