Novel Idea, Day 4

So here it is, Friday of week one, and it's been a great few days of writing.  I guess that must mean it's time to handle one of those tough ones I've talked about.  Why are they on the list of prompts?  Something I have come to understand in my own writing is that it's SUPER-important to understand how all of your characters THINK.  Understanding this helps provide a consistency with their actions, and enables you to create their arc throughout the tale, no matter its length.  If you're male, this means you have GOT to understand what it's like to write as a woman, for example, and vice versa.  That brings me to today's theme!!

Theme: Write as the opposite gender, difficulty: first-person point of view.

Thoughts:  What do I know about being a woman?  I know what things like "fat days" feel like, but I know those as a man experiences them.  The fact is that I can liken any experience I want to being female, except that - well, it's always filtered through the gender bias of being male.  I know some folks going through gender re-assignment, what must life be like for them, to be looked at as one gender but somehow feel like you should be the other?  I had an English class in high school where the teacher challenged us to look at ourselves from the opposite gender point of view.  I remember that.  OK, this will be an interesting ride.  I have some ideas.  From the first-person ought to be interesting.  Wow.  Tougher than I thought.

     I woke up early, my head pounding and my stomach knotted up so much I thought I would vomit.  It actually sounded like a good idea, so I went to the bathroom, still undecided, but I needed to pee.  The seat was cold.  I sat there shivering in the cold morning, trying to replay everything that happened the previous night.  At least I woke up in my own bed, and all alone.

     That’s what I get for being the only one of the girls who would rather be single.  I get to be the wing-woman and the responsible one.  It’s like being the therapist in a room full of mental patients when they get together, and I NEVER get to have any fun.  I even have to keep them sober when it’s my birthday, if only because I don’t want to be woken the next morning because Samantha ended up in a strange hotel downtown and can’t find her purse, or Charlie brought home some stud or other. 

     Don’t get me wrong.  I love my friends, and will drop anything for them, and I know they would do the same thing for me.  Hell, they would even kill for me if I asked them to.  The problem is they would then turn the next three months into an extended edition of “Thelma and Louise,” and they would think this is a good idea, particularly if it involved killing a man.  I worry about them.  Constantly.  Maybe it’s because I’m the smart one, or the one who developed later, so I totally missed the pre-teen infatuation with everything “boy.”  I don’t know, but every time they want to get together, there I am, making sure one of them doesn’t drink red wine, and other just doesn’t drink too much and go home with some random serial killer.  Just like last night.

     I cleaned up and went to make my coffee.  WHY is it so damned cold in the house?  It’s JUNE, and I am freezing.  I need my sweats.  Or a blanket.  And a puppy.  A book would be nice.  On the shore.  With no one else around.  An island, maybe.  Yes, that’s what I want.  I want an island.  And once a month, a cabana boy.  A girl has needs, and I would need someone to clean.  I just want to watch it happen, nothing more.  He can bring the groceries from the mainland, too.  Crap, I need to play the lottery to make this happen.

     Thank God for coffee.  I love the way it feels on my hands when I hold the cup, getting warmed by it.  It’s always too hot when it comes from the pot, so I get a few minutes to just absorb that heat.  I love the way it radiates through me, sending that tingle through my body the way being kissed just the right way does.  Oh, I’ve been there.  There’s nothing like the right kiss by a man, with just the right amount of stubble that scratches just enough but not too much.  There’s also nothing like the wrong kiss.  I’ve had way too many of those kinds of kisses before I found that right one.  It still sends that shiver through me.  Coffee feels like that, too.  Wine feels like that when it’s going down, sometimes, but too much wine makes me feel like I do this morning, with my head pounding and my knotted stomach, and WHY IS IT SO COLD?

     Crap, that’s my phone.  A text.  Wait just a moment before running to it.  Listen to see if there’s another one first.  If this is one of those morning texts where there’s a whole string of them before I can answer the first one, I’ll be glad I waited.  No.  Just the one.  Good. 

     “Are you ok?!”

     How much did I have?  Why is Charlie sending this?  She was way more wasted than I was!       “Seriously, are you ok?”

     What the hell?  “Yes, just waking up.  Had a little too much wine last night.”

     “You went out last night, too?”

