Dreaming in Stories

I have interesting dreams. Story dreams. Dreams with a beginning, middle, end; with conflict and with resolution. Dreams that make it impossible for me not to be a writer, because when you have dreams like these, they take over your imagination and leave you wanting more.


Last night’s dream is a good example. The dreams aren’t crystal clear, of course. Passing time is usually flashes of images that tumble helter-skelter through my mind, and make sense only because my mind decides they do and assigns them scenes.


Meeting the son, for example, was a flash of him standing in the hall and knowing that we sometimes hung out, who he was, what he did in the mansion, what his personality was. Meeting Yugo and befriending her was a flash of me and a girl sitting on a bed, laughing, and knowing her name and that we’d become close friends. Like all dreams, nothing’s explained – I just know it. There were actual scenes, too, longer sections like the training and the jumping into the chandeliers.


It took me a while to write this dream up. In fact, it took about 2100 words. I'm not a conscious dreamer, and I didn't know where the dream was headed when it began. Do you ever dream in stories? If so, what do you do with your story dreams?


When I say I have awesome dreams, this is exactly what I mean:

________________________________________________________________________________




We stood in the hall, looking left and right and trying to figure out where we were. I think perhaps my brother and his girlfriend had an idea, because they didn’t look surprised to be in the endless marble halls. Tall ceilings were lined with decorative chandeliers, red and gold and currently unlit, thanks to the large windows that brightened this hall.


Then he showed up, the master of the mansion, sable-haired and tall and wearing a battered, floor-length, tan leather trench coat. His dark eyes were older than his face, with a sadness that dodged through the corners of his tired smile. I don’t know that he was handsome, but he was strong – the sort of strength that carries more power than a person should be able to hold, without giving in to the corruption that sort of power usually draws. “I was wondering when you’d get here.”


He clenched a hand, and something flew across the hall. The air between his hand and the flying book felt tight, condensed – different. “This is what you’re here for,” he said, holding up the book. It wasn’t the book we were here to learn.


My brother’s girlfriend stared at us in confusion and a little surprise. I knew immediately that most people couldn’t feel the difference.


He gave us the first lesson right then. “Focus. Concentrate. Close your fist to help you visualize it. Feel it? Now pull.”


I failed the first time, barely generating a spark. My brother did better. He had a lot more power than I did, and apparently a natural talent for using it. When he got it right, it was like an invisible firework went off in his hand, a twisting of light that nobody’s eyes could actually see. A line of power flew from his hand to the object he chose, and like a fishing line, he tried to reel it in.


The Master of the mansion took us to his manservant. The manservant was dashing, taller than his master. His high cheekbones were pale, his black suit with its red trim perfectly proper, but a smile came easily to his beautiful face.


We were to stay out of the way except during our lessons. The mansion should be safe, but sometimes they got through, the monsters. There were safe rooms for the normals and the new trainees to hide. We’d run there, should we be invaded.


The Master’s son was training, too. He was younger than us, twenty years old and light-hearted. Because power didn’t develop until the late teens at the earliest, he wasn’t that much beyond us. He looked much like his father, sans gloom and that powerful intensity. He was very friendly. We sometimes hung out with him, as classmates, as general friendly acquaintances.


It was odd to see the young man near his father. The powers kept away the ravages of age; his father didn’t look more than his mid-thirties. I knew we’d face that one day, too.


We were in the Master’s classes. There were a few graduate students, but only a few, because the school hadn’t been going for very long. The Master did our training himself. My brother impressed him with potential and quick learning. He wouldn’t graduate any time soon, but for a beginner, he was making very quick progress.


I was a slower case. I would never be very powerful, and the focus was difficult for me. I also felt that the Master had too much a burden on his shoulders. I wanted to make him smile, to take some of the sadness off his shoulders, so I goofed off (just a little) in my lessons, and did the silly things I like to do.


I made the Master laugh. He liked my randomness, my sense of humor that just fit with his. And we could talk so very easily. We didn’t like all the same things, but our eyes saw the world in a similar color. I don’t know that anyone had ever managed to find just his shade before. Sometimes I’d pop by his library after dinner, and we’d talk. He was usually busy, though.


