Let's Pretend That This Is High Quality Stuff

Due to popular demand, here is an excerpt from the Fanfiction that I am working on. Honestly, this is a stand alone piece, as I have not introduced any concepts or characters from the series that inspired this. If anything this just serves to introduce my original character. This is also the portion where I worry about the Mary-Sue level of my character, and hope to goodness that I haven't created one. Mary-Sue's are scary creatures and are to be avoided at all costs- unless you are writing a crack fic, then it's perfectly acceptable.

This story takes place in the universe established in the mini-series Rose Red. Rose Red is a horror series that aired on ABC back in 2002 and was written by Stephen King. Here's the show in a nutshell for those who haven't seen it: If you take Shirley Jackson's The Haunting of Hill House, Sarah Winchester and her Mystery House (this place is on my bucket list, it's just that cool), and a few good classic Stephen King elements such as psychics (including some very strong telekinetics) and Indian burial grounds, that is Rose Red. Is is the best horror mini-series ever made? Decidedly not. But, for some reason, I absolutely love it.

So, without further ado, here's a sample of my work. Just a disclaimer, I don't write for children- this goes for my original fiction pieces as well. So, if any of my original works ever get published, they will not appear in the Young Adult section of your bookstore. That being said, I don't go out of my way to be vulgar, or curse at every possible opportunity  Everything in moderation. Moderation is key.  

***

The room was littered with books, papers, and clothes but it all went unnoticed. Violet Shaw lay sprawled across the mattress, her headphones cupped over her ears bombarding them with a cacophony of guitars, drums, and bass. She found it completely intoxicating. The industrial thrum of the music sent shivers down her spine as she took a drag from her cigarette, it was almost orgasmic.

The music blocked everything out. The traffic, the neighbors, everything was gone. The song changed, the tempo slowed and there was a sensuality to the beat. Violet arched her back, feeling her spine pop, her shirt riding up her torso. She moaned as she eased herself back down and rolled over onto her stomach.

The alarm clock came into her line of sight and she glared at the green glowing digital face. She had only ten minutes before she needed to leave. She took another drag and stubbed out the fag in the cheap plastic ashtray that sat on the floor, smashing the ash and paper right over the top of the illustrated Space Needle, and pulled herself from the bed with her Walkman clutched firmly in her hand.

The bathroom lights were harsh, casting a sickening glow to the yellow tile and wallpaper. She quickly brushed her teeth and reapplied her deodorant- the stick she picked up from the organic market didn't last worth a shit, but since it said “all natural” on the label she decided that it would all be alright.

Her black hair had frizzed slightly after laying on the bed so she yanked her hairbrush through the thick tresses, snagging it once or twice on a knot. She applied another coat or five of mascara and a swipe of lipgloss and stared at her reflection. That was as good as it was gonna get. Though, she did decide that her well worn, beloved Sex Pistols tee shirt was a bit inappropriate for her appointment. She walked over to her closet and pulled out a cream colored long sleeved lace shirt and shrugged it on. Her jeans, she decided, were fine- they were perfectly clean despite the holes in the knees. She slipped on a pair of black shoes and spritzed a pit of perfume behind her ears. Again, that was as good as it was gonna get.

Reluctantly, she switched off her Walkman and laid it reverently on the bed. The sounds of the outside world came crashing down around her. In their own way, she supposed, they were beautiful and she truthfully didn't really mind them.

The emotions, the impressions, the images, however, were a completely different story. She could feel the lust coming from her neighbor upstairs as he watched the porn tape that he had popped in his VCR five minutes ago; the neighbor to her right had just gotten home from work and wanted nothing more than to pull the bottle of bourbon from the cabinet and drown his mind in it, but he promised himself that he was done with that and he tried to ignore the tremble that had settled in his hands; to the left was nothing but pure concentration, finals were around the corner and she had to pass this class, everything depended on it, then she broke down into tears; downstairs a little old lady was knitting a blanket for her new grandchild, she was filled with mostly contentment other than the small grudge she still held against her daughter-in-law. Violet pushed them all out of her mind, humming the song that she had been listening to a few minutes ago to distract her. She pulled on a blue jean jacked, grabbed her purse, and stormed out the door, down the stairs and out of the building.

Bouncing Off The Walls

I am officially bouncing off the walls. Though, I admit that a lot of it could be the Grande Pumpkin Spice Frappuccino that I just sucked down. So yeah, I'm bouncing.


One more day until NaNoWriMo! I'm about to the point of counting down the hours until I can get started. I have seriously been chomping at the bit here- it's getting to the point where I am going to have to sit on my hands or something. We all know that tactic isn't going to work.


So what have I been doing to feed my writing addiction until November 1st? Why writing Fanfiction of course!


Fanfiction, in this particular situation, is neutral ground for me. I'm able to keep my writing gears greased, but I won't have to worry about getting truly distracted. Let's face it, right now would not be the time to pull out my main novel and start working on it- it would completely throw me off. With Fanfiction I can start it, put it away, and then pick it up again in December (since I won't be pulling my main novel back out until January).


Let's just be honest Fanfiction, and really anything in the universe of Fandoms (i.e. Fanart), is just plain fun. It gives us the opportunity to play with our favorite characters (you can take that statement any way you want), and gives us a chance to practice keeping a character in character. What it all boils down to is that being a fan is just plain fun.

