Writing The End is really just the beginning. I wrote a wonderful or at least I think it is wonderful little story and finished it off with The End about 5 weeks ago. Since this time I let it sit for a few days and then printed the whole thing out in its glorious 243 page version.

It reads well as it sits but there was so much missing. Too many questions left unanswered or raised. My first step is to revise this lovely piece of work so that you get the visual sense of being transported back to 1773.

There are so many things that have to be looked into here: clothing, verbage, mode of transportation, medicine, and the likes. I care about what I write because as a reader I care about what happens in a book. I want my readers to be transported to that feeling of the ship lifting from anchor to set sail. I want them to feel the flow of blood as it courses through the viens.

In my opinion to do anything less is unjust. I have read the unjust novel. It always leaves me wanting.

So, in the path of writing The End I am now revising and putting the polish on my novel. Once this is complete it will be on to the next step of submissions which raises another batch of questions.

Do you look for an agent first or a publisher? This one is the hardest for me. I want the book published and feel I might need representation but that chunk of money to pay an agent is not easily parted from in these economic times. I will search out and decide and let you all know. For now, I bid you good day and happy writing.

I found out I was wrong.

Though I didn't actually work on any of my writing this weekend (surprise, surprise...), she accosted me. Kaiyo kept shadowing me the entire weekend, being persistent (as she is known for...), telling me more about herself than I'd ever imagined. She's a lot more complex than I'd originally thought! She practically screamed at me when I was listening to Natalie Grant's song I Will Not Be Moved  saying this was HER song; this was the cry of her heart. I never understood her completely until I heard it and now there's a new understanding I have of her and her story.

Now that she's thoroughly satisfied that I understand her completely, it seems she's rallied all of the other characters, for now they are coming forward and letting me know that I need to examine them more. :P

I'm especially surprised by Ryuji, who still tends to be on the mysterious side, but since Kaiyo's little dare, he's found himself slightly more emboldened to let me know how I've characterized him wrong too :P It seems that there's a slightly darker past that he has that he never let me see before now. I never really knew how much pain he was really in and how brave he was. I'm understanding why he keeps his distance from people now.

And then there's Iesada, Kaiyo's estranged father...he too is very secretive and not really certain if I'm to be trusted with his story; however, I've discovered an entire backstory of his that he's let be revealed through other characters...but with his permission of course. He likes to  be difficult with me, but it's understandable--his rank as oyabun in the yakuza makes him this way.

And I can't forget the antagonist, Kaemon (as much as I want to!). I know I tend to avoid him, because he's so intimidating, but I can't any longer. I'm afraid to see the true depth of his darkness, for I know he enjoys causing others pain and gets some sick joy out of it. I don't really want to examine his character, but I know that I'm going to have to if I want to tell the story the way it ought to be. (I can hear him already laughing about what I'm going to discover....)

 I'm spending a great deal of time daydreaming and not being quite here in this world as their world and their lives come to the forefront. And of course, as a writer, I am obliged to sit and listen, for it would be a great injustice to ignore them (even though I don't think I could if I tried!).

I know a great deal of writers are accosted by their characters at odd times and I'm sure that anyone who has characters and stories can understand this :) Even though this entry does make me sound a bit on the crazy side!

Were my jeans too casual? Was my sweater serious enough? Would cowboy boots be ok, or look too affected? What about earrings? Would I look like a real writer or an obvious phony?

This was only compounded by the fact that the published author teaching our workshop had samples of all of our work to read in advance. He walked in with an armful and promised us all individual comments in writing at the end of class. After two hours of discussion on technique and setting, the workshop ended and he took questions. I raised my hand and when he called on me, asked if I was the author of "C-". Yes, that's me. "Could you stay after? I'd like to talk to you."

My first workshop and here I was being kept after school. I waited for a few of the other students who lingered with questions and followed him down on his way to lunch. Finally, he pulled away from one particularly persistent student.

"I read all of the samples, but I wanted to let you know, I think you have the beginnings of a great novel here. The writing was excellent. Here's my personal email address. I want you to finish what you started and stay in touch with me about it.  Read some Faulkner, nail down multiple perspectives and let's publish this thing."

Swoon. Pinch me. I think I'm dreaming.

''Tiga pekan lalu saya setor naskahnya dan kini sedang diproses. Saya janji Maryamah Karpov tidak akan mengecewakan,'' ujarnya kepada Jawa Pos kemarin (5/10).

Maryamah Karpov merupakan buku terakhir dari tetralogi Laskar Pelangi. Dalam novel itu, Andrea mengungkapkan tidak akan menghilangkan kekhasan cerita dengan satirenya yang khas, ironi yang menggelitik, serta inteligensia yang meluap-luap namun membumi.

Dia akan berkisah tentang perempuan dari satu sudut yang amat jarang diekspos penulis Indonesia dewasa ini. Tiga tokoh yang akan berperan dalam buku tersebut adalah Arai, Lintang, dan A Ling. ''Akan terasa hambar kalau tidak dicicipi dulu. Jadi, tunggu tanggal mainnya saja,'' kata Andrea.

Sebelumnya, Maryamah Karpov direncanakan terbit pada September 2008. Namun, Andrea menyayangkan informasi bahwa saat ini telah beredar novel dengan judul Maryamah Karpov dalam bentuk cetak maupun e-book, seolah-olah itu adalah serial terakhir tetralogi Laskar Pelangi yang kini sedang booming dalam bentuk film layar lebar.

