an update! on ... tv?

Lately, I've been catching up on TV. And I'm not going to feel guilty about that. Because, no output without input, right? I've found that I get more ideas for my stories when I read or expose myself to as many narratives as I can.

So here's what I've been preoccupied with:



1. SHERLOCK:

It's a modern take on Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's classics, with all the essential characters (Holmes and Watson, Mycroft Holmes, Irene Adler, Mrs Hudson, Moriarty and Officer Lestrade) and their idiosyncracies. Benedict Cumberbatch plays a convincing Sherlock Holmes, and Martin Freeman brings a new depth to the character of Dr John Watson. The nineteenth century narratives are re-adapted to relevancy in the twenty-first, while retaining their original keen wit and bringing greater urgency to the story. There've been two seasons so far - the third will only be out next year (ye gods!) - and each season only has three hour and a half-long episode. I need some SHERLOCK already!

2. GRIMM:

Grimm's another modern adaptation of the Grimm brothers' classic tales, this time with detectives Nick Burkhardt and Hank Griffin. Nick is a Grimm, one who descended from a long line of hunters who see monsters where normal people wouldn't. It's essentially a cop drama with supernatural elements, yanking out those monsters from under the bed and bringing the bad and the ugly to fairytales. So far (I'm at episode 16 of season 1), they're still churning out the monster-of-the-week type of storyline, but there's an overarching, more sinister (cue dramatic music), narrative thread. I was a little hesitant about this show initially, but boredom drove me to take another chance on it. And while it's no SUPERNATURAL (I still think that show is unparallelled in screenwriting), it makes for suitable entertainment.

(Oh, and just in case you need a reminder of how amazing SUPERNATURAL is, here you go:

)

3. VAMPIRE DIARIES:

Oops, I mean this:

But the main reason is really Ian Somerhalder. Well, you know me.

I know, I know. Yet another vampire story with two pretty boys and a damsel in distress. How is this contributing to the progress of women and our cultural landscape. I did swear I will never watch this show. TWILIGHT was enough, thank you very much. (To think I had been obsessed with that franchise.) But VAMPIRE DIARIES exceeded my expectations. I took a shot at it, intending to just feast my eyes on Ian Somerhalder even if everything else is going to be disappointing, but there are some bright moments in the three episodes I've watched so far. Sure, there were some cliched moments (the vampire element itself is a cliche, given these times of Stephenie Meyer) and cliched phrases:

Stefan: For over a century, I have lived in secret. Hiding in the shadows, alone in the world. Until now. I'm a vampire and this is my story.

Stefan: Everything I've kept buried inside came rushing to the surface.

But there are also some redeeming moments like this:

Elena: People are going to stop giving you breaks, Jeremy. They just don't care any more. They don't remember that our parents are dead; they have their own lives to deal with. The rest of the world has moved on. You should try to.

Jeremy: I've seen you in the cemetery writing in your diary. Is that supposed to be you moving on?

And:

Stefan: It's been 15 years, Damon.

Damon: Thank God! Couldn't take another day of the 90's. That horrible grunge look did not suit you. Remember, Stefan, it's important to stay away from fads.

And then there's a mix of cliches and redeeming moments:

Elena's diary:

Dear Diary, Today will be different. It has to be. I will smile, and it will be believable. My smile will say, "I'm fine, thank you. Yes, I feel much better." I will no longer be the sad little girl that lost her parents. I will start fresh, be someone new. It's the only way I'll make it through.

Dear Diary, I made it through the day. I must have said "I'm fine, thanks" at least 37 times. And I didn't mean it once. But no one noticed. When someone asks "How are you?", they really don't want an answer.

Plus, they've got a rocking soundtrack. Ross Copperman, Ternt Dabbs, Peter Bradley Adams... Need I say more?

So I guess you can say ... I'm hooked. On yet another vampire franchise. But I think it's safe to say VAMPIRE DIARIES is better than TWILIGHT.

4. AMERICA'S NEXT TOP MODEL CYCLE 18: BRITISH INVASION

And can I just say that this cycle's winner is my absolute favourite so far! Sophie Sumner, from Britain's Next Top Model Cycle 5, was second runner-up to some girl called Mecia. But her loss led her to something even better, and winning ANTM she's gained so much more experience and the prizes are way better than those offered by BNTM.

Here's Sophie, by the way:

Here she is rocking pink hair, which she was really excited about during the makeover on the show:

And here's she with Emma Watson:

I've had several favourites on the show, like Raina Hein from cycle 14, Jane Randall from cycle 15 and Nicole Fox from cycle 13. But Sophie has to be my absolute favourite out of all the cycles I've watched so far. She's smart (she's from Oxford, which is probably how she met Emma, I'm guessing), funny and low-drama - generally a very bubbly, likeable and positive person. Like a little fairy with the spirit of a pixie. Plus, I absolutely ADORE her style. I mean, look at this dress she has on!

