So it wasn’t exactly thrilling.

My brain then transformed the idea into three elderly women in the jewelry business who had their own reality show. Two very stark and emaciated women enter the shop looking for jewelry to complete their outfits of sheer belly dance choli tops and harem pants. Neither woman had ever worn anything that was related to monotheism.

I can’t make up this stuff.

But even when I awoke, I thought there might be something to my original vision of three friends in some kind of cool business together. What the plot could be, I have no idea.

Coincidentally, my friend relayed a dream she had of us about to fight high school zombies until she becomes scared and runs away leaving me to kill them all myself. Now this is a story! But not one I’m going to write.

These thoughts of dreams led me to come up with the writing exercise I’m sharing here.

Take one of your dreams and write about it. The homework I gave my friend, who is distraught over her fear of zombies, was to rewrite the dream on paper. I told her she could be scared and run away, but she must write it into the story that she returns to help me kill all the zombies, and we are victorious.

The dream of my designing women is a bit harder to work with because nothing much happened, but I still think there might be something to these characters if I could put them into action.

You never know, one of your dreams may end up being the next vampire cult phenomenon.

There are two categories: General Fiction and YA Fiction. Luckily, I happen to write in the latter category, so I’ve decided to enter.

The title of my novel. Image stolen from the band of the same name's website.

Unfortunately, after revisiting the novel I wanted to use, I realize it kind of sucks. Oh, I used to think it was all that. In fact, it was the greatest thing I’d ever written and couldn’t possibly ever write anything better. What an idiot.

I had shopped it around, got several rejections, and a handwritten note from one of the editors that said they really liked it but couldn’t use it at the moment. I was even allowed to send the first 100 pages to a literary agent based on my pitch. She told me she didn’t quite connect with the main character as strongly as she needed to.

Now after several years away from it, I can totally understand why. My protagonist is so guarded even with me. There’s nothing warm or endearing about her. Sure, she’s all tough and jaded, the kind of girl you want in a fight, but there’s nothing vulnerable about her.

I had a very sharp conversation with her yesterday (and yes, I was talking out loud). I told her if there’s one person she has to be honest with, it’s me. I can’t tell her story, and it’s a good story, if she doesn’t let me in. I don’t even know who she was before the story started. Oh, of course I know what happened to her (we call that backstory), but I don’t know what she was like. What were her hopes and dreams, who were her friends, how did she act? Believe me, I filled out all the personality/characterization sheets, but I was going on what she was telling me, and it wasn’t the whole truth. I’m not even sure if any of it was the truth or just what I was coming up with because she was not very forthcoming on her own. The main thing I’ve learned is that your protagonist cannot hide from you or the reader. Sure she can hide her true self from the other characters until it’s necessary, but in order to make a connection, she’s got to be real.

Good news: I might have gotten a glimpse of her last night, and I’ll be hounding her the rest of the day on giving me more. Bad news: from what she’s showing me, my whole story is going to change. Well, not the plot things, but definitely how she acts, how she reacts, the relationships she forms with people. I don’t think I can revise the first 3000-5000 words by the time submissions open, which consequently is at midnight. And though I’m a little more than bummed if I don’t get a chance to enter, at least I’ve been made aware of this fatal mistake. (Thanks, K, for that!) Who knows? I might just get accepted on another round of submissions.

They say reality doesn’t need to make sense but fiction does, which makes me wonder what exactly happened in the real lives of the real Frs. Michael Kovak and Lucas because I had a hard time believing (and accepting) the storyline of The Rite. I could be biased; anytime I hear a movie is based on or inspired by true events, I tend to think they’re making it up just to increase sales. I mean, did we learn nothing from The Blair Witch Project?

Not that there is anything wrong with the actual elements of The Rite–most of them seem to be there: catalyst, internal need, external goal, opposition, darkest moment–it’s just that they are all squished into the last 2o (or 30 if we’re lucky) minutes of the film.

Enter Michael Kovak: a priest-in-training with no faith. Father Superior gets the brilliant idea to send him to exorcism school in Rome cuz, ya, that will help him. Maybe lectures aren’t Michael’s thing, so his teacher sends him to a little village in Florence to witness a real live exorcism. I’m fairly gullible, but even I don’t believe Rosaria is possessed. I think Michael hits the nail on the head (pun intended) when he states she was internalizing her guilt over being raped by her father and carrying his demon seed.