Karena maraknya upaya memalsukan dan mencatut ketenaran namanya, Andrea pun menginformasikan bahwa media komunikasi dengan Andrea Hirata maupun manajemen hanya bisa dilakukan melalui www.sastrabelitong.mulltiply.com dan www.renjanaorganizer.multiply.com atau e-mail: renjanaorganizer@yahoo.com. ''Semua itu untuk memudahkan komunikasi saja antara saya dengan teman-teman,'' jelasnya.

Menanggapi karyanya yang telah ditampilkan dalam bentuk film tersebut, dia mengaku puas. Dia menyatakan memiliki koleksi lebih dari dua ribu judul film. Namun, baru kali ini dirinya mampu menangis dan merasa sangat indah ketika menonton film karya Riri Riza tersebut. ''Film itu merupakan salah satu film yang paling memesona yang pernah kusaksikan dalam hidupku,'' tegasnya.

Sementara itu, produser film Laskar Pelangi Mira Lesmana menuturkan, sukses yang mulai tampak ketika tiket film Laskar Pelangi menjadi langganan sold-out di bioskop-bioskop di seluruh Nusantara tak membuat dirinya puas. Saat ini, Miles Production dan Mizan Production pun sedang mematangkan rencana serta konsep untuk sekuel lanjutan film tersebut dalam layar lebar dengan judul Sang Pemimpi. ''Sukses di seri pertama ini cukup memotivasi kami untuk lebih giat bekerja,'' ujarnya. (Berita diperoleh dari Jawa Pos Online).

Perhaps it was all the magics that from the night before, she thought. It's been a while since I've done that much magic all at once. I guess I should be grateful I haven't magic sickness with all that I did.

With that, Quinn continued in the direction of the dining hall. She had first intended to stop by and collect her friends Beau and Bella. But the rumbling in her stomach told her that breaking her fast was much more important.

Quinn descended the staircase, as she had done numerous times before. The towers looked to have been active for hours. The delightful smells of roast meat cooking along side freshly harvested vegetables, wafted towards her.

As always, the foyer at the foyer at the base of the stairs was filled with freshly cut flowers. Magnificent Iris blooms, Roses, violets, flowers of many kinds and colors. She adored the fresh cuttings, and wondered how they would look still growing in the earth. The wind making them dance  as they open and close as the day passes. The sounds of talking and laughing echoed from not far in the distance. She wasn't too far from the dining hall, and what most likely were students gathering for the lunch time meal.

Yawning again, stretching her arms widely. Allowing one finger to pluck as Iris from its resting place as she passed by.

Bella and Beau had been woken early also, and surprised Quinn by already being seated at their  usual dinning table. All three were had been out late and the signs were now showing.

Online shop? Hmm.. mikir 2 kali nih ongkirnya. Dan ternyata 14rebu ongkos kirim ga sebanding dengan capenya keluar masuk gramedia di beberapa mall sambil gendong Nadia yang tidak membuahkan hasil. Hmm, itulah buah dari rasa penasaran pengen baca bukunya Dee yang kata anak² plurk ceritanya keren bin bagus banget.

Finally, novel itu aku dapetin dari nitip adekku. Spontan buka sampul, buka halaman pertama, dan hanya 1 jam dah kelar. Hmm.. 75 rebu mahal juga ya kalo diitung-itung hanya beberapa lembar saja. Tidak setebal Al Quran atopun kamus english seperti yang kukira.

Mau tau testimoniku tentang novel ini?

Cerita bagus namun cenderung standart ! Kurang greget ! Ending yang kurang mengena.. gaya bahasanya Ok, cuman ya begitulah sama seperti gaya bahasa yang dituliskan Dee di supernova. Ato akunya aja yang ber-ilmu sastra cetek ya? Kalo dari cerita & gaya bahasa aku lebih suka filosofi kopi yang dia tulis dulu, dibanding dengan rectoverso kali ini. 

Hmm.. sepertinya kalo pengen baca novel ini mendingan pinjem temen deh, sayang kalo kluar duit segitu dengan cerita yang kurang greget. Tapi memang perform novelnya bagus, dengan hardcover, kertas HVS tebal, bergambar dan berwarna. Tapi sayang, foto-foto dan gambarnya kurang dapet artistiknya.

Rasanya, aku hanya bisa mencaci karya orang saja ya. Toh jikalau aku disuruh bikin bgituan juga belum tentu bisa dan dinilai bagus sama orang.

Setiap orang bebas berkarya dan tentunya bebas mengeluarkan pendapat, bukan? Terus berkarya ya Dee ! Maafkan aku dengan kesan setelah membaca tulisanmu.

They find a small table away from the dancefloor and Bob pulls out a chair and stands while Brenda sits, she's obviously impressed with his chivalry and so is he, this isn't the sort of thing he'd do in The Cardigan Arms, you'd get thrown out of the Cardigan Arms for holding someones chair like that followed by words like "big poof" or "flash bastard", but this is not The Cardigan Arms and Bob is glad he got the idea from an old Maurice Chevalier film last week.

A waiter arrives at the table and takes their drinks order, Scotch for Bob, Babycham for Brenda, and he leaves the food menu with Bob to peruse while the drinks arrive, which in truth is a little more than Bob expected to spend but Brenda says "ooh are we having a meal as well Bob ?" and he can't very well refuse now can he ?

When Bob asks Brenda to choose something from the menu he does so in the hope that she'll only want a sandwich but even the sandwiches are extortionate in here, dear god if only he could get a pound for a sandwich in his cafe, he'd be eating in Rockafellas every night and Bob smiles as he thinks about the reaction he'd get from his own miserable punters if he told them the sandwich prices were going up to a pound each on Monday.

