Precy Larkins--YA Author: WIP

Showing posts with label WIP. Show all posts

W is for Worldbuilding

Unlike movies, we don't have CGI-created visuals to accompany us when we're reading a book. We have to rely on our good, old noggins to supply us with images. Especially when we're reading Sci-fi/Fantasy, or anything that falls under the Speculative Fiction genre.

The thing with worldbuilding is that it's all too easy to fall into the old info-dumping technique. You're the Creator of your world, and of course you want to acquaint the reader with its grandeur so at the very first instance, you bombard us with several long paragraphs detailing every hill, castle, and hybrid creatures existing in your creation.

Um, not good. You'll run the risk of putting your readers in snooze town.

Or you can go the other way: You skimp on the worldbuilding descriptions to allow for a fast pace read.

Erm, not good either. If we find ourselves scratching our heads, then it means you've lost us. How the heck are we supposed to know what a kipa is, and why does your character keep saying "sika!"? (Those are actual words found in my MG Fantasy WIP. :D )

There has to be balance. The aspects of your world should be interwoven within the scenes and around your characters' actions. A sentence here or there explaining certain things will not bore your reader (as opposed to huge blocks of descriptive text).

Here's an excerpt from my MG Fantasy WIP:

Ascan opened his eyes too fast and stars blinked in and out of his periphery. Seagull wings flapped overhead in frenzied beats as a couple of fishermen hauled in their half-empty net. Men groaned even as they began to haggle for prices.

“Pan! Pan de sal!” This came from a pudgy man carrying a woven basket on his shoulder. Ascan had only been in Dagatur for a week but he’d already learned a few necessary words in the strange, lilting language of the fishing folk. Pan was bread. Not gutted fish, not slimy octopus legs, not bitter sea kelp.

Real doughy bread. Ascan’s mouth watered.

A horn tooted, signaling the arrival of another ferry boat. A boy, half Ascan’s size, scampered by him. The beggar kids who’d been busy harassing the fishermen for a centi all morning long scattered and disappeared, sweeping the docks clean of their filthy rags. Ascan squinted at the incoming boat, noting the insignia fluttering in the wind. A W encased in chains.

The Watchers.

Ascan crept toward a group of buyers vying for a bucket of pint-sized squid. He would be safe enough in a crowd, if no one notices him. And lately, no one had noticed him—his ghostly hollow self flitting around the docks on wobbly legs. It had been three days since he last ate a stolen meal.

In Dagatur, the slave trade flourished where the fish did not. Stowaways washed over the harbor with every tide, and stowaways usually meant orphans. A long time ago, it was said that the Watchers cared for the orphans during the great War, housing them in sanctuaries, and teaching them so they could be brought up in useful trades until they come of age. But the War had long ended, and now, the only trade they were brought up for was one that involved scrubbing rich fat men’s backsides, serving them their meals, and blubbering yeses like flustered hens.

Excerpt from my WIP "Hidden"

This passage is a little creepy. My MC has just survived a near drowning accident when she takes a plunge into the river. As I've mentioned before, she is a teenager diagnosed with Schizoaffective disorder. It's similar to Schizophrenia, though they are not quite of the same vein. She's been plagued with hallucinations...or so she's been told.

This is from Chapter 6.

******

That night, I dream of the blue water lady.

I dream of her holding me in her lap, her arms surprisingly warm as she presses my head against her thin chest. Her eyes are blue like mine. We don’t say a word to each other.

Soon I feel her damp clothes soaking me. Moisture seeps into the pores of my skin. She clings to me, her grip tighter, afraid to let go. Her hair, once black, turns green with mold. Her eyes sink into their sockets. I push away from her but my arms are lifeless. They dangle from my shoulders like marionette limbs lacking strings.

The blue water lady opens her mouth. An expression of anguish. Of despair. She can’t speak. Her face begins to sag, a melting candle running down to form a shapeless glob. I scream and water gushes into my mouth. Bits and pieces of blue skin flaking away from her diminishing frame. No one can hear me. No one can save me.

She crumbles until there is nothing left of her. I am alone.

I wake up drenched in cold sweat. My sheets and pillows are damp, almost soaked through. Water trails from my bed, across the floorboards, and all the way to the window. There are wet footprints on the wooden floor.

I know now why she came for me. I sit on the edge of my bed and silently weep.

******

Excerpt from my WIP "Hidden"

My main character is a 16-year-old girl diagnosed with schizoaffective disorder and psychotic depression after her father's death.

Here's an excerpt from Chapter 3:

When did it start? When did I break? The memory doesn’t come to me.

Sometimes there are gaps where I don’t remember things. Like, how did my father die? I only know he died in my arms. Was it my fault? Did I hurt him? No, I wouldn’t ever do anything to harm him. He was my best friend. He was my everything.

My shrink, Dr. Peterson, once told me I have repressed memories. When trauma hits, our brains try to protect us by forgetting.

I don’t want to forget my Dad. I want to gather all the pieces, all the chunks of time and moments we spent together, and cradle them in my arms. His recipe for the perfect pot roast, the smell of popcorn and leather when we stayed up late watching the Star Trek marathon on the SyFy channel, and the way he shimmied to Saturday Night Fever while buttering his toast one Sunday morning when he thought no one was looking. I remember him listening patiently to my catastrophic rendition of Chopin’s Minute Waltz on the piano. I couldn’t follow the metronome. Dad took it down, threw it in the garbage, and said to me, “The thing’s crap. You don’t need it.” We went and got ice cream afterwards.

My pillow is wet now and the ticking in my head returns. The rhythm is off. It’s the sound of a broken metronome.

The sound of a broken heart.

********