NaNo Spoilers!

Well, I got 15,000 words. I'd throw confetti, but it's been more than a week since I actually finished and I'd have to vacuum it up, so I'll just have a little celebration here to share with you:

Yeehaw!

There. We can finally move on with our lives. You can finish reading this post, I can plan my next one, and we can pick up where we left off as if I haven't missed a whole entire month of posting {please?}.

So...

I always feel awkward sharing excerpts of my NaNo success because I feel that, out of context, what I'd share would be horribly out of context.

And I don't know why my computer keeps freezing up mid-sentence, but it's really weird to type away madly and then have all the words tumble out onto the page a few seconds later.

What were we talking about?

My tea is gone.

:{

Without further ado, and despite the fact that you will have to take the following with a shaker of salt, here are a few samples of my NaNo endeavors to prove that I did not take a month off of posting because I was completely lacking in inspiration, circumstances and topics to gab about.

On to my title-less novel!

To my chagrin, the Morrells were not waiting for me, which meant that after he had instructed the driver in the proper transferal of my trunks from the carriage to the depot, Edwin found a seat for me near the office and proceeded to keep me company as we waited. I promptly annoyed him by fretting that they would miss the train.

“They’re Americans, Jocelyn,” he reminded me impatiently. “Did you expect them to be prompt?”

I tightened my hold on my handbag. “That’s an awfully rude thing to say about your own cousins,” I observed, craning my neck to look down the road.

“Only in the eyes of the law,” Edwin said darkly. “Thankfully we’re spared the social connections out of pity for our unfortunate association.”

I rolled my eyes. Edwin, who had been pacing two steps in one direction and two steps back, turned suddenly on his heel and commandeered my attention. “There’s still time to change your mind, Jocelyn,” he said. “Do give this mad plan another thought before you rush headlong into it.”

“I’m quite decided, thank you,” I returned, primly. “Would you mind standing to the side? You’re obstructing my view of the road.” 

The bell above the door of Mr. Pembrook’s offices jangled its announcement of our arrival as Nathanael, Sallie and I fit ourselves into the small waiting space. It rang again as Nathanael realized that the short train of Sallie’s skirt had not quite made a complete entrance with her and applied himself to the rescue with matter-of-fact good breeding.

Mr. Pembrook, looking much older than when I had last laid eyes on him, came out to greet us.

“Lady Jocelyn,” he said, shaking his head with a smile as he recognized me. “My, what a lovely young woman has grown out of the girl who used to come with her grandfather to eat my peppermints.”

I laughed, remembering how he’d always had a paper sack of the candies for me on those long visits.

“Mr. Pembrook, it’s so lovely to see you again.” I held out my hand and he shook it warmly.

  “And who have you brought with you today?” he asked, looking beyond me to Sallie and Nathanael.

I introduced my friends and he invited us into his office. We ranged around his desk and I told him our business.

“A copy of your grandfather’s will?” he repeated, mildly surprised.

“Yes, I–” I caught myself, realizing that I hadn’t thought of an excuse as to under what circumstances I would need such a thing. “I would like to look into some legal matters.”

If that wouldn’t raise his suspicion I didn’t know what would. Now that I thought of it, there wasn’t a very logical reason why I would ever need to look at the will.

I gave up trying to suppress my feelings and turned to look out the window as the London I knew faded and slowly turned into a nondescript and tumbledown imitation of architecture. I stared at the wreck and ruin, wondering how human beings could be allowed to live in such quarters, and tried to imagine my brother growing up on these streets. Surely he wasn’t like the ragged little urchins who turned to watch us go by, wiping their running noses on dirty sleeves or the huddled figures hunched against the smoke-blackened walls of a burned out tenement. I realized now what Nathanael had meant when he told me not to get my hopes too high. If this was where Will was raised, he would probably view me as an insult to–

Outside, the driver gave a sudden shout and the carriage swerved to the right, spilling us all to the side. I caught at the bar and righted myself in time to see a ragtag boy leap nimbly out of the horses’ path, laughing in a devil-may-care fashion and tossing his head to whip the shaggy, matted hair out of his eyes.

