Are you a ‘plotter’ or a ‘pantser’?

Yes, you heard me right! (Or rather, read.)

If you fancy yourself as a writer, then you have to choose a camp (though there may be one or two of you who sit on the fence on this one). You are either a plotter, or, you are either a pantser.
First of all, let me explain the two terms:

Plotter = someone who plots out their entire story before they sit down and write.

Pantser = someone who rights off the seat of their pants, no planning, no plotting, you just sit down and you write, and somehow, the story takes shape.

So which one are you?

Me? I’m a pantser. I don’t plot, and I don’t plan. Not entirely. I will however spend about 5-10 minutes thinking about the core of the story, where I’d like it to go, and then I sit, and I write. That’s how it’s always been for me. I get an idea, and I’ll stew on it, or rather, think about it maybe a couple of days, no details, just the big pictures. Then I start writing if it is something I want to write.

I’ve written two novels thus far, countless poetry, some short stories, few short scripts and a few feature scripts. All of which have been a spontaneous act. Inspiration comes, hits me in the face, and I’m like, ‘Oh, that will make a good story’ and that’s that. I never knew how to explain my writing habits to others, and I’d be feeling so guilty when people ask me how long I spent working the story out. I’d read plenty of articles on other writers and their writing habits and rituals, and most of the time they would advice me to sit down and ‘plot’. Something I’m not very good at. I know this because I sat down one time prior to writing my second novel, and I tried to work out the plot. I have to say, I absolutely hated it. Felt like I had been shackled to the writing table and been threatened. It wasn’t freeing at all, nor spontaneous, so I gave it up and went back to my ‘organic’ writing. It felt natural, it felt comfortable, and most of all, it left me free to write as I felt most effective.

I was a pantser and I hadn’t known it. It was by accident that a colleague informed me about a writer’s tour visiting the local country library and thought I should attend it. I did. And one of the ‘Wordy Women’ writers actually brought up the word ‘pantser’ and explained what she meant by it, and in that moment I had found a word to describe the kind of writer I was, and that it was completely normal. I wasn’t alone!

So I dare to ask you, what kind of a writer are you? But let me tell you one thing, whatever your style, your approach is to writing, don’t ever let anyone tell you that you are doing it wrong. What is right for me may not be right to you, and what is right for you will not promise to work for me with same gusto as it did for you. Find your own individual style, your own ritual, and stick to it.

Here’s one novel I wrote as a pantser: “In Strange Company” and guess what, readers have loved it and wouldn’t be able to tell that I did not plot this one out. Why not check out a sample from kindle and decide for yourself?

In Strange Company

In Strange Company

Buy from Amazon

And keep writing!

Dusty poetry and even rustier poet.

Search and ye shall find! At least that’s been the case. Found another poem I don’t believe I’ve posted on the blog gathering dust in the ‘Note’ app on my phone. I must have written this early last year when I was pretty much spouting on average 3 poetry a day on here. Don’t know how this one slipped through the cracks. So here it is, for those who are romantically inclined but hate to admit it. From me, to you. Share it around. 

I also wouldn’t mind you share around a link to my short film anyone can watch for free on YouTube. The short horror, ‘The Circle’. http://youtu.be/OidYnl2p-_A

So here is that poem I was supposed to let you in on. This is…

Take My Hand, Lets Leap

I will offer you my hand

as we walk down this road in life

through storming weather and scorching sunshine

through our search and beaconed light

whether you will love me, whether not

I dare not leave and travel alone

I care not for lonely ponders

I offer you my hand

and walk beside you in delighted peace

seeing a smile upon your weary face

fear not, don’t despair 

You have my hand, take it 

and lets take a leap

with each other for company

down a road new and novel

down a path 

together

for we are walking

each other

to that place

a place unknown

a place

simple.

Take my hand – and we walk together, love,

through the fog that lifts slowly

and we will one day upon the gates heavenly.

House of Zombies

By and by

an odd day it’s been

thus it ends

unknown to many

the dusk was dawn

the dawn that was who knows when

shall rise again red and awry 

like the flash of many

dreamers of dreams gone

all but empty shells and tributes remain

like a mark left for memory

in a world that’s long been left empty.

Odd day. Indeed.

The house of zombies. 