"I don't know what to order Bob" says Brenda

"Order anything you want love" Bob tells her, still hoping that she just wants a sandwich

"No I think you should order Bob" and Brenda hands him the menu, "What with you being in the restaurant business and all"

"Restaurant business " Bob is puzzled for a moment, "Oh yes, my err, restaurant. OK then love what sort of sandwiches do you like ?"

And Brenda laughs and tells Bob that he's a card he really is and then she asks if Bob knows what scampi is, because Jackie one of her friends once had scampi in a posh restaurant, they serve it in a wicker basket and you eat it with your fingers and it tastes like fish she says, and Brenda would really like to try some scampi if only to let Jackie know that she's not as posh as she thinks .

And when Bob finds Scampi In A Basket on the menu he's shocked to see that its two pounds three shillings a portion, two pound three shilling for a fish supper Jesus Christ he's never paid two pound three shillings for one portion of fish, you could buy a fish supper for everyone in the Cardigan Arms tap room and have change from two quid, Jesus this was a mistake coming in here.

But still, if he treats her properly tonight he might just get a bit more than a kiss and a cuddle later, who knows, he might just persuade her that her home in Beeston is a bit to far for the taxi to take them and that they should take the much shorter route to his house in Burley instead and in anticipation of this event he got his old mum to clean up a bit this morning, maybe a two quid piece of fish washed down with some more Babycham might just be worth it.

"Well love, if your friend Jackie thinks that she's the bees knees by eating scampi with her fingers then we'll just have to do the same won't we ?" and he calls the waiter over and orders two portions of scampi-in-the-basket and another Babycham and earns the rapt attention of the waiter for the rest of the evening even though he thinks Bob is just a flash sugar daddy, he sees flash sugar daddys like Bob in here every weekend and they usually order scampi in a basket to impress their dolly birds, which is just fine and dandy by the waiter as he gets a good commision on scampi in a basket sales and sugar daddys usually give good tips to impress at the end of the night too.

"Do you do scampi in your restaurant Bob" Brenda innocently asks

"Scampi ?" Bob can hardly keep from laughing out loud, "No love, but if this scampi is alright then I might put it on the menu"

Fat chance of selling bloody scampi at two pound three shillings a bloody throw in the Tomato Dip thinks Bob, in fact Bob can't remember anyone ever spending two pound three shillings on anything in the Tomato Dip, they moan like hell if their bill comes to three shillings.

"It must be nice having two buisnesses like yours Bob" Maureen has her elbows on the table, hands clasped together, head resting on them cocked slightly to one side, she's flirting with him now and he's lapping it up.

"Oh well, you know, it pays the bills"

"Property developer and restaurant owner, it sounds lovely" and Maureen closes her eyes and imagines being the wife of a restauranteur and property developer and dining out at Rockerfellas every Saturday night.

"Well, when I say property developer I mean I help to develop properties, you know, fitting heating, a bit of plumbing, that sort of thing"

"Yes but you don't do the manual work do you Bob, you're management aren't you ?"

"Well sort of I suppose, I mean Foxy does most of the graft, I sort of look after the technical side of things, connecting the boilers up and such like"

"Thats right Bob, you're a technician" she takes Bobs hands in hers, "These hands are far too sensitive to do manual labour"

And Bob remembers that just 24 hours ago those sensitive technicians hands were thrust far down into a toilet pan, fishing and poking around for the ball of shit and toilet paper that was just beyond the first bend, those sensitive technicians hands were soon coated in stuff that would quickly put Brenda off the idea of scampi in a basket if he told her and it took him nearly ten minutes of scrubbing with Vim to get rid of the smell and a lot of poking and prodding around underneath his fingernails to remove the last of the remnants.

After a short wait the scampi in a basket arrives and Bob is dismayed to see that the small wicker basket is no more than half full of small fried balls of what he assumes is fish, there can be no more than ten of these balls which seems like a hell of a rip off to him, thats nearly five bob a ball, bloody hell, wait till he tells Foxy, he'll piss himself laughing at this, and you don't get any cutlery either just a small wicker basket, a paper tissue and a plastic sachet of some sauce to pour on the fried balls, jesus, someone saw him coming here.

The waiter tells them that he hopes they have a nice meal which Bob thinks is pushing the use of the word "meal" a little to extremes, and then pulls down a large round plastic orange lampshade from above the table, its suspended on a wire cord which can be positioned up or down depending on the ambience required, with it pulled down to the table it gives off a bright orange glow and makes the diners look like they've just had a Pontinental holiday. Its supposed to create an intimate atmosphere for the diners but the waiter tugs theirs down a little too far and all Bob can see now is the big bright orange globe in front of his eyes,

"Where are you Bob ?" Brenda with a little worried resonance in her voice

"I'm still here love, can't see a bloody thing now though, wheres that waiter gone ?"

But the waiter is busy with the sugar daddy and his dolly bird on the next table so Bob takes the paper tissue from his scampi wicker basket moves the orange globe to one side and peers around it to see an orange faced Brenda still sitting where she was until the waiter decided to mess things up.

"Wait a minute love, I'll get rid of this" and Bob pushes the orange globe back up towards the ceiling, unfortunately the wire suspension does not retract and when he lets go it falls back down and snaps to a halt just inches above the table where it bounces around angrily for a while, twisting viciously and casting its orange glow back and forth until the waiter notices and looking a little angry comes across to the table where he stops the lampshade from swinging around and tries to push it back up to the ceiling, except of course it won't go back up now and the waiter tells Bob that he's broken the suspension mechanism.

