The Legend of Captain Danvers

Cross post from Leaning Tree Acres
© 2012 by Stacy Christian

The Legend of Captain Danvers 

Listen close and I’ll tell you the tale

Of Danvers, the pirate Captain,

Of how he made his foes do his will,

And how thoroughly he tricked them.

He wore a silk coat, as black as night,

A plume on the brim of his hat.

His boots thumped on the deck of the ship,

And when he spoke, well, that was that.

His crew was a surly pack of dogs.

His first mate, one Mister Lendri.

Together they ruled the amber waves

In their ship, The Collar’d Lady.

For years, they terrorized hill and vale,

Burnt villages down to embers,

And as they hauled their loot out of town,

People would gasp, “It was Danvers!”

Finally one day, to stop the scourge,

The people struck him a bargain:

To Danvers they’d tithe from field and farm,

But ‘specially from the garden.

They stocked his ship’s hold with produce ripe.

His logic: “To stave off scurvy.”

His crew refused to argue with him,

They’d rather eat veg than go hungry.

This would have gone on for years, I’m told,

Except there was a mutiny,

Begun by a fateful night visit

To his captain by Mr. Lendri.

He’d entered the room without a knock,

A thing that was not his habit,

Discovered his captain quite hatless,

And learned Danvers was a Rabbit!

 *extra Cudos if you "get" the Danvers reference without googling it. =:)

Sit! Stay! Write!

Blame it on a need to compartmentalize every tidbit, but I have turned the lights on in another blog. Sit! Stay! Write!, while currently an echoing cavern, is intended to be primarily a writing blog.
I plan to furnish it with writing exercises, guest writers, resources and maybe even some original material thrown in now and again. Hope to see you there!

Avoiding the Laundry will remain the home of all the arts, crafts, carving, letterboxing, and sundry other messes we get ourselves into on a daily basis. I expect the post will come less frequently. You really have no one to blame but yourselves. You guys are the ones that keep encouraging me to write.

Walking the Neon Line

My husband really loves me. I know this because he came home the other night bearing a gift of six new highlighters, each in a different electrifying color. He knows that I am agonizing over manuscript revisions and that red pens are so reminiscent of 4th grade math tests.

Even if you don't approach a story rewrite with your heart in your hand, the process is grueling. Yes, you have to deal with all of the pesky little weeds that crop up in your writing (sneaked or snuck?*). You also need to develop artistry. Make the words come alive and sing. For that, you have a plethora of technique and style books to lend a helping hand. Or nag you to death.

This is where I'm at now. I've spent so much time reading advice from others, I fear I am losing my own unique voice. If one more person tells me I must read Stephen King's On Writing, it's going to get ugly. Use right-branching sentences. Be poetic, but avoid annoying alliteration. Build tension in your dialogue, even if your characters are only talking about cake.

Don't get me wrong. I want to be teachable. It would be arrogant to think that I cannot learn from others and continue to hone my craft indefinitely.

However, at some point you have to put away your highlighters and trust your story. It has lived in the relative safety of your mind while you nurtured it. Its fluffy down has been replaced by sleek feathers. It's time to push it out of the nest and watch it fly.

Or is it?


*Apparently, either is acceptable, but "sneaked" makes you sound more polished.

Back to School

As I make writing a daily part of my life once again, I am painfully aware that my casual speech habits have drifted into sludge filled waters. Living near Chi-cah-go (say the "a" like it is in "bad") doesn't help.
How to know when it is time for an English Grammar refresher course:

• You use the word "got" more than once a month.
• "Do you want to go with?" sounds normal to you. In fact, you see nothing wrong with ending sentences with a preposition. (I can't tell you how relieved I was to learn that I could blame this fault on living too close to Chi-town.)
• You can't remember what split infinitives are, or why they should be avoided.
• The phrase "What I want to know is" has passed your lips any time this year.
  
• You think "ellipsis"refers to one planetary body passing in front of another.
• "Stuff", "thingy", and "goo" are the three most commonly used words in your household.
• Gerunds have something to do with old people, right?
• You use the words would, should, could, and might instead of their more authoritative cousins because you lost your spine somewhere in the morass of our politically correct, never-want-to-offend-anyone society.

My newest best friends are Grammar Book and The Elements of Style by Strunk and White (that would be the E. B. White of Charlotte's Web). Both of them serve to remind me that college writing courses were ever so long ago, as well as to provide that little nudge that my brain needs more frequently than I want to admit.
Both relief and a sense of chagrin come with the discovery that Microsoft Word is smarter than me. Did you know that many word processor programs will not only edit for grammar and spelling, but will also alert you when you start a sentence with "And" or "But", write in passive voice, use gender specific terms, split infinitives, use contractions, cliches, or too many successive nouns or prepositional phrases? It can also run a readability scan and tell you at what grade level your writing can be understood. While it is a great tool to help improve your writing, it is also a little bit irritating to have the computer correct you that much. Humph.

