Monday, April 28, 2014

last post for April!

OMG, IT'S ALMOST MAY.

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WHERE DID A THIRD OF THE YEAR GO?!

Terrible, tragic things happened (I can't read an article about the Sewol disaster without fucking crying - why do awful things happen to good people? They were only kids, dammit!), the world is still crazy, and it's already (only?) May. Can 2014 please be kinder?


*


In other news, author Chuck Wendig dishes some brilliant advice for young aspiring writers. So much gold in this post!

You’re not actually meant to be good. Not being good is how you get better. Not being good means you’re in that formative, fundamental blobby parthogenesis period where The Authorial You just starts to emerge. Not being good is how we are forced to take the time to not just Get Good, but also Become Us. You’re not yet the Author That You Will Become. This is all normal. Be bold enough to suck with gleeful abandon — but also know that your critical urge to be better-faster-now is a good one. Don’t quit. Don’t rest. Force yourself to improve.
You find your voice by doing. And by rewriting. You won’t want to rewrite now. You won’t want to edit. Edits feel like you’re not good, like you’re being insulted, like having to fix it means it was broken to begin with. But recognizing broken things is a value. A skill. You get as many shots at the goal as you want. Let that be freeing, not punishing. 
In writing a lot and rewriting a lot, your voice will find you.


Author Natalie Whipple also shares her wisdom:

Sometimes You Have To Cut Your Losses 
I've grown to kind of dislike the "Never Give Up" advice. Sometimes you gotta give up on something to move forward. Maybe not on writing as a whole, but on a story idea that is not strong enough to hold its own. Or on a novel that's been on sub two years. Or on that first novel you ever wrote that has seen 200 rejections. Moving on can open up a new world. I've done it a lot. Never regretted it. If you find yourself pining over something from the past, you can always go back, too.

So here's to rewrites and new beginnings, the pain of letting go and moving on.



*


And because I really don't want this post to end on such a heavy note, here are some happy things for a Monday:

Funny signs

Advice from children

Life hacks to make life simple for girls

Cool wedding ideas (not that I'm dreaming of my own)

Pretty pictures:

Swooooon. Those colours!


Atypalaia, Greece - this is what fantasy stories are inspired by.



Oh, you sweet sweet boy





And lastly, a lovely song:



I may not understand the lyrics, but Donghae's voice! As sweet as his face.

Have a great week, everyone! And happy Labour Day!

Friday, April 25, 2014

Flash Fiction Friday - Infernal

I realise nothing may ever come out of these free-writing pieces, and a lot of them don't make sense or have much of a plot, but whatever. I'm just having fun!

Short stories are brilliant in that they don't require as much commitment as novels, so there's little stress in "getting it right". You can give free reign to your imagination. It's freeing, writing with so little expectation and pressure; it lets you rediscover your love for writing fiction. At least, it does for me.

And now, thanks to this song, 


I just had to get this story out.



*



Infernal



The fire-breather had three lives in total. One for discovery, one for degradation, and one for redemption – and only after he had undergone the last stage could he find peace among the ashes of his people.

Lately, though, he was seriously reconsidering that option. Redemption was far too complicated a route. Up in flames seemed like a glorious way to go. No aftermath, no room for regret. Many a fire-breather had failed to make it to the final phase, being run out of their minds by their sins. He had heard tales where they set themselves on fire in an effort to purge themselves, only to remain in cinders for all eternity, scattered by loose breezes that whispered their names –

No, he thought as he caught his torches before they clattered to the ground, their blistering breaths roaring close to his ears. He would not end up like his predecessors; he was stronger than that.

Your strength comes not from what you hold in your hands, but what you hold in your heart, the old emperor had told him. He was still trying to fathom his words.

All he understood now was the malaise in his mind, and the steel cage that was his body wrought tight with age and helplessness and regret. Fire was the only remedy, the only gratification, his only friend.

When he spotted the gypsy, watching him with a quiet intent, his first thought was that she might be his redemption. Her eyes seemed to promise that.

