Mya Writes Things
Writing Tips, Advice, Blog, Musings, and More
When the rabbits appear, a witch has died.
I read that phrase in a book once, when I was eleven or so. I didn’t think about it afterwards. The book must not be memorable or well known, for I have searched and searched for the quote source and nothing has been found. It must have been from one of the many of books I read during summertime excursions in the dark, hallowed aisles of the public library. I would bring home a bag of fifteen books every week, and return them all for another fifteen. I did not just devour the written word, I inhaled it. In one of the hundreds of books and thousands of pages, that statement still veils itself from me. To this day I cannot find it. I suddenly remembered the phrase when I was fifteen. I was in the back of my parent’s car, squashed between the door and my siblings. I had my nose pressed to the window, eyes roving over the seaside cottages with sun-bleached logs scattered for decoration and paths made of gravel and broken seashells. I loved visiting the beach despite a deep fear of the ocean, dreaming about a life where that fear didn’t exist. In those dreams I lived in one of those perfect light blue cottages, painting a white trim around the door, and lining the mantles and windowsills with tiny lighthouses and ships in bottles. I would jog on the beach every morning and sleep to the breathing undulation of the waves on the shore just across the street. I spotted a dark spot on somebody’s parched, wind-damaged lawn. It was a tiny, chocolate brown rabbit, ears pricked at passing traffic. “Look at the bunny,” I erupted, only to realize there was another beside it. And another. And another. All dark brown, all roughly the same size, hopping nonchalantly about on the lawn of this house. There were about five of them, and on the lawn of the neighbor’s, six more. There was one on the curb. There were two under a porch. There were eight of them in the yard of the third house. Three sniffing around a driveway. My family all made their exclamations, oohing and aahing over the plethora of rabbits. I lost count sometime after twenty-five—the whole end of the street, about four houses worth, were all crawling with identical rabbits. My parents assumed that there was an overpopulation problem due to how much rabbits are known to breed. I was too enthralled with a memory—a memory from a book I read, long ago. Say there was a world where magic and destiny and becoming a hero under the tutelage of some wise old wizard could happen. What if, for one brief second of my life, I crossed into that world? If we had stopped the car, for example, and I tried to pet a whiskered bunny, maybe a man in a brown robe would have stepped out of the blue cottage and said, “The prophecy is true, then. The child will find our sign.” Then he’d hold out his hand and hand me a magical amulet, which will take me to the King whose country is under siege from a dark evil. But such is fiction, and not life. I wondered about the witch, too. Perhaps she was burnt at the stake. I pictured a very beautiful woman, pale-faced with dirty blond hair. She was wearing an old gray gown that hung too big on her. Her arms were tied behind her to the pole, and the angry villagers were chanting and shouting for justice. Finally, a seething farmer ran forward with his torch and plunged it into the straw bunched beneath her feet. I remember how she began to recite a spell in some ancient voice, but my imagination did not allow me to see her to the end. No—the facts spoke for themselves. When the rabbits appear, a witch has died. And the rabbits appeared, didn’t they? I saw her being young, wrongfully accused, blamed for the dark magic of a much more fearsome witch. By eliminating her as a scapegoat, the villagers killed their only actual hope for defeating the real evil—the kind of witch with green skin and a screaming cackle. The villagers let fear govern their actions and so signed their own death warrants. There was always the chance she was manipulating me since her fresh face suggested such innocence—but she was far more complex than I could possibly imagine. She had done terrible things in her young life, before she had control of her magic. She once dabbled in evil. She was left deflated after carrying out revenge for the death of her beloved family, but when she hit her lowest, the only place to go was up. She became a champion for the destitute—a Robin Hood. But that didn’t stop the fearful townspeople from seeing her as an enemy as soon as it was convenient. They killed her anyway. I was moved, thinking about her, and how much she might have suffered. I craned my neck to stare at the rabbits long after we had turned off the street and parked in a lot where sand hid most of the asphalt. We stepped out of the car and were immediately bitten by a hard autumn wind, a wind that drove away the sunlight but not the muggy heat. The sky was dull gray, threatening rain and thunder but never having the guts to become dark enough. Every so often a shaft of sun would pierce through a crack and burn our unprotected scalps. The sand was cold but dry, and the ocean remained a pasty off-white color. I used to try and imagine tropical oceans of aquamarine and palms that swayed under the azure canopy, but soon gave it up, and learned to appreciate the Oregon coast for what it was. There was something awfully romantic about this dirty canvas of a beach. The sort of thrilling adventures I read about in the hundreds of books seemed to float by, invisibly, with the wind. They were scattered over the sand like soggy seaweed remnants, carried on the beaks of seagulls, and floating in that northwestern fog coming down from the blue mountain range behind us. The stories I read came to life in the fabric of the seashore. I see everything I’ve ever wanted to experience turning into scrollwork on the rocks and cliff-faces. I thought about those rabbits during the entire trip. I thought about the witch and her untimely death. I thought about her last moments… in the end, did she resign to her death because she was so very tired of being alone? Obviously a witch this powerful could have broken free with a verbal spell, since clearly the stake would have been made out of the wood of a hazelnut tree, which can keep them from using their powers. But what they didn’t realize was that not all spells are hand gestures, for essentially that’s just telekinesis. She could have very well muttered an incantation to release herself and make her escape. But she did not. Why did she give up? She wanted to be with her family, I guess. The ones murdered so long ago. The ones she spent thinking about while she hunted down the killers. Ten or so odd years when she finally succeeded in killing the very last one, the weight of what she had done nearly crushed her. Maybe she remembered that weight while she burned. She knew death would end it, and she’d be with her family again. Like Merlin in Le Morte D’Arthur, maybe she was both a practicing occult magician and a God-fearing Christian prophet. Do not ask me how it is possible, ask Sir Thomas Malory. But she’d be reunited with her loved ones on a golden road, of that I’m certain. Did the rabbits come out to celebrate the death of a witch? Do rabbits have a long memory of magicians killing them just so that they could turn their feet into good-luck charms and selling them for three dollars? Perhaps rabbits, like elephants, never forget. They’ve long held grudges against witches for their unnecessary killings, and for such hideous reasons, too. Many a rabbit escaped and tried to hop about on three feet before being killed by predators. Rabbits never forget, and they all gather to celebrate. You know, “Ding Dong the Witch is