I turned to Nathanael, wide-eyed. “Is that some sort of game?” I asked. “He did it on purpose!”

Nathanael scanned the roadway and shrugged. “It might be best not to look out the window,” he said, reaching over and drawing the shade. “They don’t take well to strangers – especially our kind of strangers.”

I settled back in the muted darkness and contented myself in counting the dips and bumps in the road as we moved closer and closer to the river. I didn’t have a very keen sense of geography, but not even the seals on the doors could shut out the smell of rotting fish and refuse that lapped against the banks of the Thames. I was contemplating whether or not I had put enough scent on my handkerchief for this undertaking when we came to an abrupt halt and rocked back against an especially large rut. For a brief moment, I thought we had hit one of the daredevils cavorting in our path, but Nathanael nodded and reached for the door latch.

“Here we are,” he announced, getting out and looking around him. “Josie,” he pitched his voice lower, “stay close to me.”

The door was opened by a grim looking woman in an old-fashioned calling cap. The severity of her expression was not in keeping with the sunbeam ruffles that framed her face and the whole effect came off rather like a corpse at a wedding.

“May I help you?” Her tone did not signify that she would in any way be gratified to offer us assistance, but rather a resigned acceptance of the fact that we would not be gotten rid of unless she did.

“Yes, thank you.” Paul, who had accompanied us in the stead of Mr. Morrell – Nathanael believing that he would be more help after witnessing his father’s display of his brand of assistance – spoke first. “We would like to see the manager of this establishment, if you would be so kind as to announce us.”

“He’s in his office,” the crypt spoke, as if we ought to have known and should be ashamed of ourselves for needing to ask.

Paul smiled smoothly – the sort he wore when he was about to deliver the final blow to his opponent’s case. “Then would you be so kind as to show us the way?”

Her mouth turned down dourly.

“Might I ask the nature of your business? Mr. Larrimore hasn’t the time for social calls.”

I caught Nathanael’s eye and saw his conspiratorial smile.

“This isn’t,” Paul responded. “And if you wouldn’t mind, I believe our business will keep until we see him.”

I didn’t think it possible for her mouth to tighten any further, but she defied my disbelief and managed it without any apparent discomfort.

“Come this way.”

She turned and Nathanael caught the door before it closed in our faces. My hopes that Bethnal Green was run in keeping with the admonishment on the plaque beneath its name did not enter the building with me as I followed Paul inside.

Once inside, I realized that perhaps the woman had not come by her dourness naturally. As I took in the sagging floors and peeling walls and discolored ceilings I could see how a certain stiffening of the soul might be expected. It was cold too. The sharpness of the air bit into my skin, cutting through the layers with ease.

“Charming, isn’t it?” Nathanael whispered in my ear as he caught up.

“I don’t see how he could become too attached,” I whispered back. “The garden shed at Gilchrest seems more welcoming.”

“And your aunt and cousins better company,” he grinned, nodding surreptitiously at the ramrod back of our guide.

Paul turned his head and gave us a reproving look, but his eyes didn’t scold. I was afraid if I didn’t joke and tease I would burst apart with suppressed anxiety. 

I promise that this is all my original work and, even though you can't copy it, you enjoyed it. :D

And now I must take my leave until next week. I promise I will post again next week.

Tood-a-loo!

Rain: Part One - God's Tears

{a poem taken from this image}

God's Tears

A knife in my heart, I already know 

before he speaks, what it will show.

I tell myself no, it's only a dream

It's not true! I want to scream.

Then the words come, I cannot hide;

I can only cringe and bleed inside. 

"I'm sorry, Miss April," he looks so sad, 

"I've done all I know; all I could have."

I shake my head. All isn't enough.

He was mine, don't they understand? 

He can't be dead. Shouldn't be gone.

That sort of thing happens in a stranger's home. 

Left alone, I turn away. 

The window beckons, dark and grey. 

