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Reblogging – FanFiction

I wrote this post almost a year ago, before Fifty Shades of Grey became massively successful. I thought it deserved a repost. What are your thoughts on FanFiction?

No "aspiring" about it

Writing Prompt: Think of a critical scene in a book you love. Write a different ending to the scene, then continue the story with the new ending in mind.

Congratulations, you’ve just written FanFiction.

Time Magazine had a piece in a recent issue about FanFiction – what it is, who does it, who likes it, and who doesn’t. It was a well written piece, and it really got me thinking.

I’ve never thought much of FanFic – and by that I mean I don’t think about it often. I’ve known about it for years, of course, and have read some, but sometimes finding something of quality is difficult. I don’t even have time to find new good blogs, let alone good FanFiction, so it’s simply not something I’m into. I don’t think I’ve actually written any FanFic, although I have thought out scenes in my head: What if Angel meets…

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Posted by on August 7, 2012 in Fiction, Thoughts

 

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“existence” – a one word writing practice

“I’m ready for my existence to come to an end.  I’ve lived enough lives, enough lifetimes, to fill a book of Grimm’s Fairy Tales.  My tales are more gruesome.

“When this all began, when I first realized what was happening, I thought it might last another century, two at the most.  It’s been twenty.  Over 2000 years of falling victim to the same fate, over and over again.”  She laughed, shook her head.  “I’m exhausted.”  She looked up at him.  “And you are, too.  You just don’t know it.”

“I’m tired of this life.  That’s enough for me.  My tales aren’t pretty, either.”

“Yes, but yours are beyond your control.”  She looked away, gazed across the treetops.  “In fact, your tales are my fault.  Everything bad that has ever happened to you, happened because of me.”

“You aren’t responsible for everything.  Becca, LJ, they weren’t your fault.”

She looked back at him, her eyebrow raised.  “Weren’t they?  How do you know?  What if they died because of me?  Would you be able to forgive that?  Would you be able to forgive me?”

He was unable to hold her gaze, and she had her answer.

**oneword gives you a word, and sixty seconds to write whatever pops into your head.  Obviously, I didn’t write all this in sixty seconds, but I like to expand what I start with, and this happened to work with my current WIP.  

 
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Posted by on September 7, 2011 in Fiction, Wednesday Writings

 

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I don’t need that word…or that one…or that one…

Is it really writing, if you’re taking something that’s already written and crossing words out?  Well, there’s still an element of creativity to it, and it gets you outside of your brain, so…yes!

I got this writing prompt idea from Storytelling Nomad, a “blackout” writing exercise in which you take a piece of writing (your own, someone else’s) and you cross out words to create a new piece.

Pretty fingerprints color the small, thick kid.  Being weird as an adult would be a problem.  No one dreams of a worse mission – an experiment to see if a drug cures dangerous interest Yes, it seems lame to appreciate things, but a career stuck not trying might end with a battle against human foibles such as reading and angering birds.  The world has become crazy, the response to go to war, dragging friends into adventure.  Curiosity isn’t the answer anymore, but we need to take chances exploring fantastic worlds most of us can’t even imagine.

Still not sure if it’s incredibly profound or incredibly incoherent…

 
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Posted by on August 17, 2011 in Fiction, Wednesday Writings

 

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55 word microfiction – Wednesday Writing

I found out about 55 Fiction from Metafilter.  “55 Fiction is a form or microfiction with a few rules, including a limitation to 55 words.”  There are a couple of websites with the name, although apparently unrelated to the original 55 word contest. 

I thought, what the heck, could be fun:

The frigid office is a shocking contrast to the jungle outside.  The hairs on my legs stand up and grow faster.

“Please, can we turn it up, just three degrees?”  68 sounded temperate.

“No can do, pretty lady.  We turn the temp up, the jungle comes inside.”

I look down at my legs.  “Too late.”

 
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Posted by on July 20, 2011 in Fiction, Wednesday Writings

 

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Vicariously, I Live (Fiction)

The pages crackle with each turn, the paper brittle from years in the dry air.  Although I knew the words by heart, I loved reading each story again.  The words, written in shaky print here, flowing cursive there, childlike block letters in yet another place, conveyed life in a way my mind can’t really know.

My mother’s words, written in beautiful cursive, flow over the page in a wash of grief.  “You will never know the music I’ve heard coming from the courtyard below,” she writes.  “The guitar sounds fluttered up like butterflies, its wings tickling your ears only briefly before flitting away again.  Your father and I used to dance to that music, here in the kitchen, imagining we were in a square in Argentina….”

Yes, mother was heartbroken at the end.  Of course she was.  She had already lost her husband, her youngest son, and her daughter, not to mention nearly all her friends.  The only reason she and my grandfather lasted so long was because of me.

