My Man Kutch

I'm proud of myself because I usually forget to title my blog posts. But look. There. A title. Tadaaa!

Anyway, remember how I told you that there's this one character named Kutch? He's a fourteen-year-old Scot and man am I attached to this kid so I figure an introductory sampling is in order. Please forgive his thick brogue! It makes him a bit difficult to understand sometimes. Both of these samplings come from near the beginning.

First, to introduce, from Reese's first person:

“What aboot the others?” asked a husky, gruff voice from somewhere above my left ear.

I didn’t raise my eyes.

“Don’t know yet. Pipe down.”

The boy who had asked was younger than me, but rather big for his years, thickly built and muscular. Despite this, he crouched easily on the balls of his feet on the top of a dock post, his calloused hands resting on his thighs, his baggy canvas clothing teased by the ocean wind. He had dark, grim eyes that looked out of a subtly determined, ironic face under crinkled brows and a mess of wild, unkempt, sand-colored hair that hung down to the boy’s powerful shoulders.

This scene comes from Liv's first person, when she, Reese, and Kutch are working at the docks and she's disguised as a boy to avoid attention, as there are a lot of sailors about and they're not the best people ever. At all.

I hunkered down, seized the heavy crate, and put my back into it, spitting an extremely rough expletive to give me momentum. Kutch was approaching from behind, hefting a heavy keg of water. He grinned.

“Och, tha’s a pretty word.”

I ignored him, struggling with my load towards the wagon. Kutch easily overtook me, set his keg down, then turned to face me.

“Need help?”

I smiled at him gamely.

“Course not. Why, do you?”

The wild-haired boy stretched his big muscles and rolled his neck.

“Well... maybe in a bit ye can carry me aboot... In the bytime, stow your tongue an’ keep your head doon, laddie.”

I blew out my cheeks at the boy as he walked away, but was grateful for the tip. Did I really look so girlish while I worked? Apparently, as Kutch offered to help me-- he had gone out of his way to offer to help me actually. The foreman, who had been pacing the dock and examining the workers, had had his eye on Kutch for some time now. He now saw his chance to provoke the hardy lad.

“You boy!” he bellowed, swaggering near. “Don’t you get chatty with your little mate!”

He shoved Kutch’s broad shoulder as the boy moved back towards his work. Kutch ignored him and crouched to lift another box. That would be good enough for any of the other foremen overseeing the labor, but this one had a particular dislike for Kutch, causing me to wonder if the sandy-haired lad had knocked him down before or, more likely still, he was hard to bully. Either way, the man seized a fistful of Kutch’s rough shirt, spun him around, and tapped his sturdy chest with the head of his cane.

“What say you, lad? Eh? Be there a proper response from a little pup like you to a superior ossifer?”

Kutch’s face was impassive, but his mottled Scottish accent grew even more perceptible in his anger.

“Aye sar!” he grunted, stepping back to tear away, but the foreman wasn’t ready to let this drop quite yet.

I saw Reese watching from the corners of his eyes while this went on, aware as I was that Kutch was a stubborn little brute with a tendency for lashing out without warning in cold fury. He also had a history that did not vouch well for adults. This could easily end badly...

I like this scene because it involves many aspects of my little Scottish rogue. He's gritty and down-to-earth but at the same time he really cares for those around him and has an almost ridiculously heightened sense of protection. He's also extremely mistrustful of all adults and is not afraid to fight any of them-- and he could probably take most in a fist fight. Liv mentions his history here but she doesn't quite know it and I don't think I'm going to unveil it quite yet, seeing as I actually haven't revealed it in the book so far...

I know many people post fill-out sheets to introduce their character, but I prefer this method for my own work. My readers are not gonna have a fill-out sheet where they can learn about the characters-- that happens through the process of writing, so I do this to test whether people can get to know my characters properly in my actual work. On top of this, my people largely take the reins when I'm writing them. Most of the time, I just have to try to keep up. x) They just sort of make themselves up as they go along and I'm sitting here like-- REALLY? I didn't know that about you...

Anyway, please tell me if you think this method works or not! And tell me what you think of my Kutch!

Thanks and God bless!

