Showing posts with label Guest Posts. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Guest Posts. Show all posts

Friday, September 23, 2016

Why You Should Change Up Your Writing Process: A Guest Post by Katie Grace

I'm very excited to welcome the lovely Katie Grace to The Ink Loft for the first time! She just celebrated her two-year blog anniversary, and I fondly remember helping her get connected way back then.


clip_image002Katie Grace is a writer, blogger, child of the King, enfp, spreader of smiles, and a firm believer of hope in this messy world. (isn't that a mouthful?) She has a bad habit of writing 20,000 words in one day, staying up until two in the morning, and eating a whole pizza in one sitting (as well as using too many parenthesis in her bio).

She blogs at A Writer's Faith, and tweets constantly on her Twitter account.


Before I start my post, a HUGE thanks to Rachelle for letting me guest post! (and patiently reminding me when I forgot that I was supposed to send it to her.) Happy blogging anniversary to one of my first online writing friends! <3

Katie's Guest Post

I've been writing for 15.625% of my life. (Look at me math.) I've written four books and am getting ready to write my fifth. Each time I write a book, it's a different adventure. Obstacles to overcome, writer's block at different moments, and with each book I like to switch up my writing process.

Friday, September 9, 2016

The Way Life Changes: A Guest Post by Olivia Flewelling

I am very pleased to present for you all the first of two guest posts that you'll be receiving this month. The idea with each post was to hear from a blogger 1) whom I am friends with, and 2) whose blog came after mine. Here is the first!


Liv's Guest Post on Change

Change only ever came to me in an eyedropper. Little by little, the circumstances I feared or hoped for have eked into my life. Or change has not come at all.

Friday, March 27, 2015

White Bird–Leanne’s Flash Fiction

Leanne was given a picture prompt from Pinterest by Ana. You can find it here. Her story tops out at 995 words. Here you go!

“White Bird” by Leanne

A sharp crack echoes through the trees and into the sky. I stop midstride and stop singing. People don’t hunt in this pathetic patch of forest, but that defiantly sounded like a gunshot.

I glance around the small clearing, and into the trees beyond. There’s nothing and no one.

“Let me go.” The voice is soft but fierce.

There’s a sudden gust of wind that sounds like a scream. Another gunshot and suddenly there’s a boy crouching in the clearing as though he just jumped out of the sky.

He doesn’t look friendly. His skin is pale and his clothes are black. I’ve never seen him around here before. He gets to his feet slowly, and looks around.

He catches sight of me, and turns. I don’t move.

“So, you brought a friend?” He says, looking right at me, but I don’t think he’s talking to me. His eyes are a deep brown, and there’s a touch of a smile on his lips.

“Leave the human out of this.” The first voice says again, and then I see her, a girl slowly standing up in the grass. She’s as pale as him, but with hair the colour of the edge of a sunset. She’s small and fragile, but with something like steel in her eyes.

“She can see us.” the boy says.

“Humans can’t see us,” the girl says in a slightly scornful voice, glancing at me.

The boy raises an eyebrow, the same smile tilting his lips, walking toward me carefully, like I’m a wild creature.

I don’t like how this is going.

The girl’s gaze slips off of me and onto the boy, several paces in front of her now. She stands quite still, holding her hand out to him, her eyes closed. He moves closer to me again, making a soft soothing noise that does nothing to calm me.

I step back.

He lunges forward and grabs me.

A blast and a flash of white, and both of us are torn into the sky.

I can feel the empty air beneath me, the leaf strewn ground below that, and he’s still gripping my arm, his hand warm and sticky from sweat, my heart beating far faster than I ever thought it could go.

He yells something, and a gust of wind throws us both to the ground. I land on my hands and knees, the impact pulling me from his grip. I roll over quickly, and get to my feet.

The girl and the boy are both standing facing each other, one hand reached out to each other, almost touching, but the space in-between in blazing white. Both of their faces are cold and hard as they glare at each other.

They seem to have forgotten about me. I make a dash for the trees and drop to the ground behind some bushes, hidden. I lay still for several long moments, but there’s not a sound from the clearing. Air slowly returns to my lungs, and I inch up to sitting, peering through the foliage.

They’re still locked in their silent, intense battle, but the girl looks to be losing. She’s on one knee, and I can see sweat glistening on her face. Her glare has cracked into more of a grimace.

I watch, unsure of what to do. Unsure of what is happening at all. I should help the girl, she looks like she needs it, but she just tossed me into the air, and what can I do anyway, against the powers they have?

Her leg trembles and she’s on both knees now. I stand up, slide my backpack off my shoulder and pull out a book.

He smiles now, and lets his hand drop.

She falls down.

I throw the book at him, for all the good that does, and run toward the girl. She’s lying on the ground, eyes closed, paler than ever. I crouch beside her, not sure what to do, if she’s actually hurt or not.

