Oh, hush. It’s only been two years since I updated this freaking thing. So it’s a little dusty. Here, let me just blow some of that off–

*coughchokewheezecough*

Right. *cough*

Where were we?

Oh, right. I’m back. And I’m writing again. Writing a LOT as a matter of fact. Back in November I made a promise to myself that I’d try to write every day. I even started a novel for Nanowrimo and managed to hit the 50K word mark within a month. Yay me.

Only, then a different bug bit me, and I started re-watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer. A lot.

Before long I found myself staying up ’til five in the morning and overdosing on fan fic. I was a mess. A drooling, twitching mess. I might have been hallucinating when the plot bunny hippity hopped into my living room. But it was cute, and white and fluffy and I thought… what’s the harm, really? I’ll just start writing.

Then the plot bunny started to multiply.

And multiply.

And multiply.

And now, almost seven months since I started, that plot bunny has become almost 300,000 words of Buffy the Vampire Slayer fan fic.

Yeah, you heard me: almost Three Hundred THOUSAND words. That’s… a lot of words. It’s more words, I think, than all of my other fics combined. And it’s not done yet… though the light is at the end of the tunnel and I’m starting to breathe the fresh air on the other side.

So because it’s SOOOOO freaking long, I’m breaking a long standing personal rule and posting it before it’s finished. Not all at once, no. I am going back and doing major edits on all the chapters, with the help of my favorite beta editor, Phuriedae. When each chapter is polished until it squeaks, only then will I let it loose on the internet.

You can read it here: West of the Moon, East of the Sun

Now, I know that some of my Labyfic readers are going to be disappointed that I’m playing in another fandom. Please, don’t worry your pretty little heads. I have a new fic coming for you guys, too. It’s also long form (though thankfully no where near as long as the Buffy fic), and getting close to done, but you’re going to have to wait until that one is finished before I start posting it.

What I do think I’m going to do, however, is start talking about West of the Moon as I post it. I’ve learned a lot about writing while working on this, especially about writing really long form fic, and long character arcs and plot developments. If, that is, anyone is interested.

Yeah, I know… there’s not too many people who read this blog. They’ve probably forgotten it even exists.

I know I kinda did.

I’m writing again.

My muse is a fickle, jealous thing, and he tends to take offense at extended periods of neglect. And I have been neglecting him rather badly.

December of 2005 I descended into madness, and within a month I churned out 35,000+ words that became the story “Immortal Love.” Immediately upon finishing it, I started writing “Dangers Untold.” 17,500+ words in… I lost the beat. It died a cold, stunted death, and I stood there, frantically searching for the trail for…

oh…

two years, five month, and eleven days.

During that time I picked up a couple of other stories and finished them. “What you Wish For” is a particular favorite. “The Price of Dreams” was written under what I can only describe as a fit of madness.

At one point, it occurred to me that the way forward is sometimes the way back, and so I started writing “Shove’s Tale.”

I was right.

While at first that one was hard going (do you have any idea how hard it is to go back and rewrite a whole story from the point of view of a minor character? One who had a whole ‘nother set of problems going on? Different interactions with the main characters, sub plots and storylines that interwove and affected the original storyline but that the main character must remain oblivious to? Huh? HUH?) lately it has picked up, and by writing it I’ve discovered the trail of “Dangers” again.

I also partially blame this on Phuriedae, my loyal beta, and Lixxle, new friend and psychologist. And Subtillior, who got some of those gears grinding again.

Yes, the rumors are true. I’m writing again. Slowly, sometimes not without a great deal of agony, but I’m writing again. I will finish Shove’s Tale and post it as I go, as intended. “Dangers,” however, I’m keeping back until ST is finished. I want to make sure it’s done, make sure it’s complete and edited and makes sense before I post it.

However, as a show of good faith, for you loyal few who’ve found me here, I’ll be generous and post a small excerpt.

(from “Dangers Untold”… currently in progress
Plot–if you’ve not been following so far– after the events at the end of Immortal Love, it is revealed that the Labyrinth itself has had a hand in things. Vast, sentient, and very, very insane, the Labyrinth has taken steps to retrieve its chosen Queen and to equalize her with its King. Specifics have not been given yet, but Sarah and Jareth have found themselves forced to run the Labyrinth’s longest and most deadly path, one that is normally reserved for humans who abuse and neglect the children they wish away. They have thirteen days in which to reach the castle. In addition, Jareth has been blocked from the majority of his magic, and Sarah has been given access to it. Wild and unpredictable, the magic could kill or destroy her if she doesn’t learn to control it–and Jareth is neither a patient, nor a willing teacher. Here we find them trapped in a vast maze of Underground tunnels, and Sarah is worrying because they have no way of measuring how much time they have left…)

The tunnels sometimes twisted unexpectedly, and she’d lost all sense of bearing long ago. She had no way of gauging how far they’d gone, no idea at all of how much further they had to go. It bothered her. She remembered her last trip through the Labyrinth. Remembered how she’d run into creatures who had helped point the way. Here there was nothing, no helpful hands, no doorknockers, no sign that anything had ever lived here or ever would. It was as inhospitable as a maze could be and she thought, had she been an abusive parent, she would probably have given up long ago. It still would have been too late. There was no going back now. She had no desire to encounter the Echoes again, or to traverse that long lonely Wasteland.

