Wednesday before Feast Day

Here I am again at Wednesday before Feast Day.
My inner voices are silent. I don’t even have an itch to write. So I figured it would be a great time to revise.
Lovely idea. I should do that sometime this weekend (which starts this afternoon) in between visiting with my family and stuffing my face. And of course, I’d have to have written something editable first…

Writing Prompt

[WP] An archaeologist uncovers an ancient book, he loves the hieroglyphics but cannot understand them. He gets a tattoo of one of the hieroglyphics on his arm and realizes it now can no longer be harmed…he begins to translate the book and get more, unique tattoos

The old library was silent, as libraries should be – but this one had an expectant silence it seemed. Pale light peeked in through tall windows and moth-eaten velvet curtains, showing various lumps of covered furniture and streamers of spiderwebs hanging from the chandelier. Joel leaned further into the room from the doorway, reluctant to enter the silence.
The room had a window, then a bookcase, then a window, and a bookcase on one-side, then a wall of windows in front of which sat a large covered lump that he assumed would be the great man’s desk, then a solid wall of bookshelves from floor to sixteen foot ceilings, complete with a brass and wood ladder on a roller. And oh, what books.
Joel found himself standing in the middle of the room without consciously moving there.
What books!
Cornelius Grant, famed archeologist and adventurer, had collected tomes, scrolls, and pamphlets from all over the world. He even wrote a few, including the Secret of Kings and A History of Lesvos. Cornelius also won awards and was a great philanthropist, funding a school of archeology at Boston University. During his very busy life, he even managed to get married and have a son, who grew up wild and willful. That son had a son, and now the great man’s library, and the surrounding mansion, was his. Joel hoped that he could repair the family name and bring the great man’s glory back.
Having to sell this wondrous place was going to suck.

sibling position

I was surfing around confirming the name of something at work. You’d be amazed at some of the names that come through on the reports I edit. Anyway, I found an article about sibling position. This article went into a little more depth about a topic that Laurie Schnebly Campbell talked about in a workshop that I read.
If your character is an only child or if she has siblings makes a difference. Her reaction to others in a group dynamic (say a team) situation could be partially determined by her birth order/sibling position. For example, Tony Stark is an only child, first born. According to Schnebly Campbell, he should be the smartest, most popular, and most athletic. Everyone loves him. Also, since he is an only child, he has a motto of “to know me is to love me.”
In Tony Stark’s case, I think there is the added benefit of rebel. He’s a brat and he knows it. No one can touch him because of his superior intellect. In using Tami Cowden’s archetypes, I think he’d be A Charmer
(I guess Tony Stark is on my mind because I watched Iron Man 3 last night).
Anyway, just some thoughts on how characters interact based on something they have no control over – their birth order. Happy Friday!

12-day plan day 4

Day 4:
Write a letter to an agent telling her how wonderful you are.

Are you high?

Dear Ms. Agent,
I am writing in response to your request for more biographical information to put on the inside cover.
Here are some random things: I’m an Aries, I graduated in the top third of my class at Northwestern University. I have an MFA in creative writing. My articles on botany and the use of spoons in early archeology appeared in the New York Times. I live in Cambridge, MA. I enjoy warm cups of cappuccino while sitting at Italian bistros and watching the gondolas go past. I have a dog named Max.
I feel that writing should come from the soul, and it can only come from souls that have many experiences, so I have perfected the art of soul-borrowing. Recently, I borrowed the soul of an Vietnam veteran who escaped from an enemy camp. I expect to use his life lessons in my next best seller. Don’t worry, he can have his soul back once you publish the story.
By the way, what kind of life experiences have you had? Did you have an unhappy childhood? Are you divorced? Perhaps we should speak of this more in person. At my laboratory. On Tuesday. We have an appointment then, correct?
So, dear Agent, I do appreciate your asking for more information and am very excited to have my book come out.
Please let me know if you need anything else.
Yours truly.

