Full Version: Writing any fiction?
A thought has just poped in my head and I wondered this......
How many AD'ers are writing any original fiction? What is it about? What are some of the characters? Why are you writing it? Is there more?
How many AD'ers are writing any original fiction? What is it about? What are some of the characters? Why are you writing it? Is there more?
Way back in the 1980's, I wrote some science fiction and fantasy, for no other reason than the fact that I love that genre, and I wanted to be part of it. I was never more than a talented amateur. My inability to get any better, my inherent laziness, and the demands of work and marriage caused me to burn out after a handful of stories got accepted into very small press publications.
Since then, I sometimes amuse myself by quickly typing out a very short story somewhere on the Internet. Here are some extremely short ones:
Since then, I sometimes amuse myself by quickly typing out a very short story somewhere on the Internet. Here are some extremely short ones:
QUOTE
FOUR MICROSTORIES
DAY ZERO
For an unremembered time there had only been Self and the Void. Self knew that its mind had been created by the interactions of clusters and superclusters of galaxies; that its thoughts depended on the births and deaths of innumerable stars. Self was all, and alone.
Then, from beyond the Void, there approached the Other. By the time they met, they were nearly twice as old as they had been when they first sensed each other. They became One.
One's vast new mind, freed from the restrictions of time and space, reached back to the beginning of everything. It knew that its purpose was to give meaning to the universe, which was its body and its soul.
And One said, "Let there be God!" And there was God.
PLAYMATES
Teal and Josh were building insects in the playground on the top level of the BosWash arcology. Beyond the tesselated windows of the observation dome a winter storm lashed at the Atlantic, but inside it was warm and softly scented with tropical flowers.
Teal activated her latest creation. From the chaos of the components in the First Level Robotics Exploratory Learning Kit (Ages Six Through Eight) she had assembled a machine with translucent wings attached to a shiny blue carapace covered with tiny light-sensitive sensors. The structure rested on three thin, multijointed legs.
With a click and a buzz the insect flew up in an awkward spiral to the top of the dome, where it wandered from place to place in response to the photons from the lightning which filled the sky. Soon its hectic motions had nearly depleted its main energy stores. Its survival programming directed it to float back down to the floor and rest.
"What a stupid bug," Josh said.
"I think it's pretty." Teal rolled on her back to watch the storm.
"Only three legs. Insects have six legs."
"Not if you make them with three legs."
"You're silly." Josh picked up the machine and shook it. One of the wings fell off and fluttered to the ground.
"Hey!"
"Stupid bug." He tossed it on the floor. The legs shattered as it landed. "You don't know how to make them strong enough."
Teal stood and tried not to show her anger. She realized that Josh was just jealous. She had learned all about such things in her SocPsych lessons.
"I'm not going to play with you anymore," she said with great dignity. She walked behind him, reached under his tunic to the small of his back, and switched him off.
INSTINCT
It was easy to break through my steel-lined coffin and force my way through the frozen earth. My new strength and hunger drove me up, until I emerged into a moonless night that was bright as noon to my new vision. I kicked off the rotting remnents of my shoes and walked barefoot through the frozen cemetary. My husband had buried me in my wedding gown; it was a rather sweet gesture.
For one who had already known eternal rest, it was a short walk back to my home. I made my way back to my bedroom without trouble; all locks opened at my will. My husband slept, and I knew he fought nightmares. I knelt and fed from his throat. I never loved him as strongly as the first moment I tasted his blood. I drained him of his sorrows and terrors, and he slept on in peace.
I stood and moved silently to the crib. My infant daughter, who had killed me at the moment of her birth, watched me with dark eyes. "Mommy's home," I whispered. I picked her up, tore open my gown, and suckled her with the warm red milk that flowed from my dead breast.
FANS
Johnny Steel is on stage, a golden god of rock and roll, his hips shaking with the snake moves that make the girls breath faster. Somewhere in the smoke and darkness behind him they can see the outline of Johnny's hulking drummer, laying down the beat as if all the crowd has one heart. Over to the side the bone-thin bassist is a statue of black stone, only his fingers moving as he weaves a web of wickedly deep chords that shake their spines. Johnny lifts his guitar and makes it shriek.
