Whatever happen I know to keep my head up, and stay positive. Get to one thing at a time, and especially to not stress.
Better things are coming to me, I can feel it.Read More
If one day, perhaps, I'm walking down the street and just one person comes up to me, book in hand, eager for a signature, or to pick my brain about the story, I will know I have made it in my career. Aside from the conventions, the bookstore book signings, the (hopeful) cosplays of characters in my books, I will know I've made a difference by being myself, doing what I've always felt is best, and doing the hard work I know is necessary to reach all of my goals.Read More
for the lack of a blog post. I've been swamped with work from school, reading the 'classics,' analyzing them, etc. And it's been a wild ride finishing up The Two Swords. It goes without saying that the themes of love, betrayal, blood (familial as well as otherwise), are strong in the third book. I can't wait to finish it and hand it in to the publisher hopefully before the May 1st deadline (not even sure if that's still the deadline).
That's all, back to writing!
With blood and love,
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Being in a creative writing class has made me realize (if, only more so), my writing style and how it differs (and is similar to) my peers in the class. I've written short stories for the class thus far, two poems, and naturally, my inclination was to write, or share, my previously written work, or type up stories where couples were distraught, on the verge of a break up, lost secrets not told, secrets, as a whole, I realize tends to more or less resurface in my work, something my professor enjoys immensely to say the least. I showed him A Night of Frivolity, which he loved, and for my midterm, I had expanded upon Judgment, briefly flirting with the thought of making it a straight psychological thriller/mystery, but when it came down to it, the book was just that, but flirted, instead, with vampires and magic. Deadly vices in their own rights. He gave me an A+ on the work and told me that he would've distributed it to the class but he didn't want them, (and these are his words, mind you), to feel 'intimidated.' I scoffed immediately - my work hardly warranted such a claim, but he's remained impressed with my work, so much so, like I've said previously, he's offered to give The Dark World to a publisher friend of his, so we'll see how that goes.
He has stressed to me that he desires to see me write something that didn't involve vampires, magic, because he says my character building, plot structure...etc., it's all there, he just desires to see what else I can do. And I agree. I too have wondered when (because I know there is no more if), I will write a novel or short story that is solely...normal? Well, sans fangs and magic, at least. I don't know if that's soon, because I believe I've just begun to fully explore my love for those dark themes and what they bring out in me and what I can understand within them, and I can't see myself, for right now, working on anything contemporary or even solely historical fiction. I enjoy reading those types of works, but not too often, and would sooner pick up a book with swords, potions, alchemy, dragons, magic, supernatural creatures...etc.
I often wonder if this is a phase. Shall I one day grow out of it and venture onto...calmer pastures of writing? Or shall I always find comfort in the macabre, the bloody?
Only time will tell.
For now, I'm quite glad with the streaks of A++'s that I've earned in my creative writing class thus far, and the positive acclaim my writing has garnered.
Oh, and I was mentioned in the much-talked about author Jayme K.,'s interview with Carlana of This Lady Writes, do check it out and snag a copy of Disorderly and Nocturn by Ronald Andres Moore when you can!
Keep your bite,
Oh and I'm listening to this amazing music by 78Violet (sisters Aly and AJ Michalka) while I go about my night. Give it a listen, will you?
I know it's been a long time since I've updated, but it's been on my mind, believe me, so here I am. a Lot has happened recently, I've been to Comic Con, and due to my last blog post about my book and my Creative Writing Professor's friend, the publisher, I'm here to expand on my update about that. So I finally have the book in my hands, but a chapter is all off, and me being the perfectionist I am, in my rush to get the book in my hands and into the publisher's hands, I overlooked that mistake. So I put a note in the book explaining the mistake and where the chapter is supposed to start, and that, despite that, the entire book is as it should be, and if my professor needs me to order another copy, I shall.
But I feel like he won't and he'll take it as is.
I feel like this won't deter a positive outlook on my work from his publisher friend, for whatever reason.
I'm happily optimistic about all of this, like everything will finally work out.
I'll keep you all updated.
In the meantime, Disorderly for Kindle is free right now as of my writing this.
Keep your bite (and your fingers crossed!)
Fable: You Don’t Know Best When You Don’t Have the Whole Story
There once was a young woman who swore she was the most correct in all things. If anyone had a different thought, she called them wrong. If anyone had a different way of doing things than her, she called them wrong and would rather see them bend to her way.
One day, this woman was walking down a barren street when she came across an old, dirty child. It was clear the child had had no proper place to sleep, and had no food to eat, so dirtied and thin was he.
Desiring to stop and help the child (for what other way would the child gain a life of prosperity?), she stopped just before him and stooped low so that she may talk with him.
“Dear child,” she began smugly, deeming herself to know the boy’s answer before he would say it, “what heinous act of little care has brought you into the squalor like this?”
The young boy merely opened his mouth and said, “My mother caused it.”
Aghast at this answer, the young woman soon smiled and said, “Where is your mother? I wish to speak with her so that I may tell her the best way to reduce your poor condition.”
“Talking to her won’t help, Miss,” the boy said, but she waved him off, and he pointed toward the inside of the old run down house the young woman just realized was there. Squaring her shoulders she went inside the house and was quickly overcome with a most horrible scent.
As she stepped over dirtied, quite old furniture, and lamps that hadn’t been used or lit in what had to be centuries, she finally found the staircase where the terrible smell seemed to be exuding from.
With one last glance to the dirtied boy at the door, she knew she had to assist him; it was only right, after all, and she stepped up the stairs, placing a hand over her mouth as the smell was the worst up here.
Several doors loomed before her but she moved to one that remained open, sure that that was where the evil mother must have spent her time, ignoring her child, and leaving the house in such awful conditions.
Once upon the threshold, staggered back, for the terrible smell was great here, so great she thought she would not be able to move forward, but her desire to give this woman a grand talking to remained strong at the front of her mind, so she stepped into the dim room where thick, old curtains hid the sun’s light.
And as she turned upon the bed to find nothing there but unworn clothes and layers of dust, her eyes caught the thin hair cascading down the back of an old rocking chair.
Justice filling her heart with renewed vigor, she stepped toward the back of the chair, extended a hand to it, and spun it around so that she could give the woman a nice talking to about the correct way to raise a home and child.
What she saw caused her to step away.
The woman was mostly bone, vague remnants of muscle and tissue existed on what was once a frail face.
Her mouth laid open in an expression much resembling horror.
And the young woman had not but moved two steps away from the corpse before the voice entered the room:
“I told you talking to her wouldn’t help, Miss. She can’t talk, not anymore.” And she turned to look at the skinny young boy as he held a small dirty knife in his small hands. “And now you won’t be able to talk either.”
The young woman, so overcome with fear, threw herself out of the nearest window and landed roughly on a low, long hedge. She was greatly hurt, but more so scared, and she ran from the old house, the boy, the dead woman, and never spoke again, indeed.
Keep your bite.