Contest Winners!!!

I couldn't wait until Monday to post the winners of the 100 Followers Contest. My deepest appreciation to everyone who participated and who promoted it.  I literally couldn't have done it without you.

The winner of the book "Break Into Fiction" is Coreen (Velvet Over Steel.)
 Congratulations, Coreen!

The winner of the Gevalia mug is our moonlight writer, Roh.

Jennifer Daiker gets the Starbuck's mug in which to drink her tea.

and the memo pad goes to busy mom Elizabeth Mueller.









I will be contacting each of you through the email accounts associated with your Blogger account.  If you don't hear from me because you don't use that email any more, please email me via my Blogger account profile or leave a comment here as to where I can get in touch with you. I promise to delete your information soon as I read it.

Congratulations!  And don't forget: Write First, Blog Later.

Last Day to Enter

Hey, everyone... I just want to remind you that today is the last day to enter my 100 Followers Contest.  You have to post a comment in the contest post to be entered, so if you are a follower and didn't enter, please be sure to do that to have a chance to win one of the prizes.  Winners will be announced on Monday.

I have not had a chance to even glance at any Blogfest entries yet.  I've been totally overwhelmed with my first week on the job. I'm learning a whole new field from what I did previously, so my brain is on overload from all the training sessions I've been attending.  I'm looking forward to kicking back this weekend and browsing through your entries.  Have a great weekend!

Rainy Day Blogfest

"He sendeth rain on the just and on the unjust." - Matt. 5:45 

At last, it's time for the Rainy Day Blogfest!  I can't wait to read everyone's entries. 

And don't forget that my 100 Followers Contest ends Friday, so please pass the word to gain additional entries for the prizes.  Since we've already passed 100 I've decided to give away both the Starbuck's and Gevalia mugs. Thank you, thank you, thank you, one and all, for your help in spreading the word!

My entry is after the Mr. Linky code.  If you just stumbled across this, it's not too late to join the fun!

=============================================

Here is my entry. Marenya is currently staying inside a giant tree. Because, as you know, I've always wanted to live inside a tree.

=============================================

 Marenya woke to grey twilight and the sound of rain.  The others were still sleeping.  She lay, warm and comfortable, watching drops fall from the leaves outside the window. Although only a few hours seemed to have passed, she felt as alert as if she had rested an entire night.  It occurred to her that perhaps she had done so, and slept right through to the next day.   It was impossible to tell.

Something she couldn’t name pressed on her mind, making her feel that she must go up to the top of the tree.  She tried to push the feeling aside, but the harder she tried, the stronger it grew.  At last she got up.  She wrapped the blanket around herself over the yellow robe. Then, creeping soundlessly on her bare feet, she tiptoed up the stairs and climbed onto the platform of branches above. The moist air hit her face and she raised her head to its coolness, eyes closed, drinking in the wonderful, rich smell of the forest. When she opened them, what she saw made her stop still.

There in front of her on a thick branch stood a gryphon. Its wings were folded and it was facing away from her, but even so, she could see the faint glow that shone from beneath its feathers, each of which looked as if it were made of purest gold. It was twice as tall as she, with sharp claws and pointed ears.  It turned its head toward her, and she saw the curve of its gleaming beak and the depthless pools of its eyes.  It was at the same time the most beautiful and the most fearsome thing she had ever beheld.

The gryphon turned on the branch so that she could see his full splendor. The raindrops caught the light that shone from him and glittered golden as they fell.

============================================

Rainy Day Blogfest Tomorrow

Hello, everyone!  Don't forget that the Rainy Day Blogfest is tomorrow.  That seems appropriate, as the weather has turned cool and rainy this week.  It's not too late to sign up.

Also, Friday is the last day to enter my 100 Followers Contest.  Wow, I can't believe it... already we have 103 people.  That is amazing! It is thanks to all of you for joining and spreading the word.  I'm blown away.

Thank you!!!

Viewpoint, Voice and Setting

Point of view is a sticky subject for most writers.  It's hard enough to stay consistently in one point of view while writing that story which is dear to your heart, but even harder to keep the narrative voice appropriate to the POV character and still describe the setting enough to create a vivid experience for your readers.