"Are you ready?" he half-sings, half-screams. As the girls roar like a tidal wave he blasts out the opening riffs of "Waitin' For the Reaper," the latest of his neometal masterpieces. Jumping, dancing, sliding, singing and playing: he can almost do it in his sleep now. He's got time to check out the front row, the ones the roadies let through, the beauties. They're an odd bunch this time; milky skin and hair like fire and dark, dark eyes. About a dozen of them, alike enough to be sisters. Weird but cool.
Johnny steps forward and teases them by leaning over, way over like he's got a rubber backbone. They lift their hands toward him and say something he can hardly hear over the screaming guitar. Dionysus! Dionysus! Whatever; he just knows they're hot and ready and he can hardly wait to get them backstage. He decides to give them a thrill. He falls to his knees and grins right into the face of the prettiest one, the one with the whitest skin and reddest hair and maddest eyes. Then the Maenads are upon him, and the last thing he feels is their nails and their teeth.
DAY ZERO
For an unremembered time there had only been Self and the Void. Self knew that its mind had been created by the interactions of clusters and superclusters of galaxies; that its thoughts depended on the births and deaths of innumerable stars. Self was all, and alone.
Then, from beyond the Void, there approached the Other. By the time they met, they were nearly twice as old as they had been when they first sensed each other. They became One.
One's vast new mind, freed from the restrictions of time and space, reached back to the beginning of everything. It knew that its purpose was to give meaning to the universe, which was its body and its soul.
And One said, "Let there be God!" And there was God.
PLAYMATES
Teal and Josh were building insects in the playground on the top level of the BosWash arcology. Beyond the tesselated windows of the observation dome a winter storm lashed at the Atlantic, but inside it was warm and softly scented with tropical flowers.
Teal activated her latest creation. From the chaos of the components in the First Level Robotics Exploratory Learning Kit (Ages Six Through Eight) she had assembled a machine with translucent wings attached to a shiny blue carapace covered with tiny light-sensitive sensors. The structure rested on three thin, multijointed legs.
With a click and a buzz the insect flew up in an awkward spiral to the top of the dome, where it wandered from place to place in response to the photons from the lightning which filled the sky. Soon its hectic motions had nearly depleted its main energy stores. Its survival programming directed it to float back down to the floor and rest.
"What a stupid bug," Josh said.
"I think it's pretty." Teal rolled on her back to watch the storm.
"Only three legs. Insects have six legs."
"Not if you make them with three legs."
"You're silly." Josh picked up the machine and shook it. One of the wings fell off and fluttered to the ground.
"Hey!"
"Stupid bug." He tossed it on the floor. The legs shattered as it landed. "You don't know how to make them strong enough."
Teal stood and tried not to show her anger. She realized that Josh was just jealous. She had learned all about such things in her SocPsych lessons.
"I'm not going to play with you anymore," she said with great dignity. She walked behind him, reached under his tunic to the small of his back, and switched him off.
INSTINCT
It was easy to break through my steel-lined coffin and force my way through the frozen earth. My new strength and hunger drove me up, until I emerged into a moonless night that was bright as noon to my new vision. I kicked off the rotting remnents of my shoes and walked barefoot through the frozen cemetary. My husband had buried me in my wedding gown; it was a rather sweet gesture.
For one who had already known eternal rest, it was a short walk back to my home. I made my way back to my bedroom without trouble; all locks opened at my will. My husband slept, and I knew he fought nightmares. I knelt and fed from his throat. I never loved him as strongly as the first moment I tasted his blood. I drained him of his sorrows and terrors, and he slept on in peace.
I stood and moved silently to the crib. My infant daughter, who had killed me at the moment of her birth, watched me with dark eyes. "Mommy's home," I whispered. I picked her up, tore open my gown, and suckled her with the warm red milk that flowed from my dead breast.