(One thing I would like to know is why doesn’t this happen more often? The possession part, I mean.  The other, I’m sure, happens more often than we know, and it does seem like the work of the devil, but not all victims go around speaking in foreign tongues. I guess I want to know why Satan/Beelzebub/Baal chose to inhabit a 16 year-old Italian girl. What exactly did he get out of it? She and the baby died, so…it seems rather anticlimactic and not really worth the trouble.)

We witness a few more possessions, a few more exorcisms, some of which are hoaxes, none of which are believable enough to force Michael to believe in God and take a stand.  What exactly pushes him over the edge? Is it realizing he just talked to his already-dead father on the phone? (I think I might have reacted a bit differently than sobbing on the bed if that happened to me. Just saying.) Is it the random voices in his hotel room or el mulo with the red eyes in the courtyard? Maybe it’s hearing Fr. Lucas himself tell us he’s possessed. (Again, I have to wonder why the devil chose him. Aside from the fact that Anthony Hopkins is a brilliant actor with a bit of crazy in him.)

Regardless, we finally hit our first plot point. Michael now has a goal, we know he’s searching for his own faith, why he has none, and that he’s recruited his friend, Angelsomething, to help him out.

The screenwriter shoots off the rest of the elements in rapid fire, wasting no time because he’s already over budget. Michael performs an exorcism on Fr. Lucas, it doesn’t work, his faith is tested, Angelsomething has to convince him to get back in there–he can do it, he’s not alone. (Usually, the opposition has much greater resources and is much stronger than the protagonist; however, Michael has the power of God on his side. Seems a lot like cheating, doesn’t it?) Michael tries again, this time he gets the devil to give up his name. (Baal’s screwed now.) Oh, it worked! Story’s over.

I’m not really buying that Michael suddenly finds his faith in God either. I don’t know if it’s just bad acting or not, but I tend to think it’s because we don’t get to see him really search for it, to really want it. The majority of Act Two should be the protagonist fighting against all odds to achieve his goal. Instead, Michael pretty much complains and denies his faith throughout the whole storyline until the very end, and actions speak louder than words. One can’t go from having no faith, to realizing you have no faith, to suddenly achieving faith. You kind of have to work at finding it. (In contrast, I totally believe Anthony Hopkins is possessed. The way he smacked that girl–freaking brilliant writing.)

I’m thinking the screenwriter could have gone back for a few more rewrites, weeded out some of the inconsequential details, worked on pacing, and found more creative ways to handle the amazing amount of backstory we had to watch for the first 82 minutes of the film.

The good news, though, is that Michael doesn’t have to pay back his student loans.

If you’d like to catch the latest installment of Rumer and Pasha’s adventures in Azeroth, be sure to check it out and click the link to be notified by email of new posts.

Thanks!

Umm, not so much. Chock one up for creepy, discordant music, though, and some disturbing images of 1950s doll-like psychotic mannequins. But I’ve seen the fire face guy before in a Buffy the Vampire Slayer episode, the old lady in my head while reading a book, and the little boy in the cap in my dance troupe. None of them are that scary. (Well, except for the old lady in my head.)

A few problems I had with the overall story:

1) The protagonist does not actually know he’s the main character until about two-thirds into the story. The entire first act and much of the second is based on Renai and her actions. She has a relationship with her children (well, ok, I don’t believe there was a need for Foster at all–the screenwriter could have easily had Josh “see” Dalton walking around in his astral body, which would have foreshadowed his whole childhood as an astral-projector), she sees the demons/ghosts/rip-off Buffy bad guys, she makes the family move houses, she contacts the priest, the mother-in-law, and Elise. She wants to be believed; she knows her son’s coma isn’t normal (if it’s possible) and she wants him out of it. (I think there could have been a nice scene where she actually talks to Dalton while he’s in it to reinforce her worry and her fears.)

2) Not one insinuation is made that Josh was having an affair. He was grading middle-school papers until 11:30 at night at school because they needed extra money for Dalton’s medical bills. Even I don’t believe it and it was the truth. First, teachers, correct me if I’m wrong, do not get paid overtime, and they aren’t forced to stay at school to grade papers when they can take them home and do it. Secondly, there is a completely missed opportunity to see Josh in his astral projection mode when he falls asleep at his desk. Yes, we see a black and white image of Dalton in his bed in a coma, but astral projection connotes movement–you travel to different realms. You do not just stand there. How is the audience supposed to know he wasn’t just daydreaming? (At the very least, we should have seen Josh in the scene at his son’s bedside.)

