Ah well, life goes on.

Hello Reader.  Today, I'm in a dull mood.  Grades came back, health's down the toilet, and my final query letter was just returned.  Another no from Barer Literary.  I was actually disappointed with this one.  I was really hoping she would be able to represent me.  Her style is so focused and she has an insane amount of dedication.  I've always tried to be an optimistic person, but today just isn't cutting it.  So I'm going to cut this post off short with an excerpt.

The scene is where Tory and Weller, the two brothers who lead the Cross Mafia Family, are awaiting a new shipment of their laser guns.  They are met with a mysterious person that they know well, who brings them news from the frontlines of the war between the Mags and Howlas.

“Do you want to talk or should I deal with the captain?” Tory was glaring at his brother.

            Weller grunted wearily, “I don’t want to talk.  I don’t even know why you brought me here.” He impatiently checked his watch.

            “You’re here because you are my brother.  We built this empire together, we’re going to run it together.”  Tory looked around the shoreline, his eyes scouring for any passersby.  “If you’re not going to talk, at least control your anger.  You look like you’re about to kill someone.”

            “You, perhaps, for dragging me away from my home.” A wind blew through their coats, brushing their beards.  They stood on the pier for a while, watching the boat navigate its way around a series of jetties.  Seagulls cawed behind them, dropping by their silent figures hoping for something to eat.  When nothing came they flapped away, blaring their cries for food louder.

            When the boat came to dock they walked along the pier to meet the captain.  What met them forced surprise onto Tory’s face.  “What are you doing here?” he growled.

            A Howla, diminutive in stature with more of a mouse’s face than a wolf’s, was shuffling towards the gangsters.  Thick-rimmed glasses adorned his face, an odd trait for someone who could heal his wounds at anytime.  A large cloak covered his body, shabby and dull in color.  He wore a patched hat, loose strings following him as he walked.  His fur was a dark shade of brown, with red streaks flitting in and out of sight as he moved.  His ears were intact and his stomach was absent of any scars.  He was the exact opposite of a Howlian warrior.

            “How are you Tory?  Weller?  I’m glad both of you are here,” the Howla took his hat off and held it against his chest.  “Please, if you will follow me I want to discuss a few things with you before you take these away.”

            Tory flinched slightly when the mysterious Howla had put his arm on him, turning away towards Weller with a look of apprehension filling his eyes. 

            “What do you want from us Harry?  We haven’t done anything wrong.” Weller was bristling as well, his frustration showing in his voice.

            “Not yet,” Harry giggled, a high-pitched wheezing sound that scared the birds in front of them, “No, not yet.  I’m here to make sure you never do.”  He took a few more steps past the docked ship and let his hands clasp in front of him. 

            “Did you know that the Holy Prophet Howlamega has killed the twenty-fifth Magna Beast?”  Harry smiled at the awe in both Tory and Weller’s faces, “I see you have yet to hear the good news.  Well, this death we have finally come upon is momentous, as I am sure you know.” 

            Tory’s look of awe turned to anger, “What does this have to do with us?”

            Harry gave a wry smile, crinkling his face into a terrible mask of conceit, “As the ambassador of the Holy Prophet, it is my duty to tell you of the Rewards that have been placed upon us.  Due to Sulfanen the Lion’s death, we have been given the unique opportunity to build our army without hindrance from the Mags.  Obviously, you understand the implications for your families.”

            Weller’s bristling turned to outright rage.  He grabbed Harry by the throat and lifted him with one hand, “How dare you attempt to use us, just after my son dies?  You want to kill more boys for your war?”

            As Harry struggled, Tory looked on with equal hatred.  Restrained as he was, he also stepped towards the dangling Harry, his body tense.  “We have accepted your help from afar as a business transaction.  Not as a favor.  I don’t give a damn about the Howlamega’s dreams.  Your war is not ours. We’re trying to make a living.”  But Tory’s words were lost upon Harry.  Though his life was slowly being ripped away from him, he was smiling.  His wheezing laugh could be heard through Weller’s grunts of frustration. 

            “Stop laughing!” Weller dug his hands deeper into Harry’s throat, “Stop laughing I said, you conniving bastard.”

            It was to no avail.  Harry continued with his giggling fit, his hands now hanging limp at his sides.  He was doing nothing to stop the attack, nothing to stop his life from escaping him.  Tory’s eyes narrowed when Harry looked to the bow of the ship. “Stop Weller!” Tory pushed Weller’s arm down, forcing him to let Harry go.  “The Howlamega’s here,” Tory whispered into his brother’s ear.  He followed Harry’s dark eyes and saw a wisp of smoke slither away.

            “Good boy Tory.” Clasping his throat tightly as he healed it, Harry grinned.  “You are a fine leader.”  He rose unsteadily before glaring at Weller, “Your brother on the other hand is too wild.  Small wonder that his pup went and killed himself.”  Harry had to step back as Weller made another grab at his throat.

            “Where is he?” Weller’s growl was full of menace, unrestrained hatred lacing his voice.

            “As if you could kill him,” Harry straightened his jacket and put his hat back on.  “Back to the Rewards.  You will, young Tory, have your family be a part of our army.  This is your duty as a Howla, this is your duty as a warrior.  It will not be shirked.”  He glared at Weller, “Knowing your anger however, I am worried.  You must remember that there is always a limit to the Rewards.  We are not allowed to harm the Lion’s family, or the country in which they reside.”

