A visual and written sampling from my road trip around the Iberian Peninsula (maybe one day I’ll finish it, we traveled the entire coastline)
Writing
Writing Your First Novel (or Two)- Update 1
So I’m a Writer. That’s what I tell people anyway when I’m not glaring daggers at hydraulic modeling software that’s decided, yes it really does want to crash for the seventh time this 9 hour working period, thanks for asking, also known as my day job.
This blog was started not only as a place to put my short stories, occasional poetry, food rants, and travel writing, but as a place to log progress made on my novel. It’s been an ongoing project for about five or six years now, which is back on the front burner after an editor friend took a hack at the first finalized rough draft last summer. The work of my youth was callously hacked it in to two books and I was bluntly told do a full rewrite of the first half of the first book which seemed as though it’d been written by a histrionic and verbose teen who thought concision was for pussies. Which, in her defense, it had.
If you ever want true conformation that you’re writing’s improved go take a gander at something you wrote five years ago. I dare you. If you’re lucky it won’t be something integral to an ongoing project and you can wince and laugh a bit to yourself about adverb usage and the all too seductive ellipse and move on. If you’re not lucky then we should chat about revamping a story that appealed to teenaged-you into something now-you wants to have their name publically attached to. But that’s neither here nor there. At present, I have two nearly completed novels each with a full story arch, a batch of memorable characters that hardly seem anything like the people that sixteen year old me thought up and a lot of loose ends and things to improve on bulleted in a dog eared notebook.
Here are some of the highlights that I’m going to focus my energy on this month:
- Isak, our villain with a capital V. Why are we afraid of him? What can he do, in concrete detail that makes him dangerous to cross. It is said but not shown. We almost never see him, he always just pops in with his newest scheme without warning.
- Show what happens to people who cross him
- Show what happened to Marcella
- Show his power over the lesser of the other 5 temples
Suggestions, comments, and good thoughts sent in my general direction are appreciated. Here’s my story pitch again for anyone interested.
The temple was quick to call it a gift of prophesy, while such a gift was useful. Llani discovers that her ability is much less of a blessing when she’s spouting omens of death and destruction on the head of the high priest, Isak Tornin. But even charged with blasphemy and named a false prophet, fallen from grace, the Goddess Jordaine, High Lady of the Heavens, is not done blessing Llani yet. After all, with the Empire of Braeth facing a war with the western hill tribes come summer, many people are looking for favor in the eyes of the Goddess of War.
My Novel- Book One: Practice Pitches
So for anyone interested here’s the quick pitch for my novel, And They Called Her Stormbringer.
The temple was quick to call it a “gift of prophesy”, while such a gift was useful. Llani discovers that her ability is much less of a blessing when she’s spouting omens of death and destruction on the head of the high priest, Isak Tornin. But even charged with blasphemy and named a false prophet, fallen from grace, the Goddess Jordaine, High Lady of the Heavens, is not done blessing Llani yet. After all, with the Empire of Braeth facing a war with the western hill tribes come summer, many people are looking for favor in the eyes of the Goddess of War.
Does this seem interesting? Would you like to know more? I have issues talking about my novel, I’ve been writing practice pitches. Feedback is appreciated. I much prefer shoving my writing under someone’s nose and going:
Me: “Read.”
Hapless Friend: “But what am I reading?”
Me: “Doesn’t matter, just read.”
—G.A. Buba
Home
The last thirty minutes of a six hour drive is always the longest. Every pothole looks familiar. You know how to drive these roads at night, in the rain, with headlights shining in your face, half asleep or half drunk. This is so close to home you can taste it. Your mind is already leaps and bounds ahead, and it’s like no time has passed at all.
You’ll pull in the drive and tumble out into the cold, and tell everyone all about school and the friends and the guy you just met, but he seems so nice…
And that’s when it hurts. It’s sudden, like a fist to the gut, like all the air’s been sucked out of the car and replaced with bleach. You can’t miss people constantly that would be crippling. So you don’t. You forget. You pretend that home is exactly like it was when you lived there every day… except it’s not.
