Weekly Roundup

Weekly Roundup for January 10, 2014

M G Kizzia Leave a comment

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For Friday, 1/10/14

Goal: 2,000 word per day, six days per week or roughly 10,000 to 12,000 words per week

This week:  10,700 word.  woo-hoo.

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            I gave one final review this week to The Hole in the World, a young adult fantasy which is ready to make the rounds.  At the same time, I have begun to track the use of names.  I mean, how many Bobs and Bills or Marys and Sarahs can I honestly write about?  More about the name game in a future post.  Meanwhile, here is  the story of The Hole in the World, and a snippet from chapter 1.  Enjoy …  

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            Duke Gregor and Princess Tanis make a hole between two worlds to escape the encroaching Empire, and in this strange new world, in our world, they find themselves adopted by the good people of Hardway Virginia.  You see, Tanis is pregnant, and it is Christmas Eve, and there just has to be room at the inn.

            Eighteen years later, the Empire sends an army to bring them back.  The Duke and the Princess reluctantly surrender when their eight-year-old son is taken captive, but they say nothing, because what the Empire does not know is there are two older siblings. 

            Now Davi and his sister Kyla need to go to that other earth. They need to rescue their parents and little brother, and more. They need to raise the armies in the East because the Empire is preparing to go to war. To succeed, Davi and Kyla are going to need help.  Fortunately, in eighteen years the family has made plenty of friends.  But what can even the United States military do in a world where magic rules and dragons are real?

            The Hole in the World is ready for print.  Somewhere, deep in the archives of this blog, is the beginning of Chapter 1.  The following is the middle of the first chapter, but I feel it is sufficiently independent to be worth the read …

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            “Put her on the couch.”  Virginia Robinson shouted.

          “No, the bed.  The bed!”  Mary Elizabeth McBain shouted as well.  Darcy Lewis pointed to the bed, but said nothing.  Her hand was on her phone.  Sheriff McBain was lucky to get the woman through the door without banging the woman’s knees or dropping her altogether.

          “Bill Cullen!  You’re a slob!”  “Get it clean.”  “Pull back the covers.”  The women all yelled.

          “Where’s the Doc?”  The Sheriff spoke over the din as he set the woman as gently as possible on the sheets.

          “Ungh.”

          “I’m calling!”  Darcy yelled at the phone.  “Taylor!  Pick up your cell!”

          “Boil water!”  Mary Elizabeth shouted.

          “What for?”  Virginia Robinson asked.  She pulled up a chair and sat beside the bed to hold and pat the woman’s hand.

          “I don’t know.  You’re supposed to.”  Mary Elizabeth looked confused. 

          The woman on the bed mumbled something in a strange language and Sheriff McBain ran back to the garage.

          “Where is this place?”  The man in the garage was dressed in chain mail and sported plenty of sharp weapons.  He looked all around the inside of the garage, but lingered on the electric lights.  He touched his horse, a familiar comfort in a strange land.

          “You.”  The Sheriff pointed at the man as he came out from the house, but he explained to everyone.  “His wife is saying something and we don’t understand.  I think she is calling for him.”

          “Come on.”  Tashi took the man’s arm.  Tom Robinson and the Sheriff followed. The others watched except Mister Beasley who still sat, held tight to his cards and sweated.

          “Ablus!  Ablus!  Gregor, te na pecosta deek nas.  Ablus.”

          “Tres gan dees,” Gregor answered as he came into the room, still looking, still wary of his surroundings.  He was glad to see Tanis being properly cared for.  He imagined there might be a price later, but he could not worry about that at the moment.

          “Gut daimen chee,” the woman said.

          “Yes,” Gregor answered in English.  “I still remember my tongue as well.”

          “This is good,” the woman also answered in English, and she smiled, satisfied.  “Ungh.”  She started another contraction while tires squealed outside and a car door slammed.  Doc Lewis bounded in as Tashi pushed on the medieval man’s chest.  She did not imagine her little self could move the mountain, but the Sheriff and Tom Robinson each took a hand and pulled and the man did not resist.  He knew men were not welcome at the birthing.

          “Bill Cullen.”  Bill met the man at the door with his hand out.

          “Duke Gregor of Galistra.”  The man took the offered hand.

          “Feels human enough.”

          “Hush!”  Tom Robinson pushed his glasses firmly up on his nose before he extended his own hand.  “Tom Robinson.”

