Writing Exercise: Vocabulimia

Vocabulimia is an exercise in building vocabulary. It's a play on the "use the word in a sentence" exercise we'd do in school.

I've pseudo-randomly selected four words that I either didn't know before or rarely use. These words come from my free "word of the day" subscription with Dictionary.com and Merriam-Webster.com.

I will use Word A in a sense consisting of one or two sentences. Then I will use Words A and B in a second sense. The third sense will have Words A through C. A fourth sense will contain all four words, completing the exercise.

The words are:

somnific: an adjective that means "causing sleep"

redivivus: an adjective that means "revived" or "brought back to life;" used after the noun it modifies

chagrin: a noun that means "annoyance" or "embarrassment" brought about by disappointment or failure; a transitive verb that means "to unsettle or vex by disappointment"

gaucherie: a noun meaning "boorishness or lack of tact" or "a tactless act"

*GULP* Here goes...

1) "For a political speech, yours was rather somnific," he said sarcastically. "Watching you was like living a dream."

2) He could swear he was talking to Hitler redivivus, though the man's piercing eyes had a somewhat somnific quality.

3) The agency's somnific sales pitch earned the chagrin of the chairman, who could easily have been Einstein redivivus with half the genius.

4) The Queen was known throughout the kingdom for carefully-crafted gaucherie, being readily chagrined by the slightest lapse in judgment. Many say she was the Empress redivivus, who perfected the "painful and somnific wave of the sceptre" when correcting her errant court.

Though the exercise is over, I could continue to make more: a fifth sense would have gaucherie, chagrin, and redivivus. A sixth would have gaucherie and chagrin. One last sense would just have gaucherie, which will even out the usage of each word.

But I'm tired.

From time to time, I will do other Vocabulimia exercises. If any of you want to build your vocabulary, why not try it out?

Fragment: : Magic (edited)

For those who have read the first version of the fragment below, I've made some edits to it. And to those reading the fragment for the first time, it's part of my inital efforts to get some writing done. I hope you'll like it.

The fragment is based on my illustrations, the first posted on my 12/24 entry (Drawing Inspiration), and the second shown here.



"There is no spell that exists that can purge your sorrow or anger completely," her mother once told her. "for sorrow and anger are cast by your own soul. Spells cast by the soul dwell in the realm of choice, and choice is the most powerful magic of all."

As her tears fell, she held herself through the dark, rough robes of her new calling, robes she felt weren't completely hers. She wanted to burn them if the wind weren't so cold, and even the thought of them breaking apart in smoke and ember did little to ease her. Towards the east she turned, catching a sweep of torchlights fading like an ebbing tide along the horizon, as the name she loathed burned in her mind.

Vederis. Vederis Bvarqa.

She held her small spellbook in her hands and stared at the leathered cover, feeling the tome's drowning weight despite its size. She protested when her mother had first given it to her, as she was fully aware of every writ and law made by every elder who had sat upon the village throne. It meant glory and death and both and neither, the uncertainty too incomprehensible and undeniably incomparable to her simple dreams of dance.

That was her choice, to dance--to enthrall with tamborin and arpa--and be rewarded by smiles and applause. Why was there no magic, she wondered, that was powerful enough to seal that choice for her? Why have the inspiring rhythms been cruelly replaced by a name?

Yet she knew mother was right. She could just strip herself of her robes, tear her spellbook apart, and run. But she also knew that to do so would deprive her of a far greater freedom--Vederis Bvarga would ensure that. As she tucked her spellbook into the folds of her robes, she convinced herself that her mother was wrong as well.

As she walked back to the tower, she reached into herself to see if her soul was still with her.

Christmas Battle

I spent Christmas Day battling an allergy attack. See, when the air gets really cold (air-conditioning doesn't count), it's either my skin tends to get itchy or I get a sneezing fit. The latter is worse--and thankfully doesn't happen as often--because it usually precedes a flu.

So I went to the drugstore in the morning to get some antihistamine tablets and a bottle of water, suppressing the urge to sneeze every two seconds or so. My little hand towel was moist from nose drippings. After the medication, I took a side trip to the bookstore to look over the self-help books, then went back home where everyone was beginning to have lunch.

