[CW] Preparing for NaNo: Loglines

I may create a meta black hole by doing this, but I've never been one to back down in the face of potentially world-breaking devastation: I am about to blog about a blog blogging about a blog.

Twitter nets me some interesting tidbits now and again. Today it coughed up a neat little post--two posts, actually--by one Tami Moore about cheat sheets and loglines that were immensely useful for planning my NaNo project.

Even more props to Miz Moore: the posts were concise, which is ideal given my tendency to get distracted by shiny things, small invisible objects, and drafts of both the first type, and the air type.

"Loglines are teasers. They tantalize. Hint at something incredible. Take root in their target’s brains and make them ITCH to read the book they’re talking about."

I love making people's brains itch. Do go on.

"They’re also ridiculously daunting for the writer who is trying to distill their 100,000 word novel into a travel-sized package."

Daunting? Wait a minute, hold the phone. You mean this will be work?

I wasn't deterred for long (only about 2.17 seconds, if I recall correctly). My desire to see whether I had enough information about my plot to make a successful logline far outweighed my desire to continue sitting around, creating a miniature intellectual void.

The original logline formula for this exercise came from Miss Snark's First Victim.

"When [MAIN CHARACTER] [INCITING INCIDENT], he [CONFLICT]. And if he doesn't [GOAL], he will [CONSEQUENCES]."

I set to work and here's what I got out of it:

"Abandoned by the rest of her search party in the middle of the Bironian steppes, amateur psychic archaeologist Roberta Skellis must continue to hunt for her older brother and his missing excavation team alone. Just when her explorations yield what could be the most important discovery of the age, a competing archaeologist and his crew threaten to scoop her victory right out from under her feet. Roberta must choose between her brother, an unexpected admirer who is not what he seems, and the discovery of a lifetime in a grueling race to the finish."

Now you all know the basic plot and I'll look like an ass if I chicken out; I think that's how these things are supposed to work?

Tomorrow I'll be working on my cheat sheets. Roberta needs a bit of fleshing-out and my antagonist needs a name (among other things). Tami's blog is definitely going to be on my reference list for the next month or so!

What's your logline?

[RP] Dreams in Salt, Part 5

She came to soon after the sun set below the horizon of the floating city and dipped low toward the rim of the rest of the world below. Her mouth was dry and she opted not to move for several minutes as she slowly regained consciousness and registered the existence of the world around her.

It was very gloomy-dark in the apartment, which meant she’d missed the entire afternoon and most of the morning. Ambika supposed it could very well be the evening of the following day, and prepared herself mentally for that possibility. The stench of clams filled her nose. Familiarity hadn’t diminished that particular olfactory shock yet and it fairly bludgeoned her senses. Impossibly, her stomach growled.

Or perhaps it was somewhat possible, considering she hadn’t eaten in three days.

A dry chuckle snapped her out of her sleepy state. She sat up, hair fluffed out into a strange, asymmetrical halo around her head, and prepared to unload roughly four tons of shadow energy in the direction of the sound.

Zana’zua, either unaware or unafraid of how close he was to utter annihilation by brainwave, simply sat in her dining chair with his hands on his knees, an outline against the faint light that came in through the stained-glass window as the streetlights flickered on. Ambika blinked at the pair of softly-glowing blue eyes hovering in the gloom, and they blinked back.

“Sleep well?”

She grunted. A stray lock of hair fell in her face and she brushed it all back in annoyance, searching fruitlessly in the dark for her errant clip.

“I don’t know why you waited so long.”

He grinned at her. “What else do I have to wait for?”

Thanks to the streetlamps outside it was just light enough now to see the troll rubbing her fists in her eyes with her mouth turned down at the corners. She resembled a slightly overgrown and very cranky child.

“I don’t know. Whatever it is you people do.” Rising to her feet, she put both hands in the small of her back and stretched, cracking several aching joints at once. “How did you get in?”

“The door was unlocked.”

Ambika frowned mightily and hobbled to the small open kitchen, rattling the cupboard as she located a cup and a tin of tea leaves in the dim light. “I suppose I forgot to lock up.”

She didn’t mention that it was also, for her, quite worrisome. Her stomach rumbled again and she paused for a moment, trying not to heave at the fish-market stink that assaulted her senses.

