September 08, 2013

Who Do You Think You Are?

We Got A New Attitude!
We're changing our stripes.

   It's been a long time coming...the decision as to what I should do w this blog. I struggled with my desire to teach and my desire to market and found out that they're one in the same, but just occur in a different slant. I was on point with character development and my understanding of story telling, but so are a lot of people with more expertise than me. I get it. I discovered that, basically, we were rehashing the same information and possibly bouncing off one anothers rants, at least some of us were. So I climbed out of that barrel and decided to venture off into my own niche.
     My brand of story telling has the potential of being uniquely me whenever I follow my plan. I asked myself one question, Who Do You Think You Are, and I came up with a Great Idea, in harmony with my style of writing and story telling. Now, I am developing my video trailers and video games to tell my stories on this blog. I even took classes to hone my skills.
    "Who Do You Think You Are?" is a board game, book and app. It' s gender, and age friendly and in development along with my children's board game/app called Tahtoo, that will be shown on my blog under the brand, KidStuff, a subsidiary of Kidsmart (TM). I just want to keep the adult side separate from all the Kidstuff, games and toys.
    "SNITCH" the adult book series, whose main protags are Sysco Silverfox, and  Nimshi Tate  (see the excerpt published on this blog in May/June, titled the Proxy) will only publish on it's own website in the future, with trailers and videos to enhance the story, character, and there quest in life.
We're still writing stuff-write now but things change for the better; we have a new attitude.

   I missed you guys, and I miss blogging, so stay tuned. This is going to be fun.

SIT (stay in touch),
Max Nightjar

 Book Reviewer, occasionally, receives books free or in a downloaded PDF format-for the express purpose of providing a book review at no charge.The opinions expressed in book reviews are my own. I am disclosing this in accordance with the (FTC) Federal Trade Commission, 16 CFR, part 255.WriteStuff -WriteNow Antoinette "Toni" McKain. All Rights Reserved. Copyright 2010-2013. WSWN is a subsidiary of GACM Inc.

May 04, 2013

TATTLE TELLS : Doc Perigee: An Excerpt on ( Supporting Characters) and Development, "

     From SNITCH :     "The PROXY", Book II

      One of the major supporting characters in The Proxy is Doc Perigee, the father of Adria Perigee. In the previous blog excerpt, from April 2013, Doc Perigee is mentioned briefly. I deliberately avoided extensive details about him, because he is crucial to the story and somewhat of a mystery to be revealed in stages. He will generally be weaved into and out of the story, because of the impact he imparts on the main character(s) lives. He is also a back story with his own issues and interests. Developing each character to their full potential makes the overall story more powerful and fun for the reader as well as the author.
     Painting a picture of each character's life, style, and personality, helps the reader to see better what you are trying to convey and to identify with the supporting characters as well as the protagonist and antagonist. By showing the action in your story instead of telling or talking about it, in long drawn out prose, you take the reader along on the journey, instead of leaving them sitting on the couch.

An Excerpt from "The Proxy"  Doc Perigee, Chapter II:
      Doc Perigee walked away with a sour look on his face. He knew sooner rather than later, that everything he did, today, would turn corrupt. No matter how much he prayed or tried to deviate from the criminal norm.

      "Anything, I mean any impropriety, usually lands me in the paws or jaws of the lion," he admitted, out loud. He paused to weigh the implications of what he'd just said and rubbed his five o'clock stubble. "Why do I bother to  shave." He kicked the hard ground with his heavy, size ten, brogan, mountain boots. 
      With much chagrin, he planted his frozen paws inside the pockets of his corduroy jacket.  A natural flaw existed in him since his boyhood, and he had never been able to identify it by name.  He could never do anything wrong or 'under the covers', as his mom use to say, and get away clean. The first and last time she caught him trying, she warned him again, nicely. It was the next morning when he came down to breakfast - looking sheepish, sinful, and sorry;  hoping she wouldn't expose him  and his habits to his dad.
      'Rob Jr. you'll never get clean away without the curd rising to the surface like curdled milk does,' she said gingerly. She'd laughed about it and slapped the bread dough, instead of him. If I don't know, than God surely knows you won't."
     By the time he turned twelve, his legs were too long, and his mom couldn't slap him into the trunk, anymore. Doc Perigee, Jr. knew, ever since he turned nine, he possessed a personality quirk with consequences, and the idiosyncrasy could destroy his self confidence and determination, or he could ignore it and keep moving.

     Always storyboard, secondary characters, because they must be as powerful, potent, and challenging as the main character(s). Supporting characters can't fizzle out and drag the story along like some filler. Instead, use them as an interesting, extra ordinary, mind boggling, saving grace, in a weak scene. Of course we're not going to create weak stories, plots or scenes are we?
* Epic novels and their multitude of adjectives seem to be a thing of the past. Though setting is important, we don't want to inundate the reader with unnecessary words and descriptions just to lengthen the book - fillers. Supporting characters must posses a purpose for existing, in the chapter or manuscript scene, otherwise, they'll kill your over all, plot, and the reader will question your motives for using them, and possibly the whole piece .
      How many times have you heard that the story line and plot were strong or sound but the characters were so underveloped they couldn't pull it off? Believably, strong, characters substantially help us develop the plot and are the road maps of the main story as well as the back stories. There are always back stories.