It's particularly difficult in fantasy, because as the author I want to describe so many things for my reader... all that Really Cool Stuff I've invented.  But I can't spend time describing anything except what the point-of-view character would be likely to notice, given their state of mind at the time.  No matter how important I, the author, think it might be, if it's not out of the ordinary to the POV character they won't notice it.

For example, I may want to describe his boots or his clothing, but it would be out of character for me to have him go into a detailed description of his own appearance.  Unless he has a hole in his boot or needs to buy new clothes, he wouldn't think about them. And unless it advances the plot, any extra time I spent describing them would be both misleading and distracting.  The same goes for buildings, dishes, interior decorating, etc.

Tudor room in the Philadelphia Museum of Art

If he does notice something, he can only describe in terms a manly sort of guy would use. He isn't going to say that the heroine's dress was made of "jade-colored satin."  He would say it was "green and shiny."  Not quite the effect I was going for.

The obvious way around this is to use an omniscient narrator. But omniscient is frowned upon in most writing circles as being old-fashioned and distant.

So what's a writer to do?

Guess that Character Blogfest, Part 2

Okay, so here's what Raynor, our character from yesterday, actually looks like:

==================================

Faldur strained to see the taller man’s face but he could not, for it was turned away from him. All that he could see was that he was dressed in black and that his hair was pale gold and fell in loose waves down his back, nearly as long as a woman’s...

Then he turned, and Faldur could finally see his face. Faldur suddenly felt chilled again. The man before them, with the long hair and strange clothing, was the image of Melbrinor himself.*

It was Raynor.

He looked much older than Faldur remembered, more than the five years which had passed. There were lines in his forehead and around his mouth, and he carried himself with an erectness that implied rigid training and authority. Raynor turned his head back and forth, surveying the area, and then stopped, staring in their direction. He smiled then - a small, wry smile as if something unexpected had occurred to him - and for the briefest second, Faldur felt the spell over himself and Mel flicker like a curtain in a wisp of breeze. He must have imagined it, however, for Raynor’s gaze passed over them and, turning, he retraced his steps back into the cave.

*Mel is tall, broad-shouldered, with a charming manner and wide smile.  Raynor is his younger brother.

 ==================================

You can see that I still didn't go into too much description.  I think somewhere else I mention that he has hazel eyes.  He's quite the tortured lad, but has good reason to be.  Thanks for reading!

Guess That Character Blogfest

Today is the Guess That Character Blogfest hosted by Jen at Unedited  Today I'm posting a passage featuring a character, and you are to guess what he looks like.  Tomorrow I'll post his actual physical description.  Ready?

=============================================

Raynor shrugged and turned towards the back of the cave. Opening his hand, he made a motion as if throwing something up into the air. An apple-sized orb of yellow light leapt from his palm and floated above and a little ahead of him. Then, taking the reins of the horse, he motioned for her to follow him. The noise of the falls made speech useless.

She stayed where she was.

His countenance clouded, and in a rush of emotion that she didn’t understand, she felt a great struggle emanate from him. Perhaps it was because of the spell that had joined them until a little while ago, or perhaps his emotions were too intense for him to control, but she knew that he was both angry and desperate, and consumed by a darkness as vast and hopeless as the cold earth beneath them. She felt the hard edge of his anger, too, and the force of his will reaching out to make her come.

Wednesday Update

Hello, everyone! I just want to remind you that the Character Blogfest is tomorrow over at Unedited.   I need to sit down and come up with a good entry. I'm debating whether to write something new, or use something from my WIP. I'm afraid I've been a bit lazy with my other blogfest entries by using old material, but this has been such a hectic summer!

My Rainy Day Blogfest is next Wednesday, the 25th.  Michelle Gregory has created a really cool button for it.  I think you can save the photo to your pc, then put it up on Blogger by choosing "add a gadget", then "add a picture" and add the link to the picture.  The link is "http://thewritershole.blogspot.com/2010/08/announcing-rainy-day-blogfest.html."

I have good news: I'm starting a full-time job on Monday.  This is great financially, but of course it will affect my ability to blog and write.  I'm hoping, however, that by having a regular daily schedule and not spending my weekends grading papers, I will actually be more productive than before.  I'm a bit overwhelmed with shopping for appropriate clothes and getting everything DS needs for school, and squeezing in all the doctor's and vet appointments for our family before the 23rd.

