Today, I ran errands with my daughter, took her to dance class, picked up lunch for my family (they were painting in the children's dept at my local public library), typed the minutes for the non-profit board where I serve as secretary, printed my history journal, read a GQ, showered, waxed my legs, helped a friend with a query letter, reminded my daughter how to play jacks, answered three phone calls from my mother regarding me doing her taxes tomorrow, and got a rejection letter, a form rejection letter at that.
The rejection didn't even sting, which I suppose is a good thing, but it's only my second form rejection. I tell my writer friends to expect 100 rejections before they can call themselves a writer, and who knows how many it will take before success. But form rejections create a sense of complacency in me.
First and foremost, I write for me. The more seriously I try to play the publication game, and the more published writers I meet who still work at their full-time jobs and/or have to deal with the same waiting/rejection process from their own editors, the less I want to deal with the game. That doesn't mean I plan to stop writing, it just means I am losing my drive to 'get it published.' It will return, it always does.
Meanwhile, I beat myself mercilessly for not meeting my writing goals. I feel like I'm not writing enough. What's enough? I don't know. Did I sit down and make myself quotas? No. Did I make a milkshake? Yes.
I think I'm still recovering from a stressful week and the constant demands don't help that, but such is life. It's 6:30. My husband is putting our daughter to bed, and while I should be writing or prewriting, I'm counting the minutes until I can go to bed.
I also did some plotting regarding Basilie and her parish priest. I realized the obvious parallelism/symbolism between her pregnancy and that of Elizabeth in the Bible. Plus, Basilie attends Saint Jean Baptiste... Yup, John the Baptist.
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Friday, January 29, 2010
Balance
Most writers will tell you to write everyday. I've heard it often recently and it's good advice. It promotes consistency in a manuscript and allows you to maintain a certain flow and ease of writing, at least until you hit a troubled spot.
In my former career as a journalist, at least post-baby, I did not write every day. It was not a question of time. It was a question of energy. I expended every word I had in me on that newspaper. I averaged 2-3 stories a day.
Was I writing? Technically, yes. Do school board stories and business features count? I doubt it.
The first semester I returned to school (this is my third), I had an intense history class that required a ridiculous amount of reading (I loved every minute) and an even more consuming paper (which I loved even more) and a 100-level politics class which required minimal effort.
No brain cells left for writing, yet I spent my spring break cleaning up my novel for pitch at GLVWG's The Write Stuff conference. I get requests for pages every year from agents.
I try to write during the summer, and last summer I revised almost eight chapters. Unfortunately, they didn't work.
Last semester, I had an economics course and a French class. I loved the French class, and it helped me fine-tune my characters. The economics class destroyed me. I ended up with a B+ in both classes but it was not easy. And I did not write.
This holiday break, I wrote a lot. I revised 7+ chapters. I like them. My critique group seems to like them. Those are the same chapters I revised during the summer. Now, I think they work.
My classes this semester, as mentioned last time, are Modern French Identities and Body Politics. Both require reading and writing, but I have already devoured two of the textbooks, one for each class. Both classes have inspired book lust in me, and have subject matter that relates to my novel.
And my academic endeavors have already planned the seed to alter the infamous "book four." That's the book that actually deals with the children of my characters in my current stories... So will I write? Probably.
In my former career as a journalist, at least post-baby, I did not write every day. It was not a question of time. It was a question of energy. I expended every word I had in me on that newspaper. I averaged 2-3 stories a day.
Was I writing? Technically, yes. Do school board stories and business features count? I doubt it.
The first semester I returned to school (this is my third), I had an intense history class that required a ridiculous amount of reading (I loved every minute) and an even more consuming paper (which I loved even more) and a 100-level politics class which required minimal effort.
No brain cells left for writing, yet I spent my spring break cleaning up my novel for pitch at GLVWG's The Write Stuff conference. I get requests for pages every year from agents.
I try to write during the summer, and last summer I revised almost eight chapters. Unfortunately, they didn't work.
