I'm sorely tempted just to leave it there, but I really couldn't do that to you. The fact remains, however.
Anyway, I was thinking about what I wanted to post here today while I was doing my usual internal rants (And yes, I am quite capable of thinking about several things simultaneously. Or, as a scientist would tell you, jumping from subject to subject so quickly, it seems simultaneous). Before MySpace died, I used to post my rants up on my little "blog" there. Sometimes they dragged on quite a bit. From 5-13 pages on some occasions. But those posts were of a rather personal nature -- angsty outbursts and the like. So unless I write a particularly artistic feeling one (which can happen), you will probably be spared those.
Too bad, too. I impressed even myself with the logic of my arguments in today's little episode. In the end it was decided that I was most likely in actual love with my grade school crush. The evidence, really, is staggering, but you'll have to take my word for it. How and why would I have been picking at that? My line of logic would probably give you an aneurysm, so I'll spare you that explanation as well.
After the Great Shift to Facebook (Or should I say, return? Because, as a college student, Facebook was actually first), I sort of lost my outlet. Things were a little rocky in my head at that time as well, and I clung to my little journal-like-thing to the very last. It was also about that time my brain started producing coherent streams of fiction instead of dreams. I've always had the craziest, most vivid and colorful dreams, but they were usually things like Mission Impossible meets Little House on the Prairie or saving a busload of students who were somehow lost in a rainforest. Then there's my personal favorite: getting so lost at school that I never actually find any of my classes, and before I know it, it's Prom/Graduation and I never made it past Day One. (This one continued until I was well out of high school. Doesn't take a psych major to interpret it either.)
But suddenly, I was dreaming that I could fly -- but for very logical reasons. I was at a soccer game and the field crumbled from underneath us. I was climbing a tree and looking into a bedroom through glass walls. I'd been hurt and some guy had donated his blood to me in a futile attempt to win my affections... which I knew would be a permanent decision. He even used the line "There's part of me inside of you" rather suggestively in my mind, which I couldn't help but laugh at once I woke up. All of you have that have read Untouchable should recognize these things. There were several other things that came directly from my dreams, and I was quite determined that they should all make it into my book, my masterpiece.
I realize now that I was wrong. So much of what I put into that book needs to be taken right back out again. The dreams were great for inspiration, but not all of it pertained to my story. I also threw in a few things from my real life, real stories and tastes from my own personal past. Another huge mistake. I spent three years writing it off and on (mostly off), and spent a whole hell of a lot of that time trying to squeeze things in that I just "had" to have in there. It needs to go. Everything that makes Elizabeth into me needs to go, along with everything that didn't flow naturally into the plot the way it should have. Stubbornly gluing in scenes because you're proud of them does not make for good storytelling.
Also, I used way too many adverbs. I blame fan fiction for that. Novices shouldn't learn from each other, it makes for rough going. At least 75% of things that end in -ly could and should probably be expressed in better ways. As far as my word choices... I plead ignorance on that one. Who knew that the most preferable way to say someone said something is simply using the word "said"? I specifically remember there being posters in grade school of all the different words you could use to spice up your paper. Whispered, sighed, yelled, whined, teased... I remember them telling me to use them. Then I get into the real world, and I want to be a real writer. I use all those words and then some.
Do you realize that I only used "said" three times in my entire novel? And I was actually proud of that fact? And most of them were actually paired with adverbs. "Whispered quietly." "Angrily yelled." "Sighed dejectedly." Then I go online and I read these articles... "It's distracting." "It's telling instead of showing." "If you have to spell it out, you're doing it wrong." At first I rebelled against these people who are so much smarter than I. How dare they tell me I'm not great at what I do? But... They're right. I'm wrong. Better take a screen shot, cause you may never see those words from me again. (Twice in one posting, no less.)
And another thing, don't you remember being told that "and" takes the place of a comma in a list? Because I do. Granted, I could be mistaken, but I've seen other people do it too. I could swear I learned it like this: "I like apples, oranges and bananas." not "I like apples, oranges, and bananas." The last comma registers with me as redundant because of something I'm 95% sure I learned in the 5th grade. I feel like I've been lied to. Why, Mr. McCreary? Why? Nah... he was the best. Introduced us to Barry Manilow and "The Boss". Can't get mad at that.