I reach for the sill and try not to look;

the weather reads my heart like a book.

Rain hits the pane and slides away;

I reach out and trace their ways,

groping hard to understand,

Why is it me God reprimands?

The drops fall harder, tumbling down;

they splash on the sill, I wonder how and then I know. 

It's mine.

Another falls, I brush it off,

but what's the use?

They flood my eyes;

I struggle to see, to realize.

Jesus wept, I've read it before;

but then, I never placed much store

in two words that seemed

so detached from me.

I guess now I ought to see

 that He feels the pain that empties me.

When I am weak, when I am dry,

and I don't understand the reasons why,

He is with me - not apart;

His tears fall now to reveal His heart.

Jesus knew pain; He wasn't immune;

if He grieves, why shouldn't I?

My baby is held in the palm of His hand,

and with the other He holds mine.

The rain, His tears, flow by my hand,

His great sorrow lessens mine.

I spread my fingers and press the glass;

I don't wait longer for the feeling to pass.

I weep with God and feel inside,

the start of the healing His tears provide.

© JamieChanning 2012

Book Pitch {No.1}

Here's the pitch for the first novel I ever finished! It still doesn't have a title and it's still not completely edited, but every book needs a back-cover blurb to show around. =D And I actually wrote this one - not Jamie. ;)

Though a matter of immense importance, what to wear to dinner is one of the last things on eighteen-year-old Jocelyn Harrington’s mind.

Growing up as a privileged young lady in the sleepy countryside of Derbyshire, England, her life should be as untroubled and tranquil as an afternoon tea. But circumstances, like the gossip that flies through the air, can be deceiving.

With a twin brother missing since the tragic accident that took her parents; a beloved grandmother whose illness is slowly taking her life; a handsome Yankee with a shadowed past catching her eye; a self-indulgent cousin chasing her affections; and a tyrannical aunt ruling her future, Jocelyn’s life is as tangled as the threads in her spool-box. A predicament the independently-minded Victorian miss is determined to change.

Armed with nothing but a crumpled label, a faded daguerreotype, and a fantastic story, Jocelyn takes her destiny to the heart of London, where she uncovers a stubborn and strangely distant brother; a spirited red-head with a faith as fiery as her hair; a romantic mess; and unexpected joy and heartache. But when the future she has planned for herself takes an unexpected turn, will headstrong, self-reliant Jocelyn turn her back or reach out her hands to the God who has never stopped pursuing her heart?      

Till next time!

The Story I Live

The Story I Live

If you give a girl a pen, there are five things she can do:

She can take it in her hand and get a vise-like hold,

and write her story just the way she wants it to be told

She can set it to the paper and with strokes that are dark and bold, 

she can draw her story out the way she wants it to be told

She can take the pen and write the notes that swirl inside her head; 

turning air into a song that tells her story loud and strong

Or four, which is the saddest of these, she takes the pen and lets it lie,

leaving her life without ambition and wasting the years she has been given

But five gives an image that is sweetest of all - a picture of trust and love -

when she takes the pen and opens her hand and says to her Father in Heaven:

"This life isn't mine, I've been bought with a price, so take this pen in Your hand,

and write out the story You want me to live and help me to follow your plan."

'Till next time!

© Jamie Channing 2012 

Obligatory Announcement for Jamie

Hear ye! Hear ye!
A new short story has flown from Jamie's illustrious (or shall we just say Papermate...) pen and will soon be up on Scribbles!
Due to the number of complaints she received from those who read Holly & Ivy that the storyline was too morbid, Jamie has promised that her new story The Redemption Ring will have a happy ending.
I was skeptical myself at first, because for Jamie a happy ending usually means that she didn't kill off all the characters as she normally does and/or was originally planning too.
This time, though, I have read her new story in its entirety before posting and it's my opinion that she did a pretty good job of keeping her word.

It'll be posted in segments as usual, so if you want more you'll have to go to Scribbles to find it.

Enjoy!