Dead” and all that. Or, they don’t. Rabbits are just animals. They don’t have memories, but instincts. They sense, like a family dog senses unease or sadness, that a terrible death has taken place. While all predators (vultures and the like) would move towards death, wherever the rabbits might be, they would be safe for a time to gather unnoticed. And so they do. Instinct tells them it is safe to come out for a little while and enjoy a little fresh air out of their burrows. They might wonder where all their natural hunters are, who have gone to investigate the burning smell. They don’t wonder for long—soon, instinct tells them to duck back inside and live to tell another tale. I read about the rabbits when I was eleven. I saw an unnatural amount of them on the beach lawns when I was fifteen. Now, I was nineteen; emotionally, physically, and spiritually exhausted. The semester had given way to spring break, leaving me empty, hopeless, and friendless, wondering if I would ever go back to school at all. Huddled inside of me was the most insecure portion of myself, the one who flinched anytime someone spoke or dreaded opening social media sites, knowing that something awful awaited. It was spring break. I gratefully severed contact with anything and everything from my university. I tasted a little bit of happiness again. It was time for another family trip; we packed a picnic and took it to a park about twenty minutes drive from my home. A state park that descended from the farming highway into cool groves of green grass sprinkled with the tallest, bearded oak trees. Between the bike paths and parking lots shrouded in the shade, paths intertwined the hallowed green labyrinth of stumps obliterated by moss and tall shrubs that made a hedge between the trail and the river. The river ran serene and cold this time of year, lapping at the steep and inaccessible shore and the pillars of a long, wooden dock. Under the boughs of the emerald trees, we walked the paths and pointed out toadstools and snails. I felt transported to Wonderland, in more ways than one. A new Alice in Wonderland movie came out that spring of 2009, and we planned to see it after our picnic and hike in the park. As much as I loved walking over the silent paths, I was going to be happier still to sit in a silent theater and watch my favorite book light up the silver screen. I was trembling with the excitement of it—I knew that if I ever saw a white rabbit, I’d follow it anywhere. What I didn’t realize was I’d probably follow any old rabbit in particular. We walked back into the more civilized area of the park, where outdoor bathrooms looked like forest ranger cottages and outdoorsmen played Frisbee golf among the oak trunks. There was a huge, oval bramble of blackberry vines to the right of the path, a hollow hill of leaves and thorns that made a rather unnecessary blot on the park grounds. Sniffing around the base, there was a chocolate-brown rabbit. “A rabbit!” I screeched, and I took off after it. I wasn’t going to take any chances, there was too much coincidence going on. On the lucky chance that this was the day a rift in time and space and literature was going to open a portal to Wonderland, I was not going to miss it. “Oh, seriously?” my sister said with an eye-rolling tone. “Where’d she go?” asked my family. “She’s - chasing - a - rabbit,” she replied, pronouncing each word slowly so that my family would have sufficient time to realize the immaturity and fruitlessness of my venture. “I just want to take a picture,” I protested loudly, following the rabbit around the huge bramble. By the twitch of its long ears and the white bounce of its fluffy tail, the rabbit leapt into a hole in the entanglement of blackberries. I instantly dropped to my hands and knees and looked after it. The hole wasn’t just any old hole; it was a tunnel through the twisted vines, extending from one end to the other, a perfect maze of passages for small animals like the rabbit… Which had, coincidentally, disappeared. I disappointedly stood and brushed the dirt from my hands. I could have crawled after it, but not without gloves. A girl from the country knows that it is all fun and games until sharp blackberry thorns are involved. I did not remember the rabbits at the beach when this happened - that memory was locked away and only resurfaced in time for an essay project my senior year of college. I didn’t remember the book, either. (I’ve never remembered it). During our trip to the park, I was entirely too preoccupied with Wonderland, and as most of us know, Wonderland is devoid of witches, and ruled entirely by Queens. In the collision of imagination and nonfiction, the doors to other worlds are thin and transparent. Leaving one to go to another is as simple as brushing aside the curtain, and laying words to the page, and stepping through the trees of a state park and into a clearing. There would be a table in the glade. At the table, the hysterical Mad Hatter would be smiling and waving me over, and the March Hare scratching at his fleas. And then the fun would begin. “Hello,” I would greet them, stepping towards the table, which would be a complete disaster. The food stays on the plates well enough, but the tea is spilt all over. Half-full teacups (and tea cups covered in dust) lie about, the tablecloth a crazy quilt of stray sugar cubes, stains, discarded tea-bags, dripping spoons, and upended jars of jam and honey. “Who is this GHASTLY character?” the March Hare would demand. “Even in my own imagination, I’m unwelcome!” I sigh. “You are not who we thought you were,” the March Hare sniffs disdainfully. “You see, we’re on the lookout,” the Mad Hatter explains. “And he doesn’t take kindly to being mistaken.” “So who did you think I was?” I ask. They both lean forward secretively and say in unison, “Alice!” “My hair is brown,” I say, twirling a lock awkwardly. “From far away, colors are of NO importance,” says the Hatter, adjusting a large polka-dot bowtie. “You may have very well been Alice about three minutes ago.” “Imposter,” whispers the March Hare. “I am not an imposter,” I snap, “I’m simply me. And at my normal height, too.” “Most Wonderland visitors are not half so lucky,” chides the Hatter. “So you are not Alice.” “Such a pity,” muses the March Hare. “May I sit down now?” I ask tiredly. “I expect my subconscious to be more polite but I haven’t the patience for it.” “Sit sit sit,” urges the Hatter, “Tea?” “Yes please,” I say. “Blast it!” asks the Hare. “Why aren’t you Alice??” “Shut up, let the girl enjoy her tea,” Hatter replies. I raise my eyebrows. “You haven’t given me any tea yet.” “Well then,” says the Hatter comfortingly, “You can’t very well enjoy it if you don’t have it.” Then he nods, pleased with himself. “So—why is a raven like a writing desk?” I steal a cookie from a plate and munch before answering. “Because Edgar Allen Poe wrote on both.” An imploding silence blooms from the open mouths of the Hare and the Hatter. “Young lady,” says the Hatter, “Did you just answer my riddle?” “SHE DID, SHE DID!” squeals the March Hare indignantly. “Of all the nerve!” “Explain this, please!” the Hatter adds. “Well, uh, there’s this famous writer,” I say, “Edgar Allen Poe. He used a writing desk to write his works, and he also wrote a poem about a raven.” The Hatter’ shoulders sag. “Alas!” he moaned. “You really had my hopes up for a moment.” “What do you mean?” I ask. “That’s the only answer I know.” “The Poe man didn’t write on a raven, he only wrote about it, and therefore your answer is completely invalid. Imagine, after all, a raven flying by with ink blots and words all over the wings? It would look awfully foolish.” “It’s not foolish. The raven is the subject; he wrote on the subject, didn’t he? It still works.” The Hatter brightens