books make me talkative

I picked up Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children this weekend and, despite my hesitancy and doubts, I am relieved to report that it is not a horror story. It took a while for the story to really get rolling but once Jacob leaves the States it becomes easier to grasp how much of what he'd been told by his grandfather and father is true. The biggest thing I've noticed with this book, being 2/3s the way through, is the descriptions that Riggs uses to illustrate characters and setting alike so I'll be talking a bit about that today.

Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children is Riggs' break-out novel so a big part of me was already inclined to give him a chance as I think most of us aspiring writers hope others will do for us in future. The story is curiously constructed around a series of vintage photographs that Riggs found during his research. This set up provides an interesting foundation for his characters because, instead of being purely dictated by his own imagination, they were created within the construct of these images. Goodness that's a confusing sentence. What I mean to say is that Riggs, when introducing characters, pairs the written description with one of these vintage photographs in the text. In doing this, he had to build his characters in such a way that they would fit the picture. Each of these pictures are part of the book themselves as well as the narrator seems and handles them, further emphasizing the book's focus on the visual.

Aside from one thing about the way Riggs described the narrator's friend at the beginning of the book, I have been drawn in and captured by his endless depictions of people and places. I generally like to think of myself as a descriptive writer, sometimes to the detriment of a story, but I've struggled to find new ways to describe old things. In this writing challenge endeavor that Chelsea and I have embarked on, I have already received a few notes from her pointing out a act, like a foot tapping on the floor, and asking what that sounds like. In these instances I find myself staring stupidly at the screen saying "well, it...sounds like...a foot tapping the floor....WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME, WOMAN?"

As writers, we are all faced with the sometimes depressing fact that every story has been told. Take a minute and breath into a paper bag if you need to, but it's true. Some may point to those few standout stories that "broke the mold" or "revolutionized" writing [I'm thinking LotR, HP, etc.] but the fact is that those are not new stories. And that's okay. It's a reality with which we live and with which some writers fair better than others. The challenge we face is not with writing something new, but in writing something old in a new way, an approach that no one's done before, with writing good enough that even when readers recognize old story lines, they don't care.

Riggs, for me, has found a way to accomplish the above. While extraordinary things happen in this book, it is actually the normal, every-day things that have caught my attention the most because he writes them in a new way, illustrating people, weather conditions, even posture in images and sounds I'd never have thought to attribute to falling rain or a fat man standing up from a stool. Riggs also applies this "new vision" to the character of his characters. As a psychology major, I take a keen interest in explaining people, especially those things that we cannot even explain about ourselves, impulses, cravings, needs, realizations. My favorite by far comes after the narrator has had a falling out of sorts with his father: "I slammed out of the Priest Hole and started walking, heading nowhere in particular. Sometimes you just need to go through a door." [Italics added] Did anyone else read that and then go "Yeah...yeah, you do! I know what that feels like!"? Because I definitely did. Something I'd never have thought to even try putting into words and I'm sure I would never have phrased that well - something common but striking in that he was able to write it down.

There are so many examples and I'm doing a poor job of explaining them so go ahead and read it yourself, I hope you enjoy it as much as I am.

Anyway, this post has turned out to be entirely too long so I'll try to wrap up. I guess a fundamental thing I want to get at here is that if you're writing anything, but especially if you're writing fantasy or sci-fi or futuristic, etc. you need to ground your writing in reality. This isn't to say that your settings have to be real places or your people real people. What I mean is that there needs to be something for the reader to relate to, something they can say "yeah, I know what that feels like/sounds like/looks like, etc" to. LotR is a phenomenal example of the power of the human imagination to create something that doesn't exist, whole countries, races, languages, cultures but the reason it is so successful is because each are grounded at least in part in something we can all relate to or have knowledge of. I think we've all come across books where world-making and character development has been hastily and shoddily done and while the words may look nice on paper, readers are able to distinguish between a fictitious language that nevertheless could function as a real language, and a fictitious language that was slapped together just to look foreign but has no legitimate claim to the title of language. Founding our writing in reality, giving characters believable and identifiable traits, behaviors, and feelings, takes effort and time. This research is something that I know I personally often drag my feet in doing but it is essential.

