#005 ~ Write Pracetice ~ Weasel

Today’s prompt is weasel words. These are words that you will use frequently in a piece of writing. They are quite often not needed.

The practice is to set the timer for the usual 15 minutes, using a weasels as the prompt - the actual furry, bitty kind, not the weasel words - and then identify what are your particular words. The consider how to re-construct your writing without using them.

Here goes:

Something caught Freya’s eye at the edge of the paddock. It, what or whomever it was, seemed to be behaving in a furtive manner.

As if they sensed they were being observed, the figure slunk along the tree line for a little way, and then dashed back into the tree cover, emerging a some way further along and then scurrying down the edge of the paddock, and weaving in and out of the shadows. It struck Freya that the not too small figure was just like a weasel.

Freya’s maid, Maria was slumped atop the mounting block, innocently chewing a small piece of straw, and trying to give off not only the air of patiently waiting, but being patently innocent. No doubt the cheeky minx had been taking the opportunity to talk to Damien the stable hand whilst they had been riding.

Gathering the skirt of her green riding habit in one hand, and shooing Maria along before, her she made for home. Tea time was approaching, and she needed to change.

Glancing back, Freya couldn't see the figure any more. Maria started to chatter about the ball next week, and so the curious incident was put to the back of her mind.

* * *

Sometime later, Freya joined her aunt in the blue drawing room for tea.

As she entered, a stranger was standing by the window with her cousin.

“Ah, Freya my dear,” Geoffrey said as he turned towards her “let me introduce you. This is Lord Rickardson.”

“Neil, my cousin, Lady Freya. She attended Miss Bloomestone’s Academy with your affianced.”

Coming forward from the light of the window, Freya was struck by the man. He wasn't too tall, had sandy hair and a moustache. Smallish eyes, that were so dark, and had a tendency to dart around, rather than fixing a direct gaze on you. He moved with a quick daring gait. The thing that struck Freya most of all, when he smiled as he spoke “So delighted to meet you Lady Freya. Elizabeth charged me with sending you her best wishes,” was that he had small, and somewhat pointed incisors. In all he reminded her of, a weasel.

I ran my text through Wordle, and it created a cool word map

and it's plain to see that I used 'Freya' a lot, so in this particular piece of writing I need to change that. 

From just generally writing, I know that the following a definitely weasel words for me:

• although
• however
• anything
• somewhat
• indeed
• safe
• fairly certain

I am fairly certain, that I have fairly standard phrase weasels too.

10,000 words targets - 15 minutes off and 434 words = 9,998 and 3/4 hour left

Happy reading.

Hugs

Kay

#004 ~ Write Practice ~ End Game Prompt

My Write Practice today is working to the Prompt What's your End Game?

So, here's my 15 minutes of mind and finger vomit ... no words were harmed by editing in the following piece, although some grammar was bludgeoned to death:


My End Game

1.  What’s your purpose that your writing will serve?

I don't dream about being a hugely successful author, like Amanda Hocking, but I do dream that I will eventually publish something that isn't totally crap, that people will laugh at, and point to me in the street.   I also hope that when I do, and that day is not too far off now, I won't fall into the trap of leaving a trail of poor grammar, punctuation and typos in my wake, for the collective reviewing hoard to jump up and down on me.  After all, that would be stupidity beyond belief wouldn't it?  Haven't I just spent the last couple of years criticising others for doing that.  I want to be out there, but not just out there in a quiet way, oh no, out there and proud of my endeavours.

If I'm honest, and I do try to be most of the time ... I want a tribe.  A tribe, that will like what I do, recognise my voice and want to buy into it.  I don't specifically want to be genre specific.  The reasoning behind that is, pure and simple, I'm a Sagittarius (the butterflies of the cosmic world); I get bored easily.

I want to hone what I've learnt, and do it well.  Get better at it - thus why I'm totalling buying into the 10,000 hours to strengthen my writing muscles.

2. Who do you want to talk to?

I could totally stand in front of a group, back the Sagittarius thing, we like an audience, but I would much rather be something that is picked up on an ebook and read, and then the next thing I write is read because of merit.  My tribe, not necessarily all the same as me, would like variety and also a bit of spice.

