37 posts tagged “writing”

Yesterday I pushed through another 4077 words for a total of 9408. We'll see what we manage today...

Today I managed 4083 words which puts me at a total of 5402 so far, 401 words beyond the 1,667 word a day goal. That's about 14 pages, 12 pt ft, 1.5 spaced. Total wordcount for my novel (as an FYI, I decided to "cheat" and use the novel I started working on in August) is 31,707. Wooohoo!

Writing a historical novel is much slower for me than other types of fiction, I think. I find that I have to really stop myself from looking up things while I write. I can do that in some cases (e.g. I need to check if they had radishes in ancient Rome) by just putting an XX in and going back when I edit, but other things like chronology or names or timeline issues make that a bit harder. Some things I really HAVE to stop and look up because it will completely affect what I'm writing. I realize that's part of the reason you aren't supposed to use a book in progress--that it slows up the spontaneity, but I am using NANO to just get my ass in the chair, so if I make my 1667 words a day, I'll be happy.

I really wish that the NANO site wasn't having such issues. I love the forums--they're such a great source of inspiration. And there is nothing like seeing the wordcount of all the posters and all your friends to help keep motivated.

If anyone wants to add me as a buddy, let me know in comments and click on the banner to get to my profile.

 

I also did a review of cool writing tools that I use, over on my main writing blog, if you want to check it out. That's also where I'll be doing most of my discussion around NANOWRIMO, so make sure you RSS or bookmark it!

Madeleine L'engle

News of her passing came out in the NY Times yesterday.

I just wrote about her a little over a week ago, about the wonderful advice she gave in the book, Madeleine L'Engle {Herself}, how inspirational she was and how I met her briefly when I was in the 7th grade. Oh how I wish I had more presence of mind at that age, to ask questions that could have benefited me throughout my writing life.

Earlier this year, her thoughts on how the world views artists helped me gain great perspective during a time in my life when my artist husband was out of work and when I was struggling to write. I can say without any measure of doubt that out of all things in this world, her words were instrumental in helping pull me out of a winter depression of last year. A few paragraphs on the page gave me hope, a new understanding and an appreciation of her wisdom.

Her Wrinkle in Time books were some of the most influential of my childhood. They fueled my imagination, they made me want to read, to write, to build my own worlds. Re-reading them within the last year reminded me of all the reasons I loved her writing as a child and gave me a whole new perspective on the underlying tenets of her writing, the power of her craft and her ability to wrangle and tame the written word. She will continue to be an inspiration to me in my life.

From {Herself}:

Struggling Toward Meaning

To be alive is to be vulnerable. To be born is to start the journey toward death. If taxes have not always been inevitable, death has. What, then, does life mean? No more than "One brief-candle?"

The artist struggles toward meaning. Mahler was terrified of death, and worked out his fear in music. I had a letter from a college student at Harvard saying, "I am afraid of non-being." That same day, a friend with whom I was having lunch, said, "I cannot bear the thought of annihilation."

Art is an affirmation of life, a rebuttal of death.

And here we blunder into paradox again, for during the creation of any form of art, art which affirms the value and the holiness of life, the artist must die.

L'Engle was an artist that, in her death, will never experience non-being or annihilation. Instead, she will live on, being reborn every time a person picks up one of her amazing books, filled with power, love and light.

Show us a snippet of something you're writing.

Cena Apicius is a working title for a historical fiction novel about the life of Marcus Gavius Apicius, a wealthy Roman noble who lived in the early first century. Very little is known about him save for snippets of information left behind in works by Seneca, Tacitus, Pliny the Elder and others. He was famous for the lavish feasts he threw for his fellow Romans, and even for Emperor Tiberius. I became interested in the story when reading food memoirs and books about food history. As a big foodie myself, I found myself drawn to the strange story of Apicius, who could be considered the world’s first known gourmand. The oldest known cookbook was named after him.

Copyrighted, draft form, definitely has errors, subject to change, be cut, etc… Here is a Snippet:

In this section, set three years after Thrasius was purchased as a slave by Marcus Gavius Apicius, Thrasius takes Apicata, Apicius’ daughter to the market to say goodbye to a friendly merchant. The family is readying for a move from Baiae to a third villa in Rome. This was one of my bits where the characters took over.

A Roman Market

Prokopton was a merchant who specialized in everything non-edible. Whatever you needed, he always seemed to have on hand or if not, would be able to readily procure. Over the last two years, Thrasius purchased cooking utensils, everyday pottery, silver serving platters and even furniture from Prokopton. Apicata loved the big bear of a man. He always had small toys or knick-knacks to share with Apicata, who he called “little bird.”

That day he gave Apicata her own tiny wind-up bird that walked, a gift that shocked Thrasius and also brought a tear to his eye. The merchant clearly held a soft-spot for the little girl–the bird was most likely quite costly. Due to their rareness, wind-ups were not for children–they were entertainment pieces meant for the adult table and could often sell for many thousand denarii.

“Prokopton, are you sure about that gift?”

The merchant nodded, his plump cheeks reddening a little. “It was my wife’s. I have no children to pass it on to. Please remind her of me when she grows. I will be sad not to see her every week.”