The boy screams.

I jump to my feet and turn around, and almost fall back down.

The book has exploded. It’s lying on the ground, pages open, streams of black swirling out of it, attacking the boy. He’s screaming, raising his arms to protect his face, but the black—it looks like inky words—swirls in a vortex around him.

How...?

The girl stands up and holds my arm, staring at the sight intently. She reaches out her hand, flashing white light, but it merely deflects off of the words.

He’s fading. The words tighten around him, and he appears to give up, falling to his knees. He’s already translucent at the edges.

His eyes meet mine, and they are wide and afraid.

Then he’s gone. The words swirl for a moment longer, and then gently flutter back down to the pages.

The air holds still, suffocating in the silence. The girl lets go of my arm and picks up the book. I stand still, blinking, not all the way believing what happened.

“It’s your journal,” the girl says, flipping through the pages and handing it back to me. “That’s why it worked.”

I take it from her. “What happened to him?”

The girl shrugs. “I don’t know. I don’t know why it happened at all. You’re not supposed to...” she stares past me into the sky and waves her hand. Four birds appear; not real birds, white outlines of them. They flutter around her head.

I stare at her. “Who are you?”

She meets my gaze, frowning slightly. The birds tug at her hair. “I’m the Impossible. He was the Nothing. Who are you?”

“I...” I don’t know what to say.

“Here.” The girl slides a thin band off her finger and shoves it into my hands. “Take this. If you see him again, call me. I’ll be back.”

I take the ring.

She smiles slightly at me, and then whispers up at the white birds. “Carry me away.”

Confrontation–Sierra’s Flash Fiction

Sierra received a the following prompt from Emmarayne Redding:

He pressed his fingertips together and looked at me with cold eyes. "You are not," he said. "You are not, and you never have been."
I blanched, unable to believe what I'd just heard. My eyes filling with tears, I took a sharp breath. "How can you say that? After everything we've been through... how?"

She was allowed to use it however she liked, and she ended up using 656 words.

So, without further ado, here is Sierra’s flash fiction:

“Confrontation” by Sierra Blasko

I made my way down the long hallway, my footsteps slow and measured. I was not looking forward to what was ahead. But I had to know. I needed answers, explanations, something.

I passed several people, but they mostly ignored me as they reached their own offices.

I stopped outside the office belonging to Mr. Verrad.

“Is Mr. Verrad here?” I asked one of the two guards stationed at the door, willing my voice to come out confidently.

One guard disappeared inside, then reemerged. With a small nod, he opened the door and ushered me inside.


“Mr. Verrad?” I stood nervously inside the doorway. “Can… can I talk to you for a minute?”

I took his silence as affirmation and timidly entered the office. Mr. Verrad was seated behind his desk, just like always. And just like always, I perched awkwardly on the red leather chair in front of him.

I hesitated before saying again, "Mr. Verrad?"

He glanced up at me impatiently. "What is it?"

"I... I just had a question," I stammered, "About... um, you know... what... Mark said."

Mr. Verrad's eyes returned to the folder and the miscellaneous pages in his hands. "What about it?"

"Well," I took a deep breath, then forged on ahead, "You know, what he said about... about you and Mr. Johnson, and how... you were lying to me, and, and my gift..."

I stopped and tried to collect my thoughts. "I guess what I'm trying to ask," I said, speaking more slowly now, "Is... is whether it was true, all that stuff you said, or... or if it was all just lies... to make me help you."

Mr. Verrad didn't move, speak, or in any way acknowledge the fact that I was still standing there.

Long minutes passed and I began to grow even more nervous than I had been before. "Well?" I finally broke the silence, though I'm ashamed to admit that my voice shook a little. "Am... Am I gifted, like you said?"

He finally looked up from his reports; actually looked at me. Silence pervaded the room, like the heaviness in the air right before a big storm. Setting the folders down on the desk, Mr. Verrad leaned forward.

He pressed his fingertips together and looked at me with cold eyes. "You are not," he said. "You are not, and you never have been."

I blanched, unable to believe what I'd just heard. My eyes filling with tears, I took a sharp breath. "How can you say that? After everything we've been through... how?"

“It was a mistake. I have no further information to disclose at this time.” Mr. Verrad looked back down at his desk, silently dismissing me. I wasn’t done.

“But you said... you told me... I- I-” My voice rose in pitch and volume, but I didn’t care.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the doors in the corridor being pulled shut.

“I’m sorry, Miss Daniels, but I’m afraid I must ask you to leave.”

“How could it be a mistake? How?!” I shouted, flinging the words at him. Mr. Verrad didn’t even flinch.

“You’re causing a scene and disturbing the entire floor. If you don’t leave voluntarily, I will have security remove you from the building.”

“Please,” I pleaded, “I just want answers. Anything. Anything.”

Mr. Verrad shook his head and pushed a small button on the desk.