          “Pleased to meet you,” the Duke said.  “I have known dark skinned men before.  When I was young we traded in Istallia and all along the Boran coast.  That was before the days of Empire and the rise of Emperor Kzurga.”

          “Well, Mister Duke,” Bill Cullen patted the man’s back in a friendly manner.  “Now that Doc Lewis is here, I’m sure Missus Duke will be just fine.”

          “Sheriff Ian McBain.”  The Sheriff put out his hand.

          Gregor paused and rolled his tongue as if tasting something.  “Law enforcement,” he said as he took the offered hand.  Then he thought to see to his horse.  The saddle and equipment were already removed, and a big man was rubbing the horse with a brush found in one of the satchels.

          “Ugly Bird.”  The man held out his hand.  “Fine animal.  Hard ride?”

          “Uh?”  Gregor became confused again.  He knew the words, but he could not imagine a man bearing the name Ugly Bird.  “Yes, and thanks.”  He patted the horse’s flank once again for reassurance.  “Where is this place?  Where am I?”

          “Cullen’s garage.  That’s me, Bill Cullen.  Hardway Virginia, USA.”

          “Definitely an illegal alien,” Tom mumbled and fiddled again with his spectacles.

          “You didn’t call an ambulance and you explained to Darcy?”  Ugly Bird looked at the Sheriff.

          “No ambulance,” Sheriff McBain confirmed.  “But I’ll be daft if I know what to do with them.”

          “Heart of the Blue Ridge Mountains,” Bill Cullen finished his introduction.  “Stupid slogan.  The Chamber came up with that thirty years ago.  Didn’t matter.  No one comes here.  Skyline drive is thirty miles that way.”  He pointed out into the dark.

          “I still think it was a good idea.”  There was a voice from the table.

          “Oh, yes,” Bill said.  “The old weasel is Mister Beasley, owner of Beasley’s Hardware here on Main Street.”

          “You play poker?”  Mister Beasley asked.   He had nearly crumpled the cards in his hand.

          “Give it up Mister Beasley,” the Sheriff said and Tom and Bill laughed.  “We know you got a winner.  Just take the pot.”  Mister Beasley nodded and started to do that, but Ugly Bird interrupted.

          “Full house.”  Ugly bird turned his cards face up.  “Trays over sevens.”  Mister Beasley set his cards down.  His full house was jacks over nines.  He grinned when he raked in the chips.

          “Christmas cookie Mister Duke?”  Bill held out the plate.

          “Gregor.”  The man insisted and he took one snowman shaped cookie gingerly in his fingers.  Bill picked up a Christmas tree and took a big bite.  Gregor tried his, and did not complain.

          “Eats human food, too,” Bill Cullen pointed out.

          “Where’s Galistra?”  Sheriff McBain figured it was time for some questions as the men began to settle once more around the table.  Gregor sat in the Doc’s chair for the moment, after he took off his various weapons and set them down.  He set them on a stack of old tires and took the seat where they would be near to hand.

          “Tanis?”

          “Don’t worry about her,” Bill said.  “Doc Lewis is the best and Darcy, his wife, is an RN.  And Virginia and Mary Elizabeth are there, too.  They’ll take good care of her.”

          “Virginia takes good care of me whenever I’m sick,” Tom pointed out with a look at the Sheriff.

          “I don’t get sick.”  Sheriff McBain countered.

          “The brown woman.”  Gregor tried to understand.

          “Black or African-American,” Tom said kindly; but Gregor shook his head in wonder.

          “And the one with the strange eyes?”

          “Tashi.”  Three men spoke at once.

          “She’s from Japan, I guess,” Tom said.

          “I thought she was Chinese,” Mister Beasley interrupted.

          Tom shrugged.  “Anyway, it’s a long way from here.”

          “So, where is Galistra?”  The Sheriff asked again to get back to the point.  Gregor imitated Tom’s shrug.

          “A long way,” he said.

          “Just north of the reservation.”  Ugly Bird retook his seat.  “No, really.  It’s the first train stop on the way to El Dorado.”

          “How did you get here?”  Tom ignored the joker and touched Gregor’s hand.  Gregor paused before he answered, but at least this was a question he could answer.