Every now and then, I’d catch a flash of silver in his eyes when he was laughing, those rare moments when he managed to forget his sadness and responsibilities for a moment.


The mansion was staffed by normal people, and many of the trainees had brought loved ones. I made friends with one of the maids – Yugo – a pretty young woman with a big smile and a twinkle in her eyes. She did my laundry. She was never afraid of the Master, or any of the trainees, even though she witnessed their powers every day, and knew just how dangerous they could be if they chose to be. I don’t think she envied us, either. That just wasn’t her style.


The manservant was taking us to a lesson when we found out that they were invading. He sent us to join the others for hiding. We couldn’t get to the downstairs safe room; they were already coming through the doors. We ran upstairs instead, and joined a group that mostly made of normals, including Yugo. The room was less protected, but the glass was clouded. There would be no reason for them to assault that room, and the Master and his people would keep them off the stairs.

We were in the back of the group, my brother and his girlfriend and one more trainee. I looked over the rail to see them. They were tall, thin, gaunt. Too-long arms sported fingers two to three feet long, each finger tipped with knife-like, silvered nails. Dark fae? The name seemed to fit.


The Master fought them with steel and power, wielding both equally well. I saw him cut down one and toss another across the hall at the same time. Using power took concentration. And then he was running with some of the elder trainees, out of the room to fight off another knot, as the rest of the battle continued below.


The four of us had dawdled too long. The rest of the normals had already crammed themselves into the safe room and closed the inner door to the pool hall. We followed them, racing the rest of the way up the stairs and slipping as quietly as we could into the small room in which the cues and balls were kept, an outer compartment that barely qualified as room. The fourth locked the outer door behind us.


My brother was about to open the inner door, which was not lockable, so that we could join the others, but something made him hesitate. We heard the sound of glass shattering. Then Yugo began screaming.


The dark fae had chosen to attack the mansion from several points, and as bad luck would have it, they’d chose the pool room – the secondary safe room – as their rear entrance. It would be a slaughter. Trainees and normals had no defense.


It would be useless to go through and join our friends in dying. But we stared at the door for a moment more than we should have spared, wanting to help, knowing we couldn’t do a thing. My brother’s girlfriend broke the spell first, and silently unlocked the door. We ran out and back into the hall.


The stairs led into the main hall, where the invaders were. Behind led to more dark fae, where our friends no longer screamed. It never occurred to me to call for help to those fighting below, or to give them warning – but I think, had we yelled, those behind us would have beaten the help.


I looked over the railing, and found our escape. “The chandeliers,” I said. In the main hall, they ran the length and breadth of the room like banners, the lights encased in beautiful red and gold interlocked chains, curtains of decorative metal. I focused.


It was the heaviest thing I’d ever moved, and I’d barely managed to move anything before, but it was our only chance. And it worked. The chandelier swung close enough to jump onto, and I leapt onto it. Then gravity took hold and it swung back, momentum taking it close to the next. I jumped again, and again, hopping down the line.


The other followed one at a time, each of the lights too fragile to support all of us at once. The fae’s long hands would never allow them to climb the lights. So we moved beyond their reach and waited for the battle to finish.


Most of it passed in a blur, as we clung to the fixtures over the battle far below and tried not to move. We were all crying, and all too scared to scream. A good-sized battalion of dark fae ran down the stairs, not even noticing us. But the defenders were powerful and skilled. The graduates and the higher level trainees held their ground, and gradually began to outnumber the dark fae.


I couldn’t say how long it went on, but I was sore and exhausted from clinging by the time it was over. I saw the Master running up the stairs, following his manservant (who, despite being a normal, was an excellent swordsman and had helped defend the mansion.) The manservant’s face was a picture of tragedy, a deep sorrow that came from knowing what he was about to show his Master.