After the meal, it was to bed for me. My joints were beginning to ache and I didn't want to let my condition get any worse. Even if my niece was warbling a few decibels above comfort levels over the karaoke unit we rented for the day, I fell asleep rather quickly. No dreams, no outer planar experiences, just bliss.

I'm feeling better today, despite a slight heaviness in my lungs. I complemented my antihistamine with a flu tablet last night. I have to keep this up so I could be in top shape again for work tomorrow. And I don't want to jeopardize my gym regimen.

Anyway, I hope you guys had a great Christmas!

Drawing Inspiration

My mind tends to get really active when it comes to images, and more often it is these images that inspire me when it comes to making up stories. The drawing shown here--something I did late last month--is one of those images that catalyzed a string of plot possibilities.

Yes, she's a sorceress, but not a very experienced one. She looks a bit raw, in fact, as her neophyte-y attire suggests. Then there's the tiny spellbook in her hand to complete the package. It's a windy night and she has a slightly troubled look on her face--an ounce of regret, perhaps--as if something beyond her control had forced her life through a sharp turn, and it's only now that she's feeling the repercussions.

Or something.

Again, the challenge is actually putting this story down on paper.

Anyway, Merry Christmas to everyone, and a Blessed 2006 to y'all!!

Milk Carton

I guess I was too presumptuous with my last post. Well, here goes...

"He saw the milk carton in the trash bin, and couldn't help but smile."

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Jonathan didn't feel like going home, but he had to. The past 24 hours had zipped by blessing him with a mere four hours of sleep and 20 hours filled with the nightmares of the waking world.

The day usually started with the morning coffee dutifully prepared by his wife, who always made sure she made it with milk, not cream. But not this day: the wife had packed and fled the night before just as he was redirecting the argument to flirtations and phone bills. It was one of those pointless verbal tussles couples would have when the relationship got too mechanical and uninteresting, though Jonathan feared he had stepped a bit too far when he threw the "mother-in-law" card on the table. Big mistake.

So he prepared the customary coffee that morning, but suffered through its black bitterness courtesy of an empty milk carton. He slammed the carton upon the countertop, and flattened it with his clenched fist, as the argument of the night previous ran like an afternoon soap through his mind.

He couldn't remember where the next twenty hours went, save for a collage of minor but frenetic events here and there swirling like a stew. Time would stand still whenever he attempted to find his wife by calling up her friends, even if he knew that the political conspiracy would've been instigated and no one would know where his wife was. Otherwise, it was an ordinary work day, where chaos reigned in an orderly fashion. The urge to sleep tempted him constantly, but he resisted on the fear that he'd dream about last night's stupid argument. After the day-long blur, he found himself walking like a zombie from his car to the front door.

Jonathan half-stumbled into the kitchen and saw everything tidied up, with the scent of a roast teasing from the oven. And when he saw the flattened milk carton in the trash bin, he couldn't help but smile. That's it, he thought. I'm asleep, and I'm dreaming she's home. She'll come down from the bedroom in her sheer nightgown and tell me how stupid our stupid argument was last night. Then we'll have dinner, make love, and make love again.

He moved toward the oven, breathing deeply as the scent of cilantro and rosemary mesmerized him. He knelt, opened the oven door, and peered into the darkness.

Opening Up To The Flow

I'm sitting here at 2:20 in the morning, thinking of what to write about. I wasn't able to do any writing these past couple of days because of work.

I used to be able to draw inspiration from even the most trivial or mundane things. Of course, to creative types, nothing is too trivial or too mundane. I speak from the point of view of the pragmatically-involved layman, who might find the real world too engaging to spend a moment to reflect on things profound, like the sensuality of dew upon grass or the insights inspired by an old milk carton.

I'm trying to get back to that, to the creative flow. To be "in the mood of being in the mode."

There are many websites that are home to ideas wannabe writers can use to flex their creative writing muscles. They host numerous prompts and ideas and inspirations and all the writer has to do is take off from them. These springboards can be as simple as how you spent your day, to being as cliché as enumerating the five things you want to do before you die. But these are mostly blog-material prompts in my book. I dunno, call me choosy. (And, yes, beggars can't be choosers.)