instantly. “Why, she’s got it! By the devil, I never thought I’d live to see this moment. Would you like some tea, little girl? Oh DO say yes!” “Yes, I’ll have tea,” I agree for the second time, frustrated. The March Hare licks a spoon creepily and eyes me from across the table. The Hatter finally pours me a cup of tea, and hands it across, spilling it slightly. It is real, steaming tea. I add a droplet of sugar, a dab of cream, and take a happy sip. “I think we tamed the creature,” the Hare suggests quietly. “Well, she tamed my riddle,” the Hatter counters. “So tell me—little girl—who are you?” “Especially since you are NOT Alice,” accuses the Hare. “I am a writer,” I say, taking a tiny tea sandwich from a cracked china plate. I take a bite, and am relieved to find it edible. The Hare’s eyes bulge with offense, and the Hatter smiles gleefully at the sight of me enjoying the tea party. “A writer, hm?” the Hatter laughs. “What a silly profession. We have much finer job opportunities here in Wonderland. Our mice run a delivery system. Don’t you?” he directs this last statement to a large lavender teapot. “You like your position, don’t you, Dormouse?” A sleepy voice comes from inside the teapot. “Indeed, indeed.” “It is a great career in tea-party land,” Hatter chuckles. “Wonderland,” I correct. The Mad Hatter looks up, grin frozen, like a clown who hates birthday parties. “Wonderland?” “Yes, Wonderland.” “Wonderland?” “That’s what I said!” “Ah,” gasps the Mad Hatter, realization dawning on him. “Wonderland!” I slurp my tea, not bothering to answer. I just nod obligingly, cheeks full. “So do we kill her now, or later?” asks the March Hare suddenly. The Mad Hatter glances at him. “So do we spill her now, or gate her?” “So do we chill her now, or freighter?” The Hare asks. “So do we bill her now, or tater?” The Mad Hatter asks. “Why are you both repeating nonsensical phrases that rhyme with ‘do we kill her now or later’?” I question dubiously. “I’m trying to cover up the fact he asked the question,” the Hatter whispers. The March Hare cannot hear his answer, and glares angrily at our shared confidence. “Cookie?” I offer, holding up one of the plates. They both comply, and the Hare pouts until he takes a bite. Instantly, his sour disposition disappears, and the Hatter congratulates me on my cooking skills. The March Hare forgets that he wanted to kill me not thirty seconds ago. “So I guess I should be moving on now,” I say presently. “Oh, but why, the party is just beginning,” says the Hatter. “But I feel I must continue,” I say, “I feel that Wonderland is a place where you start and keep going until you reach the end. When you reach the end, you wake up, and your trip to Wonderland is over—see?” “I do not see any point in that,” snarls the Hare, “Why continue when you’ve found a good place to stop?” “Because your company is not nice,” I point at the Hare. “You’ve threatened me, and frankly, my dear, you annoy me.” The Hare angrily pulls one of his long ears down and nibbles the end of it, staring. “So why did you come here?” asks the Hatter with understandable confusion. “I followed a rabbit.” “What sort of rabbit?” “Just any old rabbit, I suppose. I think a witch may have died.” “We’re not ruled by witches, we’re ruled by Queens!” “When the rabbits appear, a witch has died,” I would have recited, had I remembered. “Well, here it is far more civilized,” says the Hare, “When a witch dies, the rabbits appear.” “That is the same thing,” I protest. The Hatter tries to correct him quickly. “What he means is, when the rabbits die, a witch appears. I myself just attended a very lovely and solemn funeral service for the white rabbit.” “Oh,” I say, intrigued. “Then a witch will appear here? Where is she?” “Why don’t you pick up a looking glass?” the Hare shrieks. “I am not a witch,” I say. “But you’ve appeared!” “Where I come from,” I say haughtily, “when the rabbits appear, a witch has died.” “That is decisively indecent,” disagrees the Hatter, “Devil if I don’t dare to defer!” “Alliterations cannot make your point,” I respond smugly. I notice that I have deeply offended him. “But your point is made,” I offer quickly. He smiles, satisfied. “But I really must go,” I repeat politely, standing up from the table. “I am wanted elsewhere. I do have the rest of the essay to write, you know.” It is as easy as that, you know. When I rejoin my family, a brisk wind picks up, guiding the music of the trees into different shapes, turning the green of the leaves to their silver underbellies and making us all shiver. Loose forest debris dance along the parking lot, and I am reminded that a wind often precedes or follows magic. Or perhaps this time, the passing of one magical. Passing like a gust, or passing away, whichever suits your fancy. For whatever reason, it might mean more than the death of a witch, but a transference from one realm to another. The thin curtain door I have mentioned, the slimmest of bridges making passage possible for anyone who wants it. Wonderland preoccupied the whole of my day, from just that single moment of a pair of brown ears visible through the sharp bushes. A writer’s mind works overtime, and the smallest nugget of inspiration can, and will, turn to a long-lasting gold if allowed to flourish. But like all things, it passed, and I moved on. I moved on to new rabbits and new ideas. I got a rabbit of my own, a domestic pet with gray fur and a loving disposition. It was a very ordinary story of a girl acquiring a pet—nothing magical, very unlike the summer stories written for middle schoolers of a young person receiving the pet that changes their life. And even then, those are always dogs and horses, not rabbits. But rabbits have a tendency to appear in my life. I did not quit school. After the break, I went back to the droll and unimpressive life that was my junior year. Unlike many campuses whose rich heritage reflects in architecture and traditions, mine proudly wielded the orange brick of the 1980s renovations and heating systems that never really seemed to work. Cold classrooms and a swampy quad made the gray winters dreary and unhappy, but no one remembered this while they registered for classes and the Oregon summer extended through September and most of October. When unsuspecting freshmen first start, they expect the campus to be this beautiful—all gold and red leaves and emerald lawns—all year long. All they have to do is wait a few weeks, and they’ll notice the shaded woods in The Canyon separating the east and west sides of campus are really the only beautiful part. There are roads, and paths deviating from those roads, that run like a miniature nature-park through a rift in the campus. At the bottom, a creek flows heavily and brown in the winter, flooding the low shores and disrupting science class studies on bacteria. A few makeshift bridges can sometimes be washed out. I was trying to study one night, quietly, eyebrows furrowed over a thick, woven-bound book from the library. Pressing my finger to a quote I needed, I painstakingly typed it letter by letter into a research paper. Loud laughter from outside kept interrupting my train of thought, rambunctious sounds of younger students that hadn’t learned about using ‘nighttime’ voices. I kept sighing and reminding myself that the (probable) freshman outside would soon realize the error of their loud playful ways when they received Ds on all their tests. That would teach them to not have fun and spend their college years studying instead. I smiled as I thought about their eventual maturing—one day, they would be leaning out their window and hushing the rabble while they tried to write professionally and coldly. “You’ve got to come see this,” said my roommate, bursting through the door. “The funniest thing just