Tag: writing

Finally – I’m writing a gothic novel!

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The beast bit me and I sat down to start a gothic novel. I started about a week ago, and I’m about 19 chapters, and 92 pages in. Needless to say, I’ve been swallowed by the premise and I feel as if, if I were the reader, not the writer, I’d read this book. And that’s always a good sign.

The inspiration is a mix of Jane Eyre and The Fall of the House of Usher. It’s about a college student, Jade, who drops out of college after she finds another student murdered near campus. At first, the police suspect her, but they quickly decide she’s innocent. The rest of the students, and the town, however, have their reservations, though. So Jade decides to take a job at a creepy old house 4 hours away from home.

Here’s an excerpt from first chapter. Let me know what you think in the comments!

Chapter One

“Storyteller for hire. Must be good with adults. Pays well. Call 439-7920.” The newspaper ad is short and simple, and it strikes me as off, but I ignore everything except the “Pays well.”

I’m at $39.79 in my bank account, and I’m desperate for a job. Any job. This college thing isn’t working out. Who needs physics, and calculus, anyway, no matter what my mother says about what she calls “femininst power jobs.” Show the man the woman can. 

I cross the street to the payphone and pull out a quarter before dumping it into the phone’s slot with a clank. The sky is a pale blue, light gray really, and there’s a smoky black cloud in the distance strangling half the sky. 

4-3-9-7-9-2-0. 

I hear the line ring, once, twice, then a gruff, “Sever House.”

“Uh, yes, hi, hello,” I stammer. “I saw an–your ad, in the paper?”

I pause, but all I hear is breathing on the other end. 

“Um, well, the storyteller–”

“Yes,” the voice interrupts. I can’t tell if it’s a woman or a man, but I think it’s a woman who smoked ten too many cigarettes. 

“I, uh, yeah, I’m interested.”

“Can you tell stories? Good ones? To adults? Nothing too bloody, though.”

“I–I’ve babysat–”

“I’m asking about adults. Not children. Children’s stories are easy. Adults, well, that’s a different beast.”

“Uh, well, I can interview? Maybe?”

I hate how I sound, unsure, uncomfortable. I need to run with the wolves more. 

I clear my throat and stand up a bit straighter, even though the voice on the other line can’t see me. I spot my reflection in the payphone’s metal paneling, though, and I force myself to smile. 

There, that’s better. A smile goes the extra mile. Another one of mom’s “self-improvement” quotes. 

“I can come in and interview and–”

“Do you have samples?”

“I-actually, yes. I do. I won a local writing contest, and I can send you the newspaper clipping.”

“Do you have an email account?”

“Uh, yes, I–”

“Fax the clipping, I’ll take a look. I will send you an email with the contract if the writing is up to our standards.”

“Oh ok, yes, thank you. Uh, and where’s the House, exactly?”

“I can send you the address via email and a contract to look over. I’ll want a signed copy of the contract before you come. The position is for an in-house storyteller. You will live at the house for the duration of fall and winter, and then you may leave. The Master of the house prefers his stories with tea and digestives, sometimes with a little brandy in the tea.”

“I–yes.”

There’s a pause and then, “Your email?”

“Ah, right, yes, uh, m-a-l-a-e-k-a-2-1 underscore 2-1@AOL.com.”

“Check tonight for an email. If there is none, you did not get the job,” the woman says. I hear static and a groan, and then she adds, “You may send a fax to 763-3663.”

The line goes dead and I’m left holding a phone. I place it back on the receiver and, with a smile, I cross the street back to the daycare I’ve been working at. 

If I can win a short story contest, I can get this job. 

I visualize myself giving the daycare my notice, then shake my head of the thought. You don’t even know what the pay is for a storyteller. It’s probably less than the daycare.

Even so, I can’t help but feel a tinge of excitement. I’m getting out of here, I’m getting away from this place. 

“I’ve gotten a new opportunity,” I whisper to myself, before I step back inside. “I am giving my notice.”

I take a deep breath. 

“I’ve gotten a new opportunity, and this is my notice.”

I shake my head to clear the thought. 

“I got an offer for a new job, and I’ll be taking it. Thank you so mu–”

“Jadey?”

I wheel around to find Kirsten staring at me. 

“I–wasn’t talking to myself,” I say. 

She stares a moment too long then says, “Right. Want to come back inside?”

“Uh, yeah, actually, I wanted to talk to you.”

“Can it wait? Jeremy’s mom is coming in today to talk about his “milestones and development,” Kirsten says, rolling her eyes. “She thinks we should be doing more to ‘develop his young brain,’ she adds, air quoting with her fingers.

“What does she expect?” I say, stepping back into the clangs and noises and gurgles of babies. “I mean, we’re a daycare, not even a preschool.”

“I know,” Kirsten says. “But, the parents pay the monies, and therefore the bills.”

The door opens behind us. A tall woman with mom jeans and t-shirt steps inside. “Candice,” Kirsten says with forced cheerfulness in her voice. “Jermey’s right there with Candice,” she adds, pointing in the center of the room where a short brunette is pressing buttons on a musical book with 9-month-old Jeremy. “Come into my office just around the corner,” I hear Kirsten say as she’s already leading Candice away. 

I sigh, and turn back to the stack of paperwork I need to file. 

I hear Kirsten’s too-cheery voice again when she opens her office door. Two sets of footsteps walk down the short hall back to the main office and playroom of Kirstie’s Care. 

“I’ll be taking Jeremy home today,” I hear Candice say, “But I’m thrilled we’re on the same page.”

Cooing and ahing ensue as Candice moves to pick up Jeremy off the ground. He blows bubbles and Candice snuggles her nose against his. Candice flicks her eyes at me, and recognition registers. I notice she clutches Jermey hard enough that he squirms in her arms, and she shields his body a bit with hers. 

“You’re that girl–” she starts. “The one in the papers.”

