Stories

Since I was really small, I've been doing stories in my head. Now that I'm older, I still do stories in my head  (and sometimes with Sorella). I know it sounds a bit dorky, but it's really rather fun. Lately I've been going back to old stories that I completely ruined by kidnapping the characters and running away from the plot and reworking them.

When I get really excited about a story, I share them with Charna. In my experience, there's very little that can compare to the feeling of telling someone a story you've created and having them actually be interested. Charna sat and listened to me for about two and half hours tonight as I shared what I was working on with rapt attention. Not only did she offer ideas, but she also inspired me to start a whole file of character information, family trees, and general knowledge relating to the world.

As corny as it sounds, the story I'm reworking is a vampire one. No, it has nothing to do with Twilight (and it makes me a bit queasy to know I just mentioned that horrible series in the Arcana Files). If it draws from any already created vampire series, it would be Vampire Knight (almost a little too closely in one particular plot line).

My favorite part of writing a story is making the characters. I love flushing out their personalities and then putting them in situations. In some cases, characters happen organically. For example, in this particular story, there are two women, Cornelia and Marion, and I think they might be closet lesbians. I don't know what happened; because I skipped around throughout the story, I don't even have a scene for them meeting or even interacting much, and yet all of a sudden their relationship is much closer than friends (but not quite lovers). It was weird.

When I make characters, they become very real for me. In the stories I create with Sorella, it's almost as if the characters are very close friends we haven't seen in ages. We go to the mall and look at clothes and say, "Wow, that vest is so Remy" or "Aid would wear that". It's really fantastic, considering we haven't worked with those characters in a good three or four months.

I think what I find most interesting, however, is that I still find this story worth working with even though I have a definite ending planned out. Usually, once I know the end, the story dies for me; I don't see the point of filing in the blanks if I know the final result. Maybe the difference is that I'm not creating, but rather twisting, embellishing. I'm still very in love with this story.

This story almost makes me want to write it all down, but we know where that leads. Maybe once I have all my character files, world comments, and plot outlines created, I might do so. I might even share it with you. You never know. Whimsy might be able to get a NaNoWriMo out of me yet ;)

What kind of stories do YOU make up?

Wander safely,
Arc.

I'm the Green Fairy

This is a story piece written especially for you all, based loosely on real events. Enjoy!

x(X)x

It was actually pretty stupid, if you cared to stop and think about it. You’ve known the boy for all of three hours, when Orchid decided he was your ride to a meeting you were already late for and honestly didn’t want to attend. Three hours of sitting next to each other, making stupid faces and wishing the “we-don’t-want-to-attend-but-Orchid-has-this-way-of-twisting-you-into-doing-anything” meeting would go faster. 

He had this way of catching your eye every time you glanced up to make it look like you were paying attention, and god did he have a nice smile. It lit up his whole face and it was just so sweet looking. And you’d smile back, then scrunch your nose and purse your lips to show your disdain for budget approval when you couldn’t actually vote on anything because you weren’t an official club yet, and you didn’t think his smile could get any bigger as he stifles a laugh. You’re suddenly incredibly glad you aren’t prone to blushing.

And here you are, three hours later, sitting in his dorm room and sharing a bottle of absinthe, the green liquid swirling in real glasses you made a special trip to his house for, because “you can’t drink absinthe from a plastic cup; it’s disrespectful to the liquor!”. And you know you shouldn’t be this stupid. He seems nice, sure, but so did Ted Bundy (not that you think he’s a serial murder, but a girl can never be too careful).

He has this habit of rambling, but at least he rambles about something intelligent, or at least funny. Like the time he and his friend agreed they weren’t going to get smashed, yet end up needing several people to retrieve cars just to get home, because god only knows where he ended up (he certainly didn’t). 

He teases that you drink too slowly, and you tell him he drinks too fast, already pouring himself his second class of absinthe. You toss him the partially frozen bottle by your feet and he mixes the two liquids together. He’s surprisingly coherent for starting his second glass of 140 proof liquor. More coherent than you would be, but he’s got two years and at least 30 pounds on you, so that’s to be expected. Absently, you wonder how on earth you’re going to write your paper (or exactly what you’ll end up writing) if half a glass of now more-blue-than-green liquid leaves you this light headed. The room already swirls if you move your head to quickly.

You hear your phone ring from your bag. Dad lights up on the screen, the little picture flashing with the music. “Oh, hell,” you mutter.

“Think you can pull off sober?” He asks, laughing softly.

You return the grin. “We’re about to find out,” you say before accepting the call.

He pulls out his laptop while you talk to your father, fingers only slightly clumsy on the keys as he searches for “the most beautiful music video I’ve every seen, you have to watch it”. The video leaves tingles down your spine, but you’re not sure if it’s the music or the alcohol. 