     “Ummm…you were there.  Friday night with the girls and wine?”

     “Oh shit – you must have been further gone than we thought!”

     “What do you mean?”

     “Jamie – it’s Sunday morning.  What happened to you?”

OK, be gentle.  I've never done this from the first-person before.  Yup, it's kinda of a nightmare situation, on the whole, and maybe I am being stereotypically "male" on this.  Frankly, I'm not sure I can tell the difference.  It was a fun exercise, though!!!!

Thanks for reading,

Me

Novel Idea, Day 3

And back again!  Keep those ideas flowing, and keep on writing!  Remember: fiction writing is important - it offers us a way to explore ideas that can change our world!!!

Today's theme: Pick a color you hate.

Thoughts: I actually don't hate any color, so this is difficult.  What would that be like? Why might I hate a color?  Why might someone else hate it? Why is it important to some people but not to others? I feel like Ray Stevens singing, "Everything is Beautiful," and I'm not sure how I feel about that!  What role does color play in our lives?  Ahhh, there it is.  That's why.  OK, now I have a heading.  It's good that I stipulated the point of view does not have to be specific to the theme!!  Today's writing is a future world - a little sci-fi, and a little bit of issues we're facing today (which is one thing sci-fi does really well)  I hope you enjoy!

     Allyn dropped the visor down over her face.  She hated relying on it, but she had no choice.  Sometimes there really was just no other way to get the job done.  This was the only way to find him, and she was getting desperate.  She heard the familiar hum as the visor charged and then opened her eyes beneath the metallic shield.  The ocular connectors shot into her eyes, an electric tether to the visor that focused on one thing: finding the Zees. 

     It was almost impossible to find them, anymore, without the aid of the visors.  There were no outward signs, except on a very few, and even those signs were able to be covered by clothing, most of the time.  The only way to tell them apart was the synthetic components of their blood, and the visors could pick up on it.  It was standard equipment anymore for all police to use them.  You could find the Zees.  There was no more hiding in plain sight. 

     Most of her compatriots on the force hated the Zees.  It was common to hear other bragging about how many they’d shot, arrested, our just plain killed, all supposedly in the line of duty.  Allyn didn’t like it at all.  There was something that felt wrong about it, and every time she put on the visor, she remembered why.  It was the ugly muted yellow indicators that came up every time the visor detected the synthetic blood.  It made her sick to her stomach to see it.  Part of it, she knew, was that she was part Zee herself.

     The Zees were part of an experiment several generations ago.  Actually, they were the result of the experiment that began infusing amphibian DNA into that of regular humans in the embryonic stage.  The idea was to create a way for people to live in the toxic air – or rather, be able to escape from it by being able to live both in and out of the water.  The result was a generation of the children that looked nothing like their human counterparts.  The worst were those afflicted with scales.  It looked reptilian, almost, so much so that those with the condition were labeled as “lizards.”  Over the years, it was simply shortened to “Zee.” 

     Allyn looked down at her arm.  The twisting tunnels of her veins showed the sickening yellow color perfectly.  She wanted to throw up.  At least the equipment was working.  Sick though it was, she knew she was searching for a Zee, and that he lived in this area of the city.  He’d been wounded, and some of his blood was left at the crime scene.  The evidence was irrefutable.  Now, she just needed to find the right Zee.

     She scanned the busy street in front of her from the safety of the alleyway.  Police were not welcome in this section of the city, and the less attention she drew to herself, the better.  She was surprised at the amount of Zee blood the visor picked up in the passers-by on the street.  It was everywhere.  Luckily, she was looking for a specific percentage of blood.  The visor would match it precisely, and lock in on the individual.  It made surveillance easier, at least, and in this case, she at least had a particular individual in mind. 

     Still, she couldn’t shake the feeling that using the visor for a legitimate purpose was somehow wrong.  It could be used against her just as easily as it could be used against a citizen Zee.  Luckily, there was a limit to how much visor usage a person could take.  No one would be using it in the police barracks, or in the station houses.  There was a problem with the interface that led to a macular degeneration of the user’s eyes.  Even when out on the streets, you could only use it for so long.  Thankfully, each unit came with a timer that automatically shut it off after forty minutes.  It would take several hours to recharge the battery, and for her eyes to recover significantly. 