So that's it on my obsessions for now. Till next time!

Short Story - Meeting With The Trader

When I saw the sign that hung on the doorknob, it immediately struck me that I might actually get along with the person on the other side of the door. I dispensed with knocking and pushed the door open.

He seemed to be expecting me. From the leather high-backed chair behind a heavy-looking oak table where he sat, he stared at me through raisin-like eyes like he already knew every detail of my proposal without my laying it out before him. The rest of him didn’t seem as keen as his eyes. His chin was made up of layers of soft flesh, riddled with stubble that disappeared into the light-blue shirt he wore, while his nose was a roundish mass that perched above two thin slivers of lips.

“You’re the one they talk about,” were his first words to me.

I didn’t know what others were saying about me, and frankly I could care a whole lot less.

But I replied, “It depends on what they say.”

He straightened from the chair and leaned across the table, studying me through those tiny eyes like rabbit turds. “And I assume you have something I want.”

“It depends on what you want.”

“You want your brother back, you need a bargaining tool.”

I pulled my hands out of my jacket pockets and showed him how empty they were. He frowned.

“If you’re done wasting my time,” he said, “exit where you entered.”

“Didn’t you know? The best things are those you can’t see.”

He paused midway through reclining in his seat, then got up entirely. He approached me with deliberate steps, never once taking his eyes off me. I held it as steadfastly as I could, ignoring the ringing in my ears. There were a million ways this meeting could go wrong, especially for what I was about to do next, but I couldn’t let myself think about that now.

“Go on,” he said at last. “Explain yourself.”

I held out my palm, letting the pinprick of orange light grow into a pulsing tennis ball-sized orb, before curling my fingers into a fist and dropping it by my side again.

The Trader continued staring at my hand, his beady eyes widening enough for me to see the whites. “That’s … not possible.” He looked up. “You’re a changeling; you shouldn’t be able to glamour.”

“No,” I said easily. “But apparently I can.”

“How –”

“You’ve heard of Ixus’s assassination, I presume?”

He nodded, his eyes revealing a new slant of wariness and – dare I say it – awe. Even for the most ruthless Trader, it didn’t take much to impress him. The glam I had worked up was barely the tip of the iceberg.

In the space of the few seconds it took me to recall how I managed to cast my first glam, the Trader had formed his own conjecture. “You didn’t.”

“Didn’t what?”

“You don’t strike me as a murderer.” He didn’t seem too convinced by his statement.

“Of course not. I’m not the one who killed him. I’ve barely met him.” I cast another glam, just for kicks. Maybe I was showing off a little, but the opportunity to impress a Trader was hard to come by. “I merely absorbed his glam. Oh, and the fruits helped.”

“The fruits.” I didn’t see how it was possible, but his frown deepened.

“The ones you so zealously horde, even threatening to kill my brother for stealing from you.”

He shrugged. “He shouldn’t steal.”

“Neither did he have to, if he knew how easy it is to be one of them.”

“You mean murder.”

“I didn’t kill Ixus,” I repeated. “I just happened to be at the right place at the right time.”

“But you saw who killed him?”

I waved a hand, showing off my glamour some more. “That’s irrelevant. I’m not here to rat anyone out unless it means I can get my brother back. And now I want more than have him back.”

He gave me a semblance of a smile. “You learn fast, changeling. It’s too bad you’re not a Trader. We can put that brain to good use.”

“What better use is there,” I said, leaning back against his desk, “than to stop the fairies from rising again? Especially” – I bounced a crackling orange glam on my palm, watching his eyes narrow greedily at it – “with this.”

He managed to rearrange his expression into one of scorn. “You’re going to go up against the fairies alone with that puny little ball of glam?”

“Not alone of course. As delightful as this magic is, it’s hardly enough.” I folded my fingers again. “You’re going to help me. Gather all your Traders and we’ll divide the fairies. ”

“I serve the fairies.” His lips disappeared into one thin line.

Smiling, I said, “I’ve heard that one before. And believe me when I say I know for a fact that isn’t so. You serve yourselves, and you know it. You only serve them because of those measly little wish-stones they give you.”

“And if I help you defeat the fairies, I’ll get nothing. Not a fragment of a wish stone.”

“If you help me defeat the fairies," I said, "you'll be free." I knew he understood what I meant, just didn't dare to entertain the thought. Traders were bound to serve the fairies as long as they lived; there was no going back once you vowed to serve them.

I was almost through to him; I could just see it in his face.

“Give me one good reason why I should do this.”

"I'll make sure we succeed."

And so, with my assurance, the deal was sealed.

