Category Archives: Writing

Story's Trying to Bowl Me Over Backwards, Knock Me Forwards

by Liana Posted on January 3, 2013

Writing today's 365 story, "Remembering Lena," and it's deceptively simple because it's not simple at all.

Snippet

Wesley Bryn returned to the book on Wednesday. The title and author name on the cover meant nothing to him—David Copperfield, Charles Dickens—but inside the front cover, a soft blue floral designed bookplate had a due date for Wednesday, today, blue inked in loopy feminine handwriting. Stamped at the bottom of the bookplate was an address for Pretty Things, presumably the establishment where he had borrowed, rented, or otherwise procured said book.

Prompted by pygmymuse

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And Stats Post Makes Three...

by Liana Posted on December 30, 2012

Been plugging away in Scrivener, but mostly on other pen name stuff. However, got some good work done on "Summercome," trovia's requested sports story.

 
2015/5500 words. 36.6% done.

And snippet:

She passed through the golden mist around her, cushioned by its rising. The vents were thick enough to skim but cold, so cold it bit into her slender bones, and she coughed when she breathed in the mist—Gods, we breathe you into us—then fell hard into the cold of rushing river.

She had done this before—so many times—so she dropped her feet and found purchase in the bed beneath the shallow waters, forcing herself to withstand the onslaught. She stood, grateful for the warmth of her clothes, for how close they clung to her body and light they hung.

Cold, so cold, but what did she care?

Keisleh pulled herself out and onto the bank, dripping wet from her hair, her skin, her clothes, but paid them no heed. She cried out to the All-Encompassing Wind, the mother goddess of the House of Watchers, lifting her arms and shouting exultantly.

"Gods, our covenant renew."

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Something That Matters

by Liana Posted on December 29, 2012

Dear Scribbler,

I've been reading up about a writer's production goals and reading arliddian's latest open letter, a beautiful piece, and reaching out to the muse-ish side of my own self, and it made me want to sit down thoughtfully again and have a chat on behalf of the new year.

I want to write something that matters.

Oh, I know I should start off with the business stuff, but a long time ago, I wrote a lot of fanfiction and I wrote out 14 things in fandom I had never done, which included writing anything that mattered, that influenced others. The very next day, I posted a driveby question:

What is it about writing something that matters that scares the mess out of me?!

I still want to write something that matters.

In the interests of getting there, I'd like to produce: you know a few hundred thousand words of fiction wouldn't hurt, and at least 2 or 3 completed short stories or novel chapters wouldn't either. Figuring out print books on createspace would make me very, very happy.

But...

If there's anything I want to do different this year, it's that. The significance. The mattering. I want to reach people, not just scribble off into the abyss. And that willingness to scribble into the abyss has gotten me where I am, has made me willing to keep on putting one word in front of the other, and taking the time to create something of myself, but use it, muse.

Use it and do something with myself. I want to see my faith in my fiction. I want to see the girls who are not pretty and why that matters. I want to see feminine strength that is strength. I want to see the things I care about, the characters who prove that healing is possible, self-sacrifice is real, love is power, God is neither irrelevant nor evil, that the price for true power is giving up our selves and our wrongs, not embracing them.

I don't know how to wrestle these words into something that fits the shape of my heart, but this is me. This is it. I am writer. This is what I want this year.

Thanks,

the scribbler

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Then there's the problem of muses...

by Liana Posted on December 22, 2012

The Scribbler's Own Business Manager

So I've been thinking today, and there are still posts I want to get written about creativity and I have not forgotten my last iteration of ideas of where to go with this blog, but... I also started to think about my focus as a businessperson and how much of this blog is just me being me. I need to get all my fiction, poetry, and what-have-you into some sort of monetization (need to eat and all that), and that is something I have been wrangling, that line "Where Art Meets Commerce," neatly addressed by Kristine Kathryn Rusch.

The Audience Speaks

Oh, how the clamoring tides request completed fanfiction! I'm still not sure why the sudden rush upon my fanfiction, but the reviews and alerts and favorites keep pouring in, and a part of me itches to get it all catalogued on this site. But, ahem, it's not precisely the first priority in a mercenary world, not with the muses alive and active and so much reading still to do for friends that I have not done. :hides face in shame:

The Muse Speaks

And then there's the problem of Ryven, a character in this mess of a Vardin book that I just located in the very worst place I could have written him. I didn't want him far apart from Abigail in age, and certainly not of Rhiannon's generation, but somehow he got into "Gone Hunting" before I realized it and gave me a gift scene (not shown) that opened up the whole idea behind The Rothnen Cycle to me. I was not pleased.

Oh, I know, dear muse—who worked overtime to make these manifold, disparate threads come together—, I should be grateful. You gave me the whole story, the subtext, the key to interlocking these pieces, but it requires that Ryven be in his early thirties and Abby her late teens when they meet. Did I mention they were supposed to marry a year or so later?

Ah, muse, you are at times a fox, the trickster, with your 'gifts.'

But so is Whisper, my muse says, almost puzzled. You like her.

She's not my fox, I point out testily, at which the muse wisely refrains from further comment.

Snippet of the Day

Port City, Vardin, is a city satisfied with itself. The people are happy in their business, still familiar with that old way of locomoting about town: walking, and going in and out of unmarked buildings with a perfect understanding of where it is they frequent. This is a city where to not know the occupants of an establishment nor be recommended by a friend or friendly acquaintance is to not know where to go for anything you might need.

I am kidayet here, an outsider, in a place that speaks a hundred foreign tongues and has never learned the meaning of the word 'tourist.'