(And there it is, my own take on all the zombie games and their effect on those who play them.) :p

The Circle

Eva Acharya:

A wonderful friend of mine has been helping me get the word out there. :)

Originally posted on Andy Kaufman's Kavalkade Krew Featuring The Wandering Poet:

Fellow WordPress blogger and writer/director Eva Acharya has released her Tropfest short movie, The Circle.

It’s an entertaining horror short, and worth the view, definitely.

Music is by Steve Boylan.

Related Content:

http://papermashed.com/2015/03/21/watch-the-shortfilm-i-made-last-year/

View original

Watch the shortfilm I made last year.

It’s called ‘The Circle’ and is a suspense/horror based on an actors workshop group. Heaps of people have seen it was uploaded last night. So have a look! 

And don’t forget to like and share!

http://youtu.be/OidYnl2p-_A

Hi all,

Remember last year I was all hyper about a short film I had written and made? You do? Well, guess what? You can watch it now, absolutely free. Please watch it, like it, share it. Help me cause a tiny ripple in the virtual world with ‘The Circle’.

The Circle

You like it? :D 

Oh and it’s a Suspense/horror. Just so you know ;).

Link

Inspiration is a mighty push!

If you clicked on this post, it’s because you are one of two people; those that are readily inspired, and those that are barely inspired but go out there with your searchlights and your megaphone in search of it because you believe it’s just a matter of searching. Well guess what? Neither technique are full proof. They won’t guarantee you will have that one idea which will hit you, and you’ll reach out for the nearest writing platform.


I’ve gone through some odd events in my life in the last few months: from spontaneous trips overseas to make a movie, being an aunt to a new niece and a uni course that refuses to let me complete it. Yes you heard right, a UNi degree that’s stalking me. I may as well say it. In between this, I have small commitments to writing and suddenly the seemingly quiet life is suddenly too busy and not busy enough. 


Two days ago, I was staring at the manuscript I’m supposed to be finalizing before I start readying it up for kindle publishing. I just stared. Unable to move my fingers or focus my eyes. 


Then I got distracted. Yup, procrastination does that to you. I got distracted by Facebook, goggle, my blog, etc. and oddly enough, I kept on coming across ‘script competition’, or film competition, or script writing challenge etc. Script this and script that. And suddenly, I read the theme for one of the comps, and there it was, a quirky tale of young love. Then the next minute I was opening up my Final Draft and typing up the title ‘For the Love of Happy Endings’. You can only guess what that was inspired by.

Since yesterday, I have written a total of two very different scripts, prompted by competitions. I’m not sure I’ll be entering them, as films are collaborative work and I’ll need to get other people on board, but as stories alone, that is the most I’ve written in the past 5months. 


It suddenly feels like the stagnant period is over and it’s time for me to stretch out those fingers and poise them over the keyboard as elegantly as I can and get a move on with other projects that have stagnated along with me. So I’m fresh, I’m reeling, and most of all, I’m bloody excited to get back to a gem I’ve feared to touch. 


Inspiration is a cruel mistress. But when it comes, it unleashes the drive to keep going and going. So if you find yourself at a loss as to why you are not putting out products as you used too, then remember, it’s not too late to be inspired. Do something different, go someplace unknown, or face your fears. Whatever to get you unstuck.


So much luck in your writing battle, and happy reading.

Bygone ways

Can it be you can breathe fire

in place of air?

Or touch the hot ice where ever it lay?

Feel the still wind against your skin,

or swim amongst the frozen water

like it all made sense?

Does the moon’s rays reach you like a fireplace 

and the sun douse out the heat of the night? 

Do mockingbirds sing of disarray

or can that all be repaired to the corners of mental grey?

Do the words sound melodious to the dead,

the colours brighter in blindness,

or the well toned muscles feel frayed?

So silly. 

So silly it is, the vanity of all that exists. 

For a moment forget, forget that you live not for you,

but for me,

the bygone ways. 

The Keeper (Part 12)

Originally posted on Papermashed:

What was she seeing? It couldn’t be. She stared into a room not dissimilar to her own, yet there was a sense of a dark foreboding in it. It was as if the room, every surface was covered in blackest black. Even the bed upon which lay a beast withering in pain were doused in black. The thing’s eyes bulging, its fur as if drenched in blood, glistening. It had great big bull-like horns jutted out, reaching high in the air. The heavy iron chain on its feet tied it to what looked like metal posts of the bed that was welded to the floor. It was something out of a nightmare and Mona didn’t know if she had the courage to approach the thing let alone help.