“How could this happen?” I sobbed as the guards appeared behind me. They took my arms and guided me firmly towards the door. “No! I need to know!”

Mr. Verrad’s indifference infuriated me. I fought and managed to free one arm, but the guard on my right caught me as I lunged forward. They pulled me between them, out of the room and back down the hall I had just come through.

The last thing I saw was Mr. Verrad standing up, crossing the room, and calmly shutting the door.

Friday, October 10, 2014

“Earth”– Leanne’s Flash Fiction

It’s here! Today is the deadline for my second ever flash fiction challenge, and I’m excited to see what you all came up with! This post contains Leanne’s entry, since she doesn’t have her own blog. My own entry will follow shortly. I gave her the beginning sentence as a prompt and a limit of 800 words, plus the prompt. She finished with 637. So, without further ado, read on!

Earth flash fiction

My heart beat faster because I knew this was it.

The horizon line dipped and swayed. Brilliant blue openness curving into the green earth.

“Prepare yourself for the landing,” a small mechanical voice said into my ear. “Be aware that the local inhabitants may react bizarrely. Proceed with caution—”

I clicked the switch on my headset, shutting the voice up. My fingers were damp in my gloves. I gripped the stick, guiding my ship in a slow arc downwards.

The earth filled the view through the glass. The green un-blurred and become a patchwork of striped squares. Here and there small clusters of blocks, buildings.

The control panels started to beep. What in the moon...? A message flashed across the screens, blinking and red.

Entry denied.

I slammed several buttons but the message refused to leave.

Hostile ships spotted.

I glanced up through the glass, and jerked the stick backward so I’m hovering in the air.

Turn your headset on immediately.

I flicked the switch. “What?”

A burst of static. High pitched beeping and yelling in the background.

“Cherrie! Are you there?” said a voice.

“Yes.” I tried call up view on my headset, but it fuzzed out and didn’t work. “Who am I speaking with please?”

More static and jumbled words. I couldn’t make out any of it. I turned it off again. Earth’s atmosphere must be screwing things up.

Hostile ships spotted. Return to space immediately.

Only blue sky drifting lazily outside the glass. I flicked through the controls, calling up my radar. Three blinking red dots advanced on me at an extremely rapid pace.

There. I squinted, and can just make out them on the hazy horizon line. Three earth ships.

I leaned back and bit my lip. I had expected problems with the earth’s inhabitants, of course, but not before I landed.

My headset buzzed. I turned it on. “I’m returning,” I said, mobilizing ship.

No answer. Crackling silence.

“Hello?” Did I lose connection?

“Identify yourself immediately.” said a voice. A deep, different voice. Not anyone from the station. An earth voice.

I took a deep breath. “This is Cherrie. Who am I speaking with please?”

“Where do you come from and what are you doing here?” the voice said.

My screen goes black with a small pop. What in the blue moon? I pressed every dang button on the control panel but all that comes up is a small message.

Lost connection.

Wonderful. Just wonderful. I rested my head against the screen.

“Respond or we will open fire.”

I jerked upright. The ships were hovering nearby, but still a distance away.

“Firing in one...two...”

“Wait.” I almost screamed the words in the headset. “My ship is not responding. I’m not going to harm you. I need help.”

Dead air. I watched the ships carefully but they didn’t move or fire.

I wondered if I could make a crash landing. I slowly eased the stick back...nothing. Nothing at all.

“Where did you come from?” said another male voice, in the headset. “Why are you here?”

“I’m from earth. Originally.” The words tumbled off my tongue, smooth from practice, but my heart rate still sped up again. “I’m to see if it’s worth returning to yet.”

Cracks, and pops, and suddenly my whole ship sprang back to life. The screens lit up and another message flashes across.

Please land.

Clearly not from the station. Orders from earth.

The earth ships are gone. Nowhere. The sky is empty. The sun is melting into the horizon.

For a moment I pause. I could go back up, back to the station, back to safety. I flexed my fingers in my gloves and stared down at the earth.

No.

With a soft groan, my ship makes a slow dive down. There’s no going back now.

My heart beats faster because I know this is it.

Earth. At last.

Saturday, September 6, 2014

Guest Post for Laura Mizvaria

Today I have the great honor of being featured as a guest poster on Laura Mizvaria’s blog Sir Writesalot. Here’s a peek:

Relationships take work, whether they be with a parent, sibling, friend, or spouse. It is universally acknowledged that, in order to have a successful relationship that goes beyond the barest superficiality, you’re going to need to invest some hard work into it. And that requires a commitment to the relationship. Writers have another type of relationship that they cultivate: the relationship with their stories. And our stories are like some of our deepest relationships with people: they depend upon an intense commitment. So the question then is this: Do You Love Your Story Enough to Commit to It? Continue Reading

Friday, August 29, 2014

How's Your Writing Going?