“Do you need anything?” Zana’zua shifted in his seat, resting against the back of it.

“I need something to eat,” she admitted as she put the kettle on to boil. “I haven’t gone to market in ages, I have nothing in the house.”

Zana’zua stared pointedly at the wastebucket full of clams. “How old are those?”

“Why?” She stared blankly at the death knight as she wiped out a teacup with a clean towel.

“Do you not eat clams?”

“What.” Her gaze fell to the bin at her feet, which was filled to the top with pale white meat.

“You just said there was no food in the house.”

“I don’t eat those.” Her disdain was evident in the wrinkling of her nose.

“Why not? They’re good, if I remember correctly.” He walked over to the wastebasket and looked in.

“I don’t know,” she said truthfully, shrugging as she tipped the steaming kettle into her cup. “I wasn’t thinking of them as food. I haven’t since...”

Her mouth tightened and she stopped there, busying herself with the seeping of tea leaves mixed with various sweet-smelling herbs.

The death knight turned towards her, smiling gently. “Since.”

“You will eat anything when you’re poor. Sometimes when you leave bad memories behind, you also leave behind the things that remind you.” Tap, tap went her silver spoon against the side of the cup.

Zana’zua nodded. “I see.” He stared thoughtfully at the bucket for a moment before turning back to Ambika. “Where would you like to eat, then?”

“I’ll order something from the bar downstairs. They have a decent kitchen.”

“Would you like me to wait here?”

She put a hand up to the crow’s nest of her hair and looked at him. “I don’t suppose I could talk you into getting something for me.”

The death knight chuckled. “What do you want to eat?”

There were soft sipping sounds in the dark as she contemplated the question. “Soup. Something with a lot of vegetables.” She paused to sip again. “...no seafood.”

He shrugged, and headed for the door. “No seafood.” He chuckled again. “I’ll be back soon.”

[RP] Dreams in Salt, Part 3

So, it turns out I overlooked an entire chunk of text when I posted what I thought was Part 3 of this segment. Awkward! So here's the REAL Part 3. Whoops.

Part 4 is here.

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The apartment was quiet. Motes of dust floated through the bars of blue- and green-tinted afternoon sunshine that spilled over the room.

“I hate riddles,” Ambika said finally, looking small on the overstuffed couch with her knees drawn up to her chest.

There was another pause, during which the priestess stared blankly at an indeterminate point on the rug, then she spoke again before he could ask any questions. “I woke feeling like I’d lived a hundred lifetimes, expecting my hair to be white and my skin to be dried up like withered paper. Instead I found myself unchanged, only a few hours having passed while I slept. My sense of unease was heightened when I found that--” she pointed at the bowl on the table, “still wrapped around my hand.”

Zana’zua met Ambika’s eyes for a moment before turning his attention to the bowl. “What’s in it?”

“I’ll give you one guess.”

Zana’zua winked at the priestess. “Shrunken heads.”

She rolled her eyes. “I threw it in the corner, but after a week it was still alive so I decided I may as well give it some water.”

The death knight chuckled under his breath. “I would guess kelp.”

“Right.” She stood and walked over to the table. The kelp lay in a harmless coil at the bottom of the heavy bowl. The dreamy look that flooded her face when she looked at it was unmistakable, but he was pretty sure she had no idea it was there. She dipped her fingers in the water.

“I didn’t know if I could survive another dream like that. I don’t know if you understand what I mean, or if you ever could. I came so close to losing myself in there.” Her eyes never left the frond of green-brown kelp, and her hand crept closer through the water until it closed around it.

Zana’zua’s expression changed to one of seriousness. “Ambika. Have you spoken to the Loa of the sea?”

She nodded dreamily, leaning over the table with her arm half-submerged inside the bowl. “I feltI would be in serious danger if I did not and was not willing to risk it. I washed the salt from my clothes and went to Grom’gol as quickly as I could.”

“Salt?” He frowned.

“My bed still reeks of it. I was soaked from head to foot in ocean water--I had salt in my eyelashes.” She waved absently toward her bedroom door with her free hand, eyes never leaving the kelp in its bowl of salted water. “You are welcome to see for yourself, since we are being... open.”

