Five Reasons Why

            I didn’t set out to write dark fiction. (That’s what they all say.) Honestly, it’s not that I have a horribly gruesome mind—okay, I kind of do. But that’s really not the point. For a while, I’ve been wondering why I write dark fiction, dystopias, etc. I’ll read something light and romantic and touching and think, why can’t I write that? It's just not my style.

1.      I find stories where everything is happy and perfect unrealistic. In the real world, life happens. The universe doesn’t always hand you cupcakes on a silver platter.

2.      As I write it, I’m trying to understand why people would do ____ and deepen my empathy

3.      When I write dark fiction, none of my extended family coyly sneaks it into the conversation (such as “Oh, Katia, I’ve been wondering about Secrets for Forever” [wink, wink]) . . . coincidence? I think not.

4.      I’m naturally a pessimist, and therefore, I write dark fiction

5.      Dark moments seem to have much more meaning than light ones, at least sometimes

As one of my friends remarked the other day, “Stabbing people with knives is fun!” Guess I’m not the only one.

Katia,

The writer girl

Getting Started

                I have a friend who is a “writer.” I met her at a writing conference a few months ago. Yet to my knowledge she doesn’t write much, if ever. I, of course, am on the other side of the spectrum, busily trying to work on my novel without getting weird looks every day at lunch (when you write a dystopia about paralyzing people, it’s harder than you’d think).  

            Writing, in and of itself, is not hard. As I’ve found out, writing only takes the ability to have an idea, and the thoughts to write it down. I’m not saying it’s good writing; I’ve written so much slush in the past year that I’m not proud of. It has helped me get better, though. Getting started is all it takes.

            Getting started to write is like getting ready to exercise. You put on clothes that you don’t think make you look too awful, you take a moment to remember all of the other things you could be doing, and then you begin. For a while, it’s hard. I, for example, hate treadmills, and so after a while I always get bored and go do something else. Still, that little amount of activity helped me improve.

            Some days, my writing goes at a snail’s pace. Some days, I’m totally in the zone and my story amazes me because I think it’s such a cool idea. Anyway, 100 for 100, as well as my personal pact to myself, have helped me realize that it doesn’t matter how awful and awkward and clunky it is right now. My writing could be complete garbage (and to be fair, some of it is). But as my dad says, what matters is that I’m “out there, doing stuff.” As Hemingway supposedly said, “It is easy to write. Just sit in front of your typewriter and bleed.”

Katia

Why I Hate Sequels

There are three things of which I am absolutely certain:

1.Chocolate chip cookie dough is one of the best food substances ever invented, hands-down.

2.I'm not a timely blogger (breaking news, I know; in my defense I've been trying to keep up with TWiG while doing 100-for-100, and continuing work on my novel)

3.I do not like sequels.

         It is not that I've never read a good sequel. I love good sequels. For example, Peter and the Shadow Thieves, the Harry Potter saga, and New Moon are all great sequels (I was joking about the last one; you can stop hyperventilating now -although I don't believe the Twilight series is the worst set of published words known to mankind for thousands of years to come--it's just not my taste-). However, often sequels aren't good. They're simply just a way to pass time between the end of the beginning book and the start of the last, and not much really happens, relatively speaking. Of course, that is the point of a middle book, but there has to be some sort of resolution before the third book. And most don't have that.

        What middle books often lack is the care bestowed to the first book. The authors have already gotten published, now everyone is watching them, and they're under a deadline. They spent all of this time on their first book cultivating the idea, going through revisions upon revisions, and finally getting rejected by literary agents all because they believed in their book and loved it so much. With the second book, you don't have that. Most of the time, it seems like the author is just continuing a trilogy because they already signed a contract and because series books are popular right now.

 

That is why I write stand-alone books.

And because I think it's more fun that way.

Katia,

The writer girl

Writing (Or Lack Thereof)

            Since I have written virtually nothing in the past two weeks, let me give you my heartfelt apology and explanation. Last week, I was in moving purgatory, and my house was filled with brown boxes. In addition, I had no idea where our peanut-butter was, so that caused me to walk around aimlessly, for at least ten minutes a day. Don’t worry, my problem is solved. I have found my computer, gotten settled into our new house, and all is good. Except for the fact that none of us have any idea of where the charger is.

                I’ve been writing a bit, but not as much as I’d like. I’m working on a few short stories and today I resumed work on my novel, which is exciting. I’ve also been avoiding planning my novel, but I am determined to have a planned-out climax, and maybe even a resolution, before I get there.

                I have joined the Teen Writer’s Group (not sure if I've said that before or not), and I’m applying for a journalism class. Such is the excitement of my life. Without further ado, here is the first part of my short story.

                I loved you in the days when two syllables meant nothing. My father muttered, “She’s gone,” in a grief-laced voice I’d never heard before.  I didn’t understand. He stood by the casket, scuffed dress shoes planted in the grass, watching me. You darted forward, whisking me away from the shroud of my father’s coffee-scented grief. We ran among the trees, my hand clutched in yours, playing games where mothers didn’t die.

            It’s different now. Instead of coffeecake, you are black coffee, no longer inviting. Bitterness lingers about you, wafting through the air. I stay the same; I am the pale glass of milk, unneeded and always watching, wishing someone would care enough to notice me again.