Maya Doyle » Blog » Writing http://www.mayadoyle.com/blog Thu, 28 Jan 2010 23:55:15 +0000 http://wordpress.org/?v=2.8.5 en hourly 1 Why I Like paranormal http://www.mayadoyle.com/blog/2009/08/why-i-like-paranormal/ http://www.mayadoyle.com/blog/2009/08/why-i-like-paranormal/#comments Mon, 31 Aug 2009 05:19:44 +0000 Maya http://www.mayadoyle.com/blog/?p=324 Paranormal/Urban Fantasy stories are my favorite–to write and to read. There are very few stories I read that don’t have some kind of paranormal aspect to them, and I doubt very much I’ll write any that don’t deliver the same. The question is, why?

As a reader: I like escaping into a world that isn’t ordinary. The problems aren’t ordinary, so the hero/heroines aren’t either. We (Okay, I) get enough reality in, well, reality. I know what happens in the real world; I want to know what happens outside of it. I want to know what the world would be like with vampires, shifters, and demons running loose. Of course, then I want to know how to conquer those things. (Hey, it could happen–I’m making a list of how to destroy these things. :wink: )

As a writer: The same as above. Plus, I like being able to twist things around and see how they’d work from other angles, with different explanations and reasons. The worlds I write in, so far, are all modern worlds, just the…details are different. And I have to admit, writing about a character who can see the future or shapeshift or move things with her/his mind…that’s just cool.

Don’t get me wrong. I still like some stories that don’t have paranormal aspects, like Inez Kelley’s Jinxed (read more here, buy here) and JD Robb’s In Death series (I don’t consider them para), but for the most part, what I’m reading has to be paranormal/urban fantasy. Now you know why.

What about you? What genres are your favorite? Whether it’s to read or write.

]]> http://www.mayadoyle.com/blog/2009/08/why-i-like-paranormal/feed/ 2 Excerpt Monday – August http://www.mayadoyle.com/blog/2009/08/excerpt-monday-august/ http://www.mayadoyle.com/blog/2009/08/excerpt-monday-august/#comments Mon, 10 Aug 2009 04:39:50 +0000 Maya http://www.mayadoyle.com/blog/?p=309 Excerpt Monday was started by Mel (Urban Fantasy/R) and Bria (Rom Com/PG).

I wasn’t going to do it this month because I have a lot going on and I honestly couldn’t think of anything to use, but I decided to for Mel and Bria. This was a piece I started last year (a story that I’m not good enough to write yet), so I decided to use it. I actually got the idea last year, while walking the devil spawn (aka the old puppy) when I saw the moon.

With her face buried in her hands, Kendra sat, hunched over on the couch. Her breath came in ragged, short gasps.

She prayed numbness would take over as the pain in her heart became more and more unbearable with each tear that streamed down her tear-soaked cheeks. It didn’t matter how hard she tried; she couldn’t make them stop.

Raw sobs tore from her throat, burning more and more. She started coughing so hard she couldn’t catch her breath. Instead of giving her a reason to try to calm down, it enraged her and she surged to her feet.

When the gold watch she had forgotten was in her hand fell to the ground and shattered, it was the last straw. She dropped to her knees and pounded the floor with her open palms. “Damn you,” she shouted between sobs. “You can’t do this to me. It isn’t fair! It isn’t right!”

Pain and a wet feeling under her hand gave her pause. Lifting it from the ground, she winced. Bloody handprints covered the ground where her hands had just been.

Why was she bleeding? she wondered dimly. Disgusted, she turned her hand over and discovered a cut, in the shape of a C, on the heel of her hand. It circled the burn she’d gotten earlier in the day.

Together, the wounds were unusual and, somehow, familiar.

She didn’t know how, but Kendra knew she recognized the design. She’d seen it somewhere. It meant something. It had to.

There were no coincidences in life. Isn’t that what she’d heard, even earlier that day?

Energized with a sudden spark of hope, she scrambled to her feet. She slipped on her own blood and fell back to the floor; glass crinkled under her knees and dug in to her skin. Ignoring the pain, she managed to get to her feet again and ran to her bedroom for her lock box.

Whatever was going on, whatever that design on her hand was, she knew it was important.


