Interview with Lark McCarthy

If one decided to suddenly conduct an interview with Lark McCarthy from The Lightcatcher, it would go something like this:

Me: "I'm so very glad you have decided to sit down with me today.  Thank you."

Lark: *nods*

Me: "So...first of all, let's talk about Fin."

Lark: "Why?"

Me: "Well, as we know, Fin has been getting to know you more and more lately, hasn't she?"

Lark: "I suppose so."

Me: "And...?"

Lark: "And what?"

Me: "Well, what do you know about her?"

Lark: "Other than she has a good head for heights and should never have scratched her name off the list?  Not much, 'side from the fact she's an artist and that no other idiot would put a scoop of raspberry preserves in perfectly good black coffee.  Oh, and she's a good dancer.  I hear she can't sing a lick, though."

Me: "How do you feel about her?"

Lark: "Feel?"

Me: "Yes.  Feel.  Also known as "affection".  Do you have any for her?"

Lark: "Affection can go both ways."

Me: "Fine.  Romantic affection."

Lark: "Are you asking if I have any romantic affection for Fin Devens?"

Me: "YES!"

Lark: *smoothly* "No, I don't think so.  Can we move on?"

Me: ".....No."

Lark: "Why not?"

Me: "Because you're MY blasted character, alrighty?  You do what I say!  If I want you to like Fin, LIKE HER!"

Lark: *scoffs* "Ha."

Me: "I'll cut you out!  I'm warning you...."  *Draws breath, calms down.*  "Now, let me ask you again, do you have any romantic affection for Fin?" *waggles eyebrows*

Lark: "Why would I?"

Me: "BECAUSE SHE'S YOUR LOVE INTEREST, BLAST IT!  AND YOU'D BETTER GET HER QUICK BEFORE BRIT DANIELS OR SONTY BRANNIGAN STEPS IN AND DOES IT FOR YOU, YOU BLOODY IDIOT!"

Lark: *Unruffled* "I see."

Me: "NO, NO YOU DON'T SEE.  YOU DON'T SEE ANYTHING.  YOU WANT TO KNOW WHY?  YOU'RE BLIND!  YOU'RE BLIND AS A BAT, AS FAR AS I'M CONCERNED, AND YOU'RE DRIVING ME UP THE WALL!"

Lark: "I think the interview is over."

Me: "YEAH, YOU'RE BLOOMIN' RIGHT IT'S OVER.  LEAVE.  AND GO TALK TO FIN!"

So, yeah, folks. There you go.  Lark McCarthy 101.

Cheers.

-Newsie

I'm Ashamed

Yes, yes, I am.  I haven't posted in forever!  I am terribly sorry about that.  I could make excuses, yes--excuses like I was busy taking an imaginary tour of Europe in my head; or I couldn't take time away from writing my novel in Scotland to do trivial things like blog posts...

Okay, the writing part is true.  I have been writing.  Working on my novel The Lightcatcher (it's still not finished, NEWSFLASH) has been an adventure--a strange one and a different one, but a good one nonetheless.  I cannot truthfully say I have enjoyed every minute of it, especially when writing sometimes comes like pulling teeth.  But this novel is (as of now) my child, my baby.  I love the new experience of creating Finley Devens and Lark McCarthy, and the experiences that surround them.

So anyway...that's been going on.  Also, Christmas was yesterday!  So Merry Christmas to everyone!  (Because I didn't wish you one yesterday.)  What did everyone get/give?

Also.  College apps and scholarships can go bury themselves...somewhere deep, preferably dark and in the ground.  Where I will never have to deal with them again. Ever.

Oh, and you can read The Lightcatcher HERE.  Just because...you know, authors like their work to be read.

So that's been my life lately.  I'm pathetic, I know.

Cheers.

Cast of Characters: The Lightcatcher

So I have decided to come up with a cast of characters for The Lightcatcher, since that is what I have been working on lately.

Finley Devens

My main protagonist named Fin is a spunky, skinny girl of fifteen, and I imagine her to look like a slightly younger version of Jessie Buckley.  Especially the hair!  Finley has that hair.  She also has grey eyes, a faintly different smile, a forsaken flyer named Maggie, and a bottle of raspberry pop.

