Chapter One

      Thunder cracked against the cloudy Colorado sky, I knelt in the grass as my husky nudged my leg with a high pitched whine. “It’s ok Baxter, it’s just a thunderstorm coming.” I told him while scratching his ears the way he liked it. I breathed in the Colorado air, the sweet familiar scent of fresh cut grass and pine needles filling my nose. I stood up and threw Baxter’s ball across the yard. I ruffled my short auburn hair and smiled as Baxter trotted over to me with the ball in his mouth. “Who’s such a good boy,” I said as he dropped the ball and barked. “That’s right! You are!” I picked up the ball, ready to throw it again when a howl filled the air. Dropping the ball in surprise, Baxter nudged my leg, whining. “It’s ok boy,” I said kneeling to hug him. “Wolves don’t come past the national park boundaries. It’s nothing…. just the wind in the trees. Yeah, that’s all it is.” In Baxter’s light blue eyes I saw fear. I kissed his nose with a smile to calm him down. My smile must have worked because the next thing I knew Baxter barked at me and licked my face. “Eew! Baxter! That’s gross! You have dog breath!” I yelled as I wiped my face with my jacket sleeve still feeling the brisk winter breeze cut through me.

“Honey! It’s time to come inside, it’s going to rain soon!” My mom yelled from the porch, as I went to pick up the ball. I turned my head and called back. 

“Ok ma! Be right there!” I grabbed the ball and stood up, throwing it into the air. Baxter barked at me and started to wag his tail with anticipation, ready to play. While laughing I threw the ball towards the porch, he ran after it with his tongue out. He pushed the ball with his paw and started to jump on it, wanting to play more. “Baxter,” I called out to him as I walked closer. “It’s time to go inside. No more playing for tonight, mom wants us to go inside before the rain starts.” I walked up the porch steps and opened the door. Baxter barked and ran inside, I followed and as soon as I entered confetti was thrown around me. “What in the?” I said in surprise.

“Happy Birthday Wisteria!” I looked around and saw fifteen people in my living room and kitchen. My father walked up to me and hugged me, kissing my forehead. 

“Happy birthday baby girl! You’re now seventeen, you won’t be my little girl anymore when you turn eighteen.” He said with a fake sniffle, I hugged him back and laughed, his mullet cut brown hair tickling my nose. 

“I’ll always be your little girl daddy, no matter how old I get. I promise.” I said smiling. He nodded and pulled back, smoothing my hair. I looked at him and saw unshed tears in his brown eyes. That’s when I saw my mom walk up from behind him.  

“I believe our daughter Frank.” She said, putting a hand on my dad’s shoulder. Her blonde hair pulled into a high ponytail, her hazel eyes glistening. “To think it’s been eleven years since we adopted you. Time flies by way to fast and I don’t like it.” She pulled me into a hug and kissed my hair. I hugged her tight, feeling her tighten her arms around me. 

“I know mama. I wish it wasn’t that way, but we all grow older.” I told her, shutting my eyes. Living in the moment with her, not knowing it could be the last time.

“Happy birthday Wisty.” I heard behind me, I pulled away from my mom and turned around. Standing in front of me was my tall, dark and handsome boyfriend Russell Collins. I smiled up at him ready to give him a hug and thank him for coming when I felt someone wrap their arms around my arm. I looked down and saw my best friend Rose Courville hanging on to me, stretching to kiss my cheek.  

“Happy birthday Wist!” She yelled, still near my ear.

“That was my ear! But thanks Rose, it really means a lot for you to be here.” I said smiling down at her. That’s when I heard a cough, I looked up and and noticed Russell staring at me. I laughed, “Jealous are we?” He rolled his eyes at me and stepped closer. 

“Nah, i’m just waiting for you to kiss and hug me, duh!” I giggled and wrapped my arms around his shoulders, I felt his arms going around me. I pressed my lips to his, not wanting that moment to end but I pulled away. 