FANS
Johnny Steel is on stage, a golden god of rock and roll, his hips shaking with the snake moves that make the girls breath faster. Somewhere in the smoke and darkness behind him they can see the outline of Johnny's hulking drummer, laying down the beat as if all the crowd has one heart. Over to the side the bone-thin bassist is a statue of black stone, only his fingers moving as he weaves a web of wickedly deep chords that shake their spines. Johnny lifts his guitar and makes it shriek.
"Are you ready?" he half-sings, half-screams. As the girls roar like a tidal wave he blasts out the opening riffs of "Waitin' For the Reaper," the latest of his neometal masterpieces. Jumping, dancing, sliding, singing and playing: he can almost do it in his sleep now. He's got time to check out the front row, the ones the roadies let through, the beauties. They're an odd bunch this time; milky skin and hair like fire and dark, dark eyes. About a dozen of them, alike enough to be sisters. Weird but cool.
Johnny steps forward and teases them by leaning over, way over like he's got a rubber backbone. They lift their hands toward him and say something he can hardly hear over the screaming guitar. Dionysus! Dionysus! Whatever; he just knows they're hot and ready and he can hardly wait to get them backstage. He decides to give them a thrill. He falls to his knees and grins right into the face of the prettiest one, the one with the whitest skin and reddest hair and maddest eyes. Then the Maenads are upon him, and the last thing he feels is their nails and their teeth.
My stories that I plan to write are placed approximately 70 years in the future or more where Pandora's box of AI has just been open by one of the main characters' dad. This is coupled with a world of five superpowers on Earth and interstellar contact will be made latter. (Sounds like a recipe for disaster. 
)
)
As a matter of fact, I am in the middle of my first novel. What it is about, characters, plot, technique and all that is not what I want to talk about though. At this time it would be like talking about a half-formed fetus, a rather boring thing and a bit disgusting for anyone but the parents.
I do want to plug this terrific blog done by a working literary agent:
Miss Snark
and this book that has helped in some practical ways:
The Marshall Plan for Novel Writing by Evan Marshall
Now if you look for him on Amazon, you'll see that he has published more books about writing than actual works of fiction. However, he does have one out there. Not a best seller mind you, but at least a published work which is better than most can claim.
There are two facts that come to mind: Published writers write more than they talk about writing, and what makes a good-selling or best-selling work of fiction is anyone's guess.
Between Miss Snark's stiletto heels and Evan's practicality, I see where unpublished writers will have a better swag at success. The market is out there waiting for the next big thing.
One thing that I've had problems with is landing on a specific genre. Happily, this is not necessary to write good fiction. Writing good fiction is necessary, or writing bad fiction that happens to hit a particular crowd strongly, and if it can be swung, garners the wrath of the Self-Righteous. Getting your book banned is one of the best things that can happen to boost sales, and sadly enough, this is something like winning the lottery. It's nearly impossible to do this on purpose.
Let's see, some basic principles: Never pay anybody anything to publish your work. Don't fall for fake contests. Constantly practice your craft because a well-crafted story is generally worlds above a poorly crafted one. Don't worry too much about originality because there really are only a handful of stories to tell, but do try to be original in that you're not copying someone else and claiming it as your own (plagiarism). Please have something happen and be consistent. These last two are my greatest weaknesses, which is why I'm taking my time with the first long fiction attempt.
I've done two nonfictions that have been published, and doing this is a like sex. The ecstasy is a fleeting moment, the immediate outcome tends to be scary as hell, the long haul takes for f/ing ever, the birth part is life-changing, and then the analogy falls apart. Man, am I ever glad that a done book is done, whatever it does in the marketplace. It would be terrible if it kept upchucking on you and demanding new shoes, running around town getting drunk and making trouble, smashing up the car, needing college education . . . phew, nobody would write anything like that!
That's why writing isn't like sex. Maybe it's like jogging? Is there a writer's high? Eh, that doesn't work. Writing is like, um, I don't know. I just can't stop doing it and will hopefully make a pile of money with it someday. Lots of other people are in this boat too, so at least I don't feel like a freak.
No, that's not true either. I do feel like a freak, but that doesn't matter.
