Feedback is extremely welcome. This is a loving document, it can only be honed and get better with loving input from other users. What are your best tips for #creators?
I drummed my fingers on the table beside her open grimoires. Not facing the bully, I turned my eyes toward the blonde, taking in her arrogant smile. She'd gotten me to do what she wanted. She held her wand steady, and the tip glowed like hot iron. "And that's all I need to do? I can't believe you're helping me like this after all we've been through..."
The bucket-full of water and me being hit by said bucket falling off the shelf above the door. The vanishing ink pen I used on a test. The worms in my box lunch. Other things. But I was also a T.A. Some responsibilities where inescapable.
I did volunteer to help Jill.
I wanted to laugh at the "we" in that last sentence, but sighed instead. She was predictable. Very predictable. "The mnemonic, the equations, the visualization. Spot on. It balances and your wand indicates that."
"So all I have to do is say what I want to conjure?"
Predictable. I didn't grin. Instead I switched to French, hopeful. "/Tu m'emmerdes avec tes questions!/"†
She blinked. "Merde? Isn't that French for—"
With magic you really need to be specific about where to target a spell affect and what you're asking for. She'd been specific about neither.
Where your wand is pointing is the default. Her's pointed above her head.
The spell understood what she wanted enough that the closest source proved to be the horse stables. I could see it out the dorm room window. The spell mucked every stall.
A load of small round spheres crashed down around her, bouncing off her head and bounding around the room. I squealed reflexively and jumped away.
I doubled over leaning against the door, laughing despite the smell. For her part, the bully sat stunned. Her expression wanted to be a smile. She had succeeded, after all. She also knew she'd been made the fool.
Exiting out the door was the better part of valor. I grabbed the nob.
"/Amélie/," came a growl.
=-=-=-=-=
† "You're so annoying with your questions!" Literally: "You're shitting on me with your questions."
Got down to #author stuff, now that I'm retired and can devote time to the #business of #writing#fiction. First order of business: catalog the unsold novels from after the burn out that need revision and rewrites.
Turns out that disconnecting my Mac from my work VPN messed up my folders. I had somehow mapped (don't know the Mac term) my work Windows computer folders to the Mac, and when I look in documents it tries to find it on the network and fails. If I reboot, so long as I go directly from my user's directory to documents directory, I'm good. If I click on Documents in Finder, it redirects and I'm screwed.
First thing I did was copy all my writing folders to the desktop. At least I've lost none of my old novels and short work.
I thought there were 7 completed books, and I said so online. There are actually 9, three that form a trilogy and one novel with a sequel in the mix. There are two incomplete novels.
Some works are older than others. Pages refuses to open one novel from 1996, a fun space opera that possibly has the highest chance of early sales. I haven't tried the others. Now I gotta install Word, of which I am not a fan, and investigate programs that'll open the really old files. If anyone wants to chime in with suggestions, please do! (I can always find someone with a Windows machine if need be.) Putting Google on TODO. I actually have original copies of chapters from my Apple ] days, but thankfully I updated those to the Mac and to a new millennium version of Word in what were my PowerPC days.
Incidentally, there really are three novellas in good shape.What surprises me though? There looks like about 15 short stories, many complete because I see multiple submissions in the various folders. I completely forgot about these, and was sure I never wrote short-form.
Do you reply to your last toot, or do you reply to the initial toot of the thread? Why? (Please reply to the thread.) Please boost for a bigger sample size..
They're at home, wondering how they could possibly have let their little girl die like that, even though she's very much alive, trapped, a long long way away...
#WritingWonders 7.9 — What are you good at when it comes to writing?
People have complimented me on my dialogue.
Recently, I've switched from 3rd person to 1st person narrative. That's essentially the MC talking to the reader, which may explain why my writing feels so much more fluid and natural.
I read most everything I write aloud. It has to pass the speech test. Getting tongue-tied is a bad sign.
So...
My answer to this one is what I am doing now. Talking to the reader. What do you think? Does it work for you?
Any #writers here? Are you fans of Scrivener, or Ulysses, or perhaps Obsidian Notes? Looking around for a writing system that will be future-proof. Also love the idea of using Markdown because that’s what my blogs all use now. #writing#writersofmastodon
I just got an email from BookBrush this morning, and it contained a survey about interest in creating AI narrated #audiobooks with them if I would paid a one-time fee of $999 USD to join that service. Of course my first thought was what about the #narrators? What about quality? And a number of other things. I did some research and I’m even more concerned, and of course, the email was sparse in details. While it’s tempting as a #SelfPublished author, I still care about the people it effects. The narrators and the authors. Am I being too paranoid about this or is the appropriate reaction? Who wants to discuss? #WritersofMastodon#SelfPublishing
#PennedPossibilities 85 — MC POV: Tell us a quick love story. The story must end badly. CW: Um, frank talk?
I thought he was dead. The only guy who'd ever had a crush on me. My lieutenant from my days in the mob. He'd been bleeding when I'd shoved him through the /Interstellar/ apparition a year ago. When I'd escaped through the same working ten minutes later, the street it was anchored to in Home City was abandoned—but for Praetorian guards too frantic to notice me because Director Rainy Days had roared through only half a minute before, in full battle mode, without any of her guards.
A year later, Rainy Days cornered me. To convince me to stay, she'd baited her trap with him. She'd made him a cadet in her Praetorian guard, and oh my—my—my, did he look good in that uniform. He stepped up to me, no longer blushing or stuttering, not able to say those words that he liked me. No, he stepped up to be, cupped my chin, and kissed me deeply.
My knees nearly gave out, despite my worst enemy standing less than a dozen standards away from me. My heart racing, I returned the kiss, warming up, and letting him put a hand behind my back.