“I’m sorry, I must look like someone else–”

“No, no, I remember your picture. You’re the one that found that poor girl. How awful.”

“It was,” I say. 

She leans in closer to me and drops her voice to a whisper. “You really don’t know anything about who did it?”

I swallow a scream and shake my head. “The authorities are still on the case, last I heard.”

She nods once and pulls back from me, still shielding her son’s body with hers. “I’m surprised they let you work here,” she adds.

“I have no criminal record,” I say. 

But her eyes narrow at me. “Strange thing, you being the one to find her so late at night.”

“I’m a night owl.”

“I’m sure you are.”

Candice turns to go, the bell over the door jingling behind her. 

Kirsten shambles over to me, apparently not having heard what Candice just said. “Can this day get any worse?”

“It’s just a parent,” I say, “You’re always so good with them.”

“Not just her,” Kirsten says, chucking her thumb in the door’s direction after Candice. “The supervisor’s coming and we’re due for a safety inspection.”

“Oh, well, I mean, we’re safe, right?”

“Of course,” Kirsten says, shooting me a dark look. “We just got checked like six months ago. Anyway, it’s been a stressful day, that’s all.”

“Sine you’re here, I’ve been meaning to talk to you.” She chews on her lower lip, and doesn’t quite meet my eyes.

“Oh yeah, what about?”

“You know enrollment has been low recently, and we haven’t been hitting our target numbers.”

I stop shuffling papers and stare at her. “You’re firing me.”

“I’m sorry Jadey. It’s been–well, I can only afford the caretakers right now. You’re a luxury, and a great one, don’t get me wrong, but I just can’t justify the cost anymore. I’m really sorry. As soon as we get our enrollment back up, I’ll hire you right away.”

“And when will that be?” I try to swallow my worry. The other job isn’t a guarantee, and not even Mark’s Market is hiring right now. And I know, because I’ve asked him if he needed an extra cashier, and he said “No.”

“I really don’t know,” she says, frowning. “I wish I knew–”

“It’s fine, I know you’ve been having a tough time.”

“I have been and I hate to drag you into my money woes, but this is where I’m at.”

I smile and hug her. “Thanks for giving me a chance when no one else would.”

“How about you go home,” she adds. “The parents will be here soon, anyway. Sonia, Misha, and I can handle them.”

“You sure?” I say. 

Kirsten nods. “You’ve been staying late all week and doing extra. And here,” she adss, going around the desk and unlocking the top drawer. She glances behind her at the other caretakers and hands me an envelope. “Your cash.”

Kirsten’s been paying me cash to help out part-time at the daycare. “Thanks,” I say, and force myself to smile. “Really. I mean it.”

“I know. And,” she says, just as I’m turning to take my coat from the rack, “If you ever need anything–”

“–I’ll ask you.”

She moves to hug me, and I hug her tight back. 

“‘Night,” I tell everyone and head home. 

Home is just a ten minute walk away, and it’s silent when I open the door. 

“Hello?” I call out. “Mom? June?”

Nobody replies as I remember my twin sister Juniper – June – is at the college we go– I went to–, and I lock the door behind me. She was here just last weekend, but left Sunday evening to get back for her classes the next morning. The house is dark and smells like stale incense. I flick on a light switch but even the lamp seems to cast a deep shadow in the hallway. 

Outside, it thunders and rain slams against the window. 

“Great, a storm,” I say, just as the lights flicker once, twice. 

The PC is in dad’s office, the one he used for his architecture work before he died three years ago. 

I turn on the computer, listening to it wheeze and whir on until the screen flickers to a blue background, with a picture of the four of us smiling brightly, squinting against the sun, comes up. I try not to make eye contact with any of the faces, even my own. That picture was taken just a month before dad’s car drove off the side of the road in some freak rainstorm when he was coming home from work. 

Instead, I move the mouse and double click on the America On Line icon. I wait for the internet to dial up, the whirs and shrieks a bit too loud for the headache that’s come on suddenly.  

And so is the fax machine. I quickly pull out the newspaper clipping I keep in his desk drawer.

“Okay, so, it’s this button, right?” I think aloud as I fumble with the fax machine. After some minutes, I figure it out and the fax is on its way. 

I wait a few more minutes, puttering away on an internet forum for people who fancies themselves poets. I scroll past the neon colored marquees people have under their names, the ones that trail across the page, with my mouse leaving behind an afterimage of gold stars. The page is bright, using nearly every primary and secondary color, in every hue, especially neon. Everything’s blinking at me, and words keep changing color. 

I keep checking my email, waiting for something from the storyteller job, but nothing comes through. 

She did say later, didn’t she? Maybe she didn’t get the fax?

I try again, taking the newspaper clipping and sending another fax of it. 

The clipping is only a few months ago, but it feels like it comes from another lifetime, maybe even someone else’s life. 

There’s a picture of me, with a little blurb of my bio, that I helped write, of course, and there’s a snippet of my story that cuts off before running onto page 4….

The story continues, and at the end, the girl’s stalker kills her and leaves her for dead in a field behind the college the girl attends. 

Two days after this article came out, there was a “Special Edition” OpEd on my story. For the rest of the semester, the other students gave me dirty looks, and no one came near me, not even my roommate.

“You think she did it?” I overheard a red-haired girl with a thin braid snaking down her back say. “She knew a lot of the details.”

“They were in the news, though, but maybe she knew the killer? I did hear she found the body.”

“I heard she was covered in her blood…”

I fold the newspaper and slip it back into the desk drawer, ignoring the second clipping with the OpEd tucked inside. 

Instead, I go back to the forum I was surfing, reading through the comments about the latest Kurt Cobain song. 