“Thank you for coming too babe.” The night went on that way, talking to my mom’s coworkers from the local health clinic and my dad’s poker game friend’s plus their wives. My dad introduced me to his editor from his publishing company that decided to call me scarlet. Soon it was time to open presents from everyone, I was excited to see what everyone got me. Rose handed me her present first, it was wrapped in black wrapping paper covered in little white skulls. Inside was the nightmare before Christmas movie, a BlackPink band t-shirt and their latest album. Next came Russell, he handed me a midnight blue bag with black paper poking out. I took out the paper and was surprised to see a Renji Abarai figurine from the anime Bleach inside, noticing something else black at the bottom of the bag. I pulled it out and blushed, it was a black string bikini for the summer and I smacked him before quickly putting it back in the bag. The next presents came from my parents, they handed me a rose colored box and a shoe box from yesstyle. I opened the shoe box and found black buckle boots that BlackPink’s Rose wore in one of her photoshoots. After geeking out over the shoes, I then opened the rose colored box and found a dreamcatcher inside. I pulled it out and discovered it had turquoise stones cut to look like howling wolves. “I love it, thank you!” I told my mom and dad. 

“The dreamcatcher isn’t from me, it’s from my friend Benjamin Blackwell.” My mom said, directing my attention to a dark skinned guy with a white feather in his hair. He was leaning against the front window, watching me with dark brown eyes. “He’s the IT guy for the clinic, he’s the one who hand made it for you.” I turned to my mom and out of the corner of my eye, I saw Benjamin’s eyes flash to my crescent moon birthmark under my left ear. I put my hand over it and sighed. His eyes never once moved away from my birthmark even though it was covered by my hand. It started to throb which made my ear tingle. “He’s Native American which is why it’s a dream catcher. Go and say thank you.” I got up from the love seat and walked over to him. 

“Um, Mr. Blackwell. Thank you for the dreamcatcher.” I told him, realizing that he couldn’t be more then twenty-five. He smiled at me, his eyes locking with mine. 

“You’re most welcome. Wolves are fierce protectors and they always protect the pack.” He said as his hand moved up to touch my face but it dropped as soon as Russell came up to us. I turned to look at him and smiled.

“You ok babe?” He asked, holding a plate with a slice of chocolate cake. 