3) If I need to bring a character in (the mother-in-law) halfway through the story to explain something, then I haven’t done my job at creating my main characters or their backstory well. By the end of the first act, we should know who the main character is, what his external goal and internal need are, and whether or not he’s going to take up the challenge of achieving them. Unfortunately, Josh doesn’t even know what his goal is until Elise tells him he has to go into astral projection mode to find Dalton and bring him back. (This didn’t happen until I was completely bored and ready for the movie to be over.)

4) Nothing is explained. I’m so sick of watching scary movies that rely on flashing freaky images across the screen to divert our attention away from the real purpose of watching a movie–to be entertained with a story. I still want to know why the old lady chose to attach herself to Josh, why his mother could see her in the photographs (how could Renai see them for that matter?), what the point was of the demon/doll/mannequin blasting away the 1950s family, and who the antagonist was. If it was supposed to be fire face guy, I need to know a little more about him (like who he was before he died) besides that he sits in a pseudo toyshop/alchemist’s lab and listens to Tiny Tim‘s ”Tiptoe Through the Tulips.” (Incidently, antagonists have their own external goals and internal needs that motivate them just as protagonists do. The audience should be privy to this information as well–even better if you can make us sympathetic to the bad guy at the same time we want to see him defeated.)

I also need to know that Dalton can astral project and that he isn’t just scared to sleep in his room at night. Not to mention why they needed to move to the first house at all. Renai said she didn’t want things to be the same, she wanted to start over–start over from what? Was Josh having an affair? Did she just get released from a mental hospital? I need to know what happened before the story starts, so I can understand why I am coming in at this moment in time.

5) On the other hand, I do not need to know that Renai is an aspiring songwriter. While it’s a nice characteristic, it isn’t intrinsic to the storyline. She’s not even the main character. Isn’t there some detail the writer could have given Josh to actually make us sympathetic to him? As it is, he has no relationship with his wife or children and he doesn’t even take an active role in the plot until Elise tells him to.

6) And lastly, these malevolent beings supposedly want to inflict pain on the living, but I don’t see that really happening in the movie. There is that one dude who looks like The Crow/Joker, and he did try to attack Renai. But other than that, what is his purpose? I think this bit of action would have been better left to fire face guy. Oh, but wait, we’re not sure if he’s the antagonist or not.

There are some major elements of storytelling missing in Insidious, and it isn’t even scary enough to make up for it. Had the screenwriter just made Renai go in to get her son and had Josh lead her and Dalton out, some of the problems with this movie would have disappeared.  Renai would have achieved her external goal of rescuing her son and her internal need for being believed.

Like I said, “Some of the problems.”

My main character‘s name is Nothing. She is a Night Elf rogue. “The rogues of Azeroth are the masters of subterfuge, skilled and cunning adversaries of those who dare not look into the shadows to see what lurks there. Roguery is a profession for those who seek the adventures of stalking in silent forests, dimly lit halls and heavily guarded strongholds. Using trickery in combat and able to vanish at the slightest distraction, the rogue is a welcome addition to any group of adventurers. Ideal spies, deadly to those they can catch unaware, rogues have no problem finding a place in the world. Deadly masters of stealth, rogues are the whispers in shadowy corners and the hooded figures crossing dark fields. Skilled with daggers and the art of silent death, these vagabonds and bandits skulk about Azeroth seeking targets and profit.” (http://www.wowwiki.com/Rogue)

My Azeroth Adventures installments are based on this character, whom I renamed Rumer. (Yes, even my characters have characters.)

In the past two years I’ve been playing this character, I have received much attention because of her name. Random people have whispered me saying they like my choice and that it suits the rogue class. Nothing is also the butt of many jokes in my guild. My favorite is, “We’re all standing around doing Nothing.” Pictures are posted on my Facebook and our guild’s Facebook page about anything that has the word Nothing in it, like:

and:

and:

So in case any of you are wondering where I came up with that name, I have written a little ditty about it.  Here goes:

Much Ado About Nothing

It’s nice to know you don’t love me for my beauty because she is ugly.