Book Reviewer Disclaimer: receives books free or in a downloaded PDF format-for the express purpose of providing a book review at no charge. The opinions expressed in book reviews are my own. KidSmart Book Publishing.
 I am disclosing this in accordance with the (FTC) Federal Trade Commission, 16 CFR, part 255. WriteStuff-WriteNow Antoinette "Toni" McKain. All Rights Reserved. Copyright 2010-2013 A division of GACM Inc.

March 10, 2013

SNITCH is a collection of short stories. "The Proxy"is story number two in the collection.
The following is an excerpt and a teaching tool for character development. In many stories, the main character has a mind set and opinion of who and what all supporting characters represent. He especially knows his antagonist. Check out our main character's opinion about the other characters in his circle of life.
*Feed back is appreciated.

Max Nightjar
Copyright 2008,  Max Nightjar
All rights reserved. Except as permitted by the US Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted in any form, or distributed and stored in a database or retrieval system ,without prior written permission by the Publisher.


is the adult Imprint of KidSmart Book Publishing, GACM, Inc…
ISBN 978-0-9851194-0-9

To Antoine, a great brother and friend - my whole life, and all my colorful childhood friends from St Clair Village.


     The wind-chill factor was strong enough to penetrate Nimshi Tate’s beige parka and lift him off the ground a few inches. It tore at the seams like a vicious level five tornado with teeth, but young Nimshi Tate was determined to reach the grave site of his mentor, former master, and friend, Sonny Saturday, even if it meant relinquishing his knee caps. It was Sonny, who taught him everything he knew, and he knew a lot, considering his age, but nothing could help him now. He was a mortal, an AI and about to die. At sixteen and in a great deal of distress, he is sure of it. He even knows when he might die - any minute now and counting. 
     He whispered, deliriously, incoherent, jumbled words into the ground. The words were not audible but gurgled from his throat as he struggled to gain inches on his hands and knees. “It is tragic, too,” he tells himself. Over kill, over a young woman he hadn’t even touched, yet. Adria, and his careless, demeaning words, spoken in hasty truth, put him on his knees. They were meaningless words spoken in the heat of the moment. “That’s all they were,” he whispered, to the cold, uncaring wind. But, such carelessness should not have mattered to a man like Linwood “Rusty” Sloan, thought Nimshi. Especially, biting words coming from ‘a mere, jealous boy,’ as he often called him.
   ‘What, prey tell, do you see in that boy?' he asked Adria, on too many occasions; when she was not in the mood to answer. If Nimshi’s words hadn't struck home before, now he was paying for his quick, nippy, tongue. As far as Nimshi was concerned, Rusty had everything a man with money could buy, and he could have found four Adrias to stroke his ego.
     Besides, Adria Perigee wasn’t putting out anyways - for any man. She told him that over and over. She’d promised to save herself for her wedding night. Nimshi was willing to wait. He’d laughed about it and said so jokingly, “Hey, heavy petting works for me.” Then he chuckled to himself. “It’s like a sample of what comes next.” But, Adria didn’t laugh back, and she looked offended. So he walked away much to fast and stayed away much too long.
     Rusty was the real winner, but he had to have it all his way. She had said yes to him, and they were engaged. Well, that is, until Nimshi found out and put his two cents worth in. Then, as they say, their plans went up in smoke. “He’s too old for you! What were you thinking? A gangster! So you want to spend the rest of your life with a gangster?” he bellowed. What surprised Nimshi was that Adria didn’t realize how he felt. She thought he was just joking around. He wished he’d talked to Doc Perigee, sooner, about his darn sense of humor, and how no one ever took him seriously - most of the time. What he figured he needed was an upgrade on his personality profile, and a refresher course on effective communication and “small talk“.
     Adria my sweet headstrong Adria would not have me around to protect her anymore. Nimshi laughed to himself and felt, utterly, frightened by the thought. “My god," he finally said. "What am I saying? I…can’t even protect myself." His wounds looked massive, fatal, vicious and were intentionally inflicted. They are so severe, and deeply imbedded in flesh and bone, he has to crawl. The mustard has gone out of him, and his brain won‘t let him stand up. Speaking of his brain, it has a hole in it. The wounds are basically death blows. They are neck and head wounds meant to take a person away, and Nimshi barely manages to slow down the bleeding process thru, meditation. “Chakra! OM!” barely comes out. He knows how to meditate well, and by holding his breath for five minutes or longer - like one of those Hindu priests - he can stay the hemorrhaging a few minutes longer. Otherwise, lights out, last breath call, and termination of a living soul would have happened an hour ago - 20 feet back from where he’d crawled to now.