Thrasius left Apicata briefly with Prokopton as he went across the way to say his goodbyes to a few of the other merchants he frequented. The market was still coming to life and not all the wares were on display. Each stall in the large two-storied building was in a varied state of preparation. In the central atrium, a young slave girl sorted baskets of flowers into pretty arrangements. He said his goodbyes, some of them tearful on the part of the shopkeepers. He would miss the market of Baiae, busy and varied but not so big that he did not know most of the people who worked there. Rome would not be so comfortable.

On his return back to Prokopton’s stall, Thrasius found himself walking behind a small cluster of drunken nobles, not an unusual sight in Baiae in the summer. It was likely the three men and two women had been up all night in wine-infused orgiastic bliss, and were now looking to find an open popina to serve up breakfast.

His ears perked up when he realized that the tallest man was talking about Apicata. “Look at that sweet little girl,” he said, pointing down the street to where she sat on a bench playing with her bird. Prokopton busied himself stacking up bolts of silk on the shelves next to where she sat. “What I wouldn’t give to break that baby filly! She would tremble beneath me and learn to beg for more!” His friends immediately began laughing, one of them stumbling in his mirth, almost pulling one of the women to the ground. She helped him right himself and the group continued ambling their way toward Prokopton’s stall.

Thrasius wanted to beat the man to a pulp but as a slave, he knew that the consequences for him would be far greater than anything he could do to the noble. Relations with children were not uncommon but such effrontery toward a child of the nobility was beneath any refined Roman. Apicata was clearly not a slave child; her dress and style of hair easily marked her as a member of the upper-class. She was not to be used or given by anyone other than her father. If a slave had made such lecherous comments toward a child of the nobility, he could be put to death. This man wasn’t a slave, though, he was a noble and Thrasius knew that he had no means of recourse against the man.

Thrasius raced ahead to make sure he reached Apicata before the nobles. When he reached the stall, he swooped Apicata up. He took hold of a dark brown shawl that was on a nearby shelf and quickly wrapped Apicata up so that she could not be ogled, nor could she easily see what was happening. He shushed her worried questions and protests that he was crushing her bird.

He breathlessly told Prokopton what had been said. Prokopton, a free man, had far more leeway than he did when it came to protecting the honor of the little girl. Prokopton turned and addressed the group of drunkards, who just arrived stumbling and laughing. At first glance it seemed that the merchant was casually leaning with one hand against the handle of a well-worn axe but Thrasius knew Prokopton was ready to use it if need be.

“I think that it would be best for the lot of you to keep moving,” Prokopton growled.

The noble who first eyed Apicata had one arm draped across the shoulders of his female companion, a prostitute with a chipped tooth and a cockeyed black wig. The man’s green eyes were bleary red and one eyebrow raised as he broke out in a drunken grin when he responded to Prokopton. He was in his early twenties and his silk dining robe, called a synthesis, indicated he was a man of who had no small amount of money.

“We mean no harm, no harm,” he said, the scent of honey wine heavy on his breath. “Is that your lovely daughter? We were remarking on what a pretty little thing she is.”

“I bet you were. Any more remarks and you’ll be apologizing to Marcus Gavius Apicius yourself, on your knees begging for forgiveness for the lecherous insults you bestowed upon his child. You are not presenting your best face today, and I suggest you sober up and stop embarrassing yourself and the people around you.”

The man laughed long and hard, his dark hair blowing gently in the morning breeze as his head tilted back. “Apicius has a daughter! Well well, that’s as much of a surprise as if Juno turned me into a cow. That man owes me a favor and I think I just discovered how he can repay. You are right, it’s best that we be on our way. I will have to pay dear Marcus a visit soon!”

“He’s leaving for Rome. You missed your chance,” Thrasius lashed out, moving to stand in front of Apicata. Even he didn’t casually use Apicius’ praenomen of Marcus. Only Aelia and Popilla had the right to be so intimate. He couldn’t remember ever feeling so angry—angry enough to murder.

“Ahh even better. I’m from Rome! I can look for him at leisure when I return!” At that, he pulled his friends away, chuckling as he left Prokopton and Thrasius standing both bewildered and angry.

“Do you know who that was?” Thrasius asked Prokopton. He put Apicata back on the ground and hugged her tight. She pulled back the shawl and tried bombarding him with questions but he shushed her with a quick finger to her mouth.

Prokopton shook his head. “No, I’ve not seen him around here before. It is as he says, he must be visiting.” He turned to Thrasius then, coming close enough to talk quietly without the girl overhearing. Thrasius stood and Prokopton grasped his shoulders and looked him in the eyes. “You must keep her safe. You must!”

Thrasius nodded, not sure how someone in his station could do much of anything save cook a good meal. “I will try, my friend. I promise.”

"If I did it, this is how it would have happened...."

O.J. says ghost author wrote flawed murder account...

O.J. Simpson says his hypothetical account of killing his ex-wife in his aborted memoir "If I Did It" was invented by a ghost writer and filled with errors that he refused to correct for fear of appearing to be guilty of the crime.

I hope that the jury finally realizes what a stupid stupid mistake they made...

is here, in case you are LAME and have not yet bookmarked my writing site. HINT HINT.

My Moo cards!  They're so pretty I don't want to give them away!

Close up of my Moo!

1 comment

Moo cards