Last semester, I had an economics course and a French class. I loved the French class, and it helped me fine-tune my characters. The economics class destroyed me. I ended up with a B+ in both classes but it was not easy. And I did not write.
This holiday break, I wrote a lot. I revised 7+ chapters. I like them. My critique group seems to like them. Those are the same chapters I revised during the summer. Now, I think they work.
My classes this semester, as mentioned last time, are Modern French Identities and Body Politics. Both require reading and writing, but I have already devoured two of the textbooks, one for each class. Both classes have inspired book lust in me, and have subject matter that relates to my novel.
And my academic endeavors have already planned the seed to alter the infamous "book four." That's the book that actually deals with the children of my characters in my current stories... So will I write? Probably.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
What does our writing convey?
I almost forgot to write today's entry. School started yesterday for me, and usually, when the schoolwork starts, my time to write disappears. I have two classes this semester. Both are very interesting to me...
This will relate to writing, stay with me.
Last night I had my history colloquium, Modern French Identities. This afternoon, I had my special seminar in Values in Science and Technology on Body Politics. Having a French family in my novel and a fashion house... Well, it should be a fun semester.
My identity is full of contradictions. I'm an educated, bilingual feminist addicted to fashion. I'm not a naturally patient maternal-type, but I wish I could have been a stay-at-home mom. I have trouble, psychologically, how parents can leave their kids in daycare for eight hours a day. If they sleep ten, go to daycare eight, spend one in the car, another eating, another getting dressed/ready for bed, when do you get to enjoy your kid?
But that's another argument.
I also don't believe it's the mother's job to stay home with the babies.
Again, wrong argument.
But we talked a bit about women, self-esteem, body-image and cultural expectations today in class. We each had to draw a picture of our bodies and show it to the class, and rate our comfort with our bodies on a scale of 1 to 1o.
The one male in the class said 10.
The highest woman's score was 8.5. Mine was 8.
The teacher pointed out that in the years she's taught the class, no woman has EVER given herself a 9, and when the classes had a better gender ratio, the men never went LOWER than a 9.
We talked a lot about how society makes gender myths into reality, how we train women to be graceful, more petite. How men are strong. How a woman always needs to lose weight but a man always wants to be "bigger."
And we talked about the era of Photoshop and how the people in the pictures don't even look like the people in the pictures, not in real life.
And this made me think: What societal biases/ideals do we convey in our writing?
I write about a fashion house, and my fashion designer Étienne loves women, loves curves, and complains how thin the modern models are. His supermodel Adelaide is a Cindy Crawford body shape, and she has self-esteem issues. Throughout the first novel, she keeps comparing herself to the girl in the photos and thinking that she will never be that girl. And she's the top model! So, am I writing a satire? a commentary?
In book two, she accuses Étienne of hiring her only for her beauty, and he tries to deny it, but she does screw things up and he forgives her probably because she's pretty. ]
Next week's class will look at intersexuals, or what used to be called hermaphrodites. For instance, girls (as in genetic XX) born with enlarged genitalia that resembles a phallus. Many doctors will cut it off and not consult the parents. In some cases, this removes the infant's clitoris or disconnects the nerves. Now those who know me know I tend to go ballistic at the practice of circumcising the penis of a boy child, and I certainly wouldn't want them hacking body parts off my child without my permission. I don't care if my little girl had a full-blown penis.
Anyway.
The magic word was hermaphrodite. I read of one intersexual disorder: Androgen Insensitivity Syndrome I believe. With this disorder, a traditionally male fetus (XY genetically) cannot process testosterone and will exit the womb looking like a girl. In many cases with labia and a vagina. And potentially with an enlarged clitoris of like an inch. At puberty, the child will develop hips and other apparently female characteristics because of the estrogen produced even though the child does not have ovaries or a uterus. Despite the fact that the body DOES have testes and produce testosterone, the body cannot use any of it. In some cases, the person may be oddly hairless in the armpits and pubic areas.
