This game has a huge plot hole that has always bothered me. IF I am the murderer, why would I be helping solve the murder? Theoretically, my “character” knows they committed murder – but I, the player, do not (unless the rare time you get your own card at the beginning and know you’re innocent) Clue, the board game, was originally conceived in 1949 – so we’re talking a game that’s 69 years old. The hay-day of board games when manufactures were figuring out how to manufacture those tiny pieces reliably and ship them…. Monopoly was 1935, Scrabble 1948, and Candyland was published in 1949 as well. In case you’ve never played it, the premise of the game is that six people were invited to a house and the host ended up being murdered by one of 6 possible weapons. The six guests are then trying to solve the murder. But one of these guests WAS the murderer – they know
Le sigh. I want to do NaNoWriMo but with everything going on in my life…. hell 500 words a day has been challenging much less 1,667. I am pregnant which is one of the most exhausting experiences of my life. The only other time(s) in my life I slept this much was when I was SICK – bronchitis, pneumonia, and influenza. It’s almost scary how exhausted I am so much of the time. How much a nap every day means I get to stay up until the uber late hour of 9pm…. and even that “staying up” is staying awake watching YouTube or anime – NOT doing something actually mentally stimulating. My husband and I are embarking on tearing out our kitchen (ok, paying someone else to do it) and master bathroom. It’s been a thing already and we haven’t even touched anything yet – so far it’s just been the shopping around/comparisons and dealing with an incredibly poor communicator at our bank… (I
Part 1: Writing: damnit! Part 2:Writing: Novel In Progress Part 2 Chapter 2 Talia looked around the room where she waited while Goodla checked the other rooms for dangers and traps. She wandered, looking at the furnishings – so unlike anything she was used to. The multi-legged ogalla rarely bothered with furniture anything like this. As Goodla checked each room he checked in with her, Safe. Clear. Weird but not dangerous. Of course it’s weird. It’s alien. Once Goodla cleared the rooms and rejoined her she lifted a hand. He held it against his head and she closed her eyes, an old concentration trick as he connected to the ogalla commander on the ship. There was the instantaneous bonding between the two ogalla and then Talia was allowed in, but she could not reach the depth they did. Emotions seeped in, but to be clear she had to use the language, We are in a safe room. We have been welcomed. Could you
I was trolling through YouTube and stumbled across this video about Phantom Menance and because I love burning buildings, I watched it: Here’s the thing, it does a GREAT job of breaking down the plot issue that plagues this disaster of a movie. My mind (ever narcissistic) went “whew, glad I don’t do that!” And then I realized I did. I have a novel I finished and I like the world and the characters- but I hated my plot. Oh, it’s not the shit-show Lucas put out. But I also never put it out. But my main character sucks at agency. She does have her own dreams and ambitions, and she is constantly having to balance her personal desires with the needs of her role as a Duchess and a political creature. But I rarely allow her to drive the plot- the plot kind of manipulates her. And rewriting the plot is going to be hard. It might require some pretty significant tweaks to the character,
So if you haven’t gone and watched it yet – you need to see N.K. Jemisin’s speech at the Hugo’s – I teared up. Ok, can I grow up and be just like her?!?!? Also – can I look that good in gold and black (gold doesn’t generally work on me, I have too much yellow in my skin).
Click here for Part 1 So I’m not 100% happy on the conversations or introductions of characters. But I barely know them yet. All I know right now… well before I wrote this all I knew was it was in space and there were ambassadors. I still don’t actually know where the plot is going to go… or who the “villain” will be. We’ll find out! Part 2: Now they assembled in the docking bay to await the first orgalla ambassador in history. Communication itself had proved nigh-impossible with the species; the war had never been officially ended. The orgalla had withdrawn when the combined human, kikital, and devallo forces which created a barrier of fighting to a stand-still. The orgalla had simply stopped attacking and after much argument the joint forces had agreed not to pursue the powerful race. Twenty years passed and then the silence was broken with the first radio signal from orgalla space in history. They requested – in
I have vivid dreams sometimes. Last night was especially interesting and honestly, I kind of want to write it out because it WAS so interesting. So the dream is in third person, like I’m watching a tv show or reading a book with a good imagination (ahem). The setting is a weird mix of classical Indian and Japanese. And there are things that call out that it is a weird mix. Most of the people in the room think nothing of it, but there are 2 men dressed as Middle Easterns but clearly fake beards (I mean, pretty good – but in modern terms “clearly fake”) who make comments about stuff being unusual. The room is set for a party. And there are several young women who are considered to be psychic who will be “summoning the dead to speak” tonight. Of course my foreign men scoff at this witchcraft nonsense, but the two young women most involved are quite serious.
The downside, as I’ve said before, to writing “the story I want to read” is when I notice an old file, open it – have an inkling of what I intended and go “damnit. I wanna know what happens!” I totally did that with a ~1 pg document. There is a teaser. A tiny, itsy-bitsy teaser that is driving me crazy. I don’t remember who the villain was going to be, I have just enough to be curious. I guess it wasn’t my worst beginning…. You tell me. Prologue It is so small and weak. The voice was quiet, pleading. Their species is not weak. It is almost a bark, with an angry edge to it. Our younglings are just as helpless. They are not as loud. A third tone, almost a soft musical chime to the worlds. Do as you wish your highness. Keep it as a pet if you so choose, but if it ever looks the least harmful,
I look out over the city. There are cheers. I hate it. You see, the problem is that I tried to be a villain. I never actively tried to help people. In fact, the problem with my city was the morass of super-heroes. It was actually a problem because you had “heroes” like Betsy Bobcat – a literal bobcat that had been given human intelligence. Her thing was people illegally feeding pigeons. Did you know it was illegal to intentionally feed pigeons? I didn’t. Then there was the strongarm-super-fast Mr. Thumbs. Something about his thumbs was special I guess. He was annoyingly particular about people speeding through lights. I hated them. I hated that one of the speedsters gave my dad a jaywalking ticket and when my dad tried to argue it in court he was given 30 days in jail for “anti-superhero actions.” A misdemeanor that not only lost him his accounting job but made it nearly impossible to find
When I doubt; when I feel unsure; I remember when I was given kindness. As I stand on the precipice of decision; The moment stretches into eternity; I force myself to take another breath; I remember who is the hero of the story. It isn’t me. It isn’t you. It is us. Plural. The stranger frightens me until I remember They are a friend I haven’t made yet. The dragon looms monstrous and evil to defend the princess from her kidnapper. It isn’t me. It isn’t you. It is us. Plural. Today I am the supportive teacher. I will help someone else rise higher. Today I am the guardian at the gate. I will keep out the wolves and the night. As I look into the face of the poor; I listen to a tale of global woe; I wait in line behind a crying toddler: I remember who is the hero of the story. It isn’t me. It isn’t