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9/29/2012

Six Sentence Sunday: Cold Fog, Rising


http://sixsunday.com/

Hey there Sunday, Sunday Sixers! How are you all doing today? I admit, I have been absent more often than not these last few weeks. Today, I'll share a longer excerpt to make up for it. :) This is a whole scene, and the end of chapter 3 of The Days Adrift, my YA novel WIP. ->Last time the main character almost lost herself to the water, but Brita, one of the other two girls on board pulled her back into the boat at the very last second. This time, the protagonist struggles to find her place in this dire situation, being lost out at sea.
Your comments & criticisms are very helpful and precious to me, and I want to encourage you again to share each and any thought you have. Thank you.


There is no sign of an outpost, no sign of anything in the dense morning fog. Tams unscrews the last bottle of water and hands it over to me. 

"Here." 

I get feeling she knows as well as I that we are completely lost. She doesn't have as much sailing expertise on her back, but she still knows me.

The nagging look she gives me doesn't fail to remind me that there is something to be done about the situation, something on my part.
I mean, what does she expect?

Oh my, poor little Brita sits at the bow and stares across the water like a watchdog, turning her head left and right, so as not to miss any signal above ocean level. 

There is none. There hasn't been one for over a week. 
After days without food we are narrowed to a weak signal ourselves.

Are we just waiting to die out here?

I remember, I was only five years old, when my father took me out boating for the very first time. I loved every minute of it. We went deep-sea fishing the following summer, and he let me help throw out the net. Back then I could barely reach the fiddle with my nose.

At the age of ten, I knew how to steer a motorized boat, with twelve I could easily find my way home without the help of the stars; he told me to keep an even keel to where the cold fog rises.

At fourteen he pronounced me seaworthy and presented me with my own captain’s hat. He would mess up my hair, and then put it on my head...

Dad... 

In a desperate maneuver I turn the cockleshell northeast, towards the soon to be rising sun; an even keel to where the cold fog rises.
It's a long shot, but it's the only chance we have.

"Let's head towards Old Venice." 

I barely recognize my own voice. 
Brita turns around in surprise and she claps her hands, cheering me on. "Old Venice, here we come!"  

Exude confidence when captaining -always.

How could I ever forget? 

My whole body shivers as I reach for the handle to resume my post. I can never tell whether it is from the cold or from hunger.

I look over at Tams and she smiles at me, through slight wafts of mist.



9/11/2012

Barely Political Lolcats



As writers, we do what we are supposed to do, at least most of the time. We write stuff. Oftentimes we get sidetracked, and do other things instead, like eye-googling the internet, watching Youtube, getting lost somewhere on the sidebars between music videos and TED. I love all that! No one expects us to be in razor-sharp focus all the time - after all, we are not journalists. We do want to deliberately entertain, te-hee! 

And although I do suspect there is a very fine line between bloggers, columnists and journalism people in general, there is one tiny distinction, that makes all the difference. As a writer of fiction and a blogger I shall be solely entertaining, because that is the job description.

Bloggers are split in different categories, they can be a) the extremely informative kind or b) the entertaining kind. You have to chose one side to be enjoyed and tolerated by the masses, you can't ever be both. If you are an extremely informative blogger, you may set out to write an (informative) book, and, chances are good, your book will be read by the people who also read your blog. You can make a joke, or two in the book, but don't overdo it; you are not Robin Williams, after all.

For someone like me, set out to do a fun little blog with rants, and reviews every now and again, plus snippets from my writing, it would be a serious mistake to be all too political. Being informative, I dare say, being political, scares fun-loving people too much, to respond positively or respond at all. Their job - their reputation is on the line, being openly affiliated with a person of such-and-such political values. And we all know that the Reps hate it, too. You have to play out your ideals in private, not where everyone else can see them. 

Thanks to social media we have become closeted again, hiding our true selves, because of what is and is not accepted. It started with people sharing the same things on Facebook, over and over again. Positive things, things that are indisputable. "Life is good." "Cats are funny." "Enjoy yourself." That's fine, I do that myself, because I don't have to think about the consequences.

The problem is that is has gotten to a point where even the attempt at dispute itself is frowned upon. No one dares to say anything that goes against the prevailing opinion. Righty, lefty. It's seems OK to be openly religious, because you get the vote of the majority that way. It's still not OK, not to believe in God. People think you're weird or a psychopath. People only dare to speak up in their like-minded circles about their collective dirty little secrets. You lose readers that way, being openly diverse, not playing towards the rules of the swirling consensus. It is simply unaccepted.