3 kids and a log

My apologies [again] on the late posting. I don't know what it is about Saturdays but they just seem to get away from me. The fact that I was up until 3am playing Settlers of Catan for the first time really probably didn't help though....

So! We have come to the end of another week's writing challenge and I've got to say that this one was a doozy for me. Initially I was really excited and while I still feel like this was an awesome prompt I'll admit that it did a really good job of beating me into the ground over and over. At first, I was skeptical that I would need the whole of the 500 word limit we had set but once I really got underway I started despairing my ability to keep it down to 500 words. I've always been awful with endings and this week was no exception, probably another reason I kept putting off finishing, I just couldn't face it. I'm still not super satisfied with how it turned out but feel free to weigh in here and tell me what you think!

Chelsea's response to this prompt had me laughing out loud through the whole editing process, and not because it was bad. I have a hard time grasping comedic writing but this girl has a knack I tell you, a knack. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did!

“Yup. It’s gonna rain, just like I thought,” Grace said, her face turned up to the night sky. Ricky hated it when she said stuff like that. Blah, blah, blah, I’m Grace and I’m a Know-It-All. He sighed and kicked a rock.

Thomas heard his older brother sigh and ignored him. Even though he and Grace were a year younger, Grace was still the smartest person ever. At school, she raised her hand the fastest whenever the teacher asked a question. Thomas liked that.

“You think so?” Thomas asked, looking up at the sky.

Grace stuck her finger in her mouth and then held it out in the wind. “I’m 98% positive.”

“Whatever,” Ricky muttered.

It was Friday the 13^th and the three best friends sat together on a rotting log next to Rodger’s Creek, waiting for the Swamp Man. He always came out on Friday the 13^th after a rainstorm, looking for children to eat. All day long, everyone at school gossiped who’d been eaten last year (some kid named Todd). Kids whispered, “Swamp Man tonight,” to each other as they passed in the halls, some even said they’d camp out tonight, but none of them dared try.

That is, except for Grace, Ricky, and Thomas.

The moon tried hiding behind the clouds, but pitiful streams of light spilled onto the dark ground. Thunder rumbled a far ways off, a warning.

Ricky and Thomas stole their parent’s camping lantern before trekking with Grace out to Rodger’s Creek. It was a long journey for their small bodies, but now the lantern sat at their feet, illuminating their scuffed sneakers and showcasing the black water rippling by.

 “It’s not gonna rain,” Ricky said.

“You’re a certified dumbie.  Didn’t you hear the thunder?” Grace asked.

 “Nope.”

“I guess you’re deaf, too.”

“Hey, guys—” Thomas got nervous when they fought.

“I’m not deaf! I heard the thunder, all right? I just think everyone needs to calm down.”

 “We’re fine, Ricky. You, though…well it just seems like you’re a little…”

“What?”

“Scared,” Thomas offered.

Ricky stood up from the log. “I am not!” He tried hard not to let his voice quaver, but it was no use. Thomas and Grace stared at Ricky.

“You are!” Grace exclaimed.

“This is dumb. I don’t have to stick around with you babies. I’m gonna find him myself.”

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” Grace said.

“I think she’s right,” Thomas agreed.

“Of course you think so!” Ricky shouted at Thomas. “You like her.”

It got quiet fast. Crickets chirped and the tall grass surrounding them rippled in the midnight wind. Ricky sat down right next to the water, the black waves licking his rubber soles. Thomas and Grace scooted further away from each other on the log.

“You think he’s ever gonna show?”  Ricky asked, poking a dirt clod with a stick.

“I guess we’ll find out after it rains,” Grace whispered.

