And so it's Nov the 1st (depending on where you live)

So I've started, this morning as soon as I woke up :) well pretty much. Anyway want to hear it?
(disclaimer: I won't be posting here all the time, and I'm just writing enough to be cruel ;-) )

Down the dark, dank, cobbled streets of London the sister's trudged. They passed a beggar/child with sightless staring eyes and a steaming, feverish brow that had turned his sooty face to a mottled grey. A hat lay beside a wasted arm, there was barely a coin in it, but the sister's ignored his plaintive cries and carried on into the deeper filth of London's East-end.

An icy wind breathed down the narrow street and the sister's drew the tattered shawl they shared tighter    , they increased their pace; today had been pay-day at the factory and they needed to get home quickly before the infamous night dwellers, theives, murderers, whores and drunkards appeared.

On they scuttled quite unaware that one such night-dweller was watching them, stalking their progress.
Tonight there'd be murder done.

So how 'bout that? do you think it will do? Please comment, I adore your advice.

Miss Tiffany
( OH and I'll probably post most of the story over at where words are woven my other blog (yes I have two, one just for writing, feel free to read the other storys)  

Greetings, me wee guinea pigs!

I've got some reading for you: How 'bout dat? [ uh english please! how about that]

So strong it brings many to their knees, so gripping it leaves one empty.

Like water it fills a well but leaves it dry with thirst. It is demanding.

Like a story that can never be told, a story that that can never be expressed.A story that has incredible power that only the witnesses can dream of retelling. It is unexplainable. It carves out one's heart, it is like a strong wind, it is so big, it is so un-describe-able, how can it ever be put into words? It bursts through walls of iron as if they were made of feathers: It can not be stopped. Some maybe afraid of its rising tide, but I am not. It is so un-contain-able, yes so very terrible, words can not express the thunder of its coming, or the pin drop silence that place when the Master comes, when the hem of the His robe brushes a human's heart, the burning desire for Him that only He can awake. The beauty of its voice. The great honor of of its calling. The immense power, the huge-ness. The GRACE!!. The vastness. It crushes the universe with blinding light. It is so mysterious, it leaves the watcher in tears.To see this is an incredible honor, that can be seen... for free!

It is not to be taken lightly, it takes the broken, the unqualified, the outcast, the shamed and shunned. It takes their pain away, such a beautiful release, such undeserved grace.It can't be compared to anything   ....ever. Without a price!                  

  

It pulls, it tugs, it unravels an adventure, takes the elderly over mountains the children over seas.It falls like rain. Those in its rising flood, turn to those in the desert "Won't you come?! Taste of the rain! Feel the surge of the water! Wade into its unfathomed depths.

Drown in the swells! Here you fear nothing, you need not bring anything except yourselves. Be prepared to change in strange ways.

Oh, sink in the waters of love!"

For it is love that topples many, that sweeps through and leaves one longing for more.Love that tells a story that can never be retold, it craves out the heart with longing; it drives like the wind, it is so large, one can easily lose oneself. Love flies through

every defense. Some are afraid of its changing powers, but the ones who have tasted aren't, no one should, the love is un-hate-able.

Love can never be captured, yet it was nailed to a tree, it is so terrible, terribly magnificent. From the nails blood ran, like water; love can never be stopped. The sweetness of love's voice whispers "Father...forgive"

Without love the earth trembles and breaks mourning its loss to the skies that have lost all color, all light, all stars and moon.

Sweltering blackness has fallen. All suffocates in its thick tangible flow. All can that be seen is a trickle of blood , the trickle of life

the trickle of love ... dying.

Frigid tensions run through the skies agonizing groans ripple through the earth, the surface between is paralysed with fear.

For three risings of the sun the world os empty of life, is stripped of its essence. The earth cries out in grief. The people are the only ones unaware that the universe is in its death throws. They wake on their Sabbat to worship a dead love.

In another world love enters. A kingdom black, heavy, soaked in evil. A place where blood is the water. A place that has never known love. A place reeking with hate, murder. A place where the sun was too scared to rise... the land of fear.

Then like the ripping of curtains, like the crashing of thunder, like a fork of lighting. Love enters, the first rays of its liberating dawn span across a wasted landscape. A delightful aroma arises like steam. Darkness flees, things begin to grow, the sewers of blood vanish. Life has arrived. In the middle of this land is a towering mountain atop of this is an empty pool, Love lands on the  east side of this, the angel of light [ The devil was an angel + most people wouldn't listen to something devil-ish looking I picture him like so:] with dark blood dripping from his hands, the prince of darkness, crouches on the other side. Into the pool bright blood pours: flowing from the one named Love. The dark Prince trembles and hands Love an ancient looking pair of keys.