I also have house guests this week. We were at the beach yesterday.  It was a perfect day; the boys had so much fun jumping in the surf.  However, it got progressively rougher and I had to make them come out of the water because I just couldn't keep track of both of their bobbing heads, and neither is a very good swimmer.  More than once I had to grab one in each hand, and even tuck one under each arm. Why is it that two children in the ocean always drift in opposite directions? 

So, that's why I haven't posted or commented much this week.  I did go through some of the entries in the Weather Blogfest, and they were all very unique and colorful. That's what I love about blogfests: seeing so many unique takes on one  subject.

I have 90 followers already!  I'm so psyched!  The 100 Followers Contest ends next Friday, so please pass the word about the prizes.

That's all for today. It's a nice, soft, rainy day today.  Perfect inspiration for next week's fest!

Have a great one, everybody!

Weather Blogfest

Hey, Everyone!  It's time for the Weather Blogfest, hosted by Nick at A Little Slice of Nothing.

And don't forget my Rainy Day Blogfest is happening this Wednesday! Wednesday, Aug. 25th.

I happen to like weather in fiction.  I don't think enough of us indoor-dwellers pay attention to what is happening outside our climate controlled environments. In my novel the characters are outside most of the time (except when they're underground) and so rain, snow, wind, etc. are a constant influence on their ability to Get Things Done.

This is a scene after a skirmish in the mountains. Faldur is trying to get an injured Marenya to safety.  She's unconscious on a makeshift stretcher.

=============================================

“How far do you reckon we have to go?” asked Brilward, looking at the sky. It was early afternoon but the light was fading fast; a storm was coming.

“To the bottom." Faldur tone was harsher than he intended.

They started off, marching the prisoners ahead of them and carrying Marenya in turns. The wind turned bitter. Large flakes of snow began to swirl down and land on their clothes and hair. Faldur feared they would lose sight of the path if it began to accumulate. One of the prisoners admitted to knowing the way, and agreed to guide them.

By the time they reached the tree line, the snow was falling fast and thick, covering the ground in a slippery blanket. Faldur was worried about Marenya. Her lips were turning blue and he could barely detect her breathing. The trees were huge pines, weighted down with snow so that their lower branches created a kind of tent under which the company could find shelter from the cold. Faldur sent two soldiers ahead to find Lord Tarnbel. In his heart, he secretly wished for Rangers, but the soldiers were reliable fellows and would have to do. He only hoped they didn’t lose their way.

He chose a group of trees that were roughly in a circle together and divided up the hamen, directing them to take cover under them. They cast hiding spells over their locations, and set pairs of sentries up to watch. The snow which hindered them would also hide their tracks, and the cold air and pine sap would help mask their scent. They would be safe enough for the night.


Faldur laid Marenya on the thick bed of needles beneath one of the trees. He broke away the dead lower branches to make more room for the both of them. He didn’t dare start a fire for fear of setting the tree alight, but wrapped her in his cloak and lay down next to her. He arranged his body over hers so as to give her as much warmth as possible, wrapping her torso in his arms and pressing his face to her cheek. Without invitation, the lioness pushed through the branches and lay on Marenya’s other side. She placed her face very close to the hawin’s, seeming to want to warm her breath for her, and stayed that way, nose to nose, for a long time.  Finally, she lowered her head and slept.

Faldur, however, could not sleep.  He lay awake in the gathering darkness, listening to the moaning of the wind and the occasional rustle of snow falling through the branches. After a while he felt that his body had fallen dormant, but his mind was as clear and sharp as the night air.  The snow gradually stopped and the wind fell.  It became absolutely quiet, and absolutely dark.

Marenya was as still as death.  He closed his eyes and sought her. She was still there, but faintly.  A coldness seeped through him that was not from the ground.
=============================================

Weeping over Wimsey

Good grief! Why do I always tear up when reading a Harriet Vane / Lord Peter Wimsey novel?  You wouldn't think that a book with a cover like this one would be particularly sentimental, would you?  Especially since it is far from sentimentally written. But this series, written in the 1930's, gets me every time.