more fantasy/murder thoughts

Not so many thoughts on the murder, but lots of backstory.
So – Conwy Wales and Lland-whatever that’s across the bridge.
The necromancer poisoned the water supply with the plague virus. The team came in to stop the zombies and clean up. The magical adviser (and others) set up water filtration units, but he doesn’t know how long it will be until the virus is completely out of the water system. It got into the food that was growing and the animals. He could not tell if it affected the animals’ (horses, cows, sheep) intelligence. Maybe it made them more biddable. So all the food that he eats is purified in some manner (microwaved). He comes from a technological/mechanical future.
Or maybe it’s not the future that he comes from – it’s just that the entire country has forgotten how to use technology and people reverted to feudalism. Cars, airplanes, trains – all not in use. Microwaves, tvs, cell phones, stereo systems, ipods, etc., all useless. Maybe the government had the army destroy the media items because the necromancer (or terrorist group) was using that to broadcast its message of control.
There is a building in Conwy that houses all of the records of the people (library, tax service place) – where one could find out who one was before the war. For example, maybe the Captain was a soldier in the Welsh army and he was sent into the warzone to destroy technology and fight the afflicted citizenry. He could have had a family – and he doesn’t remember them. He knows he’s a soldier, he was in the war and fought zombies, and now he’s in charge of the town’s defenses.
And of course the uber government (not the local Lord/Baron whomever) is out to cover things up – and encourages the feudalism, as long as it gets its tax money and the people are under control. Just until the virus is cleared up and the last of the terrorists are captured/put down. Uh-huh, sure.
Technology that still works runs on magic. Whether that magic is real magic or just seems magical because people don’t know better/understand it is unknown. Something about the virus and the antidote (sprayed from airplanes by the uber government) created a fundamental change. There is magic in the world now.

more fantasy murder thoughts

The Dead wars started with a plague like the black plague. In addition to causing nasty illness, it also diminished the victim’s intelligence. So many people died from the illness and then died from stupidity. Once they died from stupidity, they turned into mindless or mind-controlled zombies. They attacked as if controlled – which they were.
A nasty necromancer/alchemist created the virus that caused the plague because he wanted to take over the countryside – all because he had been laughed at by the educated elite (magical university). They didn’t think he could do it. So he did. He proved mind control [see Victorian mind-control story idea. Must be on my mind – ha!]
Many thousands died, including someone close to the investigator (Captain, Marshall, Sheriff).
The Captain/Marshall/Sheriff started out life as the son of a coal miner (from the nearby mountain), who joined the Baron’s guard to get out of mining for the rest of his life, and he was on the front lines of battling zombies. It was terrible – they didn’t die unless burned and then beheaded. The defenders were losing the war. The war broke out on many fronts all over the kingdom (thus Dead Wars).
A hero appeared, or a group of heroes, but one in particular, who could fly (some sort of cool magic) and who had fire that burned extra hot and that could not be put out with water. The fire had to be smothered with sand. The flying hero disappeared after the war(s) was won. [returned to his own dimension.]
The magical adviser that the Captain meets in the town was one of the group (secret). His job is to rehabilitate the populous by teaching them to read and write again. Most people, including the Captain, have lost most of their language skills, and so refer to complex things by the simplest means. For example, Dead Wars, instead of zombies or war against the necromancer. The magical adviser offers to teach the captain how to read and write. The captain has a thirst for learning.
The Captain also has a fear of zombies or a great hatred of zombies – or some emotional hold over from the war. Fear of fire? His job is to find any trace of zombies, so when someone dies mysteriously he has to investigate.

And so – someone in the village across the bridge from the walled town dies mysteriously. He, his dog, and his trusty sidekick go to investigate.

There is a group of people from another dimension/time that is in this time to prevent some terrible thing from happening or to clean up from something terrible that happened. The necromancer/alchemist was a part of that group, and so was the flying fire hero who defeated his armies. The magical adviser is one who volunteered to stay behind to clean up the mess. Perhaps they are ‘guardian angels’ who watch over this place/time. Perhaps they are researchers who are doing psychosocial/sociology experiments (like Star Trek Insurrection).

The magical adviser tells the Captain that there are several levels of azam (magic). Most azamers (?) (magicians) are just using slight of hand. Real azam is much rarer and takes a lot more learning and constant practice (like a martial art). When someone dies, the izam (soul) is released and a azamer can capture it. That’s how the necromancer… The Captain says who? The dead shepherd. Oh, what did you call him? necromancer – meaning an azamer who can communicate with and control the dead. The Captain looks impressed by the magical adviser’s vocabulary. As I was saying, that’s how the necromancer might have done it. He captured the plague victim’s izam.
Azam is all around [like the force]. Manipulating it is hard and takes training.

write it

Here’s a link to Write To Done’s note about 7 Ways to Keep Writing When You Feel Like Giving Up. I think these can also apply to other art forms and life (especially the axiety and mindfulness sections). And the dogs are cute.