happened in the canyon!” “I’m really, really busy right now…” “Don’t be a grandma, just come look.” I growled and slipped into a pair of slippers, grabbed my keys, and followed my roommate out the door. “This better be as exciting as you say it is…” We lived second to the end of the block, where crossing one street and passing under a line of ruddy cedars led to the service road right at the top of the canyon. A little farther down and past the stacked apartments, there was a second service road behind the tennis courts that led down into the canyon-valley. We took the second, which wound past a bridge, the gym, and a sunken amphitheater. There were a group of very, very loud young men, all surrounding a box. “I could hear you guys all the way from Parker House,” I told them instantly. “You gotta see this! It totally bit me!” one of the boys opens the top of the box. Inside was a chocolate-brown and white-blotched rabbit. It looked up at us with hateful, red eyes. “We’re taking it to Parker House, actually,” the student said. Thankfully, he referred to the other side of the duplex. Not my side specifically. “Our friend is going to get it something to eat.” I knelt down and looked closer. The poor rabbit was huddled inside, clearly on the defense but not a wild rabbit, either. Someone may have lost or abandoned it. “I think I have some food you can use,” I suggested forcefully. Not for one minute did I believe that these young men could handle the responsibility of owning and caring for a pet. Especially a lost, sad pet. A familiar looking one, anyway. Nothing surprised me anymore. The crowd of us trotted back to Parker, the boys lugging the box along like it was the greatest discovery since Christopher Columbus arrived on an already occupied landmass. I went to my side of the apartment and opened up the fridge, digging out a box of salad that I was going to have to throw away by the end of the week. The romaine was looking a little wilted. I pulled a few carrots out of a bag and added those to the loot. When I handed over the veggies, I instructed the boys to feed the rabbit, please. They seemed surprised to hear this but they thanked me heartily for my contribution. When I returned to my room, the paper-thin walls did nothing to hide the laughter and hilarity happening next door. Girls began to flock in from all over campus (word spreads fast, doesn’t it?) asking “Can I see the wild bunny that was caught?” Some of the girls were particular ones that I did not like nor got along with. Girls who wielded popularity like weapons, bullying and manipulating their way through friendships and leaving them destroyed in their wake. Sometimes cruel but never surprising. It’s an old story. Perhaps the phrase that comes so often should be amended—when the rabbits are caught, the witches appear. But I didn’t have time for witches. Luckily, the rabbit was adopted by—not a witch—but a real, live person. Not one contrived from my imagination, but one that actually knew what to feed a rabbit. But the saddest thing was my indifference. As a writer, I should have—would have—embellished, laughed over, and loved the situation in which a lost, sad little rabbit is rescued from the dark, forested Canyon by well-meaning boys. But I was walled up inside of myself. Caring about things was on probation. At this time in my life, my imagination was the sort of thing that got graded down when applied to my schoolwork. Using creativity meant a lot of red pen from my professors, and a request to sound more like a medical journal. Citing sources just wasn’t enough. I had to be cold and factual. Imagination felt illegal, especially during those last few classes. If it leaked out, among friends, faculty, or homework; you may just be called out for it, and your grades made into a punishment…I’m looking at you, Introduction to Poetry. (Yes, this is a call out.) (And no, it wasn’t Bill Jolliff’s poetry class. He would never contribute to that sort of injustice.) I didn’t have time for rabbits. Every so often, reading books led my mind to those rabbits and witches, but when the book was shut and the pages pressed from cover to cover, it was time to say goodbye to creativity. One was only allowed to open it again in Tim Timmerman’s painting classes. We were allowed to color outside of the lines. Only sitting in those art studios could my brain become the occasional fantasy-scape without judgment. For a few hours every day—my imagination healed. While I produced almost no fiction of significance at this time, I was building the blocks that would soon become a stairway to a realm I had forgotten all about. And now we go down the road again, this time, three years of experience pass me by. I’ve been in more classes than I can count, and my graduation from university is long over. I now trudge a path known as adulthood, where there are responsibilities, bills, and kitchen appliances. Laptops and paychecks, coffee cups and angry customers, brown-bagged lunches and a tomcat that fights. There is a fragile balance between normality and the un-magical, tipped by stress caused with an overactive imagination. But let me assure you, I only use my powers for the sake of good. The first time a rabbit appeared, my mind was distraught with the fate of the witch. The second time, I thought only of Lewis Carroll. The third time, it was only the judgment of others in their inferiority to care for a small, frightened animal. This fourth—but I do not say last—time, I thought about me. A few days before Easter Sunday, a stray rabbit found my domestic rabbit. In the barn, the stray hopped onto the box and pressed his twitching nose through the bars. My gray rabbit complied with a good sniffing, and they became inseparable. This stray was a deep chocolate-brown, like all the others, with a white band around his shoulders and very unfortunate wounds around his ears. This little brown bunny must have been through a tragic experience, and we suspect he was abandoned near our home when the owners didn’t know how to help his injuries (or were, perhaps... couldn’t, or wouldn’t, pay their veterinary bills). He found my rabbit all on his own, and the two were instant friends. When my mother surprised me with an abandoned, ill, chocolate-brown rabbit hovering near the cage and refusing to leave his side, I couldn’t help but wonder—what the hell is this trend? I’ve compared myself to Alice in Wonderland before, but this was getting ridiculous. We kept the rabbit and we got a double-sided hutch where the boys can coexist, companions till the end. A very soon end, unfortunately, for the stray. His ears were horribly injured, but he died while briefly loved, fed, medicated, and watched over by another of his kind. Their story had a bittersweet ending. Why were there always rabbits hopping across my path? Must I follow them all to some forgotten end? I thought about the book quote for the first time since that beach trip. It was funny to come to mind now, a long forgotten memory from a child’s book. Rabbits appearing—simply crazy! This didn’t happen often, except—well, there was the park. And school. And home. It happens all too often to me, I realized. Far more than I had coherently put together. So many rabbits. A lack of witches, naturally, but imagination fills in the gaps. “I don’t know what this means,” I thought, with understandable confusion. “Is this supposed to be inspiration, staring me in the face? Is this the Green Gables waiting for Anne to put away moody heroines and strike up the sentence about those green shutters? Is this the love between sisters waiting to be written about by a stubborn Jo March who wants to write thrilling murders under a pseudonym?” I received no answers. Imagination is a great gift. An ordinary human will live one