Based on genetics, this person is male. He/she would appear and act female. The sex is male. The gender is female. Roll that around your mind.
The supernatural forces in my novel are based on masculine and feminine elemental magic. Sex rituals have profound power because of the interaction of masculine with feminine. Air and fire are masculine elements, and earth and water feminine. Your sex does not dictate your ability to do magic, but the magic itself has a gender. So regardless of your physical sex, your gender has to be balanced in order to master all four elements.
Wouldn't one of these women with AIS, then have the capacity to be the perfect witch? It's a woman with a Y chromosome. That's a unique form of balance.
This will relate to writing, stay with me.
Last night I had my history colloquium, Modern French Identities. This afternoon, I had my special seminar in Values in Science and Technology on Body Politics. Having a French family in my novel and a fashion house... Well, it should be a fun semester.
My identity is full of contradictions. I'm an educated, bilingual feminist addicted to fashion. I'm not a naturally patient maternal-type, but I wish I could have been a stay-at-home mom. I have trouble, psychologically, how parents can leave their kids in daycare for eight hours a day. If they sleep ten, go to daycare eight, spend one in the car, another eating, another getting dressed/ready for bed, when do you get to enjoy your kid?
But that's another argument.
I also don't believe it's the mother's job to stay home with the babies.
Again, wrong argument.
But we talked a bit about women, self-esteem, body-image and cultural expectations today in class. We each had to draw a picture of our bodies and show it to the class, and rate our comfort with our bodies on a scale of 1 to 1o.
The one male in the class said 10.
The highest woman's score was 8.5. Mine was 8.
The teacher pointed out that in the years she's taught the class, no woman has EVER given herself a 9, and when the classes had a better gender ratio, the men never went LOWER than a 9.
We talked a lot about how society makes gender myths into reality, how we train women to be graceful, more petite. How men are strong. How a woman always needs to lose weight but a man always wants to be "bigger."
And we talked about the era of Photoshop and how the people in the pictures don't even look like the people in the pictures, not in real life.
And this made me think: What societal biases/ideals do we convey in our writing?
I write about a fashion house, and my fashion designer Étienne loves women, loves curves, and complains how thin the modern models are. His supermodel Adelaide is a Cindy Crawford body shape, and she has self-esteem issues. Throughout the first novel, she keeps comparing herself to the girl in the photos and thinking that she will never be that girl. And she's the top model! So, am I writing a satire? a commentary?
In book two, she accuses Étienne of hiring her only for her beauty, and he tries to deny it, but she does screw things up and he forgives her probably because she's pretty. ]
Next week's class will look at intersexuals, or what used to be called hermaphrodites. For instance, girls (as in genetic XX) born with enlarged genitalia that resembles a phallus. Many doctors will cut it off and not consult the parents. In some cases, this removes the infant's clitoris or disconnects the nerves. Now those who know me know I tend to go ballistic at the practice of circumcising the penis of a boy child, and I certainly wouldn't want them hacking body parts off my child without my permission. I don't care if my little girl had a full-blown penis.
Anyway.
The magic word was hermaphrodite. I read of one intersexual disorder: Androgen Insensitivity Syndrome I believe. With this disorder, a traditionally male fetus (XY genetically) cannot process testosterone and will exit the womb looking like a girl. In many cases with labia and a vagina. And potentially with an enlarged clitoris of like an inch. At puberty, the child will develop hips and other apparently female characteristics because of the estrogen produced even though the child does not have ovaries or a uterus. Despite the fact that the body DOES have testes and produce testosterone, the body cannot use any of it. In some cases, the person may be oddly hairless in the armpits and pubic areas.
Based on genetics, this person is male. He/she would appear and act female. The sex is male. The gender is female. Roll that around your mind.
The supernatural forces in my novel are based on masculine and feminine elemental magic. Sex rituals have profound power because of the interaction of masculine with feminine. Air and fire are masculine elements, and earth and water feminine. Your sex does not dictate your ability to do magic, but the magic itself has a gender. So regardless of your physical sex, your gender has to be balanced in order to master all four elements.