Short Story - Blood Promise

April:

These are the fruits of promises made. They bear the weight – so firm, feel it – of sworn oaths and crossed hearts.

At dusk they flourish, growing ripe and heavy and hot, like a new-born baby. They grow off spindly branches, half withered, amidst weeds and lone bushes, out of sight.  Come sunset, it would be easy to pluck them. Warm as skin and heavy as a pheasant, yet only the size of a human palm, they snap clean off the branches without so much as a rustle.

You would be surprised at how many there are. It often takes me the whole night to pick my fill, and then some. People make promises too easily. And not too many last, which I am happy with, seeing as how I have no use for the un-spoilt fruits.

The bad ones, you see, are the best kind. The kind that you can gorge on, all the pleasure minus the guilt. Just one fruit alone, as big as a persimmon, could fill you up so you could barely move.

The beginning of the year is the best time for harvest. New Year resolutions, fresh starts and blank slates, all of them waiting to be broken and sullied. Unfortunately, that is also the time when competition is the toughest.

We are scavengers. Parasites, if you must. Names don’t bother me; I see it as Darwinism. We do what we must to survive, though there are those who think we don’t deserve to exist.

Every broken promise costs you your blood, whether you notice it or not. Often, you don’t. You just feel a little light-headed at the thought of that little act of rebellion, of defying expectations. That is when the fruits grow swollen with blood, so heavy they bend the branches, staining the soil scarlet.

Tonight, the branches will sag, the fruits ripe and oozing, ready for our taking. Tonight we will race to harvest.

*

Sean:

My brother was late. And the weather was snappy. The first observation annoyed me more than the second. Wayne was late, when he specifically told me he wouldn’t be. He even promised.

I had just about worn out the pavement when I heard the sound of his sneakers scuffing towards me. In my hand-me-downs, he looked, as always, like a kid playing grown-up, but my little brother could never grow up, not when he was this absent-minded.

I folded my arms. “You’re late.”

He flicked his too-long hair out of his eyes and stared up at me. “I’m sorry. I got here as fast as I could.”

“If you don’t want to come, just say so.” I was being tougher on him than I had to, but he needed to know the importance of keeping promises or he’d end up like our parents.

His eyes widened. “I want to. Really. Come on, Sean.”

Wayne seemed different than the last time I’d seen him, even though it was only last week. He seemed to have grown more than I expected him to.

“Whatever.” I gave him a light shove and he punched me back.

The cemetery was deserted. Even the most valiant joggers had called it a day as the storm pressed closer down on us. But Wayne was bent on this. Ever since I showed him the fruit, the one stained with juice as sticky as blood, he had been eager to look for them himself.

“I don’t see it anywhere,” Wayne complained.

I took him down a dirt path flanked by untrimmed rows of hedges. “It’s not in plain sight.” Nothing was, on this island. Not tears or smiles or fruits. People here were a private bunch.

The clouds pressed down on us, making us quiet and breathless as we cut to the heart of the cemetery. My brother’s hair went wild in the wind, but his eyes were bright and focused.

It took me a while of squinting in the dark to finally locate the fruits. But there they were in the darkened bushes. Most of the leaves had fallen off, so the branches were bare and bent from the weight of the fruits. The fruits, though, with rivers of juice running down their sides, were fat and gleaming and red. There were a lot fewer than the last time I’d seen them, so I supposed I wasn’t the only who had discovered them.

“There.” I pointed. “See it?”

Wayne raced to the bush and pressed his face close to the fruit. The soil around his feet was damp and stained red. Wayne reached to pluck one off. It broke off from the branch easily.

He stared closely at it sitting on his palm.

“Is it edible?” he said.

“No.”

“How do you know?”

“We’d find them in the supermarket if it were.”

“Still, that doesn’t mean it’s inedible.”

“Are you going to risk it?”

Wayne ignored me. He flung the fruit to the ground, so that it burst open at our feet. Red juice splattered everywhere, staining our shoes and jeans, my t-shirt, Wayne’s face, and the soil around it. Wayne laughed, then plucked another fruit off the branch and smashed it against the floor. More juice splattered. His sneakers looked like it was vomiting blood.

“Cut it out, Wayne,” I said, leaping back. There was a strong metallic smell coming from my stained t-shirt.

It was a familiar smell. It reminded me of the last time Wayne and I had gone cycling and I had suffered a nasty cut from skidding past a thorny bush. The cut had been deep. It took ages for the bleeding to stop.

I joined my brother, who had gathered a pile of those strange fruits and was trying to stuff as many as he could into his backpack. His hands were stained like a murderer’s hands.

“I wonder if people will buy these blood fruits,” he said.

“Blood fruits?” I picked out a particularly large one from the pile. It was heavy and warm in my hand, almost like a live, breathing thing.

“I mean, doesn’t this look like blood to you?” He showed me his palms.

