Creating Katniss

...jumbled within the constant drama of edit work on the upcoming release, I managed a spare couple of hours to read "Mockingjay," the third and final installment in the "Hunger Games" series, created by Suzanne Collins.

Before the read, I couldn't help but notice the negative controversy circulating BlogLand in regards to how Ms. Collins chose to wrap up her ever popular, Science Fiction series. Outraged bookworms voicing their opinions, claiming injustice after remaining forever loyal to her work. Others a bit more understanding, yet guessing that perhaps the writer wasn't sure herself on how to finish the series, thus resulting in a less than stellar performance.

And so I opened the book, having already enjoyed the first two installments, attempted to clear my mind of any bias, and returned to the land Panem, amidst a civil war, the Districts rising up against the intolerable Capital and their evil dictator, President Snow.

I finished the book a day or two later, realizing what went wrong for Collins. It wasn't how she finished the series, that one climatic moment scribed into the final fifty pages that left every reader throwing their arms into the air in blasphemy.

Nope, under normal circumstances, in any other novel, from any other writer, that scene would've not only been just fine, it would've been considered a stellar piece of fiction. The final prose was perfect, Collins's penmanship a rare beauty, her talent in storytelling unequaled in young adult fiction.

The problem revolved around the life of a girl. Seventeen. Described as anything but gorgeous. Hair a bit mousy for anyone's taste. Her legs unshaven. Thoughts of bathing put on the backburner for another day. Gifted with the reckless bravado of most men, preferring a day in the woods, armed with bow and arrow, to an afternoon in the hair salon.

And yet, her attitude, an undying loyalty to her sister, to her closest friends, a survival instinct gleaned sharper than the tips of her arrows, a simple girl from District 12, Katniss Everdeen, won over the hearts of readers from the shores of one ocean, to the faraway coast of another.

Katniss Everdeen. A girl created by Suzanne Collins, and thus, the reason behind the fallout.

Following "Hunger Games," and "Catching Fire," the love affair for Katniss shared by fellow readers had reached a point of chaos. Fan mail arriving on Collins's doorstep by the truckload, her email inbox locking up from overburdened use. Everyone congratulating her on the creation of an earthbound hero, a normal girl from the back alley who finds herself thrust into the limelight during a time of rebellion. A girl we may pass on the street without noticing. Just a girl.

Yet in those letters and emails were everyone's thoughts on how the story should end. What they would do. The final showdown between Katniss and Snow. How the war should end. Who should die. Who should fall in love in the closing moments. So many ideas. Requests by the thousands. Pressure building. A frozen pipe, its seams flexing.

I have no idea how Ms. Collins decided on the fate of Katniss Everdeen. How could anyone?

This was the question I considered after closing the book, studying the falling snow through the window next to my chair. My very own District 12. A world enslaved in ice.

How would it feel to create a character like Katniss Everdeen? A simpleton from any side street, perhaps just around the corner, a person brought to life through your very own fingertips...a person devoured by her readers. An instant celebrity. An icon for both young and old to marvel. Readers staying up at night, scouring the pages a second time, a third, restless and kicking off the sheets...wanting to be her. Would slip into her shoes in a minute if the offer were to arise, regardless of the tumultuous storyline, of the bloodshed. Just to be her. Or him. The character you created.

That's the blessing, and in itself, the curse of popularity. How to end the story? A story beloved by millions. How to keep the reader happy. How to dot that final period, in hopes of bringing tears of joy, prayers answered, the story finishing up exactly as everyone envisioned.

Pressure. Success. Together they entwine like strands of rope. As writers, it's our dream, but if not careful, our dilemma as well.

"Mockingjay" did not finish as I'd hoped. For those who've yet to read it, I won't argue the spoils and ruin the finish. Would I have done something different, were I in Collins's shoes? Probably. Could I have pulled it off? Probably not.

Regardless of how it ended, Suzanne Collins created one of the best characters I've come across in a very long time. Katniss Everdeen. Just a girl. Perfect in her struggles. Her simpleness far withstanding that family of vamps from Seattle. (Actually, I think Katniss and Edward Cullen could stir up quite an interesting plot if ever they were to cross paths during a hunt:) (See my earlier post, "Katnisssss," if curious)

As writers, that's our challenge. Creating our own Katniss Everdeen. She's in there somewhere...perhaps right on the edge of our fingertips, just aching to leap onto the page...where her story awaits.