Zana’zua shook his head. “I certainly believe you. That is a great sign of favor.”

“I went to a lonely length of shore and gave an offering. Then I slept. I feared it would be another like the one that sent me to seek Olokun’s wisdom, but my fears were largely unfounded.” She stroked the kelp. “My visions that night were frightening, but not dangerous to my sanity.”

“And they concerned speaking to the death god?”

Mention of Bwonsamdi seemed to pull her out of her trance. She withdrew her arm from the bowl, grimacing at her dripping sleeve. “Eventually. First I was permitted several reminders of my childhood and coming of age.” Her voice was positively thick with sarcasm.

“Pertinent reminders, I am assuming.”

“At the time I did not think so.” She pulled a white towel from a drawer and blotted water from her sleeve. “A long time ago, I exacted justice and in doing so, usurped the authority of Bwonsamdi himself. On his own sacred grounds, no less.”

The death knight’s forehead wrinkled. “That is a heavy burden.”

“I have borne worse.” A teakettle went on the tiny stove, then she disappeared into the bedroom, still speaking through the half-cracked door over the sound of rustling fabric. “At the time, I did not realize I committed such a serious offense. I was merely using my fledgling, self-taught abilities to contain my... problem.”

“And the death god was angered.”

She emerged from her room in a clean, dry dress. It smelled like the ocean. “So it seems. The rest of the dream is not very important. What matters is the penance I have been given, and whether I can perform it to the Loa’s liking.”

He grimaced. “I will admit, I did not understand Bwonsamdi’s words. I do not know what help I can give you.”

“I don’t know either.” The kettle steamed and she poured water in her cup. “He must have had a plan if he chose to single you out for the task. I am not reckless enough to think I can defy him directly to his face and escape punishment.” She looked at him from across the room with more than a little fear in her golden eyes. “And I assure you, it is a punishment I will do anything to avoid.”

“I shall provide whatever help an old fool can.” He smiled wryly.

“Don’t think me ungrateful--I am not--but I don’t understand your readiness to help, especially when your role is so woefully undefined.”

He shrugged his shoulders. “If it’s what I am meant to do, then I have no other choice. Perhaps the death god will finally claim me.”

“So you believe in fate.” Ambika sat at the table with her tea. Her attention slowly wandered to, then fixated on the kelp in its pottery.

“To a certain extent.”

She absently touched the side of the bowl and murmured, “Even kelp grows toward the sun.”

“And so does Ambika?”

“I don’t know.” She looked up at him with the ghost of a glower on her face and almost looked like her normal self. “It doesn’t matter. I think I know what needs to be done, I’m just going to need a lot of pearls.”

“Pearls for what?”

“You’ll see. Can you find a pair of sturdy shovels, a pickaxe and a jug of lye?” She pulled a heavy pouch from her belt and pushed it across the table without looking at him. It was fat with coins and gave off only the faintest of muffled jingles.

He eyed the pouch of gold warily for a moment, then nodded with resignation and picked it up. “Yes. When will you need them?”

“Not until I have all the pearls I will need, and then some. If I don’t bring enough, I will have to start over, and we will have to dig him up again.” Her fingers curved over the lip of the bowl and she forced herself to pull her hand back and clasp it tightly in her lap. She was not so successful in prying her eyes away from the water inside.

“Would you like me to bring them at the same time next week?”

“Mm.” She stared at the bowl and slowly got to her feet, leaving her tea untouched on the tabletop. “Do you have any questions before you go? I have some fishing to do.”

The death knight shook his head. “If you need me before then, I sleep in a hammock at the Filthy Animal.” He winked. “You might even still remember where it is.”

***

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[RP] Dreams in Salt, Part 4

I have a couple more segments of the Zana'zua/Ambika story to post. Here's the first!

There are more stories circulating at the moment which will probably make their appearance semi-daily for a while, until NaNo kicks in. After that, I don't expect I'll be working on many other writing projects until December.

Authors: Me & Hammy

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He showed up five minutes early for his lesson and opted to wait on one of the low, satin-covered stools in the hallway until the top of the hour. Ambika seemed to dislike excessive punctuality almost as much as she hated tardiness. He could guess why; being early meant having to make conversation.