She drew in a sharp breath, unable to focus on the beast. Her eyes drew heavy, her hand, which had tried to…

View original 656 more words

The Keeper (Part 12)

What was she seeing? It couldn’t be. She stared into a room not dissimilar to her own, yet there was a sense of a dark foreboding in it. It was as if the room, every surface was covered in blackest black. Even the bed upon which lay a beast withering in pain were doused in black. The thing’s eyes bulging, its fur as if drenched in blood, glistening. It had great big bull-like horns jutted out, reaching high in the air. The heavy iron chain on its feet tied  it to what looked like metal posts of the bed that was welded to the floor. It was something out of a nightmare and Mona didn’t know if she had the courage to approach the thing let alone help. 

She drew in a sharp breath, unable to focus on the beast. Her eyes drew heavy, her hand, which had tried to stamp the blood flow from her punctured side went lax. A thought drew out finally, that there she thought she’d finally die, watching the beast, unaware of her, crying in despair.  Then, she knew not how, she let out a little moan, and saw the thing turn to her with great surprise. 

Could it be her eyes fooled her? For the briefest moment she thought it was Lucifer, not the way she knew him of course. 

As the beast growled, jumping swiftly off the bed towards her, Mona felt the darkness take her. She was going to be supper to the thing and there was nothing she could do about it. 



Mona couldn’t believe she was still alive. In the pitch darkness she couldn’t really see where she was, but each breath she took felt like a thousand needles piercing her side as deep as they could. She tried to sit up, letting out a pained yelp, but felt a force on her shoulders, pinning her down. 

‘Don’t move!’ The deep throaty voice commanded and Mona felt all her muscles siege movement. 

‘Why?’ She asked breathless. At least she thought she had. 

‘You did a lot of damage to yourself.’

What? Here she had thought she was meal for the unknown animal. 

‘I can’t feel my legs, or arms, or anything,’ she thought panicky. 

‘The thorn tips were poisoned,’ came the reply. The voice sounded more and more like Lucifer’s, and in that moment she actually missed him. He had been nothing but kind to her. 

‘I’m dying…’

‘Yes, you are.’ She felt strong arms lift her from the floor and had the strange sensation of floating, which she probably was. She felt the warmth of his body against hers, his heart pounding away like war drums, loud and resolute. Had he saved her from a gruesome death just in time? The light diffused into her world again, certain breeze touched her skin once again. 

‘What do you desire the most in the world at this moment, Mona?’ His voice pierced her consciousness again. ‘Anything.’

‘Anything?’ Her thought immediately rushed to her father and to her home. ‘I miss them terribly.’

‘Your wish is my command.’



Mona heard the eager squaks of the birds that lived in the reserve behind her home and suddenly opened her eyes. She was in her own room, on her own bed. It was early morning and the house was quiet as no one had got up yet. She looked around and found her room as she had left it. Even her satchel hung from a hook on the back of the door, next to them hung her cafe uniform. 

Surprised or relieved she couldn’t tell. Had she dreamed the whole thing, from the cold dome room to Lucifer’s accommodating home; the doors that were mysterious and the beast tied to the bed? A dark thorny door? Somehow his voice was still ringing in her head. ‘You shall find yourself home. To heal as your heart desires.’

She rushed to sit up and suddenly felt the pang of pain shoot across her chest. What in the world? Her breath held in her lungs and she felt the pain reminiscent of the dream. She pulled the duvet off herself and gasped in shock.

She was wearing one of the dresses she’d made in that enchanted room that granted her wishes. Then she looked up to see her sewing corner intact with her mother’s machine. How so was it then possible she was wearing a dress she had dreamed? Or explain the cut marks on her forearm from the deadly door? Or the pain in her chest from each breath? And more importantly, how had she gotten home? Father? Her father. Lucifer had said they’d trade places!

Despite the pain and the light head, Mona scrambled for her door. She needed to see her father. 

It had only been a dream, yes. Only a dream.

Then explain your dress! Or the pain! The thoughts barged in like uninvited guests. 

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