Thanks for reading:)

A Paper for School

...my son asked a favor of me this evening. He'd been working on a paper for school, and requested my help in editing his rough draft.

When I sat in front of the computer, I was unaware of the subject he'd chosen. Had no idea what I was in for, him being fourteen and all.

From the speakers whispered Ryan Bingham's, "The Weary Kind." Outside my office window, an arctic gust threw handfuls of snow at the glass, a festering blizzard flexing its muscle.

And this is what I read...

I watched in curiosity, frightful as the man marched into the gates of our small town. The man was dressed in khaki shorts, sandals, and a plain white t-shirt. But this is not what sent goose bumps creeping up my spine. There, cradled in his arms, was a book. Not just any book, the Holy Bible. Around his neck he wore a silver cross. I wanted badly to tell him to leave. To go back to the land from which he came, where he was in no danger. Instead, I watched as the silver streak flew through the air and pierced the back of the man's skull, sending his body sprawling to the pavement. Within minutes the guard who took the man's life rolled his body off to the side of the road to make way for the oncoming traffic.

Now you have to ask yourself, what if? What if you were that poor guy watching helplessly as a Christian man was slaughtered for his beliefs? But then again, you probably wouldn't spend more than one minute of your precious time thinking this over. As Americans, we take for granted our freedom of religion.

You should feel honored to live in the United States of America. In 51 countries, 40 are restricted nations, 11 are hostile. It wouldn't be uncommon to see this same scene a dozen or more times in one day. Every one of us was blessed by God to be born in this nation.

The man who was murdered for walking around with a Bible in his hands, a cross from his neck...what was he planning on doing? Maybe he had a family. Maybe he was on a missionary trip and didn't know he would be killed for being a Christian. Or maybe, just maybe, he was there to spread the word of God, even though he knew that it may be the last thing he ever did.

Why would anyone do such a thing? In Romans 1:16 it says, "I am not ashamed of the gospel, because it is the power of God for the salvation of everyone who believes." It then goes on to say, "For in the gospel righteousness from God is revealed, a righteousness that is by faith from first to last. The righteous will live by faith."

How many of you Christians out there live by faith? How many of you are willing to yell at the top of your lungs...I believe in God, and are willing to spread his word?

You know what is right. Will you be ashamed, or righteous, and live by faith? Thank you for your time...

...I looked up from the computer to a world covered in ice. Listened a bit longer to Bingham's velvet tone, and thought, "I'm far from perfect. The mistakes I've made are countless. But through the sweat and the tears, the debt and the grime of a world forged in cruelty, I've managed to get one thing right. ...he's fourteen, and ageless.

Thanks for reading:)

EL

"Meeting of the Minds"

...found myself under an odd set of circumstances today, as Mondays, like the pranksters they are, can sometimes throw at us.

Placed along one end of a lengthy, antique table, I'd bet on cherry from the appearance of the rich grains, I was an unexpected guest for a meeting in David's office. While not sitting on either end, I nonetheless felt the burden of attention resting its weight upon my shoulders. For this meeting involved my book. My creation. And for the past eleven months...their project.

To my left, an editor working under David's influential glare. Across from me, an intern from the college, golden nose ring looped through one nostril, learning the ropes of properly slicing up a writer's pride and joy. Two seats down from her, the young chap in charge of cover design. Next to him, the money guy. I'm sure there's a more proper title, but David's assured me that, "Money Guy" works best. And reclined at the head of his table, my top editor, and the person who once sent me an email saying, "I think you may have something," David W.

Money Guy arrived in suit and tie. Nose Ring whisked about in a plaid skirt reminding me of potpourri. The editor and designer may have shared the same Old Navy credit card, and David wore the usual...khakis and a button down. My washed down Levis may have been frowned upon by Money Guy, but no one else seemed to mind.

The mission behind the meeting was to decide whether or not "Charm" was ready for galley publication. I wasn't invited, but couldn't resist.

Basically, I listened. Soaked up information like a fattened sponge. Watched Nose Ring jot down a line or two of gibberish. Felt a bit out of place, like The Dude, wandering about Mr. Lebowski's mansion in search of his stolen rug.

"So what's the overall prognosis," David was saying, focusing his gaze on The Editor.