     The timer reached twenty when she spied the color-matched Zee.  She saw him disappear around a corner, and followed him to a small apartment building.  It looked like an old house that was divided several times.  The mat outside was the same muted yellow.  Sympathizers.  Zees were welcome here.

Thanks for reading,

Me

UPDATE!!!!!!!!!!

The following is by author "KM" who gave me permission to post it.  I believe it is unedited, and there are a few typos and things, much as there are in my own offerings.  Hey, it takes GUTS to put your stuff out there, so let's here it for KM!!!  Thank you for sharing!!!

Theme: Tattoo Shop

Today is the day. Today is the day, I can hardly believe that it is the day…and it is THE DAY!

I knew it was coming and I still was dreading yet anticipating it. I know the others have been thinking the same thing, there is a group of us, they say that after the first one things are different, things are more intense and you just can’t go back to the person you were before. But then again all that is whispered because talking about the way you were after the first one is no allowed.

Today I get my tattoo, I know what you’re thinking. Why is this such a big deal? Maybe in your world you can get a tattoo that means nothing, or means something just to you that you get to choose, but in my world, on you 18^th birthday you go to the “Blood Spark shoppe”, a magic tattoo studio. Every town has its own and everyone has at least one tattoo.

On your 18^th birthday it is mandated by the high lord that everyone get the one tattoo to mark you for the rest of your life you true path in life based on your personality. As you can imagine you can fake your way up to this pointe but no this day, of all days, no this day. So yes fear, concern, excitement, if you think you have a good idea of who you are by now then you should have less to worry about, but if you’re like me and you have no idea…well let’s just say, UGH!

So this morning I will got showered like I always do before school, but the bus I boarded today did not take me to the clean white brick building where I have learned all my lessons from the day I was able to walk. Instead I rode downtown with 20 other kids, silently thinking about who we were to be. We rode  among the tall sky scrapers, under the clear blue sky and puffy white clouds. The wind rushing past the windows in an attempt to get rid of the smell of pure anxiety in the air.  Some of the others looked green like they could get sick any moment, others had small smiles on their faces, no doubts in their minds that they had grand paths in life.

So here I am standing in from of this little shop, neon lights al over the front windows, we file in one by one and take a seat the bench that circles the outside room of the wall. Old leather that has held tons of young butts awaiting their first ink. No sounds of the buzzing machines in this shop, no chatter and laughter or stories are heard coming from the back rooms. But there is a distinct heaviness in the air, and it is unmistakably the feel of magic. 

Over the next few hours we are called back down the brightly lit hallway. The walls all look like a typical tattoo parlor, with colorful flash on the walls and artist portfolio books from artist that work at other shops on the end tables for us to look at. But since this is a different type of tattoo studio, there is that one book, written by the High Lord explaining that we will be separated after the procedure into the next stages of our lives. Whatever image declares us our place in society, will be documented and we will be expected to follow the rules of our new lives. But the biggest of all rules, rule # 1, is that you never talk about the procedure….EVER!

Finally it my turn, none of the others have come back out and I assume it is because they have been taken out the back to their new lives. Slowly I get up, straighten my shirt so it hangs straight over my jeans, swinging my back pack over my shoulder I follow the leather vested attendant down the hallway. The flash art work slowly disappears and plain white clean walls stretches out in front of me.  We turn a corner and I find myself in a room with 4 people in white robes and they smile as I enter. The leather vested guy places a hand on my shoulder and pats it gently, winking his eye he turns and leaves the room with a soft click of the door.

They lead me over to the chair in the middle of the room and as I sit down I can feel the warmth of the last person who sat in it, strangely comforting. Each of the four robed figures place their hands on one of my legs or arms. There are no words in the room, just a general knowledge that the magic is about to flow through me and I suddenly panic and can’t keep still. Fidgeting till I am practically shaking the chair they grip my arms and legs tighter, a flood of cold streams into me coiling in my stomach and turns n to a brick of pure pain. This was not the warmth I was expecting, the agony is unbearable. The stabbing, pulsating pain of the cold grip gets worse and worse till I scream and just keep screaming, unable to stop till the world goes black.

