Writing Original Fantasy

Yes, I know this class is focused on creative nonfiction, but the other day I was thinking to myself, how can someone new possibly write true and completely original fantasy fiction??

My dream is to get published someday (after all, what writer's dream is not to get published?) and I'm addicted to reading any type of fantasy. Putting two and two together, I have a bunch of notes of a fantasy trilogy I'd love to write for--yes, insert sigh here--adolescents.

Obviously there are the Epics: Lord of the Rings, Game of Thrones, The Sword of Shannara, writers like Piers Anthony, Terry Brooks, Robert Jordan, and David Eddings. All of their books and stories stand equally and uniquely apart, while maintaining the same essential elements of good fantasy plot and characters-- mythological creatures, good vs. evil ideology, well-developed villains readers love to hate, multiple characters and subplots, and turns at every corner.

And there are "Epics" for young adults as well: Harry Potter, Eragon (The Inheritance Cycle), The Mortal Instruments, His Dark Materials, The Hunger Games- I REFUSE to include Twilight for obvious reasons. Please.

But, how do I sit down and write a web of a tale, and do it in an original way? I started writing about two brothers, one good and one evil, and I paused. It's been done how many times? I started writing about dragon knights, but stopped before I got too far--I was afraid it sounded too much like Eragon; I tossed it in the trash. I thought of centering the story around a girl who becomes the first female dragon knight--but hasn't that been done also?

It's very frustrating to come up with original material when I read so much. Things all sound the same to me. So if anyone has any ideas on how to come up with something truly unique and original, I'd be glad to hear it. Or maybe I should just realize that all fantasy is alike; it's pulling different elements into your own story and tweaking them that makes it different.


Here's something I've been working on:
 

The two met in a dark corner of an abandoned library. Thunder rattled the windows, lightning illuminating the murky stillness of ageless books. Firelight crept along the bookshelves, shadows surrounding the candles mounted on the wall. Cobwebs hung from the ceiling to floor, dust hanging thickly in the air. Their cloaks were soaked from rain, but neither noticed. They were too focused on conniving a plan.

Neena hovered her hand over a candle flame, her huge violet eyes casting an annoying glance at the pouring rain raging outside. The other, a boy, merely shrugged, shuffling his feet from side to side, an anxious look on his face.

“You’re nervous,” she noted, tone laced with disapproval.

He ignored her. Instead he asked, “Are the Knights going to be a problem?” He kept looking down at his feet, unsure of the battle going on inside his heart.

Neena rolled her eyes, snuffing the flame out with her fist. Her Superior thought this boy would be capable of doing exactly as he was asked in the days ahead, but she had her doubts. He looked no older than seventeen, his dark hair falling into his face clumsily. She shook her head.

 I'll just keep working, and reworking, and hopefully, by spending more time developing my ideas, it'll become my own.

 

Ms. Stockett

A week ago today, I had the most incredible, amazing opportunity to go see Kathryn Stockett, author of the best-selling book, The Help. The Scottish Rite Cathedral in Wyomissing, PA was her ONLY tour stop. And I was fortunate enough to be one of the thousand people that were in attendance.

Let's rephrase that. Yes, I was one of the thousand people there, of which probably ten were men, and looking around, I had decided quickly I was one of the youngest, if not THE youngest person there. (My aunt had leaned over and said, "Kayla, I'm pretty sure you're the youngest person here. There's a lot of old people here..." to which I replied, "yes...and a lot of dentures.")

The auditorium filled up quickly, all in anticipation to see and hear from this amazing woman who wrote about the 1960s south. The Help centers around how white women treated their "help" back then; essentially, how the black help was treated in the home. I'm sure a white female author, telling a story from the perspective of two black women in the 1960s has caused Kathryn Stockett a lot of unnecessary hardship. As someone pointed out later in the evening, almost 99% of those in attendance were white. To this, Ms. Stockett replied that she's talked in front of groups of whites, and groups of blacks, but hardly ever did she talk in front of a well-mixed crowd.

Her book may tell a story set fifty years in the past; however, there are universal truths that will always be present in this world. She talked about growing up in the South, how her grandmother had a black maid named Demetri; and although she loved Demetri, and Demetri knew every last hair on her head, the first time she saw Demetri out of her white uniform, was in the casket. Eye-opening stories poured through the author's mouth last Thursday about her experience writing the book, what inspired her to write it, and the SIXTY rejection letters she faced for five years before her book was finally published.