            “How would we know where they live?  We don’t know who the Magna Beast is!”  Tory was in disbelief.  The Howlamega was demanding the world from Howlas a world away.

            Harry remained unfazed, “Make a wild guess Tory, use that magnificent brain of yours.”  He turned around to face the Atlantia coastline, “Why else would we build you up here?”  With that, Harry smiled.  “Be careful with these guns Tory.  And Weller, I am truly sorry that your son died.  Next time, I hope we meet under less strenuous circumstances.”  He tipped his hat to the brothers, and left them in shock. 

Until next time then.

Inspiration

Hello Reader!  I wasn't going to post today, because I honestly couldn't think of anything to say.  I was wrung dry, and falling off the literary bandwagon.  My third letter, the one to Barer Literary, has probably arrived at school and I'm on spring break so I can't get to it.  Ergo there are no updates.  I've begun the second book of Volume 1, because I'm sick and tired of rehashing Book 1 over and over again.  The second book, titled Rising Action, is not coming along well.

I can't imagine back to five (or is it six now?) years ago when I began this ridiculous project.  How did I stare at the blank canvas on the screen and just pour out my soul?  I had no direction then, and I just wrote.  Six years later, I'm trying to find an agent.  I don't want the second novel or any subsequent novels iA to take that long again.  Yet I fear that my lack of inspiration that has suddenly appeared (can a lack of anything truly "appear"?) is making me lose sight of my life's dream.

Staring at the blank canvas showers me in dread that nothing I write will be good enough.  That I honestly do not know the direction in which I am heading.  So I searched for that inspiration, like a mad dog.  I scoured my iTunes looking for music that will catch my soul, twirl it around for a bit, and then fling it on high towards heaven.  I thought I found it in Placebo's music.  I love them, they are my favorite band.  "Days Before You Came" defined my first heartbreak, and the rest of their body of work continued to shape my adolescence. 

But oh how I erred, fancying a quick fix rather than a solid patch over the leak in my imagination.  So, I watched a movie.  Terrible, terrible movie.  20th Century Fox, if you take another one of my childhood shows and then rape it into anything akin to the caricature that is Dragonball: Evolution I will firebomb your headquarters.  Seriously.  Anyways, that didn't work.  So there I remained with a leak turned flood, my ideas and thoughts pouring off into oblivion as I wasted away into my own obscurity.  Well, it wasn't that dramatic.  If that's my biggest problem right now, I am blessed subhanallah. 

It's still a problem though, and a problem needs a solution.  Herein enters Ashton Kutcher, of all people, with his goofy smile and odd sense of humor.  Did anyone see Valentine's Day?  Did anyone like it?  I ask because I absolutely adore this movie!  There are no suitable words for me to use, I just love it so much.  Some of it's cliche, and other parts seemed disingenuous to me.  But I don't care about any of that, because it left me lighter than before.  It's filled that hole in my head, and I needed that badly. 

Movies have always held a special power for me.  I attribute this to the fact that my father owned a video store from when I was born till I was ten.  And during that time, I spent almost every summer watching movies.  Right and wrong, equating manhood with being a hero, how to treat women, my very image of beauty have all probably been shaped in one way or another by that damn video store.  So when I see an incredible movie, even if it's cliche, the film holds a special power over my mood and thinking.  I start acting differently, I start speaking with more gusto, I start being everything that my laziness usually stops me from being.

And it's always random.  There have been other movies that have touched me just as deeply, movies that probably possess a vastly greater amount of quality than Valentine's Day does.  And each discovery, each refueling of the fires that rage inside of me occur by chance.  I was looking for another movie to watch (I'm on spring break, what?) and I randomly clicked this film.  I immediately became engrossed.  It was celebratory and it took risks with my emotion.  It was normal, yet it transcended normalcy to reach into a deep wellspring of emotion intangible.  I couldn't believe I had missed it so far. 

Now, I am filling up with ideas.  My soul that ached and bled is finally dedicating itself to the work of creating a world filled with rich characters and a fulfilling plot.  Seriously, it isn't that melodramatic.  I just like to fill my language with flowery vocabulary and intricate metaphors.  Or at least, I hope those two adjectives apply.  

Anyways, my question is: if you're writing something, or making music or pursuing any other artistic endeavor, what do you use as inspiration?  As always comments, critiques and suggestions are always appreciated. Until next time then.

Life As I See It

Hello Reader!  So this is an update blog, as well as a thought-game blog.  I've been lax to reply, mainly because I've been lazy but finals also contribute to the problem.  So let's get down to the nitty gritty shall we?  I missed you.

Castiglia Literary got back to me.  They were incredibly nice about their rejection, which I expected seeing as how they don't really represent "science fiction".  It's sad that I can never escape that label with my book.  I have, oh, three fight scenes in my entire 80,000 words.  I've only got one spaceship in the entire thing.  But I've got aliens running amuck, in a future world with an alternative history, just about 1000 years into the future. 

Even so, I don't want to be science fiction.  In fact, I can't even be science fiction.  A lot of the "science" I incorporate into my story isn't very accurate.  The ideas I have about what the future will be like are actually all formulated based on the conjectures I've made from what I hear on the Discovery channel.  I'm not a hard science fiction writer, I'm not even a light science fiction writer. 