"Not sure," was the mumbled answer, two words sneaking through a mangy beard shaken in salt and pepper.

"Cover's ready to go," Designer announced, offering me a wink.

"Good to hear," David said. Then turned back to Editor. "What do you mean you're not sure?"

"We're still thinking about a few passive phrases that may need cleaned up. Therefore...we're not sure." His eyes narrowed as he cautioned a glance in my direction.

I studied the man, again recalled my favorite movie, and thought, "Obviously you're not a golfer."

Money Guy cleared his throat, heads turned. "We need to remember the bottom line here," he began. "Another rough draft, yet another read, and we'll soon be faced with raising the price of the finished product in order to make a buck, due to the overall length of the thing, of course."

At that point, I'm fairly certain The Dude would've said, "So if you could just write me my check for ten percent of a half million...five grand...I'll go out and mingle."

David caught me grinning to myself, raised an eyebrow, and said, "I thought everyone was in agreement that this piece was worthy of its length. That too much cutting may harm its integrity. Am I mistaken?"

"No cutting needed," Editor said. "I'm just...still thinking, that's all. And why the race?"

"Spring release," David countered. "How passive are we talking here?"

Editor's reply was, "Huh? How passive?"

Nose Ring looked up from her note pad. "What's that mean?"

Money Guy said, "Sometimes passive is nice...and on budget."

Still lost in "The Big Lebowski," I imagined saying, "And I would like my undies back."

"Oh stop," David's brow joined atop his nose, forming a solid bar of silver fur. "I mean...well you all know what I mean. So anyway, let's ask the writer. El? What's your take? Too many passive phrases still in there or what?"

I was lost in thought, remembering a scene from my favorite movie, something about a bowling alley, and a guy named Jesus.

"Hey! Elliot...what are you up to down there?"

I snapped to attention, yearned to say, "Oh, the usual. I bowl. Drive around. The occasional acid flashback," but instead went with, "I left some of the scenes passive on purpose. An entire book done in passive can invite migraines. A little, if done right, can be romantic. If done right, which hopefully it is."

"But I'm still thinking about things," Editor leaned in, spouting off.

David offered me a smirk. Quick, but worthy of its purpose. "Okay, you think...the rest of us will work. Galley in a month. I still think we've got something here..."

The Editor scowled. Nose Ring failed to hide a grin. Money Guy folded his arms over a sagging belly. I took in the scene, studied the comical expression on David's face, and knew why I couldn't stop thinking about my favorite movie.

David was The Dude. Is The Dude. My Dude.

This post was for him:)

Off to the Galley. Thanks for reading...EL

1-1-11

...one year ago, I issued farewell to '09 with a salute of my middle finger.

Bills were stacked like aging newspapers upon the corner of my desk. The dayjob was in ruins, a managerial staff scurrying about like suited minions, assuring themselves a future while escorting my co-workers through the company exits. The book was hovering in obscurity, having received little feedback in months.

The mortgage was due, my dog was overweight, my son's basketball team was struggling, and the basement plumbing was clogged. The skies were gray, the temperature bitter. No hint of Spring in sight. As if the idea of sunshine were only a myth.

With aggressive fervor, I dropped into a chair, glared at my Dell, and began hammering keys...the one thing I've always counted on, regardless of what obstacles barred smooth travel.

What I posted that day, one year prior, was not a list of resolutions. Lofty dreams to pray for and eventually dismiss with life's daily grind once again taking precedence. I penned a set of goals, a pair of "must haves" in order to right the ship.

The book. The job.

I published the post, and set about the task of turning goals into realistic ventures.

The book deal was signed in February. The work's been tedious, but on last check, moving along on schedule, a 2011 release date within reach.

The job offer was made over Thanksgiving weekend, fittingly enough. A new dayjob with an all new degree of stress, but with far better working hours, and a fresh approach to industry.

The bills were paid, the drains running smoothly. A new coaching regime has taken over my son's ball team...me. And even the dog has trimmed the fat.

2010 was bid farewell with a tearful hug. It will be missed.

With '11's arrival, treadmill gears across the country are being greased, cigarettes getting tossed into the trash by the thousands, cleaning supplies being applied to filthy floors and refrigerator shelves infected with moldy leftovers.

A time for a fresh start. A clean slate.