The scene which moistened my eyes this morning takes place at Peter's club in London.  He has invited Harriet to dine with him there.  He frequently invites Harriet to dine with him, and she accepts despite the fact that she really would rather be rid of him.  He saved her from a false murder charge for killing her ex-lover and she feels indebted.  However, his frequent marriage proposals are becoming too tiresome, and she is determined to break it off, for both of their sakes.

They are in the midst of a discussion about the different roles in life of people who are extremely intelligent from those who feel things deeply, as well as the complications that come from a person being both, when Peter says,

"Has your napkin gone again?" (It's been slipping off the lap of her silk dress throughout their conversation.)

"No--it's my bag this time.  It's just under your left foot."

"Oh!" He looked around, but the waiter had vanished.

"Well," he went on, without moving, "it's in the heart's office to wait upon the brain, but in the view of--"

"Please don't trouble," said Harriet, "it doesn't matter in the least."

"In view of the fact that I have two cracked ribs, I'd better not try; because if once I got down I should probably never get up again."

"Good gracious!" said Harriet.  "I thought you seemed a little stiff in your manner.  Why on earth didn't you say so before, instead of sitting there like a martyr and inveigling me into misjudging you?"

"I don't seem to be able to do anything right," he said plaintively.

"How did you manage to do it?"

"Fell off a wall in the most inartistic manner.  I was in a bit of a hurry; there was a very plain-looking bloke on the other side with a gun. (Peter has just solved another murder case.)  It wasn't so much the wall, as the wheelbarrow at the bottom.  And it really isn't so much the ribs as the sticking-plaster.  It's strapped tight as hell and itches infernally."

"How beastly for you. I'm so sorry. What became of the bloke with the gun?"

"Ah! I'm afraid personal complications won't trouble him any longer."

"If the luck had been the other way, I suppose they wouldn't have troubled you any longer."

"Probably not. And then I shouldn't have troubled you any longer.  If my mind had been where my heart was, I would have welcomed that settlement. But my mind being momentarily on the job, I ran away with the greatest rapidity so as to finish the case."

"Well, I'm glad of that, Peter."

"Are you? That shows how hard it is for even the most powerful brain to be completely heartless.  Let me see. It is not my day for asking you to marry me, and a few yards of sticking-plaster are hardly enough to make it a special occasion. But we'll have coffee in the lounge, if you don't mind, because this chair is getting as hard as the wheelbarrow and is catching me in several of the same places."

(She helps him to the lounge, and the waiter brings her dropped purse along with some letters which had fallen out of it.  She had picked up the mail on her way out and not looked at it yet.  One of the items is a postcard with a nasty message on it.  Peter sees her face when she reads it, and insists on being shown it.)

She handed it to him without looking up. "Ask your boyfriend with the title if he likes arsenic in his soup.  What did you give him to get you off?"

"God, what muck!" said he, bitterly.  "So that's what I'm letting you in for.  I might have known it.  I could hardly hope that it wasn't so. But you said nothing, so I allowed myself to be selfish."

"It doesn't matter. It's just part of the consequences. You can't do anything about it."

"I might have had the consideration not to expose you to it. Heaven knows you've tried hard enough to get rid of me.  In fact, I think you've used every possible lever to dislodge me, except that one."

"Well, I knew you would hate it so. I didn't want to hurt you."

"Didn't want to hurt me?"

She realized that this, to him, must sound completely lunatic.

"I mean that, Peter, I know I've said about every damnable thing to you that I could think of. But I have my limits."  A sudden wave of anger surged up in her.  "My God, do you really think that of me? Do you suppose there's no meanness I wouldn't stoop to?"

"You'd have been perfectly justified in telling me that I was making things more difficult by hanging around."

"Should I? Did you expect me to tell you that you were compromising my reputation, when I had none to compromise?  To point out that you'd saved me from the gallows, thank you very much, but left me in the pillory?  To say, my name's mud but kindly treat it as lilies?  I'm not quite such a hypocrite as that."

"I see. The plain fact is I am doing nothing but make life a little bitterer for you.  It was generous of you not to say so."

(He proceeds to burn the postcard and declares his intention to "admit defeat and say good-bye." He also observes that since he was vanquished by Fate in the form of a postcard, he can walk away with his vanity intact.)

