3 tips on juggling writing and school

Sorry about the hiatus from the blog. As some of you might know, I was torturing teaching high school students on how to score the best that they possibly can on the dreaded SAT's. Unfortunately, I had to brush up on allll my math skills and read some painfully dry critical reading passages, but FORTUNATELY I loved my job. It was so rewarding to see everyone improve. And I've added more words (that I didn't memorize the first time around before my own SAT's) to my vocabulary. That's always a good thing. I just didn't have that much time to myself, and when I did, it was to work on my WIP. But now I'm back!

This post is inspired my friend Julia's post on how to balance school and writing. I really enjoy reading posts like this because I am a student myself (sophomore at UPenn), and while I know that a lot of adult writers have to juggle work and writing, juggling school and writing is just as hard! I would hesitantly assert that sometimes it's harder--I'm biased, obviously. It's just that a lot of the grown-ups I know don't have to stay up until 4AM in the library to do homework or prep for an exam that accounts for 50% of their grade. Meanwhile, the 4AMer in the library is a common sight at my college, and these aren't even people who procrastinate like me and cram.

This is not a how-to write and do school because if there's one thing I've learned from my years in academia, it's that everyone has to put in a different amount of time to do well in school. I don't want to tell anyone that this is the best way to get the most writing time out of your student years because there is no best way. These are simply my tips that I wanted to share with you. They work for me, sort of. Sometimes, I do get in over my head a bit even with these tips in mind. But that's life.

Here are the 3 tips:

1. Procrastinate wisely. 

If I'm going to procrastinate, I'm going to procrastinate because I mean, there are still XXX days until the paper/exam/assignment and I simply cannot muster the will to be like my roommates, who do all their homework for the week on Saturday. When I do procrastinate, however, I use that time to write. I could be watching random things on YouTube, or looking at pictures of food and cats and all the other random junk I like looking at. But I write. Strangely enough, I kind of like the sensation of having something schoolwork-related hanging over my head while I write. It doesn't bother me to the point where I can't put out words, but it's just enough discomfort that it is almost like writing on a deadline. And I'm so much more efficient that way.

2. Get into the mode by doing the little things.

This is mainly a trick to make you motivated for and committed to your writing time, because writing time is precious in school. If you prep before going to the gym (such as hydrating, putting on your favorite work-out outfit, tying your hair back, and packing your post-workout stuff), why not prep before you go to write? Whoever said that writing wasn't sport? It is, and you should treat it that way. Simply going through the motions of getting the little things together can really ease your mental state into one that is ready to be productive.

The little things for me are the beverage, the outfit, the hair, and the bag. Here's how it breaks down.

Beverage: If I know I'm hauling butt to the bookstore or the coffee shop to write for more than a few hours--this is usually on the weekends--I'll treat myself to a coffee. Nothing fancy, just an iced coffee, since it's still summer, will sharpen me up and get my mind going. If you don't have something that you particularly like to drink or eat, at least bring water. It's incredibly easy to get dehydrated when writing.

Outfit: I'll usually wear something soft and cotton and easy to wash on the top, such as a plain T-shirt, and then jeans for the bottoms. Also, dark colors are great. Less worry about chocolate stains. I affectionately call my writing day outfits my "ugly" outfits. The whole idea is that I want to wear something so plain that I won't be thinking if my camisole is bunching up or if my shirt is getting wrinkled. All the focus should be on the writing. Obviously, if dressing sharp is going to get you in the right mindset, then by all means do that. Once again this is just me, and although I love my fashion and looking put together, I am quite lazy with clothes when I want to be.

Hair: Out of sight, out of mind. I'll braid it tight, pin it up into a bun, and then put on a headband JUST IN CASE some flyways escape. I can't write with my hair in my face.

Bag: If I'm leaving my dorm to write, which I often do, I'll pack sure to pack everything that I need in my messenger--pen, notebook, earbuds for music, laptop (most important item!), and water.

3. Think of classes as research.

My last tip on how to juggle school and writing is about the times when you are NOT writing, AKA when you are in class. Unless you can subliminally learn your class material through the process of osmosis, you should probably not be writing in class. However, there is a way to actually use your classes to further yourself as a writer. I'm not talking about just the creative writing classes or english classes--of course those will help you as a writer.

A well-informed writer has more tools in her arsenal than someone who closes herself up in her room 24/7. You may never know what sort of research you need to do for your next novel, or what genre you're going to delve into next. Who knows when that information that you learned in Astronomy is going to come in handy when you decide to tackle a space opera? Or maybe some concept in Economics 101 is going serve as a major inspiration in your novel. If you do well in your classes and actually learn the material, not just get the grade, you'll save yourself time in the future when you are writing because you'll understand some things without having to research them. And that means more time to write. See? There are so many ways you can make time to write.

Hope this was somewhat helpful! I'd love to learn what are the things you do to maximize your writing time while still fulfilling all the other obligations you have (doesn't have to be school).