Those people base their entire stories on technology that can be.  Their stories center around the effects of technology on humanity, and humanity's effects on technology.  Stories like these are intricate, no doubt.  They're tapestries of crystalline cities immersed in their own grandeur, only to be brought to a level, humble ground through even more grandiose technology.  Authors that can spin that kind of web are impressive, to say the least.  But I'm not one of their fold. 

I write about humanity's effects on itself.  I write about the dangers that lie dormant in us, and how when awakened these demons are fought with vigor unparalleled by our own strength of will.  The grandeur of metal and steel twisting themselves around transducers to create a warping effect of reality isn't the kind of theme I'm interested in.  I'm fascinated by the epic that is man (woman too). 

Burnt to a Crisp

Hello Reader.  First a bit of news: I sent out three query letters today.  Exciting?  No, not at all.  It's more a mixture of overwhelming fear and anxiety boiling over into the region of calm that suppresses a wild and intense need to yell and scream out of delirium.  So, on to who I sent these letters to!

Barer Literary: She's known for being incredibly intimate with her authors, and she knows her way around the publishing industry.  Plus, just based on the few interviews I've read with her, she is one of the most passionate literary agents out there.

Meredith Bernstein Literary: Not much has been said about her but she's old school, which is something that I absolutely gravitate towards.  She represents (kind of) what I'm writing so I decided to give it a shot.

Castiglia Literary Agency: Honestly, I've been using Writer's Market 2009 to inform my decisions about who I should send my queries out to.  Castiglia sort've represents what I'm putting out, so I sent out a letter.

I'm really hoping something comes out of these.  If not, well, I'm not going to cry because I've got 30 other literary agents on a nice little list of mine who are going to be bothered by me.  I wish I had more, because there are so many of them out there!  But I can't really spend too much more time fiddling around with my thumbs waiting for this opportunity to plant itself in my lap.  I'm going after this, whether I feel uncomfortable or not.

Which is the odd thing.  I'm usually extremely-passionate-to-the-point-that-I'm-feeling-nauseous about things like this.  I'm not at all nauseous about this.  I'm more nervous and excited and...well, read above.  But I'm not killing myself over it.  Is it because I don't want this enough?  How could I not?  This has been a part of me since I was a child, I can't remember when it wasn't.  This is my life, how could I not be excited for it?

And when I was asking myself these questions, I realized something.  This novel, this idea, this legend I've developed in my head using my overactive imagination truly is my life.  This is who I am, the very essence of my soul, my existence delineated and crammed into the pages of the novel I've written and those I hope to write.  Briok Cwartel's story is my own, and my story is his.  I can't be nauseous and I can't ache for something that is already existing and a part of me.

I think that's been the missing piece in all I've done concerning this book.  I've never had peace of mind, never truly believed I could be published.  And I don't need that when Briok's legend is already published, via my own existence.  He is already here, living and breathing and fighting destiny trying to make his mark on the world.  He's just doing all of those things under a pseudonym: my own name.

Thinking over this, realizing this, and fermenting it in my head for the past dozen or so hours has opened my eyes.  I don't need accolades, I don't need popularity, I DON'T EVEN NEED THIS TO BE PUBLISHED.  Those would be fantastic to have, and my gratitude would be without limit.  Yet I've found a spot in my journey with this book that's let me see it not just as a novel, but as my journey on this Earth too, and that's damn well good enough.  I love this story, I love the grandeur it has given my life.  It's my escape, my wellspring of calm and my constant companion.  It will not go unheard, I know it won't.  But now, even if it does, I'll still be happy.  Until next time then.

A Discussion on Theme

Hello Reader.  I apologize for being late with the post.  I've been sick, so my life has slowed down quite a bit.  Anyways, I've never done this before so bear with me.  I've been thinking a lot about the themes and ideas I've been instilling in my novel.  And I haven't been wondering if it was the right thing to do, as is usually the case.  No, I've been wondering why I obsess over these themes.

It's strange not knowing a part of yourself.  Especially a part of yourself that's been festering within for as long as you can remember.  I honestly cannot think of a time when the Magna Beast's battle with destiny was not on my mind.  As a child, I had it in simpler terms.  Can Briok really be controlled or not?  As I've grown, the ideas have morphed and shades of darkness have been added to the canvas.  The overall portrait I've created in my mind is filled with bright patches clouded in swaths of rabid shadow.

Back to my point, I wanted to know why I am so obsessed with this concept of battling destiny.  And I'm not talking about Luke Skywalker fighting the inward pull to become his father.  Briok fights that, but that isn't his test.  I want this character to pit his grandiose personality against the very tides of fate itself.  I want him to break apart convention and become something wholly new, an abrasion on the surface of reality that cannot easily be forgotten. 

What It Means to Begin and End Well

Hello Reader.  When writing a novel, if you're not pretentious you look to other authors' works in the hopes that you can somehow better your own.  Especially the endings and beginnings of any piece of literature.  Seeing as how I've been working on and off this novel for sometime now (five years!) I've gone through a lot of blog posts and websites about exactly this same topic.  And I've learned that the trick to having a great start and end to a novel is luck.  Sheer dumb luck.

