amalynneo.com
Lets' get linked:
  • About

Star Born: Ch 2 The Clark Kent Inside Me **Posted**

4/25/2013

0 Comments

 
Picture
As some of my wattpad readers may know I've posted a short project entitled Star Born. The second chapter has been written as haphazardly and politically incorrect as the first and is available if you click the picture to the left. 


As a recap: A humanoid alien, regarded as a god on his home world, comes to earth to live as the teenager he really is. **Warnings for language and sexual references.**

0 Comments

Introducing Main Characters

4/25/2013

0 Comments

 
Picture
For the dreamer in all of us.
I was asked to more clearly define the main character in my novel and it has come to me as something of a challenge, because the girl is a dreamer, a la-la land zany, dreamer--not about romance or pink hearts and unicorns, but about adventure, dirt under your nails and ten seconds until the bomb explodes, but her real life couldn't be further from her delusions. I struggled for a long time to decide how to introduce her, but then all it took was falling into the world, breathing in it's foreign air, and being Allianora: 

**Material shared is in rough form, unedited, and not officially approved by publishing sources**

A darkness had descended, a shade that passed over the white buildings and little canals of Nysius, the invasion ships blocking out the light of day. The wind was biting and the noise deafening as the roar of the thousand ton turbines rotated viciously over the city. Allianora stood staring up at it, her hair whipping in a flurry about her face, her feet planted firmly on the ground as her gaze soaked in the silver metal bellies of the giant ships, such an unspeakable number that her breath was drawn away. The lights of the city began to wink out, a wave of deeper blackness that crawled up to Galivard's summit. It were as though the world were already dead, her lone heart beating, the last echo of the Vatiless, a race long ready to die.

She was the last Vatiless, she had been told this since the beginning, since the day her mother's eyes had fallen glassy and still in the asylum. She was the last daughter of pure blood, and she'd felt the weight of it breathe from her mother's lifeless chest onto her own. Denying death does not stop its visit, just as forgetting the outer-world does not mean it has forgotten you... or that it hasn't been waiting for your weakest moments, crouched in the shadows, hiding amongst the loyal.

She was the sacrifice, thrown onto the altar, the dampened streets of the capital that pounded with furious rain. It was a horrible baptism, flowing over her, a fear so chillingly deep that it hurt to breathe, but she stood, she stood and waited. She clung to this moment, relishing the power, her face drenched as she embraced the duty. She'd always found sacrifice eerily beautiful. She was saving nothing in this moment, but starting the phoenix fire, offering herself up to end the mistakes of a generation. It was like striking a match and watch it all burn anew.

And as she closed her eyes to the rain she felt the warmth of the morning sun-rise, a bitter echo that the visions were over. It wasn't a dream, but a haunting thought that played back on her eye-lids before she allowed herself to rise. No one dare know the dark ruminations that loomed through her mind before the waking hours, Nysius was too bright and white a world to stomach her fears. So gaily deluded were the days in the capital that she almost always imagined herself elsewhere, in places imperfect, riddled with villainous obstacles, ones she could fight with bare hands, and choke with their own evil. She was caked in mud and secret purpose in the missions in her head, and they remained hidden behind her tawny green eyes, cool and guarded. Every morning it seemed she awoke to a world too eerily perfect for her, a life suspiciously clean, so clean she had to invent obstacles to conquer in the day dreams of idle thought. 

Maybe it was shame she felt when she looked in the mirror or pushed back the covers of her downy bedding, she was in a sterile kind of hell that could only be escaped by the worlds she created in her own head. She thought of it like running from herself, fleeing from the image in the mirror and conquering the troubles of a million invented worlds. It did not bode well for her social life. She was worried sometimes, that they already thought her mad. No one knew what was beyond the withdrawn silence, only halted by something sharp and bitingly intelligent.

She was an oxymoronic hodge-podge of pride and inadequacy, with an imagination that sent her everywhere but where she needed to be. It was the sort of thing friends could have fixed but she struggled to trust. The moments she spent in reality she would wish for such companions, but so swiftly forget this fact when she returned the lands of villainous overlords and bantering side-kicks. 

