Owl Song
Owl Song, a spirited and often humorous fairy tale adventure, is the story of Sophia - a reluctant and insomnolent princess who finds courage and love in the midst of an astonishing journey.
Excerpt
“We’re almost there. Don’t worry,” Rupert called to her over his shoulder. She watched his long legs move ahead crisply, the bottoms of his shoes flashing a brilliant white as he walked.Peter bent to Sophia, bringing his face close to hers. “How can we be almost there already?” he rasped. “Those mountains are hardly near at all.”
Sophia shook her head and said nothing. She was concentrating on walking. It took everything she had just to bring a foot up and then set it down again on the sand. Her knees hurt. Her head hurt. Her shoulders ached with a slow moving pain, which crept up around her neck and was now moving down her arms. Little trickles of sweat were beginning to slip down her back in long, wet trails. The inside of her mouth was itchy, her eyes burned, and her stomach rumbled in angry emptiness. I won’t make it, she thought in a panic. I’ll collapse.
Within a few seconds a wet pink mist arose, from nowhere in particular. It sifted around her until it felt almost as if she were wearing it. It slithered around her arms, slipping between her fingers and into her nostrils. Sophia opened her mouth in the hopes of catching some of its moisture, since it felt so wet. The mist thickened, and Peter coughed a little. “What is this stuff?” he asked, his voice dead in the soaking haze. Sophia just shrugged, although the gesture was useless as she couldn’t see him, or much of anything at all. She grasped for Peter’s hand, and finding it, held it close to her face and stared at it. It floated there as she held it, disembodied, the fog swirling around it so that it looked alarmingly unattached – a lone hand, cut off at the wrist. But it was indeed a part of Peter, right beside her. And, although seeing his hand slightly reassured her she wasn’t alone in the pink mist, her heart rattled in her chest, and she had the unmistakable feeling of being trapped, isolated, in a small space. And Sophia hated small spaces.
“Get me out!” she cried, struggling against the mist. She dropped Peter’s hand and frantically waved her arms through the pink. She stopped and held out her hands in front of her, but couldn’t see past her elbows. “Get me out!” she cried again, this time louder. She couldn’t hear anything, and there were no helpful hands guiding her away.
I have to get out of here, she thought feverishly. I have to get out. Get out. Get out. Get out.
And then she realized she was screaming.
this writing life
Positive Feedback
In the never-ending quest to perfect a manuscript, one phase proves to be particularly important. And that is, having a good group of readers to help you look at your draft in a new light. Hopefully, what is illuminated turns out to be a masterpiece. Or at least a diversion on a slushy day in mid-winter. Along with some hot cocoa. And a warm blanket.
A group of good readers can help you see your manuscript for what it is - be it fabulous, on its way, or in much need of work. But how negative should the feedback be? How far does one go in accepting constructive criticism?
One train of thought is that with positive feedback a writer can plainly see what works, and what doesn't, without all the hullabaloo of negative criticism and all the baggage that goes along with it. In other words, by providing only positive feedback, the things they like about the chapter, the characters that work, the dialogue that sings, readers provide an important service - to allow a writer to emphasize the strengths, and minimize the weaknesses.
Many workshops I've attended have encompassed the good, the bad, and the extremely ugly. And honestly, I've found that the good feedback, the what-works, the atta-girls, and the keep-that-ins, have helped me take a look at the rest and realize what I need to chop off. Knowing what readers connect to allows me to understand what I need to improve upon as a writer, and what it is I need to emphasize, to bring to the manuscript. And that is positively invaluable.
say it out loud
I sit at my computer sometimes, muttering to myself.
No, I'm not insane. There are no voices in my head, and I'm not Dorothy Parker. I'm simply...well, working.
I find that reading aloud from whatever I'm writing gives me a clearer idea of how it flows, and how it might come across when read by someone else. I realize that much of the written word isn't necessarily meant to be read out loud, just as Shakespeare suffers when read silently - but I find that when I read aloud, the poetics of the thing come to life. The words take on an almost tangible shape, springing off the tongue like buttah. Well, springing off the tongue like buttah is what I aspire to. Sometimes the words gingerly step off the tongue like dry fruit cake. With little neon green candies. And it's time to revise.
Like staring off into space, and napping, muttering can be work, too. Just make sure you're reading something while you're doing it. There's nothing worse than an unbefitting mutter.