The Master – denial, fear, anger, horror, disbelief were all writ on his face. He had clearly been told what was in the room. He went in slowly, torn between the desire to pretend it hadn’t happened and the need to know for sure.


The scream that came out was pure rage and self-accusation. The Master came out as if it was his own personal failure that lay behind him, as if his heart was shattered. He leaned on his manservant, clutching his chest and on the verge of breaking. I tried to call out to him to look out over the rail, but I was tired, my throat so sore, that I couldn’t make myself heard. But one of the others clinging to the lights found their voice. The Master looked up.


He saw us there, shaken and scared and holding on for dear life. I saw his eyes dodge from my brother and his girlfriend to the other trainee, and then he found me. The change was immediate. Nothing could erase the grief, but it was like he’d been handed salvation, because the light came back into his eyes, glue sealing his broken edges back together. I was afraid I was too tired to get down without dropping, but under his gaze the fear fled – I knew he’d get me down safely, somehow.


At some point, without either of us actually realizing it, he’d fallen in love with me.


Then somehow I was over there, safely over the rail, and he clutched me to his chest with a “thank god,” before passing me to his manservant to retrieve the others.


It wasn’t okay; there was an aura of grief hanging over us all for the people who were lost, but we went on. We buried the dead and cleaned the mansion. And when the worst of it was fixed, people had to come to terms with the feelings they’d figured out during the attack.


One couple got married. They’d been separated. She was a trainee, and he was a normal, and she’d thought that he had been in the wrong safe room, and he’d been sure she’d died in the fight. He admitted that he’d been in love with her for a long time, and she decided that she was in love with him, too, so they dropped everything and married and went off on their honeymoon.


It was catching, a virus that spread through the halls of the mansion like a cold in kindergarten. I was walking up the stairs not long after when it hit me. The Master’s son was waiting at the top, and as soon as I was within reach, he was dragging me into a small and relatively private room. “I’m in love with you,” he said when we were alone. “Marry me.”


While he was handsome, I certainly wasn’t at the point of returning his feelings. But I didn’t want to hurt the son’s feelings, because I thought of him as a friend. “We really haven’t known each other all that long,” I hedged. “Love isn’t something I’m just going to start feeling.”


He caged me in a corner and tried again. “I’ll make it worth it,” he argued. “I’ll make sure you enjoy every day; I’ll give you everything. You wouldn’t regret it.”


I shook my head. “I don’t work that way. It takes time for me. It’s not something that I can just do.”

He moved back and changed, the youth sliding away until I could see that I hadn’t been talking to the son at all, but rather the Master. “I see,” he said, and sounded sad.


I was mad. Really mad. I made this known to him. It involved a bit of screaming and a bit of cursing and a bit of both.


“I thought you’d prefer someone closer to your age,” he defended himself.


Which meant I had to point out that his son was several years younger than me, and I didn’t like younger men. Also, there were the questions of how he expected to keep his identity hidden, and how he could think I was dumb enough not to notice, nor for anyone else in the mansion to notice, and why he just assumed that I wouldn’t feel anything back for him without even asking me.


He apologized, and left.


A couple of weeks later, we were in a rose garden he’d built to commemorate the lost. We’d moved to an awkward stage of forgiveness, where we avoided one another. But this was more important. I put a rose on the stone monument he’d built in remembrance, on the side that had Yugo’s name carved in amongst the others. And then we left.


We hadn’t said anything, but we both knew that we were going to give a relationship a try.


And that’s when I woke up.

Grammar Brigade: Commonly Confused Terms

Sometimes, the things we say mix up the things we write. Today, we'll be looking at some commonly misused words and phrases. Included in the lesson will be:

kind vs. kinds (what kind of fish do you have, what kinds of fish do you have)
should of vs. should have

further vs. farther
like vs. such as
toward vs. towards
number vs. amount

Kind vs. KindsQuiz! Which is a proper answer to this question:
"What kind of fish do you have in that aquarium?"
A) African Black Knife fish, Elephant Noses, and Baby Whales
B) Great white sharks
C) My cat, some angel fish, a couple of goldfish, and a guppy - wait, no more guppy.
D) A dolphin

If you answered B) Great white sharks, you are correct!