But finally, I hear the, “Welcome, you’ve got mail,” and I hold my breath. I double click on the little mailbox icon with the yellow envelope and the email I’m waiting for is right under a *~*ChAiN LeTtEr*~~* email from miss_cleo_sandra_8392. I roll my eyes but make a mental note to open my best friend’s email. She loves sending me those chain emails that say THIS EMAIL HAS BEEN CURSED. IF YOU DON’T SEND IT TO 10 PEOPLE, YOU WILL DIE. 

But right under miss_cleo_sandra_8392 is a more severe looking email.

I double click the Job position contract: Please sign and… email and, still holding my breath, wait for it to load. The “contract” reads more like a vintage governess ad from the 1900s than a job contract, but I skim, then read, and then re-read it anyway. 

A young woman, with no attachments, university experience in the arts. Quiet, not shy, can talk to people but can be left alone for hours. 

This contract hereby commits you to six (6) months of labor as “Storyteller” of Severly House, hereto known as “Sever House” or “the House.” 

As “Storyteller,” you will be expected to work Monday through Saturday, with Saturday evenings and Sundays off:

  1. Join at 8-9 o’clock breakfast, prepared with a short story, tale, or fable. 
  2. Join at 1-2 o’clock lunch, prepared with a short story, tale, or fable. 
  3. Join at 7-8:30 o’clock dinner, prepared with a short story, tale, or fable. 
  4. Send to bed with a short story, tale, or fable. Chapter books preferred. 
  5. At any time the Master of the House requires a story, one must be proffered immediately. 
  6. Passages from books may be read.
  7. Stories told or read must be age-appropriate. 
  8. If the Master should request an original tale, one must be proffered immediately. 
  9. If the Master should request the presence of The Storyteller at House events, galas, parties, or any such event, the Storyteller must attend and must perform. 
  10. If the Master should require any other duties, the Storyteller must perform, within reason, to the best of their ability. 

Salary: $13564.66 for duration of six(6) months, to be paid weekly in cash. Lodging and meals provided for. Expected maximum working hours per week at 25 hours, excepting House events, galas, parties, or any such event.

Address:
224 Coven Rd,
Sovereign Hill

Ring on the day you are  to arrive, preferably by train, and we will have the Driver meet you at the station. Position is available immediately. 

Any questions, please address to Amerly Seymour, Head Caretaker of Severly House. 

Printed Name: _____________________________

Signature: _____________________________

Date: _____________________________

I quickly calculate the math on the PC’s calculator. 

6 months is 24 weeks, and 12,300 divided by 24 is…$565.19 a week, in cash. 

With my $9 an hour, and 20 hours per week at the daycare, making $565.19 compared to $180 is more than tempting; it’s three times more tempting. I’d have more than twelve thousand in my bank account after six months, and I’d have food and no rent, and nothing else to pay. Not that I pay for things like that now, but mom’s been freezing me out after I decided to take the semester off, and Juniper’s been sending me way too many emails, trying to guilt me into coming back after all. 

Though mom did threaten to make me start paying half the bills because I “dropped out of school,” as she says. 

I keep trying to tell her, I didn’t drop out, I am taking a break. But she’s convinced, “Drop the ball and you lose all.” 

But why are they paying so much?

And who is this Master?

I decide I don’t care. I’m bored with this town and my life, and I don’t even like kids. 

I turn on dad’s old printer, and a couple minutes later, I have the contract laying stark white against the printer tray. 

“Here goes nothing,” I say to myself, and sign my name.

Continue reading chapter 2 here.

Angst, anger, and affection

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Adding emotion to stories can be one of the more difficult aspects of writing. Sure, a writer knows what their characters are feeling, but can they make a reader *feel* the characters’ emotions?

That’s difficult.

I found a great article that was helpful in my own skill-building as I try to better learn how to slow down my writing and make my readers feel my characters.

One thing she says in the article is to “slow it down.”

Counselors tell us that thoughts lead to emotions, and emotions lead to actions. As a writer, you can easily show your character’s thoughts and actions. Readers are smart enough to deduce the emotions based on what the characters think and do. So often it seems writers are in a hurry.

And it’s true. Emotions are processed rapidly, yes, but humans also take time to “study” their emotions, and if not study, certainly to be swallowed by them. So as a writer, it’s important to let your characters feel, and sometimes, drown in their emotions (just not for too long – they do need to surface for air and move on).

Additionally, the article says, “There are two facets of emotion in fiction: conveying what your character is feeling and evoking emotion in your reader.“

Here again, time is king. You need to give your characters the chance to feel and process, and in doing so, you let your reader have the time to imagine themselves as the character.

What do you think is the most effective way to convey emotion? Do you have a favorite book or scene from a book that showcases this skill?

Writing is Rewriting

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I have written books before–none published as yet, but I’m working on that.

One thing I’ve learned–you can edit your book literally 20 times, and still not have it the way you want it to be. I have experience in this. I revised a manuscript some years back so many times, I ended up with 20 edits, and still wasn’t happy with the way the story flowed, especially since I have written the book as part of a series, and had finished the series in first-draft mode. Every time I sat down to the books to edit, I cringed. Every. Single. Time.

And each revision brought me to the thought, “Ok, I’m done now. It’s as good as it’s going to be at this point.”

But that’s the thing, it’s as good as it’s going to be “at this point.” Six months from now is not “as this point.” It’s six months from this point. And six months makes a huge difference in your perspective on your manuscript and on how to edit it.

Michael Crichton said:

“Books aren’t written—they’re rewritten. Including your own. It is one of the hardest things to accept, especially after the seventh rewrite hasn’t quite done it.”

He’s right. You can have a wonderful story, but that doesn’t mean it flows well and that the technicalities of writing are what they should be. Books are rarely written in first-draft mode and published as is, and become bestsellers. They have to be rewritten, and rewritten, and rewritten, and rewritten again.