There in the bustling courtyard, she should have gone unnoticed, lost in the milling crowd that had gathered to watch his performance. But there was no missing her. She moved with a feline grace that was at once otherworldly and inhuman. With her face shadowed by her veil, he couldn't discern her age. Her eyes were eternal, like jewels in the night sky. They conveyed a message he was unable to read. He had never felt so wrong-footed by a single glance before.

His older self might have approached her instantly, unapologetically. But now he only observed from where he stood, trying to retain his grip on his torches. The world spun on its errant heels around them, and it was far too long before his performance came to an end.

Instead of waiting for the audience – particularly the women – to lavish their gifts and adoration on him, he pulled out from the crowd and slipped into the evening fog after the gypsy.

In the cobbled labyrinth of narrow, winding alleys, the walls leaned close with their overheard secrets.

She was waiting for him. It occurred to him that she could be one of Them. The Old Ones, with inextinguishable souls and calcified hearts. The ones who were untouched by anything, even fire. Weren't they rumoured to have eyes like hers?

It suddenly seemed like a foolish thing to do, following her here.

Her first word to him, though uttered low, struck him hard. “Khushka.”

Kushka. It took him a while to recognise the cadence of his name, the clatter and slither of the consonants. It had belonged to a tongue lost during the old war.

“How do you know my name?” he said. The question came out in a growl.

“I know a lot more about you that I shouldn't have to, even though I am only a messenger.”

Just an errand girl. The fire-breather felt his muscles unclench, although not entirely. Her eyes told a different story that he was equally willing to believe.

He sent her a look askance. “Which begs the question of whose messenger you are.”

“The emperor’s.”

“That is no emperor,” he spat. “That is a war-monger. A despot. His father remains the most worthy ruler of the realm.”

“Whatever he is, the fact remains that you are our last hope. The world has run out of fires to kindle and magic to plunder.”

“And the world is better for it. How presumptuous of us to go around taking that which doesn't belong to us.”

“Your skill, your weapon” – her gaze flitted to his extinguished torches – “can save us all. Every day you spend entertaining crowds with cheap tricks on your matchsticks, the forgotten kings remain buried under the ash city.”

His torches hung limply by his sides, and not for the first time he felt incredibly exposed under her long, measured gaze.

It wasn't long before he felt his insides freeze over. Winter blew swiftly into his heart, threatening to destroy him from within with a fire completely opposite of what he knew.

She was one of the Old Ones. He should have known. Those eyes were fire and ice, flame and frost. They contained an ice storm more savage than any fire he would ever wield. To think the emperor managed to find an ally in these isolated mountain dwellers who never used to concern themselves with taking sides in their war.

His lips were numb – was this what frostbite felt like? – but he choked out, “Why are you helping them? What’s in it for you?”

She answered his question with another chilly stab to the gut. “Not everything is about personal gain.”

In the midst of the brutal snowstorm she had inflicted on him, her unspoken words hailed like a call of the wind. You will save this world because you know it’s the only way you can live with yourself.

In his wildest dreams and deepest desires, he had hoped for redemption. Never had he expected it would come in the form of setting the world ablaze.

Tuesday, April 22, 2014

The 15 stages of book addiction


1. At first, you come across the book with the pretty cover and you're like



2. First chapter in and you're still like

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3. But halfway through you become like

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4. And then like

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5. By the final chapter you're like

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Even though you're like this

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6. After you close the book you're like

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And

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7. You rush out to buy the hard copy even though you've already got the e-book.



8. You look for someone to fangirl with over the book, but it's like



9. But then you find a fellow fan at last and it's like

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10. Later, you learn that the sequel is out and this becomes you

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11. But then the sequel won't be out until next year and you're like

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12. Finally, the sequel is here and you're like

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13. You repeat stages 4 and 5, only this time you're more like this

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And

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And

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14. And now that there's a final installment, you're like

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But since it's the end, you're also like

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15. So you ration your candy, so to speak

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The above chronicle is all thanks to this mindblowing, awe-inspiring, wonderfully crafted epic trilogy:

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(gif from Laini's blog)

Thank you, Laini, for sharing your beautiful writing with the world.

