Unread Genre – To Read or Not to Read?

Alright, so here’s the deal. I just had an absolutely awesome idea for a short story (though the full scope could easily turn into several novels later on). The way I’m describing this story is Steampunk fisticuffing with High Fantasy, that is to say it’s a mish-mash of both genres.

I’ve read a ton of fantasy set in medieval eras, and it’s more or less an area I consider myself to be well-versed in and able to write about the best. Now, I know what steampunk is, however I’ve never actually read a book that could be classified as steampunk. What I’m wondering is if this would give me a slight edge on putting a completely unique spin on the genre.

The question is this: Should I read a steampunk book or two to get a better feel for the genre, or do you think already knowing the basic gist of what defines this genre is enough?

A Mile-Long Eyesore – A Rant About the Composition of a Paragraph

What is so hard about properly writing a paragraph? I don’t care if you’re a reborn Saint spouting the gospel of God, if your writing consists of paragraphs that rival the span of my page scroll I refuse to read what you have to say. I do not want to see giant blocks of text that make me want to go screaming off into the horizon while clawing out my eyes in a vain attempt to remove the horrors I have been witness to.

There are hundreds of tutorials and how-to guides out there for your viewing pleasure. If you’re interested in writing, I should think learning how to properly construct paragraphs would be somewhere at the top of your to-do list. Apparently for a vast majority of people it isn’t, however. Here’s a brief summarization to clue you in: a paragraph should generally open with a topic sentence, followed by supporting sentences, and then closed by a concluding sentence. Paragraphs are usually comprised of about five to seven sentences, not fifty.

It’s not that hard. I know it’s sometimes a fine line between too little detail and going overboard with your verbosity, but there really is no excuse for having a paragraph that could easily be broken down into twenty smaller paragraphs. I attribute a growth of laziness and ignorance in the general populace for this trend.

In an age where people find Eragon to be an inspiring piece of work done by a boy genius (when in reality the pages of that book aren’t even worthy of being used as toilet paper), maybe properly structuring a paragraph is the least of our worries.

Story Submitted

Well, after much stress and bloodshed I have managed to beat the June 1st deadline, and submit “Hush, Little Baby”. The story turned out slightly shorter than I expected (4,117 words), but that’s alright. I’m not particularly pleased with the story, but I have nothing to lose by sending it in for possible publishment. I have a tough hide, so a rejection letter isn’t exactly going to make or break my world.

However, I do think that’s the last horror story I’ll be trying to write for a while. I’m sure it would’ve been easier if I had stumbled across the magazine sooner. As is, I had one week and two days to come up with an idea for a story, create an outline, flesh it all out, and then review it for grammatical and punctuation errors. The “idea” part is what took so damned long in case you’re wondering.

I’m happy that’s over and done with, that’s for sure. Now I can actually focus all of my attention on writing fantasy short stories, which I’ve been itching to do for some time now. I think I’ll have better success with this genre overall, especially since I have several characters already clinking around in my head.

A Last Stand

The drow and Anonthíel weaved in and out of a macabre dance of death, pale blades sparkling as the moonlight reflected off of the steel. Shadows flickered over their forms, enshrouding visages contorted with contempt from view. Eyes aglow with crimson hatred glared at the elven ranger from the inky darkness, intently studying, hoping to glean some weakness.

Beleaguered by sharp steel at every twist and turn, blood now flowed freely from several wounds upon her body. There were simply too many foes to fend off. Already her agile movements were coming a fraction slower, and with each barely deflected blow a new drow sprang in through the brief opening to score a fresh hit upon her. It was only a matter of time before one proved to be a fatal blow.

Her bastion of strength gone, Anonthíel only persisted out of her own sheer strength of will and stubbornness. Her future was bleak and scarce worth fighting for, but it was not the future that she so tenaciously fought for. It was the past. She desperately clung to the shreds of hope that still managed to burn within her, though even that had nearly expended itself. Still, she would refuse to allow death to claim her before she had found redemption. Only then would her soul have any hope of finally resting in peace, and she would welcome that time gladly.

Too many times had she found herself in a situation such as this, beset on all sides by her ebony-skinned cousins. Her past constantly arose to haunt her. At every chance fate sought to thwart her efforts at finding happiness, raining down upon her misfortune every step of the way. As long as the lover she had so long ago forsaken her brother for continued to draw breath, she would only ever know war and strife. He would hunt her down to the ends of Eldanar with his fellow drow, his one single-minded purpose being to put an end to the beating of her heart.