Jareth would not stop, would never give up, never turn back. There was no choice for her, she would go on because he would, and because some part of her was still that determined girl from before. She wanted to unravel this knot, to find the center again, to beat this unbeatable challenge.

The time still bothered her. Even if she had no idea of how far they still had to travel, she wanted to know how much time they had left to do it in. In her mind she toyed with the box. Sarah could still feel the magic in there, roiling, eager to escape. Was Jareth right? Would it rip her apart to use too much of it, too fast? Probably, she thought, remembering the way it had unleashed itself in the Wasteland, the strength it had put forth in the caverns. But if she didn’t learn how to use it, then Jareth would remain powerless, they might not make it to the castle in time, and if they did… she did not want to think about that yet. His words still stung.

She was on her own.

Sarah thought about time. In her world, time was something that was measured for you. You seldom had to sit down and look at the stars or the sun any more and guess what hour it was. There were always clocks or watches or cell phones or computers that would answer the question for you. There were calendars to tell you what day it was. They announced it on the news. Even if she could magically create a watch or a calendar she had no way of knowing how much time had passed since they’d arrived.

Only the Labyrinth knew that.

If only she could ask it.

Abruptly she stopped. Why couldn’t she? She’d heard it speak. Heard it answer when Jareth had gotten angry with it. If she did have his power, or some of it, then shouldn’t she be able to talk to it, too? How did one go about talking to the Labyrinth, though?

Ahead the passage went on as far as she could see in the torchlight. Jareth hadn’t noticed her halt yet, and continued stalking into the darkness, his black silhouette sharply outlined by the flickering light of the perpetual torch. Sarah closed her eyes and reached out and touched the wall with one hand. It seemed appropriate to be in contact with something before she tried this.

“Hello?” she said in her mind, trying to direct the thought at the wall. “Um… Labyrinth, can you hear me?” There was no response. She felt foolish, talking to a wall. Maybe if it had a face? She remembered the False Alarms, with their giant features chiseled from the gray, glittering rock. There had been that friendly one, so eager to speak his lines. Trying hard to remember its features, she tried again, “Hello?”

“What?(Whatwhatwhat?)(who?)(what?)(Wakeu

p!)(Shhhhhhh!)(LadySarahspeaks)(lady?lady!)(Saaaaawwwah?)(M’lady!)(What?)SHUTUP!Listen!”

She felt the dull edges of her headache sharpen again, the knife’s edge of pain beginning to cut. Ignoring it, she pressed her hand flat to the wall. She needed the right words.

“We have been traveling for so long now. Please, how much time do we have left?”

There was a brief argument as all the creatures of the Labyrinth conferred. She heard them bicker. Time was an alien concept for some of them, for others it moved faster or slower. She felt all this, and them gathering to respond, just before something slammed into her, wrenching her away from the wall.

“Ten days, twelve hours, twenty nine minutes and eleven seconds,” Jareth said pleasantly. His odd eyes were dark in the dim light. He was still angry. “Twenty eight minutes, now.” His gloved hand banded her wrist, holding it beside her head. He regarded it as if it were a potentially lethal weapon. “Clever girl,” he mused. “But I can hear when you do that. You don’t know how to shield yourself and the Labyrinth is not quiet.” Very carefully, he let her go. “I would not do that again, were I you.”

“Can you stop me?” Sarah asked, defiant.

“Precious thing,” he said softly, reaching out to brush back a lock of her hair. “Can you imagine a world in which I would not try?” Then he turned and continued on, leaving her no choice but to follow.

x-posted to my new(ish) LJ: http://knifeedgefic.livejournal.com

Here’s an excerpt:

Hope, hate, haunt—they jumble up in my head. Dim room, desk here, chair here. Reality solid and unyielding—no, unforgiving—beneath my feet. So many years, but forgiveness comes slower still. I’m confused, distorted.

On my desk is a dream.

One, two, three, ten, fifteen of them along the walls. These you can touch. You can walk up to them, confront them, breathe in the heady odor of paint and pastels. If you wanted you could smudge your fingers in them. Mine are coated with the dust of my dreams. In the right light, it even glitters.

There are books full of them, a stack on the floor nearby, a grotesque little face peering (leering) out where one page came loose from the rest. In my imagination it winks at me, sly and sketchy. There’s a couple of sketchbooks on the floor near the bed, last night’s dream still lying open where I dropped it, exposed. Glimpse of charcoal chiseled features, white chalk fluff of hair.

There are other dreams from other years, the first few doodled in notebooks. Etchings of memory, things you don’t want to forget. Later, they grew larger, scribed in pencil and ink and paint. Some sold, gone to those who collect such things. Some hang in other people’s homes, turpentine reminders that reality isn’t always far from fantasy. Some wait still in galleries, waiting, wishing.