“Everything is fine. I just wanted to tell Mr. Blackwell here thank you for the dreamcatcher is all.” I said, noticing that Russel never took his eyes off of Mr. Blackwell. 

~~~~~~~~~

As soon as the party was over and everyone said their goodbyes. I went upstairs to take a shower, my parents singing to the radio while cleaning up. I went into the bathroom and shut the door, taking off my jacket and tank top. I peeled myself out of my black skinny jeans, I stood in front of my bathroom mirror in my black sports bra and black boy shorts undies. I noticed that I had gained a little weight and I had dark circles under my eyes. I sighed and finished undressing,  turning on the cold water because I was suddenly feeling hot. I watched the water roll off my skin as I thought about what happened with Benjamin Blackwell. I closed my eyes, letting the water wash over me and take away the muscle pain. After what only felt like thirty minutes, I dragged myself out of the shower. I wrapped a towel around me and went into the box that I put my sleep clothes in. I changed into black running shorts and a grey sweatshirt that said “I’m to cute for you” in midnight blue. I slipped on knee high black socks and opened the bathroom door, closing it behind me as I left. I walked down the stairs and went to the kitchen, I could hear my parents softly talking in my dad’s study. I sighed as I went over to the sink and let the water run. I put my hand under the water to make sure it was cold enough, watching it slip between my fingers. I opened the drawer that held the kitchen rags and put it under the faucet, so it’d get wet. I turned off the water and rung it out, putting it on the back of my neck, I bent over the sink and sighed. 

“Wisty?” My mom called from my dad’s study, a hint of confusion in her voice. 

“In the Kitchen mama!” I called to her, hearing the wood floor creak as she made her way to the kitchen. I dapped my face with the rag just as she came within eyesight. 

“Sweetie do you want to watch a movie with me and your father?” She asked, but a tone of worry came into her voice as soon as she saw the rag, “Are you alright?” 

“I was just starting to feel hot, but i’m better now.” I said to her not wanting to make her worry on my birthday. 

“Let me feel your forehead.” She told me being the nurse she is, all the while walking up to me. 

“Ma, you really don’t need to. I’m….” I started to say with a sigh before she cut me off. 

“Yes I do! Now let me see if you have a fever.” She put the back of her hand on my forehead, it was surprisingly cold. “You’re burning up! You’re definitely not ok.” 

“Mom, if that’s a lame way to say i’m gorgeous I swear.” I laughed, rubbing my birthmark.

“It’s not. I really mean it sweetie. You have a fever, i’ll go get you some Tylenol. Wait here.” She said, going to the downstairs bathroom. A few minutes later my mom came came back to the kitchen, Tylenol in hand. She put the pills on the counter, went over to one of the upper cabinets and grabbed a glass. She went over to the faucet, filled the cup with water and gave it to me, pointing to the Tylenol. “Take the pills.” I grabbed both of them, placing them on my tongue and downing the glass of water. I put the cup in the sink and looked at my mom. 

“So what movie are we going to watch?” I asked her, feeling a little bit better. 

“OH NO YOU DON’T! You are going to bed Wisteria May.” My mom told me in her ‘don’t start with me’ tone. I opened my mouth to say something but thought better of it. “Go upstairs,  I’ll be up to say goodnight in a few.” I went to the stairs and started to walk up them Baxter following. We got Baxter when I was twelve, sense that day he always follows me around and listens to me. 

“What a great birthday.” I told myself opening the door to my room, letting Baxter in. I smiled as the smell of the woods hit my nose, I breathed in and instantly relaxed. I love the smell of the woods, my mom got me a wax melter for my sixteenth birthday and it came with the little wax cubes that smelled like a rainy spring day. I walked over to my bed and picked up a little stuffed wolf from my pillow. My parents had gotten it for me from our very first trip to statue of liberty. I sighed, hugging the wolf to my chest and looked around my room with a smile. My walls painted a midnight blue except for one wall, it was painted by one of my dad’s friends. He made it look like the opening to the woods behind our house and I loved it. My walls were decorated with paintings I had done in my art class at my high school. Baxter barked at me and jumped onto my bed, his eyes never leaving me. I put my stuffed wolf back on my bed and patted his head. “What’s wrong bud? I’m just a little sick,” I sat down and he put his head on my lap. “I’ll feel better in a few days.” I lifted my head and looked at the pictures that I had pinned to my picture board. I smiled as my eyes drifted from picture to picture. Two of the photos are of my friends and I at dragoncon and matsuricon. Another photo was of my parents and I eating ice cream in New Orleans, Louisiana. The photo after that was of my parents holding a younger me at the farmers market in Louisiana. My favorite photo was of Russell and I kissing on new years at the Eiffel Tower in Paris. Then my eyes stopped at the faded polaroid, I got up and went over to the board. While taking it down, I smiled sadly at it, a lump rising in my throat. 

“They told me and Frank that you had that picture pinned to your blanket when the orphanage workers found you. You were only a baby at the time.” I looked over at the door, the picture still in my hands. Just hearing that the tears started to fall. “Oh baby.” She said, coming over to me and putting her arm around my shoulder. Leading me over to the window seat. 

“Do you think they wanted me? Why would they give me up? Was I not what they wanted?” I asked, swallowing around the lump in my throat. 

“Oh honey,” My mom said, lifting my face to look at her. “They look so happy in the picture. Your mom is holding her stomach with a big smile on her face. I bet they did want you sweetie but they must have had a good reason in giving you up. They are the only ones who know the reason behind what they did. You have me and your father, we were meant to be your parents. We both love you so much Wisty,” She kissed my forehead. “Your mother, is right here.” She pointed to the auburn haired woman with blue eyes and a swollen stomach. “The man here is your father.” She pointed to the black haired man with hazel eyes, he had his arm around my mother with a huge smile on his face that reached his eyes. A scar could be seen underneath the neck of his jacket. “But you need to sleep now sweetie.” 

“Ok.” I said, still sad about the picture. 

“How about this,” I looked up at her. “When your eighteen we will hire a private investigator to find your parents. How does that sound?” I smiled, feeling a little bit better. 

“I’d like that, thank you mama.” I said, putting the picture in the drawer of my nightstand. My mom stood up and went to my bedroom window, opening it just a little to let a slight breeze through. She turned off my wax burner and smiled at me as I got underneath my covers. Baxter put his head on my arm and huffed, my mom came over to me and kissed my forehead. 

“I’ll see you in the morning baby girl. Goodnight.” I yawned as she went to my door, shutting off my light and closing my door. I listened to the rain falling on our roof and felt my eyes start to get heavy. I fell asleep to the sound of the rain and the howl of the wind. 