It’s nice to know you don’t love me for my money because she is poor.

It’s nice to know you don’t love me for my sex because she gives you none.

It’s nice to know you don’t love me.

Because I’m Nothing.

From what she’d heard, Theramore had been the only Alliance military stronghold on the continent, and political tension between its residents was high. Not only did they have to contend with frequent attacks from the sea monster, Tethyr, and Ratchet pirates who tried to invade the rocky island, but they were under-represented in the Alliance Assembly.

“All I smell is Human,” Pasha said, his nose twitching.

“Then it should be easy for someone to remember a Gnome passing through.”

They approached the Dwarven flightmaster. “I’m looking for a Gnome,” she said.

“Only two Gnomes be here. The engineer, ole Caz Twosprocket, and Babs Fizzletourque, who lives out at the lighthouse.”

Pasha raised an eyebrow as Rumer shrugged.

“The one I’m looking for is a mage. He might have stopped here a few months ago.”

The Dwarf stroked his long beard in contemplation. “Go see Babs. She may be out far, but she keeps her eye on things.”

Rumer flipped the flightmaster a few loose coins in appreciation for his help.

Stopping halfway down the path to the rocky shore, Pasha hissed at the lapping waves. “What is it with you and water?”

She turned in disbelief. “The lighthouse is on an island.”

“I’m not going,” Pasha said and sat down on his haunches.

Knowing better than to argue with the stubborn cat, she said, “Fine. Stay here and I’ll swim over.”

“You’re not getting on my back all sopping wet.”

Rumer advanced on Pasha and, with hands on her hips, said, “Then you won’t eat.”

“I’m sure I can fend for myself.”

She huffed and unstrapped her daggers then dove into the murky water, swimming several meters to the small, rocky outcropping with the lighthouse.

A female Gnome was waiting for her when she emerged from the water. She was diminutive in size, but her cone-shaped bun added at least another foot to her stature. Her eyes were large and round and her countenance was cheerful.

“Babs Fizzletourque?” Rumer asked.

“Greetings,” she said in a pleasant, high-pitched voice. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m looking for someone.” Rumer paused to wring out her soaking hair. “A Gnome mage named Elder Glittergold. I have it on good authority that he might have visited the island recently. I need to find him. Do you know him?”

Babs giggled behind her hand, and a blush crept over her cheeks. “I certainly do.”

Rumer smiled to herself. It was obvious from the little lighthouse keeper’s reaction she was smitten with him.

“He’s at Beezil’s Wreck in the marsh tinkering with the machine that crashed there.”

“Can you show me the way?”

Babs took a stick and drew a map in the sandy earth, then her face scrunched up and her eyes grew wider. “Is that mold growing on your armor?”

Following the Gnome’s gaze, Rumer’s eyes landed on the dark green patches of fungus living on the knees of her leggings. She reddened in embarrassment.

“There’s a tanner in the city you can purchase new armor from. And you probably should. Glitter has an aversion to smells.”

Lovely, Rumer thought. He sounded about as pleasant as a rabid Thistlebear.

Just as she was about to dive back into the water, Babs stopped her. “Take my boat, and tell him supper is ready.”

Pasha wasn’t waiting for Rumer when she landed ashore. Instead, she witnessed him snatching freshly caught fish off a drying rack and running off to dine in peace and safety. The fishing supplier was none too thrilled, and he chased after Pasha waving a fishing pole and shouting obscenities.

Taking advantage of the distraction, Rumer scooped up the rest of the fish and hid them in her bag. She set off to find the tanner.

Her new armor was stiff, but it didn’t smell and it wasn’t discolored from mold and blood. She would get used to it somehow, though her days of pick-pocketing were over for now as the leather creaked with her every move.

She found Pasha basking in the sun along one of the catapults, content from his mid-afternoon snack.

“Let’s saddle up. We’re off to Beezil’s Wreck.”

Stretching, Pasha finally made it to his feet and nodded at Rumer’s new attire with approval. “At least they’re not shorts.”

“I’m never going to live that outfit down, am I?”

A smile curled up over his teeth. “Nope.”

The two rode across the newly-constructed bridge that connected Theramore to the mainland. Despite the murkiness that pervaded the marsh, flashes of red and white lit up the hills to their left and the sound of sizzling overpowered the chirping frogs.

