Sunday, August 21, 2011

The Write Life

As a writer, I am bound to the following oath:

I solemnly swear that I shall tell the whole truth, nothing but small embellishments of the truth, and the occasional over-inflated memoir.

I pledge my head to clearer thinking, my heart to greater romance stories, my hands to faster typing, and my health... well, we'll find a way to slip that in there somewhere... For my books, my short stories, my readers, and Bilbo.

I'm a writer, but I can edit, if I have to... I guess.

I have the right to remain silent. Anything I write can and will be used against me in a court of my peers.

And lastly, but not leastly:

I hold this truth to be self-evident: that all stories do not require a sequel.

So let be written. So let it be done.

Monday, August 8, 2011

Books Read as of 8/8/2011

Here are all the books I've read thus far in 2011:

1. The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy
2. I, Robot
3. The Missing: Found
4. The Boneshaker
5. The Count of Monte Cristo
6. Holes
7. The Hunger Games
8. To Kill a Mocking Bird
9. Storm Front
10. Blameless
11. The Missing: Sent
12. Hush, Hush
13. Ella Enchanted
14. The Penderwicks
15. Catching Fire
16. Mockingjay
17. Crescendo
18. First Light
19. Crocodile on the Sandbank
20. Hex Hall
21. The Liar Society
22. City of Bones
23. Paranormalcy
Twenty-three down, seventy-seven left to go O.O

A Blog in Which I Further Humiliate Myself

I am in horror. Terror. I am completely and utterly astonished and bewildered by how horrible my writing used to be:

Exhibit A:

Chapter One

"This specimen," said Dr. Grobe, a Clinic scientist, "hasn't walked for a year, and has been blind for fourteen. Go ahead." There were several loud snaps and the bitter scent of latex filled the air. "Sarah, you can check her vitals."

"Is she dangerous?" a woman asked.

Dr. Grobe laughed. "No, no; we only keep class two mutants on this level."

"'Class'?" asked a baritone voice.

Broghan winced as two rough fingers pressed down on her vein, and she was overwhelmed by the stench of "Sarah's" sweet perfume.

"Yes. We classify each mutant that comes through here based on the danger of their mutation. Nightingale—that’s our pet name for this one—is a class two mutant, for the simple fact that her mutation isn’t powerful enough to harm anyone."

Another woman spoke up. "The gloves, then…"

"Are mainly for her safety, correct. Nightingale is what we call a 'healer,' a mutant that can speed up cellular meiosis by touch. Until recently, it was believed that she controlled the outflow of healing energy when in skin-to-skin contact with another living being. However, one of my esteemed colleagues discovered that—"

"The outflow is predominantly out of her control," said Dr. Hanson’s legato voice. "Steven, could I have a word with you?"

"Certainly, Dr. Hanson. Interns, Dr. Ericson will show you the rest of level one, and I’ll catch up with you on level three."

Okay, not GAG ME WITH A SPORK awful, but still... not good. This one's worse:

Exhibit B:

They had stopped outside the door. Bailey stood there for a split second, weighing the pros and cons of locking the door, turning off the lights and pretending the building was empty. "Too late," she groaned as the door swung open.

"You’re even shorter than she is! How can she look up to a man that is actually shorter than she is?"

"I’m not shorter. I’m six inches taller, at least."

"Well, that settles the matter," Digby laughed.

Cree scowled. "Since when did height have something to do with anything?"

Bailey cleared her throat, and the two young men took notice of her. "Good afternoon, Cree, Digby. What brings you here?"

"Mother sent me to fetch some more, er—" Digby paused for a moment, looking pained. "Daffodils? No, that can’t be it."

"Dandelions?" Bailey offered.

"Yes, dandelions!"

She nodded sagely and attempted to walk the boys to the door. "Well, I’ll bring a quart over later. Take care."

"Actually, I was, er, rather wondering if you had the rent." Digby shifted his weight from foot to foot and stared at the shelf behind her.

Bailey batted her eyes. "Is it Wednesday already?"

"It was Wednesday two days ago, actually." Digby leaned in and whispered, "I told old stone-head that you’ve been fighting a fever and couldn’t possibly be disturbed." He paused and looked at her in earnest. "You—You have got the money, haven’t you? I mean, Jonas is as dumb as an ox, but eventually even he is going to notice that you’re up and about."

Thank you, Critique Circle, for bringing my writing to a point of improvement. Without you, I would still be wallowing in a swamp of ignorant bliss.


P.S. I'm tired, and those examples might not be as bad as I think they are. *shrugs* Just thought I'd find SOMEthing to blog about.

Ciao, bellas! and, er, dudes B-)