          “The Priest, his Eminence, Marchant of Baria conscripted the monks of Ghosh from the monastery on the island in the sea of Ghosh.  They made a hole in the world, a space, a door between Baria and this place.”  Gregor waved his hands to animate the vision.  “I don’t know how.  I know Anise, the witch of the forest observed from a distance but did not interfere.  Maybe she knows how.”  Gregor shrugged again and closed his eyes to better focus on what he was saying.  “Before we could get through, we were attacked by the Emperor’s minions, though they have a treaty with Baria as with Galistra and most of the eastern lands.  The Empire generally leaves us alone, but I guess our escape was enough to abrogate the treaty.”

          “You were attacked?”  Tom asked in a soft voice.  Everyone leaned forward, even if they did not understand everything about the story.

          “Vergeshim.”  Gregor nodded.  “Man-wolves.”  He wondered if they would understand.

          “Werewolves?”  Ugly Bird asked and Gregor nodded again.

          “Werewolves.  And the monks were not fit to defend against such.  To my shame, we ran.  Three followed before the door closed.  I believe I lost them, though, when we got to the black road and the high light without fire.”

          “I got werewolves running around the countryside?”  Sheriff McBain widened his eyes and began to sweat like Mister Beasley.  “Tell me you’re joking,” he pleaded, but somehow they all knew better.

          Tashi came out and pulled up a chair.  She appeared all bubbly and grinning.  “Mister, um,” She interrupted.

          “Mister Duke,” Bill spoke up.

          “Gregor,” he said and smiled for his nurse.

          “Is your wife a witch?”  Tashi asked.

          Gregor’s face contorted for a moment.  He raised his hand to strike Tashi on the mouth, but stopped his hand just as suddenly.  “I’m sorry.  You don’t know, but no.  Her art is most favorably given by blood of the royal line.  She is the Princess Tanis, heir to the throne of Aven, an island in the eastern sea and one of the few kingdoms still independent of the Emperor’s thumb.”

          “Oh,” Tashi said.  “Because she is floating about two inches off the bed, and glowing.”

          “Tanis.”  Gregor started to get up, but Tashi stopped him again.

          “She’s only four centimeters.  We have time to wait.”

          “Courage,” Ugly Bird said.  “I remember when Two Faces, my daughter was born.”  He laughed at a private thought.  “I thought I would have a bud while I waited.  Labor was eight hours and I was stinking by the time the baby was born.  God is my witness I will never do that again.”  Ugly Bird lost his smile.  “’Course, my mother says that is why Two Faces married a drunk.”

          There was a howl outside.  They all heard it. 

          Gregor whipped out his sword a moment faster than the Sheriff could pull his revolver.  Ugly Bird jumped to grab the horse.  Bill Cullen ran for a tire iron.  A wolf, bigger than any wolf ought to be, crashed through the glass front of the bay door.  A second followed.

          Tom Robinson’s chair slipped as he tried to push it back.  He was lucky not to crack his head on the concrete.  Tashi screamed, and so did Mister Beasley.  One wolf got beheaded in one stroke of Gregor’s sword.  The other got three bullets from Sheriff McBain’s gun and collapsed. 

          “Only two,” Gregor shouted, still crouched, ready for an imminent attack.

          Bill Cullen came back with his tire iron and thought quickly.  “Inside,” he shouted.  “Lights out and go to the windows.  Look for movement when I turn on the outside lights in the lot.”

          “Right!”  Tom got up.  Tashi ran back inside the house.  Gregor and the Sheriff followed her.  Ugly Bird stayed with the horse but managed to pull a wicked looking knife from somewhere.  Bill clicked off the garage lights and waited a minute to give his eyes a chance to adjust before he threw the breaker that turned the lights on all around the building.  He heard the women scream, shots fired, and then silence.

          Tashi ran back into the garage as Bill clicked the inside lights back on.  “Mary Elizabeth got it with a kitchen knife, and then her husband shot it,” she reported.  “Gregor is with Tanis.  Virginia stopped screaming.  Doc Lewis and Darcy are examining the creature.”

          Mary Elizabeth came out as Ugly Bird and Bill dragged the two dead beasts back out of the bay and on to the lot.  She sat down beside Mister Beasley who was wringing his hands like a man in prayer and sweating more than usual.

          Tom and the Sheriff dragged the one out of the house and tried to get as little blood on the carpet as possible.  Gregor wiped his sword clean and returned it to its’ place.  Virginia helped as they loaded all three dead bodies in the back of Bill’s pickup.  Bill got the shovels.  McBain followed in the police car and brought Tom, Tashi and Gregor.  Ugly Bird stayed with the horse, and Virginia stayed with Mary Elizabeth who was terribly traumatized by the whole thing. 

