Wordy Day 2 Mario Bernadett: Lost on an island. (Probably not a desert island, despite whining to the contrary.)

........Darn it! I missed another one again. Does it make things any better that I thought today was Wednesday?
If you were lost on a desert island, what would be your first thought?
Would you panic? Would you panic and then immediately go searching for water? Would coconutes be at the top of the list of things to find, or would you just walk along the edge, heedless of your waking nightmare of a shark suddenly deciding that it's time to try life on land just to eat a lil chillin. (I figure they'd talk without pronouncing any consanants hard, ya know, teeth. Way too many teeth makes it hard to speak and never mind that whole, head's kinda just part of the body so, no neck and probably no voice box.
They'd have to be sharks with translator collars but it wouldn't matter because they'd go on land and they'd. Eat. You! Aaaaaaaaaaah! That is what I'd think about. That's exactly what I'm thinking about so, even though it might be good to go out on the coast and try to get someone's attention, I'm sitting curled up on a rock, being as still as possible so that murderous gorilla monkey hybrids do not EAT MY FACE OFF.

My name is Mario Bernadett and I am a casualty of a yacht accident. It was my sister's yacht. I am twelve. I do not get a yacht. After this, I don't think I want a yacht. Unless my parents have a tracking device planted in my clothing (not in me, egh! I can't stand scalpels) and can send it to me RIGHT NOW.

I'm sorry if I'm shouting. I sorta thought that since this is in my own head, I wouldn't have to deal with critics.Who am I kidding. It never works that way. Give it enough time and my older sister, the one who GOT ME INTO THIS MESS, ah, sorry, will pop up in my head and start interrupting me.

"So, whatcha doing?" said a familiar, nasal feminine voice. My head sagged and the voice continued. "Curled up on a rock, how effective. Wait here long enough and I'm sure you will be found. Maybe they'll even tell you what a brave little boy you are." Her voice took on a tinkling quality, the nasal haughtiness fading away as she drove the point in deeper with fake sympathy. "Oh, I know. I'll go get help." She began to laugh and I frowned. She was only being Sybil, nothing new and in real life she really wasn't so bad.

Wordy Day

I misssed it!
Darn.
I missed a Wordy Wednesday so, today, is wordy day. It doesn't sound so great but whatcha gonna do, right?
I'll just take my licks and keep on ticking.
(today appears to be a silly day, or, possibly a dumb day. Take your pick?)
(This was begun on Thursday when I realized I'd forgotten. I decided to work on it some more that evening when I was settled in, Instead I got ill)

(This is what I mustered up today)
Sooo. This...Is it. I'm sick. I'm licked, ,I'm ticked off and my brain just clicks, again and again, not connecting the threads of the wheels inside me head that spin when I'm well, and make the stories, the writing gel, properly.
I wonder why I'm not stopping me.
I guess I think of myself so loftily,
That I can't help but continue,
Until I receive some injury,
To convince myself,
When enough is enough.
ldska;fjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjj
...Wow. That was interesting. I managed to tell myself that enough was enough by an unknown combination of keys and track pad swipes while I was trying to type, to select and then remove all text save for a d. I fixed it though but I caught the hint. I'm done for today. And late, for a Wordy Wednesday.


This is what you get, when I am sick
Two days late, but willing to fake, enthusiasm, indubitably!

Wordy Wednesday Four

I'm gonna try to keep this story running for a few Wednesdays. I like this girl. She's weird.
Today is just a taste.

Wackadoodle Girl

“….Wackadoodle all day. Mm mm mm mm, mmmmmmmm….Aw, fuck it.” Carrie gave up as she lost sight even of what the tune for the song was.  She’d better things to do. She looked up from her feet to the student body who wandered past below the little terrace she’d climbed up on. She scuffed her feet on the grass. Like not sing a silly song she didn’t know the lyrics to after lunch period had let out and everyone, including her, was going to class. She blushed and walked nonchalantly to the edge of the raised bit of turf, like a little garden, and stepped off, practice allowing her to land without a jolt.

“Nice,” said one of her, she assumed, classmates, a girl with thick brown hair, brown eyes and an impressive rack, or, that’s what Carrie saw from the corner of her eye. She didn’t like looking directly at people, especially when she was trying to walk. 

She nodded and dashed a glance the girl’s way. “Thanks.” There. The exchange was done. She’d interacted. She felt happy to have done it and relieved that it was over at the same time. She’d be pleased with herself for hours even if no one else talked to her during that time. Carrie was simple. She didn’t need much praise to run hot. 

WW3; What I've Learned

I used to have a dog. I used to be neurotic. I used to be greasy and short and skinny. I also used to get a decent amount of attention from boys, I think because I excrete a lot of pheromones. I’m pretty sure that’s it because I’m doubly sure that I smelled a bit, too.