There is but one goal I've set for 2011. A righting of the ship.

For those who read my blog regularly, I've spoken of The Girl. A twelve year old foster child in need of a home, her life currently entwined under the rule of third party regulations, a future in doubt.

We were close to bringing her home in 2010. So close...when the powers that be stepped in and thwarted nature's selection.

But the journey's not over, our quest far from futile. In 2011 the battle will rage on. The Girl will come home.

When arranging one's goals, future plans that could change everything, we must first study our reflection in a mirror, or perhaps a pool, its ripples calm enough to return one's image. Study yourself, the expression staring back, and make sure you know the person you're looking at. And as Rafiki says, "Look harder." For only when we truly know ourselves, can we strive to be better. Achieve the goals we've set, those lofty expectations with the power to cut through gray skies and allow the sun to warm our shoulders once again.

Happy New Year:)

EL

Christmas on the Battlefield

...Christmas Day.

Mid-afternoon. The lights in the tree have been twinkling since sunrise. Silent flames dance in scarlet cheer from the gas fireplace. Through the front window the world rests quietly in gray doldrums, the air thick with moisture. Occasionally a car drifts by, its exhaust fumes dissipating like scattering leaves in the wind...and the holiday is observed.

Meanwhile, a lone soldier clings an uzi to his waist as he rolls behind the wreckage from a recently destroyed apartment building, bullets slicing through the air overhead.

His chinstrap unclasps, causing his helmet, once olive, now blanketed in dust, to slide over his vision as he awaits the throbbing in his ears to settle.

He opens his eyes, sensing the sting of grit and tiny pieces of shrapnel floating like angry hornets through the paltry air. In the distance he can now hear the voices of his enemy, calling out to one another in foreign tongue. If only he could understand their jargon...

From his belt the two-way radio chirps. What remains of the rest of his squadron, calling out to him. He quickly taps the receiver with a forefinger, turning the radio off. The voices fall silent. How far did the sound travel? Has his whereabouts been discovered?

He rises to a sitting position behind the brick husk of what was once the home to many civilians and their children, no doubt long gone by now.

He can hear the thudding of combat boots approaching. Small plumes of dust rising from earth's scarred surface. The sound of many, from different angles.

Realizing he's cornered, he clutches the sub-machine gun with both hands and looks up through the soot to the sun above. It's the same ball of flame he's seen countless times throughout his life. But from this strange, desolate place, it's somehow different. Not as friendly. It's managed to absorb the turbulence of an unforgiving mountainside surrounding him, the blazing sand under his torn fatigues, and the vacant angst expressed upon the faces of the few survivors left behind. The one's he's fighting to protect. The same one's willing to turn on him without a moment's hesitation.

He exhales a breath, voices a prayer through a hoarse whisper. A mouthful of dust, and lips chapped like scorched asphalt. Then he grips his weapon, releases a fearful whine, and turns toward the oncoming assault...

"Aww man! Got shot again!" my son exclaims, bent over in frustration. He slams a fist upon the carpeted floor, his legs crossed Indian-style in front of the television. I glance up from the book I'm reading. The Sony reveals a downed soldier lying in a pool of blood, a few splatters trickling like raindrops on the screen.

I look at my son, clutching his XBox controller as if wielding The Hobbit's magical ring and refusing to relinquish its power. Still bent over in defeat, his eyes find my gaze from across the room. The corner of his mouth curls up in a grin. "Care if I try again?" he asks.

I roll my eyes, shrug my shoulders, and return to my book.

"You're going down, lousy terrorists!" my son bellows.

Then I hear the eery background music. Moments later I hear the guns.

Christmas 2010. "Call of Duty: Black OPS Edition."

...Jeez, I'm getting old:)

Thanks for reading.

"South of Charm"

...our lives forever changed the day she saw it.

It had been a day or two since watching the fireworks fill the night sky with spider webs the color of a rainbow over Walnut Creek Park. Later, I swore I could still hear the cannon blasts, like distant gunfire from across the county.

