Why I haven't been blogging as much... (plus a Casually Homicidal snippet) | Olivia J

"Step into a scene and let it drip from your fingers,"

-MJ Bush

I love this blog. Even if very few people read it, I would still probably write for it. I love the content I produce, I love sharing stuff with you, and I love analyzing literature. This blog is a portfolio of me.

And I hate that I haven’t been able to write on it as consistently as I did during high school. I usually only missed one or two blog posts a year.

And then college happened.

I’ve resorted to being able to write one blog post every two weeks, and that’s iffy. I just don’t want to put out subpar content when I truly don’t have the time - or mental energy - to produce quality content.

It sucks, but that's my life right now. And my content on this blog should reflect my life. Don't worry, I'm working on getting blogging back into my weekly schedule. Literary analysis will be few and far between, but then you might be getting more lifestyle posts.

However, there is another reason why I haven't been blogging as much, and it's a much better excuse than busyness.

Casually Homicidal, the current YA Thriller/Contemporary novel I'm writing, is almost done. Yes, you heard that right. I'm almost done. I've only got five chapters left, and then draft one is done.

But really, it's beautiful. I have fallen irrevocably in love with this story and these characters. I was afraid it was never going to happen again, but here we are. Casually Homicidal has taken over my life, and I'm 100% here for it.

Now, there hasn't really been an official synopsis for Casually Homicidal since I'm still perfecting it, and the only info you guys have gotten is over on Instagram (@olivia.j.the.wordshaker) in the form of collages and snippets.

However, there is a little bit more I can share with you, in the form of a short piece about the themes of Casually Homicidal. And some photos of course.

***

So . . . what is Casually Homicidal even about?

Casually Homicidal is about change, and the insane things we do to stop time.

It’s about being so rejected that all you can manage to do is reject other people.

pic creds to Pinterest

It’s about the secrets we keep and what they drive us to do.

It’s about being so incredibly empty that we don’t even realize we’re filling a void.

It’s about small towns and nostalgia and the wilderness of young adulthood.

pic creds to Pinterest

It’s about pain and the people, memories, and experiences that change us.

It’s about accepting the past and facing the future.

It’s about deciding who you really want to be.

pic creds to Pinterest

Casually Homicidal is about two eighteen-year-olds trying to find out where they fit in a world that wants nothing to do with either of them.

Cue the existential crises, road trips, and bloody murder.

***

And a snippet, just because I'm so generous.

***

“Was I right about you, Hendrix?”

“What?”

“Was I right, that you want to leave too? That you feel this terrible, awful stringing feeling inside, like your stomach is made of a ball of yarn and someone’s just pulling and pulling and pulling at it? Except you’re not sure where they’re pulling it, so the spool just grows smaller and smaller, until one day it’s just going to pop out of you Do you feel that way, too?”

Hendrix pauses. His eyes glaze and go far away - he’s thinking. “Yes.”

His voice strikes me, sharp and metallic. He’s lying, I can feel it right in the core of me. People lie to me all the time. I’ve gotten good at discerning it. “You don’t.”

Hendrix swallows audibly. “Yeah, I do.” It comes out more like a question.

My forehead tenses up. I ought to take him at face value - I really should. I sit up and start to walk over towards him, to see if he’s genuine. If he really means anything he’s saying.

But he turns on his heel and walks away from me, towards his side of the bed.

“We should sleep, Arden. It’s almost 2am.”

My chest splinters as I wander back into bed, swallowed by the soft darkness. I’m sleeping in the same bed as Hendrix, but he feels so far away. And the divide is lined with sinkholes and jagged rocks and fearsome creatures on both sides.

It’s not like he felt any closer when we worked together at that Godforsaken frozen yogurt shop. But us being in this together, it feels like we should be.

Granted, the world should be a lot of things.

But we both know it’s not.

***

Love you all. Thanks for supporting what I love.