This story here, the one with the shaky print, was written by my grandfather.  His acceptance of the fate of the world isn’t tinged with the despair evident in my mother’s stories.  “Good luck, kid,” my grandfather writes, his words pressed so thick and deep into the page I can feel the impression on the back side.  “You just got to survive.  Reminds me of the time my buddy Mac and me were in the jungle, hiding from Charlie.  Neither one of us knew what to do, we just knew we had to do it.  Boy, but you shoulda seen the colors in that jungle!  So much green I started to hate the color, but there were pinks and reds and sometimes a white streak to remind you something else existed.”

I laid the book back on its pillow and reached for the picture book on the ground.  Flipping through the pages, I wondered if any of these flowers were ones my grandfather had seen.  A flash of purple caught my eye, and I thumbed back a page.  I had seen this flower before, the pinkish violet, the petals open like a butterfly, flowing down like a waterfall.  My eyes dropped to the bottom of the page.  Phalaenopsis (Moth Orchid.)  I ran my finger over the petals, wondering if they felt as smooth and cool to the touch as the glossy page.

I placed the book back on the floor, the page turned to the Phalaenopsis.  In my mind, I surrounded the Phalaenopsis with green, like my grandfather said.  Is this what he saw?

I picked the book up off the pillow and turned the page.  This story was my favorite.

“I kicked the ball today and didn’t miss!  My toe hurts a little, but don’t tell mom, she might make me stop, and I don’t want to stop.  Coach gave me a high five and told me I was going to be a good forward some day.  Then Stinky Stevie threw water on me.  He said it was a way of saying good job, but if so, why didn’t he just say it?”

My baby brother, so grown up at 8, would never see 9.  He died a year ago.  Mother died last month.  Grandpa died last week.

I looked around the room, the plastic-sealed windows letting in opaque light, the layered sheets of heavy plastic hanging at the door, blocking any air particles that might come in.  Mother had talked about the music from the courtyard, how I would never hear it, because the musicians were all dead.  But I had never seen the courtyard, either.  The picture in my head was as imaginary as the picture I had of grandpa’s jungle, based on picture books and the words of my family, just like what I thought of when I thought of butterflies, and waterfalls, and soccer.  But I had seen that flower, the Phalaenopsis, through a part in the plastic sheeting one day.  It was real.  I knew it.

“Stay in here as long as you can,” grandpa said as he piled cans along the wall.  “The plastic is the reason you’re still alive.  Hell, it’s the reason any of us lasted as long as we did, because we had to be so clean to get in here to see you.  You ain’t never been exposed to anything in here, and as long as you stay in here, you never will be.”

This bubble has kept me alive, but it prevented me from ever living except through the stories of my family.  I had never been exposed to anything.

I closed the brittle pages and stood.  I was ready to live, if only for a moment.

I parted the plastic curtain and saw it.  The Phalaenopsis.  Still in bloom. 

Four steps.  Four steps, and I would be able to feel it.

I charged the Beau with giving me a writing prompt today.  I told him to pick a song lyric, preferably to a song I didn’t know.  He gave me this:  “Vicariously, I live while the whole world dies / You all need it too, don’t lie.”  It’s from a Tool song – I’m not a huge Tool fan, so I can’t tell you which song. 

 
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Posted by on July 6, 2011 in Fiction, Wednesday Writings

 

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The Beginning

I have been blogging for years, and have kept a continuous personal blog for the last three and a half years.  Recently, I decided to start writing a not-so-anonymous blog, attaching my name to my thoughts and writings.  I hope to one day be a published author, and I’d like to have an existing web presence when that time comes.  So I started a blog over on Open Salon, because they seemed to have such a dynamic, intelligent community.  And they do, without a doubt.  But I decided to leave that community, for a variety of reasons, and start a blog here.

I still plan on keeping my anonymous blog – it is such a part of me, I couldn’t possibly stand to cut it off.  It is who I am, just as this blog will be who I am, it will just be a different side of me.  Not more or less real, not more or less truthful, not better or worse, just different.

I’ve decided that each of my posts will fall into one of the following categories:

  • Music Monday – songs running through my head, songs close to my heart, songs that make me think, remember, consider
  • Tuesday Times – Thoughts on this week’s Time Magazine
  • Wednesday Writings – Fiction, writing prompts, sparks of inspiration
  • Thursday Thoughts – Personal thoughts, thoughts on writing
  • Five Things Friday – Um…five things…about something…
  • Weekend Roundup – Interesting things I’ve found online recently

Yes, I’ve stolen some ideas from other people, but you know what they say – Imitation is the highest form of flattery.

Splitting time between two blogs, along with work, and writing, and a life, will be difficult, I know. I’m not promising a post in each category a week, but I am promising at least one of something a week.  My goal is 2-3 posts a week, with ideally a weekly entry on Wednesday.  We’ll see how it goes.

In addition, I’d love to get some guest posts on here.  If you would like to guest blog, please let me know!

 
 
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