Premeditating Writer: editing

Showing posts with label editing. Show all posts

Friday, April 24, 2015

This and That about my Writing

I am on my second and third novel now.

The first one was an experiment. I’m in love with the story, with the characters. I know them well. The pacing and building is off, though.

Second novel is better. Spent five years working on it. I’m in love with the story, with the characters. I know them well. The pacing is better. The blueprint is a tad short of perfect. Tried for a few months to get the manuscript published. No bites. Decided to shelf it for one year and went on to novel number three with some more knowledge and a better understanding of story building.

One hundred pages into novel number three, I got stuck. So I went back to BLOW FORWARD, novel number two and spent six more months on perfecting it. Tell you…I think it’s going to be a winner.

Writing is challenging. Thank goodness I love the whole journey. I love to take sentences rearrange them, then take paragraph and reorder them as well. Cleaning and moving furniture around. See what makes sense. It doesn’t get better than that.

I have been writing daily for seven years. I know…a drop in the bucket. A couple of my friends have been at it for twenty years.

For me, writing is the easy part.

The difficult part is taking my writing career to the next level. And that means having to extend myself beyond my comfort level. I’m willing to do that. But that’s another step in the growing process: learning the business, learning how to write queries, synopsis, go to conferences and pitch.

I could do without all that, if you ask me. I could just be happy in front of my computer all by myself.

No! On second thought, I’m lying. I’m driven. I AM a hard worker and I would like to reap some reward for my efforts.

Cleaning Up for the New Year

Henya blog , book

2014 is almost over, marking a time for a new beginning. No. I’m not talking about resolutions. I find them too easy to break. And setting goals can be overwhelming. We all have things that we want to accomplish in our lives — getting into the better shape, making more money, writing a best-selling book, etc.

For me it’s a time to discard all the pollution from the last 12 months that is overcrowding my life. Like throwing out all the stuff I don’t need or use anymore. It frees up needed space for all the things I’ll be able to throw away at the end of next year. Like murdering bad habits, like shaking off the negatives; like uncluttering my inbox of all the important emails I was going to read one day. As of today, I’m ending toxic relationships to free myself up for potential mistakes in the future. And maybe—just maybe—today, I will throw away some the shoes and boots I've amassed over the last twenty years. They don’t fit me anymore anyway.

Now, this is not much to ask for, right?

David

Henya editing , mystery

I remembered someone had once told me that death is lighter than a feather, and I will deny all knowledge of it.

At 3:45 in the morning, I awake from a dream. Suffering from sleeplessness, I see in the bathroom mirror, dark circles around my eyes brought on by the wrath of insomnia. The noise should have faded by now if only I could forget. I had stepped into a world where time stopped, and where joy ceased to exist.

I quietly slip under the covers again and move closer to my husband, which is how I like to remind myself that I am not alone, the curve of his body molding comfortably with mine. “The same dream?” His voice is soft in the night. He takes my scarred hand in his and brings it to his face. A silence between us grows warmer with each moment soon turns to whispers. I drift back to sleep. Later that night, I am again in my dream and again awakened by the loud bang.

I look up dazed and see that one of the balconies that had been over the toy store is lying smashed in the street. Glass windows are gone and all that remain is the metal grill which once held it up. Surrounded by the wall of terror the explosion induced, I realize death had spared me for the moment.

As in a dream, I move closer to the voice. He is young, perhaps in his early twenties. I kneel next to him trying to shake off my need for tears. Beads of sweat form on his forehead and his eyes glaze over with pain. He weeps. My heart fills with sorrow.

“What is your name?”

“David.”

I once read somewhere that our names contain our fates, and then wonder if David is a victim of his title. Blood trickls from his mouth, down to his throat and his legs are shredded above his knees. My heart begins to bulge, overfull with pity and sadness. He is shivering. I take his hand in mine and cover his body with mine. Our blood intermingles. It feels warm and sticky. My heart is beating frantically against his fading life and time ceases to exist until I feel a hand on my shoulder. “He is dead.”

I get up before dawn, sit in the living room with a blanket wrapped around myself, and feel emptiness, the kind that doesn’t stuff silence with words, the kind that looks at you straight in the face with a challenge.

“Let’s go for a walk.” I hear my husband’s voice.

Hands entwined, our moon shadows follow us side by side on the road.

Another Excerpt - Black Diamonds

Henya An Entry from My Book , drama

After the lunchtime rush, Jamie almost had the Diner to herself, which suited her frame of mind. She needed time to reflect on all that had happened since she had started working at the Eats three weeks ago. Waitressing was more difficult than she had thought it would be. She had to learn a new language, shout orders into the kitchen as she hurried through swinging doors bearing heavy trays of plates heaped with food. She was constantly moving from one table to the next, into the kitchen and back, to wipe tables spilled with drink and littered with food, to the garbage can with leftovers and dirty napkins.

Jamie glanced at the clock over the counter. Soon the dinner crowd would be trickling in. At first, most of the locals made no eye contact with her. And for days, they continued to watch as she moved around the room.

She knew that the stares were out of curiosity because she looked so different from anyone else in her black lace-up boots, pink uniform, and a fringed vest over it. She thought she was prepared, especially when she remembered what Mike had told her about this town, but the comments were persistent: “What…you’re twenty six years old and still ain’t married? No? Why?” or, “I was seventeen when I got married. By now two kids. A third on the way.”

