Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Review

A warning: If you're reading this blog because you found me on twitter and you're accustomed to my teasertuesday entries, I apologize for expressing my inner nerd here. If you're reading this because I linked you from facebook then you are likely well aware of my long-standing nerdom for which I make no apologies.

That said...

For many of us rabid Potter fans, The Deathly Hallows is main course being served in preparation for the delicious, much anticipated desert. It is the first part of what we hope is a true representation of all the lush detailing Rowling gave us in the final book...resolutions to the conflict we'd considered for a decade. It goes without say that if you haven't read the books then the films will leave you will a sense that something is missing. Sadly, that's the nature of the beast. The films, while exciting and thrilling, simply can't compare to the magnitude of plot that cannot be experienced by letting your Potter journey begin and end in a theater.

Many aspects present in the books are, of course, missing in the film and some have previously been glossed over to accommodate time and budget. But the first part of Deathly Hallows, like films past, gets the job done and does it well.

I'll say this first and foremost, this film, as well as the previous one, Half Blood Price, has a decidedly dark overtone. This is not a trick of creative license on director David Yates' part, however, but rather a necessary expression of the tone and feel of the final two books. War is approaching. People die. Communities are seeing the ravages of impending doom because that is what happens when tyrants begin their dance of mayhem and violence.

Harry, Ron and Hermione have a job to do-- to find and destroy Horcruxes, objects containing parts of Voldemort's soul. Without doing away with these objects, killing The Dark Lord will be impossible. Since Dumbledore's death said Dark Lord and his minions have been doing their level best to find Harry, destroying whoever gets in their way in the process. Hence, all the death and violence.

The films walks in the shadow of the books. They skip along in the shadows of the detail Rowling has laid, but essential plot elements are still there: Harry leaves his Aunt and Uncle's home for the last time, though, I was disappointed that it was less dramatic than the Dursley's common muggle reaction in the book. The Seven Potters scene is wonderful, very funny and gives viewers a sense of Radcliffe's comedic timing. George Weasley's injury is verbatum to the book and done justice by Oliver and James Phelps, who are, let's be honest, the truest representation of the Weasley twins we could have ever hoped to see. Much of the film continues in this vein--some being perfect copies of Rowling's work, some skimming the surface of that perfection.

Now, because I was asked to give the goods, I'll say that those hoping for the small subtleties of the Ron/Hermione dynamic will not be disappointed. No, we have yet to see the grand romantic gesture yet (Hermione does not level her snog attack on Ron's face until the second half of the final film), we DO see some very obvious interest between the two. Yes, Juliana, there are many, many longing looks, you will particularly like when Hermione tries to teach Ron the piano and yes, it appears that the "they must have fallen asleep holding hands" bit is there indeed. Also, anticipate a collective "awe" from the entire auditorium when Ron explains how he found his way back to Hermione. Oh and yeah, there are loads of small touches and consolations.

Film Ron did not carry on in the 'exact' manner that book Ron did whilst Bella is torturing Hermione, but Grint was remarkable at expressing his characters desperation. And in that same vein, I'll say that of all the child actors to graduate from the Potter Academy of Film, Grint must be the valedictorian. He can say more with one look than some actors seasoned by fifty years of time and experience. The young man is remarkable, beyond talented and is heading for a lifetime of acting success. I look forward to seeing it.

Another note to my fellow nerds, the Riddle "Harry/Hermione" is astonishing. Trust me, you have not seen a Harry or Hermione like this. They emerge from the locket to taunt Ron in very weird pseudo forms, too perfect, too controlled and niggle Ron into overwhelming fury, particularly when they 'wrap' around each other and begin a smooch that is seductive, alluring and well, let's just say, I found it necessary to cover my seven-year-old's eyes whilst the snog fest went on and on.

Shining in a very tight second to Grint in way of performance is Emma Watson. I completely adore this young woman and have faith that should she decide to continue in her career, she'll thrive and succeed with grace and elegance.

And folks, you are fools if you do not bring along a hankie. Dobby the House Elf. I won't say more to that than, dear Lord, my eyes are absolutely leaking.

So, I'll end my geek fest by saying this: the first part of Deathly Hallows, while not filled with comedy or a large abundance of action, is what I expected, what pleased the die hard Potter book fan in me--the long withheld breath that fills the lungs, that anticipates the thrill ahead, just like a ride on a roller coaster where you can see the plunging dip ahead, where you know you'll soon be screaming and flailing your arms from the thrill of the ride. It's the breath you take before beginning a journey from which you're not certain you'll end unscathed.

Wishing Well, Part 5

I meant to finish this up today, but NaNo has made me a slave of my muse. Next week should be the last installment of this little story. Please comment!

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

He looked more human than the others, his skin free of the frayed texture of their gray skin tone. He was clean shaven and the only defect on his face was a wide scar, deep and red, beneath his left eye. He wore a thin white linen suit, crisp and creased as though he’d taken it from its packaging and settle into it right away. His hair was long and black as a crow’s feather. It curled past his small ears and was pulled back by a thin hemp strap.

“Who are you?” I asked. I lifted my hand to shield my eyes from the incandescent brightness that shone from his head and arms. It reminded me of the reflection of lake waves on midday.