There's absolutely no pattern!  To any of this writing business.  What clicks with people is so random, and frustratingly so.  The beginning of many of the Harry Potter books are really confusing, and in the first novel alone Rowling throws so many different character names at you in the first couple of pages that I remember as a kid I gave up on reading it.  But now I've made it a tradition to attempt reading all seven of her novels during winter break.  I absolutely love, adore, and cherish those books.

Then there's "one of the best beginnings of any novel ever" in A Tale of Two Cities.  "It was the worst of times, it was the best of times..." (I might have gotten that backwards).  I hated this book, I completely revile it.  And yet it has one of the most celebrated beginning lines of all time.  You see what's going on here?  There isn't a ruddy pattern!

In all honesty, I think I've got a great beginning line.  But who knows if that translates to a great book?  And my ending?  I think it's powerful.  Is that a powerful closing to a fantastic book?  I'm completely insecure about the answer to that question.  This is the deep plunge that I take as an author.  I stress over the bookends, and yet I'm still so unsure about the actual content between.

Which brings up a great point.  What does it mean to begin and end well?  Nothing.  After five years of worry, I've figured that if I don't have a great beginning but if my content is going to blow people away then I'll be satisfied.  If my ending is lackluster, I can learn from it later so long as readers enjoyed the ride.  Because at the end of the day, I remember when Ron pulled out Gryffindor's sword and crushed the locket containing Voldemort's horcrux.  I can forget completely the epilogue of Deathly Hollows.

So my weekly question is this:  What beginnings of ends of novels totally blew you away?  And did they lead to an awesome book?  Or was the content of the novel a dud?  You can leave your comments below.

This is a short post, uncharacteristic of me I know.  I have midterms and a banquet to plan so I'll be harried and frenetic for a while.  But I love this blog and I'll do my best to update it as frequently as possible.  Until next time then.

The Livelihood

Hello Reader.  I couldn't think of something to say today, so I decided that a post of my revamped query letter would be better than sending nonsensical bullshit your way.

My last two versions of the query letter (which can be found here and here) were, I feel, just ok.  I've been brushing up on query writing techniques, as well as reading a ton of other authors' query letters, and I think I've come up with something a little better.  Hopefully, those of you out there reading this will like it.  It's after the break.

The Breakdown

Hello Reader. After a bit of feedback, I'm thinking a clarification is in order. Well, not so much a clarification as an outright listing of the novels and volumes that comprise Briok's legend.

Beginning with Volume 1: The Proxy Wars, Briok's story starts with the death of his father and ends with a tragic incident at Methoral Palace. The Volume is made of four books: Dramatis Personae, Rising Action, Climax, and Denoument.  Each book is a self-contained story with implications on the next one.  At the end of Denouement, the Howlamega is NOT dead.  I only mention the Howlamega throughout Volume 1.  He, and his son, are never seen.  The crux of the action in the Volume is the war fought between Atlantis and Tory, the proxies of Amar and the Howlamega, respectively.

Volume 2: Qasida is a deep submerging of my story into the richness of pre-Islamic Arabian poetry.  The Qasida in Arabic poetry is the standard epic poem, comprised of three parts: the Nasib, the Rahil, and the Ritha.  Guess what the names of the books in Volume 2 will be?  You got it!  Nasib, Rahil, and Ritha.  Each book serves the same purpose that they serve in the structure of a normal Qasida.  In Volume 2, the war between Briok and the Howlamega culminates into an enormous battle on the planet of Paragon 3, introduced earlier in the series.  So basically Volume 2 is a war novel.  I'm extremely excited to start it.

Volume 3 doesn't have a title yet.  In fact, I have no clue as to how many books I want in Volume 3.  But the story is concrete, as are the ending chapters.  Briok journeys far and wide to find his enemies, alone. His quest takes him more places internally than it does physically, leaving him both scarred and battered.  But he is better for it.  It's a one-man show, with intermittent characters and vignettes of his friend's lives after they abandon him (with good reason).  After two wildly epic stories, I wanted to focus in on Briok and Briok alone.  He transforms the most in this volume, and hopefully I'll get around to writing it.


Again, these ideas are all based on the assumption that the first book even gets published.  Let's hope I can get a handle on my schedule so that dream becomes a reality iA.  If this still leaves you confused, please comment below.  It's important to me that I get as much feedback as possible.  Until next time then.

I am Le Tired

Hello Reader!  I'm exhausted from my midterm schedule/the worst two weeks of my life.  So I'm leaving you with a short blurb and an excerpt from the novel, The Proxy Wars: Dramatis Personae.  I hope you enjoy it, and please comment, suggest, critique it.

This is where Amar heads from Methoral Palace, the seat of Atlantis' monarchy in the year 3096, to the senate building.  Both are in the city of Atlantia.  His journey there and a couple of other things that happen are from Chapter 2: Three Days Later.

Wait, I'm supposed to be in school...

Hello Reader.  I'm writing to you from someplace other than my dorm room.  Amazing, right?  I think so. I'm in a computer lab.  Waiting for a class to start.  Because my days are always hectic, and I find myself living on campus rather than in my dorm room with my satisfying video games, laptop, and bed.  I haven't worked a lick on Proxy Wars: Dramatis Personae in some time.  Is it my fault, or am I going to blame my schoolwork for that?  I don't even know that yet. 