Writing Mediums

I realized that the last three posts I've done have been more on the serious side, so I thought I'd do a more fun one before I disappear into the cave that is called college finals (2 out of 4 done!)

I can't remember if I've ever mentioned it on the blog before, but I do the majority of my drafting (around 98% of it) on Scrivener. If you're unfamiliar with the app, then I'll let you search up the details on the internet because there are a ton of informative posts floating around and reasons as to why you should use it. The quick and dirty as why I prefer it to other apps such as MS Word when it comes to drafting is:

• It's super easy for organizing chapters and scenes while keeping them all in one place (you don't have to have a mammoth of a Word doc that takes forever to scroll through, and you also don't have to have a bunch of Word docs for each chapter). 
• It has a cool cork board function that allows you to outline in a more visual way (I actually don't use this function enough).
• It just makes me more excited about drafting.

The last point is something that sounds sort of silly, but I like the LOOK of Scrivener and that alone makes me more excited about putting words down on the screen. 

So Scrivener is one medium I like to write on. The other? Old fashioned paper.

Behold my two notebooks:

 The black one is actually a sketchbook. I've had it the longest--it's 3/4 of the way filled--and I love writing in it. I think it might be because the paper is unlined...there's something less restricting about it. I'll write it in whenever I'm stuck on a scene, sometimes writing the scene all out by hand. And sometimes I'll simply use to it figure out plot things and character motivations.

I picked up the tan notebook this year because I'm going to be traveling this summer, and I wanted something lighter than the black one (which is nice and weighty) to carry with me. I have a random scene from a New Adult novel written on the first page, but I'm not sure if I'll continue it yet.

As for my preferred writing instrument? I love gel pens (or any pen with water-based ink) with super fine tips. I am actually very picky when it comes to pens. It's weird, I know, but I can't help it. But usually, I turn to my notebooks when I'm at a super stuck state in a novel, and so I need all the help I can get. For once, instead of just having a party in my head, I need the writing to feel good. I need to be excited by something tactile, such as the flow of ink as I form letters and words and the way the words cling to the comb of the paper. 

Did I just slip the fact that I'm picky about paper comb too? Well then, I think that's enough for this post.

Let me know of your favorite writing mediums and whether or not you ever draft by hand!

When it all gets to be a bit too much

If you haven't noticed by now, I've sort of died.

My best friend of 12+ years knows that my biggest (and probably most annoying) flaw is hermitting. Yes, hermitting. It's similar to taking some time off to focus on "me-time", but sometimes that "me-time" stretches into months.

The writing community is awesome. But for one week last year, after feeling down about a past MS that I shelved and a new MS that my CP's loved but that I personally did not feel like was quite ready, I took a break. I told myself I just needed to get off the internet, stop checking my emails for query responses, stop blogging. I needed to clear my mind.

And that week turned into months. Months have turned into nearly a year.

I know, it's horrible.

Of course, there were other factors that went into the unexpectedly long break. College was becoming something very real and I could no longer think about it in an abstract way (oh my god, I got into college! Time to get senioritis). I reconciled with the fact that I was one step closer to having to deal with the "real world," and that my choices and actions for the next few years would ultimately decide if writing would remain a hobby or evolve to become something more.

My family also moved. We packed all our things from our house of twelve years and trucked them into a new house (or condo, for the sake of specificity). While it was by no means an across the country (or seas) move, people who know me know that I am absolutely horrible when it comes to adapting to change. The move went smoothly. I did erupt into hives. I did feel a weird emptiness inside of me. But yes, overall, it was a smooth move.

I also got into my first serious relationship. I've heard people talk about baby-brain, but relationship brain is a thing. I had always run into the occasional writers block, but this time I faced the worst creative low in my life. Sometime, I'll write a post on this. Anyway, while the relationship was (and still is!) awesome, I felt ashamed of the fact that it was sapping my writing motivation. I kept on trying to tell myself that if I could just gather the willpower, I COULD and WOULD write.

I failed miserably.

Lastly, however, was just fear. I felt bad about my writing. I felt bad about not seeing any results yet. I have a strong belief that anyone who starts writing young can't help but dream of being published young. I was no exception. And while I hadn't exactly shelved 3210321 novels, ILWF was doing worse than INGENICIDE in the query trenches, which was devastating since my CP's had vouched for it.

To give you a clearer picture, I sent out 80 queries for INGENICIDE. That number dropped to 30 for ILWF. I was scared, so, so scared of raking up rejections that I simply decided to put myself out there less to the number of closed doors.

Finishing my YA Fantasy WIP, HESPERIA, during this time was torturous. The words wouldn't come out, and what words did end up coming out did not sound right. I began to think that I not only could not gather the motivation to write anymore, but that I had become a worse writer.

I started video gaming. It was a hobby that both my boyfriend and I could share, and I met some new friends this way. But in truth, it was more than a hobby. It was something to fill the writing void, and I knew it.