“Some call me friend.” He moved around me like the others, draping his body behind my shoulders, around my arms, but he did not frighten me. He smelled of lilies and when his fingers brushed across my cheek, I felt the velvet smoothness of that flower. “Some call me enemy.”

He let his hand rest on the small of my back while he stood at my side. I had long-since stop wondering how these creatures could defy gravity or suspended logic.

“Miss Matthews, do you know why you are with us?”

I was afraid to answer, still troubled by the cruel evidence of my past sins, still consumed by the weight of my shame. Was I being disciplined? Was this man the punisher, set in a fine cast, wearing a warm smile to lessen the shock of my judgment?

I looked away from his face and stared at the fine hairs on his ear. “I was dared.” The words came out weak and low enough that I was certain the man would not hear them.

“A dare? How very odd that you would accept a challenge from such weak-minded, simple girls. Girls who have no hope but what they are told to have from others.” I did not know how he knew of Ruth and her friends or how he could so accurately describe them. The man touched my chin and I lifted my head up to stare into his black eyes. The lily fragrance was diminishing. “You are here, Miss Matthews, to see the truth.”

“Whose truth?” I couldn’t help but ask.

“All truth.”

He turned from me and lifted his hand, waving it once in front of the well wall until that white fog that heralded my past sins, returned and covered me. It shifted around my neck and moved the damp hair from my cheeks.

I saw a green light flash, like the quicksilver of lightening cracking across the black, starless night sky.

What I saw made me hold my breath.

I stood beneath the thin veil of the fog, my hair longer, my breast fuller, my hips rounder. I walked near the bank of Redwood Lake, holding the hand of a child. She was small, no more than five or six, with long blond hair that trailed past her waist. She ran ahead of me, following a golden dog who barked at something in the treetops above us.

“Tomorrow is a gift given to those willing to sacrifice,” the man said. I could not see him, did not take notice of where he stood, too consumed by this older version of myself, took caught up in the beautiful child and her play. “Gifts are not offered so easily, Miss Matthews.” His voice sounded behind me, somewhere in the depths of the well I had no interest in discovering.

The scene shifted and a still older Blythe Matthews appeared. Her hair was graying, but she was not elderly; still firm in her body, still having a solid, straight frame as she danced and twirled with a man. His face was hidden to me though I could clearly see the shape of his head and the length of his hair. His features, however, were blurred as though intentionally blotted out to keep me from a complete image of him.

“Sunshine,” he called Blythe. “My sunshine.”

The Blythe before me smiled and nestled her head against his broad chest. Content. Pleased.

“Tomorrow comes to those who choose it.” The man’s voice now sounded deeper and held a sterner timber. “Only to those who choose well, Miss Matthews.”

Again the green light flickered and the fog became thick, so thick and expansive that I could barely make out the figures that moved within it. I saw myself as very old. My back curved and my hands were twisted by the cruelty of time. My cheeks were heavily concaved and the skin on my face was thin and lined with deep wrinkles. Despite all this, despite the evident twist of my body and the old creases on my face, the old woman before smiled a toothless grin, surrounded by a room of people I did not know.

She laughed and giggled at two young children playing a game. They were all assembled in the front room of a cottage, every inch of the place taken by couples, by children, by an assortment of people that reminded me of my parents, of my brothers and cousins.

They were a family I had not yet designed; a consortium of lives that existed in my future, suspended in wait for the choices I had yet to make.

“Choose wisely,” the man said. The fog lifted and he stood before me. He had grown older. His hair was now thin and gray. His smooth skin was creased and he stood slumping in front of me. The sock of his appearance made me reach out to cradle his face.

“What’s happened to you?”

“Time,” he said, his grin weak, his lips giving a small view of missing teeth, “time transforms us all.” I felt the sting of tears corner in my eyes, not certain why I should feel such worry and sorrow for this strange man. His long fingers wiped back the moisture on my face. “Choose well.”

###

Teaser Tuesday Wishing Well, Part 4

*This one is a bit out of left field*

Part 1
Part 2
Part 3



“Such pity.”

“Such shame.”

When one creature spoke, the other immediately answered. I could not bear to look at them—their stench and the feel of their loose, moist skin was too much sensation for me— but I had gleaned the wide spherical shape of them, the make of their long limbs and the thin texture of their skin.

My descent slowed and I found myself wrapped in their embrace, unable to move my legs or even shrug my shoulders. Their grip was like a slack-fitted vice, not constricting but confining enough that I had no chance of escape.

“We see…”

“Within…”

Both creature slid up my body and rubbed their long noses against my temples and I could tell that they were naked. One female, one clearly male.

“So much promise…”

“So much doubt…”

I felt the cool lick of them pressing on my mind. There came a shudder of my breath and the rasp of my voice sticking in my throat before their grip tightened and I struggled to breathe.

I tried to plead, to mutter “please, stop,” but the only sound I heard was the forced gurgle of air leaking past my lips.

“To dream…”

“Is to die…”

“To die…”

“Is to choose...”

With another squeeze around my chest and the pump of their tongues on my mind, my eyes opened, but I did not see gray, wet well brick or even the queer green lewd figure gyrating in their perversion. I saw, through a mist of white fog my life set present and real. Every sin open to be discovered, every shameful thought tangible.

