I can't believe that I've neglected to post for so long.... So here's the first part of my prologue, of a book that I'm writing called Dawn's End. Here's the cover that took forever for me to create, until I was finally satisfied.

  PROLOGUE

The room swirled with so much color that she supposed the world would never stop spinning.

            A thousand faces whirled around the intricate pattern of tables set with roses, and her cheek was cast under the shadow of an orange marigold, its petals beginning to wilt. The ceiling flourished with images sketched with grandeur, and it was adorned by a silver forest seething with lithe creatures, all enchanted to move on their own. A deer paused to observe the ceremony before prancing into the painted dawn. Shimmering gowns skimmed the floor as women shifted in their seats, completely absorbed in tonight’s atmosphere, half-moons of pleasure etched on their lips.

            She sat alone, her once proudly loose hair swept into fiery locks, fingers nervously pressing the folds of her dress. Her furtive eyes grazed the entrance every so often, but she was disappointed by the guard leaning on the pillar. His cool gaze met hers and she anxiously looked away. She cast her face downward, struggling to contain her worries and to disguise a disturbing trait that had haunted her since birth: her eyes changed color depending on her mood. She stifled a sigh as her mismatched irises – one sapphire, one violet – were already fading into gray.

The girl of sixteen was as contradictory as a raindrop seated within a flame; her angular face contrasted with the soft ribbons of her gown, while the fringed lashes of her eyes conflicted with the rogue nature of her chin. She glanced away from the sea of tables and peered down at her plate. A face surveyed her, possessing a pale completion and a prominent sharp nose, and swift darting eyes calmed with azure eyeliner. Her usually hollow cheeks were blushed with amber, and her harsh eyebrows had been carved into gentler curves, but nothing could ever mask her bitter stare.

            Dancing lights encircled by glossy berries cast an inviting glimmer across the tabletop. A luminescent pond created artfully with a few flowers, apples, and floating candles added movement to the coming night. The soft glow on smiling faces resonated with the layered, textured accents, while the sound of a hundred voices speaking in unison clashed with the music of a fountain. Fine floral wires swung erratically from ivory columns and draped over vacant seats, curling themselves into a clinging web where songbirds resided.

            Her mind drifted away from the subtle splendor to the memory of turquoise waters and golden sands, and to a small face frozen in time. “You can’t fail,” she had whispered. “Not when the world is about to turn. I’ll wait for you… wait until the third child returns.”

            But he wasn’t a child. He never was. And the world was already turning, beyond anyone’s control.

            She sent her hair cascading over her shoulder before regarding the stars beyond the pale horizon. Just like her, they were forlorn and utterly alone, hovering in an unyielding night. If one fell no one would ever notice, for it was only one shard of light among thousands – or millions – of others. She thought about how far they had come, and wondered when everything unraveled if it would be the silent death of the trivial flower, or the cosmic destruction of the tenacious flame. Her promise to Rigel meant nothing if their strength dwindled in the final stand, or if others suffered because of their feeble victory. They lost before they ever won.

            The foreign chatter of the evening’s guests suddenly dissolved into applause, and she lifted her head as a painfully familiar figure entered into their midst. Her steady breathing was punctured by a gasp. He had finally returned.

He was almost unrecognizable, with a charismatic demeanor and a suit that echoed his pristine smile. As he greeted the crowd she had to remind herself that his secret sinister personality had never changed, nor had the darkness in his eyes ever been quenched. Yet never before did he look so sure of himself; his confidence was out of place, and almost unnerving, for someone who was a stranger here just as she was.

            As he sent a blinding grin out to the left section he suddenly noticed her, sitting under a curtain of dappling green. Their eyes locked for an instant. His smile slipped away and she stared back, unafraid, until he resumed addressing the multitude of guests. While he approached she pretended to be transfixed by a blossom, touching its frail foliage as she peeked up again. His back was now turned to her. He was speaking to an elderly man in Kutorian, a language that she only half-understood.

            “It’s a pleasure, Leo….Do tell….Plans and….So surprised you came,” the other man remarked.

            “If time permits…soon,” Leo responded.

            She was about to turn when he spun around and sat down at her table. Girls waved from across the room, inviting him to speak with them instead, but he declined with a shake of the head. Several people were staring at her with interest, and even hostility, but they gradually looked away.

            “Enjoying yourself, Zoe?”

            She was caught off guard by his sudden question. She searched for an appropriate response but only seized the truth. “No,” she spat out defiantly.

            He was amused. “Why not?”

            She feigned interest in the marigold once more, and then examined the russet tapestry above her. The forest scene was morphing into a chaos of beauty.