"Love" leaves the land. Darkness returns.

On earth it is the hours before light. The weary earth will yet again see a lifeless sun rise, the plants will another day suffocate

with its dying presence. Yet the people are unaware that this day the curtain will tear, that from this day the earth will never be the same again. And yet shepherds lie by their sheep and kings by their treasure -sleeping! 

The sky lightens to a deep purple. A breeze blows across the earth. The trees, plants waters and oceans stir beneath its power.

The wind carries a secret; a promise of change.

And then light, blinding light, rips across the land. You can almost hear the universe laughing with unimaginable joy. The ocean dance frenzied dances of happiness,the earth rumbles with delight and the sky shouts out its pleasure. The very air jumps with excitement.

Love has returned!

It's still hear, right now. Unknown to most is its power, its force and its name: Jesus.

Some are still in the desert of darkness, some are still slaves to another world to a dark force.

Few are in the rain of love, few feel its strong insistent pull.But it is there for anyone should they just see what 

"love" has done for them and repent of their sins, freedom is there, joy is there, peace is there for the broken who ask

So what think you?

Impatiently awaiting your comments

-Tiffany

My production

Ok maybe thats a bit hopeful but my play is llooonnngggg -long-
here it is:
The Play
Lord of the dance music Scene: It's dark and misty, ash filled terror 

Act:

Slaves in rags pretending to pull a large weight. Slave drivers using their whips. Slaves fall on their knees [wind mill action if possible] looking agnonized and worn out. "Evil Ones" come in and torment slaves. Someone says "Who will give life to the lost?"

Person 1 walks in and is "kidnapped" and put into slavery. Person 2 comes from the other side, same thing happens. A man and his wife and child come in watch and look heart broken. 'Baddies' [evil ones and slave drivers] rush toward the family and try and put them into slavery. Man stands in front hands spread, protecting his wife and child. This goes on for a minute or so. Have a light [torch will do] turn on closer to the audience and have a girl pjs kneel at her "bed" Prays some like this [can be changed] 'Dear Lord Jesus, help the people in other countries' Her mum is there Main Play: White people come on and try and pull the baddies away, fight begins One white person goes and comforts the girl. fight continues. Man and wife pray.Man joins the fight, the 'baddies' are pushed away from some of the slaves. The wife and child free some of the slaves. Another family below prays. More white ones join the fight, black ones fight harder some fall. Another family below prays. And Jesus come, the 'baddies' fall or flee. The family unlocks the slaves. Have them praying and doing baptizing actions White people keep the lingering baddies out.Jesus is there. Have someone say"the war is not finished souls are still enslaved, near and

far, Do not stop praying, God hears the cries of his children .Many will be freed if you just ask.So what is holding you back?" 

Miss Tiffany

I've got it!!!!!!!! -I'm soo excited

Thank you for praying for me I've written the play out line, and its really funny cause the main theme is about people praying for other people, aka just what God can do if you pray.I scribble writ it this morning so I won't be typing it out in a hurry I have to re-write etc. I told it over the phone to one of the adult "supporters" and she thinks its awesome, its mostly mime with a little speaking.It's quite simple but it will require a lot of people.
Very excited Tiffany      

Believable

To make a good story you have to make it believable.
You can not have the goody pushing through a crowd of screaming people, the people screaming because he is carrying a gun, and have the bady not notice.You CAN NOT!!!
If you want it realistic, if you want the characters come to life, you hhhaaaavvvee [have] to make it believable, I cannot stress that enough.  


Everything must be real or else it is boring.

This doesn't mean you can't have make-believe characters, fairys and such.Or miracles

Characters need to stay true to themselves: to do only what they can humanly  do

I can't really explain this any more except make it believable!!!

Miss Tiffany

A Name

More character-ness ; )

Names.

They are *so* important. For writing they are very... useful, but also very annoying.
Your character must have a name that suits him/her- that is very annoying
e.g you don't call a strict teacher a soft floaty name like, Charlotte, it doesn't suit, but Augusta might.

This is way baby name books/sites are very helpful as they tell you the meaning as well, as in if you're looking for a name for your fat, pigish rich old man[who has probably lived in the English court] you could call him Gulliver, because it's English and it means glutton [I have Mr Hurst in mind right now]
  - ;D

This means you must already have a rough idea as to what your character looks like and behaves
this is why I don't usely fill the name in first or haven't found my favourite name.

Well that was quite short I'll do another post I think

Miss Tiffany    

Meet me.

I've decided that this week as I'm allowed to do 1/2 an hour a day of writing on my blog for school work.[It has to be school work related]That I am going to share with you what I know of making up characters.