I watched, horrified, as a younger version of myself lifted three gold coins from my dead grandmother’s jewelry box. That bounty had bought three bobbins of red and pink ribbons despite the winter’s harshness and my parents struggle to keep us fed.

Then I saw an only moderately aged version of myself hiding beneath the cellar doors to spy on William Hunter as he stripped himself completely of muddy clothes near the horse trough. The baker’s coach had overturned, the horses spooked by a painted black rope fashioned to mimic a snake, tied beneath their reins. One horse had to be put down and William lost his job delivering the baker’s orders that summer.

Then, the Blythe Matthews from just two summers ago, holding her father’s whiskey under her arm, already flirting near drunkenness, racing into the Hollows to meet Riley Cormac past a secluded field of heather. Never mind that her father had forbid her from ever seeing Riley. No matter that he was promised to Elisabeth Hillson.

More flashes came, more retellings of all my wrong doings until I felt I could no longer bear the weight of my shame— until I thought I may burst from the heartache I caused and, heartache there was, right before me: my mother crying into my father’s chest, worried at how thin we’d grown; William shielding his face from his father’s fists as he explained he could no longer return to the baker’s shop; Elisabeth staring over the railings of Dunleery Bridge, her belly round, no ring on her finger and a damp letter from Riley telling her he’d fallen in love with a dancer from London.

“Such promise…”

“No doubt…”

The voices sounded proud, indulgent in the reflections laid before me, as though all I had done, all the horrors I had breathed life into, were meant to be praised. I shuddered and pulled my neck away from their embrace, fought despite the guilt I felt to rid myself of their touch. They resisted, gripping me tighter.

“Choose…”

“Choose well…”

“No,” I said. I tugged against the slick surface of their skin and shook my arms until my fingers were free, until I found the rough texture of the rope once more. I lowered my eyes and squeezed them tight, repeated “no, not ever. I will not,” until I felt their embrace linger and fade.

It was moments— minutes, perhaps hours before I dared to open my eyes again, hopeful that the past’s retellings had finally vanished. When I let my shut lids open, lifting them fractions at a time, the past had disappeared, the earlier versions of my sins vacant from my sight. The future, however, was sure to follow, ushered in by the pale young man that stood before me.

“Hello, Miss Matthews.”

Wishing Well #3

Wishing Well Part 3

Part 2
Part 1

The hag’s laughter echoed against the brittle brick around me. Every loud shriek of the sound pierced my ears and my hands took on a terrible shake, making it almost impossible for the rope to stay gripped in my hands.

She stared at me and moved her head left and right, her eyes squinted as though she could not make out what I was. Her eyes—cold and manic— grew brighter.

“Lower and lower, my pet,” she said, slithering on the brick like a python.

I wanted to look behind her, curious how she managed to move, to wind around me in such a tight space, but my eyes would not leave her, my words froze in my throat.

“Lower,” she said again, still cackling. She looked down, below my feet and nodded, her amusement disappeared at a command I could not hear. She smiled once—several teeth missing and those still left were black and jagged—before she slid down, to stop at my feet.

“Must be lower,” she mumbled. She took the bucket between her hands and turned it, making the already tenuous grip I held on the rope loosen.

“Stop,” I shouted, but only received a frown from the now silent hag. “Please, I’ll fall.” When she continued to ignore me, continued to slap her hands against the bucket, I lowered into a crouch, winding my arms around the rope. “Please,” I said, though I knew she could not hear me. “God, please,” I said as the walls spun and shifted to become a blur of shadows and dizzying, disappearing light.

Before I closed my eyes, the spin of the bucket and rope now so fast that my hair slapped against my cheeks, I saw a cluster of symbols jumbling together—large red and black letters I could not read and tiny green naked figures danced and gyrated together.

I closed my eyes completely. My stomach twisted and gurgled until I feared I’d vomit.

“Lower,” the hag shouted. “Lower still, my pet.”

I chanced one peek, forcing my eyes open despite the heavy fear I felt pumping my heart into double beats.

This time, when I heard the hag speak, the sound came from above me, the distance made her words barely recognizable.

I could not feel the spin of the bucket, but the whirls of the brick and the green drawn figures around me told me I had not stilled. My hair stuck against my forehead and I could not tell if it was sweat or well water that had dampened it.

I stared up to find no light, no shadows and no mad hag anywhere. There was only the dimness of the well and two small shapes slightly lighter than the cavernous darkness.

They whispered my name, calling to me in soothing, sweet tones before I felt the brush of their bodies wrapping around my waist.

Teaser Tuesday

Wishing Well Part 2
First part is here.

Please comment!

The lower I sank, the higher the smell grew, slipping up my body until the stink of it— dried, rotting meat of some sort and the heavy thickness of curdled milk— penetrated my nostrils. I gagged once and heard Ruth’s voice from above, barely audible against the slow drip of well water.

“Mind all those dead Matthews down there.”

Her taunt was echoed by more laughter and I looked up, eager to glare again, when I noticed only a sliver of light above me. I didn’t know if those horrid girls were sealing me in or if my descent had brought me so far into the well’s belly that the sun was being blotted out with each dip of the rope.

When my surroundings grew dimmer and the smell worsened, I examined the surface, taking in the slimy film on the brick and cool breeze that shifted my hair. The well itself seemed to moan and I knew, logically, that it was only the wind, only the whip of the breeze coming through the cracks and rot of the brick. Still, my heart sped and my grip tightened on the rope. Despite my threat to Ruth, I remembered my old aunt Hilda’s warning; how she made me wary of this place, of its past.