Check out these links for some other Excerpt Monday’ers:

]]> http://www.mayadoyle.com/blog/2009/08/excerpt-monday-august/feed/ 22 Excerpt Monday – July http://www.mayadoyle.com/blog/2009/07/excerpt-monday-july/ http://www.mayadoyle.com/blog/2009/07/excerpt-monday-july/#comments Mon, 13 Jul 2009 02:04:25 +0000 Maya http://www.mayadoyle.com/blog/?p=124 Excerpt Monday was started by Mel (Urban Fantasy/PG-13) and Bria (Rom Com/PG). I decided to give it a shot this month and see how things go. It’s my first time, so take it easy on me. :wink:

The scene below is, or will be (possibly), for one of my WIP’s–The Strike. It was just a scene that popped into my head and I had to write it down before I forgot it. It’s only had one round of quick edits, so it’s far from perfect.

Tess stared at the man before her. If he was a man. He had no face, wore only a black hooded robe.

And he needed no introduction.

“You’re not after Ross, are you? You’re after me.” It was posed as a question, but she wasn’t asking. She already knew the answer. Besides, she wasn’t sure he could talk. Did he even have a mouth?

Death nodded gently. “Yes.”

The one-word reply sent chills down her spine but she wasn’t really scared. Should have been, she realized, but wasn’t. Ross had spent the better part of two weeks trying to convince her that when it was someone’s time to go, it was their time to go. She didn’t believe it, didn’t want to, not when she thought it was his time. Now that it wasn’t his but hers….

She jutted her chin out. “Well, here I am.”

“I’m not here to take you—yet.” Death smiled down on her. “I’m here to talk.”

“Talk?” Her jaw dropped down. “You want to talk?”

“Yes. A simple conversation.”

What could be simple about a conversation when it was with Death? “Sure. Why not?” she said with a shaky laugh. Death wanted to talk to her. Nice.

“You view me as the bad guy.”

“You are the bad guy,” she hissed.

“You were given gifts, child. The gift of sight, the gift of—”

The laugh that bubbled out was full, loud, unexpected. “Sight? My sight is gone, in case you didn’t know. I’m blind.”

“Not that sight. That’s secondary.” Death put his hands behind his back, started to circle her.

Dimly, she realized he had no feet. Or if he did, they were hidden under his cloak and not touching the ground. Neat trick. All he’s missing is the scythe.

“The sight to see me, and the gift of being able to speak with me. Not many people get this opportunity.”

“I doubt that many people want it.” She sure as hell hadn’t. Even now, she didn’t want it. Who the hell wanted to talk to Death? Who, in their right mind, wanted to meet him?

“I see,” he said. She could only assume he had read her thoughts or heard them. “Sit.”

The command was pointless. As soon as he said it, she was sitting on a couch. “Since you asked so nicely,” she said, her tone dry.

He smiled again. “I want you to see what I do. What I really do. Who I am, what my purpose is.”

As he spoke, he waved his hand and a kind of projection screen appeared out of thin air. Images of people filled her vision. Broken, bloody bodies. Hospital patients, war victims, tragic accidents. Everything you heard about on the news and never wanted to witness for yourself. She was seeing it now in Technicolor. And surround sound, she discovered when voices filled her head. Screams, yells, moans that could hardly be considered human.

Finally, the images slowed and her attention zeroed it on the newest one. It was of her and her brother Jason, right after the accident. She was kneeling down with his head resting on her lap. Blood dribbled down the sides of his mouth and chin as he tried to speak.

“Don’t,” she begged, turning her head away. “Please don’t.”

“You need to understand, Tess.”

Despite her efforts to stop it, her head turned back and was held in place by an invisible power. With nowhere to go, she was forced to watch the screen as the images played for her like a fast-forwarded movie. She couldn’t stop it, couldn’t close her eyes against it, and couldn’t block her ears or the sounds she heard. She was forced to watch, over and over, helpless, hopeless, as her brother died in her arms again.

Death waved his hand again and a kind of filter covered Jason’s body, giving her an inside look of his body. “Do you see the damage there?”

How could she not? His organs were torn and bloody. Bones were broken and shattered.

“Would you have really wanted him to live longer?” His voice was almost kind now. “The end result would have been the same. He would have still died with or without me. But it wouldn’t have been quick and it wouldn’t have been painless. You saw how much pain he was in, how much he was suffering. Would you, willingly, have wished to prolong that?”