Wouldn't one of these women with AIS, then have the capacity to be the perfect witch? It's a woman with a Y chromosome. That's a unique form of balance.
Monday, January 25, 2010
I did it
Last night, I stayed up until midnight and entered the Amazon Breakthrough Novel competition. Probably a thousand people had the same idea, because the server was bogged down and it took an hour to do what should have taken 10 minutes.
I am both thrilled that I did this and unbelievably paranoid.
The contest is free to enter. The prize is a $15,000 advance and contract with Penquin. (Keep in mind, I made $10,000 at my job this year.) They accept the first 5,000 entries in YA and another 5,000 in adult. Contest closes Feb. 7 or when they receive the number of entries they want.
The sponsors are Amazon.com's self-publishing division and Penguin. That's part of what makes me uncomfortable. The other part is their demand that you provide a .doc, .docx, or .rtf of your entire manuscript. I would have preferred to provide a .pdf with password-protected copy function.
But that was not an option.
The only friends who have offered an opinion on this have said to do it. And technically I did copyright a previous book with these characters with the Library of Congress about seven years ago. With my blog, my facebook page(s) and my friend who's archived ever draft of every chapter I have written in the last six years... This story is mine.
But it makes me uncomfortable.
On the other hand, uploading my materials like my description, pitch and author photo looked really cool. I used one of Tracy Chafin's photos of me (and made sure her watermark was visible so all the world could see if there's ever reason to use it).
This is my book description I entered:
Manhattan, August 2002. H. Galen Sorbach has manipulated magick for four hundred years. Until Adelaide. The supermodel exudes mystical feminine healing powers that Galen wants, but he can’t touch the all-American girl who sacrificed her adolescent to launch ready-to-wear for French designer Étienne d’Amille. Adelaide stayed in fashion for the easy money, glamorous clothes, celebrity and, mostly, her undying adoration of Étienne, the only man who does not treat her like sex object. A senior citizen on the runway, Adelaide struggles to survive as a fashion executive in Étienne’s company. Étienne considers himself a humble tailor but his ambitious wife, Basilie, propelled him onto the world stage and divorced him when she could not breathe in his shadow. Yet, she never left. Now, at nearly 45, Basilie conceives a child, a feat the doctors claimed impossible. Meanwhile, Étienne hopes Adelaide might lose herself in a romance with Galen. Instead, fist fights and magickal brawls ensue leaving Adelaide bruised and desperate to master her own powers to end Galen’s perilous manipulations of the universe before she inadvertently hurts the one she truly loves—or worse, in her jealousy, would Adelaide harm his wife?
But the first round is judged solely on pitch. They get rid of 4,000 entries in each category, just on the pitch. So I wrote this:
Adelaide Pitney, fashion executive and supermodel, cannot escape her attraction to “aspiring photographer” and elemental witch H. Galen Sorbach, launching her into a destructive spiral. Four hundred-year-old Galen exploits Adelaide’s untapped healing powers to temper his lack of feminine power. Adelaide wants her magick gone, before it irreparably alters the life of her best friend, designer Etienne d’Amille. Adelaide must master her power to end Galen’s perilous manipulations of the universe before she destroys the relationship most dear to her. Fashion meets paranormal forces, as if Stephen King rewrote The Devil Wears Prada. There’s more at stake than the right outfit, the story challenges our definition of normal relationships and how people love. A supermodel with self-esteem issues has more power than she realizes, if she'd stop giving herself away and assert her magick. She must defeat blood-sucking witches and their violent rituals, but first she has to stop fighting herself.
Wish me luck.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Tomorrow... Amazon Breakthrough Novel Contest
Do I even have to mention that feeling when you challenge yourself to meet a goal that seems outside your comfort zone? In my case, my ears ring and I get queasy.