~~~~~~~~~

I felt the winter wind rush through my fur as my paws thudded the muddy ground. I felt alive and free under the full moon. The moonlight breaking through the thick canopy of the leaves over head. I ran through the moonlight with joy, I stopped and sniffed the air. Something was off, an unfamiliar scent was filling the air. I looked into the distance as clouds covered the moon, covering everything in a thick dark blanket. To my surprise a pair of crystal blue eyes were staring back at me, I couldn’t see the rest of the body. However I knew something was off. 

Author's Note

I edited it as best I could. I use a noun before a verb to show who is doing that action. Please note that the i's are used before a verb.

Reviews

[JayG]

It's obvious that you worked hard on this, and your writing, and descriptive skills are good. But there are a few problms, and I thought you would want to know. So...

• Thunder cracked against the cloudy sky, I knelt down as my husky nudged my leg with a high pitch whine. “It’s ok Baxter, it’s just a thunderstorm coming.” I told him while scratching his ears. I took a deep breath of Colorado air, the familiar sweet scent of fresh cut grass and pine needles filling my nose. I stood up and threw Baxter’s ball across the yard.

First paragraph, and there are thirteen sentences beginning with “I.” So you’re providing a chronicle of events from the viewpoint of an external speaker—a report—of the form, “This happened…then that happened…and after that…”

Informative? Sure. Entertaining? As entertaining as any other report. Problem is, readers aren’t seeking to know what happened. They want to be made to care, and to feel as if they’re living the scene, as the protagonist, in real-time.

You’re making the assumption that by talking TO the reader while pretending to be the protagonist who once lived the events, that it somehow converts a lecture to a warm presentation of events. But telling is telling, and there is not the slightest difference in meaning between the way you present the opening, above, and:
- - - - - -
“Thunder cracked against the cloudy sky. Wisteria knelt down as her husky nudged her leg with a high pitch whine. “It’s ok Baxter, it’s just a thunderstorm coming,” she told him while scratching his ears. She took a deep breath of Colorado air, the familiar sweet scent of fresh cut grass and pine needles filling her nose. She stood up and threw Baxter’s ball across the yard. She ruffled her short auburn hair and smiled as Baxter trotted over to her with the ball in his mouth. “Who’s such a good boy,” she said as he dropped the ball and barked at her. “That’s right! You are!” She picked up the ball, ready to throw it again when a howl filled the air. She dropped the ball in surprise, Baxter nudged her leg, whining.
- - - - -
In both cases a dispassionate outsider is listing events in a voice the reader can’t hear.

You’re thinking cinematicly, and describing what you visualize happening in the scene in your mind. But that can’t work. A reader won’t see what you visualize, based on a few words. Remember, “A picture is worth a thousand words.”? That’s wjhat it would take to make the reader “see” what you do in your mind. But who wants to read multiple pages of description of what the protagonist isn’t paying attention to?

As we read the opening, we don’t know where we are, other than Colorado. We don’t know the year or if we’re near a house in a neighborhood, a ranch or farm, or…. We don’t know how old she is, why she’s there, or anything about what’s going on. And learning it later can’t retroactively remove the confusion the reader felt as it was read—or provide a second first-impresion. So as they read the opening, why should a reader care that someone they know nothing about, in an unknown place, is playing with a dog? The answer to that matters a great deal, because unless they care, they won’t turn to page two, or from two to three, or…

Readers aren’t with you to learn the history of a fictional character. When was the last time you, or anyone you know opened a history book to pass the time? History is boring. Why? Because it’s immutable. There’s no uncertainty because it’s a record of what happened, presented as a report.

Fiction, though, is intended to entertain, an emotional, not a factual goal. And with a different objective, we need different methodology—one net even mentioned during our school years.

In that opening paragraph, as it is today, there’s no emotional content, only description of what happens. When your protagonist is surprised with the party, what’s her reaction on seeing everyone there? No way to tell. She might be pleased, or saying, “Oh no.” And that matters. How she perceives is critical, because it’s the mother of her response. So unless the reader is privy to that, her responses lack context for-that-reader. She just does things, without our knowing her motivation.

Moreover, will your reader take the same meaning from a given sentence that you do, and intend them to take? They can’t know your intent, their background, age group, and perhaps even gender may differ. And in the end, they have only what the words suggest to them, based on their background, not yours. So if thirty people read it, they take away thirty perceived meanings and understandings. And that’s not what you want.