Still, they are mine. My memory. My imagination. My nighttime wanderings in a labyrinthine landscape I will never quite escape. Some things are true: I doubt I will ever quite find my way out again. I don’t think I want to.

I leave the dream on the desk and turn away.

Read the rest here: The Price of Dreams
The story was inspired by artist Pika-la-Cynique, over on DeviantArt. She does some spectacular fan art based on Labyrinth, and had posted a challenge (long ago) for people to write fics based on some of them. I really loved this image, and eventually it spun itself a story: Here’s the Day

Looking at the drawing, I loved all the other little clues in it to Sarah’s personality. The eraser, the sketches taped to the wall, it all said “artist” to me. I’ll also admit to some strong inspiration pulled from ScatteredLogic’s story “The Enticement.” But I also loved how the painting was almost from Sarah’s POV. We don’t see her in the painting, only her reflection. (There’s a good bit woven into the story about reflections, and seeing things indirectly, too, if you want to take the time to hunt for them.) It was mostly that which inspired me to write it in the first person, present tense. Normally, I hate that sort of narration, but for this it really seemed to work. It gave it a dreamy kind of edge, and a sort of stream of consciousness feeling, like we’re experiencing it along with her. It also gives you a rather interesting glimpse into her mind, which is still full of fantasy. I’ll confess to reading some of Vladimir Nabokov’s work to get me in the right frame of mind, too. His imagery is really sensual, and the synethesia-like descriptions in this story were important to me. Poetic prose can be really difficult, but I’m please with this. Also: all the alliteration.

Got a question or comment about the story? Ask away, little Goblins.

Should the author of this want to strangle someone for the following: I’d recommend throttling your thesaurus. Really. It’s not doing you any favors. The story in question is “Just Peachy” by pit author The Slow Hand Muse. Comments in GREEN are from Miss Phurie. This is not the whole story. If you want to read it, just follow the link.

If you want to read Phurie’s thoughts on it, the rest is below the jump.

I tried to comment throughout the whole thing. I had a small stroke about a quarter of the way through, and decided to break it up into my “favourite” chunks. You’re really not missing anything. Just imagine me yelling “DOES NOT COMPUTE!” at the author at the end of every sentence. For about forty odd paragraphs.

(I’d blame KnifeEdge for this horrible experience, but she DID try to protect me by refusing to link me to the fic. I’m a glutton for punishment however, and hunted it down)

Just Peachy by The Slow Hand Muse

She swore lightly as the pager beeped again, the annoying buzz seeming all the more loud for the close confines of the booth at their favorite Diner. It never failed; she’d finally gotten her best friend away from her social activities and her own work schedule for a casual lunch and BAM…. The small annoyance (Do you think it’s annoying, by any chance?) sounded again as the russet-haired young woman glared across the table at the frantic blonde (Do you know their names? Then use them. We all know the brunette is Sarah – there’s no suspense here) digging through the bottomless pit she called a purse. Relentless and ruthlessly the black cased devil (No, seriously! I really can’t tell) wailed till finally the girl gripped expertly painted fingers around the bit of plastic and machinery. (Unlike all those other pagers out there that are made of bubblegum and sticky tape? Hands up who really couldn’t have extrapolated that detail for themselves? It’s okay, though. Luckily for you readers, this is the last time superfluous detail will ever happen in this fic.

Hah. Gotcha.)

“Damnit, Leslie, can’t we have even one moment without something coming up?,” she breathed out irritably her face resting against the palm of her hand, her elbow firmly and impolitely planted on the table (And where on the table was it planted? Left or right arm? We need to know these things.) as she stirred her straw about the glass disturbing the ice and what little remained of her soda. (I’m going to bet right now that I could strip this fic to a quarter of its original word count without losing any important plot points)

“I’m sorry Sarah,” the blonde merely smiled apologetically as a loud exhale escaped her own pursed lips, her blue eyes flashing in the same echo of frustration and irritation. (She’s smiling, pursing her lips, speaking, and loudly exhaling at the same time? Look, I know women are supposed to be good at multi-tasking, but really…) “I have to go…. It’s my work.” Leslie hung her head in defeat, wisp of blonde hair falling into her eyes and shadowing her face. Canting (casting) her head to the side the blonde slowly raised her eyes to her friend, tried to paint her expression sheepish and apologetic as much as possible. (We get it, ok? She’s sorry. And a really bad drama queen.)

A slight smirk set to Sarah’s darkly painted lips (That had better be a deep, tasteful ruby red we’re talking about.) as she tossed the straw across the table at the rueful expression of her friend,(She threw a STRAW at her? What is she, six?) she wasn’t falling for it (Please fall for it. I don’t want to see Leslie’s defeated canting act again) as a light spray of dark sticky liquid dotted the surface between them and spattered the offending girl’s dark blue shirt. “You always do this,” a pout was forming (My mistake. She’s four.) across her own mouth (Her OWN mouth? So who is this – someone who stole Sarah’s mouth and made it smirk two seconds ago? I think I prefer that to the idea of Sarah POUTING), her disappointment cutting deep, but then she always knew it would happen, it always did. No one ever had time for her any more; no one ever remembered that Sarah needed attention too. (My god. Pre-Labyrinth Sarah was whiny, but she was never this pathetic.)