I continued to hermit. I eventually reengaged with the writing community by stalking all my favorite writers' blogs. But I couldn't bring myself to comment or say anything. I admired the writing community from afar but no longer felt as if I could be a part of it. Everyone else seemed to be able to write despite having their own respective challenges and problems. I couldn't.

I know this post sounds really depressing,  but I promise you it isn't. Because going through this "dark period" in writing, I've learned something extremely valuable.

I will always write. Always. Because be it a month or a year, I always come back to my scrivener docs. And I can't help but write.

So I'm back. After a year of being dead, I'm back.

When it all gets to be a bit too much, do what you need to do. Whether that is take a break, go out for some air, find another hobby. Hermit if you need to. As I've told a friend countless of times, don't worry about whether or not you've made the right decision while you're taking that break. The answer will come to you. You'll know it one of two ways:

A. You're just immensely happier on your break (this was me with competitive running).
B. You'll be happy at first but the happiness won't last and you'll just know that something is missing from your life. When that feeling comes, you will know.

I knew that competitive running was not something I wanted to do for an extended period of my life. The stint in high school happened, and while it is not an experience I regret, I realize that the stress outweighed the happiness I got from it. For writing, however, I fall into category B, and I would have wanted nothing else. I am glad to be back, and I hope you will all receive me again.

NaNoWriMo 2013: The Prelude

Before I begin doing the heavy-lifting myself, I'd like to share this blog post with all of you because I'm pretty sure I couldn't have better worded my views on Nanowrimo.

In the upcoming days and the coming month, I hope to document my own experiences with Nano and keep you updated throughout the month because it's so important to remember that you are not alone. Nano is that one time of the year that you know for sure that everyone is head-bashing on their laptops/typewriters/notebooks just like you are.

Let's begin with the ultimate question: will I be Nanoing this year?

First line drama

I love writing the first line of a novel because you have all this unused shine bottled up in you that is just bursting to make it onto the page. If I ever find myself NOT excited to begin a novel, I have to question if the idea is ready to be written.

I also hate writing the first line because it can so easily sound forced. I've read many a first line that almost seems to scream I'M A FIRST LINE, I NEED TO GRAB YOUR ATTENTION WITH HEART-POUNDING CONFLICT AND TENSION AND INTRICATE STYLE AND OH, WHILE WE'RE AT IT LET'S THROW IN SOME WORD-BUILDING.

And let's not forget the really short first lines, the one-worders, because they act toward the same effect: STOP. I'M AN IMPORTANT STANDALONE. I GRAB YOUR ATTENTION. LOOK AT ME.

Idea is not enough

The Idea is not enough to carry an entire novel, as I have always known and just recently found applied to my current WIP.

Right now, I'm struggling working through my WIP, THE SERENDIPITY LABS. And I love the idea. Agents and fellow writers seem to, too. But what originally made me put down the piece in favor of working on my NA manuscript is coming back to haunt me, and now I'm remembering all the reasons why I decided to drop it the first time around.

Writer's block happens. If I gave up every single time that I encountered writer's block, I wouldn't have the two relatively polished manuscripts that I do. But, for me at least, there's a distinct difference between writer's block and writer's fear. The fear is a deep, gut-feeling that makes me reluctant to write, alerting me to the fact that something is wrong with the manuscript, something that isn't as easy to fix as a flat scene or a chunk of awkward dialogue.

Short Story Time! (Part 4--finale)

Check out parts 1, 2, and 3 here, here, and here.

And here we have it, the last part! If you are reading this, thanks for sticking with it thus far :) Enjoy!

And So They Proceeded* 

Part 4

Short Story Time! (Part 3)

Check out parts 1 and 2 here and here

The Dealers of Justice/The Procession

annnd I thought of another title option: And so They Proceeded

part 3

In the forest, the system was not so easily enforced. Bandits and cults still roamed, exacting grief upon those unlucky enough to cross their paths. And so they left in the moist of dawn the next day.

Holding the map, Three leaned close to Five and whispered that they had a choice: skirt around the circumference of the woods or cut through. He didn’t feel the need to elaborate on the consequences of either.

Five had a funny look to his face as he turned his face forward. “The faster route,” he said.

Because Five’s decisions were usually not easily doubted, Three hesitated before speaking. “The faster route—”

“The faster route,” he said before walking ahead.

Later, One caught up to Three and said, “Do you think he’s in a mood?”

Three studied the slight but straight line of Five’s back as it cut through the woods in front of them. “Not a mood. Something else.”

One nodded. “The girl.”

“The girl” had been awake at their departure, and Three had wondered if she’d slept at all. Her footsteps fell soft behind them, but not as softly as yesterday.

“What about the girl?” he asked.

One blinked. “Don’t you feel it?” He started to open his mouth, then shut it. “Forget it.”

It was none too difficult a task, and before long Three had completely retracted into his thoughts. He didn’t need to consult the map to know where they were; it was a gift of his to know everyone’s exact location. And yet strangely, he frequently didn’t know where he was. Now he could only see the moss beneath his feet and the dense stalks of foliage and trunk before his eyes. All around him, the silence of the dead leaves crowded into his mind.  