          There was a deep ditch in the woods out behind Mister Beasley’s store.  It had a few old tires, a broken toaster and other odds and ends dumped in it over the years.  It took time to empty the space, not the least because of the cold, but then the bodies went in, a mass grave, and the ditch was finally filled in with dirt and gravel.  It was long, hard work, but when it was over, Bill thought to say a word.

          “And may God have mercy on their souls.”

          “Amen.”  Tashi, Tom and the Sheriff spoke in unison.

          Gregor said nothing, but nodded.  They still looked like wolves, even in death, but no one doubted that they had once been men.

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          Back in the garage, Bill got the cardboard out and Tom found the duct tape.  Mister Beasley spoke to turn his mind from the wolves.  “One thing you better learn up front if you’re going to stick around here, Mister Duke, duct tape fixes everything.”

          “Amen.”  Tom and Bill spoke together, and Ugly Bird snickered.

          “I should stay here?”  Gregor wondered what they were suggesting.

          “Where else you gonna go?”  Bill asked.

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            Happy writing …

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Weekly Roundup: December 27, 2013

M G Kizzia Leave a comment

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            I am so glad I have a couple of practice weeks, and the goals I have set don’t begin until after January 4th.  (January 5th is Sunday, the first day of the week).  Last week, I surpassed 12,000 words of fiction for the week.  This week, I was lucky to reach 4,000 words, and on three different stories.  Christmas, you know; a reasonable excuse – though admittedly an excuse, not a reason.  I guess I have to be prepared for such weeks.  Sunday the 29th I begin with a clean slate, and in case you have forgotten, I am aiming at 2,000 words per day or roughly 10,000 to 12,000 words per week.  So we will see.

            This week I added about 1000 words to my MIB story, 2000 words to Avalon, episode 3.5, and about 1000 words to The Golden Door, a middle grade book that is long overdue to be done.  Avalon, Season Three is something I want to get finished so I can start posting the series in the new year.  Unfortunately, I got nothing done on Forever: On the Road, a continuation of the wanderings of the Storyteller through the Second Heavens, subtitled, “Anatomy of a Storyteller.”  It imitates an exaggerated, third person memoir with all the names and dates and exact places hidden to protect the innocent, if they exist.

            The Golden Door is a magical story for middle grade reading.  Follow: 

            Mom said the big, inexplicable golden door showed up in the middle of the living room the same time Dad mysteriously vanished from his sick bed.  The golden door may be the family’s only hope of finding their Dad, but after a week the unmovable door remained locked.  Now starting summer vacation, the young people have chosen to ignore it.  Until David finds it open.  There is another world through there.

            The following bit sets the story of The Golden Door in motion.  It is a bit over 1500 words.  I hope you enjoy it

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          David paused at the door to his parent’s room.  The bed was empty and made.  Mama said it was the strangest thing when Dad disappeared.  One minute Dad was there, and the next he vanished, like into thin air.  “Like he went invisible?”  David had asked.  Mama could not answer because her back was turned at the time.  She did not actually see him disappear.  She heard scampering like little feet, but then he was gone and all she could do was cry.  In fact, that was about all she could do for the first few days, that and stare at the golden door in the living room which showed up at the same time.

          David turned the corner to the living room – just a step away in their run-down ranch house.  He looked at the golden door, solid gold in a silver frame.  It reached to the ceiling, and stood in the middle of the room with no visible support of any kind.  Chris said it was only a solid gold slab with a handle and ignored it.  David wondered how it stayed upright.  He imagined a good knock would send it falling flat-side to the floor, and what a terrific crash that would be! 

          A scratching sound came from his parent’s room.  James heard something when they got off the school bus for the last time that year.  David turned to Doritos and chocolate and left the scratching sound to his younger brother James.  Chris said he checked when he got home.  He thought Mama went out and accidentally shut Seabass the cat into the windowless, walk-in closet; but when he looked, the closet was empty and Seabass was asleep on Dad’s pillow.  The closet was empty when James looked as well, and no one could figure out how that stuffy walk-in closet could have a breeze to blow coat buttons and zippers and empty hangers against the wall.