“Why do I have a feeling that’s where we’re headed?” Pasha asked.

“Because it is.”

Begrudgingly, he carried Rumer toward their destination.

She surveyed the area and noticed a flying contraption of Goblin craftsmanship had crashed into the swamp. Emanating from various pieces of the damaged power supply were lightning charges in the form of arcane energy that seemed to mutate swamp ooze into full-grown green slimes. For the time being, they were suspended in animation, trapped in the lightning.

Warning Pasha to stay back, she said, “This doesn’t look good.”

Sizzling filled the air again as the Gnome who stood on top of the machine launched fireballs at the core processor.

“Elder Glittergold?” Rumer asked from a safe distance.

The Gnome looked up at her from beneath bushy, white eyebrows then up some more and returned his attention to the machine.

She was irritated he didn’t have the decency to answer her, but she needed his help in finding her sister, so she bit her tongue.

A slime broke free just then from its prison and made haste toward the preoccupied mage.

“Excuse me,” she tried again, “but you seem to have a problem here.”

Glittergold just grumbled under his breath and ignored her.

Despite wanting to take great pleasure in seeing the insolent mage get his cumupence, Rumer lunged at the slime, thrusting both daggers into it again and again until it dissipated into a messy green puddle at her feet. She watched as more started to break free and head their way.

“Mage!”

Glittergold turned and saw the approaching slimes. His eyes opened to twice their size before he turned back.

Rumer poised herself between the onslaught and the Gnome, ready to attack. Calling over her shoulder, she asked, “What’s going on?”

“There seems to be a slight malfunction with the multiacidic ossification control.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means, obviously, that the humiditinker is destabilizing the alterfier oxidizer.”

She rolled her eyes and launched a few throwing stars at the closest mutant slime, stunning it only mere seconds before it started oozing toward them again. “Well, stop it!”

“Just hold them off,” the mage said, “while I give this transmogrification valve a whirl.”

His little gloved hands worked quickly but to no avail.

“They’re still coming,” Rumer said as she battled against two of the closest slimes.

“Maybe it’s the other direction.” He spoke more to himself than to her and started turning the valve the other way.

“Now they’re coming faster.”

“Oh, my!”

Upon hearing loud metallic clanking, Rumer looked back and saw the mage hitting the mechanism with the end of his wooden staff and the glowing orb at the top crackling with lightning.

“Can’t you fix it?” she asked.

“I’ve been trying to for the past three days.”

“Three days?” Rumer stared in disbelief at the mage.

Pasha roared from his safe spot just beyond the conductors. “Look out!”

Rumer whipped around to face another slime and attacked it with vengeance.

When it was destroyed, she turned back to the mage. “I thought you were an engineer.”

“Heavens, no. I’m a tailor.”

Both she and Pasha groaned. She should have known judging from his long velvet robes embroidered with runes in gold-spun thread and bedazzled with sparkling gemstones.

Exasperated, Rumer released her fan of knives in a spray of crippling poison.

“Heads up!”

She plucked the little mage from the flying contraption and hurled him through the air toward Pasha who caught him by the cloak. He dangled from the great moonsaber’s teeth, shouting protestations in multisyllabic words and flailing his stubby arms and legs about like a bug that’d just landed on its back.

“Run, Pasha,” she said then turned her attention to the slimes.

Flaying and filleting, she popped the closest slimes and made a break for it. With fetid, green blobs oozing after her, she broke into a sprint and vanished into the shadows of the murky swamp.

When the slimes had lost sight of her, and interest, she let forth a sharp whistle. Pasha appeared with the mage still in his mouth and dumped him on the ground at Rumer’s feet.

He straightened his robes and flicked saliva from his long, wavy hair and beard.  “Now, what can I do for you?” he asked.

Rumer clucked her tongue at his lack of gratitude for saving his life. “A bit pretentious naming yourself after a deity, don’t you think?”

“I’ll say,” Pasha said under his breath.

“No more pretentious than assuming that just because I am a Gnome, I must also be an engineer.” A satisfied look of smugness settled across his face.

“You’re right,” she said, “I don’t know how I could have made that mistake.”

She mounted Pasha and began to ride away.

“Wait! Wait! You’re not going to leave me here, are you?” they heard Glittergold call out. “The slimes will kill me!”