            “Yes, they put in a lot of effort, didn’t they?” he mused. “But I’m not interested in the ceiling, Zoemeria.”

            She winced when he pronounced her full name, for no one, not even her closest friends had ever dared call her that. Her irises flared into a seething scarlet. “What’s with this new popularity? From what I remember, you always have been cynical, too afraid to trust anyone, even yourself. But now… Leo the crowd pleaser, Leo the gentleman? When you have always been an outcast?” she mocked. It was making him angry but she didn’t care.

            He smiled, a forced grin enfolding on his lips. “That’s none of your business,” he whispered.

            “Yes, it is, because it involves all of us. When was the last time that you tried acting human, Leo? Trust me, it doesn’t hurt.”

          “Human?” he laughed. “You too, have changed I see. I don’t recall you ever being so hysterical.”

            Zoe clenched her fist, letting her nails bite into her palm. “We once trusted you. What happened to the three of us, fighting for our lives together? Why won’t you listen now?”

            As an answer, he flashed his famous smile. His pupils darkened, becoming blacker than an abyss, and Zoe vaguely felt her fingertips cooling. If her eyes were merely an annoyance, then his were fatal. “Look at me, Zoe,” he hissed, “and tell me where you were hiding all this time.”

            She couldn’t look at him. She knew better not to, and continued staring at a candle flame until blots engulfed her vision. “Well, I –”

            “Zoe?” he said dangerously.

            She glanced up, propelled by the venom in his voice, and as soon as she gazed into the inferno of his pupils reality shattered. The room slid into oblivion as icy winds consumed her mind, and yet she could not look away. With a flash of panic, she realized that he had been practicing. How often… every day? Every hour? But it was already too late for her.

            Even as the warm smell of cider lingered just beyond the darkness, tantalizingly sweet, the world was melting. Zoe was drawn deeper into a landscape of stony frost, colder than a glacial sea but more insubstantial than smoke. Black flames were disintegrating her and spinning faster than the billowing wick from before. The chill was scraping inside her lungs and with each breath her mind was shutting down. Fire…

            Swimming spots still obscured her eyes, clouds of fainter gray on a tapestry of night. As they drifted upwards, little specks of light surfaced around them until a patch of darkness shattered. Seizing this chance, she labored to tilt them ever so slightly until they blotted out the illusion. The vicious gales faded when she confronted the radiance from the hall.

            Zoe snapped out of the vision, continuing to drift through freezing air even as cheery candlelight flickered on her face. Other than the distant chatter, everything was still and silent. She cautiously opened her eyes and they took in Leo’s empty chair. When did he leave? Suspicion gripped her and she spun around, anticipating another attack. No. He was gone. She scanned the tables, finding him in the front alongside a girl who seemed vaguely familiar. She had straight black hair that spilled down to her waist, and a long, regal face that was marred by a cold smile. Zoe frowned, sifting through her memories and coming up with nothing.

            She wore a golden gown that flowed over her with the ease of a gauzy willow, which was covered with gems. She was tall and beautiful, and her eyes were brutally calculating. She looked away from Leo to reach at her bracelet that had gone astray.

The girl suddenly turned around and caught the girl staring. The intensity of her hatred sent Zoe a shiver that she could not suppress, and while she doubted that the girl could do her any harm like Leo did, she decided to look safely away. Out of the corner of her eye, Zoe caught her smirking.

So, I figured that it has been a long time since I've last posted...which was about my poetry obsession. Well, this one, in contrast, will be short and sweet. May I introduce you to my new, personal blog? No.

MAIDENSTAR'S BLOG

Please note that this is my personal blog in which I express myself. If you don't agree with me in what I say there, that's fine. It really is. But please, let's keep this polite civility, m'kay? xP


And again, MaidenStar, signing out--until next time! ^^

          The wind spiraled as he scaled the apartment building. His jacket swept through the air as he struggled to stay balanced, his feet suddenly landing on the fifth floor ledge. "Twelve!" he screamed. "I can't reach you!"


          She turned, surprised. Her eyes were wide. "What are you -?”


          A flash of feathers and bronze launched at her head.


          Twelve braced herself as the eagle threw another attack. Above them the sky boiled with the incoming snow and the wind climaxed into a gale, slamming into his face with freezing brutality. He managed to glimpse her lunging silhouette before the blizzard drifted in. Charlie was plunged into swirling white blindness, desperately clinging to the brick wall and straining to see Twelve. The night deepened as the battle around him intensified. Traumatized shrieks came to his right, and he considered running before he remembered the sheer fall beneath his shoe tips. He shivered. Senseless fear had just almost killed him. "Twelve!" he called again.


          "She can't hear you."


