Astronauts

Astronauts risked their lives, living in a tin can in space.
Dozens of astronauts flew this way.
Can you name any? Name two.

No one will remember your success.
No one will remember your failure.

Trust your judgment and your instincts.
Move forward boldly in your calling.
Be yourself.
Enjoy.

Revise for Creative Word Use

The idea for this exercise came from thinking about hooks. Suspense writers are good at grabbing their readers through action. But if you read Charles Dickens, who knew a thing or two about hooks and action, you’ll find he holds you with the beauty of the language. “It was the best of times. It was the worst of times.”

Part 1, start with a typical timed writing exercise where you are given the first sentence. Jeremy Majewski provided this inspiration from his current WIP. The idea in a timed exercise is to write whatever pops into your head without self-criticizing or editing. Just write it down free-flow style.  This is a great exercise for overcoming writer’s block. Over time, doing this type of exercise will improve your writing and grow your creativity. 

To create your own exercise, pick a sentence out of any novel. Any sentence will do. Or make up your own. This gives you the first sentence. Or the last if you want to really challenge your writers. Depending on how challenging you think the sentence will be, give a time limit from three to five minutes. I chose three minutes for Part 1.

Part 2, revise your timed writing result for creative use of the language. The idea is to make it more poetic or add literary devices like irony. This part requires time to think so I gave five minutes.

My results

Part 1 – 3 minutes, first sentence given
“Beautiful night isn’t it,” she said to him as she wrapped her arms around his waist.
“Wahooo, your hand is cold!” Roger jumped a foot off the ground and hit his head on the oak branch. He bounced his butt off the pavement.
“Ouch,” she said.
“What do you mean ouch?”
“That must have hurt.”
Roger rose to a kneeling position and rubbed his butt and his head at the same time.
“Do that often?” she asked.
“Only on dates with you.”

Part 2 – 5 minutes, revise for creative word usage
Beautiful as a night on earth’s moon, glowing as sunshine off a rose, Imogene stretched her heart, her  mind, her arm to snare love where previously she had least expected it.
Rising precipitously above the grey and hardened deck, Rogere gave a shout of exuberance. “Wahoo. Your hand, like your heart and your mind is of a temperature far below the freezing point of water.”
Rogere’s buttocks rebounded off the wine dark pavement .
“Ouch,” she said.
“Please define your meaning?”
“Obviously, you have experienced excruciating pain.”
Rogere arose to a position based on his knee contacting the hardened pathway.

Subplots

We've been talking about subplots on the ACFW Suspense loop this week. Is it possible to have a subplot in a fast action, high drama suspense story? My answer is yes. Here's why...

Subplots in suspense happen the same way an actor or actress takes over a movie. Think Lauren Bacall in "To Have and Have Not." Minor character becomes the star.

Sometimes you create a character who has "star power," usually without intending to. This character becomes so interesting you have to explore her life a bit more, especially as it relates to the main plot.

The other way it happens is you plan it.

The main thing is -- It has to work!

Good Friday

They spin. They whirl. They reel about. It’s a hurly-burly trying to make a big wind with its vanes. But the gizmo has it backwards. The hurry-scurry doesn’t make the wind. The wind makes the fins gyre and twirl.

We live in a backwards world, you and I. It’s a world where winter storms rage and people dress for summer. The world is an unforgiving place. One mistake and you’re out. But the world has a promise maker – a God who offers life even in the face of death.

The blades coil round and round until they are invisible. We hear the hum and see the waves of moving air and know the knife-edges are there. The propellers are not the action’s cause but rather the acted upon. We are like them, twisting and gyrating to no useful purpose until acted upon by a loving, gracious God.

Our God forgives our wayward corkscrewing and sets us in the right direction. We may be upon a flight of fancy but we’re powered by a force that’s real. See. Our slicing knives are rotating. Praise the Lord. He wheels our vanes in the right direction.

Do not resist the pull of the cutting edge. Do not try to brake them. Let the blades, by God’s own hand, take you to the sky. From up upon the highest peak, from up upon a cloud, we’ll flit and dance to God’s triumphant beat.

The world may not be ready for a soul that swivels and gambols, but the soul is ready, when to God it goes. Swirl upon a clear blue sky. Spiral upon a cloud. Whatever passes far below, God provides the ride.