A Brief Summary of Kingston (Very Brief)

Alriiiiight so this morning I woke up and realized... I've posted two samplings from the book my good friend and I are working on so far. But I haven't even said what the book's ABOUT. Very sorry about that! Here, let's see if I can do a brief, BRIEF summary.

Somewhere in the 1730s, seventeen-year-old Reese Anwyl is struggling to take care of six homeless urchins in the underbelly of the seedy port city of Kingston. Their primary method of survival: thievery, referred to as the Game. Just when Reese decides to wean the "family" off it, hoping for an honest future for them all, his strongest opposition, the headstrong Liv, goes on a secret mission with a conman named Finch Killigrew to steal a signet ring off of some young post captain at the governor's party. Little does the girl know that this ring holds the key to not only a legendary island but Reese's long lost past and perhaps his parents. In a desperate attempt to find his true family, Reese risks all and stops at nothing to hunt the man who wronged him years ago. But, in this attempt, what will happen to the "family" he found on the streets of Kingston?

Yes. Well. There you have it! I'm always weaker on plot than I am on character development, so tell me if this sounds boring or scattered! I could use some criticism!

My friend and I have been working on this for a while now, and let me tell you, she's just awesome and really puts so much into the writing. She's also an artist and drew a few characters-- you can find her at  tumblr http://monkinonk.tumblr.com/ or http://thescottishsketcher.blogspot.com/, though she hasn't updated the second in a long time. But really, if you like drawings, check her out and look at her art tag! (Thanks for everything, Mons!)

Alright! I'll post again soon!

God bless, everybody!

Reese: Orphan Leader

I'm so excited my first sampling got such positive reviews! Now I'm gonna post another one and see what you think. If you have any criticisms, please tell me! You guys are awesome, thanks!

This is also from Liv's perspective. She's working on the docks with another two characters, Reese and Kutch, when trouble breaks out. Kutch is Scottish, fourteen, and burly, so naturally he intervenes, saves the foreman's life, and finds one of the perpetrators is packin'. So this is a bit of an action scene: I wanted to assert early on that Reese Anwyl was the leader of the children for a reason.

In that moment, the young Welsh looked absolute years older than seventeen. He stepped out into the crowd from behind Kutch, placing himself between the young boy and the deadly weapon. The tattooed man thumbed back the hammer-- even from here, I could hear it clicking-- and glared at the youth with bleary red eyes.

“Stand down, boy! I will kill yew! I’ll shoot!”

Reese’s voice was immeasurably calm, his dark eyes stern and steady.

“Put it down, friend. Come, you don’t need that. Nobody’s wronged you.”

The man shifted aggressively, gritting his teeth.

“Don’t you tell me them lies, yew pree-sumshus cub! Yew don’t know nothin’! Everybody’s wronged me!”

As he spoke, I watched the redcoats who were on dock patrol jogging across the wharf. They yelled for everyone to stand back, which hardly anyone listened to, then started into the crowd of bystanders, beating them to either side with their rifles. Reese, now standing with the pistol’s mouth not five inches from his heart, gestured wildly for them to stand back, not once taking his gaze from the dangerous drunkard’s.

“Calm yourself,” he reasoned. “Breathe in. You see, I’m not tryin’ to hurt you.”

I heard the man’s ventilation heighten and could imagine the smell of his foul breath wafting towards Reese’s face. I leaned forward, gripping the edges of the cart until my knuckles were white. Why didn’t the crowd back away? It would open Reese’s options for defending himself. If he knocked the pistol to the side, there was almost a certainty that it would go off and shoot one of the bystanders. And the tattooed man wasn’t showing any signs of backing down.

“Yer all agin me,” he went on, his breathing laborious. “Always tellin’ me what to do! He’s pushin’ me about, he’s pushin’ me about... that brat goes and leaps on me.”

His watery eyes cleared murderously. He shuffled forward.

“Now yer pushin’ me around, a meddlesome boy! Tain’t fair... tain’t... natural.”

“I’m not pushin’ you anywhere,” Reese replied softly, taking a slow, gentle step back. “I want you to put... the pistol... down.”

Without a hint of warning, he struck. His hand flew up into the pistol, knocking it upwards, and it discharged into the sky as Reese punched the man in the stomach, curled his hand around his neck, and tugged him down into his knee as he brought it up. The tattooed man dropped, winded. Reese caught the empty pistol as it fell.

