littlewonder2

Little wonder we stumble in life.


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Back to Camp NaNoWriMo: Things to Remember and Consider

I’ve just started Camp NaNo this year, making it the first NaNo I’m doing while I actually had something else on. In fact, the story I’m doing for it was inspired by one of my Uni lectures, so I suppose that makes it feeding into each other (although, I’ll be honest, sometimes each writing class feed into ideas for another with what I’m learning; so maybe, that’s life). So I’ve been going through old emails, because when I logged on this arvo, I saw a new mail as well as some new cabin mates. So here’s one I participated in from last July’s Camp:

Here at Camp NaNoWriMo HQ, we wish we could give each one of you a personalized pep talk worthy of your awesome, distinct, only-you-could-write-it projects. So in that spirit, we present to you today’s customized cheerleading. Fill out the list below, then plug your responses into the pep talk following:

  1. An awesome superhero name

  2. Adjective describing your main character

  3. Your favorite snack

  4. The last verb your main character enacted

  5. The manufacturer of your favorite snack

  6. The first piece of dialogue in your story that starts with ‘You…’

  7. Your current word count

  8. Adjective describing your inner editor

  9. Adjective describing your best friend

  10. Your favorite supporting character in your Camp project

  11. The last piece of dialogue in your story that ended with an exclamation point

  12. How much time you last spent writing

  13. Your favorite mythological creature

  14. Your favorite author

  15. Write a sentence beginning with the words “Once upon a time”

Once, there lived a writer, known throughout the lands as Flyboy. This writer was seized by inspiration one July, and struck out to tell the tale of one known only as “The angry One.” The first two weeks were full of wonder. Fueled by chips, the writer generated conflicts like vast thunderstorms, and characters so real they jumped off the page only to lay you right in the face. Smiths now aware of the crucial role they played in this writer’s story-spinning, swelled with pride and told the writer, “bitch, why don’t you fix yourself before you start with me. You’re more fucked up than any one of us, so don’t you start preaching to me!” Alas, not all was so rosy. After hitting 588 the writer remembered their last pang of doubt. What if they became blocked once again? What if their story was silly? Maybe… maybe it would be better to stop. They looked into the mirror, and the face they saw seemed almost censor. At the writer’s darkest moment, a busy voice arose. “Hey, you can do this,” it said. “If you don’t, how will we ever find out what happens to mom I don’t want to live in a world with that kind of empty hole. Don’t stop now.” The writer nodded, saying “You are not my son!” No matter how far away from my word-count goal I am, I promise to write for at least 47 min a day.” With that, a rainbow sprang across the sky like a vampire racing toward the newest novel by Rowling. The world seemed to hold its breath, waiting for the writer’s next sentence. The writer smiled, took a deep breath, and wrote “Once upon a time there lived a village ravaged by war.” As well as this, Camp NaNo also offered advice:

I’ve got two tricks for drawing out minor characters.

1. Totally trippy sounding—interview them with a pad and paper in hand. Ask them specific questions out loud and all sorts of interesting stuff comes bubbling out of the back of your mind. Write down their answers.

2. Write a short “autobiography” of the six most important things that ever happened to them from first person perspective. That’s fodder for great vignettes as well as giving you more insight into their motivations, skills and talents, strengths and weaknesses, fears and hopes.

There are also some links, offers writers to ask anything, and even answer specific questions. For example, how to create conflict, or find names. It’s even got a quite interesting pep talk. There’s heaps of content.

Start simple, with one paragraph each for the beginning, middle, and end. Then break down those three sections into smaller chunks, and you’ll start to see chapters fall into place, seemingly with a will of their own!

If you’re having trouble figuring out how two characters mesh, have them interview each other. It’ll definitely give you some new perspective on your story and the people in it.

One last thing, though. A recent pep talk claimed: “Most people are lucky to not grow bored of the world, let alone become cynical or alienated.

“But that’s not you. As readers, artists, creators, and dreamers there’s still hope you will be ambassadors for wonder as a narrative force, making it not only a reason why you write, but also a technique for how you write.”

An interesting point, because I was that person, early on. Maybe not cynical, but certainly isolated, and resentful towards people for it. I often thought of them as liars, in the case of rumours and gossip, and generally malevolent towards others. And I as a person will always carry that with me, including in my writing. I have recently realised that most if not all of my stories are in fact about isolation, because that is how I’ve felt most of my life.