notes on fantasy mystery idea

I watched the first episode MidSomer Murders last night, which was okay. I felt like the acting of the main character was a little off – he has a voice like Roger Moore, so that might have thrown me a bit. It seems very Agatha Christie to me – which is fine. I like that. The author of the books that this TV show is based on won an Agatha Award for the first story in 1988. It got me thinking…I went to a AZ Mystery Writers’ meeting over the weekend. It was about arson (see Firebug story thought). I have no real idea on how to write a mystery – but I like reading them. Many books have some sort of mystery element, just like many books have some sort of romantic element in them. So I thought I’d study the first episode of MidSomer Murders and see if I can generate my own mystery – based on a medievalish fantasy setting. What I know so far: setting: walled town with castle on an estuary, with a village across the bridge. Like Conwy Wales (which is lovely and I want to go back). hero: The area Marshall. He’s a veteran of the zombie wars (find a new word for zombie), which ended a year or two before. He is in charge of keeping the town and nearby villages safe. His second charge is to check for signs of zombies coming back, which he does with the ME. The Marshall is the captain of the town’s defenses. He has a ‘dog’ companion. He has an interest in azam (mechanical things). The ME – called the Apothecary? Alchemist? Medic? Cleric? Healer? The lawyer – he calls out the new laws (post zombie wars) and helps the Marshall interpret them. Sidekick? Azam is magic. The mage. This person is has knowledge of azam and is also (secret) from a different dimension (21st century modern world). He understands the workings of mechanical things, electricity, and computers. All sorts of things a modern person ‘knows’ that the medieval person did not. He’s an engineer (which they call a Planner) and he’s a mage (which has a different name too). There is azam he doesn’t understand – which what he calls true magic. The hero is not married, but now that the war is over and he has a steady job, he wants to get married. He’s kind of stuck on Mrs. Innkeeper, who has an eligible daughter (the hero is not interested in the daughter – but the sidekick might be). Mr. Innkeeper is an abusive ass. Heralds (announcers) work for the lawyer and seneschal – they are messengers and make announcements. Most people cannot read or are just learning to read, and just learning to write. There are posts around town that magically tell people what the news is. They also can magically report a problem (call the police) – like emergency phones, but with writing or something. The mage created them to help in the town’s defense. The hero’s dog. (secret) A Wolfling – a wolf that turns into a human when the moon is dark. The wolfling rescued the hero during the zombie wars and the hero rescued the wolfling back afterward, when people were killing anything monster-like.

12-Day Plan day 3

The 12-Day Plan

Day 3:
Write a setting based on the most beautiful place you’ve ever seen.

Caveat: I have not been to every place in the world, so I have not seen the most beautiful place – and beauty is in the attitude of the viewer.

Sunrise through a bank of clouds that are gathered on the top of the eastern mountain, waiting to pour over into the valley like foam at the lip of a mug. As the sun rises, the sky, in fairly quick procession, changes color from pale white-yellow, like the most delicate of flowers, to a light orange, to a blushing pink. Suddenly the sky is blazing orange, red, and purple. The clouds go from ominous gray to pinkish to a purple that reflects the sky. The moment lasts for mere heart beats, and then fades as the sun peaks over the mountains and climbs out of its bed into the sky. The clouds regain their white tops and lose color from their dark bottoms. Briefly, the sky is a brilliant blue.
Then the clouds, filled to the brim, gush over and bring another cool gray winter day.

joey fairy art thoughts

So this story idea got the voices talking, and of course they started talking – maybe because I asked them too – at about 5am this morning, when I didn’t want to get up.

so here’s what I remember
Joey could be called John, and maybe he’s a John Joseph or Joseph John but not a Johny or a JJ – at least not at this moment.
His mother, Heather (maybe) is an art teacher at the nearest high school. They live on a hill surrounded by woods, which was fairy land back in the day. There’s a stream. Heather is also a witch, and she became a witch to fight off the fairies – who are not as benevolent as one would like. They stole her husband. She knows her husband is still alive because she gets money from some fund that he was related to and one of the stipulations in the letter that came with the first check was that she was to not get involved with anyone else. She believes her husband did not leave her willingly, but is caught up in some fairy thing. But some days she thinks maybe he did leave willingly – and she’s having trouble not being mad. She can be faithful – she hasn’t really met anyone, except another teacher at school but that’s work and work affairs never work out. And it is a small town, definitely rural situation, so everyone knows everyone else and she does not want to be the source of gossip any more than she has been. She’ll do anything for her son.
She knows where Joey goes in the forest – mostly. His father built him a treehouse/fort when he was twelve, right before he disappeared. So Joey has gone there a lot to deal with his father’s absence. But that was seven years ago. Why a boy of 19 still goes to hang out in a treehouse is kind of beyond her comprehension – but he seems okay, not too depressed, so she leaves it.
It’s afternoon, about three pm, and Heather goes down to the treehouse, walking through the field first and then into the woods and downhill toward the stream. The treehouse looks a little worn and overgrown, with the tree’s suckers making it look bushy.
Joey?
No answer
Joey, are you in there?
His head appeared around the edge of the plywood.
Yeah mom
Your boss called; you’re late.
She could tell from his suddenly wide eyes that he’d forgotten the time.
He ducked back behind the plywood
You coming?
Yeah. She heard his voice, sort of muffled.
You need this job so you can go to school. [Joey works as a stock clerk and back-up cashier at Staples or some such]
I know mom, was his muffled reply.
What are you doing?
He poked his head out again. Putting my stuff away.
Are you working on something? Let me see.
He held up an art pad that had, from her distance, a landscape on it.
When are you going to show your art to people? When you go to school you will have to show it. You should get practice now.
The picture and her son disappeared back into the fort.