What was my point again? Did I even have one? Probably not. But that, children, marks the end of our program. If you had ever wondered what happened to Untouchable, you now have your answer. I peddled it out for a couple of months to no less than 50 agents, and after only 2 positive responses to my query and sample pages, I was forced to re-evaluate.. and all of that (see above) is what I came up with. It has to be dismantled and rebuilt completely (especially the first fifty pages where most of the transgressions lie. Besides, that section is still boring!)
When the time comes and Untouchable is actually ready, I may have decided just to self-publish it. It almost seems better that way. No rejections... only ego boost bonuses whenever someone unexpectedly buys my book. And you really have to be a major thing to make it big with a publisher... like "they make movies outta my shit" strokes of fortune. And should I achieve any success with that, sequels would be forthcoming, and perhaps I would have better luck then.
For the time being, I am writing my romance, which I will admit now is likely cheesy and predictable, but I love my ridiculous bastard of a love interest, so what can I do? They really love to fight and make up, so maybe Harlequin will pick it up. It isn't likely to make me lots of money (and certainly won't garner a screenplay), but I'd really love to have that sort of credit under my belt. Being able to say, "Oh yes, I've been published by someone you've heard of" sounds pretty wicked to me. Just sayin'.
I'll leave you now with a tiny bit of flash fiction. It is neither contest winning nor publicly recognized in any forum, but I kinda like it. (If I've already showed this to you, I'm sorry. I'm at a lack for something new. Which reminds me... Who here hasn't read the first few pages of my romance and/or would like to?)
Until next time... Stay thirsty, my friends.
~Lex
Unable to stop herself, Deidre peered into each vehicle as it passed. Deryk wasn’t in any of them. Of course he wasn’t, she thought, it had been seven years since the Raiders snatched her. Seven years of slaving to The Mistress. Not that The Mistress was unkind; in fact, she favored Deidre as she would her own daughter—had she been able to conceive. Deidre had her own room, her own books, and had even been allowed to forgo Training, much to her keeper’s dismay.
Deidre had been lucky to be purchased by The Mistress, and she knew it. Had she been sold to any other family, she may well have been used as a bed warmer, a factory slave, or worse: a Wife. Above all else, Deidre feared becoming a Wife. After all, what would Deryk say?
When they were twelve and she had last seen him, Deryk may not have said anything. But now, at nineteen, she was sure that he would have been her Husband and would not approve of her entertaining the idea of others. Deidre winced at her own thought. To have been chosen by another man would have ruined her, and what choice would she have had? One does not waste her Training.
Men were trained too, in their own way. A Husband must know how to command respect, mustn’t he? He must be worthy of his Wife’s admiration, of his workers’ loyalty. Deidre had always known that Deryk would be Groomed. Deryk’s family had been wealthy, and now he was of age; he would surely be seeking a Wife. Perhaps he had already found one. Perhaps he would come this season to choose among The Mistress’ students and she would not be among them.
Panicked, Deidre resumed her vigil at the window. It seemed silly now to have forgone Training, knowing Deryk was out there. She might have waited for him. She might have refused all others until he came for her. Yet another kindness of The Mistress: her students were allowed to refuse. The concept was positively taboo. No man in the proper circles would admit that he had heard of such a place, let alone found his Wife there.
Yet, all students under The Mistress’ care were promptly taken. It was rumored amongst the women that The Mistress held another school, a school for Grooming. It had been said in hushed whispers and frenzied gossip that the men at that school were taught respect in different ways, that they were even encouraged to love.
If that were true, Deidre thought, then she had chosen correctly. What chance did she have of Deryk choosing this forbidden alternative to Grooming? Of his coming to The Mistress’ school to find a Wife that might refuse him? The odds, she decided, were definitely too poor to give up this simple life of servitude. She turned to begin her lamp lighting before it became too dark, before the final coach pulled in.
The man who exited the car was young, fair-skinned, and extremely well dressed. He had the distinct air of disappointment about him, as though on the tail end of a truly fruitless journey—an expression that only deepened as he gazed upon the crumbling stone edifice. So many windows, he mused, all of them as dark and empty as his heart. A light caught his eye, one tiny flicker of heat, but it was all he needed.
For though Deidre had not seen Deryk arrive, his eyes had most certainly fallen upon her.
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