A flash of light and a thunderous boom embraced in a terrific collision above them. Rain fell from the sky’s arms and pinged off the creek’s surface. It was a refreshing break from the heavy heat. Soon their clothes were soaked through. They held their breath, waiting.

“Turn off the lantern!” Ricky yelled.

“We need to keep it on. Then we can see him when he comes out!” Grace said.

“Guys—” Thomas whispered.

“What?” Ricky and Grace answered in unison.

“Is that—”

Blue lightning lit the sky and all three wished it had stayed dark.

Want to try your hand at responding to this weeks prompt? It starts with "3 kids on a log by a stream, one looks up at the sky and says..." Let us know what you come up with! Email me at emily.buhler.loveless@gmail.com with your ideas. Do you take a more dramatic approach? Traumatic? Romantic? 

some things just keep getting better

So, before you start in with "Emily! This is a poor way to start if you're trying to be more organized and timely!" le'me esplain.

There is a holiday on the 24th of July known as Pioneer Day. Never heard of it? That's probably because it's something only really celebrated in Utah but who am I to argue with a day off of work? So Tim and I decided to head down to his parents' house Monday night and we spent a delightful day full of relaxing, chatting, computer "I spy" games, particularly rousing games of battle dome and hungry hungry hippos with his sister and her husband, and two toad rescue maneuvers completed by yours truly. We didn't get home until after midnight and by then could barely keep our eyes open to find the bed, hence my delayed post.

This past weekend I found myself at a new level of I'm-not-going-to-make-any-sense-dom [someone should come up with a word for that]. As I mentioned last week, I am currently in possession of my library's copy of Tesla: Man out of time. What I didn't mention was that I also have The Handmaid's Tale and now Mrs. Peregrin's Home for Peculiar Children checked out to me. Now, with a weekend ahead of you and relatively few tasks to complete during that time, one might reasonably think that I would apply myself to the reading, if not the completion of at least one of those books. So what did I do? I started reading my personal copy of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire of course. [By the way, if any of you have to click that link because you don't know what that book is I will stare dolefully at you until you have repented and read the entire series. Shame on you.] While this demonstrates something less than exemplary about my personal character, I'm sure [that I would ignore 3 books I've borrowed in favor of one I own and have already read, not that I would stare dolefully at you, I stand by that], it does validity the theory that you can have book cravings.

For anyone who may unfortunately be suffering under the impression that, once read, a book has no more to offer a reader [are there people who think that?] I would like to clear up that misconception now. I have read each of the books in the Harry Potter series at least two times, verging on four or five for certain volumes and I can honestly say that these are some of the books that just keep on giving. Tim bought me the whole set for my last birthday [bless him] so I've been going through them once again, periodically picking up different volumes over the past months, and I keep running into the same impression that I had last fall when Tim and I went to see the last movie installment - no matter how much people may criticize her, J.K. Rowling can write. Like really write. Every time I come in contact with these books I am struck by the skill involved in creating a seven volume series with balanced, well-rounded, and incredibly deep characters as well as plot line. For a story to survive seven volumes the characters have to be rock solid and dynamic and I'm always filled with a mix of awe and hopelessness when I look at those characters.

I understand that Harry Potter will probably never be placed among the literary classics but I know that it's something that will always have a place in my personal library. I think it's important for everyone to have books that they can keep going back to for inspiration, examples of great writing, and even just for stories that make you laugh and cry over and over again. To me, a book is truly impressive when it still makes me laugh and/or tear up even when I already know exactly what's going to happen. That's emotion. That's pulling your reader into the story. That is good writing.

In other news, I'm super psyched for this week's writing challenge. The prompt we chose goes like this: 3 children are sitting on a log near a stream. One of them looks up at the sky and says....
So many possibilities! I'm generally not inclined to write young characters but I've already seen the playful potential in this prompt and I'm excited to explore it. As always, our responses will be posted on Saturday and if you care to join us, feel free! The word limit this week is 500 words so you should have lots of room to play around and we'd love to read what you come up with!

how would a blind person learn to write anyway?