Hysterical, cute, friendly, typical southern-accent out of a movie, Kathryn Stockett captured our attention for over an hour, reading excerpts to us, talking about Demetri, and also talking about her experience during the movie-making process. She came out on stage, and the first words she spoke were, "Shit! There's a lot of people here! Holy crap!" which ensued several seconds of loud laughter from everyone in the building; it was a great icebreaker.

And of course, there was a Q & A session; I wanted to ask so badly, "Do you have any advice for aspiring writers?" so, timidly, with the next-to-nothing self-confidence that I have, I raised my hand, and one of the microphone guys saw me and nodded. I was next to ask a question! Nervously, I turned my attention to the person before me who was speaking. Her question? "Do you have any advice for aspiring writers?" SHIT! I think frantically, what to do--turning to my aunt, she goes, "Think of something!" No crap.

So the microphone guy comes over, and I'm suddenly aware that number one, I'm the last one to ask a question, and number two, how silent 1000 people can be. Something came out along the lines of: "Hi, I'm Kayla, I'm a huge fan obviously as we all are...I'm currently studying writing in college..." which sounded like: I'mcurrentlystudyingwritingatcollege. "And I had to think of a question fast because she actually asked what I was going to and I was like crap!"  to which everyone started laughing and put me at ease. So I asked, "Did you always know you wanted to be a writer and when did you first know you were going to be one?"

Ms. Stockett responded by saying she ALWAYS knew, ever since she wrote her first short story in grade school and "sold it to some sucker on the playground and made a 50% profit." And after she talked a little bit about that, she looks back at me, hand shielding her eyes from the bright lights that were on her, and she asks, "You're in what? College, high school?" and I respond, "College." And this is what she responded with:

"Well I'm just going to tell you don't EVER give up on your dream. There's going to come a point in your life when your parents are going to come to you and tell you 'it's time to put the dream away, it's time to get a real job, we're done supporting you'. Don't listen to them. They're lying to you! They'll actually support you forever!" To which everyone laughed a lot, she bowed (remember, I was the last question), and we all gave her a standing ovation.

I wish I had more opportunities like this to see the authors and writers I admire so much. To be rejected SIXTY times, and not give up--it's such inspiration and motivation to me to never give up on my dream of being a published novelist of some kind. As she said, "What if I would have given up on rejection 16? or even 59? Never give up."

Marcus Zusak, author of The Book Thief, another incredible book, is coming to Kutztown next week, and I cannot wait to attend his lecture, after experiencing such a positive and motivating visit from Ms. Kathryn Stockett herself.

Love Letter to a Prized Possession

Hey you,

I love how you sit there in your royal-blue leather jacket, waiting to be explored, waiting for me to unveil your expressions at the touch of my hand. I carry you with me every chance I get; I could never part from you, the words you say mean too much to me to forget you. Yes, you've made me cry, but you make me laugh more--most importantly, you make me escape this world and leave it behind, if only for an hour or two at a time.

I don't know what I would do without you by my side; I've loved you since the day I met you a year and a half ago. Before that day, I loved your brothers and sisters and cousins since I was in diapers. But the world is forever evolving, ever surprising, and fate dropped you on my doorstep last July. Or rather, Nana and Pappy introduced me to you, and my life will never be the same. You were the best 21st birthday gift I could have gotten; screw the alcohol.

You're my best friend. Forever unbiased, never judging me, always a constant by my side. A light in the dark, you always make my day better; when I'm feeling depressed, I just have to turn to you, and like the click of a button, I'm happy once more.

At first I was hesitant to trust you, you were too different from what I was used to. By accepting you into my life, I knew I'd be shedding old traditions, that a part of me would forever be changed; by accepting you, I was going against everything I had learned to love. The saying goes "Don't judge a book by it's cover" but that's exactly what I did, Kindle. And ironically, you're a book, but not a book.
By becoming obsessed with you, I let go of my dreams of having bookshelves as tall as the sky in my future apartment; I let go of loving the physicality of turning a page.

I just want to say thank you for having patience with me because now I know for certain that I'd never go back. I'll always love you, always need to escape with you, always need you by my side. And when I upgrade to a better version of you this Christmas, don't get offended. We'll still visit each other-- after all, I'm only giving you to my mom.

Thanks for everything, Kindle! And thank you most of all for making me into the biggest geek possible.

Much love,
Kayla

Game Night

After reading Dinner at Uncle Boris's by Charles Simic, I was inspired to write a quick and simple glimpse of my own family life, when four of us get together on Mondays to play Uno.