But that's not troubling me so much.  A) I've already written about time management, B) I'm pretty sure whining is not going to get me more blog readers.  What's really troubling me is the lack of attention being paid to the slush pile.  For those of you who don't know what that is, the slush pile is the aggregation of any unsolicited manuscripts that are sent out to publishers and agents by first-time authors. I've read a couple of interesting articles about the death of the slush pile - one of which you can find here.  It's disheartening to see what I think is an art form die.

The slush pile is a random pile of crap mixed with more chance than a Monopoly board.  Should I put a TM there?  Maybe when this is more popular.  Anyways, while the slush pile's cons are very large, I believe it's pros are much larger.  New writers bring new ideas.  Don't tell me there are no new stories.  You're right, and everyone else knows it.  So stop pretending you're intelligent.  What there are plenty of, are writers capable of telling the same stories over again in new and exciting ways.  The slush pile can give publishers and agents exactly that. 

Now by publishers, I mean Penguin and HarperCollins and another major "label" out there.  So one can imagine the girth that such a company may bring to finding new authors and new stories.  Is that an excuse to ignore the musings and hopes of so many voices?  I don't think so.  I'm not that well-versed in economics, and I'm definitely a new guy to the publishing scene - so new I haven't even been published yet!  But what I am well-versed in are second-chances and lucky breaks.  Because I've had several of them.  I've been given so many first chances and "Hey why don't you try this, and if you fail, we'll try again huh?"'s  that my life story is due in little part to my own machinations.  I've been the beneficiary of so many other people's generosity.  And I've done pretty well so far with all of that lovin'.  So why can't others get that treatment?

Why can't I get that treatment?  You can see where I'm coming from.  A place of greed and supplication.  I want to be lucky enough that publishers and agents will notice me in the slush pile.  I want to be that ridiculously blessed bastard who only sent out 15 query letters, got 10 rejections, and because of some secretary's mistake wound up with the rival to Harry Potter's ubiquity - I am so calling you out Stephanie Myers.  The death of the slush pile is killing that greed, replacing it with a forlorn sense of WTFery.  As an aspiring author, all I can do is look at articles like the Wall Street Journal one above and be catatonic with doubt.  Has anyone watched that movie?  It wasn't very good.

But why is it an art form, you, that anonymous reader who doesn't comment very often, ask?  Because voice is an art form.  And the slush pile gives you some of the most varied and wonderful voices you can imagine.  It's variety that's the spice of life, right?  Then again, they also give you crap like this:  oops, no one puts up stuff from the slush pile because they think it's not worth it.  Dicks.

Sorry about that.  I'm trying to make a more concerted effort at trying to stop my bitterness from making me digress.  It's difficult.

Anyways, I think I've found a way around the slush pile.  Whether I like it or not, the thing is dying.  The economy is forcing agents to be more wary of fiction, and publishers have outright refused to see anything that's not agented.  So I have to adapt to the times.  My solution?  Or desperate plan?  Submitting to literary magazines.  I've already got Westwind Literary magazine in my scope, and maybe I'll start writing some short stories so I can submit them to some other magazine.  God willing, one day I'll get to win an award or be published in a prestigious anthology.  Here's to hoping.  So that'll be my question of the day: What literary magazines do you know of?  Do you know anyone who's been published in one?  Leave comments, directions, and e-mails to those people, if you know them, below.  Until next time then.

Ugh, writing.

I haven't even touched my book.  For the past two weeks I've been focused on trying my hardest to be as lazy as possible, doing as little studying as possible.  That's not good, I know, but I'm mentally exhausted.  Nevermind, that's a blatant lie.  I'm just lazy.

Why shouldn't I be?  I've written a book (unpublished, I know), I've got a hellish school schedule: MWF 9-6 with a Tues. and Thurs. no better, and I've got three different organizations depending on me for work to be done.  I deserve rest!

No, not really.  My book is unpublished, I had the same kind of schedule last quarter, and the three org's aren't asking much.  Ugh, it's hard to find motivation for things you're not into.  I'm not into writing letters to people thousands of miles away, who'll probably pass me up like week-old cheese.  I'm definitely not passionate about physics, and life science reading is tedious. 

I read somewhere that writing a novel is only part passion.  The rest of it is hating your work until it's perfect.  I think I'm paraphrasing egregiously, but it sounds good doesn't it?  I'm really trying to get a handle on that last part.  I've become prone to writing in bouts of passion, furiously finishing ten pages and then being lazy for the next week or so.  It gets me great writing, but it's slow progress.  It took me five years to get 310 pages worth of my thoughts on paper.  That's too long.

So what should my solution be?  An updated To Do List everyday?  Just slap myself into action more often?  What do you do to get yourself into the mood to do work?  Until next time then.

And It's Done

Hello Reader.  I have finally managed to finish The Proxy Wars: Dramatis Personae.  I was waiting on a friend of mine's criticisms of the novel, and she's handed them in.  They're soooo good.  And that leads me to believe that there's a real beauty to peer review.

When someone who's your age is reviewing your work, and I'm specifically talking about novels here, then they are privy to the same cultural touchstones that you are.  These things are the centerpieces of your fictional work, your storyline.  Every story is dated in one way or another, very few truly transcend time.  Of course, there are novels that address themes that transcend time, but each one has a cultural item that is particular to its time.  Mine is a disproportionate influence by J.K. Rowling. 

