In case you’ve stumbled onto this via the Internet and don’t know me at all, you need to know two things about me: I have been a Star Wars fan since I was five years old, sitting in the backseat of my parents’ car watching A New Hope at the drive-in in 1977. And I’ve been in love with Luke Skywalker for about that long. (Spoilers for The Last Jedi.)
Whew. Okay. So you have your germ of an idea, and you hopefully have some characters. Now what? Now you start sort of trying to fit them together. At this point, you probably don’t have a full plotline in your head. Or at least, you may not realize that you do.
If you want to write about a woman being hunted and held captive and falling in love (or at least in lust) with her captor for the love of all that’s holy, don’t put it into a real historical context.
Characters are usually one of the first things that come to me when I’m working on a story. They’re one of the things I started with a natural ability to do–which means when I needed to take the next step to improve my characterization, I had no idea how the hell to do that, because it had all been instinctual up to that point.
I’ve started trying to learn how to draw. It’s one of those things that I’ve always thought I was terrible at.
I’m a huge believer in people trying their hand at writing if they feel the urge. Writing is one of those things you can really only learn by doing: write, figure out what you did wrong, figure out how to fix it. The problem is, there are so many ways to work on a story, it can be intimidating. Hopefully this series of posts will help give you a few ideas where to start.
As part of my plan to get more organized overall, I’m going to get a little more serious about my blogging. My goal is to post new content twice a week, on Tuesdays and Thursdays.
Well, it’s been two weeks today since I decided to start keeping a bullet journal. I’m surprised at how quickly it’s become one of the favorite parts of my day.
In other words, here’s what I’m coming to terms with: I have a severe chronic illness. It takes a tremendous amount of time and energy to manage my symptoms and make the necessary accommodations for myself in order to get things done. For twenty years I didn’t do that.
My mother told me the usual childhood lies: Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, there’s no such thing as monsters. I understand those lies. I forgive them. What I can’t forgive are the other lies she told me. The lies she told me about myself.