          Charlie's head spun around, hardly believing his luck. A cadet had broken through the Blockade. In his eagerness he never wondered how the boy could possible stand so calmly above him. Almost as if he was floating.  "Of course she can't! You've got to help me." He glanced down.


          The boy above him didn't reply. Even though the snow concealed his form, his voice was easily recognizable. He had joined his side many times before.


          Charlie frowned. He didn't understand the holdup. "Hey! Twelve's losing! You have to save her - " He looked intently down the chasm, where she had been fighting for her life just a moment ago. Precious seconds were going by, and here he was, stranded on the side of a building.


          "You're acting as if I'm your friend," the newcomer said slowly. "But I'm not. I never was."


          Charlie looked up from the void. He had to be joking. But there was no time for this.


          The snow drifted away momentarily, and Charlie realized there was a knife pointing at his face. Twelve's knife.


          "You know I can't let you live, Charlie." His face was strangely set.


          "What?" This wasn't happening. It just wasn't. "Listen, I don't know what you're doing. But snap out of it! Someone betrayed us, that's why the City's on us - "


          "Oh, I think I know that." He laughed. It sounded so cruel, so unnatural. It couldn't be him. It had to be a mistake.


          He brandished the golden dagger in front of Charlie's eyes, the point intentionally coming close. "I'm the one who betrayed you." He smiled smugly. "Never saw it coming, did you?"


          Charlie stared back. It all came into place. The signs, the disappearances. The marks by the door. It was him all along. And they were all going to die because of this stupid traitor.


          "We're going to fight you," Charlie stammered. "This isn't the end." He reached for his sword, but then remembered that Baila had taken it.


          "It already is," he whispered softly in his ear. He threw Twelve's knife away. It fell into the darkness, its golden light fading away. Charlie already knew what was next.


"So long, loser." The boy pushed him over the edge and Charlie hurtled down the building, disappearing into the snowy streets -

So, I've been writing a lot of free verse poetry these past few days. Like a maniac, I would even dare say. It all began from a book I found at the library. I would highly recommend you to read it if you've always wanted to write poetry, but don't know where to start. Lyne encourages you to not try to rhyme, but to just go ahead and put yours words down.

A shocker for you (and for me, as well): In just four days, I've written 103 short poems! But they're just 'poem-sketches', the book will explain what it is. Basically, they're the raw material that still needs the rewriting and refining. :)
[Yes, I do feel quite accomplished, indeed!]

So, here's the book that has gotten me into such a frenzy:


"Writing poetry from the inside out: finding your voice through the craft of poetry"
by Sandford (Sandy) Lyne


I should warn you, though, reading this is dangerous! So be careful! 


 

And here ends the post of MaidenStar...
Till next time, tot tot, my lovelies!

This is a fictional story I recently wrote. For historical context, this story is about a real group of Jewish Essenes who fled religious oppression in ancient Rome and ended up writing famous documents now known as the Dead Sea Scrolls.

There are so many things I don’t know because I've just never figured them out. I haven't figured out whether we'll ever get saved, I haven't figured out what Rome was actually like, and I haven't figured out if I would have liked it or not.

I guess it doesn't matter that much. I mean, maybe Rome isn't even real. Maybe the whole world is just rocks and sky and sea and our town is the only town, because nothing lives in the rocks or the Dead Sea and nothing except a few birds lives in the sky. Maybe everybody else just invented Rome and the rest of the world. I asked my mother about Rome once.
"In Rome,” she told me, “A man named Caesar ruled over us, calling himself a god and killing any Jews who spoke out or tried to worship the way we must. It was terrible. Before you were born, we fled. I thank God we escaped and live here in safety.”
I didn't understand much of what she said when she said it, since I didn't care about it then, not like I do now. And I do care about it. My mother lived in Rome, and my father and my older brothers and sister and everyone else, but I never lived in Rome, and I think that if I'd actually been there then I would like it here more than I do. I've lived here forever—well, for all seven years that I've lived at all—and that's why I think about Rome so much.
After I think, I always stop thinking and go back to bathing or helping people cook or learning to read.
It comes back, though. I'll be doing something and it'll just pop into my head: What are we all doing here? I want to go other places and stand on that horizon and swim across that salty sea… and well, I've never told anyone, but every now and then I think, Maybe I want to look at Rome!
My father says that what we're doing here is waiting.
"Someday," he told me, "a savior will come to rescue us and we will never need to fear Rome again. I may have died by then, and you may have grown old, but eventually, my son, we will be delivered. Until then, we need only pray and be good. We need only wait."
I think I don't want to wait. What if no savior ever saves us? Maybe we'll just keep waiting, talking about how bad Rome was and how good salvation will be. My father will spend his life out here and I'll spend my life out here and all my kids and everyone will spend their lives waiting for something to come even though there's nothing in the whole world but us!
My father doesn't, but some of the other men in the town write on scrolls. They put them in big clay jars and store them up the hill in a cave so the things they write stay safe. Sometimes, I think that the scrolls in the jars in the cave are going to be all that's left of us.

