First glimpse at NaNo 2014

So this year I am doing something different with NaNo and putting it all here for all to see!  This is the first glimpse into the NaNo this year.  This is unedited, straight from my head.  Don't judge too harshly! 

Word count: 2027
Enjoy!!

Start:

William looked around and got excited. Today was the first day of the school year and he knew this was going to be an excellent year. The performing arts school finally accepted him into the ranks and he was going to make it big. Oh to walk the hallowed halls that the greats have walked. The world is my oyster today he thought to himself. Stepping off the train, he slowly made his way uptown. Standing in front of the building that the man himself had studied at filled him with trepidation as well as an overwhelming feeling of completion.

For the last two years he had been trying to make it in this school. His dream of standing on stage, singing his heart out, performing, allowed him to do nothing less. He was going to make it, he had no other option. Broadway was his dream. Cabaret, Phantom of the Opera, Newsies, he didn't care. The goal was to be on that stage and this school was his first step.

With his schedule clutched in his hand, William took his first steps inside of the building as a student. His first class was rather mundane, English. He knew it was important to be well spoken, but he also knew that English was not his major. Classroom 113, west side of the school. Looking down at his map, he figured out where he was and then slowly made his way towards the classroom. Stepping into the classroom, he looked around. There was a vast diversity to the students standing around the room, some new some returning students. At 15, William was one of the older kids who stepped foot into the classroom for the first time. He knew this and became determined to make new friends. He would make friends.

Aisha took a deep breath. The first day of school in a new country. Slowly getting up from bed, she knew today would be the first day of the rest of her life, and she hated it. “Aisha, downstairs, breakfast” her mother barked at her. Slowly moving, Aisha put her bathrobe over her pajamas and made her way downstairs.

“What's for breakfast?” She asked, looking across the table at her family.

“Big breakfast for the first day of school!” Her little brother, Zahid, answered her, obviously full of excitement. He is always way too cheery to go back to school Aisha thought to herself as she sat down to the table.

“Are you excited for the performing school?” Her mother asked her, passing a plate of eggs towards her.

“Yes, mama, I am excited. I guess.”

Aisha hated school, she always had. She knew she was lucky to be educated, so many girls weren't, but school was not something she enjoyed. This year, while she had gotten into the performing arts school, she found herself even less excited. It was hard to move across the world. It was hard to leave all her friends, and now she had to deal with a new country and trying to make new friends.

Stepping off the train, Aisha looked up at the school building before her. She was excited to learn more about the performing arts. Being an actress was her dream, though her father was not too keen on the idea. He always wanted her to go on and become something important, like a doctor or a lawyer, but that was way too much school for Aisha. She had her own dreams. Getting a script from her agent, memorizing her lines, stepping into hair and makeup, finally looking at the camera, knowing she was going to perform and that camera was going to broadcast it across the world. Famous. Famous.

Looking down at her schedule, Aisha saw her first class was English, room 113. She knew where that room was, having walked her schedule just a couple days before with her father and brother. Looking around to get her bearings, she quickly made her way to the classroom. The room 113, with it's number illuminated against the darker hallway, loomed in front of her. Adjusting the scarf on her head, she walked into the room. There weren't many people in the room just yet and Aisha spotted a desk in the back corner. Moving towards the desk, Aisha smiled at the students staring at her. This was going to be a long class.

Grace moved towards the train with the confidence only a 15 year old young woman can possess. She was moving towards her element, her school. Stepping down into the subway, she found the whole place disgusting. I can't believe people enjoy taking the subway she thought to herself. This whole place is so dirty and dingy. And this light does nothing for me. Scanning her metro pass, Grace stepped through the turnstyle, trying to touch as little as possible. She would not let the dirty wheel ruin her outfit.

Putting her bag on the floor in front of her seat, Grace looked down at her book. No, she wasn't going to actually read, but she had heard that people left you alone if you pretended to be busy on the subway. This was important, because the last thing she wanted to do was talk to these people.

Life here sure was different from where she came from, and Grace loved it so much. There weren't people here who thought wrestling a pig was a fun activity. Any time she had mentioned her hometown to people before, she always felt like she was being judged by their country ways. No one took her seriously because they all thought she knew how to rope a cow or ride a horse. Sure, she did know how to do those things, but only because her father had made her learn so she could help on the farm. She hated every minute of it, and she was sure to let people know.

