What Are You Doing?

In writing, I constantly try to learn and improve myself and sharpen my tools. Often I learn from reading from other writers. Recently I finished reading The Dark Half by Stephen King. I’d read it a long time ago but happened to get it for free and dived into it again. The story is about a writer who’s ‘killed’ off the identity he took on to write a particular series and the ramifications of doing so. It’s a great read if you’re looking for something for yourself. After finishing it, I had many thoughts about myself. For example, do I take on a different identity/personality when I am writing certain stories. I feel like we all put on a special ‘cloak’ that changes us when we are writing. Especially if we are writing something difficult.

As I write this now, it comes to my kind of my character Tarra, from my fantasy series. She’s an orphaned teen who is coming into herself, her powers as a mage, and her personal struggles of losing her parents. When writing her portions, I find I cling to the younger me, perhaps my inner child maybe. When I’m writing Anna, I am pulling on the life of a young, single lady who has strong emotions and desires.
In King’s book, he writes of the authors’Third eye’ and I loved reading about it and could absolutely feel that. As a writer, I do feel like it takes a third eye to create the illusions I do. Creating worlds, characters that spring to life, it is MAGIC. And magical. I can only hope that magic transfers appropriately to the reader.

I’m currently learning from Jerry B. Jenkins writers guild and love it. I’m focusing on increasing my brand currently while also learning to write more tightly. I’ve been out of the field for a while so these lessons are certainly helping me.

What are you doing with your passions lately? I’d love to see some pictures, read some passages, or whatever it is you are helping to fulfill your life. Even if it’s gardening, singing, cooking, WHATEVER it may be. Please drop a line and share!

Cheers!

On Writing…. 5/31/18

Just some of my writings…could go somewhere or not. I totally don’t know where this one is headed.

Blue Ain’t Your Color
“What do you mean?” I could see him staring at his drink across the room. He ignored my question as much as my stare. “I just cancelled all my plans for this trip that you promised we would take.”
He took a sip with a heavy, slow swallow. “I don’t think it’s the right time for us to leave town right now.”
“No.” I threw my keys on the glass table. “You just don’t want to distance yourself from the other girl.” I’d known he was cheating on me for the past two weeks. I just hadn’t wanted to believe it.
He dismissed my statement by looking out the window and refusing to reply.
“So that’s the way this is going to play out?” I looked around the apartment. We had only lived here for three months. It was going to suck paying the rent by myself. “I think you should leave.”
That got Adam’s attention. He finally turned fully around and faced me. “As in move out?”
I looked him over. God, he was gorgeous. And the sex was still good. I was going to miss his body. “Yes. I think you should move out.” Go mooch off your other woman. I didn’t want to turn this conversation ugly. He wasn’t worth my energy. I grabbed my purse and picked my keys back up. “I’ll give you the night to get your stuff out.” I didn’t think I could face the apartment all alone tonight, anyway. Continue reading

I Know…

I know that you were scared. I know that you keep worrying and stressing. Not writing is slowly killing you on the inside. But you’ve been here before and you’ve escaped the darkness, resolved to push through all your fears. You keep telling yourself that you aren’t a writer, but you know deep down that isn’t the truth. You feel that constant need to write. It is a niche that refuses to go away. All those single line sentences that leads to wondering if that’s a good line for story. Names you here suddenly spark an idea for a new character. You see someone do something and you tell yourself you know exactly which character would do that. All those things you secretly do all amounts to one fact. You are a writer. You may let those fears and doubts drown you for a week, maybe a few months, maybe even longer than a year. It won’t change the truth. You are a writer. Always will be. So suck it up buttercup. Just right now. Yougotsdisfersure.  Love,  Me

21 Days in Hell: Day One

Day One

Elizabeth opened the door, prepared to count the twenty-seven steps that led her toward her one bedroom apartment, when she heard a dog bark and felt something hard and small jam into her back.

“Take the steps slowly, like you always do, Elizabeth.”

She didn’t recognize the voice and when she moved to turn her head to the side, it pushed harder into her and she heard a gun cock. Somewhere in the near distance she heard a man whistling and she wanted to scream for help.

“Think twice and you’ll see your instincts will get you killed.”

“What do you want from me?” She felt a hand on her shoulder, urging her onward. Her feet, glued to the rubber mat, refused to move. “I have some money in my bag. Take it.”

The whistling faded away and the man behind her sounded as if he was grinning. “I told you what I want. Now, go on. Count your steps.”

She didn’t know how he knew her habit but if he knew that much about her… “Who are you?” The gun left her back and she winced as the assailant twisted her arm behind her back. She was shoved into the entryway of the apartment and she heard the door close and the lock turned. As she looked up the first twelve steps Elizabeth realized her arm was free. She turned and swung wildly at the man. Hands pushed against her and she fell against the first three stairs. She was down low now and she used her legs and began kicking at the stranger. She didn’t care that he had a gun; knew that if he got her all the way upstairs he would likely kill her anyway.

“Elizabeth? Is that you? I used your spare key and let myself in. I hope you don’t…”

Hearing her sister’s voice, Elizabeth was about to yell up to Samantha, but as she began to call out, the gun was shoved into her mouth. It startled her so much that she felt herself lose a little of her bladder. Footsteps were descending above her and a dam of tears broke and her body began shaking.

“Oh my god!”

Elizabeth couldn’t see her sister; she didn’t dare move. Instead, she continued staring at the man in front of her, pleading with her eyes.