"Peter, I'm afraid I'm not very consistent. I came here tonight with the firm intention of telling you to chuck it.  But I'd rather fight my own battles. I-- I--" She looked up and went on rather quaveringly -- "I'm damned if I'll have you wiped out by plug-uglies or anonymous letter writers!"

He sat up sharply, so that his exclamation of pleasure turned half-way into an anguished grunt.   "Oh, curse this sticking plaster! . . . Harriet, you have got guts, haven't you?  Give me your hand and we'll fight on until we drop. Here! None of that.  You can't cry in this club. It's never been done, and if you disgrace me like this, I shall get into a row with the Committee. They'll probably close the Ladies' Rooms altogether.

"I'm sorry, Peter."

"And don't put sugar in my coffee!"


Later in the evening, having lent a strong arm to extricate him, swearing loudly, from the difficult depths of the couch, and dispatched him to such rest as he might reasonably look for between the pains of love and sticking-plaster, she had leisure to reflect that if fate had vanquished either of them, it was not Lord Peter Wimsey.

=================

This is where I wish several things. I wish that Lord Peter was a real person and that I had been born in 1903 in order to be the appropriate age to know him.  I wish that I had gone to Oxford like Dorothy Sayers and could create such brilliant, intellectual dialogue.  I wish that I had the boldness to write so truly about the human condition, and the cleverness to disguise it in wit and self-deprecation.  And, I wish that I were allowed to use big words in popular fiction.  The truth is, I don't really know what "inveigling" means but I can infer it from the context, and I actually enjoy the challenge of having to look something up.  But I fear an editor would make me take it out if I had used it.

I also wish that conventional wisdom wasn't so against the use of adjectives, several of which are used in this passage. Quite effectively so, in my opinion.

Time to turn on your Internal Editor: 

* What do you see in this scene that is particularly well-done?
* What things betray it as being written eighty years ago?
* Do you think it would be published today? (The book actually opens with a long, reflective scene in which Harriet is debating whether or not to attend her college reunion, aka "Gaudy Night.")

Image is everything.. .Or is it?

Jen at  Unedited has a very interesting Blogfest coming up next Thursday and Friday. It's called the "Guess that Character Blogfest."  I confess I skipped over this one without reading it carefully. I'm glad Jen reminded me of it so that I could take a closer look.  I thought it just involved posting a physical description of a famous celebrity or fictional character and having people guess who is being described.  But it's more complicated than that:  You  are to post a character description (not a physical description) on the 19th and have people guess what that character looks like, then on the 20th, post the actual physical description you have in mind.

Why is this important?  Because it is a practical exercise demonstrating the disconnect between authors' and readers' notions of how characters look.  But that disconnect is not necessarily a bad thing.  Personally,  I don't like to get hung up on what color a character's eyes and hair are, how tall they are, the shape of their mouth, shoulders, legs, etc.  I would rather focus on who they are and what motivates them.  In Alice in Wonderland, Lewis Carroll never gives any physical description of Alice. We all think of her as resembling the Disney version, but in fact, Carroll could have imagined her being entirely different.  Or perhaps he didn't imagine her appearance in detail at all.  I tend to think that the latter case is the more likely.

Modern readers are trained by popular fiction, movies and television shows to think of characters in terms of detailed physcial descriptions. Many times, however, these descriptions can detract from a story. I know that I find it incredibly annoying to find out in Chapter Four that the hero has brown hair and eyes, when I had intuitively assumed that he looked more like my Cousin Joe, who has blond hair and blue eyes, because he acts like Cousin Joe. 

The key to characterization is words and actions.

I admit that there are times when physical descriptions are important to make characters more colorful.  The gimpy sea captain or fluffy-haired old lady create clear, immediate mental images.  But even those, I would argue, are stereotypes and often over-used. In general, I think that the very minimum of physical description should be given, just enough to give the reader something to start with in their own imaginings.


Do you agree or disagree?

Announcing the Rainy Day Blogfest

I love rain.  I love the way it sounds, the way it smells, the way it makes the air feel, the way it tastes on my tongue.  Do you love rain, too?  Or do rainy days get you down?  Does rain interfere with your outdoor plans?  Or make commuting horrible?  Or inspire you to write poetic verses about the heavens weeping o'er the fields?

What about your characters?  How does rain affect them? 