I'm preparing materials to enter the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Contest. Contest begins at 12:01 a.m. January 25 and continues until they reach 5,000 manuscripts or Feb. 7 or something. Whatever happens first. Being more neurotic than I care to admit, this means I will be staying up late tonight.
I have all sorts of fears about my work ending up in the wrong hands, or getting stolen, because you have to provide the ENTIRE manuscript in a .doc or .rtf. I would be more comfortable if I could submit in a .pdf that allowed me to block copying the words.
But it's a chance at a contract with Penquin.
It literally makes me want to vomit from worry and fear.
The contest has specific needs. Like the 300-word pitch and a 300-word description. Most writers have problems reducing their words. Not me. I seem to max out at 200. Even with my bio.
My bio:
Angel Ackerman—francophile, aspiring fashionista, and journalist (in that order)—has used most of her words on the Lehigh Valley (Pennsylvania) newspaper scene,with 15 years in weekly and daily journalism.
Her professional career includes developing and running a technology literacy program for urban pre-teen girls and public relations.
She also serves on three non-profit boards: president ex-officio of the Greater Lehigh Valley Writers Group, trustee of the Mary Meuser Public Library, and board member and former executive committee officer of the Advisory Board for the Penn State Cooperative Extension of Northampton County.
She recently joined Romance Writers of America and its local affiliate, Pocono-Lehigh Romance Writers.
She holds a BA in English Language and Literature from Moravian College and attends Lafayette College studying International Affairs.
Her favorite authors range classic greats Antoine de Saint-Exupéry and Alèxandre Dumas to modern writers Stephen King and Joyce Carol Oates.
She spends her free time writing, watching French television, and spending time with her crazy family: one husband, one five-year-old daughter, two cats and one tortoise.
My blurb (still working on pitch/description):
In Manipulations (93,000 words), Adelaide Pitney, fashion executive and supermodel, cannot escape her attraction to “aspiring photographer” and elemental witch H. Galen Sorbach, launching her into a destructive spiral.
Four hundred-year-old Galen exploits Adelaide’s untapped healing powers to temper his lack of feminine power. Adelaide wants her magick gone, before it irreparably alters the life of her best friend, designer Etienne d’Amille.
Adelaide must master her power to end Galen’s perilous manipulations of the universe before she destroys the relationship most dear to her.
Something I'm working on:
Fashion meets paranormal forces, as if Stephen King rewrote The Devil Wears Prada. There’s more at stake than the right outfit, Manipulations challenges our definition of normal relationships and how people love.
I'm preparing materials to enter the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Contest. Contest begins at 12:01 a.m. January 25 and continues until they reach 5,000 manuscripts or Feb. 7 or something. Whatever happens first. Being more neurotic than I care to admit, this means I will be staying up late tonight.
I have all sorts of fears about my work ending up in the wrong hands, or getting stolen, because you have to provide the ENTIRE manuscript in a .doc or .rtf. I would be more comfortable if I could submit in a .pdf that allowed me to block copying the words.
But it's a chance at a contract with Penquin.
It literally makes me want to vomit from worry and fear.
The contest has specific needs. Like the 300-word pitch and a 300-word description. Most writers have problems reducing their words. Not me. I seem to max out at 200. Even with my bio.
My bio:
Angel Ackerman—francophile, aspiring fashionista, and journalist (in that order)—has used most of her words on the Lehigh Valley (Pennsylvania) newspaper scene,with 15 years in weekly and daily journalism.
Her professional career includes developing and running a technology literacy program for urban pre-teen girls and public relations.
She also serves on three non-profit boards: president ex-officio of the Greater Lehigh Valley Writers Group, trustee of the Mary Meuser Public Library, and board member and former executive committee officer of the Advisory Board for the Penn State Cooperative Extension of Northampton County.
She recently joined Romance Writers of America and its local affiliate, Pocono-Lehigh Romance Writers.
She holds a BA in English Language and Literature from Moravian College and attends Lafayette College studying International Affairs.