So how do you edit your book? Each author has their own method of madness, but many would agree that these steps are critical:

  1. Keep your hands to yourself.

It’s typically a good idea to let your book sit for a while, at least a week, preferably a few months. This gives you a chance to forget about some details, get a fresher perspective, gain new experiences in the time being, and work on other projects. Resist the urge to set fingers to keyboard and begin the editing process.

Distancing yourself is one of the best things you can do when editing your manuscript.

  1. Eye candy.

Give yourself a chance to read through your manuscript, not with the intent of editing it immediately, but to refresh your mind on the story’s details. Sometimes, you’ll find that you wrote something in a scene, but then never used, so it was wasted or irrelevant to your story arc. You can keep a track of details and notes, but don’t worry about editing things right now. You’re a reader here, not a (re)writer.

  1. 12’s a charm.

Write a bunch of short synopses of your book—and write 12 of them. Getting a different perspective on your book each time can help you focus on the story itself, especially if you are writing fiction. The goal here is to acquaint yourself with different perspectives that all include the core components of your story. I usually try to create a few scenarios—trying to examine several facets of the story. It’s helpful to do this after you’ve distanced yourself from your manuscript for a while, and then have re-read it.

  1. Kill it with fire!

Start rewriting. Focus with fixing sentence structure, ripping out paragraphs, and even entire chapters. Do this mindfully, with the intention of tightening your writing, and fixing major structural issues within your plot. You have have left out key items, or added erroneous or irrelevant ones. The goal here is to excise and seal.

5. You spin me ‘round…

You’re probably going to go through no less than 3-4 revisions, and most likely are going to rewrite about 10 times—and that’s no exaggeration.

6. …like a record, baby…

You’re going to go through editing again. Focus now on tightening, because at this point, you should’ve fixed the major structural inadequacies of your plot. Worry about removing excess words, making scenes more descriptive, improving dialogue.

7. Mirror, mirror, on the wall!

Worry now about polishing your manuscript. Go through and make sure that sentences are reflecting what you want them to reflect. Make sure your writing is a mirror that reflects what your mind’s eyes see.

8. Beta me this.

Send it to workshop buddies, writing buddies, and friends/family members. Have others critique. Make sure you find people who can be both nice but harsh; they won’t sugarcoat their criticisms and tell you it’s all fine, but they won’t be cruel to you and bring you down. Find as many beta readers as you can—the more the better. Yes, too many chefs spoil the plot, but if a bunch of people are saying the same thing, you can be assured that they’re probably right.

9. Waterproof it.

Give your manuscript one more look-through. Make sure everything’s as tight as possible.

10. Find an agent or publisher!

Between the editing steps, you should let your manuscript sit, for at least a few weeks, if not a few months. Rushing through the steps will get you nothing except an manuscript that stays rough.

 

*Note: This article was originally published on January 13, 2016. 

Show me the glint of light

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“Don’t tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass.”—Anton Chekhov

Descriptions make or break writing. There’s nothing worse than reading a book, and being pulled out of the story by a bland description that seems more passive than active.

One word of advice that I’ve seen multiple times, and have experienced both as a reader and as a writer: the best writing is not about action or character development; it’s about how you are able to make music sing from the words that you write.

Don’t tell me that the violinist played a superb piece; show me how she made the audience cry and find goosebumps on their arms listening to her play.

*Note: This article was originally published on January 17, 2016. 

Hakawati Jinn – Chapter One

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The dead have been dropping all night. 

I awake before the sun is bright enough to cut across the horizon to gather the pomegranate seeds – each one a soul who has died in the last day – scattered across the front of my house into a basket, my hands red and sticky with juice.

There are many seeds this morning, and the weight of the basket tilts me as I hobble back inside the cottage. 

My daughter is still sleeping in her cot as I sit down, setting the basket on the table. My joints click, a side effect of the curse. I age faster than I should. Already I have white streaks in my hair, and some of my eyebrow hairs are white. Just thirty, but I look a decade older, at least. 

The seeds are bright red and plump, and I press them between two pieces of wood and let the juice seep into a bowl. Each seed contains the story of the person the soul belonged to. My job as mutahida, as storyteller, is to tell each soul’s story, to write each soul’s tale. It’s the only way for a soul to leave the waiting place in between life and death, and enter true death, or Mote. Once a soul’s story is told, they can take it to Mote’s gatekeeper and pay for their safe passage where they will have eternal bliss and peace. 

When the seeds have been pressed into juice, I take a sip and wrinkle my nose. “Bitter today,” I say to myself, pouring honey into the cup. I stir then take another drink. The stories come in flashes, too quick for my mind to understand, and I’m too tired to try, but my magic is fast enough to catch them. 

I see snatches of a river flowing fast and sweep, the brown of a head topped with seaweed floating on. I catch the green of a tree and a swing hanging from a thick branch. I think I hear the growl of a bear. Or the clash of blades. But everything comes too fast, and there are so many stories to tell – stories of days and lives lived. I rarely ever see the last moments of death, thankfully. 

I write, my fingers weaving stories in the air, words curling into smoke. I’m a hakawati jinn, and the stories I weave return to death and to the souls they belong to. 

I drink more of the juice, weaving smoky tales in the air with my other hand. The stories disappear almost as soon as they form, getting swallowed back into death. 

Layala stirs behind me, slipping out of her bed and padding behind me. She says nothing as she sets a pot of tea to boil and begins making our breakfast. 

I drink the last of the juice and, more out of habit, glance at the lone pomegranate seed I keep in a small glass jar on a shelf. 

Layala’s father. Those who have died by their own hand have no place in Mote. They are banished to jehinam, to suffer eternal cold and perpetual executions. 

It was the only love I could show him after his death – to keep him in the waiting place of death, rather than write his tale and send him to suffer. 

He visits us sometimes, as happy as any dead could be. 

As if thinking about him conjured him, he steps into the cottage, his body more smoke and ash than flesh and blood. 

“Illyas,” I say, rising to my feet. 

