Le Book

For so long, I've been wanting to write a story. A book. Something, anything. I'm a consumer who doesn't produce, a reader who doesn't write, a useless peace of pure indulgence. That, in fact, sounds poetic. Anyway,  as my luck would have it, I only heard about NaNoWriMo in December of last year, just a few days after it was officially over. Of course, NaNoWriMo was, and still is, the only thing that can push me far enough to actually start writing, because it's exactly what the thousands of other participants are doing - gives me a sense of belonging, a kinship through words and writer's blocks. Anyway, my family moved this summer, and I just found out that I would be starting school on the 16th of August, which is, of course, as unfair as it gets. I also found out that I would have such a full, rigorous schedule that I wouldn't be able to write my Novel in November in peace. Which means I get to start brainstorming my novel from now up till the beginning of the school year.  Not actually writing it, because that would be plain cheating, but setting it up, building the bridge between no book and good book. Which is, of course, not cheating. Not quite.
So. This is the brainstorming page. It will be (hopefully) regularly updated. I'm open to criticism, to praise, to a qualified editor to drop by, be astounded by my work, and volunteer to publish my masterpiece for me - preferably with Penguin or Simon Pulse. Anyways. Let the carcass building begin.
And no, I will not use Wattpad. Thank you.
(Written 7/16/13)

BEGINNING
They sat in the sandbox, the sand cold and moist, sticking to their skin and clothes. At seven and nine years old, they should have been chasing each other, playing tag or jump rope. Instead, they sat there, seeing how high of a sand mound they could make, and then joyously ripping it down to start anew. Every one in a while, the younger girl would cough, and her friend would widen her eyes as the girl's mother asked her if she was alright. They played, building, ruining, higher, higher, higher, then gone, until they were covered in sand, shivering, dirty. They dusted each other off, starting a game of rump-patting, until they were laughing and breathing hard and clutching their behinds. The younger girl started to cough, deep coughs from the pit of her stomach, her eyes watering and the saliva pooling at the very edge of her lips, shaking with each cough. Their mothers came running, tending to the coughing girl, laying her down, calling 911, giving her water and elevating her legs. The older girl sat, and watched.

(This would be the Prologue kind of thing)

(I need to figure out how to name the girls, without giving them actual names, so they remain unknown, but calling them the older and younger girls is repetitive and long and weird.)
(So.)
(Updated: 7/17/13)

Last year, for my English class, we had to do this journal thing, in which we basically collected all and any ideas for writing stories. Since I am always working on a different computer/laptop, I don't want to save the ideas in a Word document, and have to hassle with a flash drive, so I'm using this as an e-journal. Which means anybody can stoop by and steal my beautiful gems of ideas. So, this stuff is copyright protected (not really - couldn't figure out how to do it). But if you use an idea and become the next J.K. Rowling, I am soo taking credit.

Inking Idea 1: Two girls, friends, are separated. The separation takes it's toll, they fight, they hate. Years later they meet again. Different people, different lives. They feel jealous, guily, a messy mix of emotions. One falls ill with cancer (or that lung failure thing, or heart problems, or anything really), and by the time they reconnect, they one with the illness has died. Poignant. Like Mr. Omar would say (from that show Everybody Hates Chris): Tragic. Just tragic.

Inkling Idea 2: You know how there are so many people in the world right now? No matter what you do, there will always be a line of people who can do it twice as good as you. There are people everywhere, doing everything. There are so many smart and genius and gifted people, there isn't any idea, any though, any thing that hasn't been thought of or made or used. Also, you know how the brain is all about electrical currents and convulsions? Imagine there was something created, some kind of device, that would give your brain a miniscule electric jolt, speeding up the brain's connections and communications - making you smarter. So many people. So much smartness. Those that are not smart, not exceptional in some way - although everything is relative, and how exceptional is exceptional, anyway? - are few and rare. Why would anybody want to stay dumb, stupid, when this technology is available for even the poorest of people. 
I came up with that idea yesterday, on the brink of sleep, so it's in the very, very early stages of production.