The house that looks so familiar will be cold and empty and full of stale air, most of the innards that made it home, pictures, dirty clothes, things that indicate the presence of people are gone, packed into neat little boxes stacked in unused rooms, or brought with them halfway around the world. Most of the pets have been given away to friends and neighbors, who can care for them better while the family is abroad.
It’s so…so stupid that for a minute you let yourself think you were going HOME. Because you’re not, it’s not home anymore. Home is family. Home is the smell of Dad’s cooking, the cat petting himself on your shins, and everyone’s shoes spread out in a blast pattern from the back door. All those things have picked up and moved across the Atlantic. You’re really just driving to a particularly familiar storage closet that holds your winter clothing. You shouldn’t have let yourself get excited for that.
–G.A. Buba
It’s hard to go home when you know nothing will be the same
Old Fashioned Peach Cobbler
Start with ripe peaches, so soft your fingertips bruise them as you lift them out of the paper sack from the roadside stand. Find a big pot and blanch them till their fuzzed, dusky skins are all bright orange and sunset red. Take a moment to hold chilled blanched peaches in your hand, remember the skin soft as wet velvet, and that smell like sunshine and syrup filling up the kitchen. Peel them and make a stack, sticky sweet and blushing, smooth as blown glass bubbles.
For the filling brown sugar and a little bit of molasses. Mix in the lemon juice last and let the lemon oils from the bright dimpled skin stay on your hands, grandma always said it would make your skin soft. Sprinkle in cinnamon and nutmeg and breath in as you mix, let the smell of nutmeg bite at the back of your throat.
Pit your peaches, remember the difference between the smooth orangey outsides and the bloody veins at the center. Get sticky, yellow juice all down to your elbows. Lick it off when no one’s looking. Mix the fruit into the spices with your hands, you’ll thank me when you get to taste the peach syrup lining your palms.
Add an extra three tablespoons of butter to the crust because diets are stupid anyway. Pour a dash of vanilla extract because you’re feeling decadent. Bake until peaches are bubbling through a flaky brown crust and the whole house smells like cinnamon. Enjoy with vanilla ice cream melted on top, make sure it’s the same brand of vanilla your mom bought for hot summer days, because trust me it will taste better than the $12 container that hardly holds 6 oz but has “real Mexican vanilla beans”.
G.A. Buba
The Bearer of the Queen
“I am soft,” the creature seemed to whisper with its syrupy buzzing voice.
Its rotund, striated body was dusted in huge, golden pollen granules that smelled warm and sweet in the august heat. I smiled wiggling carefully closer as I watched it.
It was straining upward, its small, transparent wings glimmering like jewels, its gilded body almost sagging under the weight of its precious yellow cargo, before depositing itself to nestle once more into the downy face of a dandelion. The deep hum of her fellows could be heard all around me, almost drowning out the sounds of the playground. Tall dandelion heads swayed in the breeze that did little to cut the summer heat.
I lay on my stomach, my elbows pressing into the damp ground. The shepherd’s purse stalk in my hands being relieved of its tiny heart shaped seed pods by my small, now green rimmed, nails. A pile of the hearts rested before me. After a few minutes I reached out and plucked one of the brilliant, swaying stalks. The end was purple-red and oozed wonderfully sticky sap, which I dabbed onto my palm to glue a tiny heart to myself. Satisfied with the adornment I returned my attention to the little bee.
She was still busy with her dandelion meal, her small face buried deep in the feather petals; her little legs gripping, as her wings beat the air, pollen sacks bulging with their cargo. She looked so soft, so warm and nice.
I reached out a small hand and lifted her downy bed. Holding my breath, I moved her. Far more delicately than any queen was ever raised on her golden palanquin, I raised the little creature up to my eye level and observed her as she continued her quest within the little circle of organic sunshine. She hadn’t noticed the movement at all, or if she had she discounted it as the wind.
A devious plan began to form in my mind. Lifting my eyes from the golden queen captured between my grass-stained fingers, I looked across at the boys who had shunned me from their football game because I was ‘too slow.’