He kisses me, soft and, if not warm, then not the cold expected with the dead. And though his face fades through mine, I pretend I feel his solid flesh. 

“Sabah al kheer, baba,” our daughter says, throwing her arms around him. Good morning, father. Her arms collide with his body, the only few minutes of a day he is made of enough flesh to touch, though her skin is streaked with ash when she lets go. I reach out to touch him and he takes my hand. 

He can only keep his form a few minutes in a day, in the moments when the sun’s light turns from red and orange to its day colors. 

“And how are my girls today?” he says, as he does every visit. 

“Good,” Layala says. “I’m going to see jido again today.” Her grandfather. 

My dead lover’s face stiffens, but he forces a smile onto his face. “You should spend more time at home, with your mother,” he says, and I throw him a grateful look. 

But before Layala could respond, Illyas disappears as the sun’s light breaks through our windows and the morning is fully awake. 

We both sigh, always wishing for just one more minute with him. 

“I wish we could go into death,” Layala says. “You’re a jinn, you’re made of death itself. Are you sure there’s no way–”

“No, Layl. I’ve told you before. Jinns manage death, they don’t enter it or keep its company, not if they can help it.”

I hate lying to my daughter’s face, but her questions have plagued me for years. Ever since she was a child, she wanted to know: what was death like, was it something you could take trips to?

It’s better she knows as little as possible, even if she is half-jinn. She’ll likely never have my magic, and it’s best she doesn’t. 

“I’m going to jido’s,” she says with a sigh. “I’ll be gone all day.”

“Your father is right, you know. You should stay home more, learn a craft so you can support yourself when I die.”

“You’ll be around for many more years, maman. You just don’t like jido much,” she teases, kissing me on my head as she darts off to get dressed. 

I glance back at that lone pomegranate seed on the shelf. He’s nothing like his father, and thank the heavens for that. 

My daughter leaves the house in a flurry of color and voice. “Bye Maman!” she yells, barely throwing me a parting look. I give her a headstart, grabbing an empty bottle and one filled with honey, and a canteen of water. 

Then I take the stony pathway at the back of the house, and head straight for the cemetery. It’s filled with chipped tombstones sporting moss shoulders and spiderwebs. No flowers or notes mark any grave anymore – the cemetery has long been forgotten. 

Which is why it’s perfect for my escapes into death. I lean back against a tree and spy a fox watching me. 

“Come to see me walk into death, little one?” I say. 

The fox cocks its head at me, his snout curled up in a characteristic smile. Then it dashes off, its bushy tail following. 

I fill the empty jar with dirt from a grave, mix in the honey and water, and drink the mix. My mouth fills with granules of stone and sand and I try not to chew any, only swallow. The honey does little to mask the taste, but it’ll do. 

When the dirt water settles in my stomach, I press my hands to the ground and let the cold of the earth seep into my skin. It’s familiar, this feeling of being one foot in the warmth of life and the other in the cold of death. 

My dead lover greets me. He’s a shadow first, then the smoke curls in around him and I can just make out his features. He’s smiling, as usual, his hand outstretched me. I take it and like lightning striking me, my body jolts and my soul is in death. 

“Hakawati,” he says, calling me by my title rather than my name. “Hiyati.” My life. 

“Illyas,” I say, letting him guide me to a bench. Death surprisingly has small comforts for those who can’t or won’t pass on to Mote or jehinam. “How are you?”

He laughs, the sound gravelly but warm, like honey mixed with sand. I want to hold him like he used to hold me, when he was alive. But bodies move and fit differently in death, less flesh and more ash. “As good as can be. How are my girls?”

“Well enough. Your daughter threw animal shit at some boys who were bothering her yesterday. I don’t know if I should encourage her fiery personality or douse it,” I say, laughing. 

Illyas laughs, but there’s a tightness in his face. “She should be careful,” he says. “She’s still your daughter, and they don’t take kindly to that.” He brushes a hand across my face, and though I don’t feel skin, there’s still a trail of warmth. I lean my cheek into his touch, and he lets me rest my weight against him. 

“There’s so much I want to tell her,” I say, “But I don’t know if I should. And I’ve told her so many lies over the years. How do I undo that?”

Illyas says nothing, but when he tries to pull me in closer to his chest, we fade into each other, smoke curling into smoke. We pull back, our bodies regaining substance. 

“Hakawati, tell her a story. You’ve spun her tales since she was in a cradle, she will feel your meaning, even if she doesn’t understand it. Weave her a story, see what she says.”

“She’ll roll her eyes and ask to go to her grandfather’s house. She’s had little patience for me lately.”

Illyas laughs, shaking his head. “She reminds me of me when I was her age. I don’t know if that’s a good thing.”

“I loved you at that age,” I say, reaching out for his hand. I let mine hover over his, so we feel each other’s warmth. 

“Loved?” he teases. “Not anymore?”

I crack a smile, “You know you’re my one and true love.”

He chuckles again, then sobers. “You shouldn’t be alone anymore. Layl is getting older, she will one day leave home to start her own. What will you do then?”

“Visit you more often,” I say. 

Illyas shakes his head. “You should find someone.”

“I remember you being rather jealous of a certain Ihab in the village,” I tease, “When he gave me flowers during the midsummer festival.”

Illyas barks out a laugh. “I was young and unsure of your affection. And I seem to recall you encouraging him, just to make me jealous.”

“I might have,” I say with a smile. “I don’t remember.”

“Lies. You remember everything as if your brain is a stone and someone’s carved words into them.” He smiles at me, the lines around his eyes crinkling, as if he were still made of true flesh. I want to hold him, to smell him..

Instead, I get to my feet. “I should return. The sun will be setting soon.” Time works differently in death than in life, at once faster and slower. 

“I’ll walk you home,” Illyas says, and we both smile, because there’s no leaving death for Illyas tonight.

I hover my lips at his cheek in the mimicry of a kiss. Anything more, and we’d fade into each other. 

