Writing Games

Today the Politick and I were hanging out and we decided to play a couple writing games that she has agreed to let me post here.

The first was a story that we wrote line by line, only knowing the last word of the line before. (It's technically called Exquisite Corpse, but we only figured that out later.) I'll indicate the lines with B for Bookbird or W for Wordgirl (because both Pica and The Politick start with P).

B: The stars twinkled with a faraway light as the girl lay on the
W: majestic moose was yawning at the moon, and bored because
B: as everyone knows, all animals are much friskier at the beginning
W: the long stroll - for it was a stroll - back to his broomstick, so that 
B: he could reach the top shelf. It was much too high for him to
W: know how many bats were locked in there, he would need to
B: sneeze. He quickly grabbed a handkerchief and turned away
W: in the trash heap - where other people had already gathered as to
B: grab it. However, he was too late. She picked it up and sent him flying,
W: while clutching the warm hand of her beloved all the while.

W: The dragon landed noisily and drooling fiery spit, watching
B: the clock slowly count down the minutes. She wandered aimlessly
W: walking into walls. The palace guards swooped arresting him for
B: four fruit flies flew, fluttering transparent wings, hovering over the*
W: gleaming portal that led to doom. The ultimate awaiting doom
B: was imminent. He looked around frantically. The door was barred,
W: the windows were firmly shut, and no key was to be found, so
B: as she filled her basket with flowers she remained blissfully unaware
W: that the man was ready to slay the dragon with the use of
B: such a dangerous object. It was not for human possession. He destroyed it.

*I did that line just to see her reaction. Plus, how could you not with a starter word like for?

The second game was a bit longer (and a bit more individual). We would agree on a topic, characters, setting, and something random we had to mention. Then we each had to write about 3/4 of a (handwritten) page using those things, and we compared them once we finished. There was a time limit, but we didn't really stick to it - the point was that we shouldn't take too long doing it.

The Politick's Story
topic: slaying a dragon
characters: 2 men, 1 woman (the men are scared, the women ends up killing it)
setting: dark castle
must mention: the dragon has yellow eyes

Hilda lit her torch, passing its flame on to the other two, until there was enough light to see down the gloomy pathway to the dungeons. Jack knelt, pressing his palm firmly onto the grisly ground.
     "She's here all right," he murmured.
     "Ay," Hilda nodded. "Which way, Hamish?"
     Hamish wet his fingers in his mouth, then held them above his head to test the air.
     "Air's hotter that way." Hamish pointed toward the dungeon doors with his torch.
     Jack cringed - he hated dragons. The vile things always ended up hurting him badly. He spoke weakly, "Hilda - you lead." Hilda sighed, before hiking up her armor -it was for a man, so it kept slipping down her slim shoulders- and strode towards the huge doors.
     She was about to yank them open when Hamish yelled, "No, Hilda! She's there! Right behind the door!" Hilda, whose hand had just grazed the wood, heard a deep growl and flinched, falling back and onto her rear. There was a hiss like gas being lit in an oven - and the whole door was in flames.
     Jack screamed as he saw the dragon nose its way through her bright flames. He saw brilliant eyes - yellow as the gold buttons on the king's lapel. Then Hamish yelled - and Jack saw Hilda thrust her sword into the dragon's flesh and watched it keel over, dripping blood onto the floor. Jack watched the creature die. He wiped his brow and closed his eyes.

Pica's Story
topic: slaying a dragon
characters: 2 men, 1 woman (the men are scared, the women ends up killing it)
setting: dark castle
must mention: the dragon has yellow eyes

     "Bernard, get over here!" Lissa's shout echoed in the near-empty courtyard.

     "Alright, you don't have to let the whole world know." Bernard and his page stepped into the courtyard to join her. 

     "What took you so long?" Lissa asked. 

     "I had to... show Alvin where to put the horses." He glanced around uneasily. "You're sure you want to go through with this Liss?"

    "Yes. And you can't back down now that you're a real knight. You even brought along that ridiculous page."

    "Excuse me," Alvin said quietly, "but I believe we have company."

    "Blast! Let's go, Liss. Please?" Lissa could see Bernard's knees shaking in his hand-me-down armor. He was much more frightened than she, but she wouldn't let him back down.