“Samantha. I wasn’t expecting you.” The man spoke calmly. “Why don’t you come down here so we can talk?” He smiled at Elizabeth. “You wouldn’t want to make things any worse for your sister, now, would you?”

Samantha, crying pitifully, walked the rest of the stairs down before stopping five feet away. “Please don’t kill her.”

Elizabeth watched the man move his empty hand to his blue jean jacket pocket and pull out a syringe. He held it out above her head.

“Samantha, I want you to carefully step down and take this out of my hand. Then I want you to inject it into your arm.”

Elizabeth shook her head, felt the gun move with her mouth. She tried to tell her sister not to do it.

“It won’t kill you. I promise. It will just make you really sleepy. I’d urge you to run upstairs pretty fast, otherwise, you’ll fall and I don’t want to see you hurt yourself.”

Samantha was moving her head left and right.

“Yes. Or it will be all your fault when Elizabeth’s head gets blown to pieces.” His hand stretched out closer to her. “Now, be a good girl, and take your medicine.”

Elizabeth closed her eyes and listened to her sister step slowly closer.

“You promise it won’t kill me? You won’t kill her?” She asked, whimpering now.

The man didn’t reply.

Elizabeth opened her eyes when she heard her sister running back up the stairs and then heard glass fall and shatter.

“I guess she didn’t make it all the way up.” The man looked at Elizabeth. “She’ll be out for hours, but she won’t die.” He pulled the gun out of her mouth, stepped half a step back. He watched as she wiped saliva away from the corner of her mouth. “Go.” He motioned upwards with the gun.

She turned around, put her hand on the wood railing, and stepped cautiously, one at a time, counting in her mind, and reminded herself to breath. She stopped when she reached her sister, who had fallen in the hallway just before turning down another hallway that led to her living room and kitchen. She was about to turn around when she felt a pinch on her neck. Icy fluid seeped into her body and she finally did turn around.

“One. Two.” The man counted slowly. “Three. Four.”

Elizabeth’s legs grew heavy and her head woozy. She saw the man putting his gun away, saw herself falling into his arms, and then blackness took over her world as he reached five.

A Book without Chapters?

chapTaking the bull by the horn and deciding to dive into the grueling activity of writing a novel, there are a number of things the author must decide. Characters, plotline, to use magic or not, how much research is needed, and so so much more. Today, as I work to edit a previously written novel, I embraced, for the first time in my life, a new decision to make. Do I want to use chapters? Like…Chapter 1, chapter 34, chapter 799. (just kidding)

I’ve read a myriad of novels that broke portions of the book in a number of ways. I’ve read books, recently, where instead of using chapters, the author just wrote the character’s name whose POV was for that portion.

So I’m taking an active approach and asking you, my favorite people: Does it matter whether the book has chapters or names to divide sections? Does it even need chapters? What other suggestions might you have to offer?

Cheers,

Michala Tyann

I’m Gonna Go For It

So, Camp NaNoWriMo is about to begin. As if starting a new job, moving to a new city, and having to change and embrace just about everything going on, I’m about to embark on a new writing project. Yowza!!!

I know. I’m crazy. I can’t help myself, though. I just sat down, during my first period class, and discovered this story sitting within the walls of my mind.

So here is the idea I’m playing with. It’s called What the Hand Draws Continue reading

I’ve Been Smacked in the Face By My Muse!

So for three long years my writing partner Will and I worked diligently on co-writing our epic fantasy series. We finished in January with book one. I’ve not been able to touch the dang book (book two) ever since. Oh, I tried. I definitely tried. And we even got a good 25K words in to book two. But, I just wasn’t feeling it. And I could not for the life of me figure out why. Continue reading

Somtimes it does begin with a bang.

nephewsWhen I was three or four my Granny O. had these three small, fat books. They were my favorites and I learned to read using those books. I’ll admit today when I go visit her I always fondly recall those books. Even though she doesn’t live in the same home as when I stayed with her I still go to her house and can’t help but look around the place and I am swept back into time. A time where she would give me flashcards with letters and I would have to put them together to form words. A time where a myriad of Disney Comic books and others drew me into a world of make-believe where princesses could slay the dragons, youth had power and could save the world by believing, and magic closets and lions were something to seek and fall in love with.

She instilled in me a passion for reading and writing. She introduced me to many fantastic voyages. She proved to me that while television and movies were fun diving into a book created many more opportunities and there was no limit to where I could go, who I could meet, and what I could do. While my mother would show me books like Good Night Moon and I loved those special moments of her reading to me, it was my Granny O. who gave me the book Fievel, An American Tale. I loved that movie but seeing the story in words, along with the pictures, it was amazing. I learned that those movies I loved were only a bunch of words and some colorful pictures. fievel

It may sound silly to you, the reader, but for me, that was a pivotal moment of change for me. I was forever altered, never to be the same girl. From that moment I was a writer. I wrote stories. I was only six and seven so my experiences weren’t wide and far but I still ‘wrote what I knew’. I merged characters like Curious George and Shirley Temple and gave them adventures. In fifth and sixth grade I was fascinated with the emergence of AIDS. TV commercials offered advice and info (just call this 800 number!) and learned as much as I could by getting brochures and pamphlets. In sixth grade I wrote a novella (though I would hear that term for years to come) and I won a Young Author’s Award for my story about a young girl whose brother had contacted AIDS and if she didn’t change her life she would likely end up the same. Continue reading