When the soft chime of Dalaran’s central clock struck the hour, though, he was already on his feet and tapping at her door. There was no immediate answer, but he was used to waiting.

Five minutes and six polite taps later, Zana’zua began to feel alarmed. He tried the knob. It turned easily in his hand. Alarm turned into something like dread and he pushed his way into the apartment.

The priestess was curled up in a ball on the couch. As he approached he was relieved to find that she was only sleeping, her hair loose and bushed out carelessly in whatever shape the cushions deigned to impose.

A familiar smell permeated the entire apartment. He quickly found the source in a pair of large buckets beside the tiny kitchen’s sink: each bucket as well as the sink was heaped with clams, some open, some closed and dead. A crate filled with empty shells leaked salty water onto the tiled floor and he discovered the meat of the shucked clams in a half-full wastebin nearby.

Two bowls instead of just one now adorned the austere table surface, he saw. One contained water and the strand of kelp he recognized from the previous week; the other was much smaller and half-full of lustrous pearls of various sizes. Pulling out one of the narrow chairs, he sat down and waited for the sleeping troll to wake up.

***

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[RP] Is it Hot in Here or is it Just You [barely PG]

Here's another collaboration with Hammy, the creator of Fenniel/Zana'zua/Hammaryn. We really like to write silly stories together (Captain Obvious here, I know) and for some reason I forgot to post this back when we wrote it for a challenge this summer.

Don't forget, there's only about a week left to write your flash fic for the party!

Authors: Me & Hammy

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Ysani skipped through the troll ruins of Tanaris. Pausing for a moment, she looked back over her shoulder. "Fenn? Are you coming?"

Fenniel was sure he was miles behind Ysani, or perhaps it was just the waves of heat rising up through the sand. His long brown hair was plastered to his neck and he dripped sweat as he trudged along, desperately trying to keep up with the sprightly blood knight. As if to add insult to injury, he'd even been forced to wear shoes, lest he burn his feet walking.

Ysani didn't seem to be suffering in the slightest. With her hair pulled back in a ponytail, she jogged lightly over the sand from ruin to ruin, digging along the stones for shards of pottery. Sure, she was sweating, but on her it was more of a... a glow, almost. Her light linen shirt was almost completely dry, a bit of moisture just beginning to peek through along her spine, and overall she looked way more chipper than she had any right to be in the wilting heat.

His shirt was stuck to him; the linen clung to his torso from the sweat dripping down his back. Fenn looked down, grabbing the bottom of his shirt to untuck it. The sweat-cling seemed to be nicely outlining his flabby tummy. He groaned. "Just a second," he called back.

"Fenn! I think I found something!" Her voice carried over what seemed like endless desert, dunes rearing up in all directions and punctuated in the valleys by heaps of crumbling troll architecture. The air shimmered with heat and made the distance between them seem even longer. At least the wind had died down. Ysani had begged him to wait just a little longer, hoping that it wouldn't become a storm and ruin their excavation trip. Luckily for her, it was just a passing breeze.

Fenniel forced himself to pick up his pace towards the ruins, digging his feet into the sand. "I'm..." he wheezed in a giant breath, "almost there."

Ysani beckoned him over as he closed in, slowly, on her position. She stood up and wiped her forehead with a bare forearm, gingerly holding a curved hunk of pottery in her gloved hands. Her shirt was tailored to hug her curves and her assets were all too apparent as she turned toward him with a grin and called out, "Found some!"

Fenniel took his glasses off, wiping his forehead from the sweat that was dripping into his eyes. "That piece could work." He shoved his glasses back onto his nose, and his eyes went from relaxed to dinner plate size as the pottery and her... assets... came into focus. "Ysani." He clamped a hand over his face. "You...your..."

"You have to see this! I've never seen anything like it." Ysani moved in close to her friend, examining the heavy ceramic chunk as she turned it over in her hands. "There aren't even any hairline fractures, it just cracked in one piece where a stone fell on it. It's pretty incredible, and dense too." She seemed utterly oblivious to Fenniel's discomfort.

"Ysani...you just...your shirt..." he turned a vivid shade of red.