life, a writer will live thousands. I don’t understand what people do with their minds. If they are not constantly writing stories in their head, what do they think about? If they do not see the life, death, and ultimate tragedy of an accused witch when the cotton-tails of rabbits dot the landscape, what do they see? A pest problem? I see so much potential. They’re all waiting; an infinity. Complete a boring, simple, every day phrase with something magical that opens doors. When the rabbits appear, fill in the blanks unapologetically. Epilogue At age 26 I was diagnosed with cancer. It’s no wonder that I can be perfectly happy and enjoy fairy tales, but also write horrors of the macabre. After a very difficult round of chemotherapy, I sat on the couch, bald and blanketed. My laptop was open and my fingers flew. I was desperate to finish a novel I was writing for my family. My worry, of course, was that I would die before I could finish it. It was an epic sort of tale. A fantasy, with cannibal dolls, misguided sisters, dragons, complex magicians, selfish queens, and a witch who is trying to turn away from a life of evil and live for others instead of herself. A witch who, after decades of murder and tyranny, is given a second chance. The story was all about the witch. My mother stepped into the room and bore bad news; my sweet, precious rabbit had just died. He was a perfectly healthy rabbit, just old. There was no time to come get me, she walked into the barn, noticed his breathing was terribly shallow, lifted him out of the cage and held him close, and just like that, he passed away peacefully in her arms. I was stunned, naturally, and mentally sent a post-it note heavenward... asking, in bold lettered sharpie letters, as if the cancer wasn’t enough, my rabbit dies too? Seriously? It’s not all bad news and tragedy. Obviously I am writing this because I am still alive. I did in fact, finish the novel about the witch and her sister and their redemption. I lived long enough to write an epilogue to my senior essay project, and then pick it up three years later to note that I didn’t die after I wrote it. In the world I create for myself as a writer, when the rabbits appear, a witch has died. Real life isn’t quite so simple. My rabbit died, but my witches live. I feel quite safe writing what others might call terrible or disturbing. I don’t find the subjects I write worse than what I experienced with cancer. I would call this popcorn fare. Light, salty, maybe not entirely healthy. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, as the saying goes. Imagination always survives. So did I. So will you.
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[On Childhood]
“Mine is a fogged-out landscape from which occasional memories appear like isolated trees...the kind that look as if they might like to grab and eat you.” –Stephen King, “On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft” page 17 My memories of childhood are all lined neatly up by year, age, home address, like a long line of books neatly stacked on a bookshelf in alphabetical order. I remember my childhood in vivid, and sometimes excruciating, detail. I remember walking down the grassy hill at the graveside service for a great grandmother, and the smell of dampness in the greenery. I remember stepping in the mud in a pair of black buckle shoes I still own to this day. I’m thirty years old physically with the exhaustion of a cancer survivor that puts me somewhere in my seventies. But I still fit in those shoes, being a small human whose feet haven’t grown since eighth grade. Speaking of eighth grade, I remember crying tears of exhaustion and despair over a Saxon algebra textbook, listening to the Jurassic Park soundtrack by John Williams on repeat because it was the only music keeping me from ripping my hair out and having a complete mental breakdown because of how much I hated the subject of math. I still find myself relaxed by the Jurassic Park soundtrack, but I still have a foul coppery taste in the back of my throat when I think of math. Speaking of numbers, I remember our first multiplication lesson, a poster showing all the “times tables” as we called it, tacked to the wall of our “homeschool” space. I remember learning the alphabet, singing the phonetic song with the oddly racist “I-I-I-Indian!” part for learning the letter I. I remember a very specific white cassette tape with pink letters on the side that contained a bunch of nineties Christian rock hits, like Amy Grant and U2 and even a band that my Dad was a drummer for. I remember his drumming for hours and hours in the soundproofed sunken garage with exactly three steps down to an olive carpet a la 1970s and wood paneled walls. I remember the chill of the cement floor outside the back door, where there was a small landing and a second stairwell that went down into the fully furnished basement apartment. I remember the yard. That yard was never just a yard. It was Kansas. It was Narnia. It was the jungle on an island with the Swiss Family Robinson. On the immediate right, there was a gate to the driveway. A small shed where Dad kept the mower. A huge, towering tree that dropped massive green-bean shaped pods every year, followed by massive yellow leaves. There was a white rose bush that climbed up the tree trunk. There was a bird fountain along the fence, a small stone one. The yard was huge, so the open space in the middle was wide enough for running, but there was a very specific area where we put the pool every summer. In the upper right hand corner, there was a small grove of trees. This was the most magical place. This was where there were birch trees, white trunks with black freckles, and shimmery tiny leaves that exposed silver underbellies every time there was a breeze. There wasn’t grass in this grove for some reason, so it was an excellent place to make mudpies. Two of the stronger trees that formed the left border of the grove used to bear a hammock, until a friend broke the hammock. This grove was where there was a tiny mound where one of our renters in the basement had a little burial ground for her pet rabbit. I always wondered if anyone did any “work” later in the yard and would find the bones. I hoped not. I hoped the rabbit would continue to rest in peace forever, in the bare corner that would often become carpeted with dying pine needles for a nice orange rug. Now, that’s the upper right corner. Turn a bit and follow the back of the fence. There is an open space that looks out into the parking lot of the parole offices. One time, a woman leaned over the fence to talk to us and tried to convince us that she had toys and candy that belonged to us in her car. It was terrifying. We knew about stranger danger. And she was definitely dangerous. I wonder what happened to her. I wonder if she ever took someone else’s kids when she couldn’t get us. The bare space was not a pleasant place. We ignored the opening between the trees along the back fence that looked into the dreaded parole offices. It was the Mysterious Beyond like in “The Land Before Time”. It was the Elephant Graveyard from “The Lion King”. It was the bad place where bad people would go. Moving on. The upper left corner. Mom’s garden. I remember cornstalks one year. The best part was a thicket of raspberry bushes, but not just any raspberries. Orange raspberries. They taste better than regular raspberries. And we could go out and eat them right off the bush, no washing required, because we didn’t spray any dangerous chemicals. And when you stepped into the thicket, it was kind of in a semi-circle all around you. A tiny, fruitful haven. Moving on, turning the corner now (you can’t really reach the corner, the garden was a little too thick) but there, on the left fence now, there’s