Rumer smiled to herself, halted Pasha, and turned to wait for him, enjoying the sight of his little legs trotting up to them. She reached down and grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and set him on the saddle behind her.

Pasha reared.

“Whoa!” Glittergold clung to Rumer’s waist.

“Enough playing, Pasha,” she said, laughing and patting his head.

The great cat obeyed and placed all four paws on the ground.

They headed for Theramore.

Babs Fizzletourque stood at the edge of the lighthouse island, waving excitedly as Rumer steered the boat to shore. At once, Glittergold climbed over her and Pasha and disembarked.

Babs smothered him with kisses and fussed about how long he’d been gone and what danger he must have been in.

“Yes, yes,” he answered her. “I had it all under control.”

Rumer and Pasha just rolled their eyes at each other.

“You will stay for dinner. All of you,” Babs said and began setting up a feast for a very small king.

Halfway through the meal with Pasha napping by the bonfire and the others circled around it, Rumer began her inquiry.  “How do you know my sister, Whisperra Blackblade?”

The mage stopped chewing, his eyes reflecting the flames. He seemed to retreat into his thoughts, and they looked dark.

When he finally spoke, his voice was void of the arrogance from earlier in the day. “She was after Chok’sul’s head, and I happened to be in his cave at the time. She saved my life.”

“My dear Glitter, you mean to say you were trapped by that nasty ogre?” Babs gasped, and her hands flew up to her mouth to suppress the horror.

If Rumer had not seen it herself, she wouldn’t have believed the tender moment that passed between the two tiny Gnomes as he took one of Babs’ hands and held it while he spoke.

“The Mo’grosh ogres had terrorized the town of Thelsamar, the Stonewrought Dam, and the excavation site in Loch Modan under orders from Chok’sul. The Dwarven Magistrate wanted it stopped, and he put out a reward. I assume your sister was after that reward.”

“And what were you after?”

Glittergold looked at Babs as if he wanted to spare her from hearing this part but didn’t have a choice. “His ring. It possessed great intellectual power from which all of his shamans channeled their magic. Without it, I figured he and his minions would become so impotent, I could kill Chok’sul myself and endear myself to the Magistrate.”

“So you didn’t want the ring’s power for yourself?” Rumer asked.

“Well, that too.”

“What does this have to do with meeting Whisperra in Ratchet?”

Clearing his throat, he began the story.

The first few ogres at the mouth of the cave had been easy enough to kill. A few fireballs and they had become toast. Being so small, he had been able to hide behind stalagmites that had erupted from the stone floor and had slipped past many of the lumbering oafs. But as Glittergold headed deeper into Chok’sul’s lair, the ogre numbers had also increased.

It hadn’t been until he was in sight of the ogre leader himself that Glittergold had lost his concentration. The Minor Channeling Ring had sparkled on the ogre’s finger, and he’d become mesmerized, envisioning the power he’d have once in possession of it. He had giggled out loud in anticipation and had drawn attention to himself.

At once, the loin-clothed ogres had converged on him. He had tried to fire off a round of scorching heat waves, but it had been no use; there were too many, and Glittergold didn’t have the advantage of time or distance for his spells to gather power.

Chok’sul had bellowed just then, his voice echoing against the walls of the cavern, and the ogre bodyguards had stopped. Instead, one of them had grabbed the mage and threw him into a wooden cage in an alcove.

This had been worse than Glittergold had expected. He had lost his line of sight on Chok’sul, and he was out of range for any of his spells to work anyway. He had only to wonder what the ogres had wanted with him.

Gathering up his robes, the Gnome had plopped down on the cold, damp rocky floor to contemplate his misery. His only comfort had been that Magistrate Bluntnose had posted a reward for the ogre’s head, and someone stupid enough, probably a warrior, would eventually try his hand at killing Chok’sul.

It had seemed like hours or even days that he’d waited in the confines of his crude prison while foolhardy men had come one after the other and had fallen victim to the ogre leader. Glittergold had spent much of his time asleep until he had either heard the commotion of another failed attack or his snoring had irritated the ogres so much that they’d poked him awake with the ends of their wooden maces.

 In one such state of alertness, he’d noticed a change. Instead of hearing the ogres’ constant leaden footfalls as they patrolled the cave, it had become silent. The air, usually rank and stifled, had a slight breeze to it. The fine hair of his snowy beard had danced in the current.

