Saturday, September 25, 2010


Earworms. Your favorite song. Your character's favorite song. The song that just FITS the scene you're writing. Well, my online pals and I are posting our Saturday Sing-a-longs and this is the song that's been on repeat while I wrote two chapters' worth of the dystopian:

Isi does what's necessary and hurts someone in the process... Lands her butt in jail, even. So this one really fits.

Other Saturday Sing-a-long posts:
Heather Howland
Jus Accardo

Sunday, September 12, 2010

The struggle

Ethereal feel, delicate strokes of words, rise and fall, bittersweet atmosphere of high stakes, heartaches and heart-touching romance.
Dark, sharp-edged phrases, fast paced from the start, more action less romance, and the type of tension only a love/hate relationship can give.

HELP I'm addicted to the cracktopian!

Sunday, September 05, 2010


Have I ever told y'all I'm a WIPaholic? Yeah. Lots and LOTS of stories in one stage or another. And right now, when I should be nose to the grindstone with RESONANCE, this annoyingly interesting and way-too-much fun dystopian pops it's head up and won't go away. So, to placate the dystopian gods pestering my brain, I'm trying to purge it into a file. So far, I have a blurb, a complete summary and a snippet toward the end. But this...this is the first couple paragraphs of Chapter One.

Alarm sirens wail above the ration line in the town center. The breathy shriek pierces my ears and a shudder slides down my spine. I should stay in my place. I should act like the rest of the Commoner puppets.

Doing what I should will be the death of me.

People in the city square freeze mid-step, identical looks of fear spreading across their faces. Life snaps to a halt, arms clutching packages to chests, mothers reining in children on their wrist strap leashes. Good little marionettes awaiting the Mentalist Guild Operative announcement over the loudspeakers. I was born without puppet strings, and with a healthy self-preservation instinct--not to mention the knife I have sheathed in my boot and the blue-steeled contraband tucked in the small of my back.

A week’s worth of ration stamps crinkle when I curl my fist around them and shove them in my pocket. I duck my head, hiding my face behind a curtain of hair, knowing it won’t shield me from an Operative. Motion soothes my nerves, gives my mind a chance to plot escape routes while I put distance between me and the Commoner crowd before the siren above runs out of breath. After the siren comes the proclamation, then comes the Operative. There is no hiding from a Seer, and I can’t risk being seen.