There seems to be a trend, starting from the '90s I guess - but remember that's when I was born so it could've started earlier - of a triumvirate of friends: two guys and a girls.  There was a show about it.  Cory, Topanga, and Shawn.  Those three names are like, the Trinity of sitcom for '90s babies.  And, king of them all, Harry, Hermine, and Ron.  I've got Briok, Proteus, and Kara.  Influence number one.  Cultural touchstone number one.  Dated book.

I'm not sad about it.  It's something I can't avoid.  My point in bringing it up is that peer review allows the author to see his/her reader enjoy these cultural influences.  My friend immediately recognized the dynamic, and she said she liked it.  That's an amazing feeling, when your reader sees the idea you're trying to get across, or enjoys the relationship you're portraying.  It's fulfilling and makes the ordeal of writing a novel worth it.

Another cultural touchstone in my novel would be the use of religion.  It was interesting to see my friend's reaction when she saw that religion, especially the three large monotheistic faiths, all existed in my far-flung future.  But again, it was an awesome sight to see her appreciating my idea that religion still exists a thousand years from now.  If you look at today's world, religion plays a huge role in geopolitical events.  I'm not going to say moreso than ever before, but religion has certainly become a part of the global conversation.  It's another cultural touchstone that I allude to, and another aspect of my novel that can only truly be appreciated by someone of my own age.

All in all, it was good sitting down and reviewing my book with her.  It made me feel better, see things I wouldn't have otherwise, and receive objective opinions about my novel from someone who isn't as attached to it as I am.  So, here's my weekly question to you, whoever reads this.  What cultural touchstone do you think has become a part of the world, or America's, zeitgeist?  A part of our national, or international, conversation?  Leave comments below.  Until next time then.

How Rowling Keeps Me Sane

It's really hard to portray love.  It's glaringly obvious when it's done terribly.  As someone trying to be an author, a published author, who's making love a prominent theme in his story, portraying such a bond is a daunting prospect.  I keep thinking about the stilted dialogue between Anakin and Padme from Episode III.  "You're so beautiful."  "It's only because I'm so in love." I died right there.

The love I'm trying to get across in the novel is not necessarily between a man and a woman.  It's between brothers, or between a man and his obsessions.  Even that kind of love is tricky and can seem forced, or cliche.  I'm especially wary of that last word.  Cliche.

Because love as a theme in any novel is cliche right?  Everyone loves, and somehow everyone is motivated by some kind of love.  Every character, I mean.  Think about The Road's main character, The Man.  He loved his son powerfully.  He wasn't going to let go of him.  So he walks in a postapocalyptic world amidst threats to his life on every side, human and non-human.  Or East of Eden's Trask Family.  Adam Trask was powered by a deeply delusional love for his wife.  This enabled the plot to move him towards the Salinas Valley, without which the novel's other themes would never come to light.  The word timshel would mean nothing without the crazy adoration of Adam Trask. 

Each instance was developed beautifully, but over the course of the novel.  We see The Man worrying and caring for his son each night by candlelight.  Adam Trask agonizes in the shadows of his home and his soul over the devil he married.  He does this for almost half the book!

I think the one thing that's saving my mind from going ballistic over this love crap is the Harry Potter series.  Say what you will of the writing - she uses "he said" and "she said" multiple times in one paragraph!!!  HOW?! - but the woman is a brilliant storyteller, no doubt.  And love is THE central concept of the entire series.  None of Harry's story would exist without love.  And she developed that over a slow, slow burn of seven books that nigh everyone loved.  Except some New York critic looking to make a splash by being the one dark soul hell-bent on nitpicking. 

Looking at her, I find a ton of inspiration.  A few months back, I was convinced by my mother that writing to her would be a good idea.  So I wrote a really neurotic letter with bad jokes, sent it, and got a reply only a couple of weeks later.  No, she didn't read it.  But her assistant did, and she was so incredibly nice.  I'm glad my inspiration didn't turn out to be a bitch.  This non-bitchiness only reaffirmed my belief that if I just stick to what I've got going in my head, I'll turn out alright. 

So, here's a question to you, whoever reads this.  What love scene has inspired you?  Or made you think, "That's so true!"  It can be from a movie or a novel, so long as it's a love scene that has inspired you, left you with your heart aflutter and your mind racing down memory lane.  You can leave any comments below.  Until next time then.

The Book is a Beast

Hello Reader!  So let's begin this post with a lament.  No, it's more like a bastardized form of a complaint.  It's so hard to get a novel organized!!!  There are so many things being juggled around at once.  From sequencing to flow to tone, I'm reeling from the variety of plates I've got to keep spinning.

It's all due to the episodic nature of the novel.  I'm not talking about novels in general, I'm talking about mine.  Each chapter is devoted to one theme.  Will an agent think I'm just a schizophrenic teenage author?  It's scary wondering what someone will say about your work that's hundreds of miles away.

Actually, that might be the fear that's really behind my complaints.  Everything from sequencing of events to the tone of the novel are things I can fix.  I guess I'm not truly afraid of those things. I'm just being lazy.  What I'm really scared of are the agents that'll be reading my work.  They don't have an emotional attachment to who I am and what I'm trying to do.

I read a lot of the interviews that these agents give.  They're so damn generic about what they want.  It's like trying to interpret a woman.  Yes means no, but only on Tuesdays when you're having Fried Fish.  Otherwise, Yes means Yes, unless you've gone to the bathroom three times that day.  These are exaggerations, but read anyone of the links above to the Literary Blog.  Sometimes I feel like even these agents don't know what they want.