Her favorite authors range classic greats Antoine de Saint-Exupéry and Alèxandre Dumas to modern writers Stephen King and Joyce Carol Oates.
She spends her free time writing, watching French television, and spending time with her crazy family: one husband, one five-year-old daughter, two cats and one tortoise.
My blurb (still working on pitch/description):
In Manipulations (93,000 words), Adelaide Pitney, fashion executive and supermodel, cannot escape her attraction to “aspiring photographer” and elemental witch H. Galen Sorbach, launching her into a destructive spiral.
Four hundred-year-old Galen exploits Adelaide’s untapped healing powers to temper his lack of feminine power. Adelaide wants her magick gone, before it irreparably alters the life of her best friend, designer Etienne d’Amille.
Adelaide must master her power to end Galen’s perilous manipulations of the universe before she destroys the relationship most dear to her.
Something I'm working on:
Fashion meets paranormal forces, as if Stephen King rewrote The Devil Wears Prada. There’s more at stake than the right outfit, Manipulations challenges our definition of normal relationships and how people love.
Friday, January 22, 2010
The nightmare progresses...
My last post focused on revising a nightmare for one of my main characters. I would feel remiss if I didn't post my latest draft to show you the changes. This is still not final...
She stood at the conference room table of her former employer, Minerva Pollux. She gazed to the window, Lower Manhattan pierced by her bold and surprisingly thin reflection in a cranberry red suit. She turned, as if in slow-motion, the faces around the table coming into focus one by one. Twelve people surrounded the table, twelve old American men with gray hair and pinstripe suits, the type of men who smoked cigars and drank Scotch, each one a client. She could match these men in business smarts, in ruthlessness, even with imbibing alcohol and net worth, but she would never smoke a cigar. Galen sat at the foot of the table, striking a metallic blade against his palm over and over.
They waited for something. What? Basilie retrieved her BlackBerry from her pocket, splitting her attention between that and the television on the wall. The market remained steady. The name of the company on the stock ticker triggered her memory. They had gathered for a hostile takeover. Basilie had orchestrated it, leveraging her investors’ cash, Minerva Pollux’s reputation, and her own ability to carve the company into profitable pieces for the highest bidders. Oh, yes, Basilie did this all the time. Creeping tender offers from new shareholders taking advantage of a proxy fight...
Basilie stepped closer to the table, a crunch stopping her. Her rosary laid on the floor. As she knelt to retrieve it, her reflection caught her eye again, except this time, she wore simple robes instead of her suit. Her body glowed. A baby cried in the distance. Her breasts ached as she heard it. The BlackBerry rumbled. She read the number and answered her ‘mole.’
“They spun it off. Your department. Your crown jewel. They saw you coming.”
The ribbon on the screen announced the news. The value of her stock had plummeted when the corporation had spun off its core department.
“Damn it,” Basilie snapped.
Millions lost. Basilie turned to the table. She opened her mouth to relay the news and the clients transformed into... family. Her father sat to her right, then her grandfather and grandmother Saint-Ebène. The couple beside them might have been her great-grandparents on her father’s side. Others next to them bore a strong resemblance. The man closest to Galen rose from the table. A woman neighboring him wept. He had the sword. He extended it as he approached Galen, the ornate gold hilt fitting perfectly in his hand. She recognized the crest on the sword, and peered closer at the man with it. She could have been looking in the mirror. She saw her face, in the masculine.
“He has it,” her doppelgänger told her in middle French. “Matris Virginis—”
Galen punched him in the face, interrupting his statement.
Without knowing the exact plot, how much symbolism can you decipher? If she were your friend and she asked for help deciphering this dream, what would you say?