Lark McCarthy

I love me some gingers.  This is Lark, who I imagine to be slightly older with more prominent cheek bones and an indifferent and offhand look about him.  The first encounter he has with Finley involves a battered bicycle, some bruised ribs, and a whole sack of beans spilled in the street.  He is one of the current Sentinels, competing in this year's sentinel trials.

Trig Devens

I tried to find a good picture for Trig, but this is all I could come up with.  He is Fin's seventeen-year-old, fun-loving yet quiet cousin.  He has brown hair and a drawling way of talking.

Sid Brooks

Sid Brooks.  Well, how much should I say about him without spoiling it?  I haven't introduced him yet, and I'm working on fleshing him sometime later in the novel.  However, he is awesome (he told me so himself) and a half-wild solo balloonist.  

Mr. Bagshaw

The old keeper of Davenport library and Fin's good friend who loves wildflowers and takes one cup of Chamomile before bed to ease his aching joints.  Isn't he cute?  

Ash Devens

Ash is slightly younger than this boy, with sandy blond hair.  He likes to tinker with mechanics and all the girls at school think he's adorable.

Bree Devens

A thirteen-year-old version of this girl, Bree loves to read du jour magazines and is hopelessly falling for the grocer's errand boy.

And there you have it––some of the characters from The Lightcatcher.  I haven't had suitable time to elaborate on Lark's group of friends, so I didn't put any character pictures for them.  

But you get the general gist of my people.  Yes, they're my people.  

-Newsie

Interview with K. Morgan, S.F. Pilot

An interview with one of my characters, Kit Morgan, who was kind enough to sit down with me today and share his mind...

Me: "Your name, Kit, is it short for anything?"

Kit: "Karter."

Me: "Now, you attend the Conservatory of Aeronautics.  Tell me, was it hard for you to get in?"

Kit: "Every bit of it was devilish.  It takes work.  And guts.  Less if you're from a rich family.  But I had a good promoter."

Me: "And, just reading the summary here, you did leave the Conservatory didn't you?"

Kit: *laughing* "Leave?  I was kicked out.  Politely, of course.  But kicked out, nonetheless."

Me:  "Why, exactly?  If you don't mind me asking."

Kit:  "Money.  My sponsor took ill, and no one was paying the tuition.  And they've always seen me as a troublemaker.  This was just an excuse to get rid of me."

Me:  "Sorry to hear that.  Later on in the story, you're caught trespassing at the Base, correct?"

Kit:  "Yes."

Me:  "For what reason is that?"

Kit:  "Well, that's what they all want to know, isn't it."

Me:  "Rumor is you were copying aerocraft blueprints for the Sky Force."

Kit:  "People will talk."

Me:  "Yes, but the main point is, you were trespassing and found guilty of illegal activity against the Ether Force.  How does that reflect upon yourself?  What are your thoughts on that?"

Kit:  "It really doesn't matter what I think.  No one will care what I have to say.  They'll just change it to suit their purposes.  I will say, though, that I will do what I believe is right, regardless of what other people think."

Me:  "And this girl, Jacey Drake..."

Kit:  "What about her?"

Me:  "Weren't you two good friends?"

Kit:  "You could call it that.  Jacey's a good pilot with nerve.  Better than most lads who graduate the Cov."

Me:  "But you've broken ties with her, and with every friend from your former life, true?"

Kit:  "I don't know what you mean by 'every friend'.  I ain't got that many.  But yes, Jacey was one of the few, and we fight for two different causes now.  I respect her still.  Just not her choice."

Me:  "Well, before we close, I'd like to ask you one last thing: what do you consider yourself as first and foremost?"

Kit:  "A pilot.  And my da made sure I was a good one.  There are other things people would call me, most of them earned I have to admit.  But I'm a pilot, first of all."

Me:  "Well, I think we're out of time.  But thank you, Kit Morgan, for taking a few moments to talk with me."

Kit:  "A pleasure."

Me:  "And I wish you good luck with the Sky Force."