Hey everyone! I am writing a book. Here is chapter one. I hope you enjoy!

CHAPTER ONE

Charlie woke up on the floor of an empty room.

As he sat up, the faint streetlight from the window overhead illuminated the hair sliding over his eyes. His sweater caught one of the nails sticking up from a floor board, and felt foolish when his sleeve snagged it. He pulled and the thread broke loose. 

 

This was not possible.
 

He should be sleeping in his bed, not waking up in the middle of the night on the floor. Fear almost swallowed him. Charlie stepped gingerly over the gaps in the floor, noting that this area was the same size of his own room. It was incredibly dark. Feeling his way for the door, his outstretched hand finally made contact and pushed it with a creak.

Shadows slid over his clothes, while panic began settling in. Where was he? Where were his parents? His brother? Charlie shut his eyes and opened them again, hoping that somehow his surroundings changed, but the same bleak expanse surrounded him. And he just couldn't deny it. It was his apartment alright, where the identical kitchen entrance opened to the right, and the living room yawned beyond him... But he had to be mistaken. There wasn't a single piece of furniture in sight. There was no way that his family was evicted just yesterday.

The dim hallway stretched beyond him, where he supposed the doors lining it were also unlocked, and the apartments disused. The darkness deepened even more down the stairs, where the blackness had become so complete that his eyes saw nothing. Was there another way to get down? He didn't think so, unless he was going to jump out the window. More out of memory than sight, he took one unsteady step at a time, blinded.

His sneakers tread on the soft dust carpeting the lobby and by accident kicked up a cloud into his face. He braced for it and violently sneezed. Charlie tried to guess where the entrance door could be, but it just was not possible when it was pitch black. And not only that, but what if it was boarded up and he would never get out, and just die in this place?

He became incredibly frustrated. How could he have been living a normal life just yesterday, and now he was shut up in this vacant apartment building, a place where he until recently been living with his family and doing his geometry homework for Tuesday?

An explosion cracked the air and completely shocked Charlie. His heart beat wildly in his chest, and in the silence that later prevailed he was able to hear it. Horrible scenarios raced through his mind. What if there was someone with a gun here, alerted that there was a boy who had intruded -

Charlie sprinted towards the adjacent wall, feeling the rough texture for the door. He shuffled numbly to the left alongside it, until, there was... a handle!

He pushed it with a strong impact from his shoulders and it just barely opened. He tried it again and it moved with a loud groan. He had just stepped quickly through when it closed with a crash. Charlie winced. While proceeding into the night he gasped.

This was not his neighborhood.

It was dark on the sidewalk, just as it had been in the building but this time it was intentional. All the street lamps were off. Because of the partial darkness the stars were visible, glittering coldly overhead. But he also noticed that there were no lights gleaming in the windows of the neighborhood, which only meant one thing.

Everyone was asleep.

What time was it? He glanced at his watch but to his horror all of the hands were motionless. Alone on the sidewalk he felt exposed. All the cars were parked now by the curb and not a single one was riding down the street, which caused an eerie silence that lingered in the cold air. Charlie walked slowly to the right, on the lookout for signs of where he could possibly be. Part of the skyline created by contrasting buildings against the bright starry night seemed familiar, but he needed more evidence. He tried to notice any familiar landmarks such as stores, but without their neon signs it was impossible to tell. The lack of luminance in this neighborhood was really irritating.

As he turned the corner a light blinded him. It was so harsh after impenetrable darkness that it took him a moment to realize that it was an orange flashlight shining in his eyes. He closed them momentarily because spots danced across his vision. When he opened them again what he saw horrified him.

"Who are you?"

The husky voice startled him. A burly policeman observed him with disgust. "You broke the curfew. Do you know that? And don't you remember the consequences for that?"

"What do you mean?" Charlie said, surprised that his question came out so shaky.

The man stared at him without answering. He was wearing the strangest uniform Charlie had ever seen: a collared maroon jacket with green accents, a striped tie, and pants and gloves both navy. While carefully holding the large flashlight, he reached into his pocket and took out a familiar weapon ... and shot it.
 

It receded into empty space because Charlie had already ran when the man wasn't looking. His hands grew cold from the sound of the gun blast. He had almost made to it a subway station entrance webbed with caution tape, when the phony police officer let out an angry yell.

