Sunday, January 20, 2013

Novels vs. Short Stories


                No one can have everything.  If so, that would be contradictory. For example, you couldn't have both a happy life and a miserable life. Well, I suppose you could, if your life was complex and you had certain facets of your life that seemed better than they actually were . . . Okay, my example doesn't actually fit my point. I'll stop digressing now. I have again realized that neither people nor sparkly vampires can have everything when I got feedback for the Interlochen contest today (news flash: I didn't make it). I've been entering many contests lately, but the market for short stories isn’t very big and they require an amount of professionalism that (as of right now) I don't  actually have. Except for my family's opinions, I don't have the writing skill needed for publishing novels, either, so right now this is basically hypothetical. However, I can still debate about it.
                I love short stories for the numerous ideas, prompts, and characters I can write without having an ongoing saga. I also like brevity that I use in short stories, something that fades quickly in my novels. Additionally, my first drafts don’t generally need much work. I can explore new genres without completely hating the bad plots I’d come up with in novels, and then I can trash the products of imagination and a very tired brain without feeling bad about it. In addition, most of my inspiration is for short stories.
                I like writing novels much more than I thought I would. I’ve generally created good characters, and I love watching it come together as a series of events. I’ve enjoyed it many times over the past few months, but then I have to edit it. (Cue thunder and screams of terror. That last part may have been a joke . . . ) I also like my novels’ plotlines, and the sense of accomplishment that I get from writing it, but I dislike that I put all of my other creative writing to the wayside when I’m working on a novel. I’m trying to get back to it, though. See, novels seem much more real to me. They're like movies, while short stories are like photographs. My problem is that I like them both: short stories capture a moment (or set of moments), while a novel captures a life*.

                Which do you prefer? Let me know in the comments below, or in the poll!

              Happy writing!
               Katia
*I think I may have started making a living for Hallmark cards right at that very instant. In case you're wondering, yes. As I reread this, I started cringing.

Sunday, January 13, 2013

Excerpt From my New Novel


                Since I have successfully determined that I can write better than the awful Star Wars movies-turned-into-books (by someone who has no idea how to write), I’ve decided to be brave. Dauntless, even (excellent Divergent faction, by the way). Okay, this is pretty lame for dauntless, but whatever. I’m going to share some of the first chapter from my new WIP (i.e., first draft) entitled The Tinkers. At least, that’s its current title. I haven’t been able to write much in the past week because I’m moving, and I ot sick, and I have finals this week (ugh), but I will write more. Currently, I have about 3k done on this. Sometime, I hope to edit, and find an ending for, The Chosen. I’m confident that that will happen in the next five months or so.

                Without further ado (geez, I’m really stalling), here is my excerpt, seven hundred forty-four words that are partially useless.

                She submitted easily. At first, she had resisted, but now, she was no threat. I put her under the anesthesia and watched her for a moment. She wasn’t the first one to resist, but she was the most memorable. Her lips were rose-colored; professionally dyed. Her face was a porcelain mask, commissioned by the best Surges in the area. Still, she couldn’t hide. They knew her age. Too bad. She was prettier than most.

            “Dem!” Jack watches me suspiciously. He is younger than I am, as his unblemished face shows, but he acts like he is near thirty. “Get back to work. We’ve got a patient.” With a snap, he pulls on his clear rubber gloves and puts on his white coat. This is a formality, of course; no one is here to see us, so it hardly matters.

            I nod. “I’m going. She won’t care, will she?” I laugh, but Jack scowls, a frown implanted on his face. Apparently, someone can’t take a joke.

            “The Corporation is watching us. The camera’s right over there.” He nods to the camera with a rigid countenance. It swivels in our direction, scanning, watching. I draw in my breath, but Jack doesn’t notice.

            I shrug with a slow, sure smile. “Gotta get back to work, don’t we?” He rolls his eyes as I pull on my gloves hastily.

            “Hurry up.” His voice is as sharp as glass. I walk over to the medical cabinet and take out the sterilized shot and screw on the needle. I fill it with the murky anti-immunizing serum and go to the patient’s bedside. Or, more accurately, the off-white cot which she is strapped onto. Her lips are pursed slightly. I roll up her elegant sleeve, as her hand twitches.

Is she regaining consciousness? Jack swabs the flesh on her upper arm, still frowning at my obvious mistakes. I jab the needle into her arm. I push down, watching the mixture fall until it is empty. It should take it five minutes to start affecting her. I lean back against the medical cabinet and slouch. I close my eyes, as if when I open them again, I suddenly won’t have to do this. I gaze at the bland wall. It is bleached white, as bland as the robots that control those sorts of things. The ones who work at the corporation. It would be nice if it had a window. Of course, that would mean that we’d actually be able to see what was going on. And no one would want that.