-Newsie

"Novels"

I just added a page up on the top bar: "Novels".  It highlights some novels I'm working on, the synopsis and characters, and is a reminder that I actually need to finish every one of them.  

So, in case you were wondering what my mind does when I'm supposed to be working on school or what-not, read through Novels.

[Oh, and don't forget to vote on the poll!]

-Newsie

Quotes by famous people--aka, my characters

Sometimes, when I read back over my writing, I find it amusing when I see some of the things I wrote.  And I wonder why did I even bother to jot down those sentences?  And then other times, I wonder whose hands were writing those words at the time to make them flow so well.  Because I'm sure I didn't.  

Even so, I thought I would favor my readers with some quotes from my characters in some of my stories--in the hopes that you can gain some insight into their mysterious lives that have yet to reveal their secrets to me.  Because, as of yet, I still don't know exactly how their stories are going to play out.  [And on some of the pictures it says "By S. Jackson", because that is my figment pseudonym, for those of you who didn't know.]




"But when you’re hungry, you’ll eat just about anything you can get.  And so I buried my misgivings in the scrumptious flavor of the poverty-stricken fest before me." -Scottie O'Cleaveland, thirteen-year-old protagonist and rebel in Den of Thieves. 

"But time, however short, was what he’d been given in the present to play a deadly game of catch; for time is a fickle substance that cannot be measured in weight or ounces, cannot be seen or heard except through the ticking of a clock––steadily, doggedly continuing on no matter how much one person begs for it to turn back and walk the previous path of fate, its robes of generations cascading about the universe." -Sixteen-year-old Will Russell, soon to be convicted of treason, resistance to authority, fraternizing with enemies of the Republic, assisting said enemies with illegal activities, and murder--Starkeeper's Gate.

“Drake, You’ve got nerve to be here.  And if you can fly, then don’t let politics get in the way.  Go with your gut feeling, and you’ll soar.  Understand me?” -Sixteen-year-old pilot Kit Morgan, arrested for acting as a spy for the Sky Force in their efforts to launch a rebellion against the Uplands.

"Don’t forget, dearie, war’s not about what you want, but about what you’re willing to sacrifice.  God bless your husband."  -Mrs. Oomlan, an eccentric, quirky lady living in the next door apartment in Every Girl Loves a Sailor.

"Her spirit refused to be doused.  She thought of what it would mean if she talked, who else would die or have to endure this hell she was in.  She couldn’t––wouldn’t––succumb to the pain, taking the easy way out, and sentence her friends to sure death." -Twelve-year-old Kently, a girl who has nothing left save a friend, Will Russell--Starkeeper's Gate.

Well, there you have it: some insight into a few of my characters.  Now I just have to finish their stories.  

-Editor.

Writer's Block

I have writer's block.  It's official.  I have this idea for a new book in my head, and the more I look at it the more I hate it and see how cliche it is.  So, I decided to post a sample from the middle of a book I'm writing called Cheshire. 

Hope you enjoy it:  


Sixteen-year-old Devon, his heart beating very fast, his knuckles white on the hilt of his weapon, reached up a gloved hand and pushed his dark hair out of his eyes.  Already, beads of sweat were gathering on his brow, making his eyes smart and his vision cloud.  Slowly, he walked with deliberate steps, as though they might be his very last, to his place: a black marble square to the right of the exarch.  He was a chevalier, and the emblem of a blue horse was emblazoned on his surcoat.  To his right was the rook.

Cheshire. 

That was the game, although to call it a game would be almost an outright lie.  It was a battle—a brutal, bloody battle.  It was fought every two years at the field of Starlion, a no-man’s-land for Terryl and Taska.  The players consisted of one Monarch, one Crown, two Exarches, two Cavaliers, two Rooks, and sixteen Pawns for each team.  Players from ages fourteen to eighteen were chosen during the spring—twenty-four Warriors from Terryl, and twenty-four Lockborns from Taska, whether it was against their will or not.  It was fought to keep peace between the two countries.  The treaty stated:

The winner of the tournament shall receive a contract that grants trading rights, quest rights, and settlement privileges.  This contract will hold for a year until the next tournament. 