In the fort, it was crawling room only, basically enough room for Joey and his model to sit, and for his art supplies to be scattered about. His model, still in her pose, smiled.
Sorry, sweet flower, he said as he carefully laid a piece of wax paper over the picture, I have to go. Can we do this again tomorrow?
She nodded.
He gathered up his things and put a waterproof canvas tarp over the pile. The model slowly faded into the tree trunk, leaving just a hint of pollen floating in the air.
He climbed down the now short ladder and jumped across the stream to meet his mother.

Where are your supplies?
I put them under a tarp.
A wet painting?
Pastel, he answered, showing her his colorful hands.
They started walking up the hill.
I told your boss that you were having car trouble and that you’d get there when you could. So try to remember that.
He stopped. His mother, who had always told him to be truthful, had lied for him.
What? she turned to look back at him.
He shook off the shock and said, thanks. With my car, he’d believe that.
Oh your car just needs a bath and an oil change.
She always wanted things clean. His room, his car, his body. He smiled.
They reached the field just as a minivan pulled into the driveway.
Oh there’s Katie for her piano lesson.
She reached up and kissed him on the cheek and told him to have a good day, and turned to great the neighbors from the bottom of the hill.
Joey watched her for a moment, absently rubbing his hands on his jeans, leaving streaks of blue and yellow.

12-Day Plan Day 2

Writer’s Digest:

Day 2:
Create a character with personality traits of someone you love, but the physical characteristics of someone you don’t care for.

I thought these were supposed to be simple. Whine whine.

Physical characteristics of someone I “don’t care for,” well, I actually like most people – so I’ll have to make something up. The thing is, a person could be beautiful yet be a uncomfortable person to be with. I don’t think I’m “turned off” by physical attributes as much as some. I’m more turned off by actions and attitudes. Whine
Okay – just do it.
This character is tall, thin, and hunches over. He smells of cigarettes and has putrid breath. His hair is to his shoulders, scraggly, and unwashed. It is a dull dark brown color and it reminds me of tree roots. He’s in need of a shave, and hasn’t been near a shower in a while. His rumpled flannel over shirt hangs from his bony shoulders. Underneath, he’s wearing a “wife beater” that’s stained at the armpits. His jeans “used to be blue, when they used to be new, when they used to be clean” and they are ripped at the right knee and ragged at the heals, where he’s been tromping on them with his enormous leather hiking boots, which leave black marks all over the white linoleum in the kitchen. [How’s that for a run-on sentence!]
But when he smiles, and his normally dead-fish eyes light up, the warmth of his personality shines through. He has a wicked sense of humor – very dry and unexpected – and an infectious laugh, which usually ends in a wheeze. I’ve asked him to stop smoking, but he shrugs. “Gotta die from something,” he says with a wink.
Showered, shaved, teeth brushed, and in decent clothes, he’s actually quite handsome. Once he stands up straight. I remember his father telling him – “Stand up, show off your height. Don’t be ashamed because you can reach the top of the cupboard and your mother can’t.” (That was a poke at me. His father was a rascal.) His teachers at school used to badger him about joining the basketball club. But no Joey, he’s just not a competitive sports kinda guy. He’s more in to art and drawing. Solitary occupations that keep him from too much social contact. I despair at the thought of grandchildren. He’s never going to meet a girl if he doesn’t actually get off the farm.
Well, he’ll be out of the house soon enough. He’s headed to college – to get an art degree of course – in a month. And now he’s literally out of the house, and down the hill into the woods. His favorite spot. I’ve tried to follow him, just to see where his hidey-hole is, but he hears me coming and complains, “Mommm,” drawing out the m like an angry bee. He’s safe enough out there in the woods. He knows to stay away from the poison ivy and out of the stream. He keeps an eye out for snakes and knows to stay out of the mushroom circles. I wish my husband had.