You will have a chance to share in my Rainy Day Blogfest on August 25th.  The burning intensity of August has me longing for a little wet weather, even if it is only fictional.

Please help me share the word on your own blog.  Thank you!

P.S. Let's also keep our contributions to a 500 word limit.  After all, as Shakespeare said: "Brevity is the soul of wit."  So gather your wits (and raindrops) and join us here on the 25th.

Change Blogfest

Smack me with a noodle!  I forgot to put up a post for Elizabeth Mueller's Change Blogfest. 

Sheesh, where is my head these days?  Actually, I know where it is.  My brains are tangled up like a bowl of the aforementioned noodles between returning from our vacation, looking for a new job, preparing for the upcoming semester, dealing with various family crises, working on my writing course and trying to entertain a grumpy, bored little boy.

So, with my apologies, here is a scene from my novel in which a character changes physical appearance.  It was quite fun to write.
=================================================
Brambleburr bowed deeply and gestured for them to enter.  They stared at the door, which, though the right size for them, was much too small for the bear to enter.

“Ho-hum! I nearly forgot.”  He shook himself all over, like a dog shedding water, and grew a little smaller. Then he shook himself again, and grew smaller still. One more time, and he was almost small enough to fit through the door. Then he reached up to his throat, opened the bear skin like a jacket, pushed the head back like a hood, and stepped out of it. There before them stood a little old man with a lined, brown face, tawny brown hair and a beard. His eyes were hazel-colored and bright, his back straight, his hands gnarled but strong. He was dressed in a soft brown suit, with a green embroidered waistcoat, and shiny black boots. Eyes twinkling, he picked up the bear skin and rolled it up. It became the size of a handkerchief, and he put it into his pocket.

“Now,” he said, flinging the door open, “let us all go inside.”

Setting, Plot, Character or Theme?

The creative process seems to be quite varied.  I find it fascinating how differently writers think about their projects in the initial stages.

* Some writers start with a theme in mind and craft a story to convey a particular message, such as protecting the environment or warding off Communism.

*Others start out with a great idea for a plot suggested by something they've seen or heard, like a news item about a man lost in the Alaskan wilderness who miraculously survives, or a funny story about a friend's disastrous vacation.

"The Other Bolelyn Girl" was inspired by a ship named "The Mary Bolelyn."  Author Philippa Gregory came across it in some reseach she was doing on naval vessels during the Tudor period.  Curious, Gregory dug deeper and discovered that Mary was the sister of Ann Bolelyn, who had an affair with Henry VII and reportedly bore him two children. She couldn't believe Mary's story had never been told.  Mary Bolelyn was so utterly unknown that it never occurred to the author that she was related to Ann Bolelyn until she did the research.  How's that for a precious nugget?

* Still other authors spy an interesting person who suggests a colorful character, and the story builds from there.  Hercule Poirot, for example, was based on a gentleman whom Agatha Christie observed eating in a restaurant.  His particular appearance and manners inspired numerous books about the famous Belgian detective who solves crimes using his "little gray cells."

* Other authors start with setting.  C.S.Lewis started "The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe" based on a mental image of a streetlamp in the middle of a snowy woods.  I must confess I'm a setting gal. I start with the atmosphere and mood suggested by a particular place, then add people and events to the story.

So, what inspires you first: Setting, Plot, Character or Theme?
Take the poll on the sidebar and share your thoughts with us.

Finally... A Contest!

Okay, everyone, I have been bitten by the contest bug. I am finally ready to have my very own 100 Followers Contest.

First of all, I want to say "Thanks!" to everyone who is already following me. I swear, I never imagined I'd have sixty-three whole human beings interested in what I have to say. I'm truly overwhelmed.

So, time for some prizes. This is the totally easy part.  You know how it works: Become a follower (if you aren't one already) and post in the comment section to be added to the running for some awesome prizes.  You get extra entries for tweeting, facebooking or posting about the contest on your website. Let me know how many of these things you are doing in the comments.  I want everyone to get credit for sharing the bloggy love.

The prizes are (drum roll please):

First Prize:  A copy of "Break Into Fiction: 11 Steps to Building a Story that Sells" which includes write-in sections to power-plot your own novel.  A great tool for discovering your story and characters and putting them into agent-ready format.

