Archive for fiction

Diamond Polishing

Posted in writing with tags , , , on 28/06/2016 by molliemoogle

I’ve been thinking a lot about the world around me, where I fit in to it, my habits, hang-ups, likes, and dislikes, and how I plan to bring what joy and happiness I have to the world.

HAHA. Just kidding. I’ve been writing. Or, rather, I haven’t been writing. Call it wilful procrastination, call it writer’s block, or call it just a bump in the road, but it is what it is: I haven’t been writing.

I hit one of those brick walls, where I looked at my manuscript and thought “what the hell is this hot mess?” but then, I had to wonder, what actually constitutes a hot mess? What is it about this particular part that qualifies as “a hot mess”? Does it ramble or go nowhere? Does it not reveal character, plot, or both? Does it have inconsistencies (kind of a moot point)? Is it a hot mess because it’s not finished or is it a hot mess because it’s not polished?

Ah, there’s the rub. It’s not polished. There are edits that can be made to help with economy of language, showing and not telling, and clarity. So, maybe what I’m writing isn’t so much a hot mess as it is unpolished (and incidentally, unfinished).

For me, part of getting over that brick wall is to just put myself out there. What’s the worst that can happen? Someone doesn’t like what I’ve written? Big deal. The world isn’t going to end because Bob the Troll happens to think my manuscript reads like it was written by a teenage fanfic writer trying to Mary Sue herself into a story with Tom Hiddleston’s Loki.

As an aside, I’ve got a massive crush on both Tom Hiddleston and Loki- Mr Hiddleston is a real gentleman; Loki is a seductive bad boy.

loki

That smile. That evil, wicked, naughty, come-hither smile. Rawr.

 

*Ahem*

The world will continue its orbit around the sun and spin on its axis. It won’t end if someone doesn’t like what I’ve written or if I mess up in any way.

The following excerpt is from my current (untitled) work in progress. Romance writers call this the “meet cute” obligatory scene, where the love birds meet each other for the first time. There’s supposed to be a spark between them. With this story, I want to spin those obligatory scenes on their heads—so there’s not so much a spark as an accidental bonfire.

 

Simon hit the up button for the elevator in the lobby. The numbers showed that it was coming down from the sixth floor. He checked his watch. One-twenty. He had nearly another hour to find something else for lunch.

The lunch he had with Marcus Price and Takeshi Hiroto from Xeno Investment Partners could only be described as a disaster: dry, overcooked, bad service, and none of their lunches came out at the same time. Next time, he would take them to Tarragon, an incredible hole-in-the-wall Italian place on Twenty-Fifth Street. Or maybe Cinnamon, the Sri Lankan restaurant his friend and neighbour Kalidasa owned.

The elevator dinged open and several of James’s legal team walked out, not recognising him as they laughed their way through the lobby to the bustling lunchtime street outside. He stepped in and hit the button for the thirtieth floor, making a mental note to ask Indra to call Kalidasa.

“Please, hold the elevator!”

Racing toward him was an attractive young woman with pink hair, a green tartan mini skirt and spiked black boots over fishnet stockings. She didn’t work for him, did she? Still, she was attractive in a punk-rock, gothic way; she would certainly make an interesting diversion for an hour or two in a grungy hotel room.

Two bags, full of some kind of take-out, bounced up and down in her hand and a back pack jiggled from side to side. He pressed the open door button, more out of curiosity than anything else.

“Oh, shit, thank you so much,” she said, out of breath. She offered him a sweet smile. Up close, she was even prettier, but her piercings made him wonder how on earth she would ever be able to hold down a job. “Can you please press nineteen?”

He nearly gagged on the revolting smell of some form of meat covered in gelatinous gravy. How did people eat that stuff? Did they really think it was authentic ethnic food?

However, when the young woman flipped her hair over her shoulder, releasing a floral, oriental perfume, it beguiled him, overriding the smell of the monstrosity that people dared to call ethnic. He savoured it for a moment. Quite a sophisticated scent for someone so young. How old was she? She couldn’t have been any older than twenty, twenty-two at a stretch.

“Are you in the right elevator?” he asked.

“Yeah,” she said, drawing it out. “My dad works here.”

Simon looked her up and down, wondering if she chose the clothing because she identified with the subculture or if it was just a personal choice. He guessed the latter, but she was cute enough to pull it off. “Just making sure; the mall is a couple of blocks over.”

She rolled her eyes and huffed. “Like I haven’t heard that one before. I’m surprising my dad with lunch; not that you give two shits.”