Something had happened. Something had become different. And then a patrolling bodyguard had suddenly collapsed in front of the alcove, and dark brown liquid began to pool around its head.

Glittergold hadn’t seen its killer, but had smelled the murderer instead. It had been the scent of stealth, or rather the lack of any scent. He’d grown accustomed to the lack of scent that precipitated a stealth attack while growing up. His own brother had studied the way of the Assassin and had used the mage to practice his skills. To most living creatures, the lack of scent had often been overlooked as a sign of immenent danger.

 But Glittergold was not most living creatures. He was brilliant.

So he had only been surprised when the stealthy assassin who had stepped out of the shadows by his cage was a woman.

“A little help, please,” he’d said with as much pleasantry as he could muster and jiggled the lock holding the door closed.

“Hush,” the woman had said and sapped a passing ogre into unconsciousness.

Next, she’d dragged the body of the dead ogre deeper into the alcove and waited for the stun effect on the other to wear off.

Luring her target back into the shadows of the alcove, she’d stepped behind it in one swift movement and had slit its throat clean down to the bone. The ogre slumped to the ground in a sickening thud. Glittergold, not used to the brutality of steel, had swallowed down a lump of nausea and looked away.

Without a word, the woman assassin had picked the lock of the Gnome’s cage and let him out.

“Cover me,” she had said, but before he could agree, she had stepped through the shadows and positioned herself behind Chok’sul.

Glittergold had felt the air ripple through his beard again, and it had been in that instant that the assassin began her attack. It was as if she’d choreographed it to a haunting ballad, but he hadn’t the time to watch her performance. Pelting Chok’sul’s bodyguards with fiery bombs, Glittergold’s spell had slowed their movements considerably as their skin became so scorched they could no longer fight and instead sifted to the ground in a pile of ash.

With the bodyguards dead, it had become time to concentrate on Chok’sul. As the female assassin had twirled around the ogre leader, rupturing veins and slicing muscles, Glittergold had summoned immense fiery boulders from between his palms and had hurled them in succession, taking care not to wound his ally.

In the final act, the woman had thrust both daggers upward into Chok’sul’s chest and pierced his heart. Before gravity overtook him, she’d completely sheared off his head from his torso and caught it in one hand.

“Do you too wish to fight me for this?” she had asked the mage.

Swallowing that lump again, Glittergold had managed to say, “I just want the ring.”

She had looked down at the gleaming beacon on Chok’sul’s finger and cut it off then tossed the golden band to him. “That’s it then.”

With his voice choking, he said, “You saved my life.”

“No.” She smiled at him. “I just prolonged it.”

“If you ever need the favor returned, just ask,” Glittergold had said and slipped the ring over his fingers and onto his wrist.

The woman had nodded and began walking toward the cave’s exit.

“My name is Glittergold. Glittergold, the mage. In case you need me.”

“Whisperra,” was all she’d said. Then she’d bowed with a flourish and vanished.

Babs Fizzletourque was visibly shaken with fat tears streaming down her cheeks.

Even Rumer was beside herself now more than ever with a deep longing to find her sister and fight by her side.  She was so close, and at last she had found someone who might be able to help her.

“And you repaid it in Ratchet,” she said. “What did she want?”

Glittergold sighed. “Not anything nearly as spectacular as that ring, which by the way, I traded in for a better one. She wanted information. To know who had spoken against your father to the King of Stormwind.”

Inhaling sharply, Rumer steeled herself. “Who was it?”

“Well, I don’t know.” He scoffed.  ”And that’s just what I told her. But there’s book in the Library of the Hall of the Explorers in Ironforge that will tell you. That’s where she was headed.”

“To Ironforge then.”

Anyway, I am neither Christianly religious or scientifically minded. I have problems with both theories. In any other culture, the story of the Christian god creating the world and making Eve populate it (and we all know how much help Adam was) would be called a myth. I say this because I highly doubt there are any modern-day Grecians or Romans that still believe Zeus/Jupiter and all the other gods still control the universe from the heavens. They are nice stories and give us hope and faith in a better life and afterlife, but they do not supersede science.

On the other hand, I can’t fathom the theory of evolution either. If man were to evolve from apes, wouldn’t there still be all those stages of Neanderthals running around? There are apes and there are men. Both ends of the spectrum are still alive and well.  How does science explain the whole missing link bit? (Hm, maybe I should read up on this. I suppose there are scientific theories on this too.)