Friday, April 18, 2014

Flash Fiction Friday - Renegade



Flash fiction isn't meant to be written in more than one sitting. It totally throws your momentum off, and what you end up with is a derailed story without focus.

Case in point: the short story I tried writing as a result of this prompt


And this book (which I'm currently rereading to jog my memory before reading the final installment):


[Speaking of the final installment in the series, IT'S OUT! DREAMS OF GODS AND MONSTERS IS OUT!!! If you haven't read the first book, Daughter of Smoke and Bone, yet, GET STARTED. Seriously. It is epic fantasy at its best. You will not regret it. Oh, Laini. Why are you so awesome.]


*


Renegade



She had folded up her wings for good, tucked them away into the groove of her spine. She still felt the solid, packed weight resting between her shoulder blades, a reminder of the life she had turned her back on.

For years – how many moon spans had it been? – all she had known were the close quarters of the hut she had built on her own along the sea-ravaged coast. This part of the kingdom was far flung and forsaken enough that no one would think to look for her here. And that was exactly how she preferred it. 

The first sign of things starting to change was the collection of shells, teeth, bones and claws she found on the barrier island a little ways away from her hut. For some reason, on this spit of land, someone was building an altar. And that could only mean one thing: the renegades were back. It was a custom unique to her people, pooling the relics of life together before drawing on their blood magic.

It struck her as strange, how they were so close to where she hid but hadn’t yet found her. The renegade army never left any stone unturned or home intact. 

Still, the sight of the collection, more familiar than she would have liked, triggered a flood of memories that she tried valiantly to outrun. She now wore her human feet with considerable ease, but running in the sand still took some getting used to, and she charged home in an awkward stagger-sprint. But it was impossible to be free of the memories, the bloodshed, her past.

It wasn’t until she had left the barrier island and was safely (although that remained to be seen) back in her home that she realised she should have destroyed the altar and its potent assortment of beast and human remains. Remote as this place might be, the possibility of the altar chanced upon by the wrong people was enough to draw her back out to the island. 

Almost.

But as it were, she stayed in the comforting shadows of her hut, praying to the sky goddess for protection even though it had been long since she believed in Yussa.

When night fell, she kept her eyes peeled for shadows in the sky and her ears pricked for the rustle of wings. Her own rampant heart drummed a jarring rhythm. She had been their leader once – there was no reason to fear them. But the memory of the final call she had heard from her subordinates – turncoat – hissed and scorched like an offending spark. 

I was right. I was right to walk away. I have nothing to fear.

But her dread was poison in her veins.

When the visitors – or perhaps intruders might be the better term – appeared, it wasn’t in the flurry of wings or the shriek of raptors. Instead, it was the scratch of talons on wood – the equivalent of a civil knock, she thought wryly, so she had no choice but to answer it or risk having her door clawed to shreds. The frantic scrabbling died as she approached.

They stood before her, a brood of calamitous souls, ravaged and sustained by the long drawn out war. In all manner of beast and creature, furred, clawed and horned, her ex comrades appeared like a motley assortment. But their intent gazes belonged to one and the same person –

The same person who cut through the armoured throng with purposeful solemnity. His hulking figure threw a shadow over those in his immediate vicinity; it blotted out the moon entirely from her view.

Despite being – used to be, she corrected silently – second in rank to him, his presence never failed to make her shrink to a fraction of her size. She remembered the way he would snap his canine jaw too close for comfort whenever she questioned his orders.

“It’s been a while, General.” There it was – that growl, that pair of flashing crimson eyes that haunted her dreams. He scanned the scant inner of her house. “This is a pitiable refuge you’ve pieced together for yourself.”

She held her ground. “No less pitiable than the life I used to lead.” 

His eyes flicked back to her. “Your services are required.”