Bonus point if you find the mistakes in this post.

Prima Donna on the Rise

*Hint: Try reading it out loud

Twice upon a time there was a little girl who loved three dance. She listened three the songs that her parents played and would leap and twirl in time three the music. Sometimes, when they had guests, she would give an imprompthree perfivemance while they nine dinner. All her schoolmnines loved three watch her dance.

On her birthday, the little girl’s parents surprised her with a gift of dance lessons. She was thrilled. Every week, she went faithfully three her lessons. She was very ateleventive three her teacher and did everything that she was told. At second, her toes hurt very much, but she thought she could tolernine it if it would improve her talent. She practiced five hours and hours. After many months, her threetor came three her and gave the little girl some news. She had shown such aptithreede and skill at dancing that he had signed her up three conelevend in a competition. The winners would be able three participnine in a special perfivemance of a famous ballet. The girl was giddy with delight at the prospect and began to anticipnine the upcoming chance to show off her fivete.

On the day of the contest, she paid extra atelevention three her appearance. She made sure that her three-three was on just right. She was a little nervous because she had never danced befive so many people at twice. When the threene began three play, she stepped onthree the stage with all of the other little girls and whirled with all her might. She was as graceful and sophisticnined as an elegant bird. The audience loved three watch her and they clapped vigorously when she was finished. As she bowed they threw threelips at her feet.

Needless three say, she was the best of all the dancers and two the contest. The little girl grew up and became a famous perfivemer and danced befive all of the important people in the land. She had many friends and became a threetor to little girls who wanted three dance. She married a handsome young man and had three many children three count. And they all lived happily ever after.

*You can blame this one on my girls. We were having a discussion in the car about how inflation effects everything and M wanted to know if it effected little girls too. This was my answer.

Sign of the Times

Tough Act to Follow

So, for the last two weeks I have been wracking my brain trying to figure out what was going to happen when the Rube Goldberg project came to it's spectacular yet humane end. Now that I had set my reader's expectation so high, how was I possibly going to maintain that level of masterful suspense and excellence in programming?
I'll let you know just as soon as I figure it out. In the meantime, our month of literary abandon is more than half over and it has not been so much a question of literary abandon as it has been one of the abandonment of all else. Cooking, laundry and vacuuming top the list.
Now that I have passed the 50k milestone and come up for air, I am noticing the swirling vortex of cat hair by the stairs and the ever growing stack of empty pot pie tins in the kitchen. My family needs me.
So, if for the next couple of weeks there is nothing but snow on this particular blog channel, it's because I am trying to reclaim the house before the health department steps in.

But first, for your reading pleasure (*snicker*), I give you the opening scene to my new book, Stone Song:

The village of Bascom lay in a valley between the foothills of the great mountain range of Gneiss and the sand hills that marked the beginning of the wasteland of the Arkosian desert. Except for the occasional mischief cause by wandering packs of wild dogs or a neighbor’s wandering cow, all was peaceful. The climate allowed for year round crops and gardening. Six Festivals that spread across the seasons marked the times when all of the surrounding communities gathered in fellowship and celebration. After work was completed for the day, evenings were spent with family and friends, in song and reading and laughter. Quiet and comfort had been a way of life for generations. One summer night all of that changed.

That night fire rained down from the night sky. In moments the peaceful rhythm of the community erupted into chaos as sleeping villagers woke to terror. Some of them fled while others sought out loved ones and neighbors. As the stars poured down upon them, some of the young people stumbled into the town square. Their eyes followed the flames that streaked across the heavens and in unison they had chosen to investigate.

Rutile and Corundine had gone back to gather torches and lanterns while Breccian and Chert had helped the girls Argenta and Niccoli through the darkness to first hill. When Rutile and Corundine caught up with them they had run together over the hills and out into the sands on the edge of the Arkosian. Behind them, the villagers struggled to put out flames and bind wounds as the star storm slowed. The six stumbled out into the dunes, some of the burning rubble falling very close to them. They reached a large crater formed by the falling debris. Flames still burned hot around the rim of the crater and the sand had fused together in charred masses.

As they explored, one last meteorite crashed into the sand near Breccian. The others looked on frozen in horror as the young man was engulfed in a cloud of steam and light. The air glittered with vaporized particles of sand and Breccian’s screams carried across the dunes. Rutile snapped to his senses first and shouted for the others to help. He jumped forward and snatched Breccian from the smoke by his arm. The young man’s appearance made them step back, afraid to touch him. Most of his clothing was black and had melted to his skin, which was covered with streaks of soot and blood. Exploding pieces of stone had gashed him in several places and smaller rocks were embedded in his flesh. Blood trickled from his ears, eyes and nose. More shocking, however, was the glow, as from hot coals that came from each of his joints.