          “Mama would never allow the clothes to be hung in a way where they might scratch the paint,” David pointed out.  The boys left the closet with yet another unsolved mystery, but this time David heard the scratching with his own ears.  Since James was busy, and Chris wouldn’t let him use the game stuff, and Beth knew nothing about the scratching in the closet, that left David to try the door.  He hesitated at the handle.  David was not the bravest twelve-year-old, but he thought that maybe this once he might look.  Besides, Seabass the cat was no longer on the bed, though how the cat might have shut itself into the closet was beyond him.

          He opened the door quickly.  The late afternoon sun shot into the space, and he called the cat, but nothing happened.  He did not look any further.  He was afraid to look too close, so he shut the closet door again and returned to the living room where he sat on the couch and stared at the golden door for a long time.

          Seabass came to sit beside him.  Catbird, the big golden retriever yawned and got up from where he had slept against the sliding doors to the back yard.  That spot was no longer attractive once the sun dipped behind the trees and cast the whole back side of the house in shadow.

          David petted Catbird’s contented golden head with one hand while his other hand stroked Seabass’ soft fur.  They stayed that way for a time, until David abruptly stood.  Both animals looked up, startled by the sudden movement and sudden loss of attention.  David clenched his teeth.   The fact that the door had been locked all week did not matter, except in the back of David’s mind where he hoped the door was still locked.

          “Ga!”  It was unlocked.  David peeked and closed the door again with another “Ga!” significantly louder than the first.

          James heard.  He was finished with his letter writing and decided he better find out what Davey was all stirred up about.  He went next door and tapped Chris on the shoulder.  Chris took a couple of taps before he looked up and lowered his headphones.  A piece of sandwich dangled from his mouth.  He honestly wasn’t listening.

          “Come on,” James said.  “Come on.”  He had to say it twice before Chris got up.  Perhaps Chris was still not paying attention, but at least his feet were moving.  Half way to the living room, they heard it again.  “Gaaa!”  It was deliberately shouted down the hallway.

          “The call of the excited Davey.”  James spoke under his breath as they arrived and David shouted something at his brothers that they could all understand.  “It’s unlocked!”

          Chris immediately turned to get Beth and almost bumped into her as she came barreling out of her room.

          “I heard,” Beth said .  “What’s in there?” 

          Chris shrugged.

          “I looked,” David grinned and his eyes were as wide open as they could be.

          “What did you see?”  Beth was miffed that she had to ask twice.

          “Gaa!”  James answered for his brother.  He shrugged as if to say, “What else?”

          Beth looked perturbed, but David giggled.  “Gaa!”  He nodded in agreement with James. He was still grinning as he pointed at the door.

          Beth shoved Chris forward.  Chris put on the brakes.  While they stared each other down, James stepped up and looked for himself.  He opened the door a mere crack.  “He’s right.  It’s Gaa,”

          Beth frowned, swung the door wide open and almost said “Gaa!” herself.

          Green grass stretched out before them in a world that was bright with late afternoon sunshine.  They heard the faint roll of the sea somewhere, but they could not see it through the door.  They smelled the fresh air and the aroma of growing grain which they could barely make out off to their right.  They felt a touch of the cool breeze that wafted through the meadow on a lazy afternoon in late May.  The grass looked freshly cut, or grazed.  Beth judged it was grazed from the dress of the two people who stood some hundred yards off down by the grain.  It was hard to tell exactly because those people had their backs to the door, but they looked medieval in dress and the grain looked like early grain, barely up to their knees after an April planting.

          “Creepy,” Chris breathed.

          “Cool!”  David yelled.  To be sure, yelling was David’s normal volume.  “Look at the castle.”  It was up on a hill, well beyond the people.  There were more towers and spires than any of them could count including some that reached right up into the clouds.  The castle walls looked formidable enough to withstand any army foolish enough to assault them.  A clear stream came from somewhere inside the castle grounds and wound lazily down the hillside, around the occasional clump of trees, until it reached the meadow.  By then it was a very small river which found the sea somewhere behind them.  Beth looked behind, but all she could see was the kitchen.

          The scratching came again, and this time it was definite and pronounced.

          “Did you guys leave Seabass trapped in Mom and Dad’s closet all afternoon?”   Some scorn entered into Beth’s voice, but before the boys could answer, she stepped around the corner.  Chris shook his head.  David pointed, but Seabass was gone from the couch. 