Hello all! My sincere apologies for the late post. Scheduling fun forced us to wait until this evening [morning?] to post what we came up with for this week's challenge.

I have to say, I was pretty stoked about this writing prompt the whole way through, though writing from the perspective of a blind person as a person who's never been blind before brings up some interesting challenges. In writing my own response I found myself having to constantly re-evaluate the way I was describing the scene. I tend to use a lot of visuals when I write, a lot of details about things and people that you could only really know if you were able to see. This meant a lot of re-writing and thanks to Chelsea and Tim, I think I managed to get all of the glaring problems ironed out.

Also, writing within a word limit is always a challenge for me. I mean, I can be seriously long winded and prose-y if I don't reign myself in. I recently participated in an online writing contest and just about all of their challenges had a word limit which both frustrated me to no end and motivated me to make whatever scene I was writing the best it could be, cutting out the fluff and cramming it with as much detail and meaning as I could. Since Chelsea and I decided on a word limit of 350 for this challenge, I got to experience that again and I must say it was as invigorating as ever!

Anyway, enough of my blathering, you're here to read aren't you? Here's Chelsea's writing challenge response which is gorgeous. Enjoy! [Also, if any of you were bored enough to try this yourself I would love to see what you came up with! It's always so cool to see different takes on the same prompt!]

And you can go here for my response.

--         --              --           --            --        --           --           --           --           --          

My chest hurts as I take a breath in and let it out. An elderly woman approaches me, smelling as old ladies smell (something like Chanel No. 5 and mothballs). I remove my purse from the seat next to me and offer her the seat. She sits down, letting out a long sigh, and turns on her portable fan. The recycled air hits my face every few seconds. Foam blades wiz inside the metal cage over and over, it’s almost melodic. Then she coughs and the train takes a sudden turn.

The jostling almost costs me my stick.

The subway is my hideaway as well as my playground. It’s the most exciting part of my day. I’m in the in between with strangers. We’re all going somewhere. We’re all leaving something behind.

I blink the sweat out of my eyes and adjust my sunglasses.

The heat is relentless and it’s not even eight in the morning. My hair sticks to my neck and curls itself underneath my armpits, tickling and teasing me. A couple sits across from me, the woman fretting over their son’s first day in kindergarten and the man not saying much at all.

Ah, it’s that time again, isn’t it? Yes, late August. School bells, lunch boxes, crayons. Monkey bars, the blue sky, you can touch it—go for it—don’t look down. Don’t think about it. Tears threaten to fall. The subway stops and the couple rise from their seats, walking past me.

“Did you see how she rushed off to the other kids? She didn’t even notice James.”

“I’m sure she had a lot on her mind. It’s the first day.”

“But it’s her job to—”

“James will be fine. Everything will be fine.”

They exit the subway and the doors hiss closed.

I rub my eyes and hate the day I thought I could fly.

 “Got a light?” A man’s voice above me asks.

I jump at his question and my stick clatters to the floor. He bends down and I smell his cologne. Sharp, clean, a slight musk. Whoa. Hello.

“I think you dropped this.”

I hold out my hand, waiting.

a biography and thinking out loud

I'm afraid this blog may be off to a slow and unexciting start but here we are regardless!

Right now I am reading Tesla: Man Out of Time, and while I am the last person you'd find drooling over biographical writing, let alone most anything non-fiction, I have been rather impressed. Generally I can't stand reading works like this because I have a hard time getting into them and I was expecting this book to be especially dull considering the subject matter and my own strong aversion to math and science related topics. However, I'm actually enjoying this read. For one thing, I am honestly learning [which is always a nice feeling] and for another, Cheney does an excellent job of keeping her readers interested and even entertained. Man Out of Time doesn't feel dry and lifeless as some similar works I've attempted, and even some works of fiction I've chanced across have been. Being an typically terrible non-fiction writer myself, I admire Cheney's accomplishment with this book and look forward to finishing it!