The floor ticked over to five. If she took out the metal in her nose, eyebrows, and tongue, and covered up her tattoos, she might land a good job one day. She probably hadn’t thought about the repercussions of having needles poked through and ink staining her skin when she got them done. It was all about the here and now with kids her age. It must have been nice to be so carefree.

The young woman shifted the back pack up her shoulder and turned away from him, and he took a moment to look at her from the back. Shapely legs. Nice backside. A little too punk for his tastes, but all women looked the same once their clothes were off.

He stared at the tattoo on her arm for a moment, amazed at the intricate artwork. It covered most of it and it crept up and around her arm like an ink-stained vine before it disappeared under her white shirt’s short sleeves. Two brightly coloured hummingbirds fluttered next to some kind of red and yellow flowers near her upper arm. How far underneath her shirt did it go? All the way to her back? Her chest?

Floor ten.

“Your tattoo looks like it hurt, Little Hummingbird.”

She glanced over her shoulder and her blonde and pink hair fell in front of her eyes. It was a siren’s call. Seductive. Elegant.

“The shading was a bitch. Luckily, I don’t mind pain.”

That piqued his curiosity. She liked pain? If she wanted pain, he was the man to give it to her. Jessa had never complained, but the kind of game he played with her was a very watered down version of what he enjoyed. Cries. Shrieks. The crack of a flogger or a whip over bare skin. His blood ran hot for the young woman in front of him. What kind of pain did she like?

What would she look like with her hands tied to a bar above her head, her legs spread wide, her sex dripping, waiting, quivering, and oh-so ready for him?

“I don’t mind it either,” he whispered in her ear.

“Ew. Fuck off and die, James Bond,” she ground out.

He moved back a step. “You wound me. I’d like to think I was more M than James Bond.”

The elevator stopped and settled, its doors sliding open with a ding.

“Finally,” she breathed out.

Simon smiled. “Nice talking to you, Little Hummingbird.”

She turned and flipped him the bird with the take-out sliding up her arm. “Eat a dick, pervert,” she said as the doors slid closed.

Kick self-doubt in the balls

Posted in Ramblings, writing with tags , , , , on 21/04/2016 by molliemoogle

Another writing practice from The Write Practice: Out of 7 lies writers tell themselves, take one that bothers you and write about it for 15 minutes.

Lie #4: Even if you try your best, you’ll never write as well as/be successful as [insert author name here].

kick fear

Found this gem on pinterest. So much truth.

Even before I got into the writing game, I was a reader. A voracious reader. Once I get going, I can finish one book and pick up the next and the one after that and five books later, I’ve finished my binge and can return to normal life for a couple of days. Lather, rinse, repeat about 3-4 times per month.

Except, when I started writing, I would look at a sentence and think “this isn’t like [insert name here]; it’s crap”. And I’d do that all the time: “My writing isn’t like Stephen King’s, or Christine Feehan, or Cherise Sinclair. I won’t be the next Neil Gaiman or Terry Pratchett; why do I even bother?”

Self-doubt serves no one. Those authors started out the same as me. Putting one word in front of the other, looking ahead and telling themselves they couldn’t do it. They couldn’t write like William Faulkner or Hemmingway. But, they’ve written some of my favourite books and found their unique author voice.

At some point, we all had to learn how to write.

Some have just been doing it for a lot longer than me and by now, they should be good at it.

I tell my karate students that I started out not knowing a front punch from a reverse punch, or even what an axe kick was, and now I’m the one teaching them what it is. You have to start from white belt to get to black belt.

I know I’ll never write like Cherise Sinclair or Stephen King. I’m not them. I’m me. I will write what I want, how I want, when I want, and with help and guidance, I’ll be a good author, maybe even a ten-years-in-the-making bestselling author.

But, in the meantime, I’ve learned that to kick self-doubt to the curb, I had to have passion for what I did. Passion is having a very strong feeling about a person or a thing, an intense emotion, a compelling enthusiasm or desire for something. I was (maybe still am) lucky to have a fantastic mentor who taught me about passion: have the spirit, find a way, concentrate on what you want, be determined, and form guiding principles to get there. All that will lead to your own path.

Telling yourself that you’ll never be [insert writer here] deflates that passion.

This is probably one of the most destructive lies that writers can tell themselves. And given that I believe I’m a strong, independent person who’s fairly self-aware, I’m rather surprised that this continues to pop into my head. I cannot compare my first draft of anything to someone’s finished product. I’m not a fraud; I’m not an imposter. I’m me. I have my own way that I’ve forged myself. It’s like coming to the end of a road and being told “you can go your own way now”. Once you’ve developed your fundamentals and understand how to apply them, you can make your own path, say things with your own voice, and write just as well as Faulkner or Hemmingway or Cherise Sinclair.