I do hereby agree to this contract,

Roland of Chetny, King of Terryl

I do hereby agree to this contract,

Garzman of Ranl, Warlock of Taska

Everyone from the two countries abided by these rules, but that didn’t make the fighting any easier. 

Devon looked at the playing field: a giant marble slab with ebony and ivory squares for fighters to stand on.  The black and white stretched on and on across to the far side, and tall marble pillars flanked all the sides like silent sentries.  Vines and tangled briars wound their way up columns, creating an eerie and beautiful atmosphere that contrasted starkly with the deadly undercurrent that flowed throughout the combatants and spectators alike. 

On the other side, facing the Warriorkind youths, were the Lockborns from Taska.  They were arrayed differently than the Warriors, not wearing heavy armor and carrying broad swords, but dressed in light chain mail and tunics.  Some carried thin swords and long daggers, others carried staffs or clubs.  But all of them—lockborn, warlock, warrior, nobility—knew that this was no fun game.  It was war.  Death.  And they’d been chosen to play it. 

He looked around at his teammates: some were taut, their muscles tight and waiting, while others rolled their arms around to loosen the kinks.  Devon himself tried to relax his body, forcing it to obey him.  That was the key to winning a fight: being in control of your reflexes and abilities.  This was ensured by a calm and loose stance. 

He didn’t want to look into the adversaries’ faces, read their eyes: the fear, the hate, the survival that was written there.  He didn’t think that he would hesitate when the time came to kill.  They’d all been training for the past months to become killers with a high amount of skill.  And when it came to life or death—and when the other player was doing his best to kill him—he knew he would choose life. 

And that thought sickened him.

Devon looked up at the raised table above on the grass that surrounded the whole Starlion dais, and saw Roland and Garzman—king and warlock—draw slips of paper from a goblet.  That would decide who would move first.  Devon steeled himself to look away and focus only on the playing ground.

Garzman’s voice rang out across the deadly silence.

“Sixteen pawn to 8-6.” 

Lockborns first.  A youth carrying a short sword and a cat's claw on his tunic stepped forward two black squares on the marble board.  First move.  One down.  No fighting yet. 

Then it was King Roland’s turn.

“Fifteen pawn to 7-4.” 

There it was.  The first challenge.  Devon winced as Fal walked forward, his hand shaking slightly on the hilt of his weapon.  Decon knew almost every teammate he had—memorized their names and faces pointlessly—and Fal was going to be the first to fight, first to draw blood, either his or the other player’s.  The two pawns were diagonal to each other and therefore had the right to engage.  But it was Garzman’s turn.  He had to call it. 

“Take.”

A simple word—one word that rang out across the dais like a thunderclap—that held the power to kill either of the two youths.  Immediately, the Lockborn—a tall boy arrayed in chainmail and carrying a thin sword—stepped onto the Fal’s square and the two faced off.  Circling, armor clinking, leather creaking—every little sound magnified in the choking silence.  The spectators surrounding the dais and standing in the Starlion field were holding their breaths, waiting for the first blow to fall, the first blood to drop. 

And it did.  The Lockborn stepped in quickly and did an overhead blow that Fal barely managed to parry, then spun quickly around with a feint and followed with a deadly back cut.  It was over in an instant—Fal’s muffled cry of surprise and pain, his body slowly crumpling—and the cheers started. 

Devon forced himself to stare straight ahead, to breathe evenly—he couldn’t do anything else.  Two surgeons came and collected Fal’s body, carrying him off on a makeshift stretcher.  The Lockborn now stood on Fal’s square. 

Slowly, but surely, Devon watched as the pawns began to move out onto the playing squares—fighting, dying, winning, and loosing for their country.  The board was opened up, spaces cleared, and the serious moves with the exarches, rooks, and cavaliers began. 

“First exarch to 4-3.” 

King Roland’s exarch was challenged by a Lockborn pawn, and the exarch claimed the square.  That opened up a space, and Devon knew what was coming next.  By now he felt numb, as if he didn’t have any feelings at all, as if his body were of lead—not flesh and bone.  His heart was ice, not a beating heart of blood capable of any feelings.  This wasn’t him doing it; it was his body, not his soul.  He was forced, forced to fight, kill, and be killed.  It wasn’t him. 