Second Prize: For the ladies, a lovely Godiva coffee mug with two packets of Godiva Milk Chocolate cocoa mix. This type of tapering mug is my favorite to hold and drink from, perhaps because it tends to tilt the beverage to one's mouth with less effort than a straight-edge mug.

Alternative Second Prize:  The more masculine Philadelphia Starbucks Coffee mug. This is one big mug... for those late nights and early mornings that can only be survived by copious caffeine consumption.  Don't worry, I'll throw in some of that hot cocoa mix, too.

Third Prize: A magnetic memo pad.  Because we writers are forgetful people.  This would be a handy place to jot down all those things you need to do after you are done writing.  Like, "take a shower" and "call Mom" and "order dinner."

Or, it might be a place to jot down those fantastic ideas you have for your story while attending to your non-writing life.  Or even (Dare I say it?) "Things to Blog About."

(An appropriate masculine substitute will be provided should the third place winner be male. Be assured that, living in a predominantly male household, I am sensitive to the whole "floral antipathy factor.")

You have until Friday, August 27th to sign up.  Winners will be announced on Monday, August 30th.
So that's it, people!  And don't forget:  Write First, Blog Later.

P.S. In order to qualify, you must become a follower on the Google Friend Connect thingy on the sidebar.  Thanks!

Milestone Blogfest

My apologies! I forgot to put up my entry for the Milestone Blogfest, which officially took place on Saturday.
==========================================================
Donna Hole is hosting a Milestone Blogfest today. You can pick anything you like that represents a milestone for your characters. I chose Faldur and Marenya's first kiss.

I'm not really into kissing scenes, so this was tough for me to write. They are at an all-night feast. It is tradition to stay up until the sunrise, but she is too tired from dancing and has fallen asleep against his shoulder.

(PS I'm still working on this, so consider your internal editor duly warned.)

==========================================================
Faldur listened to Marenya’s breathing as she fell asleep. When her head began to droop, he eased it onto his lap. She looked more like a child in her sleep, more as he remembered her always being. In the quiet coolness, the memory of his close call with the nightstalker came pressing back on him. It was always that way. No matter how hard he tried to forget, the moments played themselves over and over in his mind, robbing him of both peace and sleep. He closed his eyes and behind the lids saw the lion gathered to pounce, felt its blood on his face, the crushing pressure. He couldn’t breathe. He was helpless, pinned.

He opened his eyes again and shook his head like a dog shaking off water. He must not fall asleep, for then he might dream and cry out. He didn’t want to explain, didn’t want Marenya to know all that took place outside these walls.

At last he saw through the doorway that the first pink light had begun to seep across the sky. The other guests stretched and stirred, moving outside. He waited as long as he dared, then shook Marenya’s shoulder.

“Is it morning?” She sat up abruptly and blinked.

“Yes. Everyone’s gone outside.”

They walked out into the cold stillness of the garden, and up the steps to the wall. She shivered, and he wrapped his arms around her, for he had forgotten to fetch their cloaks. Below them everything was sparkling with snow and a pinkish golden light, clean and new and perfect like the first morning ever dawned.
The first edge of the sun’s bright disk appeared above the trees. Mel began to sing the song of the morning, his voice clear and strong.

Now the morning sun has woken
Its warm rays the earth caress

Other voices joined his.

Night is gone, the day is broken
Gone all shadows and distress

Something stirred in Faldur that he hadn’t felt in ages. It had been so long since he had known anything but the company of other Rangers, the cramped, smoky barracks, bad weather, worse food, watchfulness and danger, that he had nearly forgotten what it was like to be an ordinary hanor. This night had lifted the lid of a box long-closed and he was helpless to shut it again.

Mountain, river, field and forest
Their true colors glowing bright

Marenya was in his arms – soft, warm and still a little drowsy. They were standing behind everyone else. No one was looking at them. He bent his head down to hers and she looked up in surprise. He kissed her, their breath mingling in the frosty air. At first she froze, startled, but then responded with a sweetness that made the earth tilt strangely beneath him.

Light of Heaven, shine before us
Showing hope, and truth, and right

When they drew apart at last, she gazed into his eyes with the same devotion he had seen in Pelwyn’s face when she looked at Mel.

All at once, Faldur realized what he had done, and cursed himself.