So when the shots rang out all around them, Three only barely heard before the fire burst through his gut. He felt himself sway, lose his balance. Someone whom he thought to be Four caught him under the arm as he fell. From the periphery he saw the lithe blur that was Five hurtle toward Two and the girl. The distinctive pops of Five’s rifle, joined by One’s, punctuated the cacophony. Gradually, the noise diminished until the dead leaves, trembling, hung in silence once more.

Three’s hand moved by its own accord to his stomach, where fabric slick to the touch met his fingers. In his daze, he realized he was going to die. He felt it, a warm truth in his veins. It stained his hands and seeped into the ground.

He sensed the presence of Five at his side. “Bandages,” the boy spoke calmly, but one disadvantage of knowing Five so well was also knowing that he was most calm when most scared.

Someone left his side to fetch them as another crouched down.

“I can help.” The newcomer’s voice held a different quality from the rest.

“That won’t be necessary,” Five said coldly.

“Why don’t you let her?” shouted One—Three guessed it was One because only One ever shouted. “Do you want to watch him die?”

Five didn’t answer.

“Calm yourself,” said Four said, presumably to One.

“Well, do you?”

            “He’s not going to die,” said the strange voice again.

It was the girl, Three discerned. Somehow, she was making Five act strangely. Whatever One had suggested…

“He’s not going to die,” she was saying, “but you have to trust me.”

“Step aside,” Four said quietly.

At last, Five did.

She worked deftly, hands flying over him, instructing the others, except for Five, who had disappeared, on what to do. At one point Three felt his mind sigh and loosen its strangling latch on his thoughts. His thoughts, freed, floated white and amorphous from his parted mouth. They curled before his closed eyes, familiar specters, thinning, disappearing. With his thoughts, Three felt as if he might disappear, too.

But when he opened his eyes, he saw her. It was the brown of her hair, the arch of her brows, those images cruel and forbidden that hooked onto the collar of his shirt and yanked him out of the white lake right before it flooded over his nose.

His throat struggled to choke out the syllable. “Di…”

“What’s he saying?”

“He’s delirious.”

“He’s okay,” said the girl. “The worst is over.”

They continued to bustle around him after that, placing cold things, hot things on his skin, moving him about. All the while, he saw black. Except for when the sun set. Then, his eyelids bled.

At night, when the others had finally given to exhaustion and Three himself was battling the fire that still writhed in his gut, Five returned to his side. He was whispering something too hushed for Three to make out at first, but soon the words became clear.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” Five was saying over and over again in his ear. “I should have listened to you. I should have taken us on the longer route.”

Why didn’t you Three imagined himself asking.

But as Five repeated the words, Three picked up on a pain in his voice too raw to be concern over a peer’s well being.

In an uncharacteristic slip of heart, Five took Three’s hand and gave it a squeeze.

“You know what One keeps on saying?” he asked, obviously not expecting a reply. Three wished he could.

“Do you think the girl…” He trailed off. After a long moment: “Never mind. Hang in. We’re almost there.”

The last few words sounded too strained to be comforting. Five squeezed Three’s hand again, this time a little too tightly. 

Thanks for reading! The last part will be posted tomorrow! Once again, let me know of your thoughts/comments. 

Short Story Time! (Part 2)

Check out Part 1 HERE

The Dealers of Justice/The Procession

part 2

The land came and went easily under their feet despite the wind. When the last slant of light slithered from the earth back to the sun, Five stopped them by a twisted grove of trees that marked the beginning of the forest. Without a word, One set down the lantern on the flattest patch of soil as Four set out to scout the next leg ahead of them. Three sat on the ground and stretched out his limbs, then pulled out a small wooden flute and began cleaning the notches in its side.

On the fringe of light cast by the lantern, Two walked the girl to the fresh remnants of a fallen tree. There he offered her his canteen of water. She made no motion to accept it, leaving him to awkwardly take a swig himself. Afterwards, he passed his end of the rope to the girth of the tree, tying it firm. He checked the rope around her wrists in turn, adjusting the knot so that it was tight but did not cut into her skin.

Two hoped that she would say something. By now, he was certain that any expression that could color her eyes would ground this girl as a convicted in his charge, because in this world there was a need for Two who guarded the desperate, the indignant, the cruel, Two who soothed and shushed and comforted the wretched. There was no Two for the emotionless. 

“We continue in the morning,” he said finally.

She stared at the tree before her, not so much stirring at his words.

Farther off in the grove, One leaned against the warped trunk of a tree. “So what are your guesses?”

Four grunted in question.

“You know, why she’d kill the man.”

“Not any man,” the larger boy corrected carefully. “Her husband.”

“And you’d think she’d actually kill the man?” One rubbed his jaw with a hand.

Behind them, the underbrush crackled. Both boys turned to Two emerging from the shadows.

“What’s your guess?” asked One.

“Nice girl,” Two murmured, and Four murmured his consent.