The Kinslayer desperately tried to clear her mind, to force thoughts of the one that had manipulated her into silence. In every sense of the word, she was a prisoner of her own past. With a deft turn, sword arcing down swiftly, her longsword parried away a blade stabbing for her abdomen, and…

…her knees buckled, staring down in disbelief at where Caldrinahel’s longsword had slid through her stomach. He had been about to kill Rao le Shay, and so she had interposed herself between the human and the drow. She reached down, clutching over the gaping wound, watching in stunned horror as rivulets of blood flowed over her hands. She looked up into Caldrinahel’s face with pleading eyes, and…

…she swung Andúnerë fiercely, glittering steel biting deeply into the flesh of one of the drow’s necks. Blood spattered her face as she decapitated him, then kicked a booted foot out against the elf’s torso to topple it out of her way. She could feel the strength in her limbs quickly ebbing as her own blood gathered into small pools upon the earth, and…

…she staggered back, a crossbow bolt embedded deeply into her right shoulder. Eyes as scarlet as the blood that stained her leather armor stared at her, malicious delight shining brightly within their depths. Her longsword clattered to the ground as it slipped from numb hands, and only then did it dawn on her that Caldrinahel had poisoned the tips of the bolts. A cruel smile twisted his handsome features as he casually loaded a new bolt into the crossbow, took aim, and then…

…she lunged forward, stabbing another drow in the chest and then hastily pushing him off of her sword with a foot. There was no mercy or pity within the ranger’s heart, and she listened with pleasure to the dying gurgles of the elf as blood flecked his lips before quickly turning her attention to a new target. Scoring a vicious wound on the thigh of one drow, and cleaving the hand from another, Anonthíel dared to hope she would actually somehow survive the battle, before agony shot through her body and a cry of pain left her lips.

The six remaining drow, though one lay upon the ground clutching at the bloody stump where his hand had once been, backed away momentarily, sensing that the end was near. Normally they would have immediately hewed her limb from limb, but they had orders from Caldrinahel to prolong her misery as long as possible, to make her death excruciatingly painful and slow.

Anonthíel collapsed to one knee, breathing heavily as her left hand vainly tried to clutch closed the deep wound that had been gashed into her side. The edges of her vision had faded to murkiness, and a numbing cold was already slowly starting to spread through her limbs from the loss of blood. Drawing upon the last reserves of strength from deep within she pushed herself back up to a standing position, spitting blood at the feet of the drow before lifting her chin in defiance.

She waited for death to take her as the drow once more began to close around her.

───«»───

This is a continuation for the previous flash story I posted titled “The Kinslayer”. I realize the content is fairly jumpy, and refers back to events that possibly make little to no sense to the readers. However, I did not write these two pieces with the intent of ever submitting them. They were writing exercises I did for fun to clear out my head, and simply explore who and what Anonthíel is.

The Breakfast of Champions

So far my calorie intake for the day solely consists of about eight cans of Coca-Cola, and an entire pack of cigarettes. Yes, I know cigarettes don’t actually have calories. That’s besides the point. The point is that apparently I function best when fueled by nothing more than extreme quantities of caffeine and nicotine. I’m sure I’ll die about thirty years before I should, but, well, we all have to make sacrifices from time to time for the sake of the creative process.

I’m tempted to go off on a rant about how infuriating self-righteous non-smokers are, but I think I’ll save that for another day. I’m not a rude smoker, and that should be enough for other people. I don’t blow smoke in people’s faces, I generally go outside to smoke even if I’m in a smoking section, and well, I’m not kissing you so I don’t see why you should give a damn. I’m not naïve enough to fall for the ploy that you care so much about my health that you feel compelled to preach a Southern Baptist-esque sermon to me, so please, go diaf.

Well, darn. I ended up going off on a rant anyway.

In a desperate attempt to get back on topic, the reason I bring up my caffeine/nicotine-fueled creativity is the fact that I managed to exceed my daily word goal. Huzzah. I’m not going to give myself a pat on the back however, as I’m actually still 2,000 words in debt. There were two days where I didn’t manage to write a lick, so actually I’m still behind even though it feels like I made progress.

*facepalm*

I Curse You to the Seventh Layer of Hell, Backspace Key!

Whether by fickle fate or shortcomings, this writer has become addicted to the glories of the backspace key. Too melodramatic? Yeah, you’re right.

However, I have found myself hitting backspace a wee bit too much here of late. I’ll manage to write out several paragraphs, I’ll pause to read over it (yeah, yeah, that’s a no-no), and then I delete all of it! How the hell am I supposed to make progress in my short story if I delete it before I even finish it? How, I ask?! The answer: I won’t if I keep this up.