I didn’t wait a second longer. I launched myself off the wagon and dashed into the midst of the milling, admiring, noisy crowd. I tried to force my way through the sea of sweaty backs and muscled arms, but was shoved about and around. My hat was jarred loose. Scowling, I readjusted it and stuffed my tangled yellow curls back up into its depths, trying to shoulder my way through. Someone’s elbow struck me in the back and propelled me forward, and with a cry I stumbled right against Reese’s shoulder and hurriedly righted myself, but it was too late. He noticed.

“Are you alright?” I asked, not appearing as concerned as I felt.

He had one arm around Kutch and his other hand reached out and grabbed my wrist.

“Yes, we’re fine,” he answered for the two of them, trying to steer us out of the mob. “Cummon now, look sharp. Let’s get back to work before much else happens.”

So this is Reese. I'll give Kutch a better introduction later, as you don't see too much of him in this bit.

Okay, I'll post again soon!

God bless!

Sampling: The Beginning of Kingston

I promised there would be writing, didn't I?

This is the opening of a book I'm writing with the help of a good and dear friend-- who's also a fantastic writer and an amazing artist by the way! We do it in self-dubbed rigmarole-style, meaning we dubbed it ourselves when we were like twelve or something. That means she writes "entries" from certain characters' perspectives, usually first person, and I write from others. We've been working on this one book for some months now, and we both really love it and it doesn't exactly have a name yet or anything. For now, we're just calling it Kingston because that's where the first pages take place.

I lay on my stomach on the warm tiles of the smithy roof, looking down on the busy mid-morning activities in the street of Kingston below. It was always busy, night and day were basically interchangeable, so I would go to sleep late and wake up well into the day. Half-past ten was relatively early for me. But my day was already full: three ships were coming in, Navy frigates, none of your ordinary whalers or merchant vessels, and that always meant an uproar, whether you were eager for trade, desperate to avoid the press gangs, or in my case, which was not particular to me, looking for the opportunity for work. And by work I meant taking advantage of the hubbub in order to steal as much as I could possibly get my wicked sticky fingers on. I jingled the velvet purse I had cut off the girdle of some fancy lady giving her coachman orders to take her directly to the governor’s manor. Three shillings inside-- nothing to a fine lady like her. A lot of money for someone like me.

But I could pretend to be a fine lady if I liked. I could really pretend to be whatever I liked. A scullery’s brat, a Puritanness, a nobleman’s daughter, or even any boy from a wharfrat to a high-born midshipman. It was actually a midshipman’s shore-going jacket that I wore now over my stained shirt and breeches, and a cotton cap from a more successful whaler was slouching on my tangled blonde hair, slightly damp from perspiration. I took it off and fanned myself with it. My name was Liv, short for Olivia, but I hated Olivia. I was sixteen years old, fair, blue-eyed, with dark arched eyebrows and a red ironic mouth that quirked as I watched one small figure in particular darting through the crowd.


This was interesting because I wanted to describe my good ol' rotten little Liv and introduce her character and begin the story at the same time. No matter what, I always feel like I should let the readers know what my characters look like-- I can't help it! I feel like we hafta be on the same page about that, you know what I mean?

Writer's pun.

Anyway.

If anyone's read this, please comment and critique! Heaven knows I need it!

God bless!

Not THAT kind of Chemistry...

Hey, look at that, that's a funky title. Either you're thinking-- hey, she sure likes chemistry-- or you're thinking-- oh look! She loves Guys and Dolls! Only the latter is true, no offense to chemistry and chemists, but I could never master that sort of thing.

For me, it's always been the most important part of writing. Chemistry, that is. Not the kind with the fizzing bottles and the liquid and the horrible little numbers and letters that I could never memorize. Not that kind of Chemistry.

When I say Chemistry, I mean the kind that happens between two people-- or even three people-- or even everybody. It doesn't have to be romantic. It doesn't even always have to be love. But there must be something there in a story, something between each of the characters. That, to me, is the most important part of the book. The plot is enormous. Style and grammar, essential. But unless your characters mean something to the reader and mean something to each other and mean something to you, then why does it matter? That's why I'm writing this blog. I think it may improve my writing and it may amuse some of you and here's hoping it does both!

Wish me luck and God bless!