     "No. Come here, you big flying lizard, you. Let's see your worst." As she spoke, the "flying lizard" appeared on the rooftop facing them. Even Lissa had to gasp. When Bernard had taken this job, the people describing the dragon had failed to mention how terrifying it was. With cruel yellow eyes, razor-sharp teeth, and a barbed tail over 10 feet long, it snarled and flew, almost carelessly, down to the courtyard. Bernard was paralyzed in fright. Alvin was cowering behind Bernard. Lissa pulled the sword from her belt.

      "You're not so bad, are you?" she said. She smiled and swung her sword. Now, she thought, at last I am the kingdom's champion.

The Politick's Story

topic: roadkill

characters: young boy, elderly woman

setting: late 1800s

must mention: someone loses a shoe

Thomas waved goodbye to his grandmother before stepping outside of his house into the heated June day. On the front porch rested his shoes. Thomas already felt the stickiness of sweat spotting his neck. His mouth was as dry as cotton - which was fitting because he was off to pick some for his grandmother from the field across the dirt road. He pulled on his boots, not bothering to lace them - his fingers already felt heavy and clumsy. He snagged his straw hat from the hook on the porch's column and staggered down the front steps.

     Thomas saw heat shimmering on the road. He walked up alongside it.

     BEEP!

     "What...?" Thomas stammered.

     BEEP! BEEP!

     A car was approaching - and fast. A shiny black one. 

     "What? But cars don't ever come through here..." The car was getting closer. Thomas stared. Heat made him feel detached - he was tired.

     A hare hopped onto the road. The care was so close. It startled Thomas back into reality; he lauched himself back and as if in slow motion he saw the car's wheels run over the hare, flattening it. And he saw a shoe, his shoe, that had slipped off as he fell - nestled beside it.

Pica's Story

topic: roadkill

characters: young boy, elderly woman

setting: late 1800s

must mention: someone loses a shoe

Agatha sighed. Late again. What her son would think of her now. "Charlie! What's taking so long?"

     "I can't find my shoe, Agy!" Charlie's freckled face appeared over the bannister. "It's disappeared!"

     "Oh, Charlie. Just get another pair then." She sighed again. That boy. 

     "Why are we going to see your son anyway, Agy? Can't we go to the park instead?" Charlie's shout came from inside his room seconds before he came, hopping as he tied his shoe, out himself.

     "No, Charlie. Jerry has a surprise for you. Pop in the carriage, now." She followed him in and rapped to the roof of the carriage to get the driver going.

     "Jerry? Is that your son? I've never met a nanny's son before." Charlie bounced up and down in his seat. 

    "Yes, dear. Now settle down until we get there."

     When they finally arrived, Charlie was practically bursting with excitement. "Wow!" he shouted. "Jerry tests out new cars?"

     "Yes siree. And as a special treat, he'll let you see one of the tests. Look, there's one now." Charlie leaned over the fence as the car sped by at over 15 miles per hour.

     Suddenly, his face became worried. "Agy, look! A bird with a broken wing, right in the middle of the road! The driver will see it, won't he? Won't he?"

     "I hope so, Charlie. I do." 

     The driver finished his test and parked the car. Charlie slid down to sit with his back resting against the fence. He began to cry.

     "Agy? I want to go home."

That's all we have for now, but I am hereby challenging the Politick (are you reading this, Politick?) to take one of the stories from the second game and to turn it into a short story at least 1 page long typed. AND take the other and turn it into a short story under 150 words. You have until May 30th (Monday night) at 11:59. Good luck.

Hopefully we will have many more posts of our writing games in the weeks and months to come. For now, we'll get back to Rudolph & Isadora starting tomorrow (I'm getting an extension on my post because I took the time to type up all of the writing from today) and The Golden Night whenever I get around to it. Have a great Memorial Day Weekend!

Pica

Part 23

Rudolph was sitting beside Alisen one afternoon when it happened. Alisen had been tracing patterns onto the ruddy floor and humming quietly while Rudolph tugged at a loose string hanging from his tunic. Each time he pulled, trying to snap it off, it unraveled a bit more, until he had removed half an inch of material. Suddenly he felt a cool hand on his, pulling it away from the mess of string. He looked up, right into the green eyes of Alisen. Alisen who was holding his hand, smoothing it out, then setting it on his lap. She looked down once, a light pink arcing over her cheekbones. Her hair swung over her face, obscuring it from Rudolph. Without thinking he reached for her hair to push it back- to be able to see her eyes once more, but she backed away. He followed her as she weaved her way in and out of the high piles of cushions and fabrics. He was reaching out to take her arm, when she spun on him and blurted:

"I loved Willem! I loved him and he's dead..Oh he's dead, he's dead, he's dead..." She hugged herself tightly, sunk to the floor, and balled into a tight knot. "He's gone now and I cannot betray him, not ever."

