The Value of Written Works

Concurrent with the start of a new political administration, I recently started school again. In Creative Writing II, the curriculum is portioned into three segments—non-fiction, fiction, and poetry. We started with non-fiction, which is good as I have a work in progress. The downside—essays.

I wasn’t always a fan of essays, probably because I never felt savvy enough to write a good one. My work as a life coach encourages people to speak up and voice their feelings and viewpoints, but it doesn’t appeal to me to share my personal opinion in this form. Essays make me doubt myself. What if I was wrong, inaccurate with my research and made a ludicrous false claim? What if my interpretation of a topic was so far off as not to make sense?

When first reading literary essays, I thought as long as a group of obscure words were strung together, like black pearls on a jute cord, it was immediately considered “raw and edgy” or brilliantly clever, even when it made no sense to me.

Then I go on to consider genre fiction, works I enjoy reading as well as writing. I immediately think of the word prose, a word that I feel almost contradicts itself. Prose refers to the “ordinary form of spoken or written language…” It also means “matter-of-fact or dull expression.” So, if I write genre fiction, is my work immediately assumed to be ordinary or dull?

Writing the truth, whether in a memoir or a fictional character’s viewpoint, creates a strong connection to the reader. Maybe because academic essays are too well organized and detached—the point is to remain factual with an air of objectiveness—to me, that makes the essay feel without emotional fiber. It’s just overblown or watered down rhetoric. (Prose?)

Well-written genre is infused with creative intensity. Hitler and a multitude of other misinformed leaders appealed to ignorant minds, not taking much to convince followers to believe in an illusion. However, making an intelligent and informed mind believe in something that isn’t real is more of a challenge. To me, that is what makes fiction exciting to write.

Literary works often end like an international film that leaves one scratching their head. I get it. They want you to think, to provoke a response by presenting an unclear resolution where you choose what you believe to be true. But some of us just want to be entertained. Sometimes we doubt ourselves, and we want a break from accountability. We don’t want to read vague endings and guess what they mean whilst escaping.

I read once that fiction was the worst thing that ever happened to written expression, like bottled water being bad for third world countries and the environment. I wonder if literature outside of non-fiction is always intended escapism—a way to avoid day to day realities or people just wasting time. Perhaps, I’m doing a disservice by wanting to entertain my readers rather than provoke them into thought or teach a new skill through my personal experiences in non-fiction or my fictionalized characters. So, does that make only non-fiction works worth writing and reading? And then there’s the entertainment aspect of videos and social media. Are they also outcasts of what should be acceptable material to digest?

Thus far, my quandary as a writer has been which book to get out next. Perhaps it should be which genre. Writing is self-expression, but can I help it if someone finds my expression entertaining?

I journaled these thoughts at 4 a.m. unable to sleep because I can’t stop thinking about writing. Sometimes I have colorful dreams, terrific fictional stories based on who I want to be, would dare not be, or maybe was in the past. They have to be written. Little snippets, truisms occasionally come through, as well as these unintentional half-formatted essays.

I suppose, what it all boils down to is doing what I love. Non-fiction memoirs and essays are crafts I still need to learn, but I’m still going to keep writing fiction.

Constance Hood’s Incredible Debut Novel

Islands of Deceptions CoverIslands of Deception: Lying With the Enemy is an enjoyably consuming novel which hooks the reader from the first sentence all the way to the last. I was often, and easily, brought to the edge of my seat.

Constance Hood delivers a powerful and riveting account of a young man in search of fulfilling his dreams, only to find himself immersed in a world of espionage and intrigue. Although the topic of World War II has been written about time and again, Hood proves her ability to create a savory original and well researched story based on documented events.

Connie HoodThis smooth flowing and provocative novel is filled with engaging descriptions, historical

facts of interest, and highly unexpected twists. Islands of Deception: Lying With the Enemy will provide a reader of any genre with an entirely satisfying reading experience.

Publication date:  January 15, 2018.

Your Opinion–Please! YA or Adult Fiction?

Bloody knifeI need to walk away from my current work to get a fresh perspective, so in the mean time, I started to write a new book, a serial murder story. At first I thought it was too violent for young adult readers, but then when I thought of all the death and blood and gore in Hunger Games and Harry Potter, it didn’t seem so bad.

 My question is, should I keep this for a Young Adult audience or switch it up to a mainstream adult thriller?

 Here’s a brief excerpt from the first page. 

* * * * * *

“Hey, the elevator is going down to the basement! Did you press the wrong button?”

“Oh, crap!” Jenna’s eyes flew open, and her confidence dropped with the elevator.

“I hate the basement. It’s so creepy,” Carley moaned. “You know they don’t like us going down there.”

Jenna punched the number two button, but the decrepit elevator continued its descent.elevator buttons “It’s not like anybody wants to go down there in the first place.” She tore her eyes from the lit-up button marked with a one and stared at her friend. “I know I pressed two when we got on the elevator.”

“That means someone must have called for it from the basement!” Carley said. “Who do you think did that?”

“Calm down. It’s probably just Mr. Fieldsgate. That old janitor is no one to be afraid of.”

“I don’t know…”

“You sound like a baby. Just like Abigail. There’s nothing down there!” Jenna said.

The elevator shuddered to a stop, and Jenna gulped at the lump in her throat. She tapped the button for the second floor several times in quick succession.

“They think we might get hurt tripping over something in the dark. That’s all,” Jenna whispered, and her bravado faded into nothing as the doors slid open.

Each girl pinned herself back into the corner, and Jenna slowly reached out and pressed the ‘Close Door’ button. Nothing happened, but then the doors finally started to slide close. The girls exhaled, but two large hands, gnarled and bloody, reached into the elevator and pushed the doors apart. Jenna and Carley gaped wide mouthed, but neither could utter a sound. Carley glanced at her friend, whose round fearful eyes mirrored her own.

Scary SkeletonThe hands disappeared, but not a second later, from the black engulfed basement a carcass tilted forward. Crimson covered the back of its knotted gray hair, and the body splattered halfway inside the elevator onto the floor. Guttural sounds gargled up the girls’ throats, and screams finally let loose at the sight of the old school janitor.

His bulging eyes stared up at Jenna, as frightened in death as she was in life, and his mouth had dropped wide open to his chin, just like Carley’s. Blood saturated the front of his pine green one-piece uniform. Carley held both hands fisted prayer-like against her mouth, unable to speak.

The doors slid closed but bounced open as they hit the legs of the graying corpse. The moment the doors fully retracted, they drew toward the janitor’s body again. This time, battered hands latched onto the metal edges of the doors and pushed them open. Carley wailed and tucked herself hard inside the corner as a man peered at her with red facial scars curving like a chaotic map over half his face. Only one eye moved as he dragged it over Carley, then he glared at Jenna, who pressed her back into the handrail.

He growled when he spoke, more like an animal than a man.

“Well, well. What the hell do we have here?”

* * * * * *Question mark

What do you honestly think? Should this be written for a young adult or adult audience? Other murders in the story will include adults, both male and female, maybe another student. Please feel free to comment on the content, too. Thank you!