There was no reason to grow up for a world that would not mature and so she'd stayed the same, been the same for a long time. She didn't have to fall into the uncomfortable whirl of adolescence, she could live out old and wise in her head in seconds, a flexible, elastic existence that could start and end in the time it took to sit through a monotonous history lecture, or stalk up the deadening six flights of stairs to her room. 
 What she used to hate she had grown complacent about; after all,  Nysius wouldn't change. The ships would come long after she was dead, and all would pass in clean white Vatilian tradition, and she would continue to live in the safest place of all, her mind. All was well and all was hell for the fifteen-year-old princess.*
0 Comments

Sparkles and Screams

4/22/2013

0 Comments

 
Picture
Today's entry is brought to you on behalf of sparkly screaming things. These crunk rockers hail from Georgia and have released some refreshing hits like "Business in the Front/Party in the Back." In a way it's awful, but I still love it. Especially the bling.

This song served as a mental palette cleanser when I was feeling a little creatively stale. Cheers.



0 Comments

Twain Yourself Thursday

4/18/2013

0 Comments

 
Picture
In all my literary quests I've never come across one so refreshingly opinionated and wit-licious as Mark Twain. I've started reading some of the letters he wrote to colleagues (published in the years after his death) and I've found myself laughing out loud in coffee shops. These excerpts are chalk-full of endless hilarity... and style, the man had style! If I could get away with a white suit and a handle bar mustache, I would, but the estrogen kind of makes that hard. He gets skated over as some of sort of literary fossil, which is irrefutable, but when you call someone a "historical icon" you think of hot days and field trips with drippy-nosed children and black and white photos of uninteresting dead people. The words "historical icon" kill the vibrancy, in my opinion, and Mark Twain is a breathing legacy, one that mocks and laughs out of the pages in his novels and letters. You visit his official website and it's as dry a box of rotten raisins. His wit was as sharp as a samurai blade and as shamelessly(/dangerously) opinionated as my younger brother in Compton, by God! Anyway, the man needs a proper, modern tribute, because the stuff they tell you about him in primary school and high school isn't the least bit relate-able  They don't tell you, for instance, that he was an under-achiever with a sort of listless complacency... I mean, really, under-achievers can unite under Mark Twain, because he floated along the Mississippi until he reinvented himself, something we've all (at some point) secretly wanted--the re-inventing part. Anyway, at the heart of my drippy saccharine praises I'm saying we all need to whip out a little Mark Twain, slap someone upside the head with a dash of wit, flourish a sprig of sass in our walk or our handle bar mustache, and say with our best Charleston twang, "Laaawd." And of course, we would say this for no good reason other than our own amusement, dammit. 

Maybe this rant is the product of a five hour energy and a 500ml mexican coca-cola, but I feel like it's been a long time coming. There's something sickeningly bland about Orange County suburbia, it's its own rotten ecosystem, complete with mid-sized sedans and three bedroom houses, women with brown roots and blonde hair, purse dogs, and enough over roasted coffee to parch us into the Apocalypse... word. Writers like Twain battled the bland, broke the barriers of banality, and broadened the breadth to mock ourselves and the world around us. What is life without satire. Inspired by Twain's uninhibited prose I've been certain to add a potent dose of personality into some of my new edits. There's enough PC-bland in the world. And it will go like it always does, my publisher will raise a brow (metaphorically), but put my insanity through the printing press with an exasperated sigh and think they've either approved something horrific or genius, or both. Eh. I'd like to think anyway.


Happy witticisms to you all and a fabulous Thursday!      

Picture
Laugh. You know you want to. :)
0 Comments

Air

4/2/2013

0 Comments

 
Sit out on your balcony and drink a glass of white wine to this... it's what I did this afternoon :)
0 Comments

    Categories

    All
    Digital Art
    Fan Fiction
    Marketing
    Music
    Original Fiction
    The Company
    Word Ninja

    Archives

    June 2015
    August 2014
    July 2014
    June 2014
    May 2014
    April 2014
    September 2013
    August 2013
    July 2013
    June 2013
    May 2013
    April 2013
    March 2013
    February 2013
    January 2013
    October 2012

    Picture

    Author

    I like crazy print pants, Thai food, making up words, and living in the worlds in my head. I also write on occasion. 

    RSS Feed

Powered by Create your own unique website with customizable templates.