In more personally-relevant writing news: I figured out why [one of the reasons at least] I have stalled on my current WIP. It took me ages to realized that I couldn't keep writing because the last scene I'd written, the first major dialogue between my MC and his uncle, didn't fit either character much at all but especially the uncle. I had thrown in topics that never would have been addressed in their first conversation and the way I approached them totally changed the uncle's character. I know that characters can surprise you as you write and I'm working on being more open and comfortable with that during this project but I think, even when a character's traits and behavioral patterns may not be set in stone you can just tell sometimes when something doesn't fit them. So yay for that revelation! Now I just need to sit myself down and see what they actually want to say - having just written that I realized something else. The scene I wrote wasn't just done namby-pamby [that's not a real phrase is it], I was trying to think through all the back story and characters leading up to that moment and I just realized that I didn't write what the uncle would actually have but I did, at least in part, write what he would have wanted to say and ask. Typing out loud does it again ladies and gents. I should do that more often when I'm stuck.

How do you get unstuck from writing blocks? Are you the kind of writer that has to push straight through a story or do you like to jump around as you go?

This week's challenge is to describe a room and the people in it as if you were blind. My own personal challenge will be to get that scene with my MC and his uncle re-written. I'll report back on both on Saturday. Until then, happy writing!

memoirs are not for the faint of heart

When Chelsea emailed me her side of the story of how we became friends I quickly realized that this was not a project where I could offer critique for edits. The story is too close to me to be able to objectify and analyze in the context of grammar and the flow of the text. I will say that it just about made me cry and reading it, I learned some things that I didn't know before. Like the fact that Chelsea thinks I'm "mysterious" [me? mysterious?] and that she considers our friendship an answer to prayer.

I went into this challenge excited to write about this topic but when I came away, and especially once I read Chelsea's copy, I felt like I had largely failed to capture the actual feelings and general atmosphere that I attribute to our friendship. This, I have decided, is the hardest thing about writing memoirs: it's easy to record the facts about something, it's infinitely more difficult to capture its essence. I re-read The Things They Carried by Tim O'Brien and I was struck, even more so than when I first read it in high school, by the amazing skill he has for inserting his reader into parts of his life that are still so real for him. Amazing.

Well, here's Chelsea's memoir. If you so desire, you can read what I wrote here. Enjoy :)


Emily and I had our "friendship spark" on a January night. I was almost 19 or that night was my birthday. We were both freshmen at BYU and I trekked along with the rest of my hall to my first college dance. I surprised myself by tagging along (I didn't get out much) and became the center of an animated discussion about dating and boys on the way to the dance.

I never fit in with the girls in the hall. I had a hard time trusting them...they seemed too wholesome. I was the black sheep. I knew I'd taint them if I opened up. None of them sought me out. They only saw me at church, not taking the sacrament, and sitting outside the bishop's office every Sunday. I didn't seek them out, either. I made the decision to do what I was doing and let them do what they were doing. One afternoon, I surprised myself by going to a hall activity in the dorm basement with all the girls. A line of tape went down the middle of the floor. Our hall leader read off "grey areas" in Church culture. A question: Is it okay to wear a sports bra and short shorts when exercising? As I am a runner, I bolted to the "Strongly Agree" wall and threw myself against it. No one was near me. I turned around and challenged the "perfect Mormon girls" with my black sheep eyes. It was at that moment I realized I'd never be like them.

My summer and fall semester were filled with boy drama...drama that ended in me questioning religion and my self worth. The night Emily and I "sparked" was around my 8 month mark of weekly bishop visits and no sacrament. I made the resolve a few weeks previous during Christmas break to change my life around with God. Not an easy decision by any means. Quite the contrary, that night was soul wrenching. I stared at myself in the bathroom mirror and saw how red my eyes were, felt how hot my cheeks were, struggled to breathe in and out, and paced back and forth. I wanted out of my skin. I wanted out period. But I prayed and the decision was made for me: I needed to fight. No more hiding.

