Currently viewing the tag: "there"
Now I know there’s a name for a condition or a person who can almost sense and feel others emotions. Like you can tell when they’re upset just by being around them. It’s not like empathy or some science fiction sixth sense. But like a really psychological term.
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This is a fan fiction I write about Batman. English is not my best language since I learn 3 other languages at the same time. Please tell me if this essay is OK. Feel free to tell me any opinion, but please avoid cuss. Thank you:)
Disclaimer: I do not own Batman, The Joker, Two-face, Dr. Strange and the Penguin, They belongs to the DC comic and WB bros. This is purely a fan fiction.
“Ah, there is one more thing I would like to tell you, young lady.” Dr. Strange twisted his neck and skewed at me, “you would not believe this.”
“I’d like to know.” I said with a polite manner trying to cover my weariness of this three-hour interview.
“Ah, you are interested, good, good.” Dr. Strange bended toward me, “this is something you do not want to report.”
“Then I am interested.” I raised my eyebrows. Throughout these three hours Dr. Strange had been talking his quaint projects all along, including the mind-reading machine that had caused his arrest. Obviously he wanted the media’s attention. It was strange that he wanted to share a secret.
“Listen, young lady, I have not found anyone that fit to know this secret until your presence. This thing has a price, ah, especially for someone at the beginning on her career.” He marked the word beginning with that raucous voice. He meant me, a new reporter of Gotham Observer.
“I won’t pay for such a thing.” I was out of patience.
“You misunderstand me.” Dr. Strange shook his bald head, “you don’t pay me, Miss Vale,” he pauses, “you pay the secret.”
“Are you sampling a so-called mind game, doctor?” I sensed a blink of danger. Maybe I should not take this interview, I thought to myself.
“Yes or no, young lady, but please, take it easy.” He drew back my attention, “whatever it is, we will be taking an amount of time to find out.”
“Is this an illegal issue?” I found myself naive as soon as I asked.
“Is this what you have been worried about?” I saw Dr. Stranger’s mouth smile tightly on his blank face, making me wonder if he had some kind of facial muscle disease. Perhaps he had diseases all over his body since his ultimate organ—the brain—had been proved psychopathic or strange as he preferred to be called.
“Not at all, Miss Vale. As far as I can predict, it is nothing illegal for you to find out.”
“To find out what?”
“The true identity of the Batman.” He pronounced Bat-Man with a strong accent as if he would want a base drum accompany this statement.
“Ha ha,” I was amused, “You are very interesting; doctor, but sorry, I am not interested.” I had not presumed that Dr. Hugo Stranger wanted attention that badly.
“You think that I am joking, Miss Vale.” His voice was shaking, “you are wrong. Do NOT despise an arrested professor, young lady, it is an erudite man you are interviewing!”
If you are erudite, you sure know not to break the law and not to come to Arkham, I meant to say this, yet I changed my mind before the words slip from my lips. “I am sorry, Dr. Strange, please, go on.”
“Bruce Wayne, the famous billionaire of the Gotham City has a consanguineous relationship with the Batman.” Dr. Strange stopped talking and stared at me, I supposed he was studying my reaction.
“What do you mean by consanguineous, doctor?”
“Remember the M.R.J machine I told you?”
“Yes, that is very impressive.” If it is real, I wondered, Dr. Strange claimed that the machine is able to generate images by reading people’s thoughts.
“Bruce Wayne came for a treatment once and the accuracy of my magnificent machine impressed me once more. Mr. Wayne was persecuted by his parents’ murders when he was little. You have no idea how strong his will was to revenge. He is the avenger of the Gotham night!”
“Bruce Wayne’s parents were murdered when he was little?” I was unaware.
“Ah, Miss Vale, you need to read some old newspapers while editing new ones. It is all right, you were not born yet, weren’t you? Mr. Wayne’s parents were murdered right in front of him in the cold ruthless street of the Crime Alley. Don’t you think that would make a Batman out of it?” Dr. Strange kept staring at me.
“I am not sure, but I think this fact explains a lot of Wayne’s self abandon life style with women, alcohol and money.” I met Bruce Wayne once in a business conference; holding women in both arms, the self-indulgent laugh of his was not absolutely cheerful. I understood the emotion beneath that kind of laugh because it had came out of me as well. I forgot since when I had discovered that an apolaustic laugh can carry out more release than tears.
“Good, you have been thinking. I believe sooner or later we will find out whose suspicion is right.” Dr. Strange spoke suddenly. I smelled the unique medical dust in Arkham again; the bitter taste of the air was so intense, I could imagine that a normal person might become an insane criminal if he lives in Arkham long enough.
“You mean you are not sure of the truth?”
“No. Who do you think I am talking about? He is the Batman. To find out his true identity could be a tremendous prize. I almost had it. I had caught him unaware, but perhaps, he caught me unaware instead.”
“What do you mean?”
“I auctioned off the tape of Wayne’s imaged thoughts to the Joker, The Penguin and Two-Face, but the tape was destroyed. After Batman caught all that he wanted, Bruce Wayne and Batman both stood in front of me telling me that it was a trap Batman asked Wayne to set up. I was shocked, I have set up countless traps to people, and how I could ever fell into such an insidious one…”
“You should be shocked!” I broke in with my ungovernable anger. I detested his smug tone as if he was meant to be the hero instead of a shameful criminal.
“Calm yourself down, Miss Vale. Think about it. The Batman is well known to Bruce Wayne. This is the absolute truth. Do you think the Batman would trust a playboy like Mr. Wayne on his risking mission? This whole thing does not make sense. I am an experienced psychologist, if I still have the tape, I will be able to found out whether Wayne’s thoughts were fake. But now, I think the only answer lies on…”
“Bruce Wayne may know.” I spoke to myself.