~The WordShaker

Why "The Fire & Ice Book Series" is Middle Grade Fiction | Olivia J

"The road to hell is paved with adverbs," -Stephen King

I love indie authors. I love supporting indie authors. It's basically a part of my brand at this point. 

I also believe that all feedback is good feedback - save from things that are purely subjective and comments that aren't constructive criticism. 

I know that a lot of people love this series. I know that Erin has found a lot of success with this series, and that's great. I'm glad other people have enjoyed it and have been inspired by it. 

However, I personally don't get the hype. 

Follow me on Instagram @olivia.j.the.wordshaker

If you're interested, my review for The Elementals can be found under the 2 star rating section here, and my review for The Lost Dreamer can be found under the 3 star rating section here, but they're not essential to understanding this blog post. 

But let's get on with why you actually clicked on this blog post . . . 

The Fire & Ice Book Series is Middle Grade Fiction

Forbes herself brands the Fire & Ice Book Series as a YA fantasy series, which is incorrect on several levels. The characters are sixteen, so that must mean it's YA, right? 

Wrong. 

This series is Middle Grade. It's not Young Adult.  It's important that you know this right off the bat, because if you go into this book thinking it's MG fantasy, then you'll probably like it. Unfortunately, I went into F&I series believing that it was YA, and this greatly impacted my perception of the series. 

I found this amazing article on Writer's Digest about the key differences between MG and YA.  It makes compelling points on why F&I is not YA. I will be using this article as evidence to support my points. I highly recommend checking this post out - it's super insightful.

The complexity and themes are what differentiates these two genres - not just age ranges. MG usually has to do with friendship, family, and the character's reactions to the immediate world around them. However, YA concerns itself with love, changing relationships, how the character fits into the world on a grander scale, and self-discovery/reflection. YA often tackles heavier and more nuanced content and themes, and MG has more of a focus on adventure and good overcoming evil. 

In all these cases, F&I fits the criteria for MG and not YA. I'm not saying that F&I should have been grimdark, but what I am saying is that in order for F&I to truly qualify for a YA title, it must earn it by fulfilling the conventions of the genre. 

For example, our main character Alice Hanley - and all of the characters for that matter - are undeniably good. The Elementals are good, and the Creatures of the Night Oak Forest and Cleo Lennox are bad. This kind of simplistic, black and white categorization is usually nowhere to be found in YA books, because teens have the self-awareness that the world and people are much more complex than that. When reading The Lost Dreamer, I felt so much sympathy for Cleo Lennox. She has the potential to be such an interesting and nuanced character in future books, but Erin glossed over all of the interesting things we could have explored with Cleo and wrote her as evil and vindictive. Granted, the end of The Lost Dreamer left this plot open-ended, so I'm hoping for some more interesting development with Cleo. 

The problem is that the way F&I goes about tackling its themes is characteristic of MG. Things are allowed to be a bit more cut-and-dry in MG, but not YA. F&I does a whole lot of telling in every aspect (characters, world, everything), which, again, you can get away with more in MG than in YA - and this is due to the nature of the audience. Older teenagers are able to think for themselves and deduce information from context clues - aspects of the story and characters can be more subtle, nuanced, and not stated outright. In contrast, middle-grade readers need to be spoon-fed certain aspects. And this isn't bad, it's just a hallmark of the genre. 

Now I'm not saying that Middle Grade isn't as deep or as complex as Young Adult,  because that's simply not true. What I am saying is that the two genres are deep and complex in different ways, and they both have different methods of going about it. 

To clarify, the fact that I'm insisting that F&I is not YA and is MG is not necessarily critique of the work itself. It's a critique of the branding and the genre choice that Erin Forbes has made. She would find much more success if she branded F&I as MG instead of YA. 

If you go into reading this with the mindset that The Fire & Ice Book Series is an uplifting and whimsical Middle Grade series, then you'll probably enjoy them. 

~

*Phew*. That was a lot. Congrats if you made it to the end.  I haven't done one of this literary analysis blog posts in a while, mostly because they take a lot of time and mental energy, and those are two things I'm quite short of these days. 