To me, a really great writer is one who's able to make anything interesting. He or she can make boredom the most interesting thing in the world. That writer can make cellular mitosis deliciously involving.

So, for those writers who visit this blog, maybe you can help me out a bit. Maybe you can give your two cents to breaking down this dam I have in my brain. How would you include the following sentence in a three-hundred word vignette?

"He saw the milk carton in the trash bin, and couldn't help but smile."

In blogspeak, I guess this means I'm tagging you.

Question to Writers

There are fiction writers who write for fun. There are fiction writers who write for profit. There are fiction writers who write for both reasons. And there for writers who are seeking to or are already making their beloved hobby their profession. They make their writing pay the bills.

In the many articles I've read about the publishing industry, most lament the sorry state of fiction publishing, attributing the slow dip in book sales to 1) there aren't enough readers, and 2) there are too many writers.

Not everyone can be a David Brown or J.K. Rowling, whose works fly off the bookstore shelf faster than you can say "royalties." Question is, can a fiction writer continue practicing writing for-profit and live comfortably even if he or she doesn't end up repeatedly on the bestseller lists?

I know that the regular visitors of this blog (yes, that's the two of you) may find their brows rising at my seemingly blasphemous question, but I'm asking out of curiosity. When Harry Potter: The Half-Blood Prince swept booksale records, some experts rejoiced at how the book "saved the publishing industry," a comment I feel is loaded with hogwash. Yes, the young wizard series cast a ray of hope that there are souls who still find magic in the pages of a book, but what about other books that don't talk about quidditch and muggles? What are the chances of the extremely talented writer of penetrating a market already choking with books of every quality? Is there a formula, or should we have faith in luck?

Exercise: A fragment

This isn't a real story, more like the beginning of one. Just wanted to see how far I could go. Apparently, it's still not far enough. But it's a fair start, I think.

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

She was bored, I thought. The wind was bored.

It wove and spun around me, tossing leaves to and fro with her million unseen hands, frustrated over the uncertainty of where to blow and why. I wondered about her, the wind. About how fortunate she was because of her freedom, and how unfortunate she was because she seemed to have too much of it and didn’t know what to do.

Autumn had a way of making me remember. Unlike the lively bursts of greens that flooded my eyes and lifted my spirits during the summer, there were the bulbous plumes of reds and yellows and golds, reminding me of the end of things. They brought back thoughts of what had not been done, what had been left hanging, as well as every promise that had gone unfulfilled. The wind sent these warm plumes dancing, devoid of a proper beat or rhyme, which seemed to provide her some amusement.

I had almost forgotten that he was sitting beside me, and that he had his hand firmly in mine. He was calmly looking at me as I watched the trees, though I couldn’t tell what he was thinking. Not that it mattered to me. We were used to these moments of silence, the comfortable yet strange kind, where I didn’t have to know what was on his mind any more than he needed to pry into mine. I suppose that’s what the past three years had taught us.

“We can always stay this way,“ he began. “I’m not really going anywhere.”

I smiled, and he smiled back.

Outpour

Last week, I was able to unearth a full-length play I had written in 1997 for an international contest. I was surprised the draft still existed. (Though I shouldn't be, since I keep a lot of my old things.) I went over it and was mortified at its attempt at profundity. The lines were uninspired and mechanical, and not a few of the plot points were....well, pointless. Then I thought, did this piece turn out so hollow because half my heart wasn't in it? Was it because I wrote the thing for nothing more than a flicker-dream of a cash prize?

I've heard of fiction writers who churn out their most moving works when the negative emotions begin to overflow. (Or, if you're Edgar Allan Poe, habitually inebriated.) It's as if the most potent form of creativity had decided that anger, anxiety and depression were the best places to set up shop. Like it thrived under volatile conditions.