Oh, and here's the first paragraph to dip your toes in:

The Redemption Ring

A short story by Jamie Channing

The ring I hold is an ugly one. The gold is scarred from many owners; there are black cavities where the diamonds and rubies have been dislodged over the span of passing years; and it’s twisted and bent and no longer a circle to slide around a human finger.

It’s ugly and dulled and, for the purpose of any but one, useless.

We call it the aruna-mani – the redemption ring – because it has the power to save a guilty man’s life.

'Till next time!

Holly & Ivy

Jamie's short story - which has turned into more of a novella (she's not good at keeping things short...) - is advanced enough to send out into the world.

Here is the opening paragraph:

Holly Harper's diary was a ten-cent notebook. The marbled cover was smudged with pencil marks and ink blots and her name was written across the top in blue ink. Inside, the pages were filled with curvy, overhand writing.  But it was only half-filled and she would never write another word in it - because Holly Harper had been murdered.

               

I'm Ivy. Ivy Harper.

               

Holly's sister.

If you would like to read more, please click on the tab entitled Scribbles for entry.

Thanks for reading!

&

P.S. She's posting it in segments, so please check back for new installments! :)

He Says

Here is the poem I promised to share. It's far from perfect (believe me!), because I've never really dabbled in poetry much, but this is sort of how it came out, with or without meter or rhyme.

He Says

In heaven, they say, there is a God,

whom the Bible declares is loving;

that He sees me fall and yet forgives all,

but, oh, are His hands held out to me?

He says I’m His dove, I’m His princess royal,

He says that He thinks I’m flawless,

but I’m soiled and stained and ragged and torn, so tell me,

are His hands held out to me?

He says that He cares, He says that He’s good,

He says that His blood is atoning,

but how can He see all that I do, and still hold out His hands to me?

He says that He knows that I’ll stumble and fall,

He says that it’s all forgiven.

But still I don’t see what He finds in me,

that makes my redemption worth the price.

For He shed His blood on Calvary’s cross,

thinking not of Himself, but me.

And the blood that He lost, covered the cost

of the sins that made me a debtor.

And when I believed, He gave full reprieve

and welcomed me then as His child

And now I see that what He says is true,

and His hands are really held out to me.

Still I don’t understand how I can act

as if all of this never happened.

How I can turn my back and forget He’s there –

holding out His hands to me.

He says to be still and know He is God,

and though I really do try;

so quickly my mind fills with other thoughts

and He is pushed out and forgotten.

Then I struggle and fight and try to do right

but sin is an impulse so tempting

that more often than not, I give in and ignore

the God that is holding His hands out for me.

I get so exhausted trying to do what is right,

because my resistance seems so futile

but one thing I know,

that no matter the sin,

no matter the wrong,

no matter the awful thing I’ve done,

He’ll look in my eyes and say without pause:

“My darling, My hands are held out to you.”

'Till next time,

© JocelynRose 2011

The Not-So-Concise History of Brannon McCrae

Good grief, HOW can it be May already? Yee-ikes. The date of my college class sign-up looms ever closer. Right now a nice big fish would have my express permission to swallow me whole, though I'd need a sojourn longer than Jonah's to avoid this ordeal. Just so long as he spat me out before Christmas... That would have to be a principal measure in the bargain. Unfortunately, since I don't live near a body of water that would be big enough to house such a creature, that plan is mostly rot (don't you just love those jolly, English phrases?). 'Tis unfortunate. I guess I'll just have to go through with the sprint into higher education after all. As Maria says to Liesl in The Sound of Music, "You can't use school to avoid your problems. You have to face them!" Only that's a bit mixed up. Oh well.