Looking up momentarily from her book, Grace caught site of what she thought was a homeless boy sitting across from her. She felt sad for him for a second, but then he took out an apple from his bag and began eating it. Gross, she thought, who would eat on this train? Loser. Grace had very little tolerance for people like him. It wasn't hard to better yourself and she just couldn't understand why this boy wasn't trying to be better.

Stepping up to the school, Grace felt at home. She was home. Today was the first day of her third year at the performing arts school and this would be her year. She was sure to be voted best in her class, and this was also the year that she would start focusing more on her craft, rather than the pesky school stuff of the last two years. She was bound to become the queen of the choir and ready to take her place in the schools hierarchy that gave students a chance to be on stage in real productions. She was going to be a star this year.

Looking down at her schedule, Grace groaned at her first period. English with Mr. Hasher. She had heard such horrible things about him as a teacher. She didn't understand why she had to continue taking stupid English, she'd been speaking it her whole life. Not only that, she didn't understand why a man like Mr. Haser was still teaching. He hadn't been in a production in ages, and he was a freaking dinosaur in the business. Slowly Grace made her way towards room 113.

Moving in the hallway was exciting. People remembered her, of course, and greeted her. She knew if she kept talking to everyone she would be late, but she also knew that it was more important to make friends of future stars than it was to sit in English class. As the first tones began to ring out in the school house she slid into Mr. Hashers class. He greeted her with a contempt in his eyes, but she had made it, so there was nothing he could do to her anyway. Sitting in the middle row, Grace took out her notebook and began to doodle. This was going to be a long first period.

Gregory rolled out of bed before the sun was up. Blinking at the small alarm clock, he quickly turned to wake his little brother so he could make up the bed. “Jason, come on. First day of school.” Nudging his brother, moving on towards the shower and hoping his brother would be up when he got out.

“Gregory,” his mother called from the other room, “the hot water is out again. I have to go in for a double shift. Can you make sure Lilly and Jason get to school? And that Alan and Daisy get to daycare? I'll take Peter with me.” Leaving no room for him to decent, his mother was out the door before Gregory even processed what she was saying.

Great, another cold shower and I have to get everyone to school? Gregory silently cursed under his breath as he turned the water all way over to hot, praying his mother was wrong. She wasn't. The cold shower left him little time to think about anything but washing up. Today was the first day of school. He couldn't be late.

Moving to the kitchen, Gregory saw that his little sister was already cooking breakfast. “Good morning” he greeted her, hoping his voice was happier than his cold shower mood.

Lilly just threw a hand over her shoulder and continued to scramble some eggs. “Dad didn't send any money this week. The gas was turned off.” Lilly didn't hide her contempt for this fact. Gregory nodded at the back of her head. “Everyone is up, will you get them in here?”

Gregory rounded everyone up into the kitchen as Lilly doled out the eggs. There weren't enough, there never was, so Gregory quickly split his eggs among the younger kids. He tucked a couple apples into his bag, they would just have to do. “Come on everyone, we have to get moving.”

Settling down on the train after dropping off the youngest kids to daycare, Gregory realized how hungry he was. Taking an apple from his bag, he began to think about his day. He was in his third year at the performing arts school, despite being a year younger than most people in his class, and he was excited. Yeah, he knew he wasn't going to get fame this year, but maybe he would get on the chorus line of a musical. That was his goal. Biting into his apple he noticed Grace sitting down the car from him. He knew who she was, but only because she was the biggest diva in the school.

Getting off the train at school meant he was home. This was one place where he wasn't all that different from everyone else, maybe even a little better than them. His mom worked hard to make sure he could go here and he wasn't going to blow it for anything. As he stepped into the building he made his way towards the front office. Caroline, the office attendant, often had some baked goodies on the first day and he was hoping to score a muffin or biscuit.

“Good morning Gregory,” Caroline greeted him. “I saved you a blueberry muffin, your favorite.” Handing him his prize he saw the genuine worry that he knew Caroline felt for him.

“Thanks!” he exclaimed, trying not to scarf down the muffin in front of her. “You make the best muffins.” Waving as he made his way out of the office and towards first period, English with Mr. Hasher. A tough teacher, so he had heard, but it was English and that was one class, outside of performing, that Gregory loved. Stopping at the door of class 113, Gregory wiped his mouth one last time, crumb checking of course. He stepped into the room, excited for the beginning of the school year, and hopefully the best year of his life.

End

Until Next Time!

Words have meanings...

and things.


As a writer, I am constantly reminded that words have meanings. And just because you can use a word in a sentence doesn't mean that's the best word or that it means what you think it means.