~The WordShaker

colors | a poem

"The worst thing you write is better than the best thing you didn't write."

A little poem I wrote, kind of about the last 18 years. Enjoy.

~

my story is told in colors

of scarlet red and pastel blue

my fingers graze the moon

and he’s left with stardust bruises

my story is told in colors

of red that rips mountains

like paper wilting in the rain

where you and me are not one

my story is told in colors

orange like the split of the sun and sky

sparks flit off of my fingers

catching my soul aflame

my story is told in colors

the yellow that reaches down for me

that stains our cheeks with might

where we are full of life eternal

my story is told in colors

a green that paints my ground

that holds me close

when life is new and old again

my story is told in colors

a blue i could fall into

with the sky shrinking ever above

and where the sun cannot reach

my story is told in colors

the purple skylines under my skin

rising and falling with the beat of my heart

and the memories between us

my story is told in colors

pink that whispers of something

where our souls find each other

and leave galaxies in our wake

my story is told in colors

moments painted in gold and silver

i’d tell this all to the stars, the moon and sky

and, why, i think they’d answer back

~The WordShaker

"Clutching Roses" - My Gold Medal-Winning Short Story | Olivia J

"I'm not a very good writer, but I'm an excellent rewriter," -James Michener

These 869 words got me to New York. Enjoy.

~

Clutching Roses

Olivia J. Bennett

The man rubs his gray mustache, staring up at the blue sky outside of the grimy window. He brushes some coal dust off of his lunchpail, stepping out of the elevator, rising from the bowels of the earth.

“Have a good evening, Ernest. Tell your wife I said hi!” Carl says, tipping the bill of his hardhat. The light shines into the old man’s eyes for a moment, and he squints back at Carl.

“You too. Hope tomorrow isn’t as rough as today,” Ernest says, not facing the man.

“Anything to serve the masses of this good, God-fearing town,” Carl says, laughing spitefully.

Pushing open the creaky, wooden door, Ernest walks on the gravel road through the fluorescent-lit town. The sun has ripened to orange.

The man walks this path every day. He could do it with his eyes closed. In fact, often, he does, soaking up the smells and sounds of the northwestern settlement. He knows everything about this little town, so much so that he can recognize the women in their patterned dresses smelling of gardenia and lavender, and the men coming home to their wives smelling of sweat and spice.

“Evening, Ernest,” the grocer says from his storefront. “Hope Rose is doing well!”

The friendly voice of the grocer forces the man to open his eyes. “Yes, she is. I’ll let her know you asked.”

On his way out of the town’s main drag, the gravel crunches under his heavy-bottomed boots. The clouds are an explosion of white, purple, and orange, and he finally sees the small, tin-roofed house emerging from the treeline.

Ernest runs his fingers along the bark as the gravel slowly dissipates and becomes a worn, dirt path. The white blooms of baby’s breath line the path, along with the petals of bright yellow and purple wildflowers. Pain creaking through his back, the man leans over to pluck a small daisy from the side of the path. He puts it up to his nose, and smells the sweet, earthy aroma of the flower.

His lungs contract, coughing, and the scent of the flower dies. Now, all he can taste or smell is the coal dust. Still, the man gets down on his knees, and gathers a bouquet of flowers for his wife, Rose. She loves flowers, and Ernest would always tease her about it because her name was a flower, but Ernest knew she loved them because they could brighten any room.

The grainy wood of the house comes into view. The sun glints off of shards of broken glass. Oh, no, the man thought, an animal must have broken the window again.

He runs his fingers over the remaining shards, seeing a small tuft of fur caught on the corner. He wrinkles his leathery face and pushes open the old door. It sticks, as it most often does, and the old man nearly tumbles into his own house. He gazes into the musty home, the evening sun casting thick bands of light onto the floor.

“Good evening, Rose. What have you made for dinner tonight?” Ernest says, like he does every night.

But she doesn’t answer. She just sits there, in her pastel dress, staring at the wilting bouquet of flowers on the table.