"It even feels cool to the touch after having been just two inches under the sand, and it is HOT down there!" She grabbed his wrist and put his hand on the smooth pottery. It was downright cold. "This is so amazing! I wonder how they managed it in such a primitive culture? We need to find more of this, there's just so much we can do with material like this. Imagine what kind of insulation you could make, you could keep engines from overheating 'till doomsday--"

Fenniel teetered a bit and lowered his hand from his eyes. "Ysani, I kinda um...I kinda..." He fell over unconscious, plumes of sand flying up as he hit the ground with a solid THUD.

"Oh, Light..." Ysani dropped the relic. The impact sent more sand flying over Fenniel's prone, sweaty body, but the piece stayed miraculously intact. "Fenn, you're supposed to stay hydrated! Oh dear, oh dear..." She unhitched her belt and slid a full canteen off of it, kneeling over the victim as she poured some of the shockingly cold water over his forehead and neck. Luckily, she was somewhat trained to deal with heatstroke, and once she'd given him a bit of water she hooked her arms under his armpits (LIGHT is he sweaty!) and began to drag him toward the meager shade of a partially exhumed stone wall.

Fenniel's eyes fluttered open as Ysani drug him through the sand. "S'okay..." he mumbled semi-coherently. "I always wanted a waterbed." He smiled contentedly up at her.

Ysani grunted as she dragged him along. He was heavier than he looked, and she was really starting to sweat. By the time she finished propping him up in the shade, her clothes were completely soaked through. "Are you okay, Fenn?"

Fenniel pushed himself up to sitting with his arms, nearly falling over again. He blinked at Ysani, rubbed at his eyes, and blushed again. "There's um..." He took a deep breath. "I think I'm fine. It's just uh kinda hot and your um...there's something with your..."

Ysani looked down. Her shirt was clinging scandalously to her entire torso, almost sheer in places with moisture. She turned bright red and stood up quickly, crossing her arms over her chest to hide her fairly apparent nipples. "...Oh."

Fenniel averted his eyes to the sand. "Yeah."

"Well... well HEY! How about this ceramic?" Ysani turned her back to Fenniel and dug around in her knapsack for the spare shirt she'd brought along with her. It was one of Kei's button-down shirts, plain but light and comfortable. She wriggled into it and tied it at the waist, making sure it covered her... er... chest... area.

"Can I look yet," he mumbled.

"Y-yeah," she said, clearing her throat and ducking behind the wall for a moment to fetch the pottery scrap. When she returned, she sat next to him with her back to the wall, leaving a good buffer of empty space between them.

He glanced over, making sure it was safe, then smiled sheepishly. "Sorry I fell over. The ceramic is neat; we should probably bring it back to Dalaran to study."

"We'll dig a little bit before we go and see if we can't get a few more samples." Ysani paused, then looked over at Fenn. "And... let's never speak of this again. Okay?"

He nodded. "I...uhh...think that's for the best." He grabbed the collar of his shirt and shook it. "Let's get this over with fast, it's way too hot out here."

Open Invitation: Flash Fiction Party!

When you're impulsive, life is predictably unpredictable. I should know. Impulsive is my default setting.

When I see apples on sale (buy 5 lbs, get 5 lbs free!) I think "Gosh, I could make tarts and pie and a little crisp with ice cream on top" and I buy ten pounds of apples. They're still sitting on the kitchen table, unloved, but you don't understand. I got them on sale.

Now, I would dearly love that pie. But then I'd have to make it.

Maybe you're thinking "GAWD she is the laziest person EVER" and you are absolutely right. I am that lazy.

But I will make that pie! I promise. I will definitely, absolutely make pie out of those apples. Just not right now.

Anyway, the whole point I was trying to make is that sometimes I don't know what I'm doing. Or all the time. Most of the time.

This week, instead of writing out a plot for my NaNo project, I decided to make burgundy mushrooms, 5 quarts of pickles, artichoke dip, pumpkin muffins and a big pot of minestrone. Then I thought "Hey! wouldn't writing be a really great way of warming up for NaNo?" and decided I would write the first thing that came to mind and make it into a complete, miniature story.