She stood at the conference room table of her former employer, Minerva Pollux. She gazed to the window, Lower Manhattan pierced by her bold and surprisingly thin reflection in a cranberry red suit. She turned, as if in slow-motion, the faces around the table coming into focus one by one. Twelve people surrounded the table, twelve old American men with gray hair and pinstripe suits, the type of men who smoked cigars and drank Scotch, each one a client. She could match these men in business smarts, in ruthlessness, even with imbibing alcohol and net worth, but she would never smoke a cigar. Galen sat at the foot of the table, striking a metallic blade against his palm over and over.
They waited for something. What? Basilie retrieved her BlackBerry from her pocket, splitting her attention between that and the television on the wall. The market remained steady. The name of the company on the stock ticker triggered her memory. They had gathered for a hostile takeover. Basilie had orchestrated it, leveraging her investors’ cash, Minerva Pollux’s reputation, and her own ability to carve the company into profitable pieces for the highest bidders. Oh, yes, Basilie did this all the time. Creeping tender offers from new shareholders taking advantage of a proxy fight...
Basilie stepped closer to the table, a crunch stopping her. Her rosary laid on the floor. As she knelt to retrieve it, her reflection caught her eye again, except this time, she wore simple robes instead of her suit. Her body glowed. A baby cried in the distance. Her breasts ached as she heard it. The BlackBerry rumbled. She read the number and answered her ‘mole.’
“They spun it off. Your department. Your crown jewel. They saw you coming.”
The ribbon on the screen announced the news. The value of her stock had plummeted when the corporation had spun off its core department.
“Damn it,” Basilie snapped.
Millions lost. Basilie turned to the table. She opened her mouth to relay the news and the clients transformed into... family. Her father sat to her right, then her grandfather and grandmother Saint-Ebène. The couple beside them might have been her great-grandparents on her father’s side. Others next to them bore a strong resemblance. The man closest to Galen rose from the table. A woman neighboring him wept. He had the sword. He extended it as he approached Galen, the ornate gold hilt fitting perfectly in his hand. She recognized the crest on the sword, and peered closer at the man with it. She could have been looking in the mirror. She saw her face, in the masculine.
“He has it,” her doppelgänger told her in middle French. “Matris Virginis—”
Galen punched him in the face, interrupting his statement.
Without knowing the exact plot, how much symbolism can you decipher? If she were your friend and she asked for help deciphering this dream, what would you say?
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
A nightmare
I am 'ahead' of schedule on chapter seven of my revisions on Courting Apparitions. This pleases me, even though I'm losing hope of how 'worthwhile' this all is. I listen to published writers struggle with selling their second and third books, editors from 'dream publishers' that publish a book and then take a year to say no to the next, not to mention the hundreds of rejections we, the unpublished, receive.
But I push those thoughts from my mind. Right now I'm writing for me. So I have more than one book 'done' to the level I like. To prove my ability and professionalism to myself in order to sell it confidently to others.
I'm working on a nightmare.
Literally.
This was the early draft(s):
She stood at the head of the conference room table, gazing halfheartedly at the view of Lower Manhattan as she noticed her own reflection in the glass. She wore a cranberry red suit. She looked meticulous, bold and surprisingly thin. Twelve people surrounded the table, with Galen opposite her. Galen struck a metallic blade against his palm, over and over. She turned to a television. The red ribbon, the same color as her suit, flashed a message across the bottom of the screen. The market remained steady.
Basilie had orchestrated this hostile corporate takeover with financing from some of the Minerva Pollux’s major investors, leveraging her ability to carve the company into profitable pieces for the highest bidders.
She looked at the men around the table, all men, all men except for her, all gray-haired men with severity in their faces. Each of these men, clients of the firm, had purchased enough stock to join in her creeping tender offer. Between their new influence as shareholders and the proxy fight Basilie’s operatives had stumbled upon, the deal should happen quickly and ruthlessly. While a good, old-fashioned corporate raid didn’t make sense these days, this one did, because Basilie had a client who wanted the core of the business. He just wasn’t willing to pay for the entire corporation. So, Basilie would deliver the piece he wanted. The BlackBerry in Basilie’s pocket rumbled.
She answered it. Her ‘mole’ was on the other end.