I wake up to a pounding on the door and as I look around me, I am no longer held down. The four robed figures are in the fetal position on the floor. The room is no longer white and clean, but looks like it has been burned to a crisp. My stomach is painfully cramped, but nothing like the pain that I was sure I passed out from. Sliding from the chair my knees are weak and I barely make to the door and open it to see the ashen face of the man in the leather vest. “How did you do that” he asks breathlessly “this door does not lock, and no has ever screamed like you just did”. Shrugging I mumble something about intense pain and blacking out. That is when I look down at my arms, covered in beautifully inked shades of red, orange, pinks, purples, even green and golds…yes GOLDS!!!! Are flames, curling and dancing across my arms and hands, when I look at my legs they are there too.

Glancing at the leather vested man I find him on one knee bowing down to me, “what are you doing?” I hoarsely ask since my throat is still sore from my earlier screams.

Placing a hand over his heart he boom loudly in simple words that send a shiver straight to my core….. “Hail to the new High Lady.”

Novel Idea, Day 2

     Wow!  So far, I've had one story shared with me from yesterday, and it was, frankly, astoundingly brilliant.  I'm not surprised, given the source of the material, but it was simply amazing, and I encourage the writer to keep going!!  Thank you for sharing!!  It really means a lot!

Today's theme: The Peddler Man

Initial thoughts:  What does he peddle?  To whom?  Where?  Is he more than he appears?  Less?  Is he likeable or gross? Is he human?  Is this metaphor or real?  Why is a peddler important to write about?  What sorts of things happen that involve peddlers?

     The village was abuzz with the news: a peddler was spotted on the road, not a day away.  He would be there by nightfall, and everyone knew it by mid-afternoon.  All work ceased as the village prepared for the arrival of the stranger.  The windows were opened, the blankets aired, and housewives were making their young children tend the flower boxes outside.  The mixed smells of excitement and relief were in the air, and even the clover that covered the town green smelled sweeter in the spring air.
     Kinar was the one who brought the news.  He was out checking his traps early in the morning, as was his habit, when he spotted the wagon rumbling along the road, the metal wares clanking against the bright red sides.  The horse that pulled the wagon was old, and looked as though it had seen better days.  The man seated up high on the wagon looked equally as old, from what Kinar could tell from the distance.  He rode back to tell the village at once.

     That was how things worked in Stonebridge.  You saw something interesting on the road, and rather than going to investigate it, you went back to town to tell everyone about it.  Kinar was in his glory, telling time and again how he saw the peddler’s wagon this morning.  He was holding court in front of the town hall, at the moment, detailing to the young girls of the village all about his brief encounter, such that is was.

     Seth, Kinar’s elder brother and more silent of the two, watched from the stable across the village green, shaking his head.  “I’m not going to hear the end of this one for a while,” he said.

     “None of us will,” said Proth, “but there’s still work to be done.”

     Seth picked up his pitchfork and resumed moving the loose hay.  “Do you suppose he could be reminded to come and finish his work?”

     Proth laughed.  “Let him have his moment, lad.  It wasn’t so far off when you were same way, if I remember.”

     Seth blushed.  “Please tell me I was never as bad as him.”

     Proth smiled widely.  “If you wish, I can tell you that, but I won’t promise that I will be telling you the truth.”

     Seth scowled in response.  “You’re telling me I just have to live with this, aren’t you?”

     Proth beamed.  “With age comes wisdom, my boy.  Your brother will get there, too, but he must come to it by his own path.  Now, let’s get these horses tended.”

     It was early evening before the peddler actually arrived.  He was ushered into the inn, given a meal of roast hen with herbed potatoes and several mugs of brown ale to wash it down with, all while sharing the news of the outside world with anyone there who might listen.  The wagon was left to be awed and admired by the villagers, while Seth and Proth tended to the peddler’s bedraggled mare.  It was more excitement than Stonebridge had in years, and the peddler had not yet even opened his shop.

     The peddler himself was a lanky fellow, lean and thin, and possibly the oldest man Seth had ever seen.  He looked frail and tired, and the clothes he wore were starting to show their age.  It was the voice of the peddler, though, that was most surprising.  It was a big voice, clear and sure, a deep baritone that commanded the room in the inn, and as Seth listened between bites of his own meal, he found himself being drawn in by the man’s words.  He wanted to find out more about this peddler, and why he was in Stonebridge now.