Rudolph crouched next to her. He thought of Isadora. How long had it been? He felt awful. Away from her from not even two weeks and already he was falling for another girl. And he was sure she was falling for him as well. She just...Well she just understands more than I do about how terrible it is to cheat on someone you care about. But Willem is gone. She is under a lot of stress. I understand...I hope.

Rudolph and Isadora, Part 22

As Isadora's week went by with Quin, Rudolph was getting more and more frustrated stuck in the cave. Alisen and he were well taken care of, but Rudolph was used to spending time outside from his years working as a stablehand before he had, somewhat impulsively, he had to admit, run off with Isadora. Alisen was well-used to living in the cave, and she kept him company, telling him about herself and asking questions about the world outside, which she had not seen for many months. Taliss regularly brought them meat, which she hunted, and clothes, which Rudolph assumed she stole from laundry lines. The days slowly fell into a pattern, which Rudolph slid into neither meaning nor wanting to. He mourned the loss of green grass and walks in the woods, but did not dare approach Taliss to ask for a day in the sunshine. But Alisen filled his days with quiet conversations as they learned about each other and made plans for someday when they had the courage to escape.

Part 21

Isadora leaned back against the ancient oak tree, her long hair twisted into its steady roots and keeping her grounded. Quin was carefully ladling a portion of his stew- carrots, potatoes, and lamb- into two wooden bowls. He leaned back on his heels and blew lightly on Isadora's bowl before passing it to her along with a hand-carved spoon with a bird engraved into its handle. His thumb brushed against her palm as she tried to get a good grasp on it, and she felt her body tingle. She cursed silently. Rudolph. Rudolph. Rudolph. She chanted to herself.
It had been exactly one week since she had attempted to steal away that night. Quin had caught her that night and had walked her back to the house with an arm wrapped around her shaking shoulders. She had not been strong enough to leave that night, she realized. Isadora began to spoon the delicious food into her mouth with such a vigor it was as if she was willing it to give her renewed energy that instant. Choking a bit on the stew and earning herself a concerned glance from Quin, Isadora realized with a start that it had been Quin who rescued her when she had been stumbling around her first night without Rudolph. It was comforting to know there was such a person like Quin, a person who would always be there to catch her, to bring her back. But she also felt stiff annoyance churning in her bones. She needed to help Rudolph. She loved Rudolph. I do love him, she corrected herself with a frown. But I also love Quin.

This is why I love The Politick

First of all, good news! The Politick is back online, and we're both back to writing. Rudolph and Isadora posts will resume this week, hopefully tomorrow.

But anyway, that's not what I wanted to share today. The Politick and I were chatting, and with lack of a better topic, I said:

"I'm changing the subject. writing exercise - u have 120 seconds after i send u a segement of a short story to come up with a paragraph-ish of what happens next OR another part of the same story."

I then sent her this short segment of a story that popped into my head a few nights ago:
Clutching her small pink bag to her chest, she stepped reluctantly into the dingy shop.
“Hello?” she called. There was no reply. The displays sitting on the shelves had a light coat of dust. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Is anyone there?”
Still no response. She watched a spider crawl into a crack in the wall. She stepped forward. Her heels clicked on the concrete through the ragged rug. She pushed aside a curtain and peered into the back room. A man sat facing the wall, eyes closed, head slumped on his desk.
“Sir?” she asked. He didn’t move. She had come too late.

And then I said, "go."

60 seconds later, she sends me this:
"the shop was already closed. she squeezed her eyes hut and opened them, blinking rapidly to clear the colors that dotted her vision. the man was alseep. he was always asleep at the same time. the same time. she knew this, yet she had arrived too late. what was wrong with her? she needed to talk to the man. urgently. she hurried over to his side and tapped on his shoulder. a flash of light and a tugging behind her naval and she hit the wall with a sharp crack and fell to the ground with a sobbing groan piercing the silence. she glared at the man. how dare he turn on his force field when he knew she was to visit him?"