I'm going to take a plunge today that I will hopefully not regret later. Today is the first day I'm going to air a segment of my writing to the general public. I know the minute I hit the "publish post" button, I'm going to have three hundred misgivings, but if I don't start somewhere I might as well kick my dream of getting published to kingdom come. Who ever heard of an aspiring writer who was afraid to put her writing out into the world? Such a thing is lame, and I refuse to be lame in this instance. Even the justification for such avoidance that I usually give myself (that someone might see this post and steal my idea) is not going to hold up (it never should have). Anyway, I'm going to ramble a bit before I get out my notebook and copy it off, so if you want to get on with your life and just read the excerpt, run on down to the end if you can get the sidebar mover-thing to slide down. (What on earth is that called anyway? I'm sure I could find out on Google if I typed it in, but I'm feeling rather lazy at the moment.)

The best news I have to share today is that my writer's block is finally dissipating. I actually was able to pound out a chapter of semi-good writing yesterday. I am very enthused. This is about the time where I begin racking up sky-high goals of finishing another novel this summer. I should be able to go through with it this time, though, because I've already written three-quarters of it and am now only in the process of...re-writing it. *sigh* I think I left my point somewhere at the top of this paragraph, so I'll go up and retrieve it. 

What I was going to do, before I derailed, was introduce my scenes notebook. (This is an integral part of my writing process, so it's pretty important to my writing style. Someday I'm going to devote a post to the subject of writing style, but now is not the time, so go ahead and let out that sigh of relief. The boredom has been pushed off to a later date. I should warn you, though, that it is inevitable as death, taxes and badly written books making the top of the New York Times Bestseller List.) 

My scenes notebook is something I started a while back out of sheer desperation. I have a very strict rule about starting a novel at the beginning and only working from there to the end, so it became a necessary piece of equipment before long. I was beginning to forget those wonderful scenes I thought up and couldn't integrate into the storyline because I hadn't gotten to their place yet, so I began jotting them down in my notebook.

The notebook itself is just a regular college-lined, spiral bound pad of paper (probably a cheap make because the spiral is beginning to unravel so that it catches on everything). I did cover it with shiny silver wrapping paper and stuck the letters J-O-U-R-N-A-L on the front that I had colored with rainbow Sharpies, but other than that, it's quite ordinary. I thought, for a moment, of taking a picture of it, but it occurred to me that taking pictures of notebooks and posting them on a blog would be quite tacky. Though I must admit that decorating plain notebooks IS something of a hobby for me. I'm a little desperate for some creative stimulation that doesn't include a computer sometimes. Desperate is probably a good word, come to think of it. And in more ways than one. Ok, I lost myself again. Hold on while I find the beginning. Again.

Ok...So, the point is that what's inside is what's important. During my recent fall into writer's block I, in dreadful need of an activity that involved words, Microsoft Office, and my characters (who failed me cruelly in offering interest), I decided to turn to the oft-ignored task of typing up my scenes into a document (so, in case of fire or loss I would still have a copy of everything I wrote in my scenes notebook). It was an interesting trip down memory lane. I remember distinctly where I was when I wrote every one of them and couldn't help but wonder what was wrong with my head at times. Such melodrama! The scenes are dramatic, funny, serious, short and very long by turns. They are also a jumbled mess. 

I went through a stage where I only wrote on the right-hand side, but when that stage ended, the economical side of me reacted with horror. Thus the scenes from one novel are wildly interspersed with scenes from another and there are numbered segments everywhere that lead to another segment on another page which you can only find by matching the corresponding numbers. I have packing lists in there too, though I'm not sure how they got in. 

These scenes run the gamut of emotions. I have a cemetery scene directly above a heated argument. Turn the page and there's a girl in love surrounded by gossips. There are random notes on location and building dates of certain places where a novel was set, plot/date summaries, and scenes on Indian captives. Suicides, flashbacks, wry humor, prayers, and more arguments (I love writing arguments) abound within the pages, along with post-its scribbled with inspirations I got in the middle of the night. All in all, it's enough to give you a headache. Which is why I put off typing it up for so long. Not only that, but I was a bit afraid to delve into the stuff I wrote when I was younger. The love of violent scenarios was strong within me when I started writing and it was not suppressed in my earliest plots. Thankfully, I have since shredded my first story. Oh the gore and violence I packed into that one! And the poor boy who had to live through it all...I never did extend the mercy of killing him off and thus letting him rest in peace after his misfortunate existence. To be sure, I had too much more planned to allow him off so easily! I'm derailing again... Drat. I'll just cut to the chase.