What do you love most about writing?

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , on 04/04/2016 by molliemoogle
Whoops; it’s been a while. I got busy.
One of the writing blogs I follow (Positive Writer– among manymany others) asked “what do you love most about writing”. As I’m at work and have a few spare minutes, I thought I might answer this question.
What do I love most about writing?
I love that I can be myself: a truer, deeper, more articulate version of myself.
There are no rough drafts in real life. What I say cannot be taken back and reworded, sent through to beta readers and critique partners, then changed around to give the most impact via symbolism, imagery, or theme. It’s real and wonderful and hurtful all at the same time. When I write, I can rearrange words to give more weight to some and not to others. I can choose what’s focused on. I can give meaning, both superficial and deep to one object or person. My experiences become clearer.
I love that I have the freedom to write what I want without seeking approval.
Too many times we do things because it will please others, but brings us no joy or happiness. For a long time, I denied who I was because I thought that my parents, my coworkers, my colleagues, and my friends wouldn’t approve. Writing has given me the freedom to give the proverbial finger to the never-ending, pervasive voice saying, “What would your mother/father/bestie/manager say if they saw this? What would they think of you?”.
I love that I can be human.
It’s not quite like the above, where I can be myself. I mean that I can be human, with human emotions and experiences which have shaped my fears, passions, and my imagination. My emotions and experiences have shaped my identity and my essence. I know where I was and where I want to go, and what I want to be.
I love that I can create a universe with just a few strokes on the keyboard.
I don’t have human children, but I have pets and a husband. I also have my characters. They grow in their world, with their experiences and emotions that enrich, tear down, and trap them. I love to see them soar and grow as ‘people’ and, as un-parent-like as it sounds, I love to see them fall and fail. My characters are a microcosm of the universe they’re in, just as we are a microcosm of our universe: an ant is just as complex as the brightest supernova. Humans are just as complex as an entire galaxy.
I love that I can break the rules of the universe.
I don’t have to keep my feet literally on the ground if I don’t want to; I can break the rules and levitate. Dragons, mythical beings, gods, the supernatural– they are all real while I write and read and edit. I’m not bound by the rules of the universe I live in; I’m bound by the rules of the universes I create and if they don’t work, I can recreate them.
What about you? What do you love most about writing, or anything else you do? Why do you do it?

The Silence Between Words

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , on 06/02/2016 by molliemoogle

silence

This is new for me, so please, be gentle.

I started this blog about 2 years ago, but only recently realised I still had it and I remembered my password (which, in itself, is a bonus).

So… who am I and why am I doing this, and, more importantly, what in the hell am I going to blog about?

To start off with, I’m Mollie, a reformed “transformative fiction” writer- that is, I wrote fanfic.  Oh yes, it’s how we all get started.  Well, some of us anyway.  Now, I write within a few genres, romance being my favourite.  No, I haven’t published anything.  I’m working on it.  I love eating, cats, and baking– please note the use of the Oxford comma (I’m not a monster).  I’m married to +1, the absolute love of my life and my best mate, and I happen to live in the most beautiful place on Earth- New Zealand.

Question 2: Why do this?  Mostly to get my thoughts down, ones that aren’t sitting in the realms of fiction (or, as Kiwis say, “fuction”, because Is sounds like Us and Es sound like Is– the word ‘deck’ has a whole new meaning in New Zealand), but I think this is also a place where I can gather information and condense it into an enjoyable format.  I’d like to put up some of the short stories I write, maybe a few chapters of longer works, and share insights I find interesting.

And thirdly, what will I be blogging about?  Writing, for one.  As a newer and more serious writer than I have been, I want to blog abotu some of the trials and tribulations of writing, things I’ve learned, share what I’ve written, let you know where to find it (because I’m forever hopeful that someone will like what I’ve written), and basically stumble around the realm of fiction writing trying to find treasure.

I might also blog about various things that happen to me in my line of work (there’s plenty of that), post photos (I’m a very amateur [and immature] photographer), and plug authors and books that I happen to think need plugging.

Want to contact me?  I’m a bit shy about people emailing me.  But, comments are welcome.  Critiques are welcome.  Flames will be used to toast some marshmallows, or make homemade Nutella.

Oh good Lord… homemade Nutella is the duck’s nuts.