“Its not…” the last word caught in her throat, rang oddly in her head before she clamped her mouth shut and lowered her eyes, muttering softly, “I’m sorry for throwing the straw at you. You better go.” She bit back the sigh threatening to spill forth (What, because a sigh would be too much on top of the swearing, bitching and throwing things?)as she raised her glance unable to bring her eyes up (She just DID) and around to Leslie, afraid to show her the raw and unheralded loneliness and pain there in those shifting hazel depths. (You’re hearing Linkin Park lyrics just like I am, right? Don’t lie. Come sing with me!)

“Look, I’ll make it up to you,” the blonde pleaded softly eyeing the small device with great disgust as it buzzed again. (I’m starting to feel quite sorry for this poor pager. It’s only doing its job.) She forcefully pushed the button, grumbling, “I hear you damnit.” Without further thought she threw the object back into her purse, not caring that she might miss or even break it (Seriously. Let’s all root for the pager. It might make this less painful.) as she turned sympathetic eyes towards the sullen and brooding girl. (Maybe not.)

*******
Sarah runs off to the bathroom because she doesn’t want to look like a drama queen in front of Leslie. Oh honey, THAT ship has sailed.

Generic walls done in light creams, metallic silver stalls greeted her in absolved silence as she pushed through the swinging door with the little pink and white sign, the symbolic ‘female’ adorning said sign the shape of a stick figure in a dress. It suddenly occurred to her that maybe this wasn’t the women’s restroom, maybe it was for cross dressers, I mean other than the dress the figure looked rather androgynous to her. And she’s known a guy or two that wore a dress better than she did. Another cynical smirk tugged at her mouth as she took her hands from her pockets and turned to face the ordinary and sterile mirror that lined the wall before the three deep basin sinks. (Yes, for those of you wondering at home – that WAS an entire paragraph dedicated to the diner’s toilets.)

Ignoring her reflection was automatic these days; she didn’t like the person staring back at her. The pale flesh (no…) accented by brackish lipstick (please no…), the smoky eye make up (SONUVA…! You did it. You bloody well turned Sarah into a Goth. By the way, applying smoky eye makeup and dark lipstick requires pretty intense consideration of the mirror. Keep your cliches straight.) giving her once lively hazel eyes a haunted cast. It didn’t matter because more than not, she couldn’t see it anymore, there was no face staring back at her inside the glass. Sometimes she swore there were other things, but it only gave cause to not look even more intently.

(IIII’VE BECOME SO NUMB! I CAN SEE YOU THERE…!)

She’d become invisible even to herself, everyone around her had pushed her existence off to the side, forgotten and waylaid like an old tattered photograph faded away to nothing. Naturally it’d been ingrained into her how unsubstantial she was because well it was what everyone thought; she might as well follow their lead. (BECOME SO TIRED! SO MUCH MORE AWARE I’M BECOMING THIS!) Following along someone else’s footsteps had become as normal as breathing. Maybe eventually she’d just disappear because no one would see; no one would know that Sarah Williams had ever been.

******
She returns to find Leslie has left her dessert. Is is cheesecake? Is it brownies and ice cream? We get a whole paragraph dedicated to drawing out the suspense.

Yes, of course it’s peaches. It’s always bloody peaches. The title of the story mentions peaches. Just try and look surprised, ok?

It hadn’t registered coherently when her hand went for the fork, gripped the silver and moved to dip into the cobbler. The dismay elusive like a nymph running through the trees, captured and manifest too little too late as the first nectareous touched her dark lips. (…Huh? Excuse me while I go see if English is this chick’s first language.) She wasn’t entirely positive she wanted to fight against the pulling, the need to taste this time. She just wasn’t that strong anymore. (Yeah. Sarah, defeater of the Labyrinth, kicker of the Goblin King’s ass, just CAN’T stand up to the scary badass peach freakin’ cobbler)

The brisk clean taste of pure vanilla danced over her tongue cool and comforting just before being entwined and enhanced with the saccharine flavor of ripe and juicy fruit. “Why does it have to be so good, “ she could only whisper as her eyes fluttered closed, the contents washing warm and gratifyingly down the back of her throat muffling an ambrosial mewl (ambrosial is not the word you’re looking for) at the tastes dancing over her palate.

The world spun behind her eyes, the light of the restaurant filtered and hazed through the suddenly heavy lids, delicately dark lashes resting against slightly flushed cheeks as a look of pure enjoyment and long forgotten peace fell over her features. The oddest sensation of floating bubbled up from her stomach, spread through her limbs in a weird and fascinating sense of duel perceptions of real and unreal. On the one hand she could feel the seat beneath her and on the other she felt as is she were descending, falling through the cracks of reality between motes of light and the heavenly intoxication of peaches. (Look, I’m sure all these words together on a page look very, very pretty. Well done. But next time you want to put all your favourite words from the dictionary together, make a collage. Next time you want to write a fanfic, make sure it’s intelligible.)