Thanks for reading,

Me

Novel Idea, Day 1

Away we go, Kids!!!  Thanks for everyone taking part in this experiment.  I hope you find it a worthwhile journey.  As stated previously, there's no obligation to share, but if you so desire, I will be more than happy to post your sharing here if you wish.  What I'm after, more than anything else, is for people to enjoy writing fiction - or, at least getting ideas about fiction writing.  So, happy journeying, everyone - may it be enjoyable for you!!

Theme: Phrase - "The Red Brick Machine"

Initial thoughts: Is it a machine that makes red bricks?  A machine MADE of bricks? Is this a thing that already exists, or something I need to make up?  If I need to make it up, what does it DO - because, after all, that's the point of a machine - to DO something.  What if the word, "machine" is a moniker?  Perhaps it's not a mechanical device, but something else more "processed"?  That's when it hit me, and the following is my unedited offering of the topic.

     Andrew looked back as he walked across the quad.  It was the last time he’d ever walk out that door, down those steps, and across the expanse of green that served as the pastoral introduction to the school, and he couldn’t be happier.  Of course, it wasn’t really a school at all, but a large mansion on a hill that overlooked the sleepy little town of Tarrenton Plain.

     The town itself was nothing special.  It was your standard Hudson Valley town, whose mix of large and small colonial houses set close together, their pitched roofs able to handle the winter snows of New York, looked like every other sleepy little town.  It didn’t stand out in any way.  The town itself was a leftover of the old Tarrenton Planation, from where it took its name.  The Tarrenton family was long gone, now, and the land was broken up so that the plantation boundaries were no longer of any relevance, but vestiges of old stacked stone fences could still be found here and there.  If you looked hard enough, you might see how Washington Irving could have written his more famous works.  The inspiration was all around, and Andrew knew he would never see it again.

     He waved at the uppermost window of the great house, a tradition that every one of his predecessors did.  They all joked about it, what they would feel when they were finally allowed to leave the house and set out into the world.  Andrew now knew what that felt like.  It was nothing like what he imagined.  There was a certain finality to it, to know you would never be back, to never be allowed to write a letter to your younger compatriots.  Those were the rules, and they were held to strictly.

     The rules of the Mansion were clear, and once you were there, you spent years having them drilled into you, to the exclusion, often, of the rules of anywhere else.  Andrew knew the rules backwards, forwards, upside-down, in a mirror, and even in his sleep.  He dreamed of them.  He knew they could never be broken, and that, of course, was the point of the Mansion.  It was a school, and it was a lifestyle.  Those selected to the school were brought in and secluded from the world, where they were educated in economics, business, leadership, and many of the finer things in life.  But above all were the Rules.

     The rules were so important, so essential to the track of every student who passed through the doors, that the school earned a nickname amongst its alumni: The Red Brick Machine.  It was precise, it was succinct, it was brutally efficient.  Now that he was out, Andrew’s responsibility for his years at the school were simple: Make money, amass power, and provide for one future tenant of the school, both financially and as a mentor when the student was ready to leave.  And, of course, never talk about the Mansion.  Not even in private.  Secrecy was of the utmost importance, and you never knew who was listening.

     Andrew turned his back to the Mansion, and began his walk down the hill into town.  It was the way they all left the school, with nothing but a knapsack and the few personal belongings they were allowed to have.  He was to catch the bus to the city from there, and then, his life would begin in earnest.  It was a life of privilege, of wealth, or prosperity, all guided by the Rules that ran the Mansion.  He was a member of the most elite class, now.  They ran everything from the New York Stock Exchange to the policies of the federal government.  They were untouchable, protected.  Safe in their financial castles, they set the policy for the United States.  From there, they spread out to the world, and their influence was felt everywhere.  Andrew could now call himself one of them.

     The walk into town was faster than he imagined it would be.  He paid for his ticket at the post office that doubled as the Greyhound station, and took a seat on the bench to await the bus into the city.  He pulled the small package he was given from his bag, and opened it.  It contained a pen, a notebook, and a leather-bound copy of Machiavelli’s “The Prince.”  He understood it immediately.  Rule Seven.  He recited it in his head, and put the package back in his knapsack as the bus pulled up to the building.