It looked too much like blood, and smelled like it too. I reached out to touch a glistening pool of it on the ground.

There was no doubt about it.

*

April:

The air is prickly tonight, a snarling creature with its hackles raised. I tread slowly but surely, my mind on the image of bloated fruits, my ears pricked for sounds of competition. My vision is useless here, so I focus on how the wind shifts around me, how the night creaks like a door loose on its hinges.

The cemetery may be quiet, but I know better than to trust the silence. Darkness breeds another world of monsters like us.

My brother has decided to gain a head-start and left before night settled in properly. As eager as I am to harvest, I am not as foolhardy. The best fruits are meant for the fiercest monsters.

I can spot their tracks in the soil, at least a one-metre radius beyond the roots. Sneakers. Boots. Regular footwear for creatures disguised as regular people.

A squeak. I still. Here, the ground is wet almost all year round because of the dense foliage. Apart from the noble kind, even the most fleet-footed find it hard to be stealthy.

Voices. Not one of my ilk, then. Scavengers would know to be quiet. They have to be Traders, the ones who think they have all the authority to be here picking fruit.

But most Traders will have gotten what they want by now. Few will linger to mingle amongst the likes of us.

I clutch the fruit in my hand. The weight of promises is comforting.

I am so hungry. The fruits are harder to come by these days, as Traders offer more of them to the noble kind. Soon, there will be nothing left for us.

From a distance comes a pair of voices - an older male and a boy. I keep within the shadows, where the air is musky and is unaffected by the imminent arrival of the storm.

"I can't promise you that, kid," the older one is saying.

My ears prick at the magic word.

"Why not?" the boy asks. "You're old enough to take me with you."

"It doesn't work that way. Dad's been given custody of you. There's nothing I can do."

"I hate it at Dad's. He's never around."

"I know, kid. I know."

"But we'll all be together again, right? Dad says we will. He promised."

The older boy snorts. "Unlike him, I don't make promises I can't keep."

My stomach growls, so loudly I fear they must have heard me. I tuck myself into the bushes and dive into the fruit.

Warm juice explodes in my mouth and smears all over my lips. I am seized with the familiar rush of power, one that makes my body tremble and my head spin.

The fruit tastes sharp and bittersweet, and I feel the prickle of all those promises people failed to keep, the bite of disappointment and guilt. It fills me up like no other food can.

At times like this, it almost comforts me that I am not quite human.

*

Sean:

When I saw the girl, crouched in the bushes, half-obscured by the branches, I thought I had to be running low on sleep. Ever since the relocation, there had just been so many things to do that sleep was a luxury.

But the girl wasn't a product of my exhausted mind. She was right there, fruit in hand and a couple of stray leaves tangled in her hair. For the most part, though, she looked like a normal girl my age. Except that her lips were stained with the juice of the fruit. She closed her eyes as she licked her lips. Juice trailed down her hands in rivulets, and dripped onto the soil and the front of her navy-blue blouse.

I felt like I had walked in on a private, naked moment.

She was about to dive in for another mouthful when her gaze caught mine. The evening air hung like a sword above our heads. I lost count of how long we stayed this way, her crouched on the ground and cradling her fruit, and me in an awkward stance that I didn't dare to shift out of. I couldn't look away. She looked almost inhuman, like those feral children I'd seen on TV. Except she wasn't a child - her eyes revealed that much.

We had both frozen in that long drawn out moment. Her hooded eyes on me, she seemed as incapable of movement as I was. She was waiting, just as I was. For what, I had no idea. But the air was still and buzzing, clear and foggy, all at once.

Then Wayne's voice cut through the muggy night, startling both me and the girl.

"Sean!"

The girl's gaze snapped towards my brother, but mine remained on her. She took one final look at me, then scurried away into the browned bushes just as Wayne appeared next to me.

"Sean." He trailed my gaze and peered into the bushes. "What are you looking at?"

I took a while to find my voice. "Nothing. Come on, let's go home." I took in his pregnant backpack, stuffed full with what we came to the cemetery for, and gave him a look. "Really?"

"Why not?"

I shook my head. There was so sense in rationalising the things my brother did.

*

April:

I know what it is like to be hunted.

But this does not remind me of one. There is no rush of wind at my feet, or the rustle of leaves or snap of twigs behind me. There is only my rapid, shallow breathing that takes up a space of its own.

I stop. Somewhere along the way, I have dropped the fruit. I am alone in the dark with my wild, thumping heart.

It feels almost disappointing, to be set up for a pursuit when none comes, until I remember I am the one being pursued. I always am.

A voice jolts me to attention. Michael says I startle too easily, and I suppose he's right.

The voice I heard to my left, it sounds like him. But that's impossible. The eastern corner of the cemetery is Traders' territory. My brother would be stupid to venture near there, no matter how hungry he is.

