Thin As Thieves

Hello, Blogosphere, and good morning.

Here’s another Inspiration Monday post, courtesy of BeKindRewrite. Hope you enjoy!

Sorry for the cliched-ness of the picture, but some things have to happen.

Also, brief reminder–Voice Week is next week! If you want to participate, go to this link, and otherwise, expect me to blow up your blog feed over next week.

* * * * *

The schoolteachers used to tell him that all the predatory animals could go for a long time without eating. Eagles, lions, snakes…all of them.

She hadn’t said humans were like that.

He had added that part himself.

Of course, he wanted to eat–especially now, as IT gnawed at him. But just one more day. One more barrel.

Little Sister smiles up at him, the bare chicken bones in her hand. “That was good.”

He brings himself to smile. “I’m glad you liked it.”

“Aren’t you going to eat something too?”

“As soon as I find something. That restaurant’s catching on to me.”

She bristles. “You know I’d share-“

Yeah, I do. But I’ve told you before. You should keep eating. Keep going to school. That’s what’s important for us.”

She sighs at him, all seven years and thirty-five pounds of her, and leans back against the concrete. She flicks away an old cigarette and sighs. She raises her hands to the steam, from the little vent in the building.

He smiles, and then his face turns as a wave of IT washes over him.

He falls asleep an hour after she does, deep in the night, as another boy on the streets agrees to watch out for a bit.

The next morning, she wakes up.

He would have, too, if he’d taken a bit of the chicken.

* * * * *

May you remain existential,

Evan

Update: Voice Week 2014!

Hello, Blogosphere, and good morning.

So it’s that time of year again–it’s Voice Week!

Crash course for readers who have been following for less than a year:

Voice Week is an annual challenge hosted by Stephanie of BeKindRewrite, who is also responsible for the prompts to which I respond (nearly) weekly. Essentially, the challenge takes place for five days, this year from September 22 to September 26 which OH MY HOLY THAT’S CLOSE. Every day, I will re-tell the same bit of story from one of five distinct perspectives, five different characters…five different voices.

So that’s going to happen.

I’d also encourage everyone here to at least give the challenge a look-over at the first link above. It’s pretty straightforward, and don’t worry about clique-ism–no less than half of this year’s expected participants were not there last year. I think everyone here can definitely enjoy a challenge like this, especially seeing as it’s not a competition. It’s all about collaboration. And I’d love to collaborate with some people.

I guess that’s that for now. Also, apologies for the recent hiatus–the transition into Senior Year (OH MY HOLY ERAUDBVSUIFBSIVIB) has been a bit of an adjustment, but I should be able to get into a more regular cadence soon as far as posting goes.

No word back on the novel query yet, but that’s to be expected. Figured I should at least give it a nod, though.

May you remain existential,

Evan

Psychic Paper

Hello, Blogosphere, and good morning.

In less than twenty-four hours, I will have sent out a query letter.

THE query letter.

The query letter which will be sent to an agent, imploring her to please-oh-please take my novel on and, hopefully, get it published.

So, in that spirit, here’s an Inspiration Monday concerning a certain concept that has been a driving force behind this book–the foster care system. The prompt for this week was Psychic Paper.

* * * * *

She skimmed over the paper, wishing she had saved a mint or two to deal with the coffee aftertaste.

Destinee Farwell–14 years old–5’3–117 lbs–brown hair–green eyes

She sighed, skipping past the menial bits and flipping a few pages to the real, meaty parts of it.

Parents arrested 1:41 A.M., August 29, 2014 on charges of child abuse. Child was found tied to a bedpost, and later reported having been confined as such for the two days prior with limited water and no access to food. Under questioning, parents stated the imprisonment had been as a result of missed curfew, a repeated offense, leading investigators to believe this was not an isolated incident. Child has been assigned a case worker and will proceed into State care and temporary housing.

The woman put aside the papers, pushing other documents and pens and paper away from the center of her desk.

She chewed on the end of her pen. Noted, yet again, that she should really stop doing that, what with the chemicals and all.