He’s sitting next to you now, instead of at the other end of his bed. You can’t help but notice how his arm rests on your knee so he can reach the mouse (you don’t understand how he can hate the trackpad). The previous uneasiness returns, but you can’t help but feel a little giddy; it’s been a long time since someone was interested in you, much less a guy. He keeps it casual, though. No bubbles invaded, just an arm resting on your knee and his shoulder against yours (but that’s more your doing than his. 140 proof liquor makes it hard to balance). 

And so it goes. Music video after music video, balance slowly getting worse as you get closer and closer to the end of your glass. But it’s okay, because he sways just as much as you do. At some point, you decide it’s high time you start that paper (it’s due in three days anyways). Despite your inebriated gyroscope, you mange to give him a hug (though by the way he titled his head as you got closer, you think he might have been expecting a kiss), and despite your overly-intoxicated fingers and blurring-if-it-moves-too-fast vision, you type your number and spell your name in his phone without too much trouble. You make an off handed joke about hoping you make it upstairs without cracking your head open, and he calls you a lightweight. You call him an alcoholic. 

You only almost fall down the stairs once and don’t fumble with your keys for too long before you’re in your room. You’ve had a horrible case of the munchies since the night before, but honestly, the idea of six flights of stairs, one of them spiral, just to get food doesn’t seem like a particularly feasible act right now. Instead, you steal a soy pudding cup (though it tastes just the same) from your suite-mate’s fridge, and laugh at yourself when you realize you really aren’t stealing anything; you bought the damn cups and they let you keep it in their fridge. 

Pudding is apparently a good way to sober up. You keep that in mind for the next time someone offers you a sober-coffee. Although if you’re more thoroughly smashed, a sober-up pudding might make things worse.

Later, when you figure you’re more hungover than drunk because of the massive headache you’re sporting, you can’t help but find it a little pathetic that you’ve gotten drunk and sober on a Friday before 9 pm. You smile, though, as you think about the last thing he said.

“We should make this a regular thing.”

x(X)x

Wander safely (and I mean safely. The above story really wasn't all that safe),

Arc.

How I Failed NaNoWriMo

I was supposed to do NaNoWriMo this November, again on the behalf of dear Whimsy. I only managed about 300 words before the project crumbled. I love to make up stories, but putting it down on paper seems almost like a chore. Because of this, most of my work stays in my head. However, I was quite proud of the storyline that I had created for NaNo. Since it’s probably never going to get written down in any form, I figured I could share it with you.

The story was going to be told through letters. In the beginning, the corespondents are only knows as S and K. For reasons unknown, K ran away from home. S puts a lot of effort into his letters, informing K of just about everything going in his life, while K’s letters are short and ill-informing. My intent from the start was to make S a much more developed character than K for reasons to be later explained.

As the story continues, you learn that S’s name is Seamus and K stands for Kristie. Her letters slowly become more developed, explaining how something is chasing her and she’s trying to get away. It becomes apparent that Kristie is running from something big and incredibly dangerous. Her letters are haggard, rough, and enigmatic.

Seamus tells Kristie he isn’t getting along with his parents because they want him to start taking his medication again. He complains that they deaden his mind. While Kristie tells him to do what’s right for him and not take the pills, he caves to please his parents and takes them anyways. Simultaneously, Kristie’s letters become shorter and more panicked. We discover that she’s running from an obsessive stalker named Donovan, who had developed the “if I can’t have her, no one can” mentality, and he’s catching up with her, fast. The story hits the climax with a desperate letter from Kristie about how she thinks the only way she can escape Donovan is to kill herself.

The last chapter was supposed to be a doctor’s assessment of Seamus, who was rushed to the hospital for slitting his wrists. He was diagnosed as a schizophrenic with multiple personality disorder several years ago. Originally, the doctors thought that if he saw a shrink twice a week and was carefully monitored with his medication, he could carry on a normal life. His file shows that he has several personalities in him, but the most prominent personality is a female named Kristie. An attached file from Seamus’s shrink documented how Kristie frequently complained of a voice in her head she called Donovan, who constantly told her he loved her and no one else could have her. Kristie found it therapeutic to write letters to a made up pen-pal, a boy she named Seamus. The more she wrote to Seamus, the more intense Donovan’s voice became until she could no longer stand it. The doctor’s note ends with a comment that if Seamus should take his pills consistently, both Kristie and Luther will disappear permanently.

I was incredibly proud of this story line, and a little disappointed it may never get down on paper. Maybe it will one day, you never know. 

Please don’t steal my plot.

Wander safely,

Arc.