Sighing, Ernest sets down his lunch pail and turns on the generator under the sink. Small lamps on the walls flick on and the gray refrigerator hums to life. A small floor fan blows dry, brown leaves around the floor.

“Carl asked about you again. I think he’s got a thing for you, even though he’s got his own wife and kids to look after.”

Ernest scrapes out something from a corroded pot and fills it with water. In goes the cabbage, carrots, and roast beef. With a click, he turns on the gas stove.

“The grocer asked about you, too, old William, who used to be our neighbor. He’s a nice man - grows the sweetest corn in the county if I’ve ever seen it.” Suddenly, Ernest turns around to face his wife, who still hasn’t acknowledged him. “You miss him, don’t you? I’ll bet you miss a lot of the nice men in this town . . .”

Ernest suddenly hears a scratching, gnawing sound. Nearly dropping his wooden spoon, he moves over to the leg of the crooked wooden table. A racoon gnaws on his wife’s anke.

Aghast, Ernest cries, “shoo! Shoo! Get on out of my house, filthy animal!” The old man chases the vermin out of his house, suddenly sweaty and out of breath.

His pot is boiling over, too, so he brings it over and sets it down on the table, already perfectly set for a dinner for two. Finally, Ernest takes the bouquet for his wife and begins plucking out the fresh, aromatic flowers. The larger bundle he places within her gnarled, bony fingers. Several strands of baby’s breath go between her meaty ribs and collarbones, and finally, the last two daisies, a lively white and yellow, he places in his wife’s two hollow eye sockets.

“There,” the old man says, slowly sinking back down into his chair. He unfolds his napkin and places it on his lap. “Now you’re truly dressed for dinner, Rose.”

~

*mic drop*

~The WordShaker

New Novels, Living Life, and Endings

"Stay faithful to the stories in your head," -Paula Hawkins

I think I've been really slacking on these analysis posts, guys. While I love them, they do take a lot of work - a.k.a. a lot of time and effort that I just haven't had lately. 

However, a lot of things have happened in my life that are definitely worth noting.

First off, being that I started a new novel! You may know this if you follow me on Instagram, because I've posted several hints as to what it is - 

- and unfortunately this is not the place nor the time at which I'm going to tell you what my current WIP is about. All I'll reveal is the title: 

Casually Homicidal

And an aesthetic collage to satisfy the masses:

Alas, some changes have been rolling through my Instagram - I've changed my theme! The blue sheet is gone, and now every photo will be taken in front of or around my bookshelf!

Unfortunately, Casually Homicidal is moving at a snail's pace - which is better than not at all. But I've realized that I have two settings: living and writing. I can't really seem to do both. 

My life goes through phases - either I'm out living my life to the fullest, having new and different experiences, or I'm neck deep in a story. And when I try and do both, both aspects suffer. It's a bit frustrating because I feel . . . incomplete if I'm not working on a story. 

I've got a sign in my room that says "live for the moments you can't put into words". I've been trying to live by that. If I don't live my life, how will I have anything to write about?

Speaking of life, I graduated high school. 

I suppose the weight of that speaks for itself. If you saw the post I made this past Tuesday, then this might be some recap. 

But really, overall, I just feel . . . conflicted. Part excited and part so incredibly done but also a lot sad. Yeah, mostly sad. 

It's a surreal feeling really, how much my life is going to change. A lot of lasts have happened in the past few weeks, and just having that itching and clawing at the back of mind makes everything a shade grayer. 

I've been reflecting on, I guess, how I started high school, what place I was in, and now how I'm leaving high school. 

When I started high school in 2014 I wanted to die. Sorry for the bluntness - might as well get it out of the way now. But really, I suffered from really bad anxiety and depression from about 2013-2015. I still struggle with anxiety, but it's nowhere near as bad. But truly, for a long time, I was nothing but a well of unending pain. 

Fast forward four years, and here I am. Better than ever, with a published novel, amazing friends, and . . . a bright future. That sounds sappy, but trust me, it's true. I'm not the person I was four years ago, which, by all accounts, is a good thing. 