I naturally gravitate to romance, it's what I love.  I am an incurable romantic.  I am proud of that fact.  I would love to try a bit on monster porn, or fantasy world building too.  Unlike my men, I like non-exclusivity in writing, and reading, habits.

I don't really do children (not even my own *boom tish!*), so I can't imagine ever writing a kids story.  Never say never though.

3. What about the money part?

Money buys shoes and handbags, and Marks & Spencer's Blackcurrant Sundaes.  I would be a fibber if I denied it wasn't important.  You can only buy lots of M&S cakes with lots of money (would I then be a big fab fibber?), so I would like to make money.

I would like money to help my dreams come true.  One day I would love a small, but successful ebook publishing company, that will take money, money, and even more money.  I would love a trip to New Zealand, that will take lots of pennies too.

I am not the next Amanda Hocking, but I am going to be an Indie Writer this year.  For the moment, that will be good enough for me.

I'm doing well towards the whole 10,000 hours thing - 4 x 15 minutes = 1 hour.  I have 9,999 hours to go.

© Kay Bolton

Happy reading, writing, or whatever floats your boat.

Hugs

Kay

#003 - Write Practice - Paris Prompt

"Paris is the City of Light, the city where the great modernists writers lived and met each other, like James Joyce, Ernest Hemingway, Gertrude Stein, F. Scott Fitzgerald and more. It’s the city where Ben Franklin did diplomacy and wrote for more than a decade. It’s the city of Victor Hugo’s Les Miserables and Charles Dickens A Tale of Two Cities."

Timer set for 15 minutes, ready, steady, go:

Every week, on a Monday, at precisely 10 a.m, I come to this café.  It's not the best café in Monmarte, and it does't serve the best coffee, but I just love to be here.  The comfortable atmosphere, the smell of cafe au lait and croissant, the spotted tableclothes and iron tables and chairs.  It's all typically Parisienne, and quite compelling.  The most compelling thing though, is him.

I imagine that he would be like the first bite of buttery soft croissant with a dark pinch of chocolate right at the heart.

Short, darkly, curling hair and blue, blue eyes like the sky on a June day.  A patrician nose and the most full, and I have to say darkly tempting lips.  Oh, and did I mention that behind.  Very smart, very tight, very attractive pulling over that peach, that I would just love to run my hands over.

I'm not some oddball, weirdo creep, really I'm not.  I just love him.  He makes my heart trip and bump along like a brook, and the worst thing about all of this is that he has no idea.  No idea at all that I feel that way.

As I stutter my way through a sentence asking for order, he smiles ... those baby blues all crinkly at the corners, and I'm rewarded with a brief glimpse of perfect white teeth.  Oh, what it must feel like to have those bite down on me like the croissants I love so much, and scrap their way along my arm, and then nibble right back up again.

I sometimes like to imagine that he keeps that smile just for me, and then pops into a jar when I'm not around.

Poor delusional old woman that I am, I know that's not really the case.  I duck down my head, and carry on reading my book.

He places my cup carefully in front of me, and next to it the croissant.  Today though, it's not the usual one, it's a heart.  Maybe, just maybe he's trying to tell me something too.

© Kay Bolton

Perfect timing, 3 seconds left on the clock - I enjoyed that.  I know that it needs editing, but as a start it's quite nice.  

If you get time, have a go at The Write Practice, it's great fun.

Hugs

Kay

#002 ~ Novel Experience & #002 ~ Write Practice

Yesterday's Write Practice talked about Conflicts, and how ideally there should be three:

• External - World
• External - Personal
• Internal Conflict

This actually ties in quite nicely with the character development sheet I've been working on for my male protagonist, so I thought I would try and flesh out some of the conflicts that he has, or do affect him:

External - World

J's upbringing in a quiet coastal town, with happy and loving parents.  His father died, which is one conflict in his life, but the biggest, and most telling, was that he was unaware that he was the grandson of a Duke.  His grandfather died when was 11, and he inherits the dukedom.  He's taken away from everything secure, happy and certain, to a life of misery and loneliness.


External - Personal

Plunged into a totally different world he has to learn to navigate and find himself.  He is bullied at school, but does manage to find a few close friends, who are able to accept him, and look past his unconventional childhood.