So, this long spiel was just to say that I'm writing un-publishable content to keep myself occupied until November 1st. If anyone is interested to read the Fanfic that I am working on, let me know in the comments and I'll post an exerpt.

Aimee
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Going Off The Rails...

I keep staring at my calendar with a mixture of excitement and anxiety. NaNoWriMo is upon us, and this is my first rodeo. Just the phrase "50,000 words in 30 days" is enough to make anyone do their best Keanu Reeves impression (which really doesn't take much, let's just be honest): Whoa.


The word count minimum is enough to make anyone pale, though in the scheme of things it's really not nothing at all. When I write, I tend to be my own personal task master. I demand an absolute minimum of 500 words per writing session, but I honestly shoot for 1,000+. Nothing makes me happier than to be able to tell my husband, as soon as he walks in the door, my word count for the day. It just gives me the warm fuzzies.


So, 50,000 words isn't all that intimidating. The discipline that it's going to take to get in in 30 days, however, most definitely is. And while we're at it, let's throw in a lovely little curve ball. I won't be writing on Saturdays. Now it's 50,000 words in 26 days. Oh look, here comes the crazy train! Here's another little curve ball- why the hell not? I intend on producing a complete first draft novel.


 Let's recap: 26 days. Minimum 50,000 words. Complete draft.

All aboard! Feel free to start humming some Ozzy any time now. I'll even join in.


Ernest Hemingway said: "There's nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.". I have this quote, along with several others, tacked up on the cork board next to my desk, and I've never heard a truer statement. While writers don't literally bleed while they work (at least I sincerely hope not- very sincerely I might add), we bleed in other ways. Remember my previous post about a writer's soul being on a piece of paper? There ya go. But, I digress.


All stories are a part of the writer who created them. Sometimes it's difficult to get everything out, sometimes it's downright scary. I have several stories floating around in this little noggin of mine, and in a few days I'm going to begin the process of ripping one of them from the recesses of my mind, and pulling it down into my fingertips so that they can appear on the computer screen in front of me in glaring black and white. That's the tricky thing about writing. In your mind everything is so colorful and surreal, and then you have to translate it into colorless symbols that will, hopefully, grow back into their colorful origins in someone else's mind.


That whole concept is daunting to say the least. But, despite all of my fear and trepidation, I feel strangely ready for this. I'm looking at NaNoWriMo like an adventure, actually scratch that. This is a challenge. I actually like a challenge.

One thing that people don't realize about me, most likely because I'm a quiet person, is that I can be quite competitive and if someone says that I can't do something my immediate reaction is to prove them wrong. Though no one has poo-pooed my writing, well at least not those who really know me, I feel as though I have something to prove. I intend on doing just that, and not just with my NaNoWriMo novel but with my other novel as well. Proof that,contrary to some people's belief, that I don't sit about twiddling my thumbs. Proof that I am worth something.


I suppose that I ought to step off my soapbox, for a little bit at least. I'm sure you all would appreciate it.


All of this was really to say that the crunch time countdown to NaNoWriMo has begun. I think it's time to start polishing my armor and get out my war paint (other than what I wear on a near daily basis anyways). November is going to be a damn good time.


Aimee
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I am the voice of Never-Neverland

I know what you're thinking: "I am the voice of Never-Neverland? That's a bit presumptuous isn't it?"

Well, you wouldn't necessarily be incorrect. I am not the literal voice of Never-Neverland, that honor belongs to J.M. Barrie. I am not J.M. Barrie. J.M. Barrie was a playwright who was born in the late 19th century and who was, now this is important, a man. I am not a playwright, I was born in the late 20th century and I'm a girl. See? Completely different.

Now that we have established that I am not the literal voice of Neverland it's time for me to clarify the title of  this particular entry. I am a writer. Writers have the fantastic job of creating things from nothing. We raise up worlds, shape them, sculpt them, and destroy them. We pull characters and creatures from the voids of our subconscious and give them names, personalities and features; we dictate whether they are good or evil or if they fall into that gray area in between; we decide whether they live or die. We create our own Neverlands and we give them their voices.

So you see, it isn't all that presumptuous.


I often feel that I am a bit mad at times. Then again, I think that this particular feeling goes along with the territory. Honestly, it isn't surprising. I do have characters chatting away in my head as I map out scenes, this is an ongoing thing. You could run into me at the grocery store and odds are that just before you came around there was a fight scene being developed Not that I would fight you...well I guess that would depend on the situation, wouldn't it?

Back to what I was originally talking about. Writers being mad as hatters. Comes with the territory. Blah, blah, blah. Let's look at it like this: When you write you are putting part of your soul on paper and then you give it away for someone else to read, to dissect, to love, or to hate. The thought of that alone, looking at it both literally and figuratively, is enough to make my heart skip a beat, my breath hitch, and anxiety to settle in me.


Now don't think that I'm running around with rose colored glasses, because I'm not. I know that not everyone is going to like what I write, in fact I'm relatively sure that some people will hate it. I'm okay with that, but that still doesn't change the fact that is scares the living daylights out of me. I don't know how the big published authors do it. I have to imagine that they just let it all roll off of their backs and just keep going.


I think for now I'd like to be content in my eccentricities and continue plotting, planning and creating. We'll cross the handing over a piece of my soul on a piece of paper bridge eventually. Until then, I've got a lot of work to do.

So, fair warning, you're in for it reading this blog. Though, I do hope you enjoy the ride.


Aimee
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