But another cry makes me crash through the wizened bushes.

Beyond the row of bushes is a clearing, an unkempt patch of land that is meant to deter trespassers and thieves.

If I take one step further, I shall be one of the trespassers.

After my feet crosses the line, I hold still for a long moment before taking the next step. Nothing has beset me. My heartbeat is a wild, rampant thing.

I press on.

There are fewer Traders than I expect. But that shouldn’t be surprising. They have greater means to conceal themselves than we do. The lone Trader I see is a lanky man with an equine nose and pebbly eyes that gleam in the dark.

My brother sprawls on the ground in the middle of the clearing. His long, messy hair is plastered against his clammy face. When he spots me, his eyes widen.

He makes to call my name, but winces as though stunned by an invisible rod.

It is too late to hide now.

"Another of your kind, I see," the Trader says. "I recognise the stench."

“Let him go.” I can’t imagine how my voice is not shaking, given how hard my entire body is. “Please.”

“No scavenger can be spared who trespasses on our territory.” He points a finger at me. “You included. What more of this thief.” His upper lip curls as he glances down at Michael. “A changeling, yet so brazen.” He raises his hand.

“Wait!” I cry. “Let him go. I’ll give you whatever you want. Please.”

Michael shoots me a look. “April. Shut up.”

But I can’t shut up. He is the only family I have left.

The Trader throws his head back and laughs. “I have no use for your meagre offerings.”

And he’s right. He is a Trader, one who serves the fairies. What can I possibly give him that the fairies have not already given him?

“A promise.”

“Again, what can you offer that I don’t already have?”

“A promise from someone who doesn’t make promises.” My heart drums hard and fast, though not as fast as the words are emerging from my mouth. “The fairies need never know.”

The Trader narrows his slit-like eyes at me. “I serve the fairies.”

“You serve yourself, and we all know that.”

Michael’s brows rise. I am just as surprised as he is at my audacity. The gloved hands of a Trader leave no room for second chances.

Finally he says, “One week.”

“One month.”

The Trader's lips thin. "Do not push your luck, Scavenger. Two weeks. Or he dies." He throws another look down at Michael.

I blink, and they are gone. The crook of the cemetary feels well and completely empty.

My Mr. Perfect

There are just so many things I need to review. I've read several amazing books these past couple of months, and am watching a fantastic Taiwanese drama serial now. I know, I know. You're probably about to zone out now, assuming this is going to be some fangirl's rave. But the more I think about Absolute Darling's storyline, the more I'm moved by it.

Absolute Darling (or Absolute Boyfriend) is adapted from the Japanese manga Zettai Kareshi, and it's about this unlucky-in-love girl who orders a boyfriend tailor-made for herself to alleviate the loneliness. The boyfriend is a robot, a merchandise, that encompasses every trait and quality and feature the girl wants in a boyfriend. Hence the title. Night, the robot boyfriend, exists to love the girl (I'll just call her Fay from now on). But he gradually gains cognition, and is able to love and feel and think for himself. But as he gains cognition, his body physically breaks down. So Fay and Night's romance is doomed to fail. The ending, I've heard, is heartbreaking, and to be honest I'm looking forward to Jiro's performance. While before watching any of his works I reckoned him to be just a pretty face, after watching Superstar Express I was blown away by his acting.

Jiro in Superstar Express:

But I digress.

As I was saying, the more I think about the storyline for Absolute Darling, the more my heart breaks for Night. Robots are programmed to serve humans - in Night's case, just one human in particular - and humans do whatever they want with robots because they think robots don't feel anything. Absolute Darling questions what happens when a robot develops cognition and is able to think and feel, but is compelled to do what it is programmed to do anyway.

This scene is of Night resting in his room when Fay is sleeping.

Fay wakes up in the middle of the night and looks for Night because she doesn't want to sleep alone. It made me think, what would a robot do when the person he is meant to serve is sleeping? Does he rest? Stay up thinking about Fay? What does he feel? Is he ever lonely? Does he ever question his existence?

Maybe it's just the sight of Jiro, in all his heartbreaking perfection, sitting in the dark alone that makes me obsess this way.

And my obsession took me to Novena Square 2 last Sunday, where the Absolute Darling meet-and-greet took place. Jiro Wang, in the flesh! I could just die on the spot. This was my second time seeing him in the flesh, the first was when Fahrenheit came in December 2010 to promote their fourth album. He is every bit as divine as I remembered, and he knows how to work the crowd. Everyone went nuts for him, and he was so friendly to all the fans screaming his name. The group of girls next to me kept calling for his attention, and instead of getting annoyed or ignoring them (as some celebrities would), he always turned and smiled and waved at them. Well, us. I'm pretty sure he looked at me on one occasion. I even blew kisses. (Yes, I'm cringing at that memory.) It's unbecoming of me, and almost insanely embarrassing, but I can't help it. He's just so ... divine. Being there that day made me remember why I loved him in the first place. When he mentioned being at Square 2 the previous time with his Fahrenheit buddies, everyone screamed in nostalgia.