Thanks for reading,
Me

A Novel Idea, Part II

OK, so I've had some surprising feedback when the Novel Idea hs been shared with others.  They're interested!  That leads me to think that there's got to be a way to make this easy, doable, and most importantly, FUN.  Seriously, this shouldn't be like a grade school assignment - writing should be an enjoyable experience!
SO, it's time to set down some ground rules:

1) There is no obligation to share.  If you want to share anything you create, please do so, either in a response post or just messaging me, or anything at all.  If you don't want to share - then don't!  Above all other things, writing is a personal journey.  Where you are on that journey is just that - it's where you are.  Any comparison should be only between what you wrote yesterday, and what you wrote today.  This is not a competition.  The idea is to explore.

2) No critiques - unless you specifically ASK for one, in which case, it will be done in private.  Never public.  This goes for anyone.  Don't do it unless a person asks you specifically to look at it.  Respect the fact that someone chose to share their work.

3) I have a list of prompts already, ranging from the silly to the surreal.  I was going to do a surprise reveal every day, but that's a lot to spring on a person, and it might feel more like an assignment than like something fun.  Besides, if people DID share what they came up with, then it might get tiresome reading a bunch of different takes on the meaning of "Blue Christmas" as sung by Elvis (no, don't worry, that's not a topic I plan on using - I just needed an example).  Then, I thought I would just make a calendar and publish it ahead of time so that people would know the dates for each topic.  That read like a syllabus, and this is not a college course.  So, I'm just going to publish the list, and anyone who wants to pick from the list for any given day can do so.  There may be updates to the list throughout the project.

4) Some of the themes/prompts are specific, with difficulties added.  They are meant to be challenging, to stretch the boundaries of thinking.  That being said, I wouldn't suggest leaving them all to the last few days.  I've tried to come up with a few of them, so that there might be one challenging idea a week, as well as some silliness each week, etc.

5) Some ideas look like they are specifically first-person oriented.  "You wake to find yourself on a spaceship" type stuff.  Don't read too much into that!!!  I don't care if you want to make this about "you" or about a random character you create to be in that situation.  That's not important....unless of course, that's one of those difficult challenges mentioned above!!!  (this may or may not happen)

6) Genres.  Virtually no limits on genre, except, please, keep it PG-13.  The occasional cussing, etc is fine, of course, and it's sometimes the appropriate thing to do.  I get that.  But please, generally, keep things mostly clean, ok??

7) Format.  Please list the theme/prompt you're doing, your initial thoughts/something you were aiming for, the genre you're writing in, and then, finally, post your entry.

That being said.....here's the list of prompts!!!!

Silly Prompts: (silly ideas that can be pretty light and simple to write about)
Dinosaurs!
Pirates!
Tattoo Shop
Pick a color you hate
Phrase: "There was the device."
Hostages
Earthquakes
The last dream you had suddenly becomes real
person/pet change places
Assassins - R - Us

Thoughtful Prompts (These are a little deeper)
Thankfulness
Forgiveness
Phrase: "The wind shakes me."
The Peddler Man
Magic is real
Multiple personalities
Hospital stay
Phrase:  "I'm dead."
The Prophet
life in the fast lane

In-Depth Prompts (these take some pretty deep thinking to pull them off)
The North lost the Civil War
wielding a weapon with which you are very familiar
The world is still "A" Theocracy
Tomorrow is the last day of the world, and you are the only one who knows it.
What if our whole world was a prison, and we just find out about it?
Phrase: "The Red Brick Machine"
Phrase: "There were a hell of a lot of things they didn't tell me when I hired on with this outfit."
trapped in a mirror universe
Pick a random city to be the new capital of the USA after a tragedy occurs in DC.
The primary mode of transportation in the world is the bicycle.

Difficult Prompts
Write from the opposite gender's point of view.  Difficulty: First-Person.
All alone on an island.  Difficulty: must be all conversation.
Pep Talk.  Difficulty: talking someone INTO committing a heinous crime.
World-ending plague. Difficulty: only 5,000 people may live.
Eulogy  Difficulty: it's for your funeral.

OK, that's 35 topics, and 30 days, starting November 1st.  Yup, there's some leeway built in!!