a redwood tree. A massive fucking redwood tree. Unusual for a Portland suburbia home. It towered over every tree in the neighborhood, you could always see it from far down the street. It had a thick trunk, a huge bed of long green needles beneath, and a tiny fallen log behind it that acted as a bench. My sister and one of the renter’s children, John, would go sit on the log and have long conversations. His little brother, Austen, and I, would creep up and eavesdrop and giggle and pelt them with pinecones. I reconnected with Austen about two decades later and asked him if he thought we were going to get married back in the day, or if I was just crazy. He assured me: oh, no, absolutely, he thought we were going to get married too. That’s how kids are. They just connect with someone, and there is no one else around, so, I guess that’s the one I’m gonna marry. It feels inevitable. We were hopelessly in love with each other by default. I’m pleased to know now that it wasn’t one-sided. Validation feels good. Then, there were some tall rose bushes and rhododendrons, and the gate separating the back yard from the side yard at the front of the house. Tall bushes on the other side, too, which was a very pleasant space to walk in. I used to wish the gate was a little further ahead and the fence was a little longer so that we’d have that green tunnel to walk through. But it’s okay. We made our own tunnels. Blanket forts in the bunk beds. Pillow forts in the living room. Imaginary forts in the grove. Back in the day when we built walls made out of imagination and soft things, because we didn’t have any in real life. Around our hearts or otherwise. Do I see my childhood with rose-colored glasses? Maybe. I was happy. Sometimes there’s child-grabbing trees like Mr. King sees, rearing up out of the monotone curtains of gray fogbanks. Like the mud at the funeral, or the blue & silver book cover design of the algebra textbook. For every singular tree with grabby hands, there’s a grove somewhere behind it bathed in golden light with an orange rug and a grave for a rabbit. I remember the smell there when it rained. I remember the smell of the finger paints we stored in the tiny “craft closet” in our tiny hallway. I remember the hot summer nights when we opened the front door, kept the screen locked, and let in a breeze while the Lifescapes album “Guitar/Cello” played “The Road to Harper’s Spring”. The massive living room window was an open view to a denim-blue skyline with no interruptions except for a few treetops and power lines above the silhouettes of our neighbor’s homes. Ralf, the guy with the cool Christmas decorations. Justin and Stephanie, brother and sister. Justin would play basketball with his friends, Stephanie would babysit us. There was a boy that we saw walking to school every day and I think his name was Cowie. There was a neighbor who had a wolf, a real wolf. Sometimes we could hear it howling. There was a neighbor who was a policeman and he showed us his motorcycle. There was old couples that were like tiny adopted grandparents. They are probably no longer with us. There was a young couple newer to the neighborhood, and I think his name was Bruce, her name might have been Diane, Nancy, or something. They had a black lab named Sadie. All of these memories are from before I turned ten years old in the year 2000, since we moved out of that house with the grove and the berries in 1999. I remember trying to hide my crying in the car as we drove away for the last time. Because I thought that house was made of magic and I wouldn’t have it any more. Here’s a surprise, I sort of end up feeling that way wherever I live, and each time I leave it’s hard. But I’ve come to learn that the magic comes with me, as do memories. Memories do not belong in the mudpies, the olive green carpets that follow us wherever we go, the corners with dust bunnies and the groves with dead ones. The memories don’t stay behind. They’re mine. I take them with me. I went to the Shoebox Theater in Portland. A theater so tiny that it was named for a box because that’s what it feels like. The stage is approximate ten feet square, with a couple of seat rows on all four sides, and exits in the corners. When you sit for a play, you must cover your ears when the actors scream. You are within a danger zone, spitting distance. The play was The Merchant of Venice by William Shakespeare.
When the main antagonist Shylock gives a hugely bitter, split-flying monologue, leans over the railing, and looks right into your eyes… you’re supposed to (I guess) take it in with your expression, a face, a blank page. I did no such thing (I was told). I thought I held myself together pretty nicely. After the play was done, the actors thanked us as we exited. The man who played Shylock said he was so changed by my face that he delivered his next line entirely differently than before- and so did the actress who replies to him, and so did the third replying to her, and so on, and so forth… until I became the one responsible for a domino effect. He pointed me out to the others in the assembly to say “THIS IS THE ONE! THIS IS HER! She’s the one that erased SEVEN WEEKS of rehearsal!” I was confused and asked what it was that I did, exactly, and immediately apologized and he had replied, “No, it’s a GOOD THING!” When he pointed me out to the other players, he said, “This is the girl that changed the ending!” With a huge smile, he explained to me that people usually flinched back with fear or discomfort when he screamed into the audience. According to him, when he was snarling and spitting in my face, I gave him The Look of Pure Fury and Snark™ that seemed to say, “OH NO YOU DIDN’T.” That my inability to lean backwards, rather taking it in with a look of defiance and smiling judgment, that it changed everything he believed about his character in a single moment. His character was discombobulated, he delivered his next line completely differently than he ever had before. It was a large ensemble scene, there were probably four others in the tiny box with him at the time, and these gifted actors rolled with the punches. The next one responded to his immediate change, delivering her line differently, and then the next character had to respond to her differently, and then the next - by the time is probably wound up towards the next monologue, they were all playing slightly skewed versions of the characters that they had before. Suddenly motivations, tones, volumes, emphasis were changed all over the place. He told me that the entire play turned out differently than it had in any performance or rehearsal. The whole meaning had shifted for them. The other players came running out to meet me because they wanted to see the face of the person that threw Shylock into an alternate universe and dragged them all down with him. I wanted to say… “I love Shakespeare! I’ve been in a Shakespeare play. I’m an actress. I act. I’ve been involved with theater before. I Totally Get It.” But I didn’t, I was struck dumb, so I smiled and nodded a lot, thanking them for their performances, pretending I was a celebrity for the five minutes we passed through the shoelace-sized entry and back to the university van. I changed their ending, and yes, cliche time, they changed my life. I don’t know how, naturally. I still get chills thinking about it. I feel that memory every time I see a play. It replays whenever I pick up my old scripts from theater productions gone by. The older gentleman, acting the part of Shylock, screaming in my face, slamming his hands into the railing a mere few inches from my knees - he was so great. I was absolutely thrilled that I was this close to the character, the angry man bellowing at the Venetian court. I thought I was wearing a calm and collected poker face, but actually wore a challenging smirk and one raised eyebrow, and I wasn’t even aware that my face was making this expression. Maybe this would be less funny if I had done it on purpose. I still have no idea what the previous ending looked like. And no one else would either; anyone who attended later performances. Shylock said this is how they would do it for the rest of the play’s run; they liked “my ending better”. My ending, as if I had some great hand in it, just as much contribution as Shakespeare. Modern media always give heroes and heroines a subtitle nowadays. Clara: The Impossible Girl, from Doctor Who. Katniss Everdeen: The Girl on Fire, from The Hunger Games. Harry Potter: The Boy Who Lived. I’m perfectly fine not being The Chosen One for anything. If life were to grant me a subtitle, I would request, humbly, Mychal: The Girl Who Changed the Ending. Recommended reading: Save the Cat! by Blake Snyder