Case in point? The world Bully.



Looking to dictionary.com, the definition of the word "Bully":
noun, plural bul·lies.
1. a blustering, quarrelsome, overbearing person who habitually badgers and intimidates smaller or weaker people.

verb (used with object), bul·lied, bul·ly·ing.
1. to act the bully toward; intimidate; domineer.
verb (used without object), bul·lied, bul·ly·ing.
2. to be loudly arrogant and overbearing.

So basically to be a bully is to be an asshole. It is to constantly intimidate someone who is weaker or smaller than you. It is to be the type of person who beats up the geek for his lunch money every day simply because you can. That is a bully.

 You know what is not a bully? Someone who disagrees with you. A bully is not someone who merely doesn't like what you have to say, even if they scream at you that you are wrong, the doesn't make them a bully. It does still make them an asshole, but not a bully.

But why are they not a bully simply because they don't agree with you? Because the key is this fancy word "habitually". If they yell at you daily for the same topic to the point that you can't get a word in? Yes, that's a bully. But to merely disagree with you on certain topics does not a bully make.

So why am I going in to this long, drawn out scope and sequence of what is a bully? Because last night I was called a bully, simply because I disagreed, vehemently, with someone. This was not habitual, because this was the first time I met this dude, but it was pretty passionate, on both ends. When he realized he had lost the group from his side, he immediately screamed that I was a bully and that I shouldn't become a teacher because we try to keep this type of shit out of the schools. He had a few more choice words to say, but I just kinda ignored him. He was rather drunk at this point.

I also see this attitude around the internet. I read certain blogs because they remind me of what I am constantly fighting against in the world, and among several of these blogs there is this idea that because someone comments and disagrees with them, they are being bullied. They are being told to shut their mouth and some how that is a violation of their first amendment rights and they are being bullied. I read it over and over and over, and while I don't comment, I find it quite suspect that so many people took a buzzword and are twisting it to their own agenda. It really makes me wonder if these people own a dictionary.

I just want to take this platform to remind people that words have meanings and shit, and just because you can use a specific word, it may not be advisable. To take a word that has true meaning, and is a real problem for many people today, and throw it around like loose change, doesn't help anyone. Please remember when you go to speak, the words you are saying will impact someone. The choices you make for your vocabulary will have meanings that you should bastardize. Say the words you mean, and mean the words you say. If you need help, use a dictionary. They are your friend.

Until Next Time.

The nicest thing anyone ever did for me...

This week's FTSF prompt is "The nicest thing anyone ever did for me was...".  I was tempted to sit this one out again, because sometimes it's easier to sit them out than to try to figure out the answer to the prompt, lol.  But alas, I have been sitting here most of the morning trying to figure this out.

3 hours of sleeping bliss!

I was going to say "oh the nicest thing was my Partner letting me nap when I wasn't feeling well..."  but that seems like something anyone would do if you were sick.  I think that feels like the nicest thing because I REALLY was feeling like crap the other night and my partner let me sleep for about 3 hours without disturbing me.  He even kept the dogs quiet, which is a feat all on it's own!

As I sit here, still, contemplating what the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me, I am still struggling to come up with a solid answer.  I don't deal with a lot of people on a daily basis, and those I deal with are either children or people who aren't the friendliest to strangers.

I guess the absolute nicest thing done for me was when I had knee surgery a few years ago and my co teacher set about having the class make me "Get Well Soon" cards.  If you've never gotten a card from a two year old, I highly recommend it.  I wish I could find them right this moment so I could take a picture for you to see the absolutely adorable scribbles and pictures.  Unfortunately our house is a bit in shambles due to rearranging, purging, and painting that the box with those cards are probably on the bottom of the largest stack!  Anyway, those cards made me really happy, knowing that at least my co teacher missed me in the classroom, if not the children themselves actually missing me.

It's weird to think I had to spend so much time coming up with this answer.  Perhaps I need to start keeping a journal of the nice things that happen in my life.  I know there are plenty of them that happen, I am not an angry shrew or anything.  What are happy things that have happened in your life?

This post is a part of the Finish the Sentence Friday blog hop.  Feel free to join in!

photo credit: King.... via photopin cc

People Watching for Characters

One of my favorite past times is sitting at the coffee shop watching people.  I am not sure why this is, but I think every writer I know enjoys people watching.  I don't particularly want to interact with these people, merely sit and watch them.  I find the best places are smaller coffee shops.