"Kind" refers to a single type. So, "What kind of fish" means you can only answer with a single type of fish.

Kinds, on the other hand, refers to multiple kinds of fish. So if I had asked, "What kinds of fish do you have?" you would have had to answer with A) African Black Knife fish, Elephant Noses, and Baby Whales.

Ex: What kind of pet do you have? A dog.
Ex: What kinds of pets do you have? A dog, a cat, and a fire-breathing mongoose. No snakes.

Should of vs. Should Have

Should have. "Should of" is a mistake - this common error comes from hearing the contraction "should've" and assuming the verbal 've transcribes to of. Always use should have, could have, may have, etc.


Further vs. farther

Farther refers to distances.

Further continues an idea or a process. It's metaphorical - no physical distance involved. It can also mean "in addition."

Ex) He moved farther away from the city than Electra did.
Ex) The asteroid continued to move farther from Earth over the rest of the week.
Ex) Further involvement by the FBI was unnecessary.
Ex) There was lots of evidence in his room. Further, the dead body of a guppy was found in the litterbox.

Personally, I prefer to use furthermore for the "in addition" definition. Furthermore, the dead body of a guppy was found in the litterbox.

Like vs. such as

Most people won't hunt you down for these. But, if you plan on writing for a grammar stickler, I'd use "such as" in inclusive lists:

I wear many cool accessories, such as red shoes, gold earrings, and dragon-scale purses.

To many people, like means "similar to" - a comparison that does not include. She looks like a dog (but is not a dog); it's like that time we shot the sheriff (but we didn't shoot the sheriff again).

Pop quiz: Which is correct?
1.
A) Xena hopes no more stalker-glorifying books like Twilight will be published.
B) Xena hopes no more stalker-glorifying books such as Twilight will be published.
2.
A) Amber loves stories such as Twilight, in which handsome boys obsess over clumsy girls.
B) Amber loves stories like Twilight, in which handsome boys obsess over clumsy girls.
3.
A) Luke likes to feed his cat strange things, like sparkly vampires, guppies, and blue gorillas.
B) Luke likes to feed his cat strange things such as sparkly vampires, guppies, and blue gorillas.

Answers: 1(A), 2(Either, depending on context. If Amber likes Twilight, then A. If she does not like Twilight, then B.) 3(B).

Toward vs. towards

No mistake. They're interchangeable. Grammar Girl suggests that towards is more British, and toward may be more American, but both are correct.


Number vs. amount

"Number" is used for things that can be physically counted. "The number of shoes in my closet," "the number of teaspoons of salt," etc.

"Amount" is used for money and for things that cannot be physically, individually counted. "The amount of water" is a common use, or "the amount of love."

Liquids are usually amounts, but not containers or measurements of liquids.

All of these are correct:

I want an amount of milk in my glass, or I want a number of milliliters in my glass.
Pay him some amount of money to make him go away.
The amount of time it would take to run to the store for sugar is too long. I'll just use this salt instead.
The number of minutes in an hour changed yesterday to forty.

Sources:

should have vs. should of
further vs. farther
like vs. such; like vs such
toward vs. towards
number vs. amount; number vs. amount

 Note: "What kinds of pet" would be incorrect. Since I used "kinds," my subject must be plural. Kinds has an -s, so add an -s to your subject. Unless you're talking fish, sheep, or another irregularly pluralized item.

Wednesday Writing Prompt: Character Clothes

Wednesday Writing Prompt: Choose a character from your WIP. What did that character put on 'this' morning? Where did he/she get these clothes? In <300 words, decide what significance this outfit has to your character.

'this': Either the day your character is currently living at your point in writing, or the first day of your story.