“Goodbye, Hakawati,” Illyas says. “I’ll miss you until next time.”

Revision is re-envisioning

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There’s nothing akin to the agony of editing your book. This suffering goes beyond the whole “kill your darlings” because, at least for me, I’ll gladly kill my darlings if it means saving my book.

No, the agony for me is the one thousand and one revisions my book has to go through. I already did one revision, which was a sweep of the book, pulling out scenes and sentences, and adding new ones if I saw fit. It was more of a holistic approach, which I completed in a week.

However, the next two weeks are going to be me focusing on dun dun dun: setting. The setting that I apparently failed to convey when I wrote my first draft. The setting that I’m going to have to describe beautifully if I want my book to work. The setting that I’m not sure how to describe.

However, to keep sane I think the best approach I can take to my editing is to do a number of revisions, each time focusing on one aspect:

Revision 1: Holistic: Go through the book, reacquaint yourself with the details and the scenes, and try pulling out what doesn’t work. Gut your work. Kill your darlings, or if that’s too gory a thought for you, lay your darlings to rest in a beautiful silk-lined casket and set them out to sea. Focus on sentence structure, grammar, punctuation, so that when you move on to other revisions, you aren’t distracted by those sorts of things.

Gut your work

Revision 2: Setting: Weave the senses into your book. Don’t overdo it, but make your reader feel, with all their senses, your scenes. Focus more on adding in sound, sight, temperature, touch, color, tactile experiences, wetness, dryness, humidity, solidness, softness, dampness, harshness, anything that brings your world to life. Describe something as being chestnut-colored instead of brown. Describe the sound as tinkling instead of light and airy. Describe the feel of the cliff under her hands as she climbed it, instead of saying only that she grunted. Make the setting active, interacting with the characters, or having the characters interact with it. Don’t just have the setting be a backdrop that is barely noticeable. Bring out the life of your setting. View your setting as its own character, and I think you will do well.

View your setting as its own character

Revision 3: Focus on the emotions of your character. Now that you have the setting down, make sure your character responds to it. Your character’s setting should challenge them, interact with them, push them, reward them, punish them, twist them around and make them dizzy. Make your character a part of the setting, and make the setting a part of your character. Have your characters and their setting hold hands. Focus on events: how do your characters behave? Do they only react? They should do more than just react to events; they should create events, change events. Emotions fuel your character. Emotions and actions are your character. Your character is nothing without emotion, unless your character is all about not having emotions.

Have your characters and their setting hold hands.

Your character is nothing without emotion, unless your character is all about not having emotions.

Revision 4: Focus on plotholes. Are there any? Does everything make sense chronologically, assuming time works in your book as it does in our world. Is your plot fluid? Your plot should not only make sense, it should be interesting, have twists, and bewitch a reader.

Your plot should not only make sense, it should be interesting, have twists, and bewitch a reader.

Revision 5: World-recreation. Make sure your world fits in with your setting, and that everything is interactive. You could probably do this during the setting revision, but it should be its own focus at some point. Is your world a sprawling expanse, or s single room in a lonely house? Either way, make sure that your world is interesting for both your characters and your readers. Interesting doesn’t have to mean unique or out-of-this-world. It could be boring, really, in the sense that you character is bored by their world. Regardless, make your world alive for your readers and interactive with them. Your world should be a reflection of your characters’ behaviors. That is, your world should not be separate from your characters, but a part of their feelings and actions.

Your world should be a reflection of your characters’ behaviors.

Revision 6: Be a seamstress. Bring all the pieces together. Do another holistic revision. Do all the pieces fit together? Have you woven your strands with golden thread? If not, it’s back to step 2.

Revision 7: Let it sit. I think letting go of your story, even if only for a few weeks, is a revision in and of itself. By letting it sit, and moving on to something else to clear your mind, you’re letting your brain distance itself from the details so that when you come back to your story, you can look at it with fresh eyes and from a big-picture perspective.

Let it sit.

Revision 8: Read through your book, and holistically attend to all those previous steps mentioned. It’s holistic in a way you haven’t done before, even in step 6. This time, you’ve spent time away from your MS and can focus on the bigger picture and the general themes of your story, your characters, setting, and everything else you should have already attend to, but can now do with fresh eyes and mind. Give your book one more holistic revision, and focus on the big picture. Remember that revision is re-envisioning.

Remember that revision is re-envisioning.

*Note: This article was originally published on January 19, 2016.

**Header image courtesy of Google images.

Hakawati Jinn – Chapter Four

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NEW BOOK ALERT!

I’m working on a new book and want YOUR feedback! Each week, I’ll post a new chapter, and want you to provide your thoughts, opinions, feeling, and feedback on the chapter.

Be brutally honest.

I pace my one-room house, waiting for my daughter to return. But she doesn’t.

“Saqr,” I say, awakening the hawk once more. It returned to clay as soon as it told me what it saw, and I brought it back with a touch. “Go find Layala.”

The hawk leaves, and I continue my pacing. Do I walk to the next village? Leave the hut and search for my child? Or do I let her be, and trust she will make good decisions. 

Didn’t you make horrible, stupid decisions when you were just a bit older than her? 

Saqr returns and I lay a hand on him. The images come in snatches, as if he darted around, looking for a better vantage point. 

So, Layala spent the night at the jinn’s house. She’s asleep, her cloak draped over her clothed body, the fire burning bright. The jinn sits in his chair, watching her, stoking the flames every so often to get it from burning too low. 

Saqr picks up a stick and flings it at the window, then hides from view. He perches on a tree branch, looking into the house. Layala stirs, then notices the morning light shining through thre window. 

I can’t hear what she says, but I see her lips move through the window. Her eyes are wide and she’s shaking off the jinn’s grasp on her arm. 

I think I see her mouth ‘I have to go.’