A Novel Idea

OK, kids, so here's the skinny:  November is National Novel Writing Month.  I have NO idea why a) they picked a month with 30 days instead of 31 to do this, or b) why we need a month for this at all.  BUT, there's this organization out there that does what they call NaNoWriMo - the challenge is to write a novel in a month - or, at least 50,000 words of a novel.  It's a mighty challenge.  I've tried it before, and didn't quite succeed.  In fact, given the stuff I do in my workshop for the holidays, it's rather foolish of me to do it at all.  So, how to best participate in this, then, if it isn't conducive to my schedule??  Thus, a new plan was formed, and I invite you all to join me.

THE NOVEL IDEA

Much like my forays into National Poetry Month, where I challenge myself to create a new poem each day, the Novel Idea pays an homage to Nat'l Novel Writing Month - only the goal isn't to write a novel.  The goal is simply to create a one-page scene, starting from a writing prompt.  Challenging??  Not yet.  The challenge comes in creating not just ANY scene....but the OPENING SCENE for a novel.  That first page of a novel, where you grip your reader, and set the whole tone for your world.  That's what I'm looking for.  By the end of it, the goal is to have 30 novel-ready ideas to explore.  Genre is totally flexible.  Horror, Historical Fiction, Sci-Fi, Fantasy, Period-specific, Mystery....the list goes on.

Why?  Because writing fiction is good for us all.  Fiction allows us to explore ideas and concepts in a way that is safe, to encounter the problems with those ideas, and where they fall short, and also where they can succeed.  It allows us to think creatively, and find solutions - in short, fiction allows us the chance to expand our world by expanding our vision.  It is a vital resource for us and for future generations.

What is a novel-ready idea?  It's a notion, really.  The prompts might be questions like "What would life be like if dinosaurs were still around?"  or "What if we never created the automobile?"   They might be random topics: "Imagine an apartment building where all the residents had only one arm" or "Imagine your favorite vacation place - only something has gone terribly wrong."  Here's the great part: you only have to write one page for each topic!!  It's harder than it sounds - particularly on limiting it to one page!!!

Why only one page?  Remember, this is an exercise.  There are several ideas at play: stimulating the imagination, honing the ability to write and communicate clearly, practicing brevity, character-creating, world-building.....really, the list goes on.

I know you want an example though, so here you go:  I was having a conversation with someone within the past year, and a phrase came up that someone was stealing someone else's sunshine.  The comment was made, specifically, "They are sun-thieves!"  I couldn't get the idea out of my head, and a few days later, I sat down and jotted down some words - the idea was to let them go, but save them for another time.  Here is the product of my jotting:

The Sun Thieves

     The corn was stunted.  There was nothing wrong with the soil.  Krev knew this.  He had it studied at the university, and the tests came back saying that his soil was perfectly suited to grow just about anything.  Nutrient-rich, holding the right amount of water, with just the right mixtures of sand, clay, and topsoil, the tests didn’t lie.  The weather cooperated to produce one of the best growing seasons he ever knew, and still, even though everything seemed in perfect order to produce the best crop possible, the corn was stunted, the stalks only barely reaching his knees.  It should have been that tall over a month ago.

     Krev would normally not be too concerned at this.  He was a farmer, and the one thing farmers knew with certainty was that bad years happen.  Sometimes there was too much rain, or not enough, or a blight moved in, or insects destroyed a crop.  These things happened, and every farmer knew it.  You did the best you could.  That was all.  Except, of course, that Krev wasn’t the only one facing this problem this year.  Every farm in the province was facing it, and there were rumors that it was even more widespread.  Something was dreadfully wrong.

     Krev thought it was the seeds.  Something must have gotten into the seeds and done something to them.  Maybe it was an infestation, or something faulty with the formula the Corporation was using.  By law, the Corporation supplied everyone their seeds, thus ensuring that there would be plenty of each crop to feed everyone.  Some farms would grow tomatoes, some would grow wheat, and Krev grew corn, most years.  The Corporation managed it all, rotating the crops as necessary, issuing permits and contracts as it deemed necessary in order to keep everything balanced. 