It was so great. Her imagination knows no bounds. I am so lucky to be friends with her. She also sent me a piece of creative writing that I believe she will be posting on her blog, Curious Sparkplug, within the next couple of days.

Another thing I wanted to mention, which is one of the reasons I sent The Politick that challenge in the first place, is to say how wonderful it is to write with someone else. When I wrote those 7 lines, I could not continue the story. I was immediately overwhelmed with questions and directions I could take. Some people complain about not having enough to write - my problem seems to be the opposite. There is so much to write that I couldn't possibly get it all down.

Take the example of the story segment above. That tiny section of text opens up pages of potential things to write about. In my mind (although not in The Politick's), the man was dead. Okay, so if he's dead, who killed him? Why? Why at that particular time instead of some other time? Who is the woman? Why is she in the shop? Does she know the man? Is she looking for something? Does she know the killer? Etc on and on and on... and let's say he's not dead, the route that The Politick took, that opens up even more questions. I'm sure I could fill up pages with ways the story could go, and questions I'd have about where to take it. Actually, that could be a fun writing exercise...

Anyway, getting back to my point, writing with a partner takes away so much of that pressure. I feel very little pressure with these overwhelming questions when I write something like Rudolph and Isadora. Even if I did have something I wanted to investigate plot-wise, I could only do it in my couple of paragraphs. I can't plan ahead for anything, because 9 times out of 10, The Politick will take it in a totally new and unexpected direction. Which is good, because it keeps the story from getting stale. Also, in a story I write by myself (e.g. The Golden Night), I have complete control over how I shape my story. If I choose to go one direction instead of another, that's the way it's going to be and there's nothing to change it. But if I go off in my own direction on a shared project and I miss something important, I have The Politick to cover for me. Working together provides both a safety net, a fresh take on the story, and someone to turn to in case you have absolutely no idea how you're going to get from A to B. What I really want to say is, thanks, Politick, for writing with me.

Check back soon for new Rudolph and Isadora posts as well as a new segment of The Golden Night (I think I finally got chapter two in the general vicinity of where I want it. And it doesn't have to be perfect. That's what rewrites are for).

Pica

Waiting on Chapter Two

So I apologize. I started a new story and then it looks like I just stopped writing. But that's not actually what happened. I have rewritten what I have of chapter two so many times, I'm sick of it. I feel like I can't get it quite right. Any other creative writers out there with suggestions?

The Golden Night, Part One

Chapter One

My family has always been a family of weavers. As far back as anyone can remember, we’ve dealt in cloth. But now the cloth is gone from beneath my fingertips. So I will weave a story.