But suppose instead of talking to the reader ABOUT her, you make the reader know what has her attention in the moment she calls “now.” Suppose you make them know the situation through the filters of HER perception, needs, desires, and resources. If she misunderstands let the reader misunderstand the same point, and be just as surprised as she is when she learns the truth. Won’t that calibrate the reader’s perception of her “now” to hers? And won’t they decide and react AS her (or at least understand why she feels she’s doing what’s necessary)? Done well, if she trips and is hurt the reader will say, “Ouch.”

I mention this because if we do that, the events about to take place after she acts on her perceptions are unknown, so uncertainty has just entered the story. The reader knows what she’s going to do or say, and why. Won’t that make them, like her, want to know what will happen? In other words, haven’t we given the reader a reason to turn to the next page to find out?

My point is simple: We don’t learn to write in school, not as a fiction writer views that act. Remember all the reports and essays you were assigned? They taught you to write the reports and essays our future employer needs you to write. And were the few stories you were assigned graded by someone who’d sold even a word of their own fiction? If not, how can they teach you about writing for publication, or meaningfully grade your work?

See the problem? Fiction-writing is a profession, and professions are studied AFTER we master the three R’s. So we leave our school days exactly as well prepared to write fiction as to pilot a commercial airliner, which means that, universally, when we turn to recording our stories, we use what we know, and write author-centric and fact-based prose that collects rejection slips. But that’s fixable, and the answer as to how is simple: Add the tools of the fiction writer to those we now own. Learn emotion-based and character-centric writing technique. Learn how a scene on the page differs from one on the stage or screen, and all the other specialized bits of knowledge unique to our profession. In other words, become a fiction writer.

Of course all of the above is a bit of a, “WHAT?” when you were hoping fo, “Great story idea, and lovely writing.” I know, because I’ve been there, and it HURTS. You work hard. You polish, and polish. You read it back and the voice you hear in your head is filled with emotion. But of course, you cheat. You can hear and see your PERFORMANCE, so the gestures, the expressions, the body-language you would use is all there, along with all the tricks of the human voice. But what does the reader get? The voice of a text to speech translator, that carries only the emotion suggested by punctuation. Have your computer read this aloud and you’ll hear what the reader gets.

It’s important to remember that while you can tell the reader how your protagonist, or another character, speaks a given line, you can’t tell them how the narrator does, so that voice is inherently dispassionate. That’s why the narrator is at their best in supporting the protagonist instead of acting as chronicler of events.

So what do you do? For starters, I’d suggest reading this article on viewpoint, to see how changing the character’s situation changes their perception of a given scene, and makes the story theirs rather than the storyteller’s:
https://jaygreenstein.wordpress.com/2011/09/22/the-grumpy-writing-coach-8/

You might also dig around in the other articles, for an idea of what areas you need to address. But in the end, devouring a few books on writing fiction is a necessity. But if you’re meant to be a writer you’ll enjoy the learning. Mastering the techniques is another matter, because after decades of writing in nonfiction style, it will “feel wrong,” and stopping your existing writing skills from “correcting,” the work will be really difficult. But it does come, and makes the writing more fun because the protagonist becomes your writing partner. When you try to make them do something the plot needs, but which they don’t approve, they will snap, “Hell no…I won’t do that!” That will keep you honest, and prevent all characters from speaking with your voice, and from being smart when the plot needs smart and dumb when that seems called for.

My personal recommendation as a first book is not an easy one: Dwight Swain’s, Techniques of the Selling Writer. It’s an older book, and not as organized as I’d like, but it is the best I’ve found, and well worth the effort to read and understand. He won’t make a pro of you. That’s your task. But he will give you the tools and the knowledge of what they do and why they’re needed. Used well, they will give your words wings.

I truly wish there was an easier way to break such news, but I’ve not found one. Just remember that nothing I’ve said has to do with good or bad writing, or talent, only craft—the learned part of our profession. So whatever you do, hang in there, and keep on writing

Jay Greenstein
https://jaygreenstein.wordpress.com/category/the-craft-of-writing/

[WayaPrincess23]

Thank you so much! This is exactly what i was looking for! Someone to tell me what it was missing and how to make it better! I greatly appreciate your review and refine as much of it as i can. I had a previous account with stories i'd written but couldn't log in. If you like to see my other works Please look up bebi Deru!