Fast forward to my first Sunday back at BYU after Christmas break. A new fire lit inside me. New light. New energy. A new thirst for what everyone else around me had: A testimony. I decided to give the girls a chance and tagged along for the dance. As mentioned earlier, they talked about dating and "how hard it was." My first thought? They have no idea what dating means. They have no idea how it feels to give everything you have to someone and then realize it wasn't enough. They've never gone through what I have. And that stopped me. Who was I to think those things? Who's to say they hadn't? And who in their right mind would wish what I'd been through on someone else? What was wrong with me?

I got quiet after a while and the other girls went on ahead of me. I let out a breath and tried to calm down. It was just a dance. It was just BYU. It was just a fun night. But I was losing it. And then I looked over my shoulder and saw Emily. I knew I needed to talk with her. I smiled at her, my mouth opened, and words poured out of me. Everything just came out to a stranger and she listened. She gave me something I'd been looking for a long time. She gave me hope that there was hope for me. I don't remember what our conversation was, but Emily's presence gave me strength and courage. I danced with the same passion and fire I had in my eyes when I challenged the girls. I let it all out and lived in the moment. Sweat dripped down from the ends of my hair, my fingertips were on fire, and that special tingle of life sparkled through my viens.

Since that night, Emily and I became inseparable. I felt safe with her. She protected me from others and from myself. She was quiet and supportive. She was mysterious. She was thoughtful and softspoken, but had a sharp tongue when called for. She was my match I'd been looking for. She supported me when I wanted to give up and hugged me tight when I wanted to get away. Her friendship changed me. I am so thankful for her opening my eyes.  I'm not the bitter and hard girl I was before I met her. I'm the woman I had the potential to be--and it was all because of Emily's living the Gospel.

a new blog

When I converted to gmail blogger assigned me a new account and while I can still access my old one it's been so long since I posted there that I thought "why not start a new writing blog?" A fresh start if you will.


So I am embarking once again into the world of blogging, taking inspiration and courage from friends I've been following for a while and crossing my fingers that I might take more consistently to it this time.


What do I want this blog to be about? [because every successful blog has a mission statement, right? right?] 


It's been obvious to me for a long time that my writing suffers when I'm not in a class where I'm motivated by deadlines set by others and writers' groups where I can bounce ideas and borrow others. I've been playing with two stories on and off [more off than on] the last 6 months and I want to take them farther but part of me lacks the motivation and the other part lacks courage. So I suppose this blog is my new attempt to do better, to be more involved in the writing world and to make myself more accountable for my own writing. 


I've been reading loads of books this summer and noticing lots of things about character development, plot, and scene painting that I want to take to heart. I'll be sharing some of my thoughts on such subjects here and if you friendly readers have anything to add I would love to hear your ideas. Sharing ideas adds spice to our imaginations and lives where we can sometimes become stagnant in our own heads. Or maybe just I do. Anyway. 


A big goal I have with this blog is to be consistent in my posting regardless of whether or not I have a ground-breaking, world-changing epiphany to share in every post. I'm aiming for the modest goal of posting once a week on Tuesday. 


Other posts may occasionally appear on Saturdays. My dear friend Chelsea has agreed to form with me our own writers' group and as she has a blog as well we've decided to give each other writing prompts [challenges of sorts], the results of which we'll post on each others blogs on Saturdays. The hope is to do these once a week and we assigned our first one this last Sunday. The challenge: write about the first time we met the other. Chelsea worried that this might be a weird/cliche subject to write on and while it doesn't have much to do with either of our writing projects I'm excited for the exercise and I've already finished a very rough draft that I'm eager to start revising. Memoir writing can be so much fun!


So I hope you'll stick around, join the conversation, and if you want, share some of your own work with us! I don't know about you, but as shy as I am about sharing my writing, I want it to be something more than black marks on wood pulp :)