A lot of my characters are based on people I know, meet in coffee shops, or just stories I make up about their histories while watching them try to cross the street against the light.  I try to keep people I know generic but if you knew them well enough you could probably guess.  I plan to fully play innocent if they ever ask me.  :)

Every day there are new people who walk in and out of the doors of millions of businesses around the world.  They are all different.  They look different, they dress different, they order different things.  The most amazing thing is that sometimes you can get a really great character idea from one of those people.

Take for example a current character I am writing, Anya.  Anya is of Mongolian decent and the reasoning behind that was a conversation I overheard at a local coffee shop one day.  I was sitting there, doing paid writing, and I heard a little girl call another little girl a "mongoloid".  Little girl B's mother was rightfully appalled, namely because little girl B had Down Syndrome.  It was pretty obvious that little girl A was mimicking behavior she had heard elsewhere, but it was still gasp worthy.

So little Girl B's mother approached the situation and asked little girl A (where her mother or father were I have no clue!) if she knew what the word meant.  Little girl A just shrugged her shoulders.  So little girl B's mom began to explain why people with downs were called "Mongoloids".  She explained it so genuinely and patiently and I couldn't help but listen in.  The reality is I think the entire row of patrons on my side were listening.  Would we have that much grace if our child was called an offensive name?  I think we were all asking ourselves that at that moment.

So the story goes on and listening to little girl B's mom explain it, and explain in detail the facial features, the skin tone, the language, I knew I had to write a story which included a girl who matched that description.  Never would I be able to describe something so poignantly as the mother did, but she created my character Anya.

Had I not been people watching, this wouldn't have happened and my character would never have been born.  So if you are stuck on a character or a setting, just go and listen.  You may hear something to help you create your own Anya.

(And to end the story nicely, little girl A apologized.  Little girl B got a coloring page from the bin and I still have no clue where A's parents were.  I left before she did.)

Until next time.

FTSF

Blog hop time!  I kinda like not having to think of a topic all my own on Fridays!  This week's Finish the Sentence Friday (FTSF) is  "I have absolutely no interest in..."

I  have absolutely no interest in skydiving.

From our first date, the Partner has been talking about doing crazy things.  He found out my fear of heights pretty early on in our relationship, so his entire being has been trying to convince me to sky dive.  Well, it ain't happening!  Yet he can't let it go!  Every time we talk about a vacation or a trip or even just a jaunt to the parks he starts asking about skydiving.  I have never told him he can't go, not my business, but I am not getting in a plane just to jump out of it!  How does anyone think that is fun!  Cause let me tell you, it doesn't look fun.

So I plan to keep both my feet firmly planted on a solid surface.  Skydiving is not for me, which is why I have absolutely no interest in the activity!

Until next time.

Writing to the Picture

 Sometimes, while messing around on the internet, I find a photo that makes me want to write about what I see and how I feel.  This is one such photo.  One photo that makes me feel all sorts of things, and from that I can create a scene.  And that is what this blog post is.  This is a fictional story that comes from my imagination and this photo.  I hope you enjoy.



Photo: Old house in snow; Search word: snow

::Start short::

 I could feel the cold biting in to my hands.  I couldn't believe I was still alive, but I was.  I could see my goal, the house.  It was more of a barn really, but it would be warm, and out of the elements.  But the landscape was tricking me, for every step I moved forward, the house moved backwards.  Seeing my breath begin to lessen with every step I took, I knew I needed to keep going.  But if only I could rest for just a short while.  A small rest wouldn't hurt anything, and then I could be prepared to move forward, reaching out to the house with each step.

Pushing the thought of rest out of my mind, I continued to walk.  I had to walk, there were no other options.  I knew if I stopped, I woudl die.  An easy death, no doubt, as freezing has a way of sending your body in to a type of warmth as the last breath leaves you.  I couldn't let that happen, so I continued to move, continued to press forward.  If I could just make it to the house, I would be okay.

The snow seemed to get deeper with each step, and I knew frostbite had set in on my toes.  I began to dream of the warmth of my home.  my home, which I would see again some day, I knew it. 

::End Short::
Words: 236

So I got slammed with a migraine where this ends.  It was awful and while I thought about coming back to tie up loose ends I realized the point of this exercise is not to be perfect in my writing, but to just write when I find a pretty picture.  So while it's kinda abrupt at the end and it's not perfect, it is what it is and that's fine.  So there we have it.