One guy said that he threw out the Lovely Bones because he couldn't handle it.  He had three daughters and he just couldn't bear to read about a little girl being raped and killed.  Well, how the Hell was Alice Sebold supposed to know that?  Do I have to stalk each and every agent I'm querying?  Should I not send my book to an agent whose father died when they were a young age?  It's baffling how subjective these guys can be, and I, as an author, still have to depend on them!

And then there's the hatred out there for science fiction.  Jeez, no really respectable agent represents it!  It feels like my name has to be Isaac Asimov for me to get published in the genre.  I don't even want to be published in that genre, I want to be in commercial fiction.  But I've got aliens and spaceships in my book.  Nothing matters except for those things.  I barely even have spaceships!  There's only one!  In the first five pages of the book!  And then it's gone.  Ya, I've got tons of aliens, but they're not the slithery kind that like to suck your brains out.  They've got passions and hatreds, loves and loss. 

I'm venting, yes.  But it feels good.  Anyways, I guess I'd better suck it up. It's normal I suppose to be afraid of putting yourself in the fire.  It's a part of life to be afraid of judgment and paranoid of ridicule.  It's also part of life to deal with stubborn people who only see one path, even though you see another.  I've got to convince them my way is the coolest, otherwise this book will stay a 300 page waste of hard drive space.  Let's hope this winter break changes that.  Until Next Time Then.

Let's Make Some Changes

Hello Reader.  I'm very sorry for not being on the blog the past couple weeks.  School took a hold of me.  Now that I'm back however, I do feel like some changes are in order.  I've been getting feedback about my blog, and it's been constructive.  Confusing seems to be the biggest complaint.  So, in order to make things less confusing, I figured I should have a new list of links in the sidebar.  These will take you to the first post of the blog that explains the underlying concept of the story, a list of the chapters in the first novel of the story, and a list of characters in the first novel.

This is by no means a comprehensive list of the important posts in this blog, but it does give the audience that's never heard of me before a really thorough outline of my first novel.

Another thing I should probably clarify is that the novel I keep talking about is only one portion of the greater storyline.  There are very few things that'll be solved at the end of this.  But it does suffice as a novel on its own, because there is a thematic end to the novel.

Of course, as always, if you want the first chapter, or want to know more, email me at rhessabi26@gmail.com.  Until next time then.

Chapter 9: Capo di Tutti Capi

Up there is the name of the ninth chapter.  It's Italian for Boss of Bosses.  But before I go into the chapter title's meaning, I should discuss why my blog was absent last week.  I got hit by the flu, bad.  102.9 fever, officially, plus passing out, and two vomit sessions.  It wasn't a happy week, and I spent most of it at home, stressing about another upcoming midterm.  But I'm better now, and the midterm is somewhat under control, so I have no real worries.  Now on with it then.

Boss of bosses refers to Tory Cross' unerring, insane ambition to unite all of the mafia families in the country of Atlantis under his banner so he can kill his old mentor Howard Crim.  The chapter itself is a hefty one, moving swiftly from one month to another and packing in a lot of information.  I did this mainly to play catch up.  I hadn't addressed any of the mafia's actions since the fifth chapter and that left a lot of room for the reader to ask what's going on and feel dissatisfied.  Hopefully this punch in the gut will satisfy some of them.

Along with this tidbit of info, I figured I should post an excerpt of the book as well.  It's from the eleventh and final chapter of the book.  The scene is Briok heading to a field trip at a museum in Atlantis' capital, Atlantia.  He's sitting next to a girl named Desiree.  I tried my best to depict the awkward first blossoming of a young man trying to get some action.

And I got schwooped.

Hello Reader!  No, that isn't the title for the next chapter.  It's actually my lament.  Recently, a second-year undergraduate student at UCLA published a book.  That he started writing when he was 14.  I'm befuddled.

That's not to say I'm jealous of the guy.  We live two very different lives.  He dedicated himself to the book in both practice and mind.  I've simply dedicated myself to the book in mind.  If I had in practice, I wouldn't be a part of four different organizations and taking a neuroscience major.  I would be writing on this book everyday for at least two hours.  Too bad other things always take up those two hours.

It's stories like his that both discourage me and get me pumped up to write more.  The discouragement first.  I don't want to be seen as a follower in anyone's footsteps.  For sure, I'll be compared to someone somehow, if I get this thing published.  But I don't want to be the second runner-up in a long line of young authors.  I just want to be me.  Because that's what I've put into this book, me.  To have that be covered up by another person's accomplishments scares me and angers me a little.

Also, I just feel like something was snatched from underneath me.  It was never mine to own, this right to publish, but when you're on this kinda track, you don't hear from too many other people that are also young and writing a book.  So you get this feeling of oneness, that you're a singular individual with this singular dream.  A guy just as young as you, going to the same university as you, publishing a book hella close to your genre, pulls that illusion from right under you and it's disorienting.

I should move on though.  I do feel inspired now.  I try to look past the fact that I'll be #2 in some respects, or that I'm not really alone.  Dwelling on those feelings is a total possiblity, but my story has been nagging my head since as early on as I can remember.  And for that simple fact, I write.  I'm not doing this for money, although that would be nice.  I'm definitely not doing this for recognition, because that's so hard to get and such a random phenomenon.  This book is being written because it's an itch I can't help but scratch.  A really, really powerful itch.  And it grows stronger when I hear stories like this.