I don't have a full post for you today because I've been working on a guest post for Laura Mizvaria's blog Sir Writesalot. And I've had some really busy days for the past week. So, instead of a post from me, I thought I'd get an update from ya'll. How's your writing going? What's your main project right now, and how's it going? What are you most excited about with it? My current project is my Beauty and the Beast retelling, but I'm quite off track with it. I'm supposed to have the first draft finished, but I'm only about halfway through it. *sigh* So, my goal for the next few days is to do some serious writing for it. What about you?

Friday, April 11, 2014

Five Things That Will Improve Your Writing

Today I’m excited to share with you a guest post by a good friend of mine, the lovely and talented Olivia Flewelling. Enjoy!

LivOlivia Flewelling is a twenty something Canadian who slings paper in an office by day and writes (sometimes) at night. She completed the One Year Adventure Novel program in 2011 and has gone on to write far too many novel drafts and have two pieces published in Canadian Stories magazine. She spends the long winters loving life and harassing her family with quotes from the latest book she's been reading. She writes with her sisters at fourgirlsonajourney.blogspot.ca.

 

“Artists, like everyone else, are the recipients of grace. They are stewards of what has been given to them.” - Leland Ryken

Writing, the beautiful pain in the neck it is, is certainly so. A gift. We do it, and somehow, hope to get better. It is not always an easy task, and so here are my thoughts (for what they’re worth) on what we can do to foster this ‘grace’ that is given.

1. Know your people.

Perhaps this is where we all start. Little naked babies, we are born into a group of people that already love us. Happily for us, we grow further into that sense of belonging as we grow in age, and become fully part of community. And beyond how this benefits you as a person, it can be the greatest of all gifts for a writer. Being engaged in other’s lives will give you experience beyond what you can ever gain on your own. So here is the key. BE engaged. Emily Freeman says, “I do not change the world today. But I decide to show up where I already am.” This is where art begins. Ask questions. Talk to your elders. Listen carefully to their stories. People’s true histories and tales will probably be the best inspiration you will ever find.

2. Watch.

“The writer should never be ashamed of staring,” Flannery O’Connor once said, probably with a smile. Too often, I think people believe writing can only come to those who have traveled and lived the adventures they will write about. Thankfully, it’s not really the fact of the matter. Truth be told, the wonder of human experience and adventure is that we can find it where we are. It just takes new eyes to really look. So look! Watch how an old woman’s face lies serene in the storm of grief. Watch what the baby does when you hand him a cookie. Think about how the sun sets every night…there are things that the whole world knows. And they begin right where you are. Start with writing about them.

3. Read.

Writers by and large are a bookish lot, with a tendency (I’m afraid) to think that quantity is the point. It isn’t . For writers, reading can be something more. With eyes to a story, we should read to be stretched into new ways of imagining, to come outside our story comfort zones, to kill those clichés dead. Do you read the romances? Maybe you should read how a different genre handles love…how a different author handles love. A fan of historical fiction? Read what Shakespeare says regarding the various kings of England. You get the idea. Read John Milton and Dickens. Read beyond your level and read hard. That’s how you learn.

4. Believe in monsters.

As writers, it can be great temptation to treat our words as just that. Words. We move them around, manipulate syntax and every now and again take stabs at making them mean something. But the thing is - we can’t write from the outside in. We can’t sort of believe in the monsters, the fairies, or the good and the evil. If you try to write that way, believe me, your readers will know! Writing is an active pursuit, and so we must enter into it with conviction. Do you believe there is evil? Then your monsters must terrify. Do you believe in good? Then your fairies must be true. We enter into our own imaginations fully and believe that our creation is real. Not physically, but in essence. C. S. Lewis once said, “Since it is so likely that children will meet cruel enemies, let them at least have heard of brave knights and heroic courage.” Making it real is important, because it is real, and this is where writing reaches hearts.

5. Write.

There is this quote pinned above my desk which alternatively inspires me and then makes me feel guilty. It is also the most profound (but not profound) piece of advice writers can ever share. “Start writing, no matter what. The water does not flow until the faucet is turned on.”

Hard, right? Yet in the act of sitting down and actually putting finger to key, this is where your inspiration occurs, and the writing will happen, grow and improve.

So are you ready to go where your writing might take you? I believe it could be a wonderful thing. After all…“We are the dust and the brushstroke, the poets and the poetry, the weak empowered, the broken made whole…We are the mirrors of God on the earth, the megaphones of glory, the hands and eyes and hearts of heaven…” (Freeman’s Artist’s Manifesto)

Then listen, watch, read, believe, and with great prayer get in that chair and do it!

Thank you, Liv! Sometimes it’s so easy to over-complicate writing. And, sure, it’s hard. But, in reality, it boils down to pretty simple concepts. Share your thoughts in the comments below: we’d love to talk to you!