“They spun it off.”
“What do you mean?” Basilie replied.
“Your department. Your crown jewel. They saw you coming. They spun it off. We... I mean the board... no longer control it. They set up their own board and IPO.”
The ribbon on the TV screen announced the news. The value of her stock, the stock she bought for the men now gathered around the table, had plummeted as soon as the corporation had spun off its core department.
“God dammit,” Basilie snapped.
Millions lost. The gray-haired men in their navy blue suits rose from the table. They swarmed her, grabbed her, some holding her while others bit her and drank her blood. She pulled, but she couldn’t go anywhere. Everywhere she looked she saw arms. She shivered. She looked at Galen, sitting sentinel at the end of the table. The blade continued swinging up and down, until Basilie wondered: Was that her family sword? Then the heads of the gray-haired men moved away from her, and each of them had eyes like opals.
The writing is far from an example of my best. But that's why it's an early draft.
Now that I have this draft, I'm working on refining what it needs to do:
But I push those thoughts from my mind. Right now I'm writing for me. So I have more than one book 'done' to the level I like. To prove my ability and professionalism to myself in order to sell it confidently to others.
I'm working on a nightmare.
Literally.
This was the early draft(s):
She stood at the head of the conference room table, gazing halfheartedly at the view of Lower Manhattan as she noticed her own reflection in the glass. She wore a cranberry red suit. She looked meticulous, bold and surprisingly thin. Twelve people surrounded the table, with Galen opposite her. Galen struck a metallic blade against his palm, over and over. She turned to a television. The red ribbon, the same color as her suit, flashed a message across the bottom of the screen. The market remained steady.
Basilie had orchestrated this hostile corporate takeover with financing from some of the Minerva Pollux’s major investors, leveraging her ability to carve the company into profitable pieces for the highest bidders.
She looked at the men around the table, all men, all men except for her, all gray-haired men with severity in their faces. Each of these men, clients of the firm, had purchased enough stock to join in her creeping tender offer. Between their new influence as shareholders and the proxy fight Basilie’s operatives had stumbled upon, the deal should happen quickly and ruthlessly. While a good, old-fashioned corporate raid didn’t make sense these days, this one did, because Basilie had a client who wanted the core of the business. He just wasn’t willing to pay for the entire corporation. So, Basilie would deliver the piece he wanted. The BlackBerry in Basilie’s pocket rumbled.
She answered it. Her ‘mole’ was on the other end.
“They spun it off.”
“What do you mean?” Basilie replied.
“Your department. Your crown jewel. They saw you coming. They spun it off. We... I mean the board... no longer control it. They set up their own board and IPO.”
The ribbon on the TV screen announced the news. The value of her stock, the stock she bought for the men now gathered around the table, had plummeted as soon as the corporation had spun off its core department.
“God dammit,” Basilie snapped.
Millions lost. The gray-haired men in their navy blue suits rose from the table. They swarmed her, grabbed her, some holding her while others bit her and drank her blood. She pulled, but she couldn’t go anywhere. Everywhere she looked she saw arms. She shivered. She looked at Galen, sitting sentinel at the end of the table. The blade continued swinging up and down, until Basilie wondered: Was that her family sword? Then the heads of the gray-haired men moved away from her, and each of them had eyes like opals.
The writing is far from an example of my best. But that's why it's an early draft.
Now that I have this draft, I'm working on refining what it needs to do:
- The premise of a failed corporate raid is exactly how this character's psyche would process what's been happening in her life. BUT I've changed the intensity of what has happened before this dream, so the content of the dream must clearly foreshadow struggles to come.
- The 'crown jewel' needs to represent the feminine magic Galen has stolen from women over the generations
- The sword must be described
- Should Basilie's family members slowly replace the clients? What about Adelaide? How does she fit?
- Should the baby Basilie is carrying factor into this dream. I think so.
- Finally, I scribbled this note on a piece of paper today: "What does the magic say to Z? (Basilie)
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