Need. More. Ideas. 
(Updated 7/23/13)

Brilliant Ideas, why you no come to me?
(Updated 8/9/13)

I am definitely not going to write about something futuristic/dystopian/utopian/the works.  There is so much good stuff out there, that it seems liek one way or another, I will unconsciously use some other plot parts in my own story. Also, as soon as I finish The Host, I'm going to have a post on how it and Starters compare. It just sounds too similar. I'm thinking of a contemporary genre, but I really want to focus on the voice - like the book Speak. The protagonist shines through. Which reminds me, I need to get around to reading Shine. Supposedly a really, really good book.
(Updated 8/15/13)

November is creeping up on me like some kind of cancer. Wouldn't know it was there till it's too late to do anything about it. God forbid. Also, English homework does not help. When am I supposed to write if I'm too bust editing my essay on Anne Bradstreet? Actually, I should talk to my English teacher. Strike up some kind of agreement - I write the book, and she excludes me from the homework. Best part - the agreement only lasts for the month of November. 

Also, watch this:

6:10 ; ALL GOOD BOOKS ARE ABOUT LOVE OR DEATH. BINGOOOOOOOOO
(Updated 9/9/13)

I am hyperventilating.  NaNoWriMo is in about 25 days, and I have absolutely no clue what I'm going to write about. In fact, believe it or not, I had to write a speech, about ten minutes long the other day, about any topic, and I just kind of froze up and got that deer-in-the-headlights look on my face. Writing assignments, please do no creep up on me like that again. If I had time for research, I'd probably do a historical fiction thing, and take the bulk of my inspiration from The Diviners and Code Name Verity. Beautiful historical fiction. But obviously I don't have enough time for that, so I'm back at step one. Well, not quite, because I've narrowed my topic down to two things (super, super vague things): love, or death. And now I've narrowed it down to only DEATH because love is too cliche.

So, who dies? 
(Updated 10/5/13)

I have got it all figured out. Not specifically, of course, but I just have that main thematic idea, with a million different interpertations. Listen to this:

The story of a girl as she is diagnosed with Pick's disease, and like a rock crashing into a window, the impacts of her disease spiderweb, spreading, so fine you can barely see them, until the window just...shatters. About how those cracks develop into more cracks, smaller, finer cracks, all connected, all traced back to that one big...thing. And how life is just a collection of fragile pieces of glass, separated by the sliver of a strand of spider silk. The story is told from the point of view of the diagnosed girl's twin sister.
First of all, please do not say this sounds like John Green's The Fault In Our Stars. Because it does, kind of, but so do so many other books out there. Which is the problem with plagiarizing, because there is so much stuff out there, if you look too closely, nothing is really yours. I mean, a story about a sick person dying? Classic dramatic fiction. Aiming to break the heart of reader as much as possible. Shatter it and crush it and grind it and turn it into gunpowder. And the story from the POV of a close family member or friend or loved one? Obviously, because the MC is going to end up dying anyhow, and how are you supposed to right about a person dying in the dying person's voice anyway? And John Green's book isn't the only one out there with themes like death and love and all those big things. But his book is probably the most famous  - and I'm talking about YA, because Nicholas Sparks for adults? Heellooo? - because of winning a bunch of recognitions. And so, just in case you were wondering, NOT plagiarism. 
(Updated 10/17/13) 

I never give up, although I'm very close to giving up on Le Book. I won't give up, though, because what kind of giver-upper leaves a mark on the world? Exactly. As a human, you fall into one of two categories: a world-marking-changer, and a not. If you're a not, that means you're probably a giver-upper, which is the worst kind of failure. And since I want to be a world-marking-changer, Le Book is a work-in-progress. A work-at-break, really.
(Updated 4/29/14)