Hiya! I came across this really cool site a couple weeks ago. It’s called Wordle and you input a story, a couple paragraphs, or even a sentence, and it generates a picture of the most-used words. Here’s one for the story I’m currently working on (temporary title: East Circus):

So, as you can see, Mother and A’ke are the most used words. When I showed it to Naomi, of course she came up with:

Riiiiiiight, m’dear.

Another cool site is I Write Like, which takes your writing style and tells you which famous author it best matches! For East Circus and Freedom Trek my writing style matches somebody of whom I haven’t heard (trying to avoid a dangling preposition, don’tcha know). I also got J. K. Rowling for one of my story clips. And for Lianne Staide, my writing style matches someone else of which I haven’t heard!

My wonderful, hardback copy of The Complete Novels of Jane Austen arrived in the mail yesterday! YAY! This was my reward (other than the wonderful visit from Grandma and Grandpa) for spring cleaning.

I started reading Sense and Sensibility last night, though I didn’t get very far because it was late. I was asleep within five minutes of putting it down.

I read Pride and Prejudice a while ago and just adored it. It was my early birthday present from Mom. She picked it up at a thrift store in late June/early July or so (my birthday is July 30) and was saving it, until I started reading her copy of it. Then she was like, “Well, Haniya, I guess I’d better give you your copy early!” Of course I was really pleased.

Any other Jane Austen fans out there?

I guess I’ll give you another story clip since I don’t have anything else to write about! This one is from a story another friend and I are writing (yes…I’m working on a lot of stories right now!). I call the story Age of the Atra, though we haven’t actually talked about titles.

Farri and Eriana sloshed through the mucky spring roads. The sun wiped her fiery brow. A grayish tinge was spreading across her fair face. Dark clouds billowed overhead. Eriana wiped away a tear before it froze on her face. She shivered through her thin dress.

Weeks passed. The world was cast into semi-darkness. The pair lost their way, shuffling through the thick trees. Farri built a fire, but it refused to give warmth. A brook flowed past their camp, but it refused to fill them. Once verdant hills browned and decayed. Morning broke, only it wasn’t morning, but night.

Farri felt Eriana next to him. She felt colder than cold. Farri wanted to cry, but no tears came. Even his own body refused to obey him. His eyelids fluttered shut and he exhaled his last.

One year later…

Wolves abounded. Only one family in the whole of the earth survived the darkness. The family’s name was Kilnea. But their supplies were dwindling. A few moldy potatoes and carrots remained. All of them were almost blind. And then the sun, a mere speck on the dark horizon, died. It sank, plunging into the void, leaving no trace of its former grandeur. The family’s eldest daughter, Linia, watched as it vanished. A few sparks cascaded upward. A tear dripped down Linia’s face.

The family’s last hope had died. Linia sank to the ground and laid her cheek to the frozen ground. The Age of the Atra had begun.

That’s the end of the prologue–we haven’t gotten any farther yet.

So I thought I’d share some of the story stuff I’ve written recently. Ready? Let’s go!

Late at night of the second day, the guards fetched Shrislo from his prison cell. The torches lining the walls flickered in the darkness. Cell after cell, on it went, a maze of tunnels and doorways, a nightmare with no ending. Shrislo shivered. Water dripped from the grates in the ceiling, the only noise other than the sound of clanking armor and boots on stone.

They reached the courtyard. An owl hooted and crickets chirped from somewhere out in the night. Stars twinkled from the heavens. A fire crackled in the middle of the square. Glowing coals winked at Shrislo from the depths. A man robed in black stood in a shadowy corner. He caressed the blade of his axe with a finger. It shone in the half-light cast by the flames. A smile played at the man’s lips, darting in and out of focus.

Shrislo’s guards led him to the fire. An iron block stood a little to the side of the flames. Crimson stained the sides and the top. The man in the shadows stepped forward, boots making no sounds as he tripped forward, eager, excited, impatient for the deed that was to be committed at midnight.

A bell far above rang the hour. Once, twice, three times, condemning a man to death… Five, six, seven… Did the king know a man dead cannot be brought back? Eight…nine… The bells donged louder, prodding the execution along, anxious to see the innocent man dead. Twelve…

Two great wooden doors swung open as the bell’s ringing faded away. The king took his place. The executioner stroked his axe once more and placed it on the chopping block. Shrislo knelt and a tear splashed onto the iron. The gleaming axe rose and sliced through the air, landing with a thud. And Shrislo was no more, his life a mere imprint on the world. No wife or children would mourn his death. No burial awaited the innocent man who died at midnight. No love, no tears, only evil, spreading to the far reaches of the earth, a dark ink blob, erasing all good…

What do you think? Did it inspire you with dread? This clip is from a story I’m doing with a friend. I just loooove writing evil scenes. Not sure why! I can just put myself into the story and feel everything they are going through.

Yes, I have more for my avid readers! ( ) Coming up next is a scene from Lianne Staide, the novel I’m writing this year with the OYAN course. I’m really behind — the summer editing workshops start in May and I haven’t even finished chapter 1 (of 12 chapters)! I might just work on this novel 2 years and send it in to the 2011 contest. So here is a clip:

“Margaret.” Mother’s voice interrupted me. “Are you and your family still hosting the fall picnic?”

“Oh, yes.” Margaret smiled primly. “Time nor tide stops Mother’s picnics! She’s already planned a buffet table. We’ve imported the best of cakes and tarts from Paris and London.” She examined the checkerboard and pushed a checker forward.

I perked up. “But I thought all the shipping lanes were closed. The war, you know.”

Margaret raised her eyebrows. “Oh?” She bent over her checkerboard again.

“Yes. The Yanks seized them. Or do you not care to read the papers?” Swift nudged my slipper with his boot.

“Hmm…” Margaret frowned at the game.

Mother shot me a look.

“Pardon me? I didn’t quite catch that,” I said, leaning forward.

“Father has connections…” Margaret mumbled.

“Connections? Yankee connections, by any chance?” The room fell silent. Margaret finally looked up. Her cheeks were red as apples.

“We are loyal to the Confederacy!” She hopped up from the cushion she was sitting on. “And don’t you dare imply differently!” She stalked from the room, chin high and back stiff.

“Lianne! Apologize!” Mother hissed.

That sort of explains the era I’m writing in. Swift is Lianne’s best friend. He takes the role of the “ally” in this novel! There’s one more ally but I haven’t written about her yet.