I’m sitting at my table, drinking pomegranate, when she comes in through the door. 

“I was worried all night,” I tell her, my voice calm, even though I noticed a little shakiness to it. I pull up a chair and pat it, inviting her to sit. 

She remains on her feet. “I fell asleep at jido’s,” she lies, not meeting my gaze. 

“I see. Did you eat yet?”

She shakes her head, now picking at the edge of our small wooden table. “I’m going to rest,” she says.

“I thought you slept at your grandfather’s?” I put a hand to her head, feeling for fever. “Are you unwell?” I say. 

“No, just tired,” she says, and her cheeks flush red. I let her go; best to not press her and have her shut herself off from me. No, let her come to me with her heart’s secrets. 

Layala undresses and slips into bed, her back towards me. I bend over her, tucking the covers under her chin and around her slender body, just as I did when she was much younger. 

“I love you, maman,” she says. “I’ll never do anything to hurt you.”

I’m surprised by this, but only kiss her soft cheek, still round with baby fat yet to shed. “I know, hiyati.” 

I stoke the fire to make sure she’s warm, then slip out into the night. The air is cold, and I wrap my simple cloak tight around me. I long for the feel of the earth under me, for Illyas’ smile, for his reassuring words. 

I make a snap decision and steal back into the house, grabbing jars and water, before padding towards the cemetery. 

Illyas finds me, as usual. 

“Hiyati,” he says, “What’s wrong?” HIs brows are furrowed as he tries to draw me close, but our bodies aren’t flesh enough for that. Instead, he has me sit down on the pale ground, made of tiles cracked and cool, flowers and weeds growing through the cracks. 

“She’s in love with a jinn boy,” I say. 

“Who? Layala?”

I nod. “I saw them, through Saqr. She spent the night with the boy.”

Illyas tenses. 

“She kept her clothes,” I say quickly, but it does little to ease the tension rippling through his body. “But still. She lied to me.”

“Who’s the boy?” Illyas said, his voice gruffer than I’ve heard it in a while. 

“I don’t know. But I’ll find out.”

Illyas gives a sharp nod, his brows furrowing deeper over his nose bridge. “I’ll wring his neck if he does anything to hurt her.”

I snort. “You and me both, hiyati. The last thing I’d want is for her to fall pregnant at barely fifteen.”

Both our faces flush; our second-greatest mistake, and greatest joy, has been Layala. Born to young parents who knew nothing of the world, never mind raising a child, Layala tore out of me, bright red screaming, on a night just shy of my sixteenth birthday. Illyas was just three years older, and fainted at all the blood. I remember cleaning my daughter’s face of my insides, while fanning my lover with a slip of paper to wake him. 

Illyas reaches over to hover his lips over mine, and for a moment, I feel nothing but his warmth. Then it is snatched away, and lightning strikes through my body. 

Something is pulling my soul back into my body. 

I gulp in air and flick my eyes open, to find my daughter standing before me. Her face is twisted in anger, and she’s standing with her hands on her hips. 

“Maman,” she says, and it sounds like she’s accusing me of something. “What are you doing?”

I sniff, get to my feet, dusting dirt off me. “I needed some fresh air,” I say. “I guess I fell asleep.”

She narrows her eyes at me, as if not quite believing what I say. “I woke up and you weren’t there,” she accuses. 

“Well,” I say, reaching my hand out so she can help me up. I grunt, heaving my weight forward as my knees crack. “Long day, I suppose. Help your maman to bed, then,” I add, leaning some of my weight on her strong, young body. 

Back in the house, I set a kettle to boil, not tired enough to sleep. Layala sits beside me, legs curled under her. She picks at her nails, a habit she has only when something is on her mind. 

“What is it, kushtbani?” I use her father’s nickname for her: thimble. She was so tiny when she was born, she could fit into the palm of his hand if curled up. 

“Nothing, maman,” she says with a sigh. “I just- I want to tell you something, but not now.”

She looks at me with her wide, dark eyes, eyelashes fringing them like tassels on a curtain. “Tell me when you’re ready, kushtbani. I can wait.”

She smiles, and my heart aches at her beauty. She doesn’t see it yet, but under those baby cheeks are a grown woman’s bones. 

She pushes back her chair and pads over to her cot, and though she is just feet away from me, I’ve never felt farther from my child. There are too many lies between us, and I must do something about it. 

Morning comes angry, with rain pelting the window, and the wind howling through the trees. 

I dash outside, grabbing at as many seeds as I can. Layala helps, grabbing handfuls of pomegranate and dirt and grass, while shoving them into the basket. We run back inside, laughing at the downpour as we peel off our sodden clothing. 

“I’ll get the fire going, maman,” she says. 

I sit down and sift through the seeds, setting aside the clumps of grass Layala grabbed. I juice the seeds, taking a sip to taste the mood. A sense of sadness washes over me, and I hold back the need to cry. 

“Is everything fine, maman?”

I nod, reaching for a lemon. 

“Ah,” Layl says, “It’s sad seeds.”

“Very,” I say, squeezing the lemon into the juice and stirring. The sourness of the lemon masks the sadness of the souls, enough that I can drink without crying. 

The stories shove around me in my mind, snatches of sound, morsels of flavor. I get the whiff of warm cinnamon, the taste of cardamom in rice. The feel of a baby’s skin, the weight of a warm fur around a neck on a cold winter day. 

The stories clamor for my attention, each one trying to be the next that gets written. Souls can be impatient, eager to move on. Eager to have their tale written to pay Mote with. 

I try my best, feeling the ache in my bones growing and the din in my head rising. A headache is coming on.

I sense Layala near me, then feel the press of a cloth to my nose. I must be bleeding again, the strain of storytelling too much. 

“Maman,” she says, her voice sounding far away. “Take a break. The dead can wait.”

“No rest for the dead,” I say, not aware of what I’m saying. “No rest for the weary.”