***

Alethia stepped quickly through the wet streets, avoiding both the large puddles every few feet and the curious glances from the passersby. She drew her coat more tightly around her slim frame to avoid the looks pointed at her waist, where a sash of golden fabric rested, shining in the pale morning light. Although her coat, shabby in comparison, kept out the cold, it could not hide the sparkling fabric, which drew looks from the townspeople who had never seen her in more than her roughly-spun country clothes. But she had to look her best today; she was going to see the king.
     Remembering her mission, she held her head high and advanced up the slick palace steps. She heard the muted hum of people just inside the doors, many awed by the grandeur of the entrance hall. Once a month, the king heard petitions from the people of the kingdom, often traveling to different regions to hear the people who could not come to the capital city. He was a good king, admired by the people. Rumors had spread that he had recently fallen ill, but he held court nevertheless.
     “What is your petition?” A tall man wearing the robes of a palace servant looked down his nose at her, pen poised over an official-looking stack of papers.
     Alethia was a loss for words. She had planned to explain her situation to the king, and ask for help. She didn’t know what to say to this goat-faced man. She had never needed to petition the king for help before. But now everything had changed; her family was ruined, and she had come into the city not knowing what to expect.
     “I… I suppose I’ve come for a job,” she stammered, saying the first thing that came to mind.
     “Well you needn’t have come to the king for that,” the man said, “but very well. Your name?”
     “Alethia, sir.” The man nodded, and she stepped into line with the other petitioners. She supposed the list would be delivered to the king, so that he would have some idea of what each person wanted. She admitted to herself that it was a very efficient system, although the king might have hired someone a bit nicer to write the list.
     Bouncing on the balls of her feet, she fidgeted nervously. However, as the minutes turned into hours, and the line moved forward as slowly as ever, her restless energy settled into a lump in the pit of her stomach. She had been one of the last people accepted into the line, and with few people behind her, she saw only the line in front of her stretching down the long hallway and disappearing around the corner. And who knew how long it went on after that? Several times she considered turning back, but each time she talked herself into staying, remembering her decision that this was her best chance.
     Finally she stepped through the grand doors leading to the receiving room. She saw that the rumors had apparently some basis in fact; although younger than Alethia had expected, the king looked very ill. There were guards on either side of the throne as well as a royal advisor standing next to the him. It seemed to take an eternity for Alethia to reach the throne. She curtseyed deeply.
     “You are Alethia, correct?” The advisor spoke first. Alethia saw that he was holding the list of petitions.
     “Yes, sir.”
     “I see you would like a job. What can you do?”
     “I work with cloth sir.” He throat felt dry. She wanted to tell her entire story, of the fire and the destruction of her family’s home and all the cloth they could not salvage. But she was afraid to say another word.
     “I see. That’s a very fine sash you have there. Did you weave it?”
     “No sir. It’s been in my family for generations.”
     “Golden cloth.” The king spoke for the first time. His voice was soft, and he closed his eyes as he spoke. “Just like in the old stories.” Alethia began to feel vaguely unnerved, although she didn’t know quite why. Perhaps it was the king’s slow, soft words. Perhaps it was because he didn’t seem to be completely lucid. Perhaps it was the way the king’s advisor kept staring at her, eyes flicking from her face to her sash and back again.
     “Let us create a story, Nukta,” the king said. “She shall make her golden cloth for us. If she creates cloth as fine as the sash around her waist, she shall be rewarded greatly. If not, she… What would make a good story, Nukta? Shall we exile her?”
     “Your majesty shall of course make the decision, but I propose some stronger incentive. I believe the old tales preferred threats of death if the task is not completed.”
     Alethia stared at him in horror. Was this man proposing to kill her if she did not create the golden cloth? And the king – was he so far gone that he accepted this? She tried to protest, but the king cut her off.
     “Yes, Nukta. We shall create a tale. We shall create a tale no one will ever forget.”

Even I admit that this break has gone on for a ridiculously long time...

Being a very busy person, The Politick apparently decided to completely disappear from the blogosphere for a couple of weeks. I've been chomping at the bit to get back to the story, but it's her turn to write, and I also didn't want to continue before I got a chance to discuss the changes we made. So I started casting around for story ideas I could work on myself, because I had fun writing for this blog every night, and hopefully you readers had fun reading new segments. I found one that seems promising, so I'm going to start writing that one, at least until The Politick gets back. I'm a little nervous about starting this story, because it would be so easy to mess up; I have an idea in my head of how I want it to be, and I'm not sure I can put that into words. But it's worth a try.

So until tomorrow,

Rudolph and Isadora Word Cloud

Today, Scott Westerfeld posted a Word Cloud of his upcoming book, Goliath. In his words, "Word clouds (made easy by the lovely and clever people at Wordle) are graphic representations of which words appear, and how often, in your novel, blog, or whatever. The words are sized, of course, in relation to how many times they pop up. Word clouds great for spotting words that a writer uses too often, like my terrible habit of people frowning before they say something, or my once-rampant obsession with the word 'effulgent.'"

I thought it would be fun to make a word cloud of Rudolph and Isadora (or what we have of it so far).

(click to enlarge)

Having Rudolph and Isadora as the largest words of the bunch are perfectly normal - the story is about them, after all. There are a few words that The Politick and I are going to try out weed out, though. "Just" is far larger than it should be, and "like" sticks out too (not sure whether that is overuse of similes or simply misuse of like, but we'll keep an eye out either way). There are a couple other noticeable words that will hopefully get smaller as we continue editing and as the story goes on.

We'll get back to writing new segments soon! Our editing break is almost done.

Gone Editing

Hi,
We're still editing away like crazy, so we haven't gotten back to the story quite yet. We'll be back soon though, and we'll let you know if we made any major changes so that everything is clear from here on out. We're mostly working on making sure nothing is contradictory (that happens quite a bit with two authors),  everything flows well (so it doesn't seem choppy where one person ends and the other starts), and giving our characters much more depth. By the way, double spaced in a Word document, our story is over 20 pages already!

Thanks,

Pica and the Politick