Without some form of pleasure or some act of pain, our writing would be incredibly dull. Our characters would be boring. Our plot (another P word) would plateau (wow, another one).  Who would want to read  200+ pages about some guy who experienced neither? Not me. Heck no. Bluck. Boring. I’d rather suffer a paper cut (I’m good at this game) on my eyelid. Yes, yes I would.

I like to see characters suffer, even if only a little—though preferably a lot. Does that make me evil? Hmm…maybe. Do I relish the pain and suffering of others? In stories I read, oh YES I do! The more the pain and long-suffering a character experiences, the more enjoyable the read is for me. Just like an old country song in which the wife leaves, the dog disappears, the pickup truck stops working, and the girlfriend is in love with the best drinking buddy. That’s good stuff. That’s a story I want to read.

Will this guy ever become happy again? I want to know.

If the character was happy to begin with, stays happy, and becomes even more happy in the end—that just pisses me off. I hate that. Where’s the fun in that? Simply put, there ain’t none (excuse my use of “ain’t”—I’m in the process of writing my zombie western and I’m trying to stay in the moment while I blog this post. If more western drawl or slang terms come tumblin’ out, please forgive me).

The characters I write tend to suffer more than their fair share of pain. You name it; I throw it at them. It makes them stronger (don’t get me wrong, I try to keep it within the realms of reality—too much pain and I will depress my reader—no fun in that either). It allows the reader to sympathize with the character and root for them as well. The reader becomes their greatest cheerleader and continues to turn the pages in search of that ever hopeful happy ending.

At a writing seminar, one speaker presented this question to the group: “What is the very worst thing you could do to your MC?  What would bring your character to their knees, possibly destroying them completely in the process?”

Think about that. What would nearly kill your character?  You know what it is. I’m not talking about hot lava, earthquakes, silver bullets or stakes in the heart. I’m talking about the deeply emotional stuff.  

Need an example: I give you Harry Potter—for those of you who have seen this particular scene, you know what was done here. For those of you who haven’t, I refuse to tell you. I don’t want to spoil it.

J.K. Rowling did just that. She took from Harry the very thing that propelled him forward (in that book/movie).  It was pure genius.

I know exactly what would destroy my characters. I always have that in the back of my mind. Will I do it? Will I make my characters (my babies) suffer the worst possible scenario? Probably not. Could I? Of course. I think having that knowledge only betters my writing. I know what motivates my character, what pushes them onward. I know their fears—I like to take them to the edge and dangle them over the side. Am I tempted to push them over? No. Not yet. But that would be interesting.  

On the flip side—what about pleasure? Of course, I like that as well (I’m a naughty bird). I love to read about characters who experience pleasure and happiness. No gag me with a spoon details—that just makes me uncomfortable—but I do enjoy a character who’s given a temporary break from the pain, a momentary hiatus from life’s cruelty. They deserve it. They’ve earned it.

But I think I like the pain aspect a tad more.

Maybe I am evil after all.

Where do you reside? Pleasure Town or Painful City? Which do your characters seem to experience more? Please don’t tell me their happy all the time or I’ll send my character over to shoot your character in the leg.

Quotes for your enjoyment:

Pain is a poison; pleasure an intoxicant—Kedar Joshi
Pain is inevitable. Suffering is optional—M. Kathleen Casey
Pain makes man think. Thought makes man wise. Wisdom makes life endurable—John Patrick
Pain (any pain--emotional, physical, mental) has a message. The information it has about our life can be remarkably specific, but it usually falls into one of two categories We would be more alive if we did more of this, and, Life would be more lovely if we did less of that. Once we get the pain's message, and follow its advice, the pain goes away—Peter McWilliams

(Tad late to the party, but here’s my blogfest entry anyway. Oh, and I wish I could do morbid, but for some weird reason this is as morbid as I could get, which is kind of sad because there’s rainbows and stuff like that in here. Weird for a doomsday kind of blogfest, don’t ya think? And it sorta blows too. Sorry. )

Anyway, here goes:


“Angela Scott?”

Something doesn’t seem quite right here. A little too bright. Slightly fuzzy, and what the heck is with the harp music in the distance? Is someone baking sugar cookies?

I blink my eyes. Something’s definitely amiss here. Rainbows. Lolipops. Gumdrops. My childhood dog named Tuffy who died when I was ten. TUFFY! Sweet mother of--

I stumble backwards.

“Whoa there!” A hand on my wrist yanks me forward once more. “Watch your step. You almost fell off.”