The knock came at her door.

“Come in.”

She did, all fourteen years and 117 pounds and five-feet-three-ounces of her. All the numbers, And the green eyes, the biting, piercing, ice-cold green eyes, the eyes that positively dripped with venom. The eyes that, the woman knew, would have been much happier living out the rest of her childhood chained to a bedpost than having to go through the ordeal before them.

The woman knew before she even talked to the girl what she would get as a response. The short little sentences, the eventual outburst about leaving-well-enough-alone, the huffiness as she was told where she would be living. Because the woman would have to do it like that, have to tell this one rather than working with her. But the ultimate goal was survival, not creature comforts, and as such the woman would have to carry on with the proceedings.

And the woman knew, too, what awaited the girl. The foster parents were good, but not quite good enough, not good enough to shake her out of the anger, or the fear that would eventually overtake her, the loneliness, the depression. Not good enough to stop her from that first sip of vodka a year later, the first time she looked at the knife and realized that it could make things okay. Not good enough to keep her from running away two months after.

Not good enough that anyone, ever, would see her again.

And as Destinee Farwell walked into her office the woman knew there was nothing, absolutely nothing, she could do to prevent that.

* * * * *

May you remain existential,

Evan

TFIOSCOVER

Guarantee of Eventual Triumph: That Which Makes Authors Evil

Hello, Blogosphere, and good morning.

So I, like countless other teenagers, have read John Green’s The Fault In Our Stars. I’m a longtime fan of Mr. Green, and have read a number of other books of his, but there’s something unique about the way TFIOS is done.

Namely, the infinite hordes I have witnessed of crying readers, releasing pleas to the Universe for Mr. Green to stop being so evil.

Now, having read the other books, this is not something unique to his writing. He does it rather often, actually, Looking For Alaska being the most striking example.

However, I’m not going to focus on Mr. Green today. He’s just a case study.

Sorry, John.

But anyway…I’ve been thinking a bit about why exactly everyone’s crying about him in particular. While TFIOS is an intensely emotional novel…so are thousands of others, some even more widely read than this.

I’ve been concentrating on this a lot, lately, and I think I’ve developed a pretty decent theory.

The thing setting “emotionally potent” authors apart from “evil” authors is the Guarantee of Eventual Triumph.

What I mean by this is actually pretty simple, at its core.

Essentially, there are two kinds of emotional heartbreak: That which can be overcome, and that which cannot.

The first one is a hallmark of emotionally jarring stories everywhere. The hero gets a little bit too drunk and his girlfriend leaves him after he’s woken up sober. The District Twelve girl who just wants to support her family gets chosen to represent her people in a futuristic-archaic battle to the death. The two Afghani women suffer blow after blow in the heart of Kabul together, clinging to each other for survival even as they push each other together (If you don’t know what I’m talking about, go read A Thousand Splendid Suns by Khaled Hosseini RIGHT NOW)

But the second…that’s what does the real heartbreak.

The totalitarian leaders burn every book they can find–and they find ALL OF THEM.

The young protagonist gets adopted, and suddenly Birth Mama vanishes without saying goodbye.

A teenaged girl, destined for early death herself, watches her love waste away in front of her and, ultimately, beat her to the grave.

Those are the ones that tear us apart.

And why?

Because of that Guarantee of Eventual Triumph.

It’s not there.

The drunk guy without the girlfriend…he’ll get over her. Who knows, they might even get back together. The girl from District Twelve can survive, if she fights harder than the rest. The Afghani women, believe it or not, still have a chance, in each other, even as their city crumbles around them.

The Guarantee is there.

It’s a guarantee that there’s still potential for a happy ending. There will be another side. The grass is greener somewhere. Those are what makes a novel emotionally potent–the fact that tragedy strikes, and there is a journey that must be traversed before anything can change. But things can change. Things WILL change. That promise is there, unspoken. There will be resolution.

And then, there are the Evil Authors.

The books are gone. All the history and knowledge of the human race has been expunged, save for a group of recluses muttering lines to themselves in the woods.