When you are writing a story you want to make your character as human as possible, nobody likes a know it all, and most scoff over damsels in distress and Prince Perfects.It can be quite hard to make your hero/ine "normal".

A really good tip is not to make her really beautiful, I read a book where the main character was not "beautiful" but "pretty",  it was really interesting as what one noticed about her was her "honey" coloured  eyes and, well her, she went to balls and taught her self to enjoy them, to find new things in the stagnant water of normal.It was really neat to find a different kind of beauty.Anyway...

 "A character prompt sheet"
this is something to use to create your character, but it is a prompt not a fill in the gaps so it is a good idea to write sentences eg Will the reader dis/like  this character: he loves the night his dark features will repel the reader, he'll be my villain e.t.c.

Name:

Age:

Height:

Weight/Build:

Birthplace:

Colour hair/eyes:

Physical peculiarities:

Education:

Married:

Best friend:

Enemies:

Family:

Core need:

Pathological manoeuvre:

Ambition in life:

Gestures when talking:

Gait:

Strongest character trait:

Weakest character trait:

Laughs or jeers at

Philosophy:

Political leaning:

Hobbies:

What others first notice about him/her:

What character does alone:

One line characterisation:

Will reader dis/like character:

Does s/he change in the story? How:
            [your main character should]

Significant event that moulded him/her:

Significant event that illustrates the character's personality:

[In Depth]- not really needed, from NGJ well the top two

Is he a: "King"
           "Preist"
           "Prophet"

Is she a: "Queen"
             "Servant"
             "Dreamer"

Are they a: Teacher
                   Servant
                   Leader
                   Encourager
                   Perciver
                   etc:


You don't actually have to write down all these things.Just the ones you need to paint the out line of your character.If  you have trouble imagining things drawing is a good idea or looking on the internet or in books for what you want be it person , scene or location.

Hope you have fallen asleep or that you have been able to understand me.


-Tiffany

Testimony of a perivous non-writer

Did you know that I didn't always write? That writing is actually pretty new to me?Well it is.

I always  knew I could write, Mum had always said I had a talent for it.I didn't really start with writing though.I remember telling stories, the earliest I can recall was making up a story about a girl who had a jewel, or treasure hidden somewhere and there was all these different things she had to push to get it.That was told at the Lake Daniel's tramp, and a boy heard and he really liked it [boys liking girls stories?]So I guess it was pretty good.

Of course there was DB but though that slowly improved my writing I didn't get any sudden inspirations that sent me leaping about for paper.

I've tried writing in diaries but I can't really stand them, too boring.
I've had private writing lesson but though they helped I forgot most of what I learned.

It changed one night forever and for good.That was the night I confessed my sins [with many a tear] and became a Christian, I was 12.That was the first night I remember scribbling pages and pages of praises in what I call my "God book".

After I got baptized a friend and I had it on our hearts to write for the young girls we knew my reason? So they would have a better start than I did to be more informed than I was.So I started writing.I can't remember what I wrote in the first issue of Jewels of Jesus [JOJ]
but what I do know is that every time after I've written something I've been challenged in my walk with God often for a short time afterward ingnoring Him. 

But I've noticed my stories have gotten better, I don't know what you think, but on top of all the writing studying I've done , at that moment when I get an inspiration all that is forgotten I see what is happening before my eyes and I try and describe what I see as best as I can.But I have to be writing or the story moves on without me. So that is how I write, ask Esther  ;D. I got to go now.   


Miss Tiffany

New Story sample

Thats enough gloomy stuff. I've got some reading for you. Your officially my guinea-pigs, feel good?:D
This fantasy, paralle universe stuff.So its not here. And its meant to be weird:
By the way Baeren is for that world the root-word of Barren. I LOVE ae combinations eg: Mae Thaephania...
                                                  .......................................................

On the dry, wind swept, plains of Baeren-Fowl, a land without birds.The dust-devils [what are baby dust tornadoes called?] danced their, wild earth smothering patterns.

There was no other noise to be heard here, except the kneening of the wind, this land was empty of life,
well almost...

At first, the sound came on the cooler breeze of the south lands, a rare happening in this every-dry country.
It was the weak cry of a newborn on the southern reaches of Baeren-Fowl, A place the locals called Last Hill.

The babe was weak, nought but a few days old, she was laid in a secluded, small, depression on the north side of Last Hill, with only a wind carved log for protection. Her plainitive crys had reached the dust-dryaids, and these clay coloured women had glided from the mid-reaches of Baeren-Fowl to investigate. They carried this stranger to their dusty hovels, fed her and spoke to her in their various wind voices. Thus the girl grew