Fell off?

Friggin’ heck!  Ohmygoshohmygoshohmygoshohmygosh . . . a cloud. I’m standing on a friggin’ cloud. Vapor. Vapor is beneath my feet. Total nothingness. I’m standing on nothingness. Someone slap--

“Holy cow!” I hold my cheek. “Why did you do that for?”

“You said someone slap me.”

“No I did not. I didn’t say a thing.”

Okay. This is weird. Who slipped me a little somthin’-somthin’?

“You need to be careful. If you fall off, you go to H-E-double hockey sticks.”

“H-E-double hockey sticks?  You mean Hell?”

“Shhhh . . . don’t say it. You can go there just for saying it?”

“Seriously? Jeez, what kind of a stiff joint is this place?”

“Well”—my companion beams with giddiness—“that over there, on that big cloud, beyond the pearly gates is Heaven. It’s beautiful. But you’ll just have to trust me on that one”—he chuckles—“Down there is Earth and way, way, way down there is Fire and Brimstone. We don’t like to talk about that.”

“So what is this?” I wave my arms to indicate the tiny cloud I’m standing on. No bigger than an eight-by-ten area.

“This”—he shakes his head—“This is your only option.”

“My only what?”

“Option.  But you can call it home if you like. Kinda nice, huh?”

“Kinda nice my sorry white—”

“Goodness gracious, will you stop with the vulgarities. You’re going to get me into trouble. See this is the kind of thing that keeps you from over there”—he points toward Heaven where my dog stands at the edge wagging his tail and licking the end of the rainbow—“This is why you have to stay here, where it’s safe for everybody.”

“Safe for everybody? What did I do?”

He tsk-tsk’s me. An awfully annoying sound.  “Oh, you’re never going to change, are you?”

I fold my arms across my chest. “Who the heck are you anyway?”

He extends his hand in my general direction. “I’m Death.”

I throw back my head and laugh. “You! You’re awful short to be death don’t you think? And where’s your black robe and scythe?”

He takes back his hand  and narrows his eyes. “Death comes in all sizes, shapes, and forms, just so you know. And black, well, it’s not my color. I prefer purple.”

“You know, the way you’re dressed and from all the delicious smells wafting over from Heaven, I would have thought I was in Willy Wonka’s land.”

He paces the tiny cloud we share. “Why, oh why, did I have to draw the short end of the stick? My mother said, ‘Be an angel, Herrald. Take voice lessons, Herrald.’ But did I listen? NO!”

“Hey! I’m not that bad,” I say.

“Really? Then why aren’t you over there talking to St. Peter?”

Boy, I want to chest bump that little guy off my cloud. “Well, I’m not experiencing Fire and Brimstone so that has to mean something.”

“That only means you weren’t quite good enough for either place.”

“You know what, Death?” I say, “I don’t like you. You’re like the ride home from Disneyland—totally not fun.”

Nahno McLein is hosting his first blogfest in celebration of reaching 60 followers on his blog. I'm trying to calm down my blogfest addiction, really I am, but this one just seemed to fun to turn down.

At first, he wanted to try and have a challenge of writing 60 cohesive words in 60 seconds. He, himself, only succeeded in writing 47. He amended the challenge to simply writing a 60 word piece of art, in any form. There is still time to take part, so check it out if you're interested.

Here is my attempt. Exactly 60 words. I'm and there's and I'll count as two words. It's a free-flow fiction story piece (not sure that term even exists):

“Keep the light on.”
“Why?”
He’ll never understand. “Because I’m afraid.”
“Afraid? Of what?” His fingers rest on the switch. His eyes narrow.
“Of that.” I point at the canvas on the wall. His art.
“It’s a painting,” he says. “That’s all.”
“No it’s not. It’s evil.”
“Evil?”
“Yes. Evil. Look at the eyes.”

First impressions are everything. Whether we're sizing up our blind date (Oh, my gosh. He looks likes George Costanza!) or trying to decipher if our manuscripts have the "IT" factor. Kristina Fugate is hosting a blogfest (see button above) to helps us find if we have "WOW" in our first 550 words. It's not too late to sign up. It's actually rather easy. What do you get for participating?  A chance at a $20 Amazon Gift Card AND you will hopefully receive some very helpful feedback.

If you need to email me, check out my About Me (Sorry, stupid linking thing on weebly isn't working. So  just go to the very top and click it) tab above or click over there--->. Email will be listed there. Thanks.