This was a book I read in college for my scriptwriting class. I won't spend this blog post summarizing it, because there's a lot of good information to unpack. I will merely say this: it is a concept for filmmaking and novel-writing where you give your main character "A Moment" which binds the audience and character together. The character must do or say something that makes your audience root for them: yes, I want to see them succeed. (Even when they do bad things). The idea is that every main character MUST have a choice to make early on, make the right choice, and the audience identifies with someone for doing a nice thing, and therefore, they want the best for them, even if they do bad things later. I'll give you some examples in film to help explain this concept. Sometimes, people take this very literally, and the main character saves a cat. An actual cat, with whiskers. The Incredibles The important thing about in the Incredibles, if the scene had opened with Mr. Incredible booting Buddy out of his super-car, yelling “you’re not affiliated with me!” and otherwise humiliating this child in front of his hero… No one LIKES Mr. Incredible. He’s horrible. He’s awful. But the movie opens with Mr. Incredible in an interview saying he wants to slow down, and raise a family. Cuts to his first on-screen rescue, which is being a total boy scout to the little old lady and rescuing Squeakers the cat. We’ve already had our hearts won by him, so when Buddy shows up, we’re on Bob’s side. He finds Buddy annoying, so as do we. He jets Buddy out of the car, and we laugh. He’s being a Bully and we only see our protagonist having a kind of bad day and we forgive him. Spiderman Homecoming In Spiderman Homecoming, he literally saves a cat from a burning down sandwich shop. This takes place further along in the movie, it’s almost like they realized not everyone has seen Civil War, Peter Parker’s first appearance, and they threw in the cat rescue and it’s like adding another cherry to the top of a huge cupcake of sweetness. It’s so much easier to spot these moments in superhero movies. What about NON superhero movies, does the main character still have to save something or someone? What about when the stakes aren't that high, and it's just a nice thing? What about when it is a moment of kindness, or sacrificial, without being life-threatening? Here's some examples of Save the Cat when it is still on the nose, but not cat related. Hacksaw Ridge Desmond saves the boy working at the car repair shop when the car falls on him and crushes his leg and he rushes from the church where he’s working across the street and applies first aid and then drives him to the hospital. Aladdin steals a loaf of bread, but then he gives the bread to the starving orphans. Twilight Bella chooses to move back in with her dad so that her newly remarried mother can be full time new wife and travel for Phil’s minor league job. Bella hates Forks, and she doesn't get along with her dad, but she does it because she wants to make her mother happy. Lord of the Rings Gandalf sets off the fireworks for the hobbit children - yes, the rest of Hobbiton frowns at him, and we've heard terrible rumors about him, but he's NICE to the children - therefore we shall love him too. Harry Potter sets the snake free from the zoo, and less subtly, stands up to Draco when he's teasing and mocking Ron for being poor. Star Wars seems like an easy one - hey, Luke totally saves Princess Leia. "I'm Luke Skywalker, and I'm here to rescue you." That is actually not his Save the Cat moment. Save the Cat is strictly supposed to happen close to the beginning of the film, because this is how you bind the audience to your main character for the rest of the story. Halfway or even close to the end of the film is a heroic moment, but it's not Save the Cat. It’s not Luke deciding to save the princess or escaping Tatooine or carrying Princess Leia across the chasm with his grappling hook. Luke shows compassion to C-3PO and R2D2 and treats them like people and confides in them and removes their restraining bolts so that they don’t feel like slaves. Luke treats them with kindness and affection, and despite his whining and his childishness, by the time he gets up to that bluff and watches the binary sunset - we are sold, and we're ready to fight by his side. So, that's how it works with heroes. What about when it's less-than-easy to feel attached to the main character? Maybe they're not that heroic. Maybe they're an antihero. A villain. Too gray to be sorted into either band and too complex to label. Here's some examples. The Departed - the main villain, Frank, played by Jack Nicholson delivers a terrible speech about the rise of the mob in Boston and the use of violence, he even uses the N word and describes how “street people” only have each other to survive. He says there’s no difference between cops or criminals. "Once you are faced with a loaded gun, what's the difference?" Dark stuff, right? How on earth are we, as an audience, supposed to root for this guy? He's the lowest of the low. The movie makes it clear that we're supposed to be feeling conflicted about him; simultaneously holding our breath when we think he's about to get caught by the police, and breathing with relief when he doesn't, and then also feeling disappointed that he still didn't get caught, because we're also rooting for the police. After Frank's opening monologue, his first full scene is when he enters a combo breakfast diner/go mart. He spies a young boy sitting at the counter alone. Frank realizes he’s Colin, the son of a known associate who was killed, and Colin is now living with his grandmother. Frank tells the grocer pack up bread, milk, cans of soup, vegetables, and throws a comic book on top. He gives it to Colin and says that if he ever needs anything, come talk to him. He feeds this poor kid at exactly the moment when he needed it. Colin just lost his dad to violence, Frank steps in. Frank grooms Colin from an early age to be a "rat" in the Boston police, and feed his crime syndicate inside info from the cops, but he fulfilled a NEED for a kid. The whole time you are rooting for Colin to grow up and escape this life, but at the same time, you feel for him and hope he doesn’t get caught by the cops because he couldn’t help this upbringing. When he is nearly caught, you hold your breath and hope he isn't. Colin is the true antihero of the story, but it took another "unlikeable" character to become somewhat likeable and 'save a cat' in order to get there. Sometimes, Save the Cat isn't always your #1 main character, sometimes it's #2 or #3, but maybe #1 is the recipient, the one who benefits. Here's some more examples: Zuko from Avatar The Last Airbender (tv show). There’s a moment in episode 1 (if I remember correctly) where Zuko starts to lose his tough exterior for a