5 Reasons Your Story Isn't Working

     Sometimes a story just doesn't work.  You're typing along, lalala, story story story, and then suddenly, BAM you hit a wall!  Then it's goodbye story, hell-llo writer's block!
     The first step in getting your story back on track is to figure out why you're stuck.  Here are five reasons you may be having difficulties.

1.  You've lost your passion

     Sometimes the spark just goes away.  You lose interest in whatever gave you the idea for this story in the first place, you realize you don't really want to work with these characters anymore, you start to hate the genre it's in--whatever the reason, you lose the will to keep pushing forward.  When you just plain lose interest, it's hard to reignite it.  You could try reacquainting yourself with your story, reworking the plot, throwing in new characters--or you could put it away for a while and see if it calls out to you again later on.  It may have potential, but maybe your gut is trying to tell you something.

2.  You're using the wrong medium

     Some books are made for a Word document, some for pencil and paper, and some for carving into the cliffside with a rusty spoon.
     Different mediums create different actions, different motions, different moods, all of which affect the way you think about your story.  A slow-paced urban fantasy written in heavy dialect might call for longhand, but a fast-paced passionate science fiction tale might need to be hammered into a keyboard.  Try experimenting with different mediums and see if there's something that clicks.

3.  You're using the wrong narrator

     Your narrator should be in the best position to tell the story--they need not necessarily be the coolest character, the most powerful character, the character who ultimately wins, or even a character at all, but they do need to be in the best place to describe the happenings of tale, which means that if they are a character, they need to be in the thick of the action, or in a position to see the story as it needs to be relayed.  If your narrator is off in the background of the story you really want to tell, you should consider either bringing them closer to the action, or making another character the narrator.
     At the same time, if you need to hold certain information outside of the audience's reach, you need to put the story in the hands of a narrator who will either not know this, or have a good reason for keeping it out of the narrative.

4.  You don't yet have the tools or skills you need

      Sometimes there are more complicated maneuvers that a story necessitates which we don't yet have the experience or finesse to pull off, and that inexperience can drag at the story, sometimes causing the tires to blow or bouncing up to break the windshield.  You might be able to get yourself to the point you need to reach through simply pushing yourself through this story, researching what you need to and putting yourself through writing exercises, but sometimes you need to stop, put this manuscript aside, and let it stew while you build your skill level.

5.  You're not telling the right story

     Sometimes there's a really amazing story embedded in a manuscript--"this galactic war is so fascinating," the reader says, "so why are we spending only three pages looking into it while eight hundred are wasted on a forced and cliched romance?"
     If your story doesn't seem to be working, look it over again.  Is there something more interesting, more enthralling happening behind the scenes?  Does some of your world's history or a character's backstory jump out at you as a better read?  Maybe you need to expand upon that, instead.
     Or maybe there's a completely different story out there, waiting for you to come and claim it.

Valedictory

    I was the Valedictorian of my graduating class, so I figured I'd post my speech.  Here you go!





ValeVictory:

There are a lot of things that I have been

Which I can be no longer;

There are a lot of challenges I’ve overcome

And each has made me stronger.

“Away, away,” the world is calling,

The breeze rebirthing flame;

I go either to sepulchre,

Or glory; legend; fame.

Like flowers we have spent our lives

Bending toward the light

But now like eagles spread our wings

And hasten to find flight;

It hurts to tear our rooting up,

We struggle and we bleed,

And yet we try and try again

For we were never weeds

And our dreams are so much larger than our vascular mistakes

Thus we tear ourselves apart so we can piece ourselves together,

No longer fields of lilies but instead birds of every feather--

There are many things which we have been

Which we can be no longer;

We have been hurt and maimed and killed,

But each death has made us stronger.

So the world calls us away

At the shattering of day

And to answer is to know that we must leave our grief behind

And say goodbye to all we love as ourselves we seek to find.

There will be hunters we must fell

And prey that we must heal--

It’s never been enough to speak

When there was nothing there to feel

And to Roosevelt we owe no debt

Yet we take his words for real--

Yet speaking softly never helped a single bird to rise

So sing your heart out every time you protest some demise.  

But remember here your childhood,

It never really died--

It only faded to a whisper as it curled up inside

The roots which after flood and flame

Should be destroyed, yet still remain.

So there are things that we still are

Which we can be no longer

But there are things that we will be

And one of them is stronger.

Away, away, we fly today,

The eagle still a flower--

We count the months, the weeks, the minutes and the hour

For our minds are gone already from the place where we were born

A foot in this world and the next,

So happy--so forlorn.

From our tearing roots we fly,

Touching wingtips to the sky--

We beat the air with aching hearts,

As bittersweet and dulcettart

We cannot fight the truth--

(And friends, this I must remark,

With a very heavy heart)

With a victoriously vicious cry, sing--

“This is where we start!”

Friends--this. is where we part.

Short Story: One Wish Left

    You turned sixteen yesterday. Your father gave you those new boots you wanted, your mother got you a car, and your favorite uncle sent a dusty old lamp. Dissappointed at first, you had rubbed away the grime before school only to find a genie living within.

     It was the best birthday present ever.

     You've used up two wishes already--one was used ridding you of your allergies, the other to grant you all the wealth you could ever need. Unlike in the movies, there have been no adverse side-effects. No consequences.  Just joy.

     You're on your way to true happiness.

     "One more wish," the genie reminds you, and there's only one more thing you want.

     You close your eyes and bow your head.

     "I wish I was beautiful," you whisper.

     "So it is done," the genie promises with the clap of his hands. There's a chill gust of wind and the lights go out in the bathroom. You stand there in silent darkness for a long time before finally opening your eyes and turning your face upward to the mirror.

     You blink. Reach up and touch your face. Blink again. You can't believe it. You're on the verge of tears.

     You had wished that you were beautiful; the genie had said was done.

     And not a single thing has changed.

Poem: Youth

And she thought she heard love

Whispered on the summer tongues of lilly-pad foxes

With padded feet sleek and wet with the danger of their safety--

But lies do sound so sweet so smooth like milk like honey,

Only Mount Saint Helens erupts with a viscous

Pyroclastic flow that looks so sweet so smooth so beautiful this

Harvest-mooned orange that calls with harmonies she thought that she could sing;

And the Icelanders they walk on lava like the silver Gods we make

Alone like the ice that burns on a planet

A galaxy away--

Yes, she thought she heard love

Whispered on the burning tongues of green pine-cone foxes,

But silver Gods have neon tongues

And there is folly well as beauty in those creatures we call

Young