“Yeah,” agreed One. “Usually the Killings make a dash for it, don’t they? Think she’s deaf?”

“Why would you say that?” asked Two.

“Perhaps she didn’t hear the sentence,” Four said.

A glance passed between the three as the thought registered.

“No,” said Two quietly. “She hears alright.”

“Think she could have killed him?” pressed One, returning to his curiosity.

Two shifted his weight. “Dunno. Maybe.”

Four reached into his satchel. “Let’s read the report.”

“Yeah, read it out loud.”

Four cleared his throat, then spoke only loud enough for those in proximity to hear: “Male, 21. Blow to the temple. Cause of death: bleeding from the artery. 

One whistled. “Pretty brutal for a pretty girl.”

“It’s not about the looks,” Two suddenly snapped, flushing when he became aware of his outburst.

One frowned, turning to Three as he joined them. “What about you? What do you think of the girl killing her husband? Doesn’t look it to me.”

“Does it matter?” The others watched as Three began whittle the flute with his knife. Once, it had been as long as his arm, but over the course of a year it had shrunk to the length of a hand.

“No, really.” Swiftly, One snatched the knife. “Don’t you go into your shell now. This is important. What if she isn’t guilty?”

The words slammed Two into silence and stole what conjecture Four had been brewing in his mind. But when they reached Three, they slowed to trudge through the mud in his mind.

He tried to force himself to think but found that all he could think of in the moment was his childhood friend, Di. She was a great girl—a great climber, too. They used to climb all fruit trees in her farm. Sometimes, they picked fruit, but more often they just sat behind the foliage in a content silence.

They had plans. Small plans, like going down to the creek to fish, but big plans, too. When Three turned sixteen and she fifteen, they had planned to get married.

The past winter, Di’s father fell gravely ill, and so she married the cogworker’s son for his inheritance in order to pay for the healer’s visits. 

Two’s voice pushed through the fog and clung feebly to the sides of his skull. “Do you think it could be true?”

“What do you think, Three? Doesn’t look it to be me.”

“You don’t think she could have killed him, right?”

“Think it could be true?”

“She probably killed him for inheritance.”

Two outright gaped while Four eyed Three in concern.

Three didn’t care for their reactions. He took the chance to snatch his knife back from One’s slack hand.

The ground was hard and the wind was harsh and the trees made rustling sounds and he couldn’t fall asleep. But Five was a reflective boy, a specimen of human that spent a good amount of time looking inwards, turning over objects and searching for some sort of truth or definition that he knew he would never find. As a result of the searching, he knew himself well. Now, he knew that the ground, the wind, the trees were constants. What was actually keeping him awake was the soft shape that sat at the edge of the log.

He had been watching her for most of the night—not that he wanted to watch her. It was part of his job. They always tried to make a run for it at night, when the darkness seemed more forgiving to sin.

At first, he had watched her with scrutiny. For the most part, she sat still and upright. When she moved, it was a hand or a boot or a piece of hair, and even then she didn’t move much.

The more he watched, however, the more Five imagined that he knew her. Her life seemed to flash like leaves in the moonlight before his eyes, and he saw her as a young girl who sewed dolls and perhaps watched from behind her parents’ trousers and skirts as the procession cut through their town. Perhaps she had seen the previous Five and had admired him for his wit and decisiveness.

Blinking, Five tried to shutter out the images of the life of a girl he didn’t know.  The night weighed heavy on his mind, a powerful but unobtrusive presence. It steeped into his blood, made his senses sharper.

He suddenly considered getting up and walking over to that log. He played the scene through his head. He would sit down a far distance from her, and they would sit in silence. Then, when the time was right, he’d say:

Tell me what happened.

Not why, because he knew better than that. They would come flooding—the excuses, the tears, the pleas of set me free.

Or not. From where he sat against the tree, he studied her again. She was the quiet type to the marrow, if he had deduced correctly (and Five might have been the leader because he often deduced correctly).

He played the scene again. He would get up, walk over, sit down, wait in silence, then he’d ask:

Why.

She would turn to him, eyes quiet and solemn, and whisper set me free. No pleas, no tears.

Maybe she’d say nothing.

 As he watched her, she slowly moved. Increment by increment, she wrapped her arms around herself. So small a motion that he almost missed it, she shivered.

He’d walk over to her and untie her wrists.

He’d say:

Go.

Tell me what happened was bad enough.

Once again, thanks for reading and let me know of your thoughts!

Short Story Time!*

*Because I'm in a novel-rut/I haven't had time to write anything except for tacking sentences onto a story that has been lying on my on desktop since last year.

And so you have it :) The title has yet to be finalized (in fact, please let me know which one of the two--or if you have a completely different suggestion--you prefer when you are done). I'll be posting this in a few chunks, probably 3-4, because the entire thing ended up clocking in at 3.9k. I also wouldn't dare to call myself an awesome short story writer because while I used to write predominately in that category, of the late noveling has stolen my energies. Okay, enough talking! Enjoy!