"You're not allowed down there!"

"I don't care!" retorted Charlie and jumped down an entire flight of stairs without a moment's hesitation. Pain and shock overwhelmed him as he landed just as a second flight began, crushing his right arm, and his heart stopped as he hurtled towards the floor headfirst.

He somehow managed to slow himself down by holding onto the first step with the tips of his shoes for a moment, before plunging into the darkness. He reacted by throwing out his arms to break his fall at the bottom. He crashed into a disoriented heap.

Out of fear of pursuit, Charlie leapt to his feet and crawled to the side just as light blazed the stairs. The boy began moving silently to the side, but was blocked suddenly by a gate. He froze as the impact of his body on the chain links made a shuddering sound.

But the flashlight went out, plunging Charlie into darkness again. He waited for a few minutes to make sure that man was not coming back, then groped his way in the dark.

When entering a subway station people first slide their cards, then pay a fee. There are only one way entrances. They can leave the subway without paying anything, but they certainly can't get back in. But Charlie wondered: Were there bar entrances in use where he could just crawl under, or the impassable revolving gates?

He walked past the stairs and outstretched his hands, noting the sleek touch of freezing metal. The bars. Charlie slid under without thinking and entered the subway platform. In this blackness he couldn't tell where the tracks were, so he dared not to move further for fear of falling over the edge. He sat down, confused and unhappy.

Questions had been burning though his head all this time. Where was he? Why was he here? And... This one troubled Charlie the most, because he wasn't sure if there was even an answer.

How was he to get back to his own world?

He closed his eyes as distress bothered him. There was no way he could go back aboveground, where the man was waiting for him like a hawk. First he would see if any subways stopped here. If not - which was a fearful possibility he did not want to admit - he would try going up again during the daytime, when there was no curfew.

Charlie had a plan, if not a stupid idea. If this indeed was his neighborhood and his subway as well, then he would take it to see his uncle down in Brooklyn.

Charlie stared out into the blackness for a long time, hopeful for a subway, but when none came he had to admit defeat. Tiredness suddenly swallowed him up like an ocean. He remembered it was the middle of the night. The boy curled up on the disgusting floor, recoiling at the urine-like odor. He took off his sweater and placed it behind his head on the wall, trying to sleep upright instead. At first troubling thoughts kept him awake but exhaustion finally won out.

Do you think you folks could wonder on over to my other blog and read my short story?  Please?  I'm in real need of input!  I was going to post it here, but I fear it's too long...

http://writtenpaintings.blogspot.ca/2013/06/pink-umbrella.html

please come take a look!

-Jessica

This is the blurb to my upcoming book, "The City of Keys." Tell me what you think!

Charlie Kimmus awakes in a completely different world – a place where there are sea monsters in the East River, machine birds in the sky, and leopards that prowl the subway systems of New York. The five boroughs, now called kingdoms, coexist in chaos. Manhattan wants to create an empire and has already conquered the Bronx.

That same night he is found by a band of mysterious children. They are the only ones left that oppose the City since they cannot be hypnotized. Because he is still fourteen, he is eligible to join them, and is accepted as Vizier of the Child Army after demonstrating his skill in combat. From the lowest position he slowly rises and is eventually appointed commander of his League. But being powerful is dangerous – even though the teenagers all have sworn loyalty to one another, they sometimes kill in order to rise in rank.

Suddenly, Charlie is swept on an exhilarating quest to recover the Keys, the only magical instruments that are able to stop the siege of New York. His successes with finding them are matched only by Twelve, a fifteen-year old girl he just met and is the only person he trusts.

But one day Charlie’s battalion is summoned into the City to fight. And no one has ever left it alive.

I joined NaNoWriMo! I will be writing my books there. I need the help to get it done over the summer. My first book?

 

(I made the cover using my own photographs.)

 

Of course, I have a lot more books in planning: three trilogies and a series made up of four books.This book is also part of a trilogy. Wish me luck!

 

 

P.S. If you're writing a book too, and want someone to comment on them, maybe we can exchange chapters over the summer! My email as always is jadefireeyes@gmail.com.

 

 

Yesterday was a snow day! The blizzard swept in about a foot of snow in my area and school was cancelled. So I went to my friend's house. Yeah.
It was a chill day.
ANYWAY...
Im back to school today, unfortunately. But I got to miss gym! (it was yesterday!!)
:)
I am going to get up to speed with my novel this afternoon, so I may or may not post.
xoxo
Morgan (:

Hi, guys! I really like alots, so here is a picture of one.