I am a…Ninja, sort of. I could wander around the school, eat my lunch outside on the grass or just sit around pretty much anywhere and no one would tell me I didn’t belong.  I could also be in a group, even talk with a bunch of people and have that group forget I was there. I chalk it up to choosing not to have much presence. It can become very annoying and I can’t always turn it off, I especially couldn’t in high school. Good camouflage doesn’t just disappear. You’ve got to know it’s there before you can take it off. You also have to know how to take it off and that’s something that I, with all my fears and causes for annoyance, was not so good at figuring out how to do.

High school was fun for me, after the first year, when I panicked and despite the two middle years when I just decided not to struggle too hard against my mediocre grades since trying made me too worried to function very well. My dog was one of the few nice things, my selfish, long-haired, cat-like dog who never wanted to hang close to you unless you were constantly petting him. Still I loved the dog, even though he was a daily reminder that people won’t get close to you unless they want something from you. Of course, that’s true and it’s not some horrible thing that limits my regard for the human and animal races. Life is based on giving and receiving things. We are pack animals. We gain good feelings from giving things but we don’t always like to give. Sometimes someone has to give something back.

It’s a terrible thing to just be happy with giving, unless you have some limits. It’s a terrible thing to be unselfish, unless you can decide when you must be selfish. Being nice is good. Being selfless and infinitely forgiving may be very nice for cultivating inner peace but it can backfire. We are built on a sequence of pushing and being pushed and those that are only pushed, are likely to get pushed much farther towards the edge. You must limit, otherwise, it’s hard for those that take to know how much is too much. I’m not saying they mean to, only that standards are based on experience.

I like knowing this. I like not believing that people will automatically give you what you want, like some people do, even if it is true for them. (Pushing and being pushed again.) I like not to demand too much, though I often fail. I suppose I could just demand what some believe to be their fair share, but I’d feel like an ass, so I don’t.

I’m less smelly and greasy now. I’m less nervous. I’ve learned several things. Of course, that is a sign of progress but I’d like to learn so much more still.

I’m rambling. Hey, look, I’m putting myself to sleep.  Whatever you believe, fine. What I have said is pretty obvious. It’s just how much you simplify it.

Me. What I Do and Why I Do it

So, I get antsy, always. When I don't get antsy, which doesn't happen often, I'm lazy.
I get depressed. I get mean. I get maudlin. I've come to understand that part of why I do this is because it's kinda fun. Also, I figure I'm entitled to get emotional. Everyone else does.

I still haven't decided if I want to stop doing that. On the one hand, it's kinda invigorating and it's good to get frustrations out, on the other, I'm like an aging former prima dona after a while. You just can't get me off the stage and I still think I can play a seventeen year old girl with jiggly breasts even though my own have long since deflated. I need to recognize when the fat lady has sung and figure out what the fat lady and her singing, is in this context.

This is a post to explain what I do.
I got very depressed somewhere around last November. It was real. It was bad. It was really, really painful and it lasted way too long. This was actually when I could write. There was National Novel Writing Month and I had a decent story. I didn't finish, by the way. The third week I couldn't function. Go figure. Still, I've finished since then. That story is The Wind-Up Terrier which you can read about here on my, I'm Writing, page.
Eventually, I got over my panic and other stuff. But one thing that I began to do which is a habit I'm proud of is to work. I always have something I'm doing when it used to be that I felt I was entitled to put things off because I was special, I guess. What I mean is, I do dishes, I cook food, I empty dishes and I clean. I also have some hobbies that I had begun long before I was stuck in the situation where I got so depressed but that I actually completed projects of which had been enormously difficult for me in the past.

So, I do stuff. Now I'm in the mood to do even more stuff, which is fortunate because I had been in a mood to barely write and have difficulty reading pretty much anything. Because of this, my book wasn't quite as good as I'd like it to be (little typos, not many but enough and some small inconsistencies) Now I'm fixing it and biting my lip that I can't add another twenty thousand new words of stuff. That would be making it a different book.
 Instead, I'll put the stuff I want to tell you about in the other Through the Wormhole book I'm currently working on, Snow Sands: Through the Wormhole, Book 1. I think it'll be a blast. You can believe me on this. I only say things like that when I'm in a good mood and when I'm in a good mood, I'm prolific and florid, but in a good way.

WW2 To Die or Live

Well, look at me. I remembered that I needed to post on Wednesday. I even remembered earlier today, then I completely forgot until now, two hours before it won't be Wednesday anymore.

I'm a silly, willy goose, aren't I, Just?

Here's something I wrote when I was feeling depressed. Since it's me, it became about a murder, not a suicide. I might pursue the story some time in the future. I was watching Sherlock at the time and Miss. Marple and Poirot so I guess it made sense to switch it to a murder. I'm watching Midsomer Murders right now so I'll probably be able to write more about it later.
I hope you enjoy.

To Die or Live

I want to either die or to live. I do not want to have this half-life. It’s either and, at present, it seems like my most accessible option is to die. I have nowhere else to go. I have no money or lands to my name and my mother’s name is severely in debt. Should she die before me, I will be without home and paying off promises that I myself had no part in the making.  It is a matter of continuing to live without prospects and almost completely alone in my mother’s house on this forsaken bit of bog until she dies and I am thrown out or to die with some modicum of dignity in a manner and time of my choosing. I say to you I choose to control my life and my death.