He desperately misses his mother and close family servant, and is never allowed to see them.  He is allowed to correspond with home infrequently.


Internal Conflict

Partly because of his nature, but fuelled in the greater extent by what has happened to him since his grandfather's death, he has become obsessive about controlling his environment - the ultimate neat freak.  In actual fact, he could be considered to have mild Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.  Everything needs to be in its place and run to time.   This causes amusement, and some frustration with his friends, but has prevented him from forming strong emotional attachments/relationships with females.  He is a virgin, but has become adept at covering it up.

However, he harks back to his happy live with both of his parents, and feels that there is something missing - he has no idea how to go about letting go enough to allow some woman into his life. 

© Kay Bolton

This exercised has proved really useful, I just need to work them into the actual novel now.

Obviously, I have allowed for 2 pinch points as well, but don't see them as conflict areas necessarily.


Hugs

Kay

#001 - The Write Practice

I stumbled across a site yesterday that encourages 15 minutes a day of writing, using prompts and re-creations as the inspiration.  I recently had to do a controlled assessment for my English exam based on exactly that.

Therefore, it seems like a good idea to continue.  Following my other controlled assessment for just plain old creative writing, my English Tutor, Biddy, told me to get off my butt and start exercising my writing muscles - over and above the usual blog post and review writing - and submit some of my work for publication.  It is something that I have thought about for the longest time, and now I've decided to shift my large behind into gear and get on with it.

This is my first piece, and I just started the timer and hit the keypad - I know that I have a harsh reputation for talking about mistakes, but this is not edited, re-worked or checked for spelling/grammar, it is just my first Write Practice piece (it goes without saying that it's copyright and all rights reserved to me, Kym Bolton):

“What did I know best that I had not written about and lost? What did I know about truly and care for the most?” ~ Ernest Hemmingway

Ernest Hemmingway said “What did I know best that I had not written about and Lost? What did I know about truly and care for the most?”

In my case one of those things would be my mother, and it's a story that is tragically simple, or simply tragic, depending on which side of the coin you view it.

From my side it is tragic, and funny I guess because of the things I will do to not talk, or indeed, write about my feelings, and I admit it, some of the things I have done.

For instance, I would rather wash up a whole load of dirty dishes; mop the floor; clean a bathroom after a slobbering 20 year old male – who, by the way has the worst aim in the history of man. I could walk the dog, clean up dog poop in the garden, rod the bloody drains … anything, but have to talk about her.

Explain just why I feel so angry, disappointed, furious, and {taking a deep breath and heaving a big sigh} JEALOUS. There, I've said it; it's out in the open for all to know now. Of course, I would never actually admit that to the old cow.

Actually, I would never admit anything to her, just because Mr Ernest Hemmingway has prompted me to write about it, and admit in some small way that word “jealous”, still doesn't make it easy to explain to you the reason.

I suppose the time is now ripe to explain a short portion of why my mother and I don't speak, let alone communicate. Did I mention that we live next door to one another?

Bloody hell, there are still 6 minutes remaining on this bloody timer that was set for The Write Practice. How the hell, can I prevaricate a bit more to stall explaining the whole sorry story. Especially, when I know for certain – like the kind of certainty that England is crap at football, and will never win the World Cup again certain, that it will, and does, make me look bad. Never mind that if viewed from my side, it also makes her look pretty bloody shitty too.

Can I just put it out there, in case you were wondering, I really am not a horrible person. She, my grey haired 76 year old mother, and her 60 year old creepy toy boy lover make me behave like a truly horrible, disgusting and vengeful person.

So, let me explain why our 50 year old loving (in the most part) mother/daughter relationship has gone from happy, or happy'ish, to I could kill you, and be happy to spend the next 17 years in jail celebrating the fact.

Why, oh why Mother dear, did we choose to move to this village of the damned?

On the outside it seems a perfectly normal, middle class, exceedingly polite, friendly even … in the case of my neighbour, too bloody friendly ….

THANK THE LORD, THE TIMER HAS GONE OFF … MY 15 MINUTES HAS ENDED!

Feel free to rip it apart, or be kind, just let me know what you think.

Hugs

Kay