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Bookish Traditions: Reading and Writing

by Liana Posted on December 17, 2012

Written Work of the Day

The muse has kept her promise, though she must keep on with keeping it, and here is a snippet of genuine new material within this mishmash of sketch that's coming together.

Philip was glad to see Josh. It was good to see Josh. He was justly surprised at how many others held his time.

“Enough women?” he asked after the last bag was unpacked, their parents were in bed, and the hostess complimented.

Josh chuckled. “There's men too, but in Vardin, women are responsible for people.”

“And you're people?” skeptical.

“Got it in one. The men...” Josh's face closed. “They have their work.”

Philip prodded. “Which is?”

“Ivrat.”

“English, Josh.”

“There isn't English. Not for that.”

The sketch is moving forward oddly and the word count is doubtless thoroughly incorrect, but here it is anyway.

 
41158/120000 words. 34.3% done.

Vardin Word of the Day

ivrat. householder: household (law, culture, tradition, or customs)

Rec of the Day

Rabia Gale is offering a giveaway on her gorgeous new book coming out, Mourning Cloak. Please go check it out!

Mourning Cloak by Rabia Gale

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Today's Favorites Inflicted: Snippets and Recs and Hugs

by Liana Posted on December 16, 2012

I'm feeling Christmassy (and sleepy and too sleepy and more than a little ready for significantly less stress), but today, I feel like sharing some of my favorite things around the web and my world.

Rabia Gale posted a lovely little rec post for her guest post about "The Lone Woman," a sale on Rainbird, which I love, and one of the most important indie publishing/writing articles I've lately read.

The lovely xenokattz is offering New Year/Ephiphany fanthings and prompting from holiday music and video.

I'm sending out Christmas cards this year, as soon as I can prop open my brain cells enough to do it.

And today, I unearthed this snippet, discovering anew how much I liked it:

Arienne stood upon the balcony of the Household of Vishet, looking toward the port and the golden edge of the sunset glow. About her neck hung a heavy chain of Vardin silver and the five sapphire links at its heart. Her bare fingers pressed into the stone frame. Her eyes took in the breadth of her city, to her the nation.

"I cannot do this alone," she said suddenly in a quiet voice.

There was no answer behind her in the royal chamber. Her guard and servant, bound to her in all the ways that did not matter, stood there near the wall. He would never be parted from her, even in this most intimate and fearful of moments. But he did not speak. He could not offer her comfort.

The princess glanced down and touched the silver and sapphire chains. Her gaze fell further, to the bare back of her right wrist. Slowly, she clenched the hand, knowing the weight soon to settle there.

Heavily, she whirled about in her heavy skirts and turned toward the guard in his uniform, even darker than her own. His eyes were averted.

"Where is Cayden?" she asked. It was not a question expected of her.

But the guard's eyes closed and she saw his jaw tighten in concentration. A moment, his eyes opened; he looked at her, saw her. "He is coming."

Arienne studied him, impassive in expression if not within her heart. She nodded royal acknowledgment and turned away. "When he arrives, leave us." She laid both her palms against the rail and returned her study to the city. It would be her only burden now.

Vardin.

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Dear Muse... When was the last time you and I sat down and had a chat?

by Liana Posted on December 16, 2012

Dear Muse,

I've been thinking lately, which I know you know, about why we freak out about committing to a large project and have to constantly wander off into other fields in any other place than the one we're in. I've been thinking lately about why I don't do meta, why my worlds are so thoroughly immersed, why I write about broken people who have to sacrifice so much to have any part of what they want and can never seem to have it all. I've been thinking about why perfection and perfect happiness always seems so far away, not even near in those crystal moments we wish we could keep by holding on, why it's always so hard for the ones who belong to claim each other, let alone maintain the claim, why I love romance, why I hate it, why I'm bored and full up and restless and writing and not writing enough all at once.

Let's sit down, my muse; let's chat.

I see you sitting shyly, uncertain and wary as most of the girls I like to peek on in a hundred worlds and spiraled worlds faceting the others. I see you wondering if perhaps I'm digging too deep this time. You know, analysis doesn't always help. Sometimes it's overkill, scribbler. Sometimes, you just need to let things flow.

But they aren't flowing. Oh, we could pretend, we could say they are, and sometimes you give me something, throw me a bone and even maybe add some flesh on that bone, but so many times you run away when I most need you to knuckle down and do. You run and I'm here and if I only wrote what you handed me, I'd have very little finished work to show for it. Why, muse? What is it you need or I need to do to help you?

Maybe it's these constant interruptions and difficulties getting into things, but surely we already proved that that wasn't the real big deal and I've heard the stories about those meat and potato writers: sit down, show up, the muse is attracted to a working writer. Is that so? I wonder sometimes what attracts you to me.

You'll dig.

Is that what you want? You want me to dig? But when does it stop being digging and just turning over the soil? When do we see some harvest from all this seed-planting? Muse, I want to write the stories you give me, but there's a little mess of a problem if you can't stay focused long enough for me to do it.

You give me fodder. It's hard to stay focused on the mix we've got when you throw more things in the mix.

The reading.

The music, the movies, the ways you keep working things around again. It helps; you know, scribbler, that it helps, but it hurts too. The well's too full. The cup's running over. Do you really want to shut off the flow.

I want to direct the flow.

Then stick with me, just me, for a while. I know we can work this out together.

I do have a couple of reading assignments for Rabia, for pygmymuse, for in_the_blue, for BookRooster.com.

Let them go and write with me. I'll give you something. I promise.

I'll hold you to that, muse; you know I will.

Love,

the scribbler

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