Steam Punk

Somewhere there is a place where it is always the nineteenth century, where steam powers the machines of commerce. My writer's group asked to do a steam punk writing exercise, and since we had just finished a writing exercise where you put "of doom" after every noun, it made sense. Bill Price came up with the exercise. He gave us the first paragraph. The challenge was to write for four minutes. Here is my contribution.

The evil doctor chortled madly at his lovely assistant. “The train will be along soon dear, and we’ll be free of the evil of doom. “

“But Doctor Smithereens, won’t the Professor just morph into a bat or wolf or something and follow us?”

“Mere rumors, my dear. Professor Motley is as human as you or I. He’ll follow in his airship. Ah, here’s the train.”

The engine wheels screeched to a stop. Doctor Smithereens took Hildegard’s carpet bag.

“Let me take your satchel, my dear.”

“Be careful of the revolvers, Doctor Smithereens. You know how they explode at the least provocation.”

“Yes, it’s those darn bullets with the nitroglycerine. Ah, here’s our state room.”

“Oh, Doctor Smithereens, there’s but one bed in this room. Where will you sleep?”

“Why, my dear, naturally…”

“Oh, Doctor Smithereens…” Hildegard sighed.

“Perhaps the engineer might perform the ceremony, my dear.”

“Like a ship’s captain?”

“Precisely, my dear. Or the conductor.”

“The conductor?”

“Why not? It’s just for the weekend anyway.”

The squeal of the steam whistle drowned out Hildegard’s response.

Noir continued...

Comments: I'm picking up the noir story where I left off with a bleeding Mike Tankerton wondering if he would make it across the Michigan Ave. bridge before it could be raised. The story needs a title moving forward. A plot would help. For now I'm just having fun as "pantser" -- one who writes by the seat of his (or her) pants.

Tankerton Intro Continued...
Mortenson, O’Leary and Haggerty reached the blinking bridge sign together. They were arguing with arms flailing about until Mortenson pointed at my bus. I bolted from my seat, burst out the back door by jamming my good side against the double door rear exit. I crossed the street running full out for the bridge, the beeping noise and the blinking lights.

I may have made the bridge before it went up but for the hazy blackness that hit me out of nowhere. You can only lose so much blood before you find yourself in dreamsville with no chance for a wakeup call. I was still conscious when my head hit the curb and I bounced in the direction of the cars waiting out the bridge opening. My last memory included the sounds of rough voices and somebody rifling my pocket where I had stashed the PK380.

Organized Chaos Reorganized

Comments: I revised yesterday's first draft to address the POV issue. Expanded the story a bit to get inside the main character's head. Gave the character the name Robert. Well, he told me his name was Robert. You know how it is with characters.

Organized Chaos
The background noise of conversation in the Ragamuffin Coffee House, located in beautiful downtown St. Charles, Illinois, connected Robert in a spiritual way to the brick walls. And the rhinestone fireplace. Also the rough old finish on the table where he sat, pen poised over notebook with the rest of the writing group.

He loved the red and black rag rug on the floor, which he pretended to be staring at diligently every time he desired a glimpse of Sarah’s legs sticking out of her way-too-short skirt across the room. The house blend coffee, with its fruity, nutty flavor formed a great complement to the coffee aroma wafting through the place.

He sat at the end of the long, mahogony table. When he peered up from his notebook, he caught a glimpse of Sarah gazing at him and then glancing downward when he returned her gawk.

She likes me, he decided. Wow. Finally, a babe likes me. Okay, not a babe. A gorgeous hunk of womanhood likes me. Be nice. An attractive young lady admires my male attractedness. Hmm. Not a word.  My maleness. There you go. Wait. Is she checking out Marvin? Marvin who can’t rhyme patootie? Marvin who gives away the solution on page one of every mystery story he writes? How can she like Marvin? No wait, it’s me. It could be me. I have to talk to Sarah. Is she liking me or Marvin? She better make up her mind.

If rag rugs could talk, the faded one on the floor at Ragamuffin would tell tales of loves lost and won, coffees savored and spilled, some in anger, yet others dribbled away in the silliness of youthful joy.