My example:
This morning, Carol put on a pair of jeans and a form-fitting black T-shirt. The jeans were the obvious choice: the Greek islands tend to be a little more conservative than America, and so it's those or a skirt. Carol doesn't wear skirts. These jeans, on the other hand, she just recently bought. She wanted something that would be decent enough to wear to work (dress casual), but comfortable.
Since she's on her friend's engagement party, she decided she'd pack some dressier shirts. It comes down over her hips, sleeveless for the warm Greek weather, and has a swirling abstract design on the back in silver. She's had this one for about two years. Again, something she picked up for work, but attractive and functional enough to be pretty much all-purpose. Great for a day of touring an island; good enough for a semi-nice dinner in the evening.

Standing While you Work?

It's about 2pm, an hour or so after lunch. My eyes start to flutter. My head starts to fill with cotton. Yep, circadian rhythm strikes again, trying to make me take a nap. Only, my workplace doesn't particularly advocate naps on the desk, so I do what I can to avoid it - namely, plug in my iPod and stand up.

Turns out, standing up at work is good for you. There's evidence* that it can help prevent diabetes, lead to weight loss, and improve general health. (links at the bottom!)

Writing can be a sedentary business. Can be? Okay, it typically involves untold hours of sitting. But here's an alternative: try standing. You'll still need to keep your keyboard at elbow level and monitor at eye level, but a little jury-rigging can put you at more or less the perfect height.

One of the articles recommends that you go to a coffee shop and confiscate one of the tall tables (for that author, the tables were the perfect height to act as a standing desk.) Countertops and even professionally crafted standing desks are other options. And the fourth article tells how one worker made herself a standing desk for $20, with a bakers' rack and no-slip paper.

No, I don't do this all day. I sit for most of it, because I get tired after about two hours of standing. When my feet need a break, I put everything back and return to sitting. I also have the (slightly embarrassing) tendency to dance a little as I work. Static standing can be as bad as sitting, though, so perhaps it's just as well that my dignity can take a hit or two.

I've found that even a couple of hours of standing really rejuvenate me, so I've started keeping a nice little stack of textbooks in bookshelves at work. My CPU happens to be the perfect height for my monitor, too, which makes the process easier for me.

If you're worried about gaining weight while writing, try switching to a standing desk for a couple of hours a day. See if it works for you. And if it does, let me know.


*Articles to support this claim:

Those with a desk job, please stand up

Standing at Work (contains a nice list of resources with which to sway your boss to your strange new habit)

Standing up for work can improve your health and productivity

She built her own standing desk for $20.

Publishing News

In publishing news for the past two weeks, the major news is all about Penguin: e-lending and BookCountry, that is. News first, then a nice little run-around of links for keeping motivated and improving your writing. Apparently agents have been chatting about queries, because we've got three blogs on those.

Major News

Jane Friedman has a post on recent Penguin news. This blog's a little hard to follow, but she talks about Penguin's decision to pull their books from e-libraries. She provides links to other articles and quotes from bloggers. In summary: Penguin originally decided to support e-lending, but is now pulling their books from library e-lending 'shelves.' You can expect to see Penguin books pulled from the 'shelves' as of the end of the year. And no new titles will be added. Explanations from this (not official) range from the fact that the e-lending site looks like an Amazon shopping page on Kindle and requires being logged into Kindle, that Penguin is afraid people will borrow books and not buy them, or that Penguin is worried people will check books out from non-local libraries. Another point of note is that Random House is now reviewing their e-lending policy: and Random House originally embraced e-lending.

If you want a look at what Penguin's saying about this, The Digital Shift gives you Penguin's official statements.

And PaidContent notes that self-published authors are harshly criticizing Penguin's BookCountry, now that it's started charging fees, referring to it as "vanity publishing" and "preying on inexperienced authors." I also recommend reading Writer Beware's take on the issue.

General Writing

Rachelle Gardner hosts a guest-post from Katie Ganshert, who talks about how her life has changed now that she's gotten a contract. It's not all dandelions and roses; life after-contract has its own set of worries. Of course, she wouldn't trade it for the world.

Also from Rachelle: Have you started having doubts about your writing? Is it not fun some days? Do you hate it sometimes? Look at it like a good marriage: It's not fun all the time. You won't be enamoured with it every day. But it's worth it. Don't give up.