"We never asked for it anyway, you pulled it down you bloody idiot, give it here" and Bob stands up, lifts the lamp up, takes a big loop of the suspension wire in one hand and ties a large knot in it, the slack taken up in the knot lifts the lamp clear of the table again but clearly the waiter is not impressed with this abuse of the restaurants trendy ambience lights and he's just about to say something when Bob gives him a dirty look and whispers "now bugger off" just loud enough so that the waiter gets the message and suddenly finds something else to do on another table.

"Now then love, whats your scampi like ?"

"It looks very nice Bob, do you want some of mine"

"No love, you enjoy it"

"Well its just that the lamp dropped on top of your scampi basket and squashed some of them, look, theres one stuck to the light bulb up there"

And Bob looks up and sure enough he sees a piece of scampi stuck to the lightbulb above his head, its starting to sizzle and drip cooking fat  onto the tablecloth so Bob flicks it with his finger and it flies off the lightbulb and across the room where the waiter treads on it on his way to the kitchen and un-noticed treads it into the carpet, squashing and smearing it all the way through to the kitchen door.

Bob and Brenda look agast at the still un-noticed mess on the floor then look at each other and start laughing and trying to keep his voice down Bob asks Brenda to hurry up with her scampi so that they can leave before the waiter notices, five bobs worth of scampi wasted but at least it made her laugh.

Bob wolfs down his remaining nine balls of scampi, they're ok but nothing to write home about, a bit like wallpaper paste wrapped up in bread crumbs, some brown sauce might improve it but this doesn't look like the sort of place to keep a brown sauce bottle behind the counter and the waiter doesn't look like the sort of waiter who would bring it to the table even if they had one.

"You haven't eaten your sauce Bob"

Bloody Hell thinks Bob, she can read my mind, "What sauce love"

"Your sachet of sauce, there in the basket, you have to put sauce on the scampi, its the way you do it"

"Aye well, I've finished mine now, are you done yet ?"

"Nearly Bob, I can't eat as fast as you, do you want some of mine ?" and she offers Bob three more pieces that she's smothered in a white sauce and suddenly Bob couldn't put another scampi in his mouth even if it meant handing over the briefcase of dreams as a forfeit,

"I'll tell you what, I'll go settle the bill while you finish your scampi and then we'll have a bit of a jig eh ?" and rising from his chair Bob waves his arm and clicks his fingers to attract the waiter who scurries across the room still treading odd bits of scampi breadcrumbs unsuspectingly into the carpet,

"We need the bill pal, the lady wants a jig on the dancefloor" Bob explains

"Was everything alright for you sir ?" the waiter is at his reverent best in the hope of a good tip

"She enjoyed it" and Bob jerks his thumb towards Brenda who is still eating, "But I've had better"

"You eat a lot of scampi do you sir" asks the waiter with just a hint of sarcasm

"Oh aye pal, I serve it every day in my restaurant, I know what good scampi is and tonight it was poor"

"Oh you're a restauranteur are you sir, which one"

"Eh?"

"Whats the name of your restaurant sir, I may know it"

"Er, Le Dip Tomato, you probably haven't heard of it, its new, Kirkstall Road, we do French cooking, with scampi, its a bit exclusive you know, just the locals know about it"

"How nice"

"Yes. So, the bill then"

"Its here sir" and Bob was handed a small till receipt, folded so that he had to unfold it to read it, why did they do that, why couldn't the waiter just tell him how much the bill was, it was almost like they were ashamed to tell him the way they secretly handed you a piece of paper with the price written on it.

"Bloody Hell" Bob can't help blurting out the cuss, "Five pound seventeen and six, how the bloody hell do you get it to that much pal ?"

"Its all written down" explained the waiter patiently, "Two scampi meals at two pounds three shillings each, a whisky and dry and two babychams, and of course sir, the cover charge for the table," and the waiter smiled a condescending smile that Bob would have wiped off his face in an instant if he hadn't been trying to impress Brenda who was now standing by the stairs down onto the dancefloor, looking back at Bobs discussion with the waiter and wondering what the hold up was, had the waiter spotted the ruined, scampi smeared restaurant carpet ?

"Cover charge, what the bloody hell is a cover charge"

"Well its a charge for using the table sir, I mean we have to provide a table for you, and then there's the table cloth to pay for and the cutlery...."

"Its a bloody restaurant you pillock, what sort of restaurant would it be if you didn't have tables with cloths on and cutlery ? Anyway we didn't have any cutlery, you eat scampi with your bloody fingers"

"Yes well, thats just scampi sir, we still have to provide cutlery for other dishes"

"So I'm paying for everyone elses cutlery am I ?"

"Yes sir, its just a cover charge thats all"

"And just how much of this bill," and Bob waved the till receipt inches from the waiters nose, "is the cover charge then eh ?"

"The cover charge sir is ten shillings"

"TEN BOB, TEN BLOODY BOB" Bob was starting to attract attention now from the other customers, and from away to the right hand corner of the nightclub some security staff too, "I'M NOT PAYING TEN BLOODY BOB FOR A KNIFE AND FORK THAT I NEVER USED ?"

"Well not exactly sir, its a cover charge, if you'll just wait here I'll fetch the manager, I'm sure he'll sort this out"

And the waiter swiftly disappeared back into the kitchen to be replaced just a few seconds later by a small rotund man dressed in a white tuxedo with red bow tie to match his red face, wiping his sweating bald head he approached Bob with alarming speed, waving the till receipt in the air,

"You pay bill now, no more arguing" the accent was mediterranean, Greek or Italian, "You pay now or my friends make you pay" and he gestured behind him to where Bob could now see emerging from the shadows two rather large chaps in suits and black skinny leather ties who Bob assumed would not want to discuss the bill rather than empty his pockets for him whilst bruising his face slightly.