     “Sonny did that for me, he told himself, panting along. He taught me how not to breathe, how to meditate, and survive. They said Yoga was for sissies, but Sonny practiced Yoga. He taught me to eat less, stay lean and follow the plan. Sonny cheated death a lot. He even knew how to stay the wind, if he put his mind to it. Just thinking about life and what he’d miss fatigued him, but he had to speak to stay conscious and move on. “Sonny taught me and Sammy a lot, and we’d, both, testify to that in a court of law. If Sammy was honest, but Sammy isn’t honest any more.” Nimshi mumbled on until his voice abandoned him, and his left ear drum exploded. Unable to hear his own fragile voice, he doesn‘t realize that his eardrum just ruptured.
     Nimshi thinks about “Sammy the betrayer", then pushes the, weighty, thoughts of him out and away. Honesty escapes Sammy now, and Nimshi would like to spit, but there’s nothing left inside. When Nimshi reaches up to wipe his blood streaked face, it seems to take thirty minutes for his hand to reach his face, but it is time wasted. The blood streaking down his face is a solid, frozen, immovable, mass. It won’t budge. Even the blood oozing from his eyes freezes around his nose as it exits his tear ducts. Blindly, he claws his way to Sonny’s grave, in Bernard Cemetery, with no help from the red Perigee Moon that is triple it’s size tonight and only giving off a semblance of it’s magnificent, red light. If he could have, he would have thumbed his nose at it, but he can’t raise his head high enough to even see it. The ground is red, and that’s how he knows it’s there.
     He wonders how high the ocean waves are on a misty morning in Makena, Hawaii. The last time he visited, there was a Perigee Moon that sent the waves ten stories high. They were awesome waves for any surfer guy and at least fifty feet. He boasted he'd rode every one of them. Nimshi sweeps the thought away and concentrates on moving his raw, knees to his destination. “Too many good memories just prolongs death,” he reminds himself. “I’ll never ride those waves again.” 
     He envisions the infamous, early morning, green light at the Fountainhead, when the sun rises to pierce the earths crest - then sweeps that from his mind, as well. As Nimshi struggles to meditate, he can actually feel the hemorrhages start up again. Feeling himself bleed, he pauses to hold his breath tighter and deeper in his lungs. Knowing he must take back control of his body from the external elements that assault him, with sheer will, he is able to constrict his blood vessels. "Just a little further." He counts each minute in his mind. In a faint whisper he counts, “One thousand-one… one thousand- two, one thousand-three,” as he concentrates and repeatedly holds his breath.
     The weakness in his legs astounds him, but he drags his thin frame along over rocks, stones, and God only knows what else. He raises his swollen, heavy, head just enough to see his location - always in search of his marker. It’s a big, gray stone, with white paint specks on it that glow in the dark. He put them there two years ago. He is close now, because, he surmises, he sees a dim reflection of white dots, he thinks, shadowed by the red Perigee Moon, in the distance. Maybe it’s ten… maybe fifteen knee caps away. As he looks, keenly ahead, he realizes the lavender and sandalwood wreath is missing from the door. Nimshi assumes it was the wind gusts that dislodged it and pummeled it away. But he can’t be sure, because now the hemorrhages in his eyes cloud all vision. He concentrates and tries to muster up his own brand of telepathy and kinesis in the darkness.
     “One-thousand four…one-thousand five.” The ground feels familiar under his hands now, and the terrain changes from dirt, sticks, and rocks to a stiff cold grass in hibernation, that cuts into his palms and fragile knee caps. There are cuts and bruises on every part of his body, but none are as bad as the hole in the occipital region, on the backside of his head. It, literally, feels like daggers when the wind thrusts it’s cold fingers in, and it oozes a bloody-yellow substance with blue neon specs of mucous that looks like, anti freeze. Nimshi feels the wind penetrate the wounds hole every time it picks up. He stiffens at the ferocity of it‘s icicle touch.
     Now he sees the wall of rock, but barely, and the secret sepulcher covered with freeze dried moss. He thinks he can make it, and struggles on, collapsing, face down, at the door of the tomb. Satisfied and reconciled that he will die here, Nimshi touches the head-stoned door and moans from exhaustion and generalized pain. “Sonny, I made it buddy.” The name barely parts his lips, but comforts him, somehow, as mist filled breaths of meekly, exhaled body heat pass from his nostrils and mix with cold, blistering winds. “Sonny… help… me, man. This is… much…too long.” A gurgling sound echoes in his throat, his eyelids feel heavy, and a death rattle from deep down in his lungs summons. The elements take over and engulf him...

To be continued...

Book Reviewer Disclaimer: receives books free or in a downloaded PDF format-for the express purpose of providing a book review at no charge. The opinions expressed in book reviews are my own. I am disclosing this in accordance with the (FTC) Federal Trade Commission, 16 CFR, part 255. WriteStuff - WriteNow Antoinette "Toni" McKain. All Rights Reserved. Copyright 2010-2013. TATTLE TELLS is an Imprint of KS Book Publishing, 2012.  GACM Inc.