Rainy Days said something like, "She should get a room."
I stepped back, a hand on my lieutenant's chest. I looked at her in complete shock, but I couldn't think of anything sufficiently sarcastic. I flashed her a hand-gesture instead, then grabbed his head and kissed him back until he moaned. I expected that evening would be sweet.
He fought alongside me against Rainy Days, the strongest thaumaturge to ever live. We nearly died.
That night, after lots of events too numerous to enumerate, and me agreeing to work with Rainy Days as her minion (long story), I had to deal with my roommate. She was the first person I'd acknowledged as a friend since childhood. I had used her in a sting operation to catch a crime boss and for various reasons—including that she had never ever gotten laid because of who her mom is—was bummed out.
I "gave" her my boyfriend to cheer her up.
They took me literally. Loudly, I might add. You'd think an ivory tower would have better sound insulation, but you'd be wrong. I left as soon as I could the morning after as they were still at it.
Technology and science wasn't magic, and Sharp Eye knew this more than ever. Five generations ago, Fleetmaster Running Talon had turned a portable cannon on his first Tyrannosaur, and ended their species rein of terror. Since that day, science and progress had ruled their world. Telescopes and the study of astronomy were unknown to her grandkin. The laws of orbital dynamics took a decade to render correctly, and her own grandmother had invented the slide math-relator that made verifying it all possible.
She lived in a world that promised her hatchlings steamships that could cross the Great Ocean between ports reliably, in days, because it need no sails. It offered /their/ hatchlings the possibility of powered flight using a lightweight heat engine. Literature discussed the not too fictional possibility of one day visiting the moon.
She ought have been happy with life and her grand future.
This wasn't the case. She turned the great telescopes with there photo capture plates toward the sky every night.
She'd found a streak.
Not a new planet. Something far smaller. Something far closer.
The rodent was very brazen outside the window. She'd been throwing the mammal bits of meat for the last month as she'd directed the telescopes, so of course he was. It chittered. With googly eyes, needle teeth, and the rotted smell of offal, the creature wiggled its pink nose and whiskers at her. It could see through a window! So smart. Its furry kind survived the freezing nights on the mountain, where despite her downy feathers, and a heavy parka, she could barely breathe the frigid night air. It burned her lungs.
She'd found a giant rock in space. A week later she confirmed it was two. The latest plate insisted she'd found a co-orbiting swarm, the biggest the size of a city or larger, the rest not that much smaller. Its mass made her think it was mostly iron-nickel. The length of the streaks on the plates grew smaller as the planet's gravity well influenced the orbit, sending it down on their heads.
Physics was physics. The ellipse calculations were irrefutable.
Between the constantly erupting volcano lands on the opposite side of the continent—which made sunset burn orange and purple, and sometimes caused snow to fall at the equator—and the dirt and dust that would be kicked out of the atmosphere by the meteor impact to rain down molten rock across the land, would it be that prolific mammal's descendants who'd inherit her decimated world?
Sharp Eye took a deep breath, inhaling the steam of her tea. The big question was: Did she announce her findings? While she had time?
Did it matter?
Who was she to break the world's ignorant bliss by announcing the inevitable? Fame didn't matter any more. How could it?
She sipped her tea and watched the soon to be victorious vermin nose through gravel, looking for roaches. She set the cup down, thinking how pleasant living only in the present was. She knew the future.
Then she thought, surely roaches would survive. Right?
#WritersCoffeeClub Ch 5 Nbr 25 — How do you feel about writers who write outside of their gender/sexuality/race etc?
There are many low-information readers out there, so writing anything definite about gender, sexuality, or race (and I would add ethnicity) is fraught. Some people will become angry, even intolerantly shame or dox you, if they decide—judge and jury—you've trespassed. I witnessed this happen this week. It's taken me years to get to the point that I feel I can write my soul travel novel with an out-of-culture POV. Caught up in a "situation," I would state I did my best and that my intention was good, and march onward. (I'd feel terrible and might question even writing anymore, but then that's neurotic me. It takes courage to be an author.)
I do my best to understand the person I'm writing about or narrating as, and their cultural baggage. I know, for example, that I can't write a military adventure without help because, whilst I can get the particulars correct by research, I don't know the culture intimately. I have trouble with male characters, so I'm especially wary writing them. Who I'd use as a POV or a spotlight character depends on the context of a story. This is one of the reasons I don't write contemporary or historical fiction. You really have to get the details correct, and plenty of people know what's correct and what isn't. The trick of delegating the stuff I don't know to auxiliary characters doesn't cut it.
However...
I am also of the opinion that a writer should not state anything unless it is in service of the message or plot. Since I write in 1st person, this means I never have to describe the POV character. Their actions can reveal their gender, sexuality, race, or ethnicity—if I want them to.
I like this mode of exposition. Handled properly, any reader can see themself in the main character.
I'm really curious: how does all y'all feel about sex scenes? Are they irritating or do writers blatantly use them as a form of transition? Need they be explicit? Not only in movies/TV, but in prose.
I can't tell yall how gassed I am wit my coursework! Shit when I was in 7th grade my teacher said ' jaden I can't keep up with your work , yall got an imagination ' 😃
Now I got the chance to make this real the only thing I want is to write. A started a time travel book last year but gave up. I gon carry on now , got the inspiration again 👌🏾
Be good to get yall advice to get dis bitch published etc 🙏🏿 #sciencefiction#writersofmastodon
My hand written not taking device arrived 5 days early. It's a #Supernote Nomad #S6X2. Time for unboxing. Here's to hoping once it's configured that I can simple turn it on, immediately write as if it were a notepad, then later send OCR'd notes to my #Mac.