Until next time.


photo credit: Meriol Lehmann via photopin cc

Writing to the picture

 Sometimes, while messing around on the internet, I find a photo that makes me want to write about what I see and how I feel.  This is one such photo.  One photo that makes me feel all sorts of things, and from that I can create a scene.  And that is what this blog post is.  This is a fictional story that comes from my imagination and this photo.  I hope you enjoy.

Picture: old dock, Search word: hate
----Start short story:-----

Taylor looked at the old dock.  He hated that dock.  He hated everything about that dock.  Yet, he felt drawn here after his father's funeral.  He didn't really understand why, he just knew he had to go.  And here he stood, staring at this place where he spent so much of his younger years with his dad.  His dad, oh, his dad.

The man was an enigma, or at least Taylor felt his was.  His father was diagnosed with cancer when Taylor was just a newborn, and yet this man went on to have 5 more kids and live 12 more years.  Who lives 12 years with "terminal" cancer?  But that is just the type of man his father is, or was.

Was, a word loaded with so much meaning.  Was, not is.  Was, the past.  Was, his father.  Taylor had known his whole life that his father was dying.  He knew his father wouldn't be at his wedding, wouldn't walk his little sister down the aisle, wouldn't be there to watch him pitch the opening game for the Atlanta Braves.  But even though he knew, it was still abstract.  And now, now it isn't.  Now his father is a was, not longer an is.

As Taylor stood at the old dock that he hated, he knew he would be back.  Something drew him there, something made him feel more there than he had in the last week since his father died.  Something told him that he would be back.  Taylor turned to go back to the house, taking in the old dock he hated he smiled.  Yes he hated that dock.

----End short story-----
Word count: 272

Well that was a little more depressing than I meant it to be, and it was really short, but hopefully you enjoyed the impromptu story.

Until next time!


photo credit: 'Ajnagraphy' via photopin cc

Patience is a virtue...

And other asinine things your parents say when they want you to wait.

See that kid in the middle?  That's me.

I was never a very patient person.  My mother tried, oh how she tried.  She used to tell me I had the disease that inflicted my father's side of the family.  She called it, lovingly I'm sure, the Go-Go disease.  Never sit still, never stay home, just GO GO GO!

This played out remarkably around the holiday season.  I remember being a young kid around Christmas time.  I used to pester her and pester her "When is Santa coming?"  I'd ask over and over and over again.  I typically started asking right after we put up the tree, which was the Friday after Thanksgiving.  She always calmly explained that Santa would be there in however many days.  That was never good enough for me however, as my questions never got any less.  So one year, my mother got smart.  She bought an Advent calendar.  You know, those little calendars that have chocolates or some other candy in the windows, and every day you open one window and ate the candy.  This way there was a visual to how many days before Santa came.  She was so proud of herself.

How did this Advent story end?  Was I more patient having a visual reminder?  Oh God no.  See, she explained to me how this worked "Now Hawk, you can see how many more days we have till Christmas.  Each day will be one less, and we'll eat a piece of candy!"  I hated to shit on her parade, but I was like 6, so I did.  One night, when she kept referring to that damn calendar, I had had enough.  So while everyone was sleeping, I crept down to the living room.  I would show her and her stupid calendar how many more days till Christmas.  I reached the coveted calendar and ate the damn chocolate in the windows.  All of the windows, but one.  I made sure, however, to close each window up so she wouldn't know immediately.

The next morning, we were going about our usual daily stuffs when I asked the inevitable question, "Mom, how many more days till Santa comes?"  She smugly walked over to the Advent calendar and pulled it down.  She asked me to open day 5, so I did.  "There's no chocolate," oh I had innocence down pat.  She looked in the calendar and got quite a quizzical look to her face.  She proceeded to open each day until the 25th.  That one still had chocolate.  As I claimed my prize, I triumphantly screamed "IT'S SANTA DAY!!!!!" and ran around the house. 

I'll never forget the moment my mother realized I had defeated her.  Sure, I had a belly ache from all the candy, but dammit, I won.  We never had a stupid Advent calendar after that.  She would just constantly answer my questions.

Now as an adult, I'd like to say I'm more patient.  In reality, however, I am still that young child affected with the Go-Go disease.  Just ask anyone who knows me, sitting still is not my strongest skill. I try, I really do.  All grown ups are patient... everyone keeps telling me this.  I suppose this is part of my Peter Pan affliction... I will never grow up!


photo credit: Abdulmajeed Al.mutawee || twitter.com/almutawee via photopin cc