          They found the cat under the couch, shivering and afraid.  With James’ help, David got the cat out and then held the beast securely in his arms as overweight, gregarious, love everyone Catbird, the golden retriever began to growl.  Beth screamed and the boys heard a tremendous crash in their parent’s room.  Beth made it to the bedroom door, slammed it shut, and while she held the door knob she poked her head around the corner to the living room. 

          “Run!” 

          The boys just stood there.

          Catbird began to dance and bark his head off at whatever was behind the door.  Seabass tried to wriggle free to follow Beth’s instructions, but David held the cat tight.  Chris stared with his mouth open.  James had the good sense to step through the door and on to that green meadow.  That movement broke the spell; that and the sudden crash against the bedroom door from the inside which almost made Beth lose her grip and which was punctuated by a loud crack.  The wood door was ready to give way.

          Chris grabbed David to keep him from running down the front hall and out the front door.  He shoved David after James.  Then he grabbed Catbird by the collar, and carefully, because the dog was agitated beyond belief.  He nodded to Beth as he dragged the dog toward the golden door, and only paused when he got to the place where the door and rug met.

          “Come on!”  Chris screamed at his sister and went through, even as there was a second crash against the bedroom door. 

          “There’s more than one!” Beth screamed back.

          “Hurry!”  The golden door was closing of its’ own volition.  A third crash, and the bedroom door came to pieces, but it held together in sharp and ragged edges long enough to keep back whatever growling, snarling, roaring beasts were trying to get at Beth.  Beth managed a good scream as she ran and dove through the doorway.  They heard the roar of the beast echo in the house before the golden door slammed shut and they were no longer in the world.

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Storyteller: Weekly Roundup December 21, 2013

M G Kizzia 2 Comments

            Merry Christmas and all that.  The year is coming to a close and there is much to do – so much to do.  The journey continues. 

            BIG on the list is to get my thoughts in order; plans, goals and priorities so I can make the new year successful as a writer.

            Teachers and students know what I am talking about.  Teachers know all about lesson plans, and the necessary information that must be conveyed in a limited amount of time and in a palatable form.  And students need to grasp that information, at least well enough to pass their exams.  It is pointless for the teacher to decide, instead of American History, she would rather be teaching the History of China, or the student to decide they would rather be studying about China in an American History class, because the course is decided, at least for the semester.  Maybe China can be taught and studied next semester.

            Fiction writers have a bit more flexibility in the ability to make mid-course corrections, but need to exercise enough discipline to say no on a regular basis.  Finish this course before starting the next one.  Like any good teacher or student, I can work on from three to a half-dozen courses (stories) in a given semester, and that can give me options and a variety of things to work on, but they all have to be finished, courses completed, before I move on to the next semester.  Now is the time to decide what to work on in the spring and, generally, for the year – to schedule my classes, you might say.

            Likewise, preachers and journalists know what I am talking about.  There is a thing called a deadline that cannot be ignore.  A preacher needs to have the sermon ready by Sunday morning.  There are no extensions.  The journalist has to have the story ready to go when due or lose the article’s timeliness. 

            Fiction writers, again, have a bit more flexibility in making and reaching deadlines.  A preacher might pull out an old sermon for the day and continue to work on the planned idea for a later time.  A good editor might delay a story so the journalist can fill in information gaps or verify sources.  But the work must be finished at some point.  Delay cannot be forever, lest the writer end up with drawers full of half-finished glop.

            Likewise, business people, both small local business people and great big business people, know all about planning and establishing goals and priorities.  Why is this so hard for fiction writers?  I know.  Some feel they can’t write until they are moved by their muse.  Some people believe they need the inspiration to produce true art: the rose colored clouds, the rainbows, the glorious sunsets.  The stars must be aligned.  I like these people.  It means less competition.

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            Earl Stanley Gardner (the Perry Mason mystery author) had a goal of 5,000 word per day, while he was working full time as a lawyer, no less.  That is prodigious.  My more modest goal is 2,000 words per day, six days per week, or about 10,000 – 12,000 words per week.  That is roughly a book every seven or eight weeks (every two months or so).

            Notice that I  plan on one day per week off.  For me it is Sunday.  No reason why it could not be Wednesday or some other day.  The point is to take a day of rest.  I feel it is vital to recharge my batteries and for my mental health; not to say I will ignore any ideas that come my way.  I am never without paper and pen to jot things down.  Only, I won’t sit and focus and type one day per week, and I won’t fall prey to the impulse to “get it while it is hot.”  Frankly, if the idea is a good one, it will still be good on Monday morning.