I know you’re really supposed to just write out everything that pops into your head, and then later go back to read over it and make adjustments, but I can’t help but make edits as I go. It’s just how I am. I’m over-critical of my own writing, and near obsessed with making sure everything is “just so” before I quit. I don’t know when, where, and how I developed this horrible habit, but there you have it.

Am I Insane?

Or do other people actually have a hard time using a certain font while writing?

I was using Courier New, since pretty much everyone wants all submissions done in this font, and my writing continually went about as fast as molasses traveling uphill in the middle of the Arctic winter. Well, out of annoyance at how the large words were giving the mistaken appearance that I’ve actually written more than I truly have I decided to switch over to Times New Roman. It’s the font I favor, and I also happen to find it far more aesthetically pleasing to the eye.

The very moment I switched over to TNR I found that the flow of my writing more than tripled in pace. What the hell? Is this normal? I realize that this odd mental block is all in my head, but I’m curious if other people actually have this problem too. Or am I just a wacko?

I suppose it doesn’t matter one way or another. I’ve figured out what works and doesn’t work for me, and that’s at least one step in the right direction to becoming a tad bit more time efficient. I’ll be strictly writing with TNR on my laptop from now on, and then when it’s time to submit my work I’ll just switch it all over to Courier New.

The Kinslayer

A slender form emerged from the deep shadows of the Quegan Jungle, each and every move as fluid as a feline upon the prowl. The canopy of the jungle was thick, blotting the heavens out from view save for the occasional patch. Long tendrils of golden hair would glimmer ever so briefly as the frame passed beneath these patches that allowed frail beams of moonlight to filter through; a blessed window that offered hope to those who felt trapped within the tight confines of the jungle.

It was many candlemarks into nighttide, and all about the primeval jungle could be heard the stirrings of life. It was a place where danger lurked in every shadow, where eyes glittered with malicious intentions and fangs lusted for the feel of rent flesh. Dark shapes could be seen slinking just upon the edges of the peripheral vision, patiently stalking any prey foolhardy enough to have not yet sought shelter against the bleakness of night.

The Quegan Jungle was a forsaken place. Cursed and reviled, only the brave ventured forth, and only the vile cared to dwell within. Low moans of vengeful spirits could be heard upon the cool breeze as it rustled through dead leaves, and the cackles of the bloodthirsty as soon as slumber overtook the weary. Many had entered the Quegan Jungle; few had ever left.

She, however, felt no dread beneath the dense boughs of the jungle. She had come to test her fate, and was known by many names. The Harbinger of Ill Omens. The Forsaken Crow. The Kinslayer. All of them misnomers given to her by her people far to the north in Elentári. Life was no longer a thing she relished, and so the fear of death held very little sway over her. To be shed of her mortal coil would have been welcomed, but she had made a vow to atone for her sins. She would discover a way to right the wrongs of the past, to rewrite the pages of history.

There had been a short period in her life when hope had once shone a little more brightly. Rao le Shay had been a constant companion, through the rough times and through the good times; though the good had been admittedly shorter than the rough ones. He had served as her bastion of strength, lending to her a more solid reason to continue on living. She had been able to persevere against all odds with him at her side. She had even been able to remember what love felt like again.

No longer was the red-haired raven of Narim present for her to lean upon, though. Anonthíel was once again all alone in the world. Perhaps separated by the very same hand of fate that had thrown the pair together, the elven ranger could not help but feel anguish and bitterness at the sense of abandonment that now constantly haunted her. The pain that had been inflicted upon her heart was too real, too fresh, for her to reasonably cope with. It reminded her too much of the betrayal she had experienced at the hands of Caldrinahel. With a silent oath, the elven ranger was more determined than ever to remain, to avoid forging new friendships and loves. The rejection and deceit she experienced time and time again was simply more than she wished to bear.

A row of stone steps, corroded with age, sprawled before her. The incline of the hill was not steep, but the steps twisted and curved upwards, and the line of the trees and shrubbery made it impossible to see around each bend. Wearily the elven ranger slowly climbed upwards, golden eyes mistrustfully flickering to stare at even the tiniest of movements. She was a being wholly consumed in her quest to discover a way to fix the past, and her obsession had at last led her to the heart of this very real nightmare.

Rumors abounded of an artifact that held within it the power to grant any creature it’s most heart-felt desire, and Anonthíel had locked onto that story with the fervor of a being clinging to its last breath. She had tracked down many rumors over the past year, only to have her hopes dashed cruelly into fragments of despair. Every single rumor had proven to be just that: a rumor. Not a single story, in the end, had had a shred of truth to them, and yet the elven ranger continued on in her quest.

There were dark circles beneath her dull eyes, and it was evident that yet again she had returned to her old habits of pushing herself to the brink of such extreme exhaustion that death all but lingered upon her doorstep. No matter how haggard and disheartened she became, though, she refused to give up. If one thing could be said about Anonthíel, it was that she was deeply entrenched in her own obstinate ways.