“Never venture to the Wishing Well, dear heart. There are shadows below. Things you mustn’t see. Secrets you will go mad from hearing.”

She was old, I told myself. Old and superstitious and though now, dangling like some tiny worm on a hook, her warning screamed in my mind, I wouldn’t let my fear win.

“Silliness,” my father would say of Aunt Hilda’s superstitions. “ Nothing to fear in the night or in the woods but young boys wishing to lead you astray.”

I smiled, remembering the significant tone of my father’s voice and the deep wink of his eye when he gave me that warning. The smile, however, only remained a second, erased from my face by the slip of the rope. I called above me, shouting to Ruth, but received no response, not even laughter as a reply.

“Ruth?” I called again, this time letting my voice rise to an almost scream.

Nothing.

Then the rope jerked and shifted, twisting me around in a spin. As I turned in the bucket I thought I saw a figure, shapeless and gray, but when I looked back again it vanished. I reached out, trying to grab the thick moss on the well wall, but it broke under my touch. Finally, after the spinning slowed, I dug my fingers in the weathered white mortar between the bricks, my whole body shaking and the rope whining at the sudden stop.

I took a breath, calming, letting thick pockets of air fill my chest before I looked around. The light grew thinner above me. Two black insects I couldn’t name followed one another behind a large fray in the brick then I saw the long face of an old woman staring with wide, colorless eyes at me.

“Lower,” she said before I had time to scream. “Take this one lower.”

Paying it forward

So, wonders of wonders, I jump on Twitter this afternoon and discover that the flattering Super Daddy has passed on his One Lovely Blog award to little ole me.

About my small little blog home, he said:

T S Tate - is another writer. I have only recently found her blog, but have enjoyed reading her Teaser Tuesday posts…get your mind out of the gutter…teaser as in teasing the audience with an excerpt of her current writing project.

Thank you Mr. Daddy. You flatter me with your generosity, so I'm paying it forward and linking y'all to some of the blogs I stalk most! I should say, some of the writer blogs I stalk most!

Go forth and read and if I've named you, please pass it along.

1. Adrienne Crezo - This woman is a writing/networking/reviewing animal and, thanks to the miracle of the Internet a great friend to yours truly. On her blog you will find everything from some of the best book reviews to the hands down, most delicious peanut butter cookie recipe you will ever encounter. Recently, Adrienne, Dominatrix of Awesome, as I like to call her, was made Reviews Editor at The Best Damn Creative Writing Blog, so be prepared for your world to be rocked with even more wonderful reviews as well as thorough and skillfully written writing articles. Bow down, children. Bow right down.

2. Phoebe North - Watch out for this one, guys, because Phoebe is about to become the literary world's newest rock star. Her blog features expertly written reviews, advice on writing and Phoebe's personal journey to land an agent. Occassionaly, she'll tell you all about the yummy things she eats, which you know...yay food!

3. Lia Keyes - Okay, so the previous link isn't to Lia's blog, but will lead you to her baby. I've exhausted you plenty with my fangirl gushing about #scribechat and Lia is one big reason why I'm one of this chat's biggest cheerleaders. We don't call her the Chat Yoda for no reason. She is witty, clever and has a wealth of writing knowledge to pass on to we feeble mortals. If you want to learn about the craft and how the business truly works, follow our Yoda. Trust me, you won't be sorry.

4. AJ Larrieu - I have a special place in my heart for AJ. She's a Southern girl living in California and her blog is as inspirational as the beautiful stories that are birthed from her vivid imagination. Read her, follow her on Twitter. You can thank me later.

5. Heather McCorkle - Heather loves writing. No, you don't understand. She really and truly loves it. Read her blog as she takes the journey toward publishdom. She'll be your biggest cheerleader and a wonderful source of constant, perpetual support. This is one classy lady, trust me!

Teaser Tuesday

This is brand, spanking new. No clue where this is going, but it will be continued next week.

The Wishing Well

Sarah’s hair clung around her face, dripping with well water. Her cheeks, normally pale and freckled, were blotched red. She panted, making the tips of her hair against her bottom lip move, back and forth.

Whatever she had seen, frightened her. She would not say what the fates had shown her and seemed unable to meet my eyes, but I knew her greatest fear, heard it every night as she said her prayers.

“Please, God, don’t let me become like mother.”

My turn came and the oldest girl, Ruth, shoved my shoulders, a high laugh coming from her pinched lips as I tripped and fell on my knees in front of the stacked stone.

“Go on then, Blythe. It’s your turn.”

I inhaled, letting the air fill my lungs before I grabbed the rope. The knotted braids were wet and I smelled the bitter scent of rust as I sat on the cracking stone surface and slipped my feet into the wide bucket. I ignored the laughs behind me and looked for Sarah, hoping my friend would offer me a smile, encourage me in this silly venture, but she’d deserted me.

Only her small lace handkerchief was left behind and it skipped with the dead leave across the forest ground.
Another push on my shoulder had me gripping the rope tighter.

“Don’t be a coward. Get on with it.”