The event was slated to start at 3.30pm, but there were fans who'd been queuing (the first 120 in the queue get an autographed Absolute Darling poster and pictorial book) since the night before. I reached there at 1.30pm and the first level was already packed, so I headed to the Portuguese restaurant on the second floor to wait. Around me were other fangirls with their cameras and LED signboards and handmade placards ready. Conversations buzzed around Jiro Wang, Fahrenheit and other pop idols like Show Luo. I tried to focus on my Psycholinguistics notes but couldn't fight back a grin when the girls sighed over Jiro's photos. Next to me, a girl from Serangoon Junior College was trying equally hard to focus on her Physics homework while occasionally bobbing her head to the music playing downstairs (Fahrenheit's new song, Mr. Perfect, and Jiro's new single, Pretend We Never Loved).

I did feel kind of frivolous, joining these teenage girls as they cooed and gushed over a boy. And I have wondered what it is about pop idols that make us girls throw our rationality out the window. In fact, I wrote a play centred around a character who's obsessed about a pop idol before, if you remember. It's called Two Steps Behind You, where 21-year-old Becky is irrationally obsessed with self-absorbed pop idol Prince.

I'm not going to ponder about the psychological reasoning behind rabid celebrity obsession. I'm sure there are a lot of articulate and opinionated people out there who can come up with their theories on this matter, but this blog is not for that. On this blog, there's only this:

Isn't it just so catchy? I couldn't stop humming it for two whole days! Can't wait for Fahrenheit's fifth album!



And, finally:



If you pay attention to the lyrics of the latter, you'll find how heart-wrenching the song actually is. Paired with Jiro's voice, it's almost guaranteed to make you cry.

Review: Daughter of Smoke and Bone

I'd finished reading DAUGHTER OF SMOKE AND BONE by Laini Taylor about a week ago and only managed to find time to talk about it now.

Well, no. I actually have four group papers to complete by next week, but I'm sure I can sneak some time out to talk about what an amazing book I've just had the fortune to read.

I went searching for it in the library after reading the glowing reviews on Goodreads. Practically everyone gave it a four- or five-star review and cooed and gushed and raved about it, so I decided to give it a shot even though the book had an angel/demon premise. I tend to steer clear of such books after reading Becca Fitzpatrick's HUSH, HUSH, which was like TWILIGHT with angels (and that's the most polite way I can think of describing it) and Lauren Kate's FALLEN. Books with angels and demons almost invariably (at least, in my experience) sing the same tune, about a fallen angel and a mortal who share a transcendent love and there's always another angel to stand between said lovers by telling them it's wrong and that's supposed to be the whole appeal of the story. Forbidden love.

In the case of DAUGHTER, while the lovers do share a transcendent love that is also - what do you know! - forbidden, the premise is surprisingly refreshing. The angels and demons are from Greek mythology, and Laini's knack for world-building means the readers get to immerse in the Eretz (a parallel Earth that the angels and demons resided in before the demons destroyed everything to get back their land, which the angels had invaded). The history between the angels (called the seraphim) and demons (called chimaera) affects the main character, Karou, an art student in present-day Prague, who knows her life is strange - she has an ox-headed man for a father, a snake-bodied woman as a mother, and she runs errands for the ox-headed Brimstone, which involves meeting teeth-collectors from all over the world and exchanging them for wishes - but does not know why. The readers are placed in Karou's perspective, so we have no idea what's going on, but it's all so darn intriguing we just have to read on.

I'm not going to summarise the story here, because I don't think I can do it justice. Here's the professionally-written blurb instead:


Around the world, black handprints are appearing on doorways, scorched there by winged strangers who have crept through a slit in the sky.

In a dark and dusty shop, a devil's supply of human teeth grown dangerously low.

And in the tangled lanes of Prague, a young art student is about to be caught up in a brutal otherwordly war.

Meet Karou. She fills her sketchbooks with monsters that may or may not be real; she's prone to disappearing on mysterious "errands"; she speaks many languages—not all of them human; and her bright blue hair actually grows out of her head that color. Who is she? That is the question that haunts her, and she's about to find out.

When one of the strangers—beautiful, haunted Akiva—fixes his fire-colored eyes on her in an alley in Marrakesh, the result is blood and starlight, secrets unveiled, and a star-crossed love whose roots drink deep of a violent past. But will Karou live to regret learning the truth about herself?