At last reaching the top of the decaying stone steps, a line of archways spread before her. The ruins of the ancient city had become one with the jungle over the eras. Dense vines had grown over what had once been majestic pillars, and piles of rubble were all that remained to mark what had once been an actual city. It was here that she hoped to find her artifact, but she never made it beyond the archways themselves.

The sound of steel being drawn sang through the night air, and immediately Anonthíel had her own longsword, Andúnerë, out of its scabbard. Eight shapes with flesh as black as the bottomless depths of the ocean disentangled from the shadows of the jungle, hatred gleaming in their crimson eyes as cruel smiles twisted their lips.

Silently she cursed Caldrinahel, damning his soul to the pits of the Abyss. Her blade glittered as it caught the moonlight, raising it into a defensive stance before her while the eight drow slowly encircled her, their own swords drawn. She took one last glance at the heavens, cherishing the stars and the way the cool night air kissed her bronzed flesh. There would be no walking away from this fight.

And then the clash of blade upon blade was echoing throughout the jungle, and Anonthíel was fighting for her very life.

───«»───

This is just a piece of fantasy I happened to write back in December of ‘07. I’ve always adored fantasy, and as soon as I manage to muscle my way through my horror story I intend to set about writing a series of short stories about Anonthíel for submission.

Deluge of Rain

I’ve mentioned in my previous posts that for the past few days it has done nothing but storm. This time of year it always rains a lot here, and flooding is a constant threat. My mother-in-law watched my daughter (who just turned eight months old the other day) overnight, so I stayed up fairly late last night agonizing over my writing. I normally wind up going to bed some time around 11PM, but last night I was up until around 3AM. I woke up at about 7AM to my in-law leaving a message on our message machine, and so bleary-eyed I dragged myself out of bed to go replay the message to make sure everything was alright.

Let me tell you, I really regret staying up so late now. I’m one of those people who require beauty sleep to upwards of nine hours (yes, I know that’s ridiculous), and if I get any less than that I’m a complete mess for the rest of the day. Anyway, it turns out that me and my husband needed to rush down to where they were camping to pick up our daughter, as they were having to evacuate the area since it had flooded overnight. It wasn’t anything terribly dangerous when we got there, but in a few more hours they expect everything to be under water.

Anyway, I had to spend the entire morning sloshing around in ankle-deep water with cold rain pelting my skin, helping them pack up everything so they could move their camper. It was, in every sense of the word, a miserable experience. However, it did provide me with the opportune moment to catch a glimpse of the tumultuous river. It’s a scary thing to imagine being swept away beneath the current, battered black and blue by debris as you drown.

So, there you have it. My morning was quite a bit more eventful than usual, but that’s life. Everyone is safe and dry now, and that’s all that really matters.

[/brain]

I finally went and done it. I broke my brain. How, you ask? Well, I’ll tell you. Please ignore any drool during the telling of this story.

My husband was busy playing Eve Online and managing new members in his corporation, and so things were rather loud in the living room. Everyone always seems to be yelling over TeamSpeak for some odd reason. Anyway, I decided if I was going to manage to reach my 1,000 word limit I needed to retreat to a more quiet corner of the house. Thus I journeyed to the bedroom, and set up camp there.

It’s still storming here (this is another story entirely that I plan to do in my next post), and so I figured the lightning and thunder would be the perfect mood-setter for my horror story. At first, the words came easily. I flew through about five paragraphs with little to no effort, and then suddenly my progress ground to a halt. I blame the cat I adopted from the Humane Society some months ago in part. I had shut the door, and this apparently drives her insane. She would sit at the door and yowl to be let in, and then I would let her in and shut the door again and she would yowl and scratch to be let out. It was a frustrating cycle to say the least.

Anyway, back on topic! I read over what I had written to pick back up the strands of where I had left off only to find that there were no longer any strands to pick up. I got up, lit a cigarette, and paced around the bedroom. Nothing. I sat back down, read over the story again, and this time it started to dawn on me that perhaps the story was crap. I read over it yet another time, and this time I was certain what I had written was no better than a steaming pile of feces that had been run over five times.

I continued to stare at the words and agonize over whether or not I should delete everything I had written, and at some point I eventually zoned out into the twilight zone. I don’t know what occurred in this lapse of time, and ladies and folks I imagine it shall always remain a mystery. All I know is that when I finally managed to get my brain back online it was two hours later.

Writing horror is proving to be more difficult than I initially expected. Needless to say, I intend to write a strongly worded letter to my muse.