Ruth’s laugh died as I stared at her and my chin went up, determination and pure stubbornness fueling my movements. I disregarded the laughs behind me and pushed off from the side, dangling over the vast darkness with only the thin rope and a cracked, damp bucket saving me from the depths below.

Really, I should have not placed so much faith in these girls. They were cruel at the best of times and downright vicious on a bad day. Still, I had been challenged and I was, after all, a Matthews and Matthews never back down from a dare.

The rope creaked and whined as I swung, then my body spun and the descent began. The giggles continued and I fixed a harsh glare at Ruth as she turned the crank, daring her to call me a coward once more.

“If I die, Ruth Carrollton, I will come back to haunt you every night until you are white-haired and wrinkled.”

“Hush, little Blythe. You can’t curse anyone,” Ruth said. Her lips were pulled into a tight, sneering line.

I stretched and grabbed her wrist, stopping the crank. “Do you want to place a wager? You haven’t heard about my old aunt who lives in Redwood Hollows?”

We stared at one another—her eyes narrowing and searching my face, I’m sure, for any waver; mine steady and certain.
“You’re fibbing. Everyone knows your aunt died last winter.”

“Did she?”

She blinked first and I released her wrist letting her continue on the crank, but my eyes stayed wide and staring and before I was lowered, losing sight of anything other than the crawling insects and dripping stone of the well walls, I noticed Ruth’s chin quiver.
Satisfied that my threat was taken for truth, I finally smiled and released the breath I’d been holding, ready for whatever the fates would tell me.

Teaser Tuesday

Something old, something new, something borrowed...nah, just something old.
Please read and comment:

P r o l o g u e

Périgueux, France 1765

The blood dipped into the hollow of his throat, spilling along his chest so that the ruffle torn from his collar look like a tulip— red bleeding from the center onto the white tips. He could smell the bitter stench, the curdled thickness of his own blood drying on his cooling skin, his breath fading into shallow pants. It would soon end, he knew that, felt it as surely as the cool air whipping through the stone windows and fractured crevices of the castle. Yet his path was certain, his intent sure. He must protect the final Seal, settle his secret, keep it secluded.

He reached the Keep and fell to his knees in front of the statue, its looming height wide and penetrating in white marble. Diana stared down at him, frozen in a cast of etched perfection, as though she knew he were the prey in an unmatched hunt. His eyes lifted through the arch of the windows, toward the horizon and he garnered no joy from the waning moon, no comfort from the dead stillness of the night. He knew his pursuers were close. He could hear the clamor of their voices lifted in anger, rage.

“I smell him,” he heard, the voice thick in its French inflection, drawing nearer. He heard their thunderous approach and he managed to overcome his pain, his impending end, long enough to crawl closer to Diana’s stone feet. His fingers slid across the granite mount and he felt the burning trickle of power, of anointed blessing, shifting through his knuckles.

“So that they never know,” he said, recalling the incantation his mother taught him when he was nothing more than an impressionable child. He watched the blue light encircle the mount, flickering so that the stone melted like wax, the Seal within glowed like tallow ignited in wick and flame. He pressed his bloodied palm against its surface, his pledge preventing approach to its power. “So it remains balanced.”

He allowed himself one small smile only when the soft stone fused and the surface became solid once more. His head pulsed with pain and a small fleck of gray crowded across his vision, unfocused and blurred, jumping like a louse. He smelt them, could taste the sweat from their bodies as they approached, their pallid faces staring down at him, the stern edges of their features exaggerated by their fury. He heard their voices, the bickering internal strife, as conscious thought became dim, as the sounds of the castle beneath him dulled to muffled hums. Just as he lost all notion of thought, all impression of awareness, her narrowed eyes entered his vision. She was beautiful. Beautiful and treacherous and he closed his eyes against the sight of her. He laughed at her anger. He felt the dent of his dimple in his left cheek at his smile as she crouched on top of him, the tip of her tongue a breath from his wet skin.

“Enough,” he heard. The man’s familiar tone almost unrecognizable; it was the sound of friendship, of salvation. “Leave him be.” The words echoed in his mind, cementing into his fading consciousness. He carried them through time, through departure, into infinity.

Teaser Tuesday

From a horror short I've been working on for some time now...

“Vincent?” she said, uncertain. He didn’t respond. She brought a chair to his side and sat in it, far enough away that he could not reach her if he tried. “Vincent, it’s me, Lisette. Lisette Richard.”

Vincent St. Germaine sat in a wheelchair in front of a window overlooking the courtyard below. Beyond the hospital grounds, the Sister could see the New Orleans’ skyline— the wide expanse of tall buildings clustered around long streetcar cables, roads weaving in and away like blue vessels on pale skin. People walked, ran and careened around each other like ants, intent and purpose obvious in their steps. None of them, the Sister thought, had any notion what a beast the city could be, what monsters lay dormant in the shadows surrounding them— waiting to strike, eager to devour them at the first sign of inattention.

For a moment, the Sister closed her eyes, taking in the last bit of calm she could muster, trying to ignore the fear that settled in her chest the moment she’d touched feet off the tarmac. New Orleans was the violent lover she’d escaped as a girl, one she’d promised herself she’d never see again. The nightmares, the terror of them, however, had made it necessary, had forced confrontation, closure. The only person on earth who understood that terror, sat staring feet from her, numbed by medicine, drugged by chemicals that would force the memories away. She tried to ignore the disgust she felt staring at his bald, raw head, remembering the newspaper article, remembering what Vincent’s father had done to him. A few horrifying phrases stuck in her mind like a horse needle— “multiple arrests for aggravated battery of a child…use of a deadly weapon” and “eyes gouged,” “father arrested… ‘my son was a monster.’”

