Resolute

My New Year Writer's Resolutions:

1. I will dedicate myself to my writing.
2. I will be e-published this year.
3. I will write more, and edit less, until the first draft is done.
4. I will learn how to create book cover art, even though I suck at artistic stuff, because I want to understand how it's done.  If Sarah Wynde can create a wonderful book cover using PowerPoint for God's sake, there must be some hope for me.

Maya's First Day

“Maya, it’s time.”

The slim, auburn-haired young girl gazing at herself in the dresser mirror turned toward the bedroom door. She smiled, struck a modeling pose, and said, “What do you think? Do I look okay?”

The housekeeper stepped closer and looked her over, as Maya spun around so she could get the complete view.

“You look lovely, chica. Perfect.”

Maya ran her hands down her new school uniform. The navy blazer with the Bainbriar Academy crest, white blouse with navy bowtie, and navy knee-length skirt filled her with excitement. Other than for fittings, this was the first time she’d put it on. This time was for real.

First day, she thought. I feel sick. Nervousness mixed with her excitement and made her stomach churn.

“God, Esmie, what if the other kids hate me? What if they treat me like a freak?”

“Don’t think like that, Maya. They’ll love you. Everybody does. Beside,” Esmie grinned at her, “if anyone doesn’t treat you right, Jerry and Taylor will be all over them like wildcats. You know it, too.”

Maya grinned at the image. “Yeah, I do.”

“Now, come on, it’s time to go.”

Maya grabbed her new school backpack from her bed and followed Esmie out into the hallway, then down the staircase. Her white hooves thumped on the carpeted treads.

Her mother was standing at the foot of the stairs, smiling at her as she came down.

“You look wonderful, dear. Excited?”

“Terrified.” Maya stuck her tongue out in a mock-gag. “Can I go back to bed?”

Her mother laughed, put her arm around Maya’s shoulder, and pulled her close. “This was all your idea, remember? You were the one pushing us all last year to let you go to school this year instead of continuing home schooling.”

“Yeah, well, right now I’m thinking it wasn’t one of my better ideas.”

Esmie nodded to Maya’s mother, winked at Maya, and said, “I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me,” then left them.

Maya and her mother went into the living room, where Maya’s father, tall and casually-dressed, and Rachelle in her usual business suit stood waiting for them. Rachelle was talking quietly to someone on the headset she wore in one ear.

Maya grinned at her father. “How do I look, Daddy?”

“You look wonderful, Punkin. Ready to go?”

She put her hand flat on her stomach and pressed. It seemed to help tame her butterflies. “I guess.”

Rachelle turned to her father. “Sorry, Mr. Prentiss, there’ll be a slight delay. It seems Jerry and Taylor couldn’t wait for us to pick them up. They just came through the back gate.”

Maya’s father just shook his head and smiled. “I’m not surprised, are you?” He looked down at Maya. “I think we’re all pretty excited this morning.”

A minute later, they heard Esmie let the Woolsey twins in through the back door. Maya’s triangular ears automatically swiveled toward the sound. Seconds later, they came rushing into the living room.

“Hi, Mr. Prentiss, Mrs. Prentiss. Hi, Rachelle. Wow, Maya, you look great!” Maya thought that was funny, ‘cause Taylor was dressed exactly like her. Well, almost exactly, she thought. Her own skirt had some special tailoring—a opening in the back, covered with a small flap, that let her tail out.

Taylor gave Maya a quick hug. “You ready for this?”

Maya groaned and said, “I wish everyone would stop asking me that. I think I’m gonna puke.”

Taylor laughed. “You will not! You’re gonna be fine.”

Maya looked to Taylor’s twin brother. “Hey, Jerry.” Jerry wore the boy’s version of the school uniform—white shirt, navy tie, khaki slacks and a boy’s-cut navy blazer.

He flipped his hand at her. “Morning.”

Rachelle cleared her throat. “Are we ready?”

Maya’s father took her mother’s hand. “I think we are.”

Rachelle said, “Good.” She moved to the doorway to the hall, taking the lead. As they followed her to the door that opened into the garage, she spoke into her headset. “Alright, Ricky we’re coming out. Max, those cars still parked near the gate?”

She must not have liked the reply, because Maya saw her frown. Her father saw it, too. He asked, “Is there a problem?”

Rachelle glanced at him, then opened the door and stepped out into the spacious garage. She paused briefly, her eyes making an automatic threat assessment sweep of the interior, before she stepped aside to allow them to enter.

“No sir. There’s some cars parked along the road by the front gate. Max says they’re photographers from the local news stations. Nothing we didn’t expect, since the news about Maya broke. But there’s a lot of traffic on the road. Max says some of it’s people driving by, rubbernecking.”

She led them past Maya’s mother’s Mercedes and her father’s pickup to the white Suburban, the one Rachelle preferred when Maya left their property. Secretly, Maya thought of it as the War Wagon.

Ricky, the driver on Rachelle’s security team, opened the doors for them. Maya got in behind Taylor and Jerry, and they took their seats in the rear. As the girls sat, they both ran one hand behind them to arrange their skirts.

Maya did more; she twitched her tail to one side, and gathered up its long auburn hair in her hand. Sitting on her tail hair was uncomfortable enough just by itself, ‘cause it would pull; getting it caught in a car door was something she wouldn’t ever let happen again.