"Hey I only asked him what a cover charge was pal, no need to get all stroppy" but by now the manager was stood inches from Bob and the heavies had circled behind him, giving him no choice but to reach for his back pocket and take out the comb with his money wrapped around it, and count out five pound notes and a ten bob note, Bob carefully counted another two and sixpence from the change in his pocket and then handed the whole amount to the manager.

"What about tip for my waiter ?" the sweaty red face asked, now gesturing to the waiter who hovered behind him, grinning with self satisfaction that yet another awkward customer was being forced to cough up.

"Heres a good tip mate," replied Bob, "Don't go treading scampi into the carpet it'll be a bugger to clean off tomorrow and it's going to stink soon as well" and Bob pointed to the floor where the waiter had unknowingly smeared Bobs scampi into the expensive axminster.

The sweaty red face went a deeper shade of red as the managers eyes traced the slimy trail of squashed scampi from the kitchen door, the waiter looked down in horror as he realised that it was probably his shoe that had now ruined the genuine axminster carpet with its huge red, brown and orange swirls of colour, plus its newly aquired five bob a footprint impression of scampi remnants.

Bob felt two strong hands grip each of his arms as the hired security lifted him to his toes and start to march him to the entrance door whilst the barking voice of the manager told Bob in no uncertain terms that he woud not be welcome back in the club.

In just a few seconds Bob found himself on his knees on the pavement outside the nightclub's main entrance, an object of humour and derision from the queue of smart young things waiting to go in, "that makes room for one more inside" someone shouted from the back of the queue to racous laughter all round.   

http://elephantearspress.com 'Uncorrected Proof'

When I saw an article about Mr. Sparks in the latest Entertainment Weekly, I was curious. I had no idea that he had written 14 bestsellers in 14 years. Seriously? Who is this guy? So I read the article because I wanted to know what his deal is. What's the magic behind 14 bestsellers?

The answer is simple: he sets a daily goal of 2,000 words a day. He writes for five to six hours a day and types about 60 words per minutes. And that's it. He is just a writer who commits himself to finishing a novel a year. He sold his first book at the age of 29, and he never looked back.

Right now I'm 32 and I've never sold a novel. I've never written a novel. I've thought about it, and this has been a dream since I was in high school. In college I attempted a few rough starts but I never made it past two chapters.

I'm sitting here and thinking, "What the hell is my problem?" I'm a talented writer, and I am good at being self-disciplined. I can write short stories, articles, and blog posts. Why not a novel? The only reason is laziness. I make excuses about being too busy or too tired.

I need a kick in the butt, and I'm the only person who can do it. This blog is my way of motivating myself. If I remind myself of my original goal, I can get it done. I'm tired of daydreaming and thinking about it. It's time to just write and write some more.

I haven't finished my plot-scrub. I've made some changes, questioned some motives, filled in several characters, but the detailed chapter-by-chapter plot lies incomplete on my notebook. I think it's time to admit that I'm not much of a plotter. Which isn't to say that I won't be using all the ideas that I did come up with for those chapters.

I'm resetting the word count bar. I'm also putting up the first five hundred words in my excerpt page. Go take a look-- I think this draft is already much better than the last.

Today: 917

Total: 15718

I'm about to get to a part of the writing that has been given a lot of thought and I'm comfortable with. So, I'd imagine that by the time I finish my first month of writing on the 17th, I'll be well ahead of schedule. Probably around the 26,000 mark. Go me! :)

*****

The Kreggorian Diaries

(News and info about my stuff)

MAGUS Progress (Day 19): 15718 total words. Going into chapter seven. The fun stuff is definitely happening now!

FIFTHWIND News: 21/11/0

The narrative is unique and extremely engrossing. Balram, a successful entrepreneur in booming Bangalore, tells the story of his life, with a lot of his native wisdom and insights about India included, to the Chinese premier Wen Jibao in a series of letters he writes late at night. Born in the impoverished rural India (a village called Laxmangarh), he has left his past behind to emerge successfully in a new avatar. It is a story of his transformation, his gruesome leap to alter his destiny.

Adiga paints India in two shades. One is Darkness, where Balaram and his ilk are taken advantage of generation after generation by a deeply unfair social system, by the corrupt political class. Then there's the India of Light, which is still as corrupt, but with a glimmer of hope.

"This city has its share of thugs and politicians. It's just that here, if a man wants to be good, he can be good. In Laxmangarh, he doesn't even have this choice. That is the difference between this India and that India: the choice."

The work is searing in its criticism of the fatalistic belief system that keeps millions in hopelessness, in the "Rooster Coop" of degeneration. It celebrates Balram's release, albeit the criminal means.

I've made it! I've broken out of the coop!

But his freedom itself is a question mark on the system of law and order and corruption in modern India.

"I have switched sides: I am now one of those who cannot be caught in India."

 

Balram is one of the few who make it over from one world to the other. A rarity, like the "White Tiger".

Scathing and irreverent, the book questions the very foundations of India's democracy, much touted in the image presented to the rest of the world. It is reminiscent of Khushwaht Singh, only Adiga is more incisive.

But regardless of its profound implications, the novel succeeds also as a great entertainer. Hugely readable, it is a page turner, with a thriller like pace at times. It should be a strong contender for this year's Booker, for which it has been shortlisted. Kudos to Adiga, for such a refreshing and delightful read.