Then I realized what I wrote made very little sense without writing thousands of words to explain everything, and who wants to waste time explaining? Maybe Bill Nye the Science Guy does, but he's good at it and I have stuff to do.

Like make pie.

Anyway, halfway through this piece of fiction I stopped writing because it no longer made any sense, I went to Wikipedia and looked up flash fiction. What fascinated me about the whole concept of flash fiction? I already write it all the time.

Really. The majority of my writing is done up in neat little packages, stories that can usually stand alone and get the point across without needing a ton of backstory. At least, I like to think so. (I'm often usually wrong.)

My next thought: "I wonder what short stories my friends would write?"

Would they write a microfic about their RP characters? Would they write a postcard from a character we've never met (and will never meet) and fill that tiny space with enough meaning to fill a book? What if they turned out a modern fable, or decided on a self-imposed 100-word limit in which to convey a complete thought?

I don't know what you guys would do, but I want to find out.

Join me in a Flash Fiction Party!

Consider this your invitation. From now until October 30th, I'll be accepting 10- to 1000-word story submissions and posting them here on my blog (if you don't want them posted, that's fine too. Just let me know when you share the story). It can be about anything you like, and as long or as short as you like, so long as it's between 10 and 1000 words.

Send your submissions to failbears (at) gmail (dot) com. (Long story, you don't really want to know.) Please include any posting preferences or links you would like me to include. I will do my best to present everything fairly, though you should know that my mother reads this blog, so anything I wouldn't want her to see won't quite make the cut. (Sorry, no porno. SORRY!) She's pretty cool though, so it'd have to be kinda extreme.

Now I'm going to go burn the cookies and make my husband kill a spider while I scream like a little girl and drink a liter of cola in my pajamas because it's almost bedtime but I've been wearing these all day and where did the time go?

But then later I'll read the awesome stories you all send me and be super happy. Good luck; I can hardly wait to see what's cooking in your wicked little brains!

[RP] In with the New

Here's another little Yonah story I wrote when there was a mix-up in Azeroth and most warlocks had their various demon pets swapped with unfamiliar faces. Things are back to normal now, but poor Piptog will never be the same again.

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“Where’s Burpy?”

The imp stared sullenly at the little girl across the room. The eyes of his new master glowed with a dull yellow light and her jaw, attached to her skull with makeshift metal hooks, swung precariously at the bottom of her face.

“You are not Burpy. He’s not Burpy, is he, Frederick?” She spoke to the jelly jar in her lap. A bee that would buzz no more lay still in the bottom. Yonah lifted the jar and peered at the insect. “Oh dear. More’s the pity. I loved you best, Frederick #39.”

The little warlock carelessly tossed the jar over her shoulder. It bounced off her narrow bed and fell to the floor with a loud THUNK, but, by some miracle, didn’t break. She lifted her raw, peeled-looking chin and, with a regal air, bored look-holes into the demon’s hateful face (not Rupqua’s hateful face, she could never mistake another imp’s face for his, the rage-induced tilt of his pointed black chin and the especially putrid fire of hate in his adorable orange eyes).

The imp said nothing.

“Well, if you are not Burpy, you must have a name of your very own.”

She bored more look-holes into the scruffy black minion. He continued to stare with his stare-y eyes, sulky and silent.

“I shall give you a name, then.”

A flicker of alarm animated the imp’s face for a moment, and he licked his lips with a slithery, darting black tongue. He spoke in a voice that was reminiscent of nails on chalkboards, of the shrieks of the dying, of asthmatic banshees being tickled to death. “Piptog. I am Piptog.” He paused, then continued with a grudging “...Mistress.”

She clapped her hands together with delight and grinned an awful little half-grin; only the top portion of her mouth flexed upward, the loose appendage of her jaw swaying slightly and not quite meeting the ruined row of her upper teeth.

“Do you like bees, Pitfog? No? That’s quite all right, I’m sure we will get on swimmingly anyway.”

Yonah stood, reaching for the broom at her side. Even at her not-quite-pubescent height, she towered over the imp. Limp, dirty hair fell into her face and obscured her eyes, but did nothing to cover that terrible grin..In her right hand, the broom slowly swiveled into the On position.

“It’s time for your sweeping, Pit.”