At times Jamie conceded that perhaps she had made a mistake in taking this job. But she liked the steady and physical monotony of waitressing, of dealing with people who were so different than her.

Then there the other comments: “Those pinko resisters, dodgers from California. Hate them Communists. We went to get our heads blown off; had no choice. No choice except by turning traitor.”

They directed these remarks toward her: “Every boy from my high school class of ’69 who got drafted went to ’Nam, every single one, I tell ya, not a dodger or card burner among ’em. I bet where you come from, the guys were too busy smoking dope.”

And, “Look at you . . . what’s this you wearing, a hippy outfit?”

More often she heard, “I don’t understand what the fuss is all about. Seems to me that all I hear lately is ‘feminism’ this and ‘feminism’ that. I don’t know what it all means and I don’t care. Every person on this good earth deserves his due. What’s wrong with being a traditional woman? My wife never talks about it, and she always seems happy to me. You women’s libbers are just trying to stir up trouble.”

In the midst of the din, Cook often screamed, “I need help in the kitchen,” as he slammed plates on the counter.

Jamie should have told them to go to hell; instead, she placed her hands on her hips and eyed them up and down, taking in their Stetsons, cowboy boots. “Is that the best you can do?” she said at one point. “You want to see which of us can score the most points against the other? Because if that’s what you’re after, I’m not interested in playing. Now, what can I get you to eat?”

Eventually, the questions dried out. By the beginning of the third week, everyone knew where she lived. They found out that she had lived in Hollywood for four years, that this job was only temporary, that, no, she didn’t know how long she would stay. The most amazing thing was that since she’d left Los Angeles, Jamie had no regrets about it.

The Woman with the Jet-Black Hair

Henya Black Diamonds , blogging

A partial of the whole...

(An excerpt from my first book, Black Diamonds)

That evening at the Eats, Moldoun sharpened the edge of a match and used it to pick between his teeth. “Sometimes I see things I don’t want to,” he told Jamie, who had just returned with his order. “Men getting hurt at the mine, company not caring…”

Jamie was just about to set the plate in front of Moldoun when she stopped suddenly; just at that moment, getting off a motorcycle, there was the woman with jet-black hair. Jamie’s skin prickled all over.

“Sometimes I see things I want to see all the time,” Jamie blurted. She watched the woman take off her helmet and shake her long hair free. The entire restaurant grew hushed. Dishes stopped clinking; the hum of conversations drew far into the background. A deep excitement settled on Jamie as she watched the woman inspect her reflection in the side mirror of the motorcycle.

The young woman walked in with a slight sway to her hips and sat at the table by the door, Jamie could see hidden smiles and trailing looks. At that moment, Jamie wished she didn’t look and feel so tired and that her hair wasn’t in such disarray.

After taking a few other orders, Jamie walked over to the table where the black-haired beauty was sitting. She stacked the cup on top of the plate that had been left there by a previous patron, and wiped the surface of the table. The young woman’s hands rested on her lap, and Jamie watched them, with their thin, blue veins. On her left hand she wore a silver ring etched with an intricate design. Her nails were ragged and half-eaten, the skin around them uneven.

Jamie caught the young woman studying her. She became acutely aware that she was taking in her pink uniform, her army boots, and her black bandana wrapped around her left wrist. Jamie shifted uneasily in her confining uniform. She felt ridiculous.

The young woman spoke. “You’re new here, aren’t you?” Her voice was throaty. It came up from somewhere deep inside her chest. Jamie noticed that she was braless, and the gauzy fabric emphasized her nipples.

“Not that new. Ten days old,” said Jamie, smiling.

The young woman ran a small red tongue over her upper lip. “You’re tall.”

Jamie sent her a look from under her long bangs, which nearly covered her eyes.

“And muscular.”

“I like your bike,” Jamie said.

“You do? Really?”

“Really.” It pleased Jamie to see how eagerly she had sought her approval.

“It makes me feel powerful and free. You know, being out in the open with nothing between you and the air.”

Jamie wanted to hear her voice a little longer. “A car can do that too.”

“Not the same. I like the attention I get from riding it.”

“It’s a Suzuki TC 100, right?

The girl’s face lit up. “How do you know?”

“I know a good deal about motorcycles," Jamie said. "Had one when I lived in LA, a Kawasaki. It was a real beauty. I used to take long rides to Laguna Beach, sometimes all the way to San Francisco. Fact is, I’m thinking of buying another one.”

“Really? I know this guy, Jed, he rides a Kawasaki. It’s totally cool looking. Orange with lots of chrome.”

“Cool.”

The girl threw a glance at Jamie. “I love my bike, but it runs bad when I put the carburetor cover back on.”

“Could be a restricted air flow to the carb.”

To be continued...

Premeditating Writer

Friday, April 24, 2015

This and That about my Writing

Monday, December 29, 2014

Cleaning Up for the New Year

Saturday, February 05, 2011

David

Friday, January 21, 2011

Another Excerpt - Black Diamonds

Tuesday, January 18, 2011

The Woman with the Jet-Black Hair

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