The true misfortune, which besets any young lady who believes herself destined for fortune and favour, is to find that she has been born into an unsuitable family. Lydia Bennet of Longbourn, Hertfordshire, not only believed that her mama and papa had most likely stolen her from noble parents, but also considered it a small miracle that they could have produced between them her own fair self and four comely girls - Jane, Elizabeth, Mary and Kitty - though to tell the truth, she felt herself most blessed in looks. Chapter 1

It was no surprise to me when I discovered that Elizabeth Bennet's impetuous little sister Lydia had been honored with her own book, Lydia Bennet's Story, only amazed that it had taken so long for it to arrive on the Janeite bookshelf in the first place. Of all of Jane Austen's characters in Pride and Prejudice, Lydia Bennet was one of the most intriguing creatures to recklessly flirt and scandalize a family; and for readers who enjoy a good adventure she is well worth her own treatment. In a bus accident sort of way, I have always longed to know more about her, and now we have been given our chance in this new edition available October 1st from Sourcebooks.  

The novel can be categorized as a retelling and a sequel since the story begins about one third of the way into Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice as Lydia's older sisters Elizabeth and Jane are away from the family home of Longbourn respectively visiting the Collins' at Hunsford and the Gardiner's in London. The second half of the novel picks up after the conclusion of Pride and Prejudice when Lydia and her new husband George Wickham have moved to Newcastle. Interestingly, author Odiwe has chosen to tell the story by excerpts from Lydia's journal supplemented by a third person narrative which Austen also employed allowing us the benefit of Lydia's unbridled inner thoughts and a narrative of other characters dialogue and action to support it. A nice touch since both Austen's and Odiwe's Lydia are a bit over the top in reaction and interpretation of events, and the narrative gives readers some grounding for her breathless emotions. 

And, reactions and emotions are what Lydia Bennet is all about and why I believe many may be intrigued by her. Just based on the fact that she is the youngest of five daughters raised by an indolent father and imprudent mother, one could be inspired to write psychological thesis on all the mitigating factors in her environment that contributed to her personality! However, what Jane Austen introduced Jane Odiwe has cleverly expanded upon picking up the plot and style without a missing a beat. Not only are we reminded that thoughtless, wild and outspoken Lydia is "the most determined flirt that ever made herself and her family ridiculous,"  we begin to understand (but not always agree) with her reasoning's and are swept up in the story like a new bonnet bought on impulse. Oh, to be but sixteen again without a care in the world except the latest fashions, local gossip, and which officer to dance with at the next Assembly are a delightful foundation for this excursion into Austenland that is both an amusement and a gentle morality story. 

Even though author Odiwe succeeded in delivering a lively rendering of an impertinent young Miss bent on fashion, flirting and marriage, she missed her opportunity of a more expressive title which should have read something like 'Lydia Bennet's Romantic and Sometimes Naughty Adventures'! Not only is Miss Lydia a professional flirt approaching Beck Sharpe of Vanity Fair's territory, she gets to travel to Brighton, London, Newcastle and Bath and have a few escapades along the way. Her determination to follow her latest flirtation George Wickham to Brighton and then infamously elope with him is renowned. Her unchecked impulses continue as the novel progresses through their patched up marriage and her new life in Newcastle where her husband has sadly grown tired of her and moved on to the next romantic tryst. Months pass, and after visits with her sisters Elizabeth at Pemberley and Jane at Netherfield, the reality of her husbands faults and her rash decision to marry him became soberly apparent. 

Wednesday, October 27th 

I feel so wretched I think I might die. All my hopes of making George love me have been completely dashed. In my heart I known this is not the only time I have been deceived; the rumours I have heard are more than gossip. Misery engulfs me...I had imagined that life would be so perfect with George, but I now know that my marriage is a tarnished as the copper pans in my kitchen. 

No, there is only one way to deal with this problem. There is nothing I can do but forgive him. I am far too proud to have anyone catch a sniff of scandal and am determined to carry in as though nothing has happened. After all, surely most me are tempted at one time or another. The risk of sending him running off into his lover's arms is great, and I do not want that above anything else. My heart might be broken, but it is not irreparable.  

And later, her hopes are entirely dissolved. 

Monday, May 2 

...There are few to whom I would admit these thoughts, and on days like this, when I am consumed with sadness for what might have been, I find it hard to be at peace. For my own sake, I keep up the pretence that I am giddy and lighthearted as ever; I would not give the world the satisfaction oh knowing anything else-in my heart, I am still the young girl who believes that perhaps my husband will realize that he has been in love with me all along and cannot do without me. But, I suspect, my longings are in vain. 

How it all turns out for the young lady from Longbourn in Hertfordshire, I will not say. However, I will only allude that the concluding adventure of the most determined flirt to ever make her family ridiculous, might make Jane Austen smile. Lydia Bennet's Story Adventure is rollicking good fun with a surpise twist. Now that my hope of a novel about her has come to fruition, it can only be surpassed by Lydia Bennet the movie. Imagine what folly and fun would ensue. La!                                                                                   

Lydia Bennet's Story, by Jane Odiwe
Sourcebooks, Landmark
Trade paperback, 352 pages
ISBN: 978-1402214752

Giveaway

Leave a comment by October 31st. to qualify in a drawing for a new copy of Lydia Bennet's Story, by Jane Odiwe. The winner will be announced on November 1st.