*******
Now, this is the part that KnifeEdge sucked me in with. The description of Jareth. The real Jareth is over in the corner, killing himself with laughter.

The air crackled with his power, small motes of dust caught in the winds caressing with whimsical fingers over his enchanting form, making the light glitter ensorcelled with his virile presence (Light doesn’t glitter, it makes other things glitter. Dust certainly does not make light glitter) The breath stole from her lungs at the beauty of his ethereal handsomeness. (“The beauty of his ethereal handsomeness?” Aww, and he sweats gorgeousness and breathes sexiness and sweet radiance shines out the backdoor.) The angular features of his finely boned face were haughty and playful with the promised kiss at the corner of his mouth teasing and pulling the thinly mouthed lips into a smirk. The pure white of fallen snow lay around his lithe body as if the flakes themselves could be molded to perfection to the fine and enticing lines of his lean and athletic physique. (Jareth snowman!)

About his shoulder lay a cape of white, the feathers and fur so diaphanous as to come not from any mortally made creature (I’m not sure what to make of this. Either animals are supposedly “made” by mortals or Jareth skinned and plucked an immortal one. That’s going to be one pissed off griffin.) with such softness. Alabaster and cream, the smoothness of his muscular chest could be viewed from between teasingly gaps of the white poet’s shirt, the fringe laying in artful creases to the masterpiece of design. Embossed and raised, leaves in swirling of carefree winds coursed through the light grey leather of the low necked vest buttoned tightly to mold to his form. (I got nothing. Decipher it yourselves.)

Strong and nubile (Nubile? NUBILE? Even if you want to call him Bowie’s age, that’s beyond pushing it.) legs bore skin tight breeches all the same pure shade of white (Artistic nitpick – white doesn’t have shades, dammit!), having the impression of being painted on and leaving every detail of his masculine stature boldly apparent to her roaming eyes. The only mar in all that perfect the stiff black leather of highly polished riding boots capped off at the knees. It was possible his exotic appearances could have been appreciated by her younger mind back them, but were once she was ignorant she was now painfully aware. (So she appreciated his appearance, but was ignorant of it?)

The thundering of her heart raced and fluttered in against her breasts just as his first whispered tauntings had stirred in her body. A slow shuddering breath escaped her lips, set flight to the rush of butterflies threatening to overfill her belly and explode out her pores in desperate need of release. (This girl has never felt desire. Ever.) The sparse light turned the platinum of his wild and unkempt hair into fine spun strains of moonlight, set it to caress his face like docile lovers stealing embraces in a hedonistic fashion. (Docile, but hedonistic. And how does that work again?) How she longed to be a strand of that thistle down mass clinging for a lingering moment to the curve of his epicurean mouth.

*******
The climax! Oh, what will happen? You may think you’ve missed vital dialogue and plot in between this part and the last. You’d be wrong. Jareth asked Sarah if she understood. She said yes. He offered her a crystal. She turned it down. This took up several hundred words and approximately four lines of dialogue. I’m still not sure if anything actually happened.

A tiny death, so melodious, so fleeting as his lips came down upon hers in one last parting kiss. (They never kissed before this. Or maybe they did. I might have missed it in between all the prancing moonbeams and glittering spangles of sparkliness.) The world exploded into a thousand points of aching pain and divine pleasure with the softness of that sensual mouth so pensively exploring the contours of her lips. His tongue darted out to taste the bitterness of her lipstick before pouring into the welcoming passage of her embrace, hungrily growing bolder. More insistent in his discovery as a faint mewling crawled in want of more from the woman’s own throat as he thrust his tongue deep, playing the fleshy digit (ick?) along her own and claiming that unique taste that was purely hers greedily for himself.

Well. I don’t know about you, but I’M turned on.

She could hardly breathe around the heated embrace, each being pulled from his own mouth, each leading her further from the warmth of his gloved hands and scorching across her mouth with the deliciousness of each sinfully deprived nibble. Perceptions shattered (with every nonsensical phrase), painted in violent succession behind her eyes as the half light of moon and shadow gave way to the blinding illumination of overhead lights and tacky surroundings. Once more the bench firmly beneath her rear as it always had been and the pleasant scents of newly prepared foods enticed her from her half dream state.

And the moral of the story is? Jareth can be summoned by eating peaches. TOTALLY worth the read, right?
…
Why are you all crying?

So what have we learned from this, Little Goblin scribes? One: don’t write bad fan fic or it will make Phurie’s head go ‘splody. Two: Put the Thesaurus down carefully and sloooooooooowly back away. Three: There is such a thing, I promise, as TOO much of a good thing. A sprinkling of big words=good. A Noah and the Ark sized deluge=Not so good. A little bit of description to set a scene, describe a character, get across a mood=good. Making us wade through the description to get to whatever it is you want us to know=not so good.