A story floats toward me. I feel its incessant nagging, a whining sound that grows in my ears like the church bell on a sunday morning. 

A young man spent his days drinking and casting his lot at the gambling tables. Every morning he would stumble home, and his poor father would help him to bed. The son would have vomit encrusted in his clothes, and his hair would be covered in sweat and dirt. 

Fed up with his son, the father tells him one day, ibnay, my son, how about you spend just this one night without getting sakran. Spend one night without drink. 

The son laughs, then says to his father, baba, for you, I will do as you say. Just this one night. 

The father says, come, take me to the place you like the most for drink. We will watch and I will show you what I see. 

The two go to the son’s favorite tavern and walk inside. Men sit in chairs, slumped over from drink, or arguing with each other in slurred words. 

The son glances around and spots his friends, but he keeps to the shadows, watching them instead. 

See? says the father. This is what I see when you are sakran: a foolish man who can’t even string two sensible words together and who stumbles around like a babe just learning to walk. 

The son and father stay another hour, when the drunken men begin fighting over quibbles, or vomiting over each other. The son is disgusted and turns his face away from the tavern. 

Baba, he says, you are right. I will mend my ways immediately.

But his father is not so easily placated. Ibnay, he says, do one more thing for me. Go, go find the King of Gamblers, and see how he lives. 

The son grins, and seeks out this King. He searches through villages and towns, asking for where the King of Gamblers resides. 

The first old man who knows tells him to seek a shaman in the village over. He will know where the king is. 

The son goes to the shaman who tells him to seek an old goat-herd who dwells in the valley. The son finds the goat-herd who tells him to find the medicine woman who lives in the forest.

The son finds the medicine woman who tells him, ah, ibnay, I know the one you seek. He is my brother, and he lives just up that mountain. She points at the mountain in the distance. “Climb the mountain, and there you will find the King of Gamblers.”

The son spends days reaching the mountain. And more days climbing it. He stops at the first person he sees. 

It is an old man, with skin like leather, and teeth stained with tobacco. 

I want to meet the King of Gamblers, the son says. 

The man looks at him and invites him into the simple tent he lives in. The son enters, finding a threadbare carpet laid on the ground, and a rolled up mat in the corner. There is no food but a bit of bread with green mold, and nothing to drink but a pot of tea. 

The old man offers his food and drink but the son refuses and offers his own food instead. 

The man tears greedily into the dried meats and figs the son has with him, then leans back to watch the son. 

Ibnay, he says, why do you seek the King of Gamblers?

My father, he told me to search for him. 

Ah, the old man says. Well, you have found him.

The son flicks his eyes around him. The palace is expected is but a tattered tent. The riches, the women, the feasts he sought were all like air. 

Now I know why my father told me to find you, the son, says. For the King of Gamblers is no king at all. 

I write the story and as the last word is set, the soul snatches its tale and I am left with just the sour taste of the lemons. 

I turn to my daughter and just as I do, there is an angry knock at the door. 

“Get behind me,” I tell her, as I slip out of my chair and grab a wooden spoon from the table. 

The knocks are angrier, and so are the voices behind the door. 

“Open, hakawati!”

“Layl, go through the back,” I say. 

“No, Maman.”

This is no time for defiance, but I don’t have a chance to say anything because the door is kicked in and three men enter. 

“Hakawati,” the first man says. “We’ve come for you and that illborne child of yours.”

I wrote a book!

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(but it’s not published…yet!)

Mistlyn is published in full on Wattpad.com and I’ve entered it into Wattys 2019 awards!

The only way thirteen-year-old Mistlyn can bring her dead village back to life is by going with a conniving Jinn to the world of the dead, the Realm of Mote.

The only survivors of their burned village, Mistlyn and her best friend, Sahria, are captured and held prisoner by the Lizsard People. Sahria is forced to be a court dancer, while Mistlyn has been forced to sit on two eggs that are said to contain the life force of the seven races of earth. But once the eggs hatch and another three days have passed, Mistlyn will no longer be needed by the Lizsard King.

Before anything further can happen to her, Mistlyn is convinced to leave with the Jinn who promises to help her escape and bring her family back to life – if she does a favor for him. But the Jinn isn’t the one Mistlyn has to worry about…

Check it out, like, comment, and share! ❤

My manuscript, well, sucks

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Right now, I’m editing one of my newest books. And it’s horrible.

The work isn’t what’s horrible, it’s the writing that is. I feel like my work falls so short of my standards, or other readers’ standards, and others haven’t even read the book!

I also feel like I’m not a good writer and I’m deluding myself into thinking I could make it big as a fantasy author.

I’m also feeling like my writing will never improve and that the story will never be tightened enough to make it publishable and a bestseller.

I’m also thinking I’m going to need to burn the whole MS and never think of it again.

But, I’ve gone through this before, with other manuscripts I’ve written, and I always pushed through the work and the emotional insecurity.

As I  go through the process once more, I’m trying to remember in the back of my mind these key points:

  1. The fact I’m cringing as I’m editing tells me I’ve improved as both a writer and a reader–what I originally thought was good writing I no longer consider to be. That tells me that I’ve grown and am more aware of what makes for good writing vs bad writing.
  2. Every work needs to be edited. I’ve heard others say that a book is never written, its rewritten again and again. The book on bookstore shelves is most likely not a first draft, or even a fourth. It’s more likely a tenth. And even if your book demands more editing than some other books, as long as it becomes better and publishable, that’s the goal.
  3. My writing is typically considered creative even as the technicalities fall short. That is, my story is solid and creative, even if my writing needs work. I’d rather be in this position than be writing stale stories that don’t interest people. That’s less easily fixed than working on tightening your writing.
  4. I can always learn—my brain is plastic, which means it responds to the environment and my experiences, and can grow in its abilities. Therefore, I’m not stuck with horrible writing if I work at it–and work at it I will!