second and Uncle Iroh steps in to encourage him. That’s when you know because there’s someone like Uncle Iroh around, Zuko can’t be really ALL bad, right? There’s a brief moment of vulnerability where Zuko says he wants to regain his honor, implying he's been cast out of his family until he can find it. That's something we can relate to. Zuko is the recipient of Iroh's Save the Cat moment. The Punisher Frank Castle, the Punisher. He’s a murderer and a criminal. He murders an entire Irish mob family till the room is full of corpses. He brings a weapon into a hospital of all places and begins to shoot it up, looking for the one Irish man, Grotto, who escaped. Karen Page, the legal assistant for Grotto's defense attorneys, jumps in harms way to protect Grotto. Even though Grotto has done horrible things for the mob, you feel his fear, and because Karen sees him as worth saving, so do we. Turns out, Frank Castle been set up, and his whole family was murdered by a huge gang shoot out participated in by - you guessed it - the Irish mob. We start to see the justification and reasoning behind Frank's actions. Maybe he's crazy. Maybe he's too lost in grief. We realize he didn't shoot any of the doctors or nurses at the hospital, he just fires his weapon at the walls to get people to leave the hospital as quickly as they can. His Save the Cat Moment: Karen Page jumps between him and Grotto to save Grotto's life, and he doesn't try to hurt Karen. He knows she's a good person. You start discovering Frank is putting down pedophiles, pimps, drug lords, illegal weapon manufacturers... all the bad guys that our other superheroes usually beat up and turn loose. Suddenly it becomes more complicated than just - here's a bad guy, here's a good guy. But what do they ALL have in common? Someone saves the cat at some point. Sometimes it's a strange absence of a bad thing that would otherwise be in-character. Frank Castle may be shooting up a hospital, but he does not shoot Karen. At first, we wonder, why is that? By the end of the series, he's a fan favorite. We're rooting for Frank to succeed. Everyone loves him. He gets his own show. We LIKE it when he takes down drug and gang rings, even though it's the same kind of violence we were rooting against at the beginning. It all starts with a special bond with Karen. Save the Cat! Now that you've seen some examples from the movies, think of BOOKS, either already written or your own writing, where you can employ the concept. DISCUSSION QUESTIONS: What does Save the Cat mean for you? How does it apply to your writing, right now? Do you have a moment like that already, or do you need to edit and find a way to put it in? If you haven't written it yet, what are some ideas you might have for the Save the Cat moment? Further resources: https://creativescreenwriting.com/how-to-save-the-cat/ https://timstout.wordpress.com/story-structure/blake-snyders-beat-sheet/ After a long tough week without my sweet cat Peekaboo, she's finally home from the vet! Not out of the woods yet, but I'm very grateful she's back. Medications and shots to follow to keep her healthy. It was an arduous experience and I'm honestly so drained by it that I'm sick of explaining what happened or even what still needs to happen; so all I'll say is this. She's home. I'm grateful. She's happy, and I'm very happy. She's been giving me all the snuggles my needy self requires. Here is how we spent most of the afternoon:
1. Find your space. Where you feel inspired, where you feel comfortable.
Is it a desk? Is it outdoors? Does nature inspire you? Parks? Coffee shops? Libraries? 2. Generating ideas can be hard. Let the random speak to you. I will sometimes get stuck for an idea. I keep a book of poetry, names, or a thesaurus nearby to infuse my brain with new information. ALWAYS LEARN. New information breeds new ideas. Stuck for something? Research. 3. Sounds can be distractions, and so can music. Find out what is a distraction, and which one provides a background that makes you lose yourself in your writing. Sometimes I don’t listen to music while I’m writing. Sometimes I just prefer the wind. Stephanie Meyer (author of the Twilight series) did something really smart. She found out that the band, Muse, inspired her. So she listened to all their albums while she wrote. It works. It paid off. And look at her now… 4. Writer's Block? Don’t give up on the story just because you can’t write it right now. Work on the story in different ways. Try writing a summary. Make an outline. Design a cover. Doodle characters. Pick out character names (firsts, lasts, middles). Design the whole freaking family tree if it helps. Draw maps. Write a title, or ten. A tagline, a description. Name all the chapters, then rename them, then scrap them if you like. Write down words you want to use in the story. Erase things. Draw things. NEVER STOP CREATING just because you can’t write. 5. Read. Always Read. Forever and Always. Read books that have stood the test of time. We’re writers because we read and because of what we’ve read. Who made you decide to be a writer? For me, it was Anne Shirley, Jo March (both fictional, female heroines who became writers) and real authors’ Alfred Lord Tennyson (poet) and C.S. Lewis (Chronicles of Narnia). They made me want to be an author. Want to learn from the best? Read a chapter. Read a novel. 6. One sentence at a time. Are you having a hard time STARTING the story? Sometimes, my introductions are really terrible and I hate them and subsequently hate whatever I write afterwards. You don’t have to write in order. Write backwards. Write sideways. Write one word for chapter one, and then let inspiration write five paragraphs for a scene that isn’t even supposed to happen till the end of the book. This is okay. It happens. 7. Take care of yourself, your eyes, your brain. Ignore social media for a bit, turn off your wifi to hold you accountable if you must. You have to take care of yourself. Stop for meals. Sleepy? Take a nap, or don’t exceed two or three cups of coffee a day. Drink A LOT OF WATER. Use proper lighting. Sleep. Go outside. Think. Don’t sniff sharpies. Learn a new word from the dictionary. Write stuff by hand, edit it as you type it into your computer. Make a list of adjectives you want to use. Eat protein. Take a brisk, five-minute shower. Sit on the porch and watch traffic for a bit. Check out books at the library. Get moving. 8. Don’t worry about where the story is going. Sometimes the characters take over. Get in their head, and see why they are doing things differently. If your work is really carrying a life of its own, it’s okay if you break away from your methodical outline. You can always trim something out and add it to an appendix! If you really feel like it is IN character for someone to do something that isn’t in the plan, go with their instinct- because it is YOUR instinct. Even the villains are projections of you. That’s okay, because in order to write a character honestly, you’ve got to put yourself in their shoes. 9. Write wherever you are. Keep writing tools with you. Writing isn’t just a profession. It’s a habit, it’s an addiction, it’s a curse, it’s a talent, it’s a gift, it’s a miracle. Write no matter what. Write in a journal. Keep a small notebook with you at all times to write down random inspirations or ideas that come to you. Always have a means to writing. 10. Look to your heroes. Look up professionals. See what they do. Do what they say. Reading books about writing by other writers, too. Read about their lives, what they did. Pay attention to literary and writing courses at school. Research how the industry works. Read articles. Educate yourself as a writer, and as a writer trying to sell your work. |
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