Update

Oh, I'm a bad blogger. A bad, bad, bad blogger. However, this might actually mean I've been a good writer -- well, good in the sense that I'm actually writing or working on things related to writing, at least.

An idea I had originally written off as impossible a couple of years ago came back with a vengeance. I think I've managed to come up with a way to make the pieces fit mechanically, and when that happened, this block I'd been having over my first planned novel came undone and I've been under a flood of inspiration. Usually when this happens, I start trying to write, and then I get bogged down and barely get out two or more chapters before I run out of steam and start going "Where in the hell am I going with this?" Not this time.

I'm outlining. And I'm not allowing myself to put the proverbial pen to paper until the outline is finished. At first I didn't think this was going to work, but I was wrong. I've managed to outline quite a few chapters and I've discovered where I'm going to have trouble, where I need to up the tension, and where the plot just isn't moving at an interesting pace. I've got no idea when I'll work out all those kinks, but the good news is that so far, using this method of getting ideas out in a hurry without worrying about sentences, prose, dialogue, etc., I still have the inspiration there and I still want to keep at it. Even if I get stuck, I can easily skip ahead and work my way back, or make notes for ideas without having to worry that I'll have to rewrite whole chapters if it doesn't work.

Better yet, I've still got the urge to go back and start writing from chapter one, but I'm making myself finish the outline first. It's like the writing becomes a reward for completing the onerous task of outlining the entire novel. What's more is that while writing, I won't be going in blind. I'll know what's going to happen next, and if I forget what I wanted to have happen in a novel, it'll be right there on paper for me to refer back to. It's a nice feeling to have.

In addition to the outlining I've been doing, I'm also working on world-building. My grand idea is falling into place, and if I do this write, I will have a whole world in which I get to create and play. For me, this means a potentially endless well of ideas and opportunities to weave tales. It reminds me of why I was drawn to writing fiction and fantasy in the first place. I get to create a whole new world and I get to mold it as I see fit. It's fun.

Ahem. I may be a little excited about my breakthrough. Maybe eventually I'll share some of the ideas here. For now, it's back to outlining so I can fix some of the issues I've spotted.

Favorite Lines of Mine

On occasion, I like to open my writing folder and look back over various stories and drabbles I've written over the years. Some of them make me cringe, but there's always one or two that make me go, "Wait, did I write this? It's so good!" It's an excellent exercise for those times when the words just aren't coming so easily and I wonder if I'm losing my ability to create art with words -- not that I think I'm the Van Goh of writing, but I do believe writing is an art.

Anyway, I thought I'd share some snippets that I really liked with you today because I'm too lazy to do a real post.

From an erotic ficlet I wrote based on one of my role-play character's dreams about her lover:

It hurts. He's biting her hard enough to leave a bruise, and she wants more. She wants him to hurt her; she needs him to hurt her. If this wasn't a dream, she tells herself she'd stop him. She wouldn't enjoy this so much if it were real, she says in her head, but deep down she knows it's a lie.

From another little ficlet I wrote a couple of years ago for a different role-play character, who is now retired:

"But torture isn't exactly a great way to gain information. Foldy believes she knows proper application of the various techniques - if there truly is such a thing. However, by using my knowledge of your central nervous system, a few well-placed spells, and a couple of medical instruments, I could get you to confess to some of the worst crimes in history. I could make you turn on your own pack and label your closest friends as monsters. You'd do anything to get me to make the pain go away, even if it meant your own death. You'd tell me everything I'd want to hear, regardless of whether it was true or not."

"The confidence with which you said that both frightens and slightly arouses me," Stephen admitted, barely getting his arm up in time to block a slap from Clotho.

Here's something from a novel I'm starting:

Of course it would be just like Devon to do something at the spur of the moment, including commit suicide. That was just the sort of person he was. Act now, think later had been his motto throughout most of his life, whereas I was the type to look thrice before I leapt. That probably explains why I was the honor student to his juvenile delinquent.

And finally, here's something I rediscovered today that I had totally forgotten about. It's over two years old, and I think I'll come back to and turn into a short story.

"Just a second. Stop knocking, will ya'?" He managed to get the zipper up before reaching the door, but his hand stopped short of the doorknob. Whoever or whatever was banging on his door smelled foul. He knew that smell. It was the overwhelming scent of decay and rotted flesh. Zombie? It wouldn't be the first time he'd encountered one, but in his apartment on a Sunday morning with all the fresh meat between wherever this thing had come from and his apartment? It wasn't behaving as a zombie would.

To the right of the door was his old Louisville slugger, which he picked it up. It wasn't as effective as a bullet to the head, but he was certain his clueless neighbors would get a little miffed if he fired off a gun, and telling the police he was defending himself against the undead would win him a one-way trip to the mental ward. He opened the door a crack to see what was there. It was a woman, mid-twenties he guessed, with long dark hair. She wasn't a zombie, but the smell of death and decay clung to her and he noticed she was caked in dirt from head to toe. It was dirt from a grave. Her own scent was underneath the stench. It was pleasant and somehow familiar, but Brian couldn't quite put his finger on it.

"Uh, can I help you?"

"Shower," the woman answered.

Brian scratched his head and opened the door a smidgen wider. "What?"

"Shower," she stepped foward, putting a hand on the door and pushing it open. "You do have one, don't you?"