The story is not just compelling because of its intricate plot and novel ideas like exchanging teeth for wishes and **SPOILER** using teeth to construct new vessels so that souls of those slain in the "otherworldly war" can be renewed (the word Taylor uses is "evanescence"), ensuring that the demon army will never suffer a fall in numbers.

No, plot is one thing. The story is laudable also because of how vividly Taylor paints her scenes with language. Although there were snatches of cliched phrases throughout the story, on the whole the writing is lovely without being too cloying or cumbersone, dramatic without edging into melodrama. Here's an example (this is Karou's flashback of her previous life):


She is a child.

She is flying. The air is thin and miserly to breathe, and the world lies so far below that even the moons, playing chase across the sky, are seen from above, like the shining crowns of children's heads.

***

She is in battle. Seraphim plummet from the sky, trailing fire.

***

She is in love. It is bright within her, like a swallowed star.


Why yes, I'm a sucker for imagery, how can you tell? This reminds me so much of ever-amazing, multitalented Maggie Stiefvater's writing, yet Taylor and Stiefvater's styles are vastly different in terms of plot and pacing.

Based on the excerpt, though, it's obvious Taylor isn't some amateur wannabe-writer who decided she'd jump on the angels/demons bandwagon and make a quick buck out of telling a contrived, run-of-the-mill story that tween girls gush about because they harbour some not-so-secret fantasy of finding true love just like that in the story. Taylor is confident in her prose, and delivers what needs to be delivered without tossing in some redundant phrase or word.

It is only in the last couple of chapters that we understand why Karou is called the daughter of smoke and bone. I don't know how else not to give away the plot other than keeping my mouth shut about it. Which, I know, sort of defeats the purpose of writing a book review.

I read DAUGHTER right after reading Maggie Stiefvater's THE SCORPIO RACES. There are just some days when creative input just keeps coming, and some days the delivery truck is waylaid. Right now, by Stiefvater's recommendation, I'm reading Steve Hamilton's THE LOCK ARTIST, which sort of reminds me of Holly Black's CURSEWORKER series. Two chapters in and I'm loving the voice so far, but the narrator has yet to reveal a quality that makes me warm to him, but I'm hopeful.

Some lovely advice...

from author Julie Cohen:


"The most liberating advice is the one I now always give to aspiring authors: give yourself permission to write crap. Your first draft doesn’t need to be perfect, but it does need to be written. Sometimes we need to write the wrong words in order to find the right ones."

Sneak peek into Shiny New Idea

Where dips the rocky highland

Of Sleuth Wood in the lake,

There lies a leafy island

Where flapping herons wake

The drowsy water rats;

There we've hid our faery vats,

Full of berrys

And of reddest stolen cherries.

Come away, O human child!

To the waters and the wild

With a faery, hand in hand.

For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

Where the wave of moonlight glosses

The dim gray sands with light,

Far off by furthest Rosses

We foot it all the night,

Weaving olden dances

Mingling hands and mingling glances

Till the moon has taken flight;

To and fro we leap

And chase the frothy bubbles,

While the world is full of troubles

And anxious in its sleep.

Come away, O human child!

To the waters and the wild

With a faery, hand in hand,

For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

Where the wandering water gushes

From the hills above Glen-Car,

In pools among the rushes

That scarce could bathe a star,

We seek for slumbering trout

And whispering in their ears

Give them unquiet dreams;

Leaning softly out

From ferns that drop their tears

Over the young streams.

Come away, O human child!

To the waters and the wild

With a faery, hand in hand,

For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

Away with us he's going,

The solemn-eyed -

He'll hear no more the lowing

Of the calves on the warm hillside

Or the kettle on the hob

Sing peace into his breast,

Or see the brown mice bob

Round and round the oatmeal chest

For he comes the human child

To the waters and the wild

With a faery, hand in hand

From a world more full of weeping than he can understand

~ William Butler Yeats


Can you already guess where I'm going with my Shiny New Idea? I know. I can't believe it too.

The wise words

 of Query Shark:

"... pay attention to rhythm. More than anything else stylistically, it's that rhythm of good writing that's toughest to teach and learn. When I'm editing manuscripts, I say the sentences out loud a lot. Hearing them helps me see where there are extra words, or too many beats, or misplaced beats. It's very very slow editing when you are down to moving syllables in sentences, but it's what makes the difference between gorgeous writing and so-so sentences."

Quickie!

So I'm nearing the end of Maggie Stiefvater's THE SCORPIO RACES and have to say: the book doesn't disappoint. Of course. Maggie doesn't disappoint.

And this piece by Bond just sets up the mood - for me - while I'm reading it.

Doesn't it remind you of bloodthirsty horses racing on the beach?

The best scene is one that makes you think about it no matter what you're doing.