It couldn’t be him.

“First cavalier to 5-2.” 

Devon slowly stepped forward a square, then turned and walked two squares to the left.  He was now on an ivory tile.  He was immune to the sounds of battle around him, as one after another of the players were pitted against each other.  Everything was a blur of cheers, sweat, cries, and fear.

“Take.”  Garzman’s voice was strong, confident. 

And then suddenly, Devon was facing a challenger who had walked onto his square: a tall, broad youth with the image of a turret on his tunic holding a plain spear with a long head—a rook.  Devon looked into his eyes and saw hate and contempt, and he wondered how someone actually dueled with only a spear.  Maybe he would have a better chance with his broadsword. 

But just then the youth lunged forward with a blow intended to cleave Devon’s head from his shoulders, the raw force of gathered muscle behind it.  As Devon ducked and reached up to parry, he was nearly knocked down by the force which jarred his blade.  It was like strong current of pure energy was flowing in the spear, determined to knock everything else aside.  He scrambled to his feet in time to block another wide sideswipe, and this time his sword absorbed most of the shock. 

Both contenders backed up and faced off again. 

So this was how it was to fight a Warlock, thought Devon, breathing hard.  And he realized that he was going to have no more advantage over his enemy than his enemy had over him—just pure skill.  He processed this in his brain and was dull to everything else going on: the cheers, the crowd, the other players.  This was his fight—he would either live or die. 

The youth rushed forward with a back cut, which Devon neatly avoided while bring his own sword around to meet the blow that followed.  Again sword and spear clanged; again they separated.  The Lockborn feinted to Devon’s left then swung around again, and as Devon dove forward in a roll to miss the blow, the Lockborn brought his spear tip down upon him, piercing the skin where the breastplate ended. 

Devon felt a dull, fiery sensation in his left shoulder; he felt a warm, sticky stuff soaking his sleeve as it trickled down his arm.  But he didn’t care and was too much absorbed with the fight to feel the pain. 

The youth’s lips curled contemptuously as Devon scrambled up, and somehow that made it easier for what Devon had to do.  He rushed forward, and again they were locked in a dangerous game of footwork, strength, and agility—in which only one would be the victor.  And finally, as the youth made a stab meant to end Devon, the latter threw himself to the right and forward, and took his move—his one chance, his heavy blade standing between him and death. 

It was over. 

Devon stood shakily up and watched as they carried the body away, the body who once had a name, a family, a life.  He felt sick—horror-stricken.  But there was nothing he could do.  Kill, or be killed. 

 “First cavalier to 6-4.” 

Devon changed his place.  It struck him as odd, right then, how almost orderly everything seemed.  He could have an enemy on the square next to you, or right in front of him, but unless they were a crown or monarch, they couldn’t attack.  And even then, it had to be with a command.  Exarches attacked diagonally, so did pawns—although they could only move forward—and rooks could only go straight forward or sideways.  It wasn’t him doing the fighting; someone else was pulling the strings, holding sway over his life, choosing whom he would fight.  It wasn’t a battle, but a deadly sport of two minds without any thought to the cost of casualties. 

Devon turned his attention back to the scene in front of him as a Warrior exarch engaged in a deadly duel with a female Lockborn.  She was slim and small of stature, but lithe and fast.  And she was using this to her great advantage.  Sparks were licking at her red curls and flames were spitting down her curved blade, hissing and snapping: she was a Firelock.  Her eyes were focused and concentrated as she stepped in, out, and under the reach of her opponent’s broadsword, like a cat or a slippery eel.  He hacked at her, testing his weight and strength against her agility.  She swung around, feinting with her blade, and, moving with lightning speed, brought it around in a neat thrust that finished her rival.   All the Warriors on the board groaned as the girl took the fallen youth’s place, while the Lockborns cheered on their player.  Her face was deathly white, her lips trembling a bit—as if she just now realized the deed she’d done and could do nothing to take it back. 