“Good!” Dr. Strange raise his voice suddenly, “very good! You are the right one, Miss Vale, you are!”
“Why me?” I felt a chill.
“Simple, don’t you have an interview with Mr. Wayne next Monday?” He pointed at my schedule which I put on the desk.
“I am afraid that this intention of yours is rather inappropriate, Dr. Strange.” I said stably.
“Ah, If you consider this intention inappropriate, you should know the others of mine” Dr. Strange’s tight smile appeared again.
“As I told you before, I am not interested.”
“Yet you have believed what I just told you, I know.” Dr. Strange whispered to me, “Your curiosity is quite natural, young lady.”
“Maybe, doctor. But my sense of right and wrong is also quite clear.” I replied.
“It is not wrong for you to know the truth. The key is not to tell.” He stared at me again.
Being here the first time, Arkham made me nervous. This is probably the only place where hysterical endless screams and cuss are understandable and allowed. The wicked sprits here are restless yet they are restrained in the cells without windows. Soon I noticed that I had become the only prey of their desirable eyes inside the building as I walk though the hall as fast as I can, staring at my feet. I had no idea what kind of ideas insane criminals had when they stared at me. Even through I had talked to Dr. Strange for over five hours, I had not a slight clew of his strange mind expect the echo of his raucous voice in my head. “As long as I get out of this building, I will be fine.” I tried to comfort myself.
When I heard the shout “Look, it’s the giant Bat!” at the turn, it was too late for me to stop from hitting on the dark suit and the firm body within.
“Oh, that is clumsy, sorry.” I apologized with a slight unnatural laughter; I felt my unstable heart beat. I looked up from the bat symbol on his wide chest; the muscles of his chin locked any facial expression that I wished to see. I moved backed one step; the magnificent figure in front of me was like Hellenic god statuary alive, despite his dark hue. I believed he had paid attention to the ID I was wearing. “You shall look forward as you walk, Miss…Vale.” The voice was deep, as deep as the source of the abysmal Gotham River, as if every word came from the bottom of his vein through his breath.
“Yes, “ I looked at the mask, “Sir.”
I lost in my subconscious as he passed me.
Arkham had quiet down since the Batman’s sudden presence. The criminal was like an obedient lamb in Batman’s hand when he was given to the guard. I felt so much safer walking through the rest of the hall.
“The giant Bat” has the sprit of a giant.
My major is technically “Professional and Technical Writing.” I like to write and edit non-fiction. I am taking some technical writing courses, but mostly as a backup. Also, I’ve read a couple of places that technical writers get paid pretty well, compared to other entry-level writing positions.
I’m just wondering what kind of jobs a non-fiction writing major can get. I’ve read the Occupational Handbook but it’s pretty vague – do most people writing for magazines, newspapers, publishing companies, etc?
Thanks!
The Universe works in mysterious ways — most often in ways we cannot even perceive. I recently received notice that I had written award winning fiction. The funny thing of it is I used to think that in order for me to have the house of my dreams — I would have to be living my dream life — that of being a best-selling author.
That is not how it worked for me.
Though it took me 50 years to achieve my dream house (one that was designed by me and built in conjunction with my husband) I did achieve it (using Law of attraction principles that I’ve written extensively about in other locations on EzineArticles). And it is a beautiful house nestled on the Western Slope of the Sierra Nevada overlooking God’s country and ten acres of natural wooded hills.
It is my dreaming ground.
Little did I know that when that life-long dream got fulfilled, all of my dreams would come clamoring at the door, begging entrance and a chance to sup at my table. Warm-heartedly and unabashedly, I opened the door and let them ALL in.
I have been a writer since I could hold a pencil. And I have reams and reams and reams of written material from before there were computers — which means I had to hand-type them all. Or write them by hand.
When I was in my early twenties, I wrote several children’s picture books that summarily got rejected one after the other — only to find that one of the publishers I had sent my book to actually printed my book under the name of the illustrator. Argh, that was a deep-mining experience, from which I am only now recovering the gems.
This was all prior to the 1976 copyright law changes that prevented them from doing just that. What I took away from that event was somehow (convoluted though it may be) I felt I was not good enough.
I did not realize how untrue that was until just a few years ago. If I had just tilted my eyes a bit and looked at it differently I would have realized that if it is good enough to steal and publish — it meant that I was good enough to publish!
But as we go through life, and especially if we are working on continually improving ourselves, we come to realize that our self-worth cannot be determined by anyone outside of us. We are the ones who MUST set the standard of our own self-worth. Letting someone else do that for you is giving away your power.
What happened next meant a new unfolding for me. The many books I kept on the back shelf of my mind started flying towards me, flapping their covers like wings and cooing at me, hovering above my head, first this one, then that one, until finally one touched down.
Though I had completed a non-fiction book before I wrote this novella, I did not really count that as part of my repertoire because non-fiction is really not my gig. Non-fiction is something I do easily having been a newspaper editor and reporter for several years. Non-fiction, to me, is not writing — it’s typing — to steal a quote from Robin Williams doing a parody of Truman Capote.
I prefer to write fiction because in fiction, spirit can speak more freely to the reader without the writer getting in the way. Fiction is harder to write because it has to make sense. Truth does not. And the truth in fiction is the one the reader assigns to it — it is not that of the writer. Fiction is a personal experience.
That’s the way I like to write.
Keep that in mind when you write fiction. Your fiction must make sense even if you are asking your readers to suspend their disbelief. Make it sensible.
So how do you write award-winning fiction? Follow these few steps and you will find yourself on your way to becoming an award winning fiction wrter:
Write simply — and write as you speak. Do not affect a voice that is not you — this bleeds through the writing and gets all over the reader. They do not