If you don't know what an alot is, think of it this way: has anyone ever written "alot" instead of "a lot"? Well, an alot is an imaginary creature, and whenever someone replaces "a lot" with "alot", but imagine that they are talking about the creature. (This is from a lovely website called Hyperbole and Half.)

Hi everyone, it's Juliet. <3 I posted this last week on my blog, and I thought you might enjoy it.

One person every 13.7 minutes kill themselves. In the world, there are about 750,000 suicides a year. For every one female suicide, there are over three male suicides.

These numbers are alarming and very frightening. No one out there should think that the world is better off without them, or that no one loves them or cares for them.

I know I can't change the minds of all the people that are feeling down, or that are wanting to self harm or commit suicide, but here is the number of the Suicide Prevention Hotline: (1-800-273-TALK) just in case there's anyone out there that stumbles upon this post, and needs it.

I don't think that suicide is an easy way out, or cowardly. I think that bullying is cowardly.. I will never understand for as long as I live why people want to hurt others so badly, or why it makes people feel good to bully others. I'm not saying I'm a saint and I've never judged anyone, but if I ever drove someone to self harm or kill themselves, I would be guilty for the rest of my life, and quite frankly, would probably think about hurting myself, too.

When I hear or read stories about failed attempts at suicide, I feel like crying. A lot of people that failed are so thankful that it didn't work, but a lot of them have brain damage or scars as a result.
I wish people knew how much they are loved, and even if you are really stressed or mad at the world, hurting yourself isn't the answer.

I have had quite a few friends that have cut because of stress or a family situation. I am so thankful that they have been honest with me about it, and stopped.
Here are some links to a couple really good songs about suicide/self harm. Sure, they aren't the happiest songs, but I really like them:
Loser by Three Doors Down
Ten Years Today by Bullet For My Valentine
Cemetery Drive by My Chemical Romance
My Chemical Romance is one of my favorite bands. Even if you're not a rocker (most people are surprised when they find out the music I listen to...) I really think you should listen to them sometime. They're amazing.

Here are some amazing pictures I found that really sum everything up:

I don't know why the words are cut off, but I'm sure you can tell what it's saying.

PEOPLE CARE.

I try to smile to everyone I see, too!

Pictures found on Google

I know that I'm just a person through a screen, but if anyone ever wants to talk and let it all out, I'm here for you.

julietspurplesky@gmail.com

 

Hi everyone! I'm back, with some tips on conquering Nanowrimo, a competition I believe every aspiring writer should enter.
This is my third year participating and I'm looking for my third win this year!  You can add me on Nanowrimo, I'm ilovepurple.

For those of you who don't know what I'm talking about, you can visit their website (click on Nanowrimo above) or read this short tidbit about it.
It's a month long noveling competition, starting November 1st and ending November 30th (so it starts in 10 days!!). You win if you write a 50,000 word (OR MORE!) novel in that period of time. It's really great to cure writers' block (see my last post, click here!) or to get experience with writing novels. I really recommend you do it if you want to be an author, and add me as a writing buddy, ilovepurple! :)

1.)  Make an outline. So, by this point, if you're participating, you should have a rough outline of chapters, or at least a basic idea of where you want your novel to go. Because it starts in ten days, I recommend you have a chapter outline, or at least your plot, character outlines, and conclusion written down somewhere. This will help you so you don't have to waste time during the month to think about what you want to happen next.

2.) DON'T EDIT. I CAN'T say this enough. While you're writing, don't stop to change ANYTHING. After the month is over, and you've successfully written 50,000 words, go back and edit it! (If you want copies from Createspace, you'll have six months to edit it!) Please don't waste time by changing things around (unless you want to add things in, of course!)

3.) No contractions! Don't, shouldn't, won't. NO!!! Do not, should not, will not. That's better. :) Separating words definitely makes a difference in your word count.

For those of you participating, good luck!
Please come visit me and my blog by clicking here.
And, I now have an Instagram! (Free app for ipods/iphones/android) Add me @apurplesky

Thanks!

I had a maths lesson today. It was kind of boring. Our teacher looks kind of like Professor McGonagell, from Harry Potter. But anyway, I'm going off the subject. In maths today, I found out that, in maths, rules are not made to be broken. 1+1 will always equal 2, and 10 divided by 5 will never be 3. This annoys me... I'm a writer. Creative, a rule-breaker. But it annoys my parents, my teachers, because I make up stories, things to make lessons more interesting. My teachers don't think of it as that, though. They call me a liar...

No one knows why the word bothers me so much. If my brother so much as says "Natasha, liar, liar, pants on fire!" I get upset and cry for 20 minutes. Not even my mum understands it. Of course, she wants to know why... but each time she brings it up, I walk away, tears glistening in my eyes. It's not that I don't want to tell. But I promised her...