“First Cavalier to 7-3.” 

As Devon stepped backward a square the two slabs to the right, he knew what was coming.  He was right across the diagonal line of the red-haired girl. 

“Second exarch to 7-3.” 

The girl did not look at Devon, as she strode down the crosswise ivory tiles until she was facing him.  Devon glanced into her eyes—steely grey that snapped and flashed with terror and anger—and knew that his fear was probably written in his own eyes as well. 

He was a puppet on strings.  He couldn’t chose what he wanted to do, whom he wanted to fight, or whether he wanted to fight at all.  He had to obey, move where the King wanted him to, being used as a sacrifice to open up moves for other players.  If the girl took him, then she’d have to fight the pawn that was directly behind Devon.  And she’d be trapped, either having to fight the rook or monarch.  King Roland was clearly trying to take her out, and was willing to risk Devon to do it. 

As Garzman’s voice said, “Take,” Devon knew he couldn’t do it.  He wouldn’t do it.  With a clang, his sword fell to the marble, and the silence that followed was almost tangible.

“Take him,” said Garzman quietly with a cold gaze. 

And then the girl’s weapon clanged to the ground as well. 

“I refuse,” she said in a clear voice that didn’t hold a tremor of fear

Supporting Characters

This post goes out to Lydia Albano, who, like me, has a soft spot for supporting characters in books.  I don't know what it is, but only seldom do I fall for the main boy character wholeheartedly.  

For instance, in Lord of the Rings, I really don't like Frodo.  I prefer Sam so much better, because he's just a simple gardener who sticks by Frodo's side throughout thick and thin, persevering even though there's no hope left.  He has a lot of depth--in other words, he's not a flat character.  And neither is Frodo, for that matter.  But Sam is just--I don't know how to explain him.  He's just a wonderful best friend with a lot of heart and a love for growing things.  And I also like Pippin, instead of Frodo, not to mention Merry.  Oh, and don't get me started on Aragorn, who's my favorite character in the books!  Okay, I'll stop now.  

For those of you who have read Tom Sawyer, by Mark Twain [one of my favorite books and authors] you know about Tom Sawyer and Joe Harper and Huckleberry Finn.  Now, I love Tom and Joe, and of course Sid [because he just gets Tom into a whole ton of trouble] but Huckleberry is by far the best, although he's a close call with Tom.  Just the whole, "I live in a hogshead barrel/first one without shoes in the spring/swears like a sailor/smoke a corncob pipe/don't have to go to school", atmosphere about him that makes all the other boys jealous and all their mother's displeased creates such an unforgettable character.  

Now, Harry Potter.  Who doesn't like Ron better than Harry, huh?  Anyone?  Well, maybe I'm the only one.  But Ron is SO awesome!  And he's a ginger from a family of gingers, and he loves Hermione and it's just so cute!  And Harry's, well...Harry.  Yeah, he's the Chosen One and everything, but I love Ron so much better!  Hey, I might choose even Seamus over Harry, in the movie of course because Seamus is just so cute!  Oh, and don't EVEN get me started on the Weasley Twins!  They are SO much better than Harry!  If I could save one character from getting killed, I'd choose Fred first.  Then Sirius and Tonks and Lupin.  And then--I must stop!  

Now, in The Chronicles of Narnia, who doesn't like Edmund?  Hmmm?  I prefer him to Peter, always have.  Even though Peter in the movies is pretty good looking, am I right?  Show of hands?  I love Edmund because, after the whole thing with the White Witch in The Lion, the Witch, and The Wardrobe, he's so level-headed and awesome and everything!  

If any of you have ever read The Secret Garden [an old classic that I highly recommend] no one can help but like Dickon Sowerby better than Colin Craven.  Dickon is just a poor "cottage" boy living on the moor who always one of his tame animals about him, a baby fox, lamb, crow, two squirrels, etc., and rides a wild moor pony named Jump.  