She shook her head and tried to close her eyes against the pain. Her eyes did close this time, but the pain was still there. “No,” she choked out. “Of course not.”

Death changed the image to a small child, no older than six years old, Tess guessed. His face was deathly white, his cheeks hallow. His eyes were nearly lifeless. Machines buzzed and beeped all around him. A woman, who she assumed was his mother, leaned over him, silent tears streaking down her face.

“What’s wrong with him?”

“Leukemia.”

“And let me guess,” she began, unable to block the raw bitterness in her tone, “you’re going to save him from the pain and misery? You’re going to spare him?” When he nodded, she shook her head. “What about his mom? Her pain, her suffering?”

For the first time, he spoke harshly. “The living aren’t my priority.”

“So cure him!” She jumped up from the couch. “Take away the disease! It’s a win-win.”

“That’s not my purpose, nor is it my job. Life happens, Tess, as well as death. You don’t think that’s fair, so be it. I don’t make them sick; I don’t give them their diseases. I can’t control how they live. That’s out of my hands and in another’s. I’m only here to take them where they need to go.”

“You deliver them to heaven or hell?”

“No.” He shook his head. “I don’t decide where they go or why, I only take them to the other side. From there, it’s up to other…people.” There was a slight pause. “Think of me as a host in a restaurant. I lead customers to their tables, but I don’t order for them, Tess. I don’t serve their meal.”



Check out these links for some other Excerpt Monday’ers:

]]> http://www.mayadoyle.com/blog/2009/07/excerpt-monday-july/feed/ 27 The Stork of Ideas http://www.mayadoyle.com/blog/2009/07/the-stork-of-ideas/ http://www.mayadoyle.com/blog/2009/07/the-stork-of-ideas/#comments Sun, 12 Jul 2009 04:37:58 +0000 Maya http://www.mayadoyle.com/blog/?p=138 The Stork of Ideas (also known as The Muse or Plot Bunnies) has escaped and is now roaming free, dropping ideas in my head at a rate that I just can’t keep up with.

The Good News:

  • Lots of ideas are better than no ideas.
  • I should never have an excuse not to write.
  • I get more worlds to play in.

The Bad News:

  • I don’t know which story to work on.
  • I want to work on them all. At the same time.
  • It gives me too many worlds to play in.
  • I switch back and forth too much, thus never finishing any.

Dear Stork of Ideas,

I have enough ideas and I really don’t need more. I appreciate the idea, really, I do. I even wrote it down when you wouldn’t let me forget the last one. But, for now, until I finish at least 1 or 2 projects, please, keep them to yourself. Unless they’re really, really good. If that’s the case, you can nag me. But only if they’re really, really good.

Yours truly,
Maya

As you can see, I have a love/hate relationship going with my muse. Right now, we’re somewhere in between the two. She’s given me like, 4 ideas this month, 2 of which I’ve started, 2 of which are in an idea folder impatiently waiting their turns. What about y’all? How’s your relationship with your muse? Is she/he good, bad? Do they deserve rewards or punishments?

]]> http://www.mayadoyle.com/blog/2009/07/the-stork-of-ideas/feed/ 0 When life gives you drama… http://www.mayadoyle.com/blog/2009/07/when-life-gives-you-drama/ http://www.mayadoyle.com/blog/2009/07/when-life-gives-you-drama/#comments Tue, 07 Jul 2009 06:54:48 +0000 Maya http://www.mayadoyle.com/blog/?p=88 Write a book. Or, at the very least, write down the story idea.

Today was a twisted day in the life of Maya–and not in the way I generally prefer. On the way home, our car gets a flat tire and we’re (me and my lovable parent) broken down on the side of the road on a very busy intersection (the car really didn’t want to move after this). Of course, me being the idiot that I am, I’m digging through the trunk, pulling things out to get to the spare tire.

I’m still dragging crap out when my lovable parent (the mom) yells at me to get out of the way, thus making me jump about three feet in the air. I look behind me but I see nothing close, so I yell something like, “Don’t scare me like that!” cause you know getting screamed at to move made my heart pound.