People give their thumbs up only for things that they themselves do, are and stand behind. And the choice for that is what everyone else does or does not like. We are like a swarm of bees. People like to see their own life choices confirmed. As a writer, I would need to mirror that for bonus points, and then I'd definitely get the friendly nod of approval. Quid pro quo. I find that disgusting. 

It's the end of free speech as we (may never have) known it. It's Germany, in 1938. It starts out with silent disapproval and it ends with pogrom and persecution. Nowadays, people lose jobs, because they openly share their political opinions at work. Your boss can't differentiate being a boss and being human at the same time - all the time - and unfortunately the same dynamics apply there as they do on the internet. You are what you say, not what you do. A big mouth attached to a suit. It means you will get fired if you say something he doesn't agree with. The rules of conformity nearly demand it.

Lately, I feel the same way here on my blog, gagged, curtailed. I don't get paid for my writing, which makes it even worse. I worry about possibly not getting paid in the future for saying what I think right now. I can't write like that, I can't live like that. This goes against the freedom of thought as much as it goes against free speech. Solution a) would be to play by the rule, solution b) would be to change the rule. I say, change the rule. I know full well, that by saying this, it may very well be the last post you ever want to read from me. That's unfortunate. But it doesn't mean I shouldn't take the chance to speak up, as long as I still can.








9/08/2012

Six-Sentence-Sunday: Haze of my Betrayal

 

http://sixsunday.com/

 

Hi there, Sunday Sixers, it's good to see you again! After a week of letting my arms and legs dangle from a beach chair, my think strike is officially over! This week I'm back to share another episode of my YA story The Days Adrift. This is part 7, and, as always, your writerly input is very welcome and highly appreciated. :)
 
Last time, overwhelmed by desperation and fear, the protagonist almost lost herself to the water. But someone pulled her back into the boat...



"Are you crazy?!" Brita yells right through the haze of my betrayal. 
She pushes me back and slaps me in the face, 
again and again, a little harder each time.
I want to tell her to stop it, reassure her that I am back now, 
but weary as I am, my mouth won't open to say the words.  

"We don't do that, you hear me?" she sounds like a frail little girl, lecturing another not to swim out too far.
She's afraid.
Her hand clings to my wrist like a limpet; 
she's afraid for my life.




9/04/2012

No More Moves, Bucko


In PC games just as in life there is such a thing as Game over. In games, it's when your game is over. In life it's when your life is over. 
In games, Game over is not as finite, thus less scary to think about since you can always reload your last save and retry what you failed to do before: go bring that hostage to safety, or roof jump a vertiginous distance, this time, more ammo, and one step closer to the edge.

Now there is a bit of confusion regarding the terminology. 
A certain elderly citizen named Clara likes to play the tile-matching game Bejeweled on her computer. In this game, you have to form chains of isochromatic gems to make them disappear. You get points for that. It's random which gems appear, so you have to hope for a good hand.

When there are no more options to form a row, the remaining gems start shaking and a message flashes in, overlaying the gems. No more moves, it says. All you can do now is start a new game and hope for a better hand the next time.

I wouldn't have to dispute this game's way of announcing that the game has ended, if it weren't for Clara, as she clearly doesn't believe in the whole concept of Game over. She is completely old school that way; never wasting much thought on the end. Clara is deeply suspicious and firmly believes that someone is lying his ass off about her having no more moves left!




The screen goes away way too fast for me to count gems and verify that the game really is over. I tried. I don't think it's a lie, but I doubt that Clara would believe me even if I had proof.

She is convinced that someone has good reason to keep her from playing. It's because she spends too much time with the game. According to her, no more moves is the computer's way of telling her to do something else, to shut down the PC and go outside.

In her world, the PC is a good guy, and he prefers her to be in excellent physical shape. He sees her tired red eyes in front of the screen and immediately calls for an emergency.

Sure, I told her, sure.

What a mind-boggler! I marvel at how we, in our own naiveté and fear are prone to make things - and us - bigger than they - and we - actually are. It would be great if we had technology that advanced, telling us when to go the hell outside, because our oxygen levels are too low or something. For now, we have day planners reminding us of to-do's and blood sugar alerts for diabetics, but nothing like a software telling us what is what at a mere glance. 

I tell Clara that for now, no more moves is just what it is. Not a fancy way of saying something else. It means restart the game. 
Go outside. Do whatever. But this game is officially over.

And although she nods her head, she doesn't believe a word I say. I can see it in her eyes.