Her father handed her mother into the mid seats and then got in himself. Ricky closed their doors and got behind the wheel. With a last look around, Rachelle slid into the front passenger’s seat. The power door locks clicked.

“Alright, people, heads up. We’re rolling,” she said into her headset.

The garage door opened, Ricky backed the Suburban out, and started up the long driveway. As they approached, Maya could see through the windshield that the big security gate at the street slid open for them. They stopped at the street just long enough for Ricky to check both directions and let a passing car go by, but it was long enough for two men with cameras raised to rush the big SUV.

Maya shrank back from the side window next to her, crowding Taylor. The Suburban’s passenger windows were darkly tinted. They weren’t likely to succeed in getting her picture… not that it mattered any more, she thought. Still, she’d been kept carefully out of the public eye all her life. Strangers with camera scared her. Strangers scared her. It was going to take some getting used to.

From her seat in the front, Maya heard Rachelle say, “Clear right. Go.” Her voice sounded tight, tense.

The Suburban turned left and accelerated smoothly onto the street toward town.

Maya’s nervousness increased, and with it, a bubbling anticipation grew. She’d never been to town, never been out in public before. A whole new world was about to open up for her.

First day.

What If?

I used to wonder how a writer came up with his/her story ideas. 

Then, after I'd been working on my very first written story for a few weeks--long enough that I'd started to believed it was something I could really do--I got to thinking about how it had happened.  Where'd that first inspiration come from?  Why did the story play out the way it did?

This is the way it happened for me.

I'd been reading a popular fantasy series that revolved around faeries living in the modern world.  The books were well-written and entertaining, and the concept resonated with me, but the stories ultimately left me unsatisfied.  The worlds that the author had created were well-crafted, but just not what I wanted to see.

As someone who'd always had fantastical stories running around in my head, I naturally thought about the way I'd tell a story like that.  Faeries in today's world?  Loved it.  Now, how could that possibly work?  How could I find a way to reconcile the conflict between magical faerie creatures, and our mundane, definitely unmagical, real world?

What if...  What if faeries and the faerie lands were real, as real as we are?  What if, a millennium or more ago, there'd been a way to pass between our world and the faerie lands, but even then that connection had been fading away, or closing up?  What if faerie magic had faded from our world, as its source was cut off.  What if those faerie creatures that could retreated back into the faerie lands, did so, and those that could not retreat, or chose not to, slowly died out.

What if our legends and stories about faeries and other mythical creatures were mostly wrong, but still had a core of truth?  What if all those stories sprang from a common source?

And finally, what if, now, today, that connection between our world and the faerie lands was once again beginning to open, and slowly at first, faerie magic was returning to our world, and faerie creatures were crossing over to earth?

I'm someone who's always been able to think better when I'm on my feet, walking.  I love to take a long walk at night and think.  I'll plan the next day, or work on a programming problem (I'm a computer programmer by profession), or tell myself a story.

One night, I was walking and thinking about that series of books, and faeries, and asking myself those 'what if' questions.  A story that would try to answer those questions sounded like fun.  I thought, what if this was a story that centered around a young girl who suddenly discovered she was the descendant of faeries--and her fae nature was starting to emerge?

My story's main character was suddenly there in my head, narrating her story.  I heard her 'voice', the way she spoke, her speech patterns and word choices.  I immediately knew what part of the country she lived in, where she went to school, what her home life was like.  Her personality came through clearly in the way she told her story.


I cut my walk short and made it home as quickly as I could.  I had to get her story down before it slipped away.

I wrote for four hours straight.  I probably paused a few times.  I had to have, but I have no memory of doing so.  I wasn't really writing so much as channelling her as she told her story.  I think I only stopped because I suddenly realised I was barely able to keep my eyes open, looked at the clock, and saw that it was 3 AM on a work day.

I no longer wonder where story ideas come from.  They come from an active, open mind, one that reads or notices something, and then asks, "What if?"

Welcome to My Worlds

Hi, and welcome to this, my blog about learning to write, the stories I'm writing, and maybe a bit more.

I'm Michael Kent.  I want to be a writer.  It's something I've wanted for a long time.  I have all these stories buzzing around in my head, stories I've told myself, in one form or another, since I was in grade school.

I've tried at times to get some of them written down.  I could never do it, could never get it to work.  I couldn't stay with it long enough to get anywhere.

A year ago, I finally took a good, hard look at myself, and wondered, "Maybe I'm A.D.D."  I talked it over with my family doctor and he have me a diagnostic questionnaire to fill out.  Sure enough, I scored really high on it.  How about that.  I'm Attention Deficit.  He started me on the appropriate medication.

It was like a switch clicked on in my brain.  I could focus.  The 'get it done' center in my brain engaged.  I sat down in front of my computer, and I wrote.  The words poured out.  They haven't stopped.

Oh, they're sucky words.  Wanting to write, and finally being able to stay with writing, doesn't mean I have the skills to write.  This is definitely a learn-by-doing experience.  I'm reading about writing.  I'm reading other writer's blogs, about what they have to say about their experiences writing.  I've join an online critique group.  I want to learn the skills to be able to give these stories in my head the respect they deserve.

But God, am I having fun!