The Dealers of Justice/The Procession

The witnesses stood around in a broken egg-shaped circle, mouths agape, brown skirt hems and muddy trouser bottoms swaying. An old woman’s cap flew off her head and landed on the tall grass several feet away. The wispy cloud of white atop her scalp quivered in the wind.

She could have run. She could have easily pushed the woman aside and burst out from the circle. She could have run—and she would have gotten far. Instead she stood, boots planted shoulder-width apart. For the longest time, the only sound came from the gale as it skimmed over the blades of glass.

Then the baby started to cry. It struggled in her arms, grabbing at the air. So she walked up to a rotund lady with a kind face and deposited the bundle into her arms.

“Her name is Rowan.”

The lady with the baby opened her mouth as if to call the mother back, but no words came out.

She walked to the opening in the broken circle. The tall grass pressing against her knees and skirt flying back behind her, it seemed then that she might make one last dash for it.

But the men came dressed in uniform, and she went without a fight.

***

There were specific consequences for specific wrongdoings, all dictated by necessity. The lowly thief paid for his crime in coins. The rambunctious assaulter paid for his crime in freedom. Likewise, the sly murderer paid for his crime in blood.

Origin of the system was an unquestioned mystery, though all knew that it did not stem from an eye for an eye nature. Some said that the creator of the code found distasteful the visceral, direct retaliation of the involved parties. Some said that the creator desired a law unique to his name. Regardless of theories, the process remained constant. After being read the accusation and the penalty, the convicted would be led to the center of the land. The journey could last anywhere from an hour to a month. Watching the procession was a pastime, and people would crowd into the square to see its culmination.

Those carrying it out were the agents of justice. They felt the responsibility dully yet pressingly, like a knife-wound that throbbed with numbness. At least, they told themselves that, they the impassive ones. They were the men who had come to collect the girl. Not really men, despite their uniform and rifles slung across their backs. Not really men (their faces, clean shaven for those who could shave, were soft and whole).

If they knew it, they did not show it. They hid their youth. Not sewn on their sleeves like the row of brass buttons, not askance on their heads like the required cap. Their anger, their grief, their love for one another, for their families and—they kept that all inside when accompanying a convict. They dealt the hand justice, and justice was aloof to all.

They were five because five was a good number. One, a gangly lad who walked with a rhythm, carried the lantern. Two, the youngest at sixteen and one month, carried the ropes. Three was a dreamer who wished to someday leave the job behind. While he was on the job, though, he held the position of messenger and held it well.

By appearances, Four served the purpose of brawn. But One, Two, Three, and Five knew he had the softest heart of the three.

Five was the leader. He was the oldest, a boy of eighteen—and some speculated that was why he was leader. He was the most levelheaded, a boy of cool disposition—and perhaps that was why he was leader. Above all, he was skilled with the rifle—probably why he was leader.

Today, they had pinned down their caps guard themselves from the wind. Two brought the rope to tie the convict’s hands, but when the girl held out her wrists, face turned to the side, the boy faltered.

“Give me that,” said Five curtly, and took the rope himself. He tied her wrists, gave the other end of the rope to Two, and pulled out the sentence scroll from the inside of his coat. The parchment crackled as he unrolled it, but it could hardly compete with the howl of the wind. Five began to read:

“The spoken word of Ribar of Bluewillow has been corroborated by physical evidence.”

The villagers absorbed his calm words in silence.

“The taken shall repent through death by firing squad at the center of the land on the fifth day of the new quarter.”

Five looked up from the parchment in his hands. He swept his gaze around the curve of the circle, its circumference trembling in the squall. “We are the dealers of justice,” he announced.

“We are the accomplices of justice,” the men and women in brown murmured in return.

Two tugged lightly at the rope to gesture to the girl of their departure. “It’s a long walk,” he warned, seeking her face for a shred of fear.

Her eyes, colorless yet dark, flitted to his face before dropping to her boots.

One swung his lantern to point north, but not before flashing a grin at the young ladies in the circle. Three joined One on his right, the two of them close on the heels of Five, who rolled up the parchment. Two and the girl, connected by the trembling loop of rope that hung between them and braved the wind, followed One and Three. Four brought in the rear.
At the sound of Four’s solid footsteps, Five turned around and gave his men a brief glance, making sure that all, including their subject, were accounted for. Beyond the strong line of Four’s shoulder his eyes went on, absorbing the townspeople. Small and ordinary they stood, quivering, as fleeting and frail as the hundreds of other townspeople in hundreds of other towns. Yet he swept them all in, passing over the old lady with the flyaway white hair, a breath of color against all that brown. His eyes landed on the bundle in the kind-faced woman’s arms.

Unknowingly, the woman shifted her stance. A corner of the blanket slipped from its tented fold and, disturbed by the wind, was left fluttering, creased under the soft moon of the baby’s cheek.

At that moment, the porcelain creature opened its eyes, breathtakingly colorless like its mother’s.

Five turned around. “Let’s go,” he muttered beneath his breath.