In fact, recently my mom claimed of me that I was “always able to make friends, you just chose not to,” and this can be a disturbing pervasive idea about people like me. But it isn’t true. As I recently have reflected to myself, whether an opinion is positive or negative, if it isn’t true then its just offensive. As in the case of older people assuming that all young people know everything about technology. I am fairly proficient in technology, but I by no means excel in it. Only recently have I truly discovered wi-fi, to give you a picture. So when once I was asked to do something to do with technology, I wasn’t believed when I admitted I didn’t know how and expected to do it anyway. In the end, I got out of it, but that isn’t the point.

The point is, don’t assume things about people. Just treat them as individuals. While it’s true that I’m not bored of the world and infinitely interested in it, don’t idealise me. I am not a perfect model of what a human should be.

I agree that writers should write towards the light, even while writing a gritty reality, even while keeping the emotional truth in a story. But never forget that you can’t write a good story without both the wonder and the truth. Life exists with both, and all you can do is play favourites, but never entirely eliminate either; it’s all about where your passions lay.

And I suppose that was his point. Explore what’s possible, no matter what’s probable. Try anything, and have fun.

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The Final Trifecta: In The Cold

I can’t believe Trifecta is finally ending! Well, after all the entries I’ve contributed to our community, it’s only right I should come back for just one more. I wrote this back in February, but now I’m repurposing it for this final hurrah.

She huddled against the cold, clinging to the one tiny pocket she had in front of her and chilled to the bone everywhere else. She had been forced into this corner, once having all the luxuries of a bed and now forced into the cold hard floor in the middle of winter. Just outside the door, she heard voices. Full of bitterness, she listened.

“Do you think there’s any hope for her?”

She could see his face, just imagine it in her mind. Her brother. She felt nothing but hate for him, something he would never understand through all his little denials of the weight of his guilt. Nothing would ever be enough, not anymore. Her hate for him was the only thing that kept her strong.

“There could be,” explained a stranger. Could he have brought her some doctor to take her away? “I mean, from what you’ve told me… that is, she won’t agree with me, but I feel like I can understand…” A shuddering breath. So maybe not a doctor.

“What she said about… hating you being her only strength. I mean, yeah. I can get that. I think right now, her family’s her only hope. She doesn’t know it now, but there can be more… if she can find the strength in hate, maybe she can find a different strength. Not in you, perhaps, she hates you far too much for that, but her family… if she can find some love in them, maybe there’s still a chance for her to one day… forgive you too.”

The very thought made her furious. Forgive him! There was nothing in all the world to make her forgive him, not if she lived for a hundred years! She would never forgive, she never could, she refused! He had taken everything from her, her entire life! And there was nothing shameful in strength from hate. She would do anything, if it meant that she would be strong; anything, if it meant she would never be weak again! It was worth it in the end…

“I hope so,” he said, and she wanted to tear him from the earth. “But even if she doesn’t… it’s okay. I just want her to be happy again.”

He had everyone else fooled, but he didn’t fool her! He had all the strength of luxury, while she suffered in the cold! And even if she suffered it all, he remained blind to what it truly felt for her. He would never understand, so she could never forgive him. Just the very thought made her stomach turn.

He could never be forgiven. Her mind was too far gone for forgiveness. It rose like bile in her throat.

She curled harder into herself, desperate from that little bit of warmth to spread just a little further. She was freezing.


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BlogFestivus #5 – Tiny Tim

I figure I owe you this dinner. You saved my life five years ago.”

Tim grinned. “Does that make me your saviour?”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” said Scrooge. “I was depressed, anything might have done it. All you did was give me your hand. I’m the one who pulled myself out.”

“Yeah, whatever. I saved you, just admit it,” said Tim. “Anything might have done it, but nothing might have happened, either. You could’ve died.”

“This is my thanks, this dinner,” said Scrooge. “Don’t rub it in.”

“So tell me the story,” asked his father, and for the briefest blink of the eye, Scrooge saw his own father staring back at him, that constant judging look, that never-wavering stare that caused lesser men to break down in front of him. But then it was gone in the blink of an eye, and there was Timothy’s father, smiling brightly with an odd light in his eyes.