Here's my entry:

                                                         WANTED: DEAD OR UNDEAD

                                                                         Chapter 1

                                                                          Marked

The zombie saved his life. Normally, they don’t—it wasn’t within their nature—but this one did, and for that, Trace was grateful. 

            Because had that flesh-eating cowboy not limped its way into the saloon, causing a much-needed distraction, Trace was certain he’d be wearing a bullet between the eyes. The colt-peacemaker, cocked and ready, had not only marked him a liar and a cheat, but a dead man as well. 

            Trace didn’t view himself as a cheat. A liar maybe, but a cheat never, and he’d argue any man who thought otherwise. What one man defined as swindling, another defined as skill, and Trace felt he’d been blessed with an abundance of skill. Not many men counted cards to the extent he could, or bluffed as well either. Most men relied on the luck of the draw, but for Trace, luck had nothing to do with it. Instead, he figured it more prudent to determine his own fate. Grab the bull by the horns, so to speak. He held the same philosophy when it came to money and to those of the opposite sex. Up ’til now, he felt it had been working quite well. 

             Unfortunately, Trace hadn’t foreseen the cunningness of the poker player sitting directly across from him. He had figured the old man daft at first glance, an easy target, but appearances proved deceptive.

            But once the saloon doors swung open and the zombie wandered in, cheating, lying and stealing, became less of an issue. Staying alive, above anything else, became everyones primary focus. The timing couldn’t have been better.

             “Hell, that’s Bill Johnson!” Miss Krissee called from the balcony above. She pulled the Derringer pistol from the garter encircling her leg. If anyone were to know, it would’ve been her. Nearly all the men in town had visited Miss Krissee at least once, though no one ever readily admitted to it. 

                If what she said was true, and that creature was indeed Bill Johnson, it meant only one thing . . .

            The ailing disease had made its way to town.

            “Y’all better run,” Miss Krissee said. “He’s got it a’right. I’ve seen it before.”

            “Then someone should go fetch the doc.” A cowboy at the bar made the suggestion, but no one moved to do so. Trace didn’t blame them. Someone would have to push pass the zombie to escape the saloon, and no one was foolish enough to try that—unless they had a death wish, of course. Even though zombies were slow, they could be tricky sun of a guns too.

            “It’s too late for him.” Miss Krissee shook her head. “He’s already dead.”

            Trace knew exactly what she meant. There was no known cure, though many hot shots in the east, and even a few in the west, bragged about working on finding one. Didn’t matter no how. Cure or no cure, it was all the same. By the time a person sought out help of any kind, the infected person would become part of the walking dead before a powder could be swallowed or a shot injected into the arm.

            The only cure Trace knew of was not to get bit. Simple, yet effective. 

I am participating in the “Nifty Fifty Blogfest” held by Tizzy Potts  in celebration of reaching the fifty followers milestone (Yay, Tizzy!). She’s actually closer to 100 followers now, which is outstanding—cute girl, cute blog, what’s not to like? (Go check it out).  

As part of the contest, I have to write a blog post based on the theme FIFTY.  And as you all know by now, I’m a sucker for a good blogfest. It’s an addiction and I just can’t help myself.

I could write a poem, if I wanna. But I don’t. My poetry skills are sufficiently lacking (check out my Join Site poem over there----> ). I could write a short scene, if I wanna. But I don’t. I’m far too winded for such a task. I could write about a fiftieth birthday or anniversary or about 50 people kind of thing or about my 50 favorite things. But instead I chose to allow to go the way of YouTube and see what interesting things I could find.

Enjoy.

“So Angela,” you ask. “What have you been writing lately?”

I swallow hard. “Blogs. Just blogs.”

“What have you been reading? Any good books to recommend?”

I shake my head. “Sorry. No books. But I can point you in the direction of some really good blogs to read. What do you wanna know? Need to learn grammar? I’ve got a blog for that. Need to learn how to make a spud gun? I’ve got a blog for that. Need to laugh until you pee? I’ve got a blog for that too.”

Yep. It’s all about the blogging right now. Writing them. Reading them. I’m completely consumed. Obsessive really. I’ve become a stalker. It’s super sad.

“Oh, I think I left a comment yesterday on her/his blog. But their post today is really good. I’ll just wait and come back tomorrow. I don’t want them to think I’m weird or anything. Because I’m not. I’m totally not weird. I’ll just space out my comments. Every other day. Yeah. That’s good.”