From what the Sister saw now, his father’s attack had done nothing but give Vincent the cast that befit his actions. His son was truly a monster. His skin was red, with a slight sheen over the surface, as though he’d been newly burned. Vincent’s ears were missing as were three of his fingers, but his eyes, though dulled and vacant, remained as she remembered them— green with hazel flecks and round with the beginnings of wrinkles on the edges. As a girl, she'd been taken by his smile. She remembered how confident and encouraging it had been, how the teeth were wide with a small gap between the front teeth. He’d called her Cher. Vincent had been the only other victim she’d talked to during that week, the only one lucid enough to speak. She’d told him her name, but he’d only ever called her Cher.

The Writing Mentor and Tennessee Williams

Early on when I was a newbie in college, I met a lady who would change my life. The thing is, I doubt she knows what an impact she had on me or the importance of that influence. I met Bev Marshall during my sophomore year when our English instructor was out and her "writer friend" was subbing. She came in to yes, watch over our chaotic class, but also to read us a few of her short stories. My instructor, Mrs. Bradley told me that when she met Bev and asked her what she did for a living, she responded, without a blink and said, "I'm a writer."

Not many have the chutzpa to say that. So many of us writer types know what we want to be. We all have that dream of being debt free, of having what we write pay our mortgages and beat back our student loan officers. And while I'm pretty sure writing hasn't made Bev a millionaire (who knows, I could be wrong), it is her indelible strength and confidence that has endeared so many to her. She's a classy southern lady and, beyond that, she's an impeccable writer.

Writing in college became commonplace for me. I studied under two great and prolific novelists as I've exhaustively mentioned on this blog. Part of the tutelage I experienced with them both was a certain literary festival in New Orleans. The Tennessee Williams Festival celebrates the playwright's life in the city and the unflappable style with which he created, in my opinion, some of the best pieces of fiction art our country has ever seen.

Sadly, due to the ravages that have fallen on the city during Katrina and the asinine budget cut our "good" Governor has seen fit to institute, the festival is in very real danger of ending. For twenty-five years the festival has ushered in some of the greatest local and international artists, writers, actors, directors and even Williams' one of a kind brother.

Bev showed me, through her active participation on the festival board, that writers need each other. She showed me that whatever stage in your writing career or whether you're simply a fan of the written word, commraderie among the creative must be cultivated. It must be fostered by helping and learning from one another. This festival has done so much for me. I have learned more from the writers on various panels and from Bev than I could possibly express to you here.

New Orleans and our entire state for that matter, has been ravaged quite brutally over the past five years. We have seen life-long residents still absent from the city. We have seen our locals lose so much because of the storm and in the Gulf because of the oil spill. We're still fighting, but sometimes that fight can be more than we can handle.

Pepsi is offering fifty thousand dollars to organizations of the Gulf Coast who have been affected by the damages done on her shores. The Tennessee Williams Festival is one tiny spot away from being among the top ten recipients of this award.

I am asking a favor from each of you. I'm not asking you to give money. I'm not asking for a handout. I am simply asking that you give the festival two minutes of your time. Please vote and share information about this award. Log on here to vote for the festival and help them to celebrate their twenty-fifth anniversary and the one hundredth birthday of Mr. Williams the way only the Big Easy can.

We appreciate it more than you can know!

Please RT and share!

Review: "Fungus of the Heart"

Reading, not Red Bull as the company would have us all believe, gives you wings. It’s a fact that may seem horribly obvious, but for many, reading simply is the method you take to vacate the real world and be transported into something powerfully foreign. If it’s good fiction, our perceptions are twisted and changed.

I expect much from books. I expect to be dazzled. I expect to be wrapped up in a story, in characters I either love or loathe. What I don’t normally expect, is to be overwhelmed and awed by what I read. Sure, there are works that have changed my thinking. There are writers whose talent and ability are so awe-inspiring that I feel somehow pathetic by comparison. But reading a collection about relationships shouldn’t have left me gobsmacked. It shouldn’t have left me thinking for days afterward about how these relationships, in their own unimaginable way, shifted my awareness of what fiction should be.

Fungus of the Heart, a vivid, wildly artistic collection by Jeremy C. Shipp, did just that. I sat down and read, watching through lenses contorted to reveal things I could not imagine. I saw through his eyes and the view was distorted and beautiful. It’s a collection about relationships. Full stop. There is no other way to explain it. Now, these aren’t relationships you’re going to hear about on Oprah or hovering around the coffeemaker at work. These relationships run the gamut from misogynistic men and the females they ‘own’ to sprites who think they are jack-o-lanterns and the creatures of death and violence that love them.

In Shipp’s world, we are introduced to characters full of discord, full of self-loathing and the connections they make and are forced into with the world around them. And those worlds? Disturbing, frightening and absolutely infectious. We are drawn in by the conflicts they face, by the horrible sensibilities of each villain and victim and their ultimate desire to bond, to forgive or simply survive. Shipp creates universes where ghosts act as therapists, where an Oak tree makes her daughter promise to save a world she cannot connect with; where vampires take on many identities, but mainly those of, “boy bands and idol singers.”