They began to move, then as the lash of the wind began to leech the feeling from their faces, they picked up pace. The long, shriveled grass paved the path before them while the baby’s cries paved the path behind.

Thanks for reading! All comments/feedback are greatly appreciated! And I'm also open to questions :) Lastly, sorry for being absent recently from this blog/the blog-world. I have a lot of catching up to do and I'm expecting that I'll be less busy come October.

Post-manuscript completion thoughts

After two months of flying through the beginning, waddling around the sticky middle, and sprinting full-speed to the finish line, I have finally completed MS #3!!* For the super rough blurb, check out the my NOVELS tab and scroll to IF LIFE WERE FAIR. 

This was me post-completion. Don't you love my alter persona? 

I had a lot of fun writing this one because the main character had a very strong personality and naturally I spent a lot of time in her head as the novel is from first person POV. Surprisingly, the the writing process was different from MS #2, INGENICIDE. I know you're thinking well, Joan, you're writing a different novel for one, not to mention in a different genre. Of course the process is going to be different. And I understand that, but at the same time I had thought that the overall feel would be more or less the same, given the method I used for INGENICIDE was successful, as in I actually finished it and thought to myself: hey, this doesn't suck too badly!

Now in retrospect, I can see how writing IF LIFE WERE FAIR turned out to be a different experience than INGENICIDE. Firstly, I wrote INGENICIDE (65k) over the course of four months at the pace of a consistent plod. That means I had more time to afford non-writing days, days when I'd wait for some inspiration to strike (guilty!). In contrast, IF LIFE WERE FAIR (58k) is the product of a two month writing frenzy (which is still is far from the Nano pace, but it was a lot of me--I'm a slowish worker :). Why? Well, I still feel kind of sad for missing the dystopian bandwagon for INGENICIDE  so this me trying to catch the wagon for upper YA/NA before I miss it and fall face-flat in the dust.** But that's beside the point. The point is that I didn't have the luxury of losing too many writing days with IF LIFE WERE FAIR.  Which is probably why there were points in the story where I practically had to force myself to muscle through, not so much because they boring, but because I only have so much juice in me for a day. I've always been able to squeeze out some juice, but this was wringing. 

Secondly, I wrote in a completely different style for IF LIFE WERE FAIR as compared to INGENICIDE.  My CP's noticed this, and I, too, was aware. Bernadette, the MC in IF LIFE WERE FAIR has a lot of emotional baggage and is trying to rescue a personality that has been warped by her eating disorder. As a result, the syntax, word choice, and tone of every sentence in IF LIFE WERE FAIR were stark contrasts to the minimalistic and artistic voice of Sibyl, the MC from INGENICIDE. I had no idea how much this would influence the writing process! There were days when Bernie, oh-so-moody, just wouldn't speak to me. 

And lastly, writing the ending to IF LIFE WERE FAIR was just as exhilarating, but more taxing, than writing the ending to INGENICIDE  This is probably due to the fact that I worked myself into a last leg writing sprint and whipped out 8k in one night. The emotional impact of watching all of the story simmer down before my eyes in the matter of hours was unbelievably thrilling and sad.*** The reason why I was able to write this much at once for the end of IF LIFE WERE FAIR and not for INGENICIDE is because I had a clear idea of how I wanted IF LIFE WERE FAIR to end even before the halfway point of the story. That made the road leading up to the finale much easier to navigate.

All in all, writing IF LIFE WERE FAIR was neither easier nor harder than writing INGENICIDE, even though I had more experience under my belt. Regardless, I had a blast watching my characters come to life and weaving a theme and voice throughout the novel. Currently, I'm letting it rest for a bit before diving into revisions. Meanwhile, I'm so excited to start on this shiny new idea that popped to me during the sticky middle of IF LIFE WERE FAIR  A post will be up for that soon, and I'll be adding it to the NOVELS tab.

For those of you who have written more than one MS, did you find the general "writing experience" changed (outside of genre related differences) from one MS to the other? 

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

*I think I might have carpal tunnel? I have an ache going from my right pinky down the side of my palm?!

**I don't believe in write the next trend. I DO believe in timing. If it just so happens that what you are currently writing might be garnering interest in the publishing world, well, why not try to seize the opportunity?

***I went to bed at 2AM and couldn't fall asleep for an hour because my head was buzzing with the story-residue. Plus, it was thundering like the end of the world. I had planned to brew myself a massive cup of coffee the next morning, but we lost power :( Needless to say, I was a zombie for the rest of the day until my awesome friend supplied me with chocolate and gingersnaps. Who says sugar isn't a remedy?

Where art thou, character?

Every writer takes on a different challenge. For some, it might be a super complicated plot. Others, it might be multiple POVs.

For me, its my characters. When I write characters, I don't think about mini-flaws that I could give them to make them more "round". I also don't think about whether or not the traits that are taking form will make them relatable and sympathetic to the reader. I write the character whose voice speaks to me, who will best carry the story (because character and plot go hand in hand), and who will undergo the most development as said plot unfolds. 