“Whatever you need from me, the answer is no. I turned my back on that life a long time ago.”

“I think you misunderstand me.” He took a step closer, so that he filled up doorway completely. “This is not a request.”

In his eyes she saw the desolation of their city, ruined by the terrible magic of the sea children. Ruined by her desertion, her betrayal. She should never have aided the escape of the prisoners. It was by the mercy of the Hound that she hadn’t been sentenced for her crime.

Mercy of the Hound. Now that was a notion she had never thought possible, she thought wryly.
The Hound continued, his obnoxious snout bearing down on her, “The Drowned City lives, and every second I waste here is another second our enemy gains advantage over us.”

The Drowned City was a myth. Everyone knew that.

And yet … Hadn’t they believed that eighteen years ago, before the sea children’s rebellion caught them all by surprise?

He slid neatly into the sliver of space her hesitation spared. “Welcome back, General,” he said, even though she hadn’t agreed to return to them. But with his teeth bared in a savage grin, she knew she had no choice in the matter. “We have work to do.”


*


I think it's terrible. But we can't all have good writing days every day. At least this helps me figure out what I want to do - and can do - with my Shiny New Novel. 

Yes, it's fantasy. 

Yes, it has something to do with wings. 

Yes, I'm still working out the kinks. 

No, I will not let it suck again.

Happy long weekend! :0)

Wednesday, April 16, 2014

What commencement is really about (hint: not you!)



I was talking to a friend lately and he told me he was not going to attend his commencement (i.e. graduation) ceremony. Until recently, I had no idea there were people - and many of them, at that - who don't attend their commencement ceremony.

"Why wouldn't you?" I asked him.

"Because I don't believe in going to uni to get a degree," he said. "So going on stage to receive it is against my principles."

Seriously? I wanted to ask. Are you really going to skip commencement because of this principle? While I have nothing against his belief - university IS more than just getting a degree - I think it's too staunch a conviction for which you're choosing to forgo your graduation ceremony.

It was at this point that I remembered I'd had a similar response as him towards it.

My own commencement wasn't too long ago - just last year, in fact. (I graduated one year late because of some glitch in the system. Long story. I'm over it.) But the memory wasn't as warm and fuzzy as it could have been. And it was entirely my fault.

I couldn't care less about it. I'd thought the whole thing was contrived, putting on a huge cheesy smile as I posed with my scroll. I'd thought it was no big deal, since I was just one of the few thousands that year who was donning that robe and going on stage to receive that scroll. There was no need to make a big fuss about it.

But it WAS a big deal. If not to me, then to my dad.



He had been looking forward to my commencement, preparing his outfit for that day, scoping the place days beforehand for parking spots, making space in his SD card and charging his camera battery, asking me if I was inviting any of my friends to the ceremony...

And I had let him down. I had no idea where to go and what to do on that day, and was almost late for the ceremony. All because I couldn't care less. All because I thought it was no big deal. We could have arrived earlier and taken photos, chilled, and I could have shown him around a little before the ceremony began. But we did none of that, because we arrived on the dot and I had to scurry into the hall with the rest of my cohort while donning my robe.

I would go back and do it all over again PROPERLY if I could.



I received my scroll and my dad and I posed for photos, but the moment was incomplete. Imperfect. Marred by my indifference. My dad didn't smile as proudly and joyfully as I knew he would have.

You see, commencement isn't really about you. Sure, it's an entire elaborate ceremony - robes and speeches and all - dedicated to handing out certificates to you and your peers. But it is NOT ABOUT YOU. It's about your parents. Your guardians. Your friends. Your teachers. And everyone else who had put in time and money and effort to see you through to that moment.

So even if you think attending your graduation ceremony is pointless - "no big deal" (I will never forget the look on my dad's face when he heard me say that) - don't deny the people who most deserve to see you walk through that moment the experience. Attending it - being fully involved in it - is the biggest thank you you can say to them.