Well, as it turns out, a car that was speeding very much over the speed limit, came within a foot of hitting me. She didn’t tell me this until an hour later and says the car didn’t even try to slow down, not even after it passed us. Nice, eh? Florida driver’s, I love you, but seriously, do. not. hit. me. An accident like that probably would have meant my death in a very messy way. And it would have pissed me off. Like, I’ll-come-back-and-haunt-your-ass pissed off. This isn’t something you want.

Which leads me to the reason reason behind my post. I’d thought I’d share with you just how twisted a writer’s mind (okay, my mind–I won’t speak for us all) can be in situations such as this: Does it give me chills just thinking about what could have happened today? Damn skippy, and I’m not afraid to admit it. Did my mind automatically jump to “Well, that could make a cool story!”? Yup. Bet your butt it did. It seems I narrowly avoided a serious smooshing but I got an idea out of it.

So, how about you guys? Do you ever take real life scenarios and find them turning into story ideas? And, if you’re not a writer, do you ever think certain events of your life would make a good story idea?

]]> http://www.mayadoyle.com/blog/2009/07/when-life-gives-you-drama/feed/ 5 Writing Conditions http://www.mayadoyle.com/blog/2009/07/writing-conditions/ http://www.mayadoyle.com/blog/2009/07/writing-conditions/#comments Sat, 04 Jul 2009 19:12:36 +0000 Maya http://www.mayadoyle.com/blog/?p=73 It’s a little late in the day, but better late than never, right?

This topic is brought to you in part by: Florida Weather. As in, it’s too-freaking-hot-to-think-let-alone-type-on-a-laptop. According to Yahoo! weather, it’s 88 outside. Well, 87 of those degrees are in my house. Yes, it is currently 87 freaking degrees in my place of residence. My AC can’t keep up with it. Did I mention the 105 heat index? No? Well, I should have.

This got me to thinking about writing conditions, prime ones an not-so-prime ones. Heat is definitely not a good one. When it’s damn near hot enough to bake an egg on a car (Okay, I’ve never actually done it, so I don’t know how hot it’d actually have to be, but you get the gist of what I’m saying here), I promise it’s hot enough to fry a few brain cells.

Anyways, I thought I’d make a list of writing conditions.

Good:

  • Cool weather.
  • Good mood.
  • Loaded up with goodies: IE, for me, this specifically means Mt. Dew.
  • Good jams. I’m not a I-have-a-playlist-for-every-book type of writer, but I do like my music on.

    • And of course..

  • Nice characters. Meaning they’re talking to me in anything other than jibberish.

Bad:

  • Hot weather.
  • Bad mood. (Actually, this really depends on the day and the story I’m writing–sometimes a bad mood is a good thing.)
  • Lots of distractions.
  • Did I mention heat? Well, it deserves to be here twice.
  • Cats trying to type for you. It’s adorable, really, but kinda hard to work through.
  • Bad characters. Meaning, the story is not moving and the character’s lips are sealed with superglue.

So, what about you? What are some good/bad writing conditions?

]]> http://www.mayadoyle.com/blog/2009/07/writing-conditions/feed/ 1 Writing – Revising http://www.mayadoyle.com/blog/2009/07/writing-revising/ http://www.mayadoyle.com/blog/2009/07/writing-revising/#comments Wed, 01 Jul 2009 04:52:37 +0000 Maya http://www.mayadoyle.com/blog/?p=29 So, I figured my first post would be writing related, since, you know, this is writer’s blog and all. And I picked my favorite (if you can’t hear the sarcasm–pretend) subject: Revising or rewriting. Which, to me, is kind of the same thing.

I just finished a project a few days ago; The Hunt of a Lifetime (title likely to be changed). I completed it in 9 days, at around 15k. Great, right? Wrong! The characters, those lovely, crazy, lovable people (again, hear the sarcasm) changed the plot. 12k INTO the story. Yes, you read that right–12k in.

I guess I shouldn’t complain too much. I can use, er, some of the other stuff. It’s kind of difficult to use any more than that when your characters went from a first-time meeting to, oh, you know, being engaged way back when. Nice, eh? But it’s okay. The first draft is finished and the ending isn’t going to change much (I’m praying really hard here, in case you were wondering), so that’s good. At least, that’s what I’m naively telling myself. Shh, play along. It appeases the voices.

So, what about y’all? Do you like revising? Or do you Hate (yes, capital H) it with a fiery passion that would burn even the Devil’s skin?

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