2 years ago, my best friend Cherry ran away from home. She made me promise  I wouldn't tell anyone why. When the police asked, I lied. I told them I hadn't seen her, and about a week after a man, probably some-one Cherry asked to give a statement, told them he saw her commit suicide. This makes me a liar.
The word reminds me of her....

Last Saturday


Washing the morning dishes,
Just minding my own business,
(A bit grudging, I must add),
When down it rained, beauty-clad.

Strains of pleasing melody,
Triads in sweet harmony,
I cast eyes outward, wonder!
The music did not flounder.

Down it wafted from above,
Gently, gently, like a dove;
Master fingers undisclosed,
As they played the highs and lows.

I hurried with the washing,
No sign of tuneless humming.
Finally done, I grabbed the leash
As excuse of remedy.

With my dog, hasted to sidewalk
And slowed my pace to a walk.
Ears now alert, eyes akin,
For the music was now dim.

Now my gaze is on high grounds,
Still the rapturous effects sounds.
With a sudden jolt, I knew,
Keys I used to play so true.

Oh, joy! One of my Bach piece!
Now the skillful play has ceased
Fleeting time, I'm back at home
The piano's where I roam.



This all really happened, although the “my Bach piece” wasn't. Inspired by the incident, I decided to write it down. This was my best in-one-hour poem I've ever written. ^^


Critiques and comments welcomed!

I wrote a story based on the one by Jamaica Kincaid for English class. I loved it so much I decided to post it here!

“Girl”

            Don’t read books, they damage your eyesight; don’t drink hot tea with cold fruit, they hurt your belly; don’t disrupt your sleeping habits, it’s unhealthy, you know; keep promises, it’s polite; always say “thank you”, “ you’re welcome”, and “good morning”, “good afternoon”, and “good night”; drink a glass of water in the morning; take the stairs whenever you can; this is how to have a whole conversation about nothing; this is how to have some talk about something; this is how to wish you could have a conversation but pretend it doesn’t affect you; I expect that you will play the piano; I expect you will learn your other language; I still expect that you will play the piano and learn your other language; do your work; study before all assessments; if you did poorly it meant you didn’t do your work; if you did poorly it meant you didn’t study; this is how you sow; this is how you crochet; but you never did teach me how to crochet, it was my friend; and I expect you to learn how to cook; help your elders; help your teachers; help your mother; don’t help your friends; you shouldn’t leave work to the last minute, daughter, haven’t you been punished enough?

Hi everyone!
It's Juliet again with my second post. You can check out my first post here (it's a bit from my novel in progress!) and read my blog here!

OK, so today I'm going to talk about a struggle that every writer goes through.

Writer's block. It's every author's nightmare, wouldn't you agree? It certainly is mine, and it happens to me all the time.

So what are some cures?

1. Breaks. If you've been sitting at the computer or at your desk with a pencil in hand for longer than five minutes, and haven't written anything, take a break. Go eat some chocolate, watch America's Got Talent, do what you got to do to get your mind off of writing for a while. The times when I have a great idea are when I'm not constantly thinking about my work.
2. Writing excercises. Look up some writing prompts on Google and get the writing juices a-flowing. Who knows, something you write in a prompt might be used in your work OR could give you an idea for a character, plot, etc.
3. Written? Kitten and Write or Die. OK, so that sounds really threatening, but those are two great websites. The first one, Written? Kitten! (click on it above) Is where you set a word count and if you achieve that word count you get an adorable picture of kittens! Who wouldn't want that? Write or Die (click on it above) is what I use during Nanowrimo season when I absolutely HAVE to get 1500 words a day. You can set the level of consequences and strictness. If you stop writing in Gentle mode, a box will pop up to remind you to continue writing. Normal mode; a really annoying sound is played. Kamikaze mode? your words will start being deleted one by one so you have to keep writing or else! It's a great tool so you don't stop. Even if you keep writing crap, you can always edit it and more than likely, you'll get a great idea!
4. Music. And no, I don't mean listen to a song and plagiarize all their lyrics. That's not what I mean at all. A great tip that I've learned on many writing websites is to listen to a song and try to create a character that you think of when listening to that song, or write a short story based on the song. This, once again, will be sure to get the writing juices in your brain flowing.

Thanks for reading, what tips do you have to cure writer's block?

julietspurplesky@gmail.com

I am in dire need of some muse for this unfinished story of mine! >.< Any ideas?

“Mistress Farrah.” A middle-aged servant bowed respectfully at the figure in front of her. “Your mother wishes to see you.”