Further Reading

• Review of Lydia Bennet's Story at Publishers Weekly
• Review of Lydia Bennet's Story by Random Jottings of a Book and Opera Lover
• Review of Lydia Bennet's Story by Janeite Kelly at Jane Austen in Vermont blog
• Review of Lydia Bennet's Story by Ms. Place (Vic) at Jane Austen Today
• Article by author Jane Odiwe about Lydia Bennet's Journal at Jane Austen Center online Magazine
• Interview of Jane Odiwe by Ms. Place (Vic) at Jane Austen's World
• Visit author Jane Odiwe's blog - Jane Austen Sequels by Jane Odiwe
• Visit Lydia Bennet's Journal online

Balram tells his story through letters to a Chinese dignitary, who he heard is planning to visit Bangalore.  A novel of letters is not a new technique, but it takes considerable skill to pull off well.  And Adiga does pull it off.  He has created a story so riveting that I could barely stop reading long enough to sleep or to drive myself to work.  And he created a character in Balram that I couldn't help but want only the best for, even while he was commiting the worst of crimes.  He is undereducated but astute enough to take the insult of being called "half-baked" and turn into a lofty title, thus his "autobiography of a half-baked Indian," thus his story.

I hope Adiga wins the Booker Prize.  The White Tiger is one of the most exciting stories I've read in a long, long time.

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Opinions welcome.

Mr. Buckthorn continued his diligent study of the house.  After a short while—just a matter of days, really—he suddenly found himself often talking out loud, but not to himself, as he was wont to do.  No, he was talking directly to the house.  His behavior surprised him at first and worried him as well.  Surely I’m not becoming superstitious, he thought.  He went outside, grabbed his shovel, and cleared a path from the porch to the orchard.  When he finished, he turned and looked at the house, trying to be objective, to put aside the memories of the horrible things that had happened inside and on the grounds.  He wanted to view the house as nothing but a house (albeit a beautiful and historically important house).  His intent was to restore the house to its original magnificence, not to placate imaginary ghosts.

But try as he might, he could not rid himself of the idea that the house was alive.  It was imbued with some kind of spirit that he could not resist.  He’s been talking to it, as if it were a person.  “But it’s just a house,” he said out loud but without conviction.  The house observed him as he observed it.  It didn’t fault Mr. Buckthorn for wanting to regain his objectivity.  Only the Kindfellow children had been aware of the house’s spirit and had accepted it without complaint.  In fact, they had appeared to take pleasure in the idea that the house was alive and could anticipate their needs.  They had felt safe and secure because of the house, at least until that awful night, when the house failed them.  At the memory and its own sense of guilt, the house closed its shades and quietly sobbed.

Mr. Buckthorn saw the shades draw down, all at the same time.  His throat constricted and his eyes grew wet.  He wanted to cry.  He was not afraid, but instead very sad.  That awful tragic scene played out in his mind as if he had actually been there.  He felt the house’s feelings, its grief, and its guilt.  He understood why the house had become so cruel, never again wanting to trust anyone.  In spite of the strange behavior of Mr. Kindfellow’s best and dearest friend, the house let him in that night.  It did not even awake from its own slumber until the children were dead and Mrs. Kindfellow had screamed.  It felt responsible for trusting the best and dearest friend and had resolved to trust no one any more.

“You are not to blame,” said Mr. Buckthorn in a hoarse voice.  “You, like your family, thought the worst was over.  You, like your family, were exhausted from the incident of that day.  Yet, even Mr. Kindfellow did not think to double-bolt the door.  Even he did not imagine that his best and dearest friend would do them bodily harm.  You are not to blame.”  Mr. Buckthorn knew he looked ridiculous, standing in a snowy path with four-foot snowbanks on either side of him, gazing up at the house, and talking to it.  He knew that but didn’t care.  He felt he finally understood why awful things had continued to happen in the house, why it had killed Joseph and Eleanor.

With some trepidation over the enormity of his promise, he spoke one more time to the house:  “I will not betray you, dear home,” he said.  “I will not risk any further abuse to you.  I will live in you myself.  I will make good on my contract with the community, but I will not sell you.  I will protect you.”  Mr. Buckthorn watched as the shades at every window slowly, hesitantly drew up.  He understood immediately that the house was accepting his promise but that it was still uncertain.  He would have to prove himself, and Mr. Buckthorn was confident that he could do so.

I don't know when I decided that I couldn't do it, but you know what? I'd be danm good at it. I have one hell of an imagination, and strong written communication skills. So why the hell couldn't I give it a go?

Exactly.

I aim to have an outline and the first three chapters before Christmas.

There. I said it. Now I'm going to write a 2000 word essay about governance.

Walter Moers is an absolute genius. His mind is like J.K. Rowling's on crack.

The 13 & 1/2 Lives of Captain Bluebear was one of the only books that I bought on impulse. I saw it in the bookstore, looked at the cover [which is very attractive, with all the colorful and whimsical pictures], and added it to my armful of books. I must admit that it sat on my bookshelf for quite a while before I actually took it down and opened it. But once I did, I literally couldn't put it down.

According to the ingenious author, a blubear has exactly 27 lives. Quoting the back of the book: "I shall recount thirteen and a half of them in this bookbut keep quiet about the rest."

The story starts off with a little blue bear floating in the middle of the ocean, in a land called Zamonia [brilliant, eh?] Well, I'm not that great at writing summaries, so I will keep this brief. The bluebear, [called bluebear] encounters all sorts of characters, both delightful and abominable, in his adventures throughout Zamonia. Just to name a few creatures: the Hobgoblins, the Spiderwitch, the Babbling Billows, the Troglotrolls, and the epic Gelatine Prince from the 2364th Dimension. It's a land of "imaginative lunacy and supreme adventure, wicked satire and epic fantasy" all mixed together.