“I was at the end of my rope,” explained Scrooge. “I hated the world around me and everyone in it. And yet, even after I tried to brush him aside, your son didn’t relent. Now, I’m not like one of these depressive kids these days out for attention, but what he did was open me up again to the world. I decided then and there that it was time to change.”

“Inspiring story,” Tim’s father agreed. “We could all learn from it.”

Note: This is a little late, but I got stuck without internet for about half a week. Better late than never, I say!

happy-blogfestivus-2013

Linda penning at linda vernon humor
Tom over at Shouts from the Abyss
Maria-Christina blogging at MCWhispers
Dylan of Treatment of Visions
Sarah from Parent Your Business
Dawn blogging at Lingering  Visions
K8edid from k8edid
Eileen from Not The Sword But The Pen
Lindsey at RewindRevise
Kandy of Kandy Talk
Theodore from This Blog Needs A Title
Sandra writing at In Love With Words
Natalie from So I Went Undercover
Jen at Blog It or Lose It
Amelie from In the Barberry
Cee Cee blogging at Cee Cee’s Blog
Ashley from LittleWonder2 (this is me)
BD writing Blogdramedy


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BlogFestivus #4 – Christmas Future

Scrooge had somehow been saved.

He had almost been a statistic; suicidal rates at Christmas skyrocket, everyone knows that. But he wouldn’t have thrown himself off a bridge or jumped in front of a car. He would’ve just walked out into a world he had grown to hate until it buried him.

It wasn’t that he had been particularly touched by the little boy who had talked to him once, or suddenly believed in the kindness of strangers. But as he thought of the sight of him walking away, something had risen in his chest. A bright little ball of hope, that he didn’t even have the spirit to damn it the way he always had.

It wasn’t just some cheesy line, no, it had been somehow real, and not anything like he’d ever assumed. Scrooge was nothing if not ambitious, and that hope turned into a new goal in his mind.

He still hated his family, but they weren’t the only ones that existed. There were people out there that might understand him. And he had found them.

“Pass the turkey,” said Scrooge, sitting at the dinner table.

Familiar old hands complied. After five years, he had met that special little boy again, after Scrooge had pulled himself out of his slump, and now he had a whole new family.

“Of course,” said Tim.

Note: This is a little late, but I got stuck without internet for about half a week. Better late than never, I say!

happy-blogfestivus-2013

Linda penning at linda vernon humor
Tom over at Shouts from the Abyss
Maria-Christina blogging at MCWhispers
Dylan of Treatment of Visions
Sarah from Parent Your Business
Dawn blogging at Lingering  Visions
K8edid from k8edid
Eileen from Not The Sword But The Pen
Lindsey at RewindRevise
Kandy of Kandy Talk
Theodore from This Blog Needs A Title
Sandra writing at In Love With Words
Natalie from So I Went Undercover
Jen at Blog It or Lose It
Amelie from In the Barberry
Cee Cee blogging at Cee Cee’s Blog
Ashley from LittleWonder2 (this is me)
BD writing Blogdramedy


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BlogFestivus #3 – Christmas Present

It was getting colder. He hated snow. He hated winter. And most of all, he hated Christmas.

He wheezed into his hand. He was an old man, and it didn’t help that it was so cold. As he sat down in a bench to rest, he looked around and saw not some beautiful scape, but a hateful, biting place. A populated desert, serving to bury him faster.

“Sir?”

With looked up with a glare. “What is it?” he bit.

A blonde child looked at him with fear in his eyes. “S-sorry,” he said. Scrooge wasn’t; he’d lost his patience long ago. He waited for the boy to continue to speak.

Instead, he just stared. “What is it, boy, what do you want?” he snapped.

“You seemed lonely.”

Scrooge frowned. It wasn’t like humanity to care for him, some stranger off the street, for no reason at all. But it was known. “I’m fine,” he grumbled.

“Are you sure?”

His mouth tightened. “Why should you care?” he growled.

“Don’t you?”

“Don’t I what?”

“Don’t you care if anyone cares about you? You should care. If it were me, I’d be terribly worried?

“Worried? Why?”