Mama…she’s been planning this the whole time. Once she got rid of that kid, she didn’t have any intention to visit for the holidays.

And the boy’s gone. Her dream boy is dead. And he’s never coming back. Even worse, she’ll be dead soon too.

The guarantee isn’t there.

There. Is. No. Hope.

Things, in those stories, won’t get better. They won’t turn around. The underdog Will. Not. Triumph.

After all, how could they?

That’s what makes some writers evil. They don’t give that hope.

They make us remember, relive in excruciating detail, everything in our own lives that’s become irrevocable. Force us to realize, no, we will never reconcile. And project that onto characters who we have come to love as our own.

If you ask me, those authors aren’t evil.

They’re the most important writers we have.

And, as painful as it is to look, we as authors and as humans cannot afford to avert our eyes.

Not now.

Not anymore.

May you remain existential,

Evan

Anchorman Celebration GIF

The Novel…It’s Done

Hello, Blogosphere, and good morning.

Last night, at 1:30 AM on August 27, 2014, I finished my novel.

Finished it.

It’s done.

No more edits.

No more beta reading.

It’s done.

Twenty-two months ago, to the day, I started the story as a spur-of-the-moment kind of thing.

For seven months, I wrote every single day for an hour, sacrificing school, work and friends in order to get it finished.

That summer, I took the first overhaul.

Then Junior Year happened, and I didn’t get anything done.

And then there was THIS summer.

It’s been a wild ride. I’ve done three overhauls and two mass-beta-reader mailings, and truth be told, I marathonned writing 60 pages from scratch over a period of two days.

I’m exhausted, beaten, limping….

But I have triumphed.

Figured I should let you all know.

As always, I thank you infinitely for your support, and for all the great work you inspire me with.

Be well and prosper, my friends.

May you remain existential,

Evan

On Comic Relief

Hello, Blogosphere, and good morning.

So I have a ten-year-old little brother.

And that means Disney Channel.

I’m going to get right into things today. While I’ve made a point of not being in the same room as the television at all, for a wide variety of reasons, I still am just a room away. This means that even through headphones and such, I can hear pretty much every line of dialogue my little brother watches. To be completely honest, I have the theme songs of most of the shows memorized–much to my own dismay. So I end up half-listening to whatever is going on over there, and half-listening to whatever music has made its way into my life most recently.

This gives me an indirect window into a lot of things, including but not limited to a lot of stereotypes, societal tendencies, emerging trends…et cetera. And it’s interesting, for about five minutes, to take a critical look at what exactly the content means. But then…those five minutes expire, and I want to pull my eyes out of my face because it will be markedly less painful.

That takes into account a number of factors, of course, but one drives me particularly insane.

The Comic Relief.

What I mean is, in every show without fail, there is a character created apparently for the singular purpose of making awful jokes at the expense of the storyline, other characters and audience. Which wouldn’t be as terrible, if there were occasionally a bit of actual humor in there, but…there isn’t.

Sorry, Disney. Frozen was still good, I promise.

**SIDENOTE**

Wow…that’s kind of a weird word…frozen…just looking at it, it seems more ominous and kind of more refined to describe a state of matter caused by a lack of thermal energy….

**END SIDENOTE**

So there’s this character in every single freaking show, and it drives me absolutely insane.

Now, the reasons for its inclusion are kind of straightforward. Kids allegedly appreciate bad humor, it’s a useful cop-out for writers…stop me if any of this sounds familiar. But at the same time…it’s so unnecessary.

Come with me back to the eighties, for a minute. Cosby Show. Any takers? Family show, marketed to kids…but at the same time, the humor is so different from anything you’ll find today, especially in youth media. Take this clip, for example. For the record, the other actors’ laughter is real–this is pure improv, essentially. And while Bill Cosby takes some silliness liberties, to be sure, the delivery is genuine. That’s just it. And the humor is used as a vessel to convey something, rather than to simply exist on its own.

I’m not saying the show was some paragon of humor, but it wasn’t exactly poor-quality, either.