I used to be in that place, wherein my desire to express myself creatively was indirectly proportional to my level of contentment. I've experienced how much my creativity went on overdrive as a way to pour out whatever turmoil I had inside. It can be cathartic, yes, but I don't want to become a writer who has to go cuckoo just to get a writing job done. It's emotionally tiring, and doesn't leave much energy for other activities.

Not very healthy, right?

This is why I want to learn the hard rules of form and structure, and whatever it is that professional writers learn. I want to learn about technique, the tricks writers use that get the message across with loads of literary gravity and less of the emotional investment. That way, I don't have to resort to stabbing myself silly. and writing my masterpiece in blood.

Challenge #1: Reading

I have a hard time reading fiction.

One of the common pieces of advice given to aspiring fiction writers involves reading, a near-voracious appetite for fiction. The practice is meant to expand horizons and provide hints to the many ways words can convey messages. Down the line, the aspiring writer can eventually, after much practice, forge a personal style.

Growing up, non-fiction was my apple. To be more precise, those thick hard-bound encyclopedia volumes were some of my best friends when I was a kid. I was hardly exposed to fiction so I never developed a taste for it. Now that I'm determined to be a writer, I've begun to take the hard road by reading as much fiction as I'm able to.

My cousin, ten years my junior, loves books. She started out at a young age with Sweet Valley High and Mills & Boon, then graduated to the heavyweights while finishing a Lieterature degree. She'd lend her books to me so I could share in the joy. After some time, I was able to finish Paolo Coelho's The Alchemist, Jeff Noon's Pixel Juice and Automatic Alice, and Jostein Gaarder's Vita Brevis, with varying degrees of difficulty.

It was the rich and playful Pixel Juice that made me decide to continue my education from square one--short fiction. For the past year, I've been regularly scouring the Web for stories posted online. After I choose a few selections (based purely on the titles and the first few sentences), I download and print them for later enjoyment. Reading time would take place whenever free time makes it appropriate and conducive.

Right now, I'm more receptive to fiction. My comprehension skills have improved a tad, and I believe I have greater insight on the different ways stories are told. But I've got a long way to go. Reading should be as much a habit as writing. I want to reach a point where I can put down "reading" in a hobbies-and-interests inquiry and actually mean it.

As for reinforcing my writing habit, there's this blog to help me. I think that counts for something.

Wanting for Talent

Everybody has a talent of some form or shape, despite beliefs to the contrary. That's one of the things that makes each person unique. In that junction that connects the heart, mind and soul lies at least one talent. It can go by the term "knack," if "talent" seems too high-brow.

I don't know if I have a talent for writing. In the past I've made the impression on observers that I have a special way of writing. They've pointed this out to me, and yet I'm still finding the whole nature of it. What makes it tick, so to speak. I've always considered the lack of endurance as my biggest writing challenge. I may have written a few articles and some poetry (a number of them published) but I've never completed a story to my liking. I stop midway through a draft, knowing precisely how it would end yet drained of the ammunition to physically complete it.

Thanks to the Web, I've been able to find lots of resources that can help me rediscover my writng skills, and maybe realize or reconfirm that there is talent there. If there isn't, at least I could reach a point where I can write fully and confidently, and later make some sense out of whatever drivel I compose. Magic takes years to perfect, and I promise myself I'd make as much time as I need.

There's a difference between writing, and writing well.
There's a difference between writing well, and writing brilliantly.
There's a difference between writing brilliantly, and writing magically.
And I wanna make some magic, too.

I Wanna Be A Writer!

Here is where I begin another journey.

I've written and have been published quite a bit in the past, but I've never considered myself a writer. I've been plodding along running on mostly instinct rather than writer-ly concepts like structure and form. So here's where I intend to begin and undertake my journey--a different one-- to learn not just how to write, but how to be a writer. The kind that makes up stories and writes them with enough beauty and energy and chutzpah that others will be compelled to say, "yup, he's a writer, and a good one at that."

While the above constitutes my core purpose for setting up this blog, I'm going to spice it up by writing down some of the minute and inconsequential details of my life, and even thoughts to be classified under non sequitur. And I will strive to write in an eloquent fashion. But if I fail at eloquence, I will at least make my posts readable.

Wish me luck.