To the author of this… yeah. We snarked you. I’m sorry, but… really, hun, you need a beta. Preferably one that knows English and the right way to approach a sentence. I’m not sure I’d recommend Phurie… for one thing, she’s mine. For another, she’s kinda scary when she gets going.

I’m now going to slink off and rewrite whole sections of Immortal Love out of shame.

I’m sorry. Sometimes life just gets in the way.

Still working on “Complications” but in the meantime, let’s talk about books.

Specifically lets talk about books that make you go all fangirl(boy) squealy inside. I don’t actually write book-based fan fic. Well, not since a brief foray into Dragonlance when I was a kid, but if I *were* going to, here are a few of the books I’d love to explore.

Dragonlance Chronicles by Margaret Weis and Tracey Hickman

I’m a big fan of this original trilogy, and some of the early novels based on this series totally rock. Lately the sequels have earned my disfavor, generally by just being repetitious and boring. Also, lots of Dead Characters. I mean, yes, time goes on, wars happen, people get older, but… do they all have to die and/or go angsty? *Sigh* But yeah, if you go back to the beginning, it’s a romping good series full of dark gods, epic quests, heroes and anti-heroes, and lots of dragons and magic. Cause that’s what TSR did best.

The Belgariad and the Mallorean by David & Leigh Eddings

Possibly my favorite Epic Fantasy series (plural) ever. Five books in each series. Two series makes ten. Plus two stand alone prequels makes twelve. And one Codex/World Encyclopedia makes thirteen. This thing is HUGE, and vastly entertaining. It’s your classic, sword in the stone, hidden prince grows up and finds out he’s to be king. But there’s dark gods afoot and evil magicians and immortal sorcerers and spies and viking pirates and knights in shinging armor and half-dryad princesses running around causing all sorts of trouble. Not to mention a sentient bit of rock or two that will come together in an epic battle of good against evil that will make you laugh, cry, and hold your breath a time or two. Not to be missed.

Stardust by Neil Gaiman

The movie just came out, and it’s close enough that you’ll get a lot of what happens in the book. But there’s so much that can’t be translated to screen, so I highly recommend reading the book if you haven’t yet. Wicked Witches, Fallen Stars, UnLikely Heroes, Sky Pirates, and Evil Princes abound. This is one that is part love story, part adventure, and all fairy tale.

This concludes part one. Stay tuned for part two.

In FOUR pages of stories, I found ONE that looked readable. This saddens me. I tend to scan summaries for certain words, looking for warning signs. Certain words come with big, blaring sirens and red lights flashing.

KnifeEdge’s List of Summary Keywords to Avoid At All Costs:

• Self insertion
• OC/anyone
• “daughter”
• modern
• sucked into TV/Movie/Hollywood
• transported into the future/past
• me and my friends

That weeds out about 98% of the stories in the Pit, not leaving very much.

Let’s take a look at some of the more recent summaries in the Pit. I’m not linking to the stories, or including the titles. I just want to examine why some summaries work, and some really DON’T.

This is yet another insert fic. I get sucked into the world of POTC Curse of the Black Pearl. How will the story change when I’m in it? COMPLETE!

Okay, first of all… who are you? Why are you so interesting that you think I’d want to read a story about you? Why would I want to read a story where you change the whole plot to fit yourself in, when I liked the plot very much as it was? This is the kind of story I pretty much put a great big red X over when skimming. I had a creative writing teacher in college who gave us a lecture on Why You Shouldn’t Write Yourself Into Your Stories (unless they’re non-fiction, first person, of course). For one thing, he said, the temptation to make yourself better than you are is always there, which makes your character unbelievable. No one wants to write themselves in a bad light. Second, you’re boring. No one but your friends and family know you, nor do they care about you. Why would other people want to read a story about you?

That’s right! Your fav Pirate buddy’s are going to Holloywood to cook up some more trouble. The Pirates take their first plane ride, Elizabeth blow’s up a shop and Norrington knocks down the famous Hollywood sign! Plus much more! Ch 4 now up!

I count four spelling/grammar mistakes in a three line summary. That doesn’t bode well for the rest of the story, and yes, I’m picky about spelling. Second… so… we’ve ditched plot, canon, and character, distilled it all down to some broad brush strokes, and added a wacky sort of plot line. Let me leap right on that one… Don’t get me wrong, parody in the right hands can be a fun experience, but this doesn’t read like parody so much as someone playing with Jack Sparrow action figures.

AWE Spoilers! At the Brethren Court Meeting Jack is reunited with his father. It’s the first time he’s seen him in years. But who’s to say that his father won’t be the only one he’s reuniting with in several years? And what would make Jack Sparrow cry?