I choose to die.

Three hours after penning those last four little words, Maurice Pennington was found drowned in the bog just outside his mother’s cottage by a group of hunters and their basset hound, who had been looking for duck.

This was quite odd since Maurice had never intended to drown himself. He was not weighted down so it was determined by the hunters with mutters of, “Nasty business, aren’t it?” that he was helped to his death by someone pushing his head under and keeping it there until he stopped his struggles. His mother was quite distressed and stood wringing her hands at the window, her rheumy eyes staring out in the general direction of her son’s body both before and long after the constabulary came to examine the body and it was taken away. Some generous soul had come up with money for the poor boy and so he went from there to the undertaker. 

The Perfect Book Blurb

...Once again, I have had an epiphany  The blurb and extended synopsis aren't right. Instead of an exciting shot of emotion invoking prose, I have a sedate walk in the desert complete with a tea party.

I do this sometimes. I don't deal with difficulty by recognizing it immediately. I see a problem and then try to deal with it, becoming satisfied that I have until some time has passed and my brain has had more of a chance to figure out what exactly the solution is. I can do this several times. It's how I edit books and it's apparently how I write a blurb.

This time, I'm more prepared, perhaps so much so that I can, write a damned decent blurb for once!
I've been doing research on other blurbs and I've been looking at resources on how to do a blurb/synopsis properly.

http://www.lightmessages.com/lmjom/writing/229-how-to-write-a-book-cover-blurb.html

http://romanceuniversity.org/2011/11/23/5-top-tips-for-writing-a-compelling-book-blurb-by-amy-wilkins/

I will restate what I have gleaned, as well as what I have learned on my own.

A book blurb is not a mini synopsis, at least not the first paragraph which is to a blurb what a lure is to a fish which is why it's called a hook, I say as if that wasn't obvious. I say paragraph, because it is but the first one can and probably should be a max of three sentences. Hook, lure and line, I guess.
the hook is an intriguing sentence. The lure is the motivation and the line is something mysterious or a teaser that something else is happening that you have to read the book to find out.

Here are my past attempts at writing a blurb for Snow Sands. It's really, really redundant and if you don't care to read something similar over and over and over again, you could just scroll down to the latest. I won't be offended. I was struck by how banal they were when putting them on here.
Happy writing.

Attempt One: A girl, an undead talking cat, and no way to get home from a desert country many worlds away from their own.

Attempt Two: Hayley and Oliver are stuck in a desert in another world, one with magic and war brewing, where everyone has an agenda, even when they say they only want to help.

 Attempt Three: Hayley wakes up to find that she is in a desert, her bedroom furniture is in the desert and her cat is in the desert, supposedly doing calculus in the sand. It seems to be his fault that everything is in the desert. Hayley is surprised. Sure, Oliver disappeared for a while and then came back talking, claiming that he had died and come back because of her drawing a sketch of him, but that wasn’t so odd. He was her cat.

Attempt Four: Hayley is a cheerful, robust girl whose only recent trauma was losing her cat. She was very sad for a long while. Now she's not so sad because her cat, Oliver, came back from the dead and can talk. He can also, apparently, use magic and move her and her bedroom furniture into the middle of a desert in an unknown location. Hayley is not happy with Oliver. She also would really like some clean clothes, and some ice cream.

Attempt Five:Hayley wakes up to find that she is in a desert, her bedroom furniture is in the desert and her cat is in the desert, supposedly doing calculus in the sand. It seems to be his fault that everything is in the desert. Hayley has trouble coping and hides beneath the bed-sheet, hoping it will go away. It doesn't and she finds that the cat doesn't know how to get them home.

Attempt Six: Hayley woke up to find that her bedroom was in a desert. She was displeased, no, shocked, especially when her cat admits that it’s his fault they ended up their in the first place. Hayley wants to get home. Oliver, her cat, despite having transported them in the first place, has no clue how to get them back.

Attempt Seven: Hayley is a teenage girl, rather gullible and slightly manic but happy enough with her life. That is, until waking up in an alien desert accompanied by her cat, Oliver, who is the one who put them there. Hayley feels pretty unhappy about all this, especially since he can’t get them back. All they can do is walk and see if they can find someone to help them in what turns out to be another world with lots of magic but showers few and far between. 

Attempt Eight: Hayley is suddenly thrust into a world she doesn’t understand with her cat, Oliver. She discovers magic and makes friends but her driving force is to go home.

 

Attempt Nine: Hayley is special. She came through a portal in the sky and she can do magic even though she doesn’t have blue eyes. She also has a talking cat and wants to go home. People are only too glad to help her though their motives are unclear.

None of these work. Some get close and then I seem to lose it for a bit but none really work. With that said, here's my latest. It's almost there, not quite but almost. 

When Hayley wakes up on a desert world, she blames her cat, Oliver and hides under the sheet, hoping that this is all a dream. It isn’t. They set out to find a way home but in this world of magic, shape shifting and sand that gets everywhere, nothing is as clear-cut as it seems.