“Because that’s the worst feeling there is.”

happy-blogfestivus-2013

Amy penning at Fix it or Deal

Tom over at Shouts from the Abyss

Steve from Stevil

Maria-Christina blogging at MCWhispers

Dylan of Treatment of Visions

Sarah from Parent Your Business

Dawn blogging at Lingering Visions

K8edid from k8edid

Dave bringing it at 1pointperspective

Eileen from Not the Sword But The Pen

Lindsey at RewindRevise

Kandy of Kandy Talk

Sandra writing at In Love With Words

Natalie from So I Went Undercover

Jen at Blog It or Lose It

Amelie from In the Barberry

Cee Cee blogging at Cee Cee’s Blog

Ashley from LittleWonder2 (this is me)

BD writing Blogdramedy


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BlogFestivus #2 – Christmas Past

“Give it back!”

Scrooge had just unwrapped his biggest christmas, and now he was gripping it tight, struggling to hold on to it as his brother tugged it back and forth between them. He was well aware that his father had only bought it for him in an attempt to buy his love, but he didn’t care. He never wanted anyone else to have it. And he certainly didn’t want to share it with his older brother, because he knew for a fact that if he ever did, he’d never see it again.

“No!” his brother spat.

“Dad! Make him stop!” cried Scrooge.

“Now, now, son, if he wants to borrow it, you should be a good little brother and let him.”

“But dad –”

“No buts,” he said. He pulled his hand off his own present, allowing just enough so that his brother could finally pull his present from his hands.

By the time Scrooge was nine, it was a well-known fact that that toy train had always been his brother’s. Scrooge never quite stopped hating his family for it.

“I hate you, I hate you!”

“Now, now, son,” his father said. “If Santa got you coal for Christmas, it’s only because he knows what a bad boy you’ve been this year. Just think of all the things you’ve done to your poor brother.”

“It’s not fair! I hate you!”

happy-blogfestivus-2013

Amy penning at Fix it or Deal

Tom over at Shouts from the Abyss

Steve from Stevil

Maria-Christina blogging at MCWhispers

Dylan of Treatment of Visions

Sarah from Parent Your Business

Dawn blogging at Lingering Visions

K8edid from k8edid

Dave bringing it at 1pointperspective

Eileen from Not the Sword But The Pen

Lindsey at RewindRevise

Kandy of Kandy Talk

Sandra writing at In Love With Words

Natalie from So I Went Undercover

Jen at Blog It or Lose It

Amelie from In the Barberry

Cee Cee blogging at Cee Cee’s Blog

Ashley from LittleWonder2 (this is me)

BD writing Blogdramedy


3 Comments

Trifecta – Disturbing the Peace

At midnight, every night since she was six, Marley always awoke in her bed to find that she had materialised into another world. She was a citizen now, living in the true-fantasy town where friends and neighbours surrounded her in the night-peace between midnight and dawn.

She never knew where her night’s adventures would take her.

“I’ve been waiting for you.”

Marley’s eyes fell on Lalla, curves begging from under a red silk neglige.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” she asked, well used by now to accepting everything, but now faced with another kind of fantasy altogether.

She jumped eagerly on the bed, straddling Marley’s hips. Marley got ready to submit her teenaged virginity to Lalla’s capable hands… and mouth, she thought, as her lover started sucking her neck.

This world was the only place she really lived, and she’d lived in it for twelve years now. She was ready.

“Take me,” she told Lalla, “now.”

Lalla began running deft hands up Marley’s legs, parting them as she went, and soon they disappeared under Marley’s night shirt.

She pulled her underwear straight down to her ankles, and just the sight of it, the knowledge of what was about to happen, turned her on.

And now, as Lalla stuck a finger in Marley could already feel her own wet heat. She pressed herself against the finger eagerly, craving friction, craving Lalla.

“Please… God…”

Lalla pulled out, and Marley whimpered, but just quickly there were two fingers, twice the friction, and Marley widened her legs as she slowly impaled herself on them.

And then Lalla’s head disappeared, and Marley felt a strong jolt of muscle inside her, working against Lalla’s fingers, throbbing, heightening, and Marley began moving, moaning, twitching.

Lalla’s fingers reached, their tips wriggling, and Marley felt everything. And she was getting close now, closer, and so she pushed, trying to get higher, and higher, waiting, just waiting to come.

A little movement, a few extra licks and strokes from Lalla, and she did.