Okay, this one is a bit better. Slightly interesting premise. However, my suethor detector is pinging. “But who’s to say that his father won’t be the only one he’s reuniting with in several years?”… hmmm. That implies that there is a character that Jack knew a long time ago that’s going to miraculously turn up. And that this someone is probably going to make Jack cry. You know, maybe it’s me, but I can’t picture Jack crying over much. Possibly his ship being blown up, or dropping a canon ball on his foot and accompanying it with a lot of swearing. Jack, however, seems to be pretty resilient. Why waste time crying over something when you could be figuring out a way to turn it to your own profit? I think I’ll pass over weepy Jack.

Jack finds a misfit in a whorehouse. Tell me if I should continue, and hurt me if it starts turning into a marysue. JackxOC

Right. I haven’t even read it and I’m already looking for sharp objects. If you picked up a book and it had this on the back cover, would YOU read it? I don’t usually start reading something if the author makes it a point to tell me it’s likely to go bad.

A looting mistake lands a young woman aboard the Black Pearl. She believes herself to be a prisoner to its captain but little does she know that she has imprisoned something in him, his heart. JOC WE I apologize for the crappy title

Again with the apologies… Also, the Cliche-o-meter is rating this plot summary at Horse Beaten to Pudding level.

Set directly after DMC and continuing through AWE: Barbossa is back and needs the help of an old flame, to fix things. BarbossaOC

Okay, I’ll give this one points for originality. However, it looses points for squick factor. Did you SEE At World’s End? Barbossa’s idea of romance involves bellowing at his “love” like a bad Shakespearean actor. I think I’ll pass…

A oneshot paying homage to a brave soul, a boy with dreams and hopes. This fanfiction is concerned with the cabin boy hung at the beginning of At World’s End and why it was he faced that fate.

Finally, a decent summary. Could be tightened up a bit, but it’s clearly got an original plotline, it’s spelled correctly, no apologies. Good job.  I actually read this one, and enjoyed it very much.

Summaries, I’ve learned about through trial and error. My first few summaries sucked nearly as bad as some of these–and I wince whenever I have to read them. Your summary is what sells your story. Even though fan fic is written for fun, you still want people to read it, right? So don’t sabotage it before they’ve even clicked on the link.

Tips for a good summary:

1. Give people a real taste of what your story is about. Think about book summaries on Amazon, or book jackets. Think about how they’re worded, the kind of information they include. Use that as your template. Or think about movie trailers “In a world where…” Okay, maybe not THAT cliche.
2. Don’t apologize. For anything. Really. I’m not going to read something if you feel you need to apologize for it.
3. Check your spelling. Check your grammar. It’s highly indicative of how the rest of your writing is going to go.
4. If you can’t think up a good summary have your beta reader write one for you. Often they’re good at pinpointing what a story is really about, because they’re not as close to it as you are.
5. If you STILL can’t think of a good summary: give us an excerpt from the first part of your story. Something that will hook the reader and make them want to know what happens next.
6. Above all: don’t write crappy stories. Really. It’ll improve the quality of your summary if your story doesn’t suck.

As always, remember: advice should be taken with a large amount of salt.

We’re creeping up on the last midnight, the final showdown, the last chapter. In only a matter of days we’ll know how it all ends. Who lives, who dies. I’ve been reading up over at the HP-Lexicon, boning up on the rumors and theories, and forming some of my own.

I hope Harry lives.

I have fond memories of Harry. When the first book came out I was still in high school. I remember seeing it on the New Fiction shelf at my local library nearly every day I was in, and wondering why it wasn’t in the kids section. Finally I gave up and checked it out–read it through in a matter of hours and was instantly hooked. There was just something about it that was–for lack of a better word–enchanting.

I picked up the others soon after they were published, and read them just as quickly. I remember sitting in the theater, watching the first movie, my head full of drugs from having my wisdom teeth yanked a day or so earlier, and loving every moment. I remember checking out book five and reading it straight through in about ten hours. I think I cleared book six in about eight.

I remember reading the end of Half-Blood Prince, and my boyfriend calling and asking if I was done yet (he’d just finished), and when I told him where I was (Dumbledore and Harry returning to Hogwarts) him telling me to speed it up, then staying on the line but refusing to speak to me until I’d finished the book.

I have my own theories, of course, as to how it will end. I have my own hopes and predictions. I know Voldemort will die. He simply has to. I hope Harry will live. I hope Snape will redeem himself but remain a slimy git. I hope Ron and Hermione end up together.

I suspect any number of characters are up for being killed off: Lupin, Neville, Ron, Percy, Ginny, Harry, Hagrid, Draco…

wouldn’t be too sorry if it were Percy–but I’m suspecting Lupin is gonna be one, which would make me sad.

I don’t think we’ve heard the last from Sirius, or Dumbledore for that matter. Whether that means they’re alive or not, I don’t know.

I think Sirius’s motorbike and the Weasley’s Ford Anglia are off making little wild sentient vehicular babies in the Forbidden Forest.