On character motivation

Here's one of the best writing advice from one of the most helpful literary agents around: What Do Your Characters Want? by the ever-witty Nathan Bransford, from March 17, 2009.

Motivation. It's the powerful emotion that inspires people to get off the couch and grab a tub of ice cream. It's the only thing that is strong enough to pull me out of a very warm bed when it's still dark and cold outside. And it's what inspires Mario to save the princess, despite all sorts of finely rendered cartoon characters standing in his way.

How does this relate to books? Every good book begins with a protagonist who wants something.

I know that this kind of seems obvious (and it probably is), but there's a reason you don't generally see books about characters cast about by the whims of fate without any sense of purpose or desire whatsoever. Even Odysseus, essentially a powerless character blown about by the gods, has a rock solid motivation: he wants to get home.

Now, your character doesn't have to know what he/she wants on page one, but it should be conclusively clear by page 30, preferably earlier. And then, every step your protagonist takes after that point should be a step toward that goal, only they are thwarted at every step by obstacles and characters who have their own set of desires.

Many novels, especially genre novels, have a built-in motivation. Think: "save the princess" fantasy novels. It's built into the plot. The protagonist wants to save the princess. There's your motivation.

But better yet is a novel where a character wants more than one thing, and these two things are at odds. The main character might want to save the princess, but he might just have his eye on the king's throne as well, so he has to decide by the end of the novel which is more important to him. Better still is a character that wants things that are internally contradictory so that they not only have to battle the exterior obstacles to get what they want, but they have to battle conflicting desires within themselves as well.

Here's a way of illustrating that, Super Mario Bros. style.

Good: plumber wants to save the princess.
Better: plumber wants to save the princess while besting green-clad brother with similar goal
Best: plumber wants to save the princess while besting green-clad brother with similar goal, but although he is brave he is plagued by the creeping sense that the gamer controlling his every move might want him dead

Every time you introduce something your character wants, internal or external, whether it's saving the princess, acceptance from their parents, or snaring a white whale, you're introducing a plot arc. The main arc should open at the beginning and close conclusively in the climax of your novel. Smaller arcs may be introduced and closed somewhere in between.

Every single character you introduce, major or minor, should also have their own plot arc(s) with defined goals and motivations. The more important the character the longer and more complex the plot arc(s): i.e. your main villain's plot arc is probably introduced toward the beginning and closed at the end, and we probably have a rather nuanced sense of their own desires and contradictions.

This is often where writers miss opportunities: every character, big or small, has to show motivation, agency, and desire. They have to have their own plot arcs. And it's important that the arcs have a beginning, middle, and end. Unless you're under contract for book two, make sure those plot arcs are closed!

At every step of the way, on every page, with every exchange of dialogue and every action, characters are trying to achieve their desires but run into obstacles, whether internal, external, or because they're encountering characters who want something different than they do. This is conflict.

So I took this test...

The Desert Test

Congratulations! The two of you made it out of the desert!

Based on Japanese Archetypes the desert represents a hardship. Each of the animals represents an aspect of your life. The order in which you sacrifice the animals might be said to represent the importance of these things to you. The one that you sacrificed first is the least important, and the one that you kept is the most important.
1 You sacrificed the Lion. The Lion represents pride.
2 You sacrificed the Monkey. The Monkey represents your children.
3 You sacrificed the Cow. The Cow represents basic needs.
4 You sacrificed the Sheep. The Sheep represents friendship.
5 You kept the Horse. The Horse represents your passion.

No explanation required, I suppose.

Shiny New Idea!

While reading the blurb of THE SCORPIO RACES for the hundredth time this morning, I came up with the idea to model the blurb for my Shiny New Idea after it. Consider this my pitch in less than 100 words:

Every year, the fruits of promises made are harvested by unscrupulous Traders and sold in the black market. Every year, the Scavengers race to pick the ripest fruits. To compete with the Traders can mean death, but the fruits are a means of survival for the Scavengers.

When Lisa makes a deal with a Trader to save her brother, she meets Sean, a boy who doesn’t make promises, which makes them exceptionally valuable. (DODGY GRAMMAR)

As she comes to know Sean, Lisa finds it more and more difficult to choose between protecting him from the Traders and saving her brother.

There are, of course, some pesky kinks I need to work out, like

1. What's so special about the fruits?
2. What is a Scavenger?
3. Likewise, what is a Trader? How are they dangerous?
4. How do they differ from humans?
5. So what if Sean finally makes a promise? How is he in danger from the Traders?
6. Subplots, subplots!
7. What does Sean want?

BLOOD PROMISE actually came about as a short story, but as I wrote it I thought I could take it further and develop it into a full-length novel. This is what I have for now. I'll still be working on completing 15 MINUTES, but if BLOOD PROMISE takes flight maybe it'll be the next story I work on, instead of the one I had in mind.