Shipp told me that Fungus of the Heart was a map to his values— the respect he has for relationships and the importance of those relationships in his own life. But his characters are beyond flawed. They do their best to disrespect the relationships they have and the result is disastrous. He says his characters, “have emotional, physical, spiritual needs, but are often screwed up in one way or another, and so they don’t know how to get their needs met in a healthy way.”

The beauty in all these flawed characters is the way in which their journeys are chronicled. It isn’t alliteration or some sad attempt of using plot devices that gets these stories across. Shipp’s above that. But he has a inimitable voice and that voice comes alive, is made real with every harrowing misadventure his characters take. In all honesty, I’ve never read anything like this. Not ever, and that’s saying a lot. I read far more than I should. But, I was swept up in every war-ravaged landscape, in each village, in every hut I traveled to in this collection. I cared about these haunting characters, wanted to reach out and connect, wanted, sometimes, to give them a smack across the head. Ultimately, however, I know it was Shipp’s very clever, astonishing voice that drew me in, that made me think, made me keep thinking.

When you read this collection, bear in mind that you’re not in for horror stories or stories drawn in a manner you’ve ever read. You’re in for a something surreal, something beautifully fantastic and I promise you, you won’t be bothered by the battle scars you walk away with. You’ll be grateful, satisfied that you bear those marks, proud that you took the journey right along with these misguided, damaged characters.

World Building and a Cure for the b-l-o-c-k

The good thing about social media, is that you are allowed to surround yourself with like-minded individuals. In my situation, I’ve found scribechat on twitter. It’s a wonderful way to round-table certain writing topics. The folks participating never fail to keep the topics open, the humor constant and the insight compelling. Over the past few months I’ve yet to be disappointed in our discussions and, last night was no different.

The topic was world-building. How important is world-building in fiction? Is it a necessity in all genres? How does one go about describing said world while avoiding info dumping?

Of course, my fellow scribes had the answers we all need and I’d love to share their wealth of knowledge on the topic at hand. (For a more detailed view of our discussion, check out last night’s transcripts which should be up soon).

World-building is important, in my humble opinion, because it grants realism to your story— it puts your reader ‘in’ your story. It gives your characters authority which makes your story believable. Realism, despite the genre, picks your readers up and places them dead center of the universe you’ve created. Description of your world, or place or setting, helps the reader to understand why she should care about your protagonist and the misadventures that happen along in your plot. In short, it makes your reader identify with your characters, which makes them more interested, which garners a base. Quite simple, right?

So, if world building is so important, how can it be done effectively? Last night there were loads and loads of suggestions. All interesting, all valid, I thought, but the one technique, (for lack of better term), that I really found especially helpful, is sensory explanation.

Explaining what a characters feels, sees, tastes, hears, etc, is an open door to relating to your readers about the external influences of your character. It also furthers the inclusion of your reader into the story. I’ll give you an example of what I mean.

I’m going to dork out and use Rowling because, yes, I’m a fan girl, but also because she’s a master at world building:

The last shop was narrow and shabby. Peeling gold letters over the door read Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C. A single wand lay on a faded purple cushion in the dusty window.

A tinkling bell rang somewhere in the depths of the shop as they stepped inside. It was a tiny place, empty except for a single, spindly chair that Hagrid sat on to wait. Harry felt strangely as though he had entered a very strict library; he swallowed a lot of new questions that had just occurred to him and looked instead at the thousands of narrow boxes piled neatly right up to the ceiling. For some reason, the back of his neck prickled. The very dust and silence in here seemed to tingle with some secret magic.

Now, what if Rowling would have given us the bare facts without all of Harry’s sensory interpretations?

Something like…


The last shop was a wand shop. The letters over the door read Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C. A wand lay on a cushion in the window.

A bell rang in the shop as they stepped inside. Hagrid sat on a chair to wait. Harry swallowed a lot of new questions that had just occurred to him and looked instead at the boxes piled up to the ceiling.

Clearly, the edited version is extreme, but the gist is accurate. With the second paragraph, which excludes any sensory details, we know only where Harry is and what he sees. But we have no real indication of what to make of Ollivander’s. With the exception of the word “wand” this shop could have been any shop in just about any place. But it is Rowling’s descriptors that give us a real sense of place. We know, from Harry’s point of view, that the shop is a tiny little place, very old and very cluttered. We know that Harry is a smidgen freaked out by the shop and that he feels some odd sense of reverence and déjà vu. Why do we know this? Because we are ‘in’ Harry’s mind and we are seeing, hearing and feeling what he feels.

That, folks, is what world building is all about.

Our readers have to know what our characters know (or don’t know as the case may be). And in turn, we have to know the world we’re building. After all, asking a reader to join you in a world you’ve created and have not fully imagined is like asking someone who has never driven to take the wheel on a road trip. It’s inauthentic and trust me, your readers will know.

And world-building isn’t necessitated only in genre fiction. Literary fiction also requires a unique world. Thinking about ‘Streetcar Named Desire’ anywhere else than in New Orleans. How did the city influence Blanche? Did the sights and sounds of the city lend itself to the overall feel of the story?