So, I guess there's not really a point to that story other than reflecting on what these four years have done to me and what they've given me. Reflecting back on who I've been, so I can know who I'll become. 

And I also want to say thank you. 

I don't really feel like listing anyone, because I know I'll forget someone and then I'll feel bad.

Alas. Thank you for changing me. Thank you for being there for me. Thank you for giving me a home. Thank you for the memories. Thank you for the heartache. 

For it all has made me who I am. 

~The WordShaker

You'll Be Like Faye by J.C. Buchanan | Book Review

"Good writing is clear thinking made visible," -Bill Wheeler

As you all know, I love myself a good self-published novel, supporting indie authors, all that jazz. But what I love even more is critiquing story and execution.

And that's exactly what we're going to be doing today. 

follow me on Instagram @olivia.j.the.wordshaker

You'll Be Like Faye is a middle grade novel by J. C. Buchanan. Buy and read the synopsis to You'll Be Like Faye here!

Disclaimer: I was sent this novel in exchange for an honest review. 

Spoilers, duh. 

The Bad

1. Carousel Dialogue 

This was You'll Be Like Faye's largest flaw. First, let's define the purpose of dialogue in a story. Dialogue is the spoken words that characters actually say out loud, and the purpose of this dialogue is like anything else in a story: it furthers the plot along and reveals aspects of characters. 

However, the dialogue in You'll Be Like Faye rarely adheres to this accepted definition. Much of the dialogue in YBLF doesn't serve much purpose, if at all. The menial dialogue causes scenes that should have been over a half a page ago to drag on. Story beats and defining character traits get repeated over and over through unnecessary dialogue.

Instead of spending her reader's precious time by deepening the relationships or characterization, much of the dialogue is spent on reiterating already established character traits and story elements. Buchanan attempts to make this dialogue plucky and witty, however, no new information is being presented, so the reader just ends up disregarding the conversation.

Another element to this systematic problem is that many conversations that would happen in real life - like, what we need at the grocery store, joking between friends - which aren't bad conversations on their own, but in fiction, these things are omitted because they don't actually add anything to the progression of the story or character development. 

2. Some nitpicky things.

These next few are less systematic problems, and more nitpicky things that would have improved my overall enjoyment. 

Brittney was extraordinarily underdeveloped, and I wanted to see much more from her. I suppose she wasn't supposed to be, but the plot kicks itself into motion because of her arrival, and the synopsis indicated that Brittney was an integral part of the story. However, there is very little time spend with her, and that created a disconnect, and almost a focus vacuum in the story. I saw so much potential to develop Brittney and her relationship with Faye/Heather, but there just wasn't much there. If Buchanan had developed this relationship, there would have been a stronger emotional center to the story, and the reader would have been able to root for Brittney as well as Faye. 

My other nitpick is how the story handled the plot. Surely, Faye's parents would serve jail time for child abduction, as well as have their own biological children taken away by social services. I would have liked to see more of the consequences of the reveal at the end, as this would have grounded the story in reality. Twelve year old Faye has just had her entire world turned on it's head, which will most definitely cause psychological problems for not only Faye/Heather, but her whole family. I'm just not sure I liked the light take on such dark and destroying subject matter such as child abduction, despite this book being middle grade. 


The Good

1. Story Conventions

The prose, if a bit lackluster at times, is clean and effective. If there were any errors, they didn't stick out to me and didn't detract from my enjoyment of the story. The characters, aside from Brittney, were fun and adequately developed. The suburban setting, as well as the development of the mystery - albeit a bit predictable - were effective and kept me engaged. 

Overall, You'll Be Like Faye isn't a book I would normally read, and that probably affected my enjoyment of it. However, I can't deny that, despite it's flaws, You'll Be Like Faye is a solid middle grade novel that doesn't shy away from some darker subject matter. 

Objective Rating: 7/10
Enjoyment Level: 6.5/10

~The WordShaker