I'm a competitive guy.  I always taunt, I always trash-talk, even if I'm not good at something, I goad whoever is into competition so I can get better.  I'm not doing the goading this time, but I am competing.  It's my own little one-sided rivalry, and it spurs me on to scratch that itch.  I've never given up on anything.  It's my Afghan recklessness coming out in me, the belief that I can do anything that anyone else can with perseverance and a hard head.  Can you tell I'm ready to begin writing anew?  To begin writing Harder, Faster, Better, Stronger?

I'm not sure if this was a satisfying post for anyone, even me.  I wanted to post another excerpt of the book.  But this had to be addressed, because ultimately the blog is about my journey in writing and publishing.  My journey's been filled with rocks and clouds, where I trip or rise up.  Hopefully, I'll end up staying on a cloud.  Until next time then.

Break

It's midterm season here at the home of the Bruins, so there won't be any posts about the book this week.  Until next time then.

The Tenth Post!!!!

So, this is my tenth post on the new and improved blog.  Which means I've been blogging for a little over ten weeks.  Where have I gone with all of this?  Nowhere.

Which isn't to say I'm unhappy.  I've had more people get into my book than ever before, and I've had more people read it than before too.  Which is astounding for me, because before this blog a sum total of three people had read it.  And that was the poorly written version.  I've edited a lot since then, and I'm still editing.  I'm using what little feedback I'm getting from others, hopefully soon I'll have a flood about the first chapter, and also using any new knowledge that happens to come my way to rewrite the book.

The character of the Magna Beast has been with me in some way for as long as I can remember.  There isn't a single memory of my life that isn't accompanied with the character.  In fourth grade, I finally put the words The Magna Beast onto paper in a short story assignment.  I used a recurring character I had created in other short story assignments called Briock.  His name has been changed to Briok since then, because I thought the extra c was bogging down the character.  ;)

From then on, I never touched it again.  I only rehashed the story in my mind, actually making it more and more ridiculous as I was exposed to new influences, likes and dislikes.  Finally in eighth grade, another short story project was assigned.  My English teacher actually defined each genre we were supposed to write in, one of which was science fiction.  If I remember correctly, he said, "Science fiction always has a moral dilemma."  So I created one, the difference between choice and fate.  I essentially wrote the first chapter then.  And I got a B.  I was pretty shocked.  I thought my story rocked.  It did he said.  But it wasn't a short story, he continued.  To him it seemed, the story felt more like a continuation of a novel, or rather it deserved a continuation.

Look at what that man started.  Five years, three versions, lots of tears, sweat, and late nights later, I'm finally done with the skeleton of the book.  Yes, I've been focusing on school more than this book.  Yes, I could have done both in high school if I had kept my focus.  But I didn't, and I'm glad I didn't.  I needed certain things to happen to me over the course of high school in order for my book to be the way it is now.  I needed to see certain movies, read certain books, meet certain people.  All of that is distilled in my fantasy world.  In a lot of ways, The Magna Beast and his story is a dissection in minute detail of my life and of myself.

I guess that's why so much of my heart and my dreams are in this book.  Not only has it been a part of me my entire life, but it's also the purest expression of who I am.  I know of no other way through which I can show me.  Most people don't care, but I can't really hold this story in anymore.  Whether it's good or not, I'm probably going to continue writing it.  I'm glad I've reached this tenth post, and I hope for more to come.  Insha'allah, you do too.  Until next time then.

The Old Man of the Sea

Hello Reader!  The title above is for Chapter 8.  I'm not exactly sure how to describe the way I came upon the name Proteus, who is Briok's best friend and an incredibly, incredibly important part of the story.  To tell everyone here the truth, the names of the most important characters in the book were wholly made up.  I consider myself incredibly lucky that I got these names down.  Anyways, this blogpost is dedicated to a review a friend of mine gave me on the first chapter.


I've been asking some people to review the first few chapters of my book.  And through this process, I realize how the structure of my book may not be the best.  I'm going to still run with it, because those readers who have seen the book say that the storyline is interesting enough for them to continue reading. But I have my doubts about the book's quality.  At this point, I'm wishing that I had an English teacher or something who could read this for me and tell me what I'm doing right and what I'm doing wrong.


My reliance on cliffhangers might be a little too obvious in the novel.  A lot of breaks in the chapters end on quotes by characters, like a soap opera, and the beginnings of some chapters are quotes.  I sort've throw the reader into the novel's dialogue from the very beginning.  Here's the first paragraph of the entire book:

“And here we go again,” Tov sighed.  It closed Its eyes in frustration, and rubbed Its temples, “Are you ready Yfel?  Oh, of course you are.  We’re both ready for this to end.  It’s out with the old, and in with the new!”

So this blog post is going to be short.  I don't want to bog down the blog with an overlong rant about apprehension and anxiety.  I'll be sending out queries this weekend when I'm at home, so that should be a great subject for next week's post.  The main point of today's message to the readers was that if you're reading this casually, and you have time on your hands, read Chapter 1 please.  Just leave your name and e-mail address, and I'll send it to you super-quick.  Not only that, I'll delete your e-mail from the comments afterwards.  Thank you to those who decide to do this.  Until next time then.