I think it’s because I’ve finally figured out how this blogging thing works. I mean, I’ve been blogging for a little over a year now with a scattering of followers, writing whatever I felt in the mood to write. Super casual about the whole thing. A tra-la-la kind of attitude.  I didn’t even know how Twitter worked (still figuring out all the #, @ lingo <--that looks like I'm swearing but I'm not. Those are real signs people use, though I have no idea why). Really, it wasn’t until just a few weeks ago that I figured out how to place a followers/join site button on my blog.  Didn’t have one. Had no idea who was reading, if anyone was reading at all. I was completely blasé about the whole thing. I called it my “journal”.

And then BAM!

The Rach Writes Crusade.

Holy Monoly! Did you know there’s a whole writer/blogger community out there? Like kazillions of awesome fiction writers with blogs who write super cool stuff? People who know EVERYTHING?

My eyes were opened like a little girl given a brand new pony, or a child in a candy shop, or a writer told to go on a writers retreat. It was that fantastical.

I’m hooked. I’ve even (per Rachel) organized the blogs I follow in my Google Reader into folders. Yes folders. (Even as I write Google Reader, I want to go check my Google Reader to make sure I haven’t missed a thing. Who updated? I need to know. I like saying Google Reader).

It’s CRAZY! Super insane. I get that.

Yet, super fun too.

Thus the battle continues. 

So if you’re looking for a crazy writing chick to come stalk your blog and leave incredibly long comments (I’m working on that. I’m gonna try and keep them short and sweet. I just can’t seem to help myself) just let me know.

Just realize, once I have your blog info, I’m yours FOREVER.

*Note: I only blog Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Today is Tuesday. What the heck?

**Double Note: Diana, I know I need to work on my rough draft of Wanted:Dead or Undead. I know. I promise I will do it later. I just have a  . . . couple of . . . things I have . . . to do first.

 Crusader Challenge #1 (check out Rach Writes to play along): In 300 words or less, tell us:  one secret, one lie, one interesting quirk, one annoying habit, one of your best character traits, and one of your favorite things in the whole world. The post can be in any format, including poetry (for those poets among us), but must include the random words, “bloviate,” “fuliguline,” “rabbit,” and “blade”. Finish your post with something along the lines of, “I may have revealed something about me that isn’t strictly true, can you guess what it is?”

I didn’t realize how freaky of a person I was until I completed this task. But the sad thing is, any other answers would just make things worse. I read it to my husband and he said, “Yeah, that about sums you up all right.”

Great.

So here goes. It is what it is (and just as a note of clarification, I promise I’m a good and decent person):

If I itch, I will scratch until I bleed. The trigger that says, “STOP” is missing in me, disappeared eight years ago around the time of my daughter’s birth. I trim my nails (per my dermatologist) to keep the ten tiny blades in check. Annoying? Heck yeah. Just ask my husband.

“Just don’t scratch,” he says.

“It doesn’t work that way,” I say.

I tend to bloviate in my sleep, and I night walk too. I can hold full conversations, and I’ve been known to make it halfway down the hall before waking up. Scary? Heck yeah. Just ask my husband.

“Where are you going?”

“Not . . . sure . . .” I crawl back into bed.

When I was four, I dressed up as Bugs Bunny for Halloween (you know, the rascally rabbit that Elmer Fudd hated?) but I really wanted to be a princess instead. I think my mom got a deal on the costume. My mother has pictures of me with my friend Amy who is a beautiful angel—halo and all. I was jealous. I thought I looked like a boy.

My father is a fuliguline collector and displays his collection over his mantle. My mother collects thimbles and blown glass figures. I, given no other choice because collecting is my genes, collect vintage purses and costume jewelry. I loved my grandmother’s clutches and clip on earrings, so I started buying my own. I don’t use them. But I have them. I just love the 50’s.

I love peanut butter and mustard sandwiches with vinegar salt chips on the side (try it, you’ll like it), snorkeling in blue Hawaiian waters, escaping into a good book, and making people belly laugh. Ask anyone who knows me. It’s all true.

Except, maybe not. I may have revealed something about me that isn’t strictly true, can you guess what it is?

Hi. My name is Angela Scott and I’m a blogfest addict.

Hello, Angela.

It’s true. I have an unhealthy desire (more like obsession) to enter each and every blogfest I find. I can’t help it. It’s just kind of happened. It started with me signing up for one small one—a first line blogfest. Then it snowballed into another—first paragraph blogfest. Then it moved to mystery clues and 100 word sentences, and now, here I am, signed up for four more—ALL AT ONE TIME.

