I write to keep me sane. I write so that my words may outlive my life. I write to find redemption

Sunday, April 22, 2007

33 lines so far

The Writers Game
The 101 lines story.

Add a line to this story. Once it reaches 100 lines, which may take months, I will add the last line. I may add lines in the middle if the muse strikes me. I will take your line from the comment area and put in the end of the story.

Her legs were on fire but she couldn't stop running.Her toes bled but she kept on, knowing the danger that hounded her.

Not too far behind, her pursuers seemed to be gaining on her. It was their silence as they followed her that bothered her the most. She'd always thought wolves howled as they hunted, so what was wrong with these animals?

Cate Samson didn't want to die tonight, torn to pieces by these hungry beasts that stalked her. She saw the yellow light streaming from the window of the cottage few paces ahead of her. Torn between the fear of the wolves and the uncertainty of the unknown cottage, Cate quickly chose the less immediate peril.

The cottage window bared a peep into a wild teenage party,Cate slipped in through the backdoor. Unaware of what fate lay ahead, she ventured into the unknown enveloped by darkness; yet in the distance there shone a dim light.

Cate gasped for air, while locking the door behind her, and then rested against it as her eyes swept over the darkened kitchen. She could hear laughter and music coming from the living room.

A party?

Without warning, she heard voices calling out in farewell, a door opening, then sudden screams. Cate ran toward the commotion and came upon a bloody scene of carnage where wolves were attacking teenagers, but as soon as she moved into the room the image disappeared again.

Cate froze, fingers twitching, eyes darting about the eerily empty room. She whirled around, suddenly sure she must be standing in the beam of a hologram projector.

"It's happening again, isn't it?" her boyfriend asked

She opened her mouth, but her voice had vanished - stolen away with the horrific scene. Bewilderment surged over Cate much as water closes over a shipwrecked sailor who cannot swim, and she struggled to keep her mind afloat, her sanity alive.

Daniel moved across the room and placed his hand on her arm, then said "It's getting worse, Catie."

Suddenly there's a flash of lightning, a booming, rolling thunder that sounds like it will never end and silence in pitch darkness after the electricity has gone off. Daniel stumbled forward, his hands reaching but connecting with nothing.

Daniel turned and saw Cate step out of the shadows as she whispered defiantly, "I want to try it again. I think I know how I can change it next time. You have to let me--I know I'll be able control it. I don't want to lose you."

He said the word that even in her bravest moments she didn't dare dwell on-- "Again."

Cate walked over and flipped off the projector. The images fell away, leaving them in a gray walled room in the sub-basement of a nameless- to the masses- government agency. Since those scientists who knew of it could not agree on the precise significance of the effect a team of theoretical physicists had stumbled upon while investigating the possibility of time travel, the Department for Understanding Special Technologies had stepped in.

"Let it go for tonight," Daniel said as he walked over and rubbed her shoulders. "You're tired."

Never would she imagine that she had to arrive at this stage and yet fail. What was wrong? Was it the quark that went awry? Was it the application that was at best a procedure?

Cate sighed, as Daniel rubbed her shoulders. She started to purr, as she turned around and kissed him greedily on the lips.

Daniel said, "Let me take you home."

Cate allowed herself to be led from the room, but her mind stayed there, working and reworking the problem that was threatening to take over her life, if not end it altogether.

Suddenly, a black cat appeared in the window.

"Schrodinger!" Cate whispered, plucking the sleek feline from the windowsill and stroking his perfectly groomed fur.

Writers taking part :

Sara, Susan, Friend of Jaime,Sylver, Wandering Author,Sara, Nothingman,Sam, Usha, Blu Jewel, Sara twice,Syler, Wandering Author, Sara, Saoirse Redgrave, Wandering Author, Sara, Cesalie Chase, Wandering Author, Sara, Kilroy, Sara, Stargazer, Saoirse, Sara twice, Ray, Sara twice, Canterbury Soul three lines, Markbnj 2 lines, Sara 2 lines, Kilroy, Saoirse,

Thank you to these writers. The story is really shaping into something different than I would write on my own. Loving it so far!

Will you add the next line? One line per writer per day. Play often!

Don't be shy to twist the plot. You control where this goes....

Tuesday, April 03, 2007

Peeking through the fingers that covered my eyes

When I first decided to write a novel I thought that was all there was to it. You sit. You write. Time passes. (How much I never really pinned down though I remember doing mad calculations. If I write 1,000 words a day then in 100 days I will have a novel. If I write 2,379 words a day then in... I was never very good at math and completely useless at keeping to schedule so those Words- Per- Day schemes never did much good in the end.) Anyway, you write and then re-write and then you have a novel.

But as Robert Frost wrote in my favorite poem,

knowing how way leads onto way,

it was not such a straight path from blank page to finished first novel.

The most terrifying moment on that journey,so far, was the second before I clicked open the e-mail that contained my first critique of my writing.

I belonged to a different writing group then, New Writers Chat at yahoo groups. I hadn’t started the group and I hadn’t been there at its inception. I was the new girl on the block, in writing and status at the group. I had no idea what to expect to hear about my work.

In that period, I was trying hard to craft a Harlequin Intrigue style romance. I would read them and try to match my writing to what was in the book. I was so green I could of been grass.

Biting my lip, I let my mouse move toward the email and then away. I said a prayer to God. My stomach knotted, my brain was yelling “Why did you ever do this? This is a disaster!”

With a muttered, “Here goes,” I opened the email.

My eyes skimmed over it quickly, looking for some line that equated “You suck! Do you call this writing?”

It wasn’t there.

In fact, the person had been encouraging. Sweet joyous relief flooded through me. The words in her critique didn’t make me a writer. But that was the start of me developing my thick skin that all writers need to face rejection.

It was not in the words of her critique that I found my new tool in my writer’s arsenal. It was in the act of facing a possible rejection that I learned I could survive it, and that I felt the pride that came with taking my place in a long line of scribes who had done the exact same thing on their way to publication.

Note- This post was written for Fiction Scribe's Blog Carnival. Head on over and show her your support by taking part. She has one of the most informative blogs online for aspiring writers.