Oh, and better yet. There's illustrations. How irresistable.

Right. and you guys thought I forgot about Rumo. I guess you could say that it's kind of a sequel to Captain Bluebear. I haven't read it yet, but it's about one of Zamonia's creatures, called the Wolperting Whelp [a horned puppy], who has similar encounters to that of Bluebear. Rumo's rise to greatness begins when he is kidnapped by a Demonocle [a one-eyed giant]...and I guess you'll just have to read the book to find out whatever in the world happens to him.

I thought that I should get that sex toy earlier than Christmas.

But what type?

What color?

Size?

Hmm...

so much to think about.

As important as tone is in speaking, it's possibly even more important in writing.

One mark of a great writer is the ability to easily match tone to subject and mood. This writer knows when to use big words or small words, or just cut it out and end the sentence. This writer is a master of colloquialism and professionalism, story length and sentence structure. The thesaurus and dictionary are his or her best friends.

On the Internet, one often finds authors who are completely unaware of the importance of tone and lack self-control when it comes to voice. I like this, as it's often the best indicator of an otherwise poor writer's personality.

Some of these writers, bloggers and people with social networking profiles in particular, can barely express complete thoughts, but whether they describe themselves as "hot" or "handsome" or say they "looooove booze" or "like liquor" says a lot, doesn't it?

My own tone can tend toward the haughty or overwrought, something I like much of the time but try to escape other times. It's tough to work around one's natural voice, and as I've developed my (still small) vocabulary, I've had to work to use the less vivid but more popular or relatable word sometimes.

In my line of work, we say we're supposed to write at a fourth-grade reading level but often ascend to a high school level or higher. This alienates readers and works to the detriment of the business. But we have to be careful not to dumb down things to the point that our more educated readers are insulted.

Some of my favorite writers have such unusual voices that fans can detect one of their passages or poems  that they've never read before based on rhythm and style alone.

For instance:

I died for beauty, but was scarce
Adjusted in the tomb,
When one who died for truth was lain
In an adjoining room.

He questioned softly why I failed?
“For beauty,” I replied.
“And I for truth,—the two are one;
We brethren are,” he said.

And so, as kinsmen met a night,
We talked between the rooms,
Until the moss had reached our lips,
And covered up our names.

... Just has to be Emily Dickinson. Even though it's not one of her most popular poems, it's absolutely memorable, quaint and beautiful, just like her work always is.

And this:

... Just has to be Jose  Saramago. It's a paragraph essentially about nothing randomly selected from "All the Names," which is an otherwise riveting book about an old man who finds his life turned upside-down and made incredibly interesting by an odd sequence of events in his job at what is basically a social security bureau in an unnamed country.

And that, my friends, just touches the surface of my opinions about this subject. I hope I didn't bore you too much!

Not that I didn't like the book, because I honestly enjoyed it, but come on! The perfect one line summary for this book is "Life sucks and then you die." After chapters and chapters of suffering and grieving all she gets is one happy WEEK and that's it, she's sent off to die?

Okay, I just finished the book this afternoon so I may be a little too annoyed to have a clear POV - plus I really have to go, so I'll continue this another time.

In the meanwhile, what's you take on the book? And other Hardy books in general - try to refrain from including spoilers about The Mayor of Casterbridge since I'm planning to read that, please. :)

Have a nice day/evening!

As I continue to work on my final revisions for my adult suspense novel, I vaguely remember an article I read in one of the many ezines to which I subscribe.  The article addressed the villain character in novels, plays, movies etc.

What does the writer have to do to make the villain more than just a horrible, frightening individual?

Well for one, this article stated that the reader had to be able to find something "human" about the villain.  We have to remember that no one, not even our worst villain, is 100% bad. 

So, that's had me thinking a lot about Mel, my villain, this week.  Basically, Mel is a controlling, abusive, obsessive guy who has killed the women who tried to leave him.  My heroine, Eleanor, ends up in a relationship with Mel, but finds out before long that Mel's idea of a relationship means she will have to surrender to him in every way or be punished.

After almost a year and a half of verbal, emotional and physical abuse, Eleanor leaves Mel and changes her identity so he can't find her. 

Now, as a reader, I don't think you're too crazy about Mel right now, are you?

But everyone has a story.  Mel was left in a dumpster by his biological mother when he was just a few months old.  He was a sickly little fellow with extremely bad asthma and spent a lot of time in and out of hospitals.  He moved from one foster home to another until his eighteenth birthday, never being allowed to  establish himself in a loving, family environment. 

We still cringe at the things Mel has done, and continues to do, but at least we have some insight into "why" he behaves as he does. 

Mel has a vulnerable side and longs to be loved unconditionally.  Unfortunately, because he does not know how to elicit love from the people who come into his life, every relationship ends in disaster.

I still cringe when I read the pages I've written detailing Mel's horrific actions.  I still feel my heartbeat pounding in my chest when I watch my heroine try to escape.  I don't like Mel one bit!

But, I do feel for him at times.

How does your villain stack up as a character?  What will your readers think of your villain?

Here are some good articles/blogs about creating villains:

http://blog.worderella.com/2008/06/developing-villainous-characters-part-1/

http://www.scoop.co.nz/stories/CU0711/S00197.htm

http://www.theromanceclub.com/writers/articles/article0042.htm

http://www.ehow.com/how_2222257_avoid-creating-weak-villain-creative.html

http://www.stellacameron.com/contrib/villains.html

http://www.wikihow.com/Create-a-Credible-Villain-in-Fiction