I wish I could blame it on genetics, but my parents aren’t even sure what a blog is:

“A blog? That’s nice, dear”—pat on the head—“Nice you have a hobby. Good for you. Can you hand me my spectacles? The ones on the gold chain, dear? Ahh, you’re such a nice girl. Take from my side of the family, you do.”

My parents aren’t really that old. And they don’t sound like Yoda either. (Notice last sentence. Not sure what happened there).

Blogfest Signs to watch for:

1)      A plethora of blogfest buttons on the side bar. (Me)

2)      A follower of dozens and dozens of AMAZING blogs (Me)

3)      Checks Twitter every . . . Okay, I’m back I had to go check . . . wait, I’m not going to tell you where I’ve been.

4)      Denial and excuses. (I don’t do this).

So why am I obsessed? Perhaps the better question is: Why aren’t you? (Add music that makes me look smart and tricky here. Dun, dun, dunnnnn!).

Blogfests are brilliant! They unite the masses, allowing folks from around the world to participate in games that will bond us as a people. How do they do that, you ask? By making us get to know one another. Whoa. That’s deep. I truly believe, that it will be by blogfesting that the world will someday find the peace it desires, and that wars and rumors of wars will cease. Mark my words. It’s gonna happen. Celebrity singers will gather to record a single called, “Give blogfest a chance.” And guess who will be first in line to buy that record (Yes, record. Vinyl all the way,baby)?  You guessed it—me *points to self* 

This is the direction blogfests are heading. So, unless you want to be left behind, you better jump on board. Again, I quote the Black Eyed Peas, because they have a way of saying the words my heart wishes to convey, “I’m so 3008, you’re so 2000 and late.” You don’t want to be 2000 and late. Join the blogfests. Invest in world peace. Someday, I hope to host one of my own. Wow. I can’t believe I just said that—that’s the power of the blogfest, baby.

So today, I present to you my Bernard Pivot’s Famous Questionnaire Blogfest Entry:

1)      What is your favorite word? Right now it’s iPhone (just got one and it’s Fab-U-lous)

2)      What is my least favorite word? Kidney Stone (I know it’s two, but it’s one concept)

3)      What turns you on creatively, spiritually, or emotionally? Music inspires me in all three cases. Every kind of music depending on my mood, or the scene I need to write.

4)      What turns you off? Farts

5)      What is you favorite curse word? Oh, boy this could get in trouble. I'm a Utahn. So, I only say things like Shoot and poop. But if you get me really angry, I've been known to drop a Gosh Darnit and Son of a Gun.

6)      What sound or noise do I love? “Honey, you sit. I’ll make dinner.”

7)      What sound or noise do I hate? “Honey, what’s for dinner?” (but farts is a close second)

8)      What profession other than your own would you like to attempt? Painter/Artist (of course it would all be abstract art because I have no artistic talent whatsoever. I’d probably just finger paint large canvases. Art is in the eye of the beholder, right?).

9)      What profession would you not like to do? The person who gives pedicures (see previous blog post. I really HATE feet. Really. Their nasty).

10)      If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates? “Hey, it’s Angela, everybody! She made it after all.”

Are you a blogfest addict? Wanna be? Check out my sidebar.

"There are so many of us out there. Aspiring authors, bloggers (whether established or beginning), industry peeps, even published authors, all of whom want to build their online platforms. We write insightful posts and articles, actively blog within the blogosphere, take part in challenges, competitions, and contests galore.

We have the passion and the drive to make it, but…we could all do with a bit of support.

So I started thinking. What if we link all these people together? What if we create a way to meet people in a similar position, people who genuinely want to help build our online platform while at the same time building theirs? People who want to pay it forward in the spirit of writerly writerness and blogging beautificity (and see it come back to them in turn).

And so my Writers’ Platform-Building Crusade was born.

Basically, the Crusade is a way to link those within the writing community together with the aim of helping to build our online platforms. The Crusaders are all bloggers in a similar position, who genuinely want to pay it forward, make connections and friends within the writing community, and help build each others' online platforms while at the same time building theirs.

I’ll list your names and blogs on my List of Crusaders page so you can keep in touch with the other Crusaders. And you’ll have a list of bloggers in the same position as you, who genuinely want to help you succeed. You can visit their blogs, follow along, leave comments galore, and share your highs and lows as you journey through the blogosphere and build your online platform. And they'll be doing the same for you.

Join here: Rach Writes