In QueryTracker, it's believability or bust. Decide what the rules of your world are, and keep to them. Don't lose your reader because you broke the rules of your own world.  We're also reminded about the importance of thanking our beta readers. Even if their feedback isn't easy to swallow, they make us a better writer - and not thanking them is a quick way to lose them.

And QueryTracker also posts that it's a numbers game: Essentially, a long list of links to tips to improve your writing and your business. If you've got a little time, check it out. Otherwise, bookmark it and come back later. Some of these tips are really helpful: How to grow your blog, 10 things all writers need to know (like figuring out who their audiences are), 10 steps to match your query to your agent, and 10 things Hollywood producers look for in books.

Also drop by for their Publishing Pulse: links to a lexicon of publishing terms, the life cycle of book (a view of the process of publishing), Patricia C. Wrede's advice on writing the middle of a book and making your scenes have an emotional impact, the "inside scoop" of three editors on publishing, Icy Sedgewick's posts on writing beginnings, middles, and ends, and Rachel Aaron's advice on increasing word count.

Jessica Faust answers the question of what women's fiction is: "Women's fiction is not simply a book whose target audience is women. It's also a book about a woman's personal growth and change and it tends to be strongly emotional." She begins the LLC Bookmas, so if you want a free book, hop by and read the rules. And she also mentions that sometimes, she breaks the rules - like when she reads a query so interesting she requests for it - despite not being open to submissions at the time.

Janet Reid talks about the purpose of queries, and that's being to get the agent to ask for more. Not to tell the story. Not to sell yourself. It's just to sell the book! (I wonder if she and Jessica have been talking?)
If they have, they've also been hanging out with Suzie Townsend, because she also posted advice on queries: "Your query has to grab an agent. Which means you have to show them how your book will stand out in a tough marketplace and sometimes an overcrowded genre."

Writer Unboxed espouses the importance of a skill known as copywriting: that is, selling your book. It's a different skill than writing your book. Don't forget to learn to sell!

Nathan Bransford asks us if we're suffering from common writing maladies: go take a look. If you're suffering from one, get help now.

What recent interesting blogs and articles have you encountered these past two weeks?

Quote of the Week: Montesquieu, on Happiness

"If one only wished to be happy, this could be easily accomplished; but we wish to be happier than other people, and this is always difficult, for we believe others to be happier than they are."
-Montesquieu

Wednesday Writing Exercise
Write a short scene (<300 words) in which a character exhibits this type of jealousy.

Post-Thanksgiving

Welcome back from Tryptophan land.

There's just a couple of days left in November, so if you're doing a NaNoWriMo, it's crunch time. And I'm not talking about the Snap-Crackle-Pop kind of crunch, either.

If you're not doing NaNoWriMo, you're preparing for December holidays, and possibly trying to figure out how to fit writing between all those holiday parties. Here's a hint or two:

*Vary your writing time. There's nothing wrong with waking up and writing to the sunrise. An extra 30 minutes in the morning has the added bonus of having that "deadline" feel - I have to go to work in 30 minutes, so I'd better get my writing done now. And if you can't get up in the mornings, don't be afraid to squish a little writing in mid-afternoon, or over lunch hour.

*Schedule yourself a day to write. It's okay not to accept every invitation - the brain needs downtime, and if you're always pushing yourself, you'll be tired. If you're like me, writing is rejuvenating, so make time for it.

*Take advantage of the minutes. Got a few minutes before meeting a client? Instead of FB, jot down a sentence or two.

*Don't be afraid to vacation - but make plans for coming back. It's okay to take a day or two off writing, as long as you make plans to start writing again. Not good intentions, not promises. Plans. If you're serious about writing, then writing is your second job (or first, if you're lucky.) You can't just not go back to work. So treat writing the same. Schedule your vacations ahead of time, on days you specifically know you won't be able to make time to write. And just like going back to work after a vacation, go back to writing when the scheduled days off are over.

Hope you enjoy your leftovers!