The other girls could play with them, but those were their ‘girlfriends.’ Feeling disheartened by my lack of a grade school love life I had retreated to the dandelion patch to play a better game. I had already found three pecans, but they and the large rock for cracking them, were forgotten in favor of this new engagement.
Cupping the handful of tiny hearts and holding the little queen with utmost reverence, in the other hand, I rose and made my slow and careful way across the big field, past the hot, shiny bleachers toward the football game.
They were taking a timeout. How fortunate. I plastered a straight face on and approached Jonathan, a tall fifth grader like me. He had a large dark birth mark on his neck, short wispy brown hair and a big smile. Some days he was my boyfriend, some days he laughed at me and dumped his water bottle on my head, threw erasers at me in math class, and stole my Nancy Drew books, hiding them in the boy’s bathroom. Today was one of the latter.
Today Tracy was his girlfriend. I could not have cared less, however, it was expected that we make up, so, what better way? I thought as the curly black haired girl sidled up to Jon.
“Hi…” he muttered, looking anywhere but at me.
“Hi, Jon…Tracy,” I acknowledged the taller girl grudgingly.
I pressed my lips together trying hard not to grin. I felt that horrible blush heat my cheeks as it does whenever I speak in front of others. Usually I hated it, my ears got hot, my upper lip dampened, my bangs stuck to my forehead. However, at the moment I was an embarrassed ex-girlfriend.
I bit my lip and held out my offerings of peace. Reaching out he took the handful of hearts and the little queen’s palanquin, disguised as a flower.
The moment his big sweaty hands closed around the stem the devilish grin took over my features and I scampered away just in time to hear the whole group scream.
Girls and boys alike darted past me, trying to escape the irate gilded creature.
Soon the football field was empty, and the little queen had settled back down to the business of collecting her gold. Careful not to disturb her, I walked over to her new bier, a daisy. Bending I plucked her up and traveled back to my field of dandelions.
“I’m sorry, little bee, I didn’t know they would scream so.” I lied, but it is best not to anger royalty.
A few boys approached, retribution in their eyes, but I only smiled and held up the little queen, I her loyal bearer and she my talisman.
###
G.A. Buba
Middle school is hard for everyone.
First published in the 2013 R2: The Rice Review 9th Edition
Photography by Alamy
Unquiet Soul
She has what they call in the old South an unquiet soul.
“I don’t know who’s winning anymore.”
She says to herself, and on the inside its blood lying like rust in her veins, burbling through her great heart at war with her brain—she says,
“I don’t know who’s fighting anymore.”
“My boys,” she says, “I love them, but god knows its only peace when one of them’s dead or dying. A stroke or a heart attack, that’s how I’ll go. My papa he went like that, died of too much heart. He got it in him that he had to help people and so he signed himself up with the army you see. He went missing far from home swarmed with smoke and the screams of genocide—but you know that’s the only way the devil coulda come for my papa. Too much heart he had. My mama she died of a brain too loud- whirring, screeching, voices whispering—SHOUTING, crazy things… and then one day I guess she got tired of telling ‘em no. They found her at the bottom of a waterfall. I guess she was trying to drown all them voices out.”
“I don’t know why I’m fighting anymore.”
“And then you got me,” she says, “With a brain too loud and a heart too big. I’m all of them at once, baby girl. God only knows where it got me. But I think the two halves of me were so busy trying to kill each other they forgot all about killing me. My dark haired boy, all blood and iron, that one. That’s who lives up here,” she taps her temple, “And my golden summer lad, he’d love you while you put a dagger in his chest. Smile while you pushed it in and twisted it,” She taps her breast, with one last great big breath she smiled and tapped her forehead,
“Ahh, I shoulda guessed it’d be the head that did me in.”
###
And they called her manic depressive.
G.A. Buba
Hello
This is my personal writing blog. Follow for travel write-ups, poetry, and short stories, which proliferate like rabbits since I’m trying to finish the last 10 chapters of my second novel. I’m looking for a place to put all the little side projects. I’m rather hoping having to upkeep a blog will mean I’m informing someone of my progress, and thus progressing.
Will be reposting some old work from my previous writing blog found here:
G.A. Buba 