Here's one scene from my venerable notebook, which I have not yet shared with anyone and has nothing to do with any of my novels in progress (only because I don't know where it's headed yet) and which I am not yet embarrassed to have admitted that I wrote.    

(I feel like some kind of header should be inserted here, but I don't have a title for this story yet, nor any idea what that title would be if I had one, so you'll just have to use your imagination. Keep in mind, though, that it's somewhere in the late beginning of a novel, so introductions will not be made to either the characters or the plot. Also, this is my original work and copying of any kind is prohibited.)

They stood in a cluster a good stone's throw from the ancient hut. Their torches flickered in the dark night, casting an eerie glow on the door. 

"Brinn Korwan!" Duncan McCrae called out. "Bring out the girl and no harm will be done to ya!"

For a moment nothing moved, but then the door creaked open and Brinn's slender form appeared. Her hair was long, dark and silken, her skin smooth and beautiful, but her eyes glittered in the torchlight.

"Ye'll no see your lass again, Duncan McCrae," she cried out to them, "unless ye surrender me Brannon. Give me the boy and ye can have yer bairn back." 

Everyone's eyes turned to Brannon, who turned to look at his father. Duncan caught his breath and brandished his torch towards the cottage. 

"Ye'll get neither, Brinn Korwan," he shouted. "Give me my daughter and keep yer evil eye off o' my son."   

"Yer son!"  Brinn repeated the word and laughed. "Ye speak a heavy word for a man who nivver had a son o' his own blood." 

"Quiet, woman," Duncan commanded. "I know where yer loyalties lie. Give me back the girl." 

Brinn reached behind her and pulled the girl out to stand beside her. Her long fingers dug into Fiona's shoulder possessively, holding her back from running to her father. Fiona cried out at the pain and every man stepped a little closer.

"Give me Brannon," Brinn repeated. 

Duncan looked as if he was about to run his pitchfork through the woman, but Brannon made his choice and stepped forward first. 

"Will she meet me halfway?" he called up to the house. 

Brinn turned her dark gaze from Duncan and fastened it on him. "Come up and get her," she called back.     

"I dinna trust ya," Brannon replied. 

"No doubt," Brinn said. "No doubt yer afraid of me too." 

"No," Brannon said. 

"Then come up here," she invited. 

"Brannon!" Fiona called, reaching out for him. Her round face was white with fear. 

"She's callin' him to the devil, that girl is," Ian McAdam muttered behind Brannon. 

Go up and take her. The voice was so near that Brannon looked for its owner. Don't be afraid, the voice continued. For I have sent my angels to guard you. It was clearer this time, insistent. A voice that was not to be ignored. Brannon looked over his shoulder at his father and nodded. Whatever happened, it would be all right. Then, he turned and walked boldly up to the door of Brinn's mouldering hut.

Brinn beckoned him closer and caught his arm, holding him close to her. Brannon felt as if someone had thrown an invisible chain around him, because suddenly he couldn't move. 

Duncan watched him go with a look of defeat on his face. Even when Brinn released Fiona at Brannon's insistence and his daughter ran to him and flung her arms around him, he didn't feel his spirits lift. Sixteen years he had protected the lad and now he had lost him. Brannon would be fighting his fate alone now. Duncan ran his hand over Fiona's bright hair and sighed. 

"I hope ye nivver know what Brannon sacrificed fer ya," he whispered above her head. "Aye and he's given up more that ye could ever know." He sighed again, more heavily this time. "He was the last hope we had." 

Duncan stared a moment more at the door that separated him from his son before turning away and disappearing into the heavy forest with the rest of the men. A heavy gloom settled over the hut again, sealing off Brinn's domain from the rest of the wood.

And there it is, in all its shabby glory. The accents might have to go, I think.  

'Till next time,   

-- Jamie