So this kind of brings me to my main point…but I’m not going to break it down or anything. Today I think I’m just going to say it.

You don’t need comic relief.

This applies to pretty much everything, but ESPECIALLY to writing fiction. The use of a specific character, put into use as some sort of comic vice, is pointless–even if the humor itself is good. You can have that character tell the best jokes, work in the funniest one-liners…but it’s still going to fall flat after about ten pages. And once it starts, the jokes will fail. Every. Single. Time.

The reasoning for this is simple: The jokes don’t need to happen. Whether they’re decontextualizing the scene, sacrificing emotional depth, or otherwise impeding the storyline, it’s absolutely a waste with regards to the actual content.

The jokes can be funny, if they’re told standing alone. They can be hilarious. Look at comedy legends and the jokes are golden. But slip one of those into a story, for the sake of it being there–which is the only reason it would be there–and it’s blatantly obvious.

Truth be told, it’s insulting.

Now, I know I’m probably sounding a bit mean today, but…this is kind of a long-standing problem in my mind. The Comic Relief character is everywhere, especially now, as the commercialization of media grows more and more every day. There is a formula being created for B-and C-rated content, and that formula includes vampires, the same teen love story, idiot authority figures, et cetera…and the Comic Relief.

But note that the content is B-and C-rated.

From what I’ve seen, I’ve been extremely fortunate as far as the people who read this blog are concerned. We’re all good writers. That’s that. But at the same time…it’s tempting to give ourselves and fall into these traps. It’s an easy solution to a hard problem.

But it doesn’t need to happen.

Revisiting the Cosby Show, watch any episode and you’ll see how the humor works. Here’s one, if you’ve got twenty minutes (skip to 1:30 if you want to go past the introduction). It’s not outright. The Comic Relief isn’t there. It’s a family dynamic–and that’s where the humor originates. It’s essentially a compilation of point after point that people can relate to, directly, because it’s all familiar and it’s all contextual.

That’s the key bit of it, too. It’s all offhanded, contextually appropriate, relatable humor that would come up, really, within the contours of any conversation between innately humorous people.

It’s not forced.

It’s not contrived.

It’s real.

And that’s why it’s good.

 

Leave comments in comments!

May you remain existential,

Evan

Uncertainty Is Worse

Hello, Blogosphere, and good morning.

So, in looking at Stephanie’s challenges at BeKindRewrite, I usually take anywhere between twenty seconds and twenty minutes to come up with a concept about which to write. However, this week I think I’ve posted my fastest ever time, coming in at just under two seconds–let’s see if the actual work does the idea justice. Prompt for this week was “Uncertainty Is Worse”–leave comments in Comments!

* * * * *

She traced the Wall with her fingers, running over the inscriptions one by one.

September 3, 1964.

Robert Allen

Charles Beauregard

Xavier Danforth

Sean Jasper

William Powers

Alexander Thibault

Charles Tilley

She rested her finger on the dot between Xavier and Sean, breathing in through her nose as hair whipped around her face.

The petals of cherry blossoms swirled around her, catching in her scarf and sliding across the Wall. She didn’t block out the noise around her today, the kids on their eighth-grade field trip, just letting what they said to each other pass in and out of her mind without much consideration.

She pressed her finger deeper into the dot, wishing just as hard as she had as a little girl.

James “Mountain” Fierro

 

The sun kissed her forehead as she flew up in the air, looking down at him.

She shrieked in delight as he grew tiny on the ground for half a second, and giggled as he caught her again.

He held her up with one arm as she hugged around his neck.

“My princess,” he said, looking at her. “My little princess.”

She smiled. “Come home soon, daddy.”

“I’ll come home. I promise. I’ll be home for your fifth birthday in the fall, okay?”

“Okay, daddy. Have fun on the planes.”

“I will, honey. I promise.”

 

She drew the overcoat around her against the harsh wind.

Dropped her hand.

He still wasn’t there.

Still hadn’t come home, either.

Against all hope…someday.

* * * * *

May You Remain Existential,

Evan