I was nine years old, enjoying summer break, sweating through a July heat wave. Humidity in the shape of a giant mushroom cloud, hovering over the state of Ohio. Its intensity was enough to make our cat pant like a dog and scurry for shade by ten a.m. I'd sneak up on him, a lazy orange tabby, its fur twisted and mangled from a territorial dispute with the neighboring tom, and blast him with the garden hose. He'd spring into the air, his back arched, a guttural screech causing every nearby sparrow to flutter about in graceless circles, and stumble for the bordering maples in the distance. Then I'd giggle to myself as he'd stop, just out of firing range, and offer me a grimace from across the yard as if to say, "Between you and me, that hit the spot."

It was later that evening when she saw it. There was never a warning of things to come. Never a chance to mentally prepare. It just happened, like things sometimes do...

...the final read/edit is in progress. A cover design has been chosen. And we're close..so close:)

"South of Charm" 2011

"I write like...Chuck Palahniuk? Okay then...bring it, Charlie!"

"This is your life, and it's ending one minute at a time." -C.P., "Fight Club"

...being the novice scribblers that we are, chomping at the bit for a drop of notoriety from anyone willing to read our thoughts, I'd bet my left shoe that most of us have skipped over to the "I Write Like" website, and accepted the challenge of seeing who our work most resembles. Dickens or Cormier. Perhaps your fingers mimic the work of King, or Collins...someone with prowess, someone granted the opportunity to quit their dayjob and begin life anew. And in return we're allowed a moment of bliss, to daydream...to think, "So if I write like him, then maybe..."

And so I went to the site, plugged in a line or two from "South of Charm," punched ENTER, and a name spit out that I wasn't expecting, but after some thought, didn't mind in the least.

"I see the strongest and smartest men who have ever lived...and these men are pumping gas and waiting tables." -C.P. "Fight Club"

Chuck Palahniuk was born in '62, in Burbank, Washington. He grew up in a mobile home, his family living paycheck to paycheck, surviving as best they could. His parents separated when he was still a young adult, scraping by on dreams alone. With little else to strive for, Palahniuk turned to the arts, realizing his passion for writing at an early age.

"This was freedom. Losing all hope was freedom."-C.P. "Fight Club"

Palahniuk earned acceptance to Oregon University, majoring in journalism. He took a job at Freightliner, making ends meet. He eventually gave up journalism, focusing his time on writing fiction when not struggling to pay his bills. He was in his mid-thirties when lightning struck.

"You aren't alive anywhere like you're alive at Fight Club. Fight Club isn't about winning or losing fights. Fight Club isn't about words. You see a guy come to Fight Club for the first time, and his ass is a loaf of white bread. You see this same guy here six months later, and he looks carved out of wood. This guy trusts himself to handle anything."-C.P.

Like Palahniuk, I grew up in a mobile home, the bill collectors taking turns knocking on our door. My parents separated when I was fourteen, forcing a change of scenery...new school, different life, a time when keeping one's feet on the ground proved challenging. And so I turned to the one thing I always felt I was meant to do...a pen, some paper, and away I went...

I'm unable to predict whether lightning will strike or not, for that's up to my readers to decide, but good or bad, the story's on its way.

And so perhaps I write like Chuck Palahniuk, an honorable comparison...but then, you tell me...

"For thousands of years, human beings had screwed up and trashed and crapped on this planet, and now history expected me to clean up after everyone. I have to wash out and flatten my soup cans. And account for every drop of used motor oil. And I have to foot the bill for nuclear waste and buried gasoline tanks and landfilled toxic sludge dumped a generation before I was born."-C.P. "Fight Club"

...No one saw them. A pair of shadowy forms, ghostlike against the darkened backdrop of an expiring twilight. They appeared from behind an aging Dumpster along the edge of the church parking lot. Careful not to bump against its steadily decaying welds, the metal having long since fallen victim to corrosion from Ohio's inclement weather, they crept along behind the steel deterrent, patiently awaiting nightfall's obscure embrace....

...To anyone passing by on nearby State Route 62, they would've resembled the darkened forms of a pair of meaningless shadows belonging to anyone. A peculiar presence spotted through one's peripheral vision, then gone without any thought of foul play. An untimely blanket of goosebumps rising upon one's arms, then forgotten with a frown and the pull of a steering wheel.... E.G.-"The Fellas"

Perhaps one day, on a whim, Chuck Palahniuk will find himself on "I write like," entering a favorite passage of his, then hitting ENTER, and seeing my name appear on the screen. For that's why we're allowed to dream, is it not?

Thanks for reading,

EL ;)