The maiden straightened, and looked up from her books. “Very well, Leah. Thank you.” A gentle rustling of silk was heard as Farrah got up and gracefully swished out of the room, her steps quick and sure.

“The poor thing,” Leah murmured as soon as the girl disappeared down the hallway, “does she not know that taking care of her outer beauty is more important than filling the mind with useless information? How will she ever get married?” The servant clucked her tongue in sympathy before turning back to her work.

On the way to her mother's room, however, Farrah was not thinking of her future as a mistress, but of what her mother's present condition was. She knew her mother had not been very strong lately, so she had taken over her mother's usual duties of running the household.

It wasn't an easy task, far more difficult than she had ever imagine. Before, she had thought of her mother's work as simple, but know, she knew she had been wrong. There were the numerous flocks to be checked, the shopping for each meal, and sometimes, there were the sick servants to be taken care of.

Farrah absently touched the delicate gold chain that hung loosely about her neck. She had never liked wearing many fancy decorations, for she found them bothersome. Though she wears more jewelry at the big parties and celebrations, she prefers just a simple necklace or bracelet when she's at home. Again her mind turned towards her mother.

Why does my mother want me? Is she sick or something? Does she have something she needs to tell me? Something important? The maiden nervously fingered the folds of her silk garment. She knew she was getting to be of age, and her father had already started looking for a good match for her. 

 

But I'm not ready yet! I still have so much to learn, and once I am married, I won't have the same kind of freedom as I now have. A determined look gleamed in her eyes as Farrah softly knocked on her mother's door.

NOTE: This is under copyright by me. So please do NOT steal!

Hi everyone! :) I'm Juliet and this is my first post on Blog for Joy, but hopefully I will be posting pretty frequently!
You can check out my blog, A Purple Sky, here! Thanks! :)
Here's a section of my novel-in-progress. I'll be posting more soon!

It’s not hard to imagine how you would feel if you lost the love of your life. In fact, people think about it all the time; the sadness, the anger. When it’s an awful accident, you’re meant to feel shocked. When it’s a long battle with cancer, you’re meant to feel frustrated.
            But I didn’t lose him because of a freak accident or cancer.
            It was his choice.
            This isn’t a story about how I lost my love, and my best friend. It’s a story about how he changed my life forever.

            That day is still as clear to me as the crystal blue ocean water that only exists in ads for Sandals, Jamaica. Even now as I sit here almost four years later, I remember every detail and every word that was spoken on that gruesome day.
            A shiver runs down my spine as I think about what happened, and, for the millionth time, what I could have done to stop it. My vision blurs as cool tears form in my eyes. I look down as one lands on my thigh, and then rolls off, leaving a trail on my leg. I close my eyes, trying to wish away the images in my head.
            There’s blood pouring out of him as I watch three men from the corner of my eye fade into the foggy darkness. I hear sirens and see flashing lights everywhere I look. That’s always the moment when everything becomes clear, when I remember what’s about to happen.

And please remember, no plagiarism! Thanks!

I could apologize a bunch of times, and write a post on something or other. But, truthfully, Blog for joy has had to sit on the backburner for the time being. Getting back into  routine for getting back into education, reaching 155 followers, and badly spraining my ankle (and our home computer breaking!) has meant now everything is a bit of a rush. But, don't fear. Today, I thought i'd write you the entry that I entered for 247 tales last month, and came runner up. I was so pleased, as it was the second month in a row that I came runner up, here it is.

The big fight was coming soon. The attack from the enemy camp. Of course it was. They'd wail and scream and build eachother up into a frenzy, gearing for battle. Our camp grew wild, everyone huddled together, trying to figure out our defence.

Nothing would be enough, though, not against them. We could dart and swerve and hide away, we could protect our elders, our friends and families. But eventually, eventually they would reach us. They had machinery beyond our wildest dreams, and against millions of us, it would only take one of them.

Rumbling, churning, ripping into life. Everyone hoped the day would never come, but the only survivor knew all too well, that it would. Stomping, loud, roaring like a fire, it would tear our community into shreds, leaving nothing but a few, lucky enough to survive.

Everyone feared it, feared them, but were grateful they weren't in the first ranks. Elders, young ones, all terrified together, ready for their fate. Nowhere to run, nothing at all to defend themselves, nothing at all.

It was a bright August morning when the deadly rasps could be heard, echoing from every angle, the wind still, the anguish filling the small spaces between us. Tearing, razor like teeth grinding the land before us, desperate to CRASH into our insignificant lives. They were ready, they'd spoken, and we would lose......

“What are you doing, Jerry?!”

“Just cutting the grass, dear....”

 

Tata,Leah xox