Just as I love the challenge of writing my characters, one of my favorite parts of reading is meeting the characters. Here's my break-down of the protagonists I've seen in YA.

Protagonists that I've seen a lot of:

(As you can see, these tropes are female characters since protagonists of the YA genre are still predominantly female)

The tough-as-nails-I-will-beat-the-brains-out-of-you-kick-ass girl

      -I-will-protect-everything-dear-to-me girl often falls under this category

The stubborn-as-a-mule girl

The witty, cheerful girl with a hidden Past 

The doesn't-know-how-to-have-fun-studious girl until she meets a guy

And of course, the normal girl who is nice enough

Protagonist that I would love to read:

The Bully

       -Lauren Oliver came close to crafting a Bully Protagonist in her debut, BEFORE I FALL. Now, I love BIF for many reasons (the writing, the theme, the characters), but I wouldn't call Sam a real bully. More often, she's a follower of the main bully, and *spolier* after she dies, she makes an effort to turn for the better pretty quickly.

The Dense One 

Exactly how it sounds. And really, I've never read a YA novel with a dense protagonist. Usually, the protags are about as intelligent as the reader (unless the book is badly written--then you have an unintentionally dense protag). Though she was kind of dense around the boys, even Bella Swan was pretty up-to-date on her classical reading and had a praise-worthy vocabulary. I'm talking about an all around dense character here. Maybe it'd be too annoying if the reader were always a step ahead of the character leading the story, but I'd still love to see a protagonist of lower intelligence take me by the hand and show me a different world. This 

       -FLOWER FOR ALGERNON's protag, Charlie Gordon, starts off with an IQ 68, but very quickly he undergoes a procedure that bumps him off the scale.

       -FORREST GUMP (yes, there's a novel!) basically fits the dense protagonist, but you could easily argue that Forrest is actually a prodigy. 

The Coward

I'd just love to sink my teeth into a character in an epic story who is a coward through and through. 

And of course the character doesn't have to stay in one of these categories for the entire story. In fact, these kind of protagonists have so much potential for growth. How you do the growth will be crucial. Good character development should slowly come up to a boil, and if it doesn't, there should be a clear event or trigger incident that causes the sudden change.

Okay, I'm done being pretentious now. Thanks for humoring me because come on, I'm no agent. So obviously, the characters I'd love to see may not be the ones hot on the market now or acceptable to a mass of readers. 

What characters would you like to see more of in novels? (I focused on YA here because that's usually what I read but any umbrella genre is game). 

Alpha Readers

The term BETA READER is tossed around a lot in the writing world because beta readers are crucial to bettering your novel. They're the people who you send you novel to after you have finished it and more or less mopped up the casualties boo-boo's in your writing. Granted, boo-boo's you never even thought possible are going to be unearthed by the wonderful eyes of these super-humans, but that's the point, right?

I, however, find another kind of reader extremely helpful to my writing process, and that is the ALPHA READER. These are the medics in the battlefield who watch the chaos unfold firsthand. Usually, they'll be reading as you write. For example, I had a group of 2-3 alpha readers who braved through INGENICIDE chapter by chapter as it emerged. There was a lot of cringing. And moaning. But there were also some parts of the story that were good enough to make it to the version of the MS I have today (v6!) and we discovered them together and had our little parties on the googledoc.

Alpha readers are great for a whole list of reasons, but I'll give you the two that make them especially dear to me:

1. They hold you accountable.
  (AKA I bug them incessantly with READ READ READ READ!)
No, really. When I found myself with writer's block, I reminded myself that no matter what, I had to get my chapter out there! So I could send out a fancy notification email to all my lovely alphas! With a oh-so compelling quote! Like this:

NEW!Ingenicide   Chapter 10- COLOR OF POISON

"I try to rationalize, make list of parts of me that I can cope without. But when I’ve taken all of me for granted for so long, any relinquishment feeds a black cloud of doubts. I need my sight. I need my hands, my feet. I need my brain to work."

See? I was really into it :D 

2. They catch problems early on.
Some problems you should not get hung up on as you are writing because they make you stuck in a rut. Those are the problems that you go back to at the end. Surface wounds. On the other hand, some problems are like infection. The might start small but then they start working their way into the core of the story. Usually, these are the problems that, if left untended, cause the major rewrite. While it is not guaranteed that a manuscript won't have to undergo a rewrite, alpha readers do lessen the chances. Reading along, they'll point out the most glaring of problems as you go, even catch the occasional typo and inconsistency that won't hurt to fix as long as you don't become obsessive about it. Ultimately, your first draft will be cleaner (though that doesn't mean you won't still have work to do!) if it passes through the eyes of the alpha reader.

Thank you and much love to my aplhies if you are reading this. 

I'm actually in need of alpha readers for my next project, IF LIFE WERE FAIR (click on the link for the description--at the bottom of the post). Comment with your email OR email me at joanart6 AT gmail DOT com if you are interested! Thanks a bunch!

Do you use alpha readers in addition to beta readers?