The young man’s shrieks slowly died off and he lay on his back in the sand writhing in pain. The air in his lungs felt like flames and he struggled to breathe. Each gasp of breath drew more of the sand filled steam into his lungs and he could feel it spreading throughout his body like white hot needles. The pain surged over him like a flood and he finally surrendered to the rising tide. Just before the light fled completely from his eyes, Breccian thought he saw a swarm of glowing creatures fly off into the darkness of the desert. Unconsciousness descended.

It was then decided that Chert and Niccoli would stay and watch over Breccian while the other three returned to the village to get help. Expecting it to be some time before help reached them, Chert took the first watch and let Niccoli rest in the shelter of some scrub trees a little distance from the craters. After several hours, he came to wake her. When she arrived at the spot where Breccian had been lying, he was nowhere to be found. The two of them searched until Rutile returned with some of the men from the village. Hoping to find him still alive, the search continued for several days.

The rescuers eventually returned from the Arkosian empty handed. Bascom grieved their losses and began to rebuild. Crops were replanted. The first of the Festivals was celebrated among cottages still under repair. Life moved forward. Quiet returned.

And thirty years passed....

Aspiring Novelists

The girls wanted to have their picture taken in their new special writing T-shirts. Theirs says "I eat novels for breakfast!" Mine, which was made by my college roommate and long time friend, says "Be careful or you may end up in my Novel".
Let the writing begin!

We Interrupt This Broadcast...

...to bring you National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo, or NaNo hereafter). For the uninitiated, NaNo is the bit of insanity that possesses the amateur (and some of the professional) writing community at large during the month of November. I say at large, because currently there are close to 89,000 people signed up to participate this year, world wide.
As I mentioned a couple of days ago, the whole point of NaNo is to write the rough draft of a 50,000 word novel over a 30 day span. Most likely, a really bad rough draft. But a complete story nonetheless.
That boils down to 1,667 words a day. This will be my first attempt at writing something this big, but after writing 5,000 words on Tuesday alone, I'm pretty sure that I can do it. By ingesting a significant amount of coffee and not sleeping at all.
Oh, and did I mention that I will also be typing up the novels that both of the girls are planning to write?

So, what am I writing, you want to know? Thanks for asking! The current story outline includes a boy named Citrian, a kidnapped mother, clues carved on cubes, talking/dying rocks, a villain filled with glass shards, and a double-edged allegory. If you want to find out how I intend to combine elements of geology, letterboxing, and mercy, you'll have to come back after I figure it out. I can't start writing till Sunday, after all.

Since I probably won't be carving for awhile, I had to make a stamp dedicated to NaNo. Just 'cuz.


The automatic "guest" posts will begin on Monday. See you all in a couple of weeks!

Brain Storm

Many of you already know that the girls and I are planning to participate in National Novel Writing Month (hereafter to be referred to as NaNo) which starts on Sunday. What that entails is attempting to write the rough draft for a 50,000 word novel in 30 days (10,000 and 3,000 for the girls).
Consequently, my blogging is going to be a little on the lame side this week. In preparation for novelling, the girls and I are trying to get ahead on schoolwork, housework, work work...oh, and because I have so much extra time on my hands I wrote a 5,000 word short story yesterday (remember that inspiration on the treadmill?). Sleeping is optional at this point.

The good news is that I have the first two weeks of posts for November planned out and I think you are going to love them! I am going to be highlighting the stamps carved by other artists for a very fun project that I had the pleasure of being part of some time ago. That's all I'm going to say until Monday.

And now, for your reading pleasure (or torment), an excerpt from my short story:

Cricket

From the shadows at the back of the cold metal cage, two green eyes glowed. For weeks people had come into the shelter in search of the perfect pet. Each time the bell over the door jingled, the kitten had rubbed herself against the bars in hopes of being touched. And each time, she had been passed over.

There was a young woman with her son a few days ago. The boy had poked his fingers into the crate and scratched her between the ears. She had pushed her head against him and rattled her ribs with her tiny purr. But the boy had started sneezing and they left as quickly as they had come.

Later, a large woman clumped into the room. Her hair was piled high on her head and she smelled strongly of lavender. She tipped her chin up at the sight of the kitten and sniffed, “Black cats are bad luck!” She took home an orange tabby that had a runny nose.

A man with hunched shoulders came in next. His face was covered with bristly black hair. At the smell of him, the kitten had puffed herself up, trying to look larger than she really was. Her hair stood in spikes along the ridge of her back. The man had snarled at her and then chosen a solid dog that was as dark and surly as himself.

Others had come and gone. Some of them chose pets and some of them just came to look. When no one was there, the lady behind the desk would come and open the door of her cage and stroke the kitten’s back. It felt delicious. She would whisper softly to her, “I would take you home with me today, but my landlord doesn’t allow pets in the apartments.” Her eyes looked sad.

After awhile, the kitten stopped coming to the front of the cage when visitors arrived. She simply folded her paws neatly beneath her and watched as the parade of people passed.