[This might be a little late, but if I hadn't made it explicit enough, thank you to everyone - especially my dad - for everything you've invested in me so that I could attend my own commencement ceremony. Thanks to my dad for the late-night cramming sessions, the looooong journeys on weekends to the tuition centre, the time and money spent on my books and tuition classes and little treats whenever I felt tired along the way. It's been a fruitful 15 years.]

Monday, April 14, 2014

Monday moodlifters (apart from that rejection letter)!

So I was video-surfing on YouTube yesterday and chanced upon this lovely artiste: Laurel. 

That's it. Laurel. I have no idea who she is - Google doesn't even know her by her mononym yet. She is that new. 

But a deeper search provided some answers: Laurel Arnell-Cullen, a 19-year-old British girl who's been writing songs since she was 12. This instills a deep sense of shame in me. What was I doing when I was 19 - or 12, for that matter - instead of writing gorgeous songs like hers?

But I'll stop talking now and let her music speak for itself.

This one's called Fire Breather. It was used in episode 16 of The Vampire Diaries season 5. I haven't watched it yet, but apparently it was used for some Delena scene (meh, whatevs).


That voice! That beat! Excuse me while I punch the crap out of the Replay button.

This one is called To the Hills:


Oh. My. Gosh. I DIE. Can we just pause whatever we're doing and LISTEN to her?

Those words! Those imagery! Can't you just imagine a scene already? SO dramatic. I filled 6 pages of my notebook just listening to her - wrote a short story too, although that could be attributed to re-reading Days of Blood and Starlight by Laini Taylor.

I NEED MORE!


Her songs are like a delicious mix of Lorde and Lana Del Rey, perfect for writing some sweeping fantasy story - which, I admit, is an idea I'm kind of toying with. I PROMISE I'll come back to Neverland ... someday. For now, I don't want to pin myself to a story that's not working and restrict myself from working on anything else.

Speaking of a story that's not working, I just received my first non-form rejection letter - i.e. a personal rejection letter, which is what you get after a literary agent decides to look at your manuscript - for Until Morning.

A form rejection letter goes like this:

Dear author, I apologise for the impersonal nature of this letter, but after careful consideration I have decided to pass on your manuscript blabbity blah blah more depressing blah. 

So a personal rejection letter is a tiny step up - still depressing because it's like having your crush lead you on before telling you he's not into you after all.

Wait, where did THAT analogy come from?

Anyway, here's the first heartbreak for Until Morning:


Dear Joyce,

Thank you so much for allowing us to read the first 50 pages of UNTIL MORNING. Catherine and I were very drawn in by your expert use of lyrical language and cleverly imagined scenes. Unfortunately, I think we will have to pass on the project, as it's just not quite right for us. The work is of such high quality that it deserves an agent who will be able to grant it his or her full attention. 

I do regret that we have to pass on this, but I am confident that you will find an excited agent soon. I wish you the best of luck in your continuing search for representation and publication.

All best,
Andrew
Office of Catherine Drayton


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Sigh. So close. So damn close.

Happy things? Much needed.

I'm weirdly obsessed with deer art these days:

by AnnyaKaiArt on Etsy

Deer cookies

by CirqueDeArt on Etsy

And this boy:




And adorable babies:


Speaking of babies, isn't this picture of Prince George so darn adorable?

Image from Elle.com

Awwww! Those cheeks!

Also, in a bout of Harry Potter nostalgia, I found an article listing out 6 possible spinoffs and oh yes please to all of them!

I've been going on for ages about a Marauders spinoff (more James Potter and Sirius Black bromance; more James Potter, period):

The Marauders Art Print by sevillaseas on society6.com

but a Founders spinoff and Auror spinoff sound intriguing too. See what happens when you write a richly imagined series? SO much room for potential spinoffs!

Also, if you haven't already seen this, you should. Gorgeous photography by Katerina Plotnikova. So many story ideas zinging around. I mean, look!


Okay, a little too many antlers for this post.

Peter Pan quote

Have a great week, everyone! :0)