"Dad, what the hell! Did I not say I made it blue?" Aunt Dee yells at the top of her lungs, red creeping up her face, as she takes the top card and smacks it against Pappy's head. Pappy responds by guffawing, shaking his head at her.

The Uno-attack machine spins in my direction. I lay a red reverse on top of the green reverse Pappy laid, which results in more laughter from him, and Aunt Dee juts her chin out and rolls her eyes upward, pretend-seething, "Why, can't it be FUCKING blue!" My cousin, Miguel, and Aunt Dawn start laughing at this point, as I shrug, pointing the game at Miguel.

"James, why would you use this bowl? I always tell you to use the bigger bowls for cantaloupe, but no, heaven forbid you'd listen," Nana nags from over by the sink, sighing loudly, shaking her head, as if the cantaloupe in the wrong bowl was the worst thing in the world. Pappy rolls his eyes and sighs equally as loud.

"Yeah, James," Miguel mimicks the nagging quality of the way Nana calls to our grandfather. I'm convinced that Pappy's real name isn't James at all sometimes; it's just Pappy. James is just a word Nana uses to substitute for annoyed or impatient. I look over at Nana, standing there in her pink nightie, never changing into normal clothes except when she leaves the house or for holidays, spooning out gobs of the orange-colored fruit. I smile, shaking my head, knowing that Nana loves Pappy with all of her heart.

I see Aunt Dawn roll her eyes in Nana's direction as she plays a card on top of the pile. Pappy has to hit twice; he has Uno, and isn't happy at all.

"Well, that's not very nice!" Pappy says, making a face, slamming the button, and the machine spits out 4 cards, with two stuck halfway out.

"Here, Ding-Dong, take these too, it's about time you got some fucking cards," Aunt Dee says, pulling the cards out and throwing them at him, as we all laugh. She lays a card down, saying, "Uno, green!" and I see the card she laid is black. We all have to hit once, and she wins the round.

"Pah-chang, people! I da weeeenah!" she says and stands up, dancing around in her fed-ex uniform, Pappy just continuously laughing, Aunt Dawn putting the cards away, Nana still dishing out the cantaloupe into the right bowl.

Miguel and I just look at each other, shake our heads, smile, and get up from the dining room table.


(Note: Game Nights happen weekly, and started about five years ago. It's Pappy's favorite day of the week; he HATES to miss it. Aunt Dee treks out to my grandparents' house as soon as she's done with work, no matter how tired she is, because she knows how much the Night means to him. Aunt Dawn comes dressed in her office attire, or gym clothing depending on if she had time to go between work and Game Night; Miguel obviously has no choice, he tags along with her. Game Night holds us together, and has brought us closer, in laughter, and in tears....of more laughter.)

The Weigh-in Misshap

(Note: For my creative nonfiction piece, I'm writing about weight loss, being a Weight Watchers member, and the journey to my goals--which makes this entry relevant to class)

Yesterday marked the five month anniversary that Dad and I stepped on the Weight Watchers' scale for the first time. And something still isn't clicking in my head. I've lost 43 pounds, haven't felt this good in a long time, and yet, last Sunday at Knoebels Park, I downed half a funnel cake without thinking twice. Why? How can I not want to lose, and have the mindset to lose, more? Especially after losing 43 pounds!

Dad hasn't gone off program ONCE in five months. Once. And today, he lost his 70th pound. That says everything about what works when losing weight, and what doesn't.

Long story short, I need to get back on track. After not weighing in for two weeks, I gained .8 pounds today. And although I shouldn't beat myself up for it, there are no excuses. I want to change my life, I want to get healthy, I want to have self-esteem that's higher than that of a toothpick. What am I waiting for? Am I scared? I don't know what's wrong with me.

"Everyone has setbacks, everyone has bad weeks...well, except for me," Dad chuckled, as he tried to make me feel better. Thank god he's doing this with me, I don't know if I'd even be at 43 pounds if I was doing this alone. It's just so hard sometimes; I just have to focus on the bigger picture.

For some people, food is just a means of survival; they eat because they have to. For others, food can be addicting, a way to deal with emotions and depression, a comfort that always satisfies temporarily. I'm willing to admit that yes, I'm addicted to food. But I'm working on it, and I took the first steps to change my life around. I want to change; no one can want it for me or do it for me.

Ironically, as I type this, a Weight Watchers commercial just came on the screen, showing a college-aged girl that lost 73 pounds; this was directly followed by a Red Robin advertisement, showing off the latest of their "juicy, delicious burger."

Do I even need to comment on this?