            So 2,000 word per day.  I will be reporting here on how I do, starting in the new year, and sharing a bit of work, leaving myself open to whatever internet trolls (or angels) might think to comment. 

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            Speaking of sharing, though the plan does not begin until January 4th, I spent this last week pouring out 12,337 words on my “Men in Black” story which is presently being saved under the heading “Aidan, Jesse and Bankar.”  Here are the first three paragraphs, probably chapter one:

            Aidan Clark saw the light in the night sky when he started his pick-up.    He noticed it was growing, and certainly no airplane.  He sat in the driveway and wondered if it was a meteorite or a piece of a satellite crashing to earth.  Maybe it was a whole satellite  It would have to be a big piece to burn so long.  Curious, he could see the light growing, but he could not hear it.  He felt sure he ought to hear something falling like that, zooming through the atmosphere.  He kept waiting for the meteorite, or whatever it was, to burn up or break up in mid-air.  Probably too big to disintegrate, he thought.  He judged it would hit his cornfield.  He could see the flames.  It was damn big.  Holy shit!

          Aidan gunned the truck and spun out into the road.  There was an explosion behind him, and he found himself down in the embankment.  His face hurt and his nose started to bleed, but he did not exactly remember hitting his face on the steering wheel, or smacking the windshield.  All he could think of was his home and his parents.  He got out, stumbled to the roadway, and dropped his jaw. 

          Scant feet from where he stood, there was a ravine a quarter mile wide.  Whatever it was hit and slid, and cut a deep trench in the ground as it burrowed slowly to where it stopped a mile away, just beyond the main highway.  The thing had to be huge to cut a mile of dirt.  And it took everything with it, including his house and his parents.  Aidan got back into his truck to find a way to get a close-up look.  He felt angry, confused and in shock.  His eyes moistened, but he blamed the cut on his forehead and his bloody nose, though there was not much blood.

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            Feel free to comment.

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Quote of the Week:

“Merry Christmas (Happy Christmas),” said by about a quarter to a third of the human race for roughly the last 2,000 years …

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Storyteller: Weekly Roundup, December 14, 2013

M G Kizzia Leave a comment

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            Time is getting away from me.  It is that time of year.  I have three weeks to get my thoughts in order for 2014, provided I slide over to Saturday the 4th of January before I begin.  I also have three weeks to post on a variety of subjects which will be touched upon in future weekly roundups.  Wish me luck. 

            For the present, I am making plans, goals to work toward, not carved in stone, but with the notion that every step is a step in the right direction, and (this is important), I am allowed to feel good about every step I take even if it is not as much or as good or as complete as planned and wanted – even if I don’t reach the goal (yet).  I feel it is important to give myself permission to feel good about what I have accomplished.  They are all steps on the journey.

            It is something I am trying to teach my boys.  I have three at home at present, 17, 18, ad 20.  Take a step, any step.  It is better than standing still.  Even if it is the wrong step, you can change your mind.  Changing your mind is allowed.  I would say the beginning of any journey starts with the first step, but I really dislike clichés and platitudes and fortune cookies.

            Do you have plans, goals, outlines, thoughts, things you want to accomplish in 2014, stories you want to write in the coming year? 

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            This post is a big step for me.  I am going to share, at the end of each week, how well I am stepping; what I am doing as far as my writing is concerned, the thing that matters most to me.  I will be talking about what I am working on and maybe provide some samples.  I will talk about agents and queries, publishers and editors, short story submissions, Amazon, Smashwords, CreateSpace, and promotion and marketing efforts, the good, the bad, and the ogre ugly.  It is a big step, because I have never shared this sort of information before, I find it all rather personal, and I don’t know if anyone will find it the least bit interesting, maybe even helpful in your own work, or not.

            This all may turn into three weeks of silliness followed by stories without comment.  It may turn into stories followed by a weekly roundup, probably posted on Friday morning because I’ve been told people don’t read many blogs over the weekend.  Who knows?  We shall see as time continues to get away from me …   

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Question of the Week: 

At the end of The Lord of the Rings, when Aragorn married Arwen, do you think he asked Frodo to be his ring bearer? 

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