     It was not a perfect system.  Most farmers got away with growing and experimenting a little on the side, and the Corporation looked the other way, for the most part.  Unless, of course, you did something really good, and then it was confiscated by the Corporation in an attempt to replicate the crop, and see if it belonged in the system.  You had to be careful to not get noticed.  Some farmers experimented with hydroponic growing, but they had to be careful how much energy they used.  The Corporation monitored that, too.  They had to make certain the mistakes of the past were never repeated.  That was the sole point of the Corporation.

     Krev recognized it for what it was: a rebuttal to the mistakes made generations ago, when farmers polluted the land with fertilizers, and began to destroy the environment.  What followed was a century of abuse, eventually resulting in the Great Wars.  The wars raged on for almost a quarter century, and almost destroyed the planet.  That was when the Corporation stepped in and changed the world for the better.  It was a coup to all the warring governments, really, built on one great promise made by the head of InterScience Industries, Ms. Tam Carrera.  Ms. Carrera promised that she could feed and supply power to the world, and that no one would have to pay for anything, but the cost was that all armaments would have to be destroyed, and an immediate peace installed in all governments.  No more standing armies.  No more wars.  No more missiles or bombs, no more forgotten souls slipping through the cracks of society.  Everyone would benefit or no one would.

     The outcry was incredible, from all sides, but in the end, it was the religions of the world coming together that brought the world’s governments to their knees.  It became known as the Great Purge as the world was brought forcibly to accept the ultimatum.  The Purge promised utopia, and at the head of it all, Ms. Carrera delivered.  The last holdouts were the tribal warlords, those militant dictators who tried to hold on to their power, but they were soon eliminated.  InterScience stood tall at the end, the sole proprietor of the fusion system that made solar power efficient and available to everyone, free of charge.  

SO - who's up for joining me in this challenge????

The best people....

In the middle of this political season, a month before the always pivotal elections upon which our country runs, I found myself in conversation with my father.  He tends to be a bit more conservative than I, or I tend to be more liberally-minded than him - take your pick.  That doesn't really matter for the moment.  What matters was something that he said:  "These are the best two we could come up with?"

It dawned on me then:  No, these are not the best people.  No, these are not the people who should represent us to the world.  No, these are not the best choices available.  But then, here's the kicker:  They never really have been.  George Washington is often credited with saying something to the effect of "The only person worthy of having power is the one who doesn't want it," and maybe it's true that he said it (in this age of wiki-this and wiki-that, frankly, it's a wonder any research can be done at all.)  Maybe it's even true that he didn't want the job of POTUS.  I wasn't there, I didn't get to ask him.  But was he the best person?  Nope.  He was simply the person who stood up and said, "I will do this thing."

But I am hit with one inescapable fact:  I am 39 years old, born in this country, and therefore, able to run for election in this season, and I am sitting comfortably on the sidelines, watching it all happen.  Much like war - and I will take a moment to offer a simple "Thanks" to all those who volunteer to be in our armed forces - I have not volunteered to take part.  I did not stand up and say, "I will do this thing."  Nope, not me.  So two people - neither of whom I care for in the least - have done so in my stead.  They have volunteered to take this yoke of leadership upon themselves.  Meanwhile, I get to sit on the sidelines and criticize them for every little thing they do.  All because they said "yes."

Shame on me.

I don't get to do that.  Not anymore.  Much like I don't get to criticize a soldier who volunteered to go to the desert, or the jungle, or the tundra, I don't get to criticize them because I wasn't willing to do the same thing.

So, to those reading, I ask one thing: Stop the vitriol.  Stop the hating against Candidate X or Candidate Y.  Stop the arguing.  Stop the anger.  Stop the shouting from the rooftops.  Stop the ugliness that has become this election.  Talk, but more importantly, listen to one another.  Hear the heartache that is going on in many segments of our society, and do what you can to ease it.

We have the candidates we have because the best people, the people we wish would step up and lead us have not.  Because WE have not stood up to be those best people, we must deal with who we have been given to choose from.  Should we be angry?  Yes, but not at the candidates, and not at their supporters.  We should be angry at ourselves.  There is dignity at standing up when others refuse to do so.  There is an inherent nobility to the action of volunteering for the position.  Even if we really don't care for a candidate - or either of them - it is disgraceful to this country and to ourselves to spend time and energy tearing  down the people who said "yes" when we refused to do so.