            “Dem, you all right?” I open my eyes grudgingly, knowing just who is asking the question. He is probing, like always.

            “Yes, I’m fine. This part—” I swallow my words. No matter how much I joke with Jack, I can’t afford to get in trouble.

            “I mean, it’s sad. It seems like she was trying so hard to go unnoticed.”

            Jack shoots me a warning look. Of course, the corporation has that on camera now. They have everything on camera. “Yes.” His voice is tight and bitter, like a lemon. I had a lemon once, before the Corporation came into power. It was sour and flavorful, tasting like sadness—I break off my thoughts. I’ve got a job to do.

He continues, “Yes, but they always get noticed. Anyway, it’s just part of the system.” His eyebrows knot themselves together.

I nod, heaving myself off of the cool metal cabinet. My head is throbbing now, but I get the feeling that it’s more than a stress-related headache.

I walk over to her, watching her shallow breaths. “Okay, Jack, you’re right. We should get back to work.” I say this loudly, for the corporation’s benefit. As you might’ve guessed, I’ve become a much better actor since I was selected to be a Tinker.

I pull on my gloves, my hands aching to be free from the sweaty plastic. I turn to Jack. “How much does she weigh?”

“One-thirty.” Jack grits his teeth.

“All right then.” I hold the syringe, equipped with the needle. I put in the chemical until it reaches the number 13. I push it into her arm. Her skin feels like papery tissues. Her body is wearier than she’d care to admit, despite her plastic surgery from the Surges. I wait one, two, three seconds, until the fluid enters her bloodstream. I touch her, to see how she reacts to stimuli. A mumble escapes from her lips.

                This is my first draft, so obviously, I’ll change it vastly, as I’m no Miracle Max—my first drafts are more Cliffs of Insanity*. That’s okay, though. It’s more interesting that way.

                I just referenced The Princess Bride twice? Inconceivable!

Katia

Sunday, January 6, 2013

Edit, Write, Read. Repeat.


                Editing is a necessary evil. I crammed Monday through Wednesday, and now my second draft is done. However, I still have no real resolution, even though I’ve been wracking my brain for weeks now. I need to work on that. What “my second draft is done,” means (for me) is that I’ve cut everything that’s unnecessary. Description, awful metaphors, dialogue tags, stupid ranting paragraphs.
By the end of my editing, I effectively hated my MC. She’s a good person and I’d like to be friends with her in real life (although she has trust problems, so that wouldn’t work out so well), but I vented so much through her. There were pages of her worrying about whether she should make a certain decision or not, etc. Also by the end of my novel, I was fuming at my unnecessary dialogue tags. It got to the point where one of my recurring thoughts was, “If I see one more ‘I/She nodded’ or ‘I sighed,’ I’m going to burn the computer and cackle evilly.” It was that bad, and to think that I wrote it . . . Well, I’m not going to give up on it, anyway. I effectively cut 30% of my novel (now at a basic 42,000 words) so that was nice. This makes me even more appreciative of the amazing characters, settings, and stories that so many authors create.
My family has been very supportive of my writing, as always, especially my dad. Well, that’s a bit of an understatement. He thinks I could get published in several years. Whether or not that is true (although I’m guessing there are some parental biases at work), I’m going to continue editing my novel until I think it’s good enough and, of course, get my betas’ opinions.
Additionally, I started another novel! My working title is The Tinkers. It’s dystopian (again), and it’s about this man, Dem Grayson, who’s a tinker in a very different society. (Wow, this synopsis won’t win me any prizes.) His trade is making sure that everyone functions accordingly—meaning, at the age of thirty, everyone becomes paralyzed. His job is to make them paralyzed by making them susceptible and then giving them a shot that paralyzes them. (It’s better than it sounds, I promise.) He is approaching thirty, but he hopes he’ll evade the procedure. When Ol shows up at his doorstep with questions about her mom and a fascinating secret, he has no choice but to share his own.
Right now I’m 1,000 words into it. I really like the story idea (although since I solely write dark fiction—though unintentionally—it’s darker than I planned). We’ll see where it goes; at least since I’ve already edited a first draft I’ll know more what to expect on the next book. Of course, I suspect this may be my subconscious trying to get out of editing more.
If you have any tips on resolutions or editing, I’d love to hear them in the comments.
Katia, the writer girl