If Harry dies, however, I hope it’s for the right reasons and not just so Rowling can keep a tight hold on her rights. I really hate when characters I love die in books or movies: when Matthew dies in “Anne of Green Gables” it breaks my heart a little every time. I felt like I’d lost my own father. When Toth died in “The Seeress of Kell” I was shocked and saddened. He’d been such a faithful friend. When Robert Sean Leonard’s character died in “Dead Poets Society” I felt like it was me. For an hour I sat there with tears pouring silently down my face. And don’t even get me started on Dragonlance…

Dumbledore’s death was worse for me than Sirius’s. It came out of nowhere, I thought, and made me feel like Harry: utterly alone. I’m not sure how I’d feel if it were Ron, Harry or Hermione. I’m not sure I’m going to even contemplate that.
Even so, I’ll be up all night at a release party on Friday night, and don’t look for me to resurface until Saturday night or Sunday.

It’s getting close now. “Would you like to say a few words to mark the occasion?”

But I’m not a professional writer, so I’ll type this instead, and watch the dawn with two eyes instead of one.

Then I’ll get myself up and shower, make a cup of coffee, and go out to face the day.

Kaitlyn said: “Okay, on a little different note, how do you start writing a story? Do you plan it out or just write? I have so many stories running around in my head, and there’s one in particular that needs to be written. But I don’t know where to start. I have some scenes specifically thought out for the story, and I know the basic plot, but I don’t how to begin. I think if I just started to write, it would come out. I don’t know.”

How do you start writing a story? Honestly, I don’t know. I think that’s something that varies between writers. For me, sometimes it varies between stories. I can tell you how I wrote most of my other stories, though.

“Immortal Love” was, by the far the easiest thing I’ve ever written. I didn’t really plan it out, I just sat down and started to type. Every night I’d type a little more, and it was almost like my brain was just feeding the story from me to the screen. I think I’d had bits and pieces of the story up there, floating around somewhere, locked into some vague bits and pieces of other things. It all mixed together and just… flowed.

“Dangers” occurred to me about two chapters from the end of Immortal Love. I just knew that wasn’t the end of the story, the happily ever after couldn’t be that easy. I knew the first part of it… but I fought with that story, chapter by chapter, until I couldn’t go any further. There’s this wall sitting there and I haven’t been able to find a way around it yet.

“What You Wish For” was another semi easy one. I had the idea almost a year after Immortal Love, and I liked it. It wasn’t anything really formulated though, just this idea of Jareth coming to find Sarah. I drabbled out the first chapter, and then sent it to a friend who was a Labyrinth fan. She liked it, but pointed out that it didn’t sound like I had an ending in mind. So I thought about it a bit. She asked me a lot of questions, and that helped a great deal. Knowing what questions I needed to answer sort of prodded them from my brain. All of a sudden I knew that Jareth was there to play a game, and that instead of him granting HER wishes (which happens in Labyrinth fan fiction all the time) he would turn the tables on her and make her grant HIS wishes. I also knew he was going to wish for her to cluck like a chicken. It was great incentive to write. I’d write a chapter or two and then send them off to Phurie to be read, and she’d come back and give me pointers or tell me where it was floating off, and I’d bring it back on course. She was great at picking up on little things and helping me figure out where I had loose threads dangling. I wrote that story completely, edited it at least once before I started posting it–and I’d timed it very precisely so that the last chapters were posted on New Years Eve.

I’m still kind of proud of that.

My two Pirates stories were ideas I’d had after watching Dead Man’s Chest. They wouldn’t leave me alone, so I wrote them out. I knew when writing them that they were basically just short little drabbles, although I’m considering lengthening “Belly” a bit.

The story I’m working on now also occurred to me after watching DMC. It’s stuck with me, this one, for about a year now, kind of bubbling in the back of my head. I couldn’t quite decide where it was going, though, or even where to start. About a week ago, however, I was driving somewhere and thinking about watching the director’s commentary. They’d mentioned that Johnny Depp had been “nailed” into that coffin at the beginning, with some explosives in the lid, so he could make that entrance. It kind of creeped me out, thinking about listening to nails being pounded into a coffin, and you’re all alone in it, alive, with a corpse. Then I started thinking about how Jack might have felt…

and suddenly I knew how my story started.

I’ve been pecking at it off and on. I’ll write a bit then walk away. Usually when I walk away I’ll figure out what the next bit is. To write Jack correctly, though, one must try to think like Jack, which is a bit difficult. I find myself talking like him, without meaning to, trying to get the inflections of his words. I think that’s one of the most important things about him: giving him the right words, the right rhythm and flow. And of course, your story has to go all screwy in places, because it’s Jack, and you’re never sure if it’s true or he’s lying. I love writing about Jack, it’s like exercise for the brain.

I think the most important way to start writing is, however, just to start. If you don’t know the first sentence, but you know how the second chapter goes, start there. You can always go back and write the first chapter later. Or maybe you’ll find out you don’t need it at all. If you’re good with dialogue, write the dialogue first, then go back and fill in the descriptive bits. Every now and then I’ll have a flash of what Jack’s going to say to someone, I’ll jot it down, and then later go back and flesh out the scene in which he says it.

But you can’t write a story if you don’t start at all. When in doubt, however, I’ve found there’s one phrase that always gets my creative juices flowing:

“Once upon a time…”