There are others of course: Anything Faulkner gave us set outside of the south would have felt awkward, I think. Hemingway’s vivid retelling of the thrill of the safari or McCarthy’s desolate landscape of the world post-apocalypse. World building/setting/place, if done correctly, can and, I think, should be just as important as your antagonist’s motivation or the conflict your main character overcomes. (A more thorough explanation of the importance of place can be found here).

There are other ways to explain your world, ways that take another avenue without sensory overload, but I don’t want to overwhelm you with a bunch of techniques that I’m sure you’re already well aware of. Again, see the transcripts for more.

The two most critical aspects about world-building—the ones that I have found necessary while writing—is knowing, (and I mean absolute knowledge here), the world you are creating and expressing that through your characters point of view. The latter is doubly fun when you’ve got multiple points of view.

So, what if you’re stuck? What if you have no idea how to build these worlds? What if you’ve become clustered in that most loathed place that all writers get in (read: the block)? Well, I hope I can help you with that as well.

The lovely writing mentor, who I’ve gushed about frequently on my little blog, gave me some great exercises for the block. These can help if you’re stuck, as I have been, in the middle. Or if you just need a bit of a boost to get the muse in the mood to inspire.

For stuck-in-the-middle issues:

Mary Gordon said this: "I always know my endings, but mid-way through the book, usually I find out it's not the ending at all." Ask yourself if you are too set on keeping the "nifty" ending you envisioned when you thought up the plot of the book. Maybe you can't write to that ending because it's not the right one. If you're locking your mind into "it has to turn out this way," then you're forcing something on your characters that they don't want.

If that doesn’t work, put the book aside, take some time away from it, don't think about it for a while, then go back and re-read it and sometimes that time a part will help the natural flow reemerge so that you, hopefully, can't write fast enough.


Exercises for the dreaded b-l-o-c-k:

1. First make sure you REALLY know your characters, especially your main character. Use an artist's pad and write down everything about your character: political party, the music they listen to, how much money they have in the bank, etc. Then, cut out photos of what you imagine your character may look like and paste them on the pad.

2. For setting, draw your character’s town, the houses, the workplaces, on and on. Any detail that would spark something for future use in the plot.

3. Have your character write you a letter that begins "What you don't know about me that you need to know." Free write until they tell you the secret they're keeping from you that you didn't understand. Not understanding the character's secrets oftentimes keeps us from understanding their real motivation.

4. Have someone else read your book out loud to you. You hear things that you don't hear when you read it yourself.

5. Play the ‘What If’ game. “What if…she did this or what if so and so said this.” Don’t think about it, just scribble anything that pops in your mind. What if she robbed a bank? What would happen? How would she feel? What would she do next? There are always consequences both good and bad for every action we take. If we overeat, we get indigestion. If we said something mean, we may feel guilty OR if we're not a nice person, we may enjoy seeing someone suffer.

6. Finally, you may do something as simple as change from first person to third and realize that gives you what you're looking for.

One last thought: Sometimes the story that has you stuck, isn’t the story you should be writing at the moment. It doesn’t mean the story is dead and should be forgotten—it just means that at this point in your life, you aren’t ready to write that story. Don’t forget about it. Come back when it’s time and if you, as the writer, know your voice, trust me, you’ll know when the time is right.

*Note* The above exercises came from Bev, for the most part, and not me. Thanks, Bev. You are a rock star!

Teaser Tuesday

From my current WIP.

In which the MC, Keilee , has just 'met' her first fairy. Let's just say she's a little freaked out. There has been a wreck and her best friend, Cameron and her mom's annoying friend, Wills, have gone to see if they can help.

Comment please!

The growl vanished and Keilee looked up when she heard a police siren, two small beeps that whooped loud over the noise of the rain. She saw Wills leading Cameron back, letting the paramedics work on the injured driver. Then, from the shadow of a wide oak tree, Keilee saw a form, a mass so haggard, that her stomach turned. It crouched behind Wills and Cameron as they watched the police ushering cars around the wreckage. Keilee sat up, resting her elbows against the dash to get a clearer look at the creature, her hands coming up to cover her mouth when a policeman’s flashlight shifted across its body.

Despite the crouch, it was clearly tall, the legs as dark as a tree trunk, as thin as a light pole. It had wide, looming shoulders, odd and disproportional to the frail legs. A thick wool cape with a fur-lined collar draped over the shoulders, the hem wet against the rain-soaked sidewalk. It seemed unable to stay stationary, moving its thick body from side to side as it watched Wills, narrowing its white, bugged eyes at his head.

“Hey,” Keilee shouted, slapping her hands against the windshield. “Look behind you.” She balled her fist and banged the glass hoping Wills would see her. The creature was joined by another, the pair of them intent on Wills, shifting their bodies into a pounce. When one of the creatures extended a claw— no fingers, no hands, just razor sharp claws that were twisted and long— Keilee darted over the seat and slammed her hand against the car horn.

Cameron jumped and Wills’ head jerked up toward her. They both ran across the street, Cameron unlocking the door and sliding in, flinging water out of her hair and off her arms. Wills trailed behind her, then stopped at the back of the car and Keilee watched him fumble with the handle, his eyes focused on the creatures now retracting, shuffling back and out of sight.