And in Oliver Twist, who doesn't love The Artful Dodger?  Which one is better: a homeless runaway with no knowledge of street life whatsoever, looking for a family and a life he never knew?  Or a street-wise, smart-talking, ruddy-faced pickpocket bedecked in a large top hat and a trailing gentlemen's coat who talks with such a thick accent that you can barely understand him?  That is a rhetorical question--no offense to those who like Oliver Twist better.  Here is The Artful Dodger [pictured left] played by Jack Wild, and Oliver Twist played by Mark Lester.  

There are a lot of other examples, I'm sure.  And there are several books where I actually like the main character better than his best friend: Percy Jackson, for example, I much prefer to Grover.  Also, Hal in The Outcasts I like better than Stig, even though they're both awesome.  And Will Treaty in The Ranger's Apprentice I like better than his best friend Horace, I guess just because I fall for the underdogs.  I really do.  I don't know what it is--but something to do with my strangeness, I guarantee.

Now that post is done, I can get back to school...or more school...or actually start school.  

-Editor-in-chief.  

Scribblings of a Frantic Author

[sound of a pen scratching along the rough surface of the paper]

So, for those of you who are aware of 4-H, you would know what a Record Book is.  And for those of you who are not aware of what 4-H is, then know that a Record Book is exactly what the name implies: a book a records.  And I mean any and all records: what you cooked for your first food and nutrition contest, how many hours of community service you spent at the local food pantry, how much leadership you gained while preparing your main project.

So, for all of us 4-Hers out there, Record Books are like the bane of our existence.  I'm not saying they're bad--quite the contrary for they help with a lot of college scholarships and applications when you actually need all those records later on.  But to say that they're helpful does not mean that they are not painful.  Because they are!  Pure, all-in-all, computer difficulties thrown-in pain!

Anyway, last night, we went to a Leadership Night and someone from our District's Office spoke on the new changes going into Record Books this year.  This woman was a very good speaker, and I enjoyed listening.  But, given that I didn't go to bed till 5:00am that morning [I'd been at a sleepover with some friends] and just had to give a presentation on a 4-H Teen Retreat with the afore mentioned friends [and if they're reading this, I just want to say that I love y'all!  Sorry for my grumpiness] I was tired and was moody--to put it loosely.

And about halfway into her long talk about all the new changes, I started scribbling on my paper of Summary of Activities and Accomplishments.  I must have been very spaced out, in light of what I scribbled very randomly.  I'm sure everyone thought I was taking very detailed notes [shhhh--don't tell].

Anyway, I have taken a best friend's advice and decided to grace you with these notations so you can see what a frantic author scrawls when very stressed out.  Here is a picture of my ramblings.

I started writing along the top of the page:

I ran, not looking back or glancing over my shoulder––never pausing for breath, forcing my lungs to expand and contract w/ burning pain.  I couldn’t stop.

Next part goes down the right side of the page:

Just had––had to keep going.  My side throbbed w/ a sharp ache.  Where––where the devil was the river?  A sharp hiss rent the air and I felt a fiery agony in my calf.  My leg gave way and I sprawled on my face, blindly scrambling and clawing to get back on my feet.  My breath came in gasps as I stumbled forward a few steps.  I could hear them––hear them getting closer.  

Now there’s a big arrow going to the middle of the page in between the boxes marked out for Personal Journal and the afore mentioned Summary of Activities and Accomplishments:

Hear them––the ones who wanted my blood, would do anything to kill me.  I HAD to keep going.

Then there’s an arrow to the bottom left side of the page:

Cursing, I kept going, pushing myself forward––always forward.  I could hear them growing louder––the pounding feet, clanking armor, and always the hiss of deadly arrows searching for my flesh.  And the baying of the hounds, getting closer––always closer.  And there was nothing I could do.

An arrow pointing to the top left side of the page:

I was giving up.  I had too.  I hurt––everything hurt.  I couldn’t go on––go any farther.  And they got closer––closing in for the kill.  

So there you have it: what I was scratching [un-edited] so furiously at during a speech on Record Books, of all things.  I really don’t know what inspired it––perhaps I will use it someday in a book.  But that’s what you get when I stay up late, have to speak for the program, and am very frazzled.  

Don’t know what it says, but I’m a writer––and writers are weird, at least in my opinion.  

Sincerely,

R.D.