I do want to plug this terrific blog done by a working literary agent:
Miss Snark
and this book that has helped in some practical ways:
The Marshall Plan for Novel Writing by Evan Marshall
Now if you look for him on Amazon, you'll see that he has published more books about writing than actual works of fiction. However, he does have one out there. Not a best seller mind you, but at least a published work which is better than most can claim.
There are two facts that come to mind: Published writers write more than they talk about writing, and what makes a good-selling or best-selling work of fiction is anyone's guess.
Between Miss Snark's stiletto heels and Evan's practicality, I see where unpublished writers will have a better swag at success. The market is out there waiting for the next big thing.
One thing that I've had problems with is landing on a specific genre. Happily, this is not necessary to write good fiction. Writing good fiction is necessary, or writing bad fiction that happens to hit a particular crowd strongly, and if it can be swung, garners the wrath of the Self-Righteous. Getting your book banned is one of the best things that can happen to boost sales, and sadly enough, this is something like winning the lottery. It's nearly impossible to do this on purpose.
Let's see, some basic principles: Never pay anybody anything to publish your work. Don't fall for fake contests. Constantly practice your craft because a well-crafted story is generally worlds above a poorly crafted one. Don't worry too much about originality because there really are only a handful of stories to tell, but do try to be original in that you're not copying someone else and claiming it as your own (plagiarism). Please have something happen and be consistent. These last two are my greatest weaknesses, which is why I'm taking my time with the first long fiction attempt.
I've done two nonfictions that have been published, and doing this is a like sex. The ecstasy is a fleeting moment, the immediate outcome tends to be scary as hell, the long haul takes for f/ing ever, the birth part is life-changing, and then the analogy falls apart. Man, am I ever glad that a done book is done, whatever it does in the marketplace. It would be terrible if it kept upchucking on you and demanding new shoes, running around town getting drunk and making trouble, smashing up the car, needing college education . . . phew, nobody would write anything like that!
That's why writing isn't like sex. Maybe it's like jogging? Is there a writer's high? Eh, that doesn't work. Writing is like, um, I don't know. I just can't stop doing it and will hopefully make a pile of money with it someday. Lots of other people are in this boat too, so at least I don't feel like a freak.
No, that's not true either. I do feel like a freak, but that doesn't matter.
QUOTE(AuthorMusician)
Let's see, some basic principles: Never pay anybody anything to publish your work. Don't fall for fake contests. Constantly practice your craft because a well-crafted story is generally worlds above a poorly crafted one. Don't worry too much about originality because there really are only a handful of stories to tell, but do try to be original in that you're not copying someone else and claiming it as your own (plagiarism). Please have something happen and be consistent. These last two are my greatest weaknesses, which is why I'm taking my time with the first long fiction attempt.
Thanks for the advice.
I'm thinking of writing and posting on the Net some of my stories so that a good many people could read them (more specifically at my deviantArt page).
I have learned what background information and how you write it can make or break a story. I also have a active imagination (sometimes hyperactive
) which get the best of my at times. Also, my writing will tend to focus on technology, ethics, philosophy, and politics, and I may add religion and/or fantasy. And it will be placed in a world where the US is not the only superpower as a said before.
I've written three complete novels (currently sitting in file folders under my bed) two books of poetry (shoe-boxed in the top of my closet) and six originial plays, one of which is going to drama States in April.
I am also in the middle of writing my first novel (actually I have written one already, but as it was finished before I was seventeen…there are too many tears there…)
I am trying to overcome a writer's block right now. Any suggestions?
I don’t want to discuss the plot (I am not too sure about it myself) but it is anyway going to be a very character-driven book. And the hero is someone who would probably bore me to tears in actual life- because he doesn’t like to talk.
I am trying to overcome a writer's block right now. Any suggestions?
I don’t want to discuss the plot (I am not too sure about it myself) but it is anyway going to be a very character-driven book. And the hero is someone who would probably bore me to tears in actual life- because he doesn’t like to talk.
To overcome writer's block I would recommend that you do some soul-searching and find out what areas interest you the most and then somehow put a spin on it in a novel.
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