My second run-in with the Jesus fish symbol was waiting in the drive-through at Starbucks. The truck in front of me had a fish symbol with a cross where its eye would be. And it occurred to me that no other religion (besides Jehovah Witnesses, but I won’t go into that whole disaster) promotes itself like Christianity. People are obsessed with it, and they like to tell everyone about it. There are bumper stickers that say, “God is my co-pilot,” lawn signs that spout passages from the bible that make absolutely no sense let alone a complete sentence, the illustrious fish symbol, and the nod to Jesus, my savior, from every athlete and American Idol contestant at their moment of triumph. And there are many more references that I won’t go into. Usually people who are Christianly religious let everyone know by either mentioning it or by sending them Mass cards at every holiday, so we can be prayed for at the Basilica because our names are supposedly in a box on the altar (nod to my mom and damn, that’s gotta be a big altar).

I thought all this while waiting for the truck in front of me at Starbucks to move.  Then something happened. The woman driving this huge Avalanche couldn’t make it around the curve (okay, it’s really like a 90 degree angle). She pulled up, backed up (almost into me), turned a little bit, pulled up, backed up (almost into me), turned…you get the picture. She even honked her horn, I assumed at me. I had nowhere to go as there was a line of cars behind me. I said to myself, or rather out loud, “Why do you have a truck that f**king big if you can’t drive it.” As the woman was turning the steering wheel, it looked like she was struggling, then she finally pulled her truck out of the line and alongside the curb. She rolled her window down and apologized, saying she lost her power steering.  Did I feel bad that I thought she was a dumbass? Not really, but I’m a mean person. So she got out of her truck and walked up to the drive-through window to pay and get her drink. She was embarrassed and kept apologizing.

I wondered how Jesus could have let this happen to her and where exactly he was while this was going on. Could it be bad things happen to good people or was it karma? All I know was that Jesus did not take her wheel.

You promised me wind and snow

and gave me sun.

You promised fire and passion

and gave a cold shoulder.

You promised love and future;

I have the blackest nights.

Without you,

promises are my only hope.

The opening line is so important because every other word hangs on it. It’s got to be strong, evocative, surprising, and a whole host of other adjectives every writer knows and dreads. Not only do those first few words carry the weight of the entire piece on its shoulders (if it had any), but they are also the basis for our audience’s approval. How many times have you gone into a bookstore, picked up a random book because you liked the cover art, read the first sentence, and put it back down again? Granted, some of us may read the first few sentences and then do that, but really, it’s that first one that strikes an impression.

Maybe in that nano-second it takes to read the first few words strung together into a cohesive (or sometimes not) thought, your subconscious decides whether it’s worth reading a little more, which you do, only to be disappointed by the drivel that comes next. Now you have the added agony of trying to top that first line in everything else you write. (Writers are experts at self-torture in so many ways.)

As I was walking into hospital yesterday, an opening sentence just popped into my brain. (That is how it usually works–don’t try to create one on your own, don’t try to coax, threaten, wrangle, bribe, or even beg those first words into existence. It won’t work. We are masochists [spell check told me this wasn't a word, but I don't care] not sadists.)

Here it is: When the MRI tech asked if I was claustrophobic, I told her no because I’d been locked in a coffin before.

If I was to analyze this sentence, here’s what I would say: First, I would want to know two things: 1) what was the speaker getting an MRI of and why? what had happened leading up to this event? 2) how the hell did the speaker get locked in a coffin? Would I want to read more? Sure, but that’s just because I’m a sucker for the word “coffin.”

I can tell you with some certainty that I will not be writing a story based on this sentence anytime soon or otherwise, but I can guarantee that if I were, it would not be about vampires, zombies, or wrongfully-pronounced dead people. No, it would have to be something much more spectacular.

Surprise! The opening line should not give away the rest of the story, but merely hint at the wonders to come. (Ok, I’m going to be cliché now and say this is called the hook.)

If you’re a writer and have managed to capture anything on the page, look at your opening sentence (or line if you’re a poet). Does it live up to the same standards you use when evaluating other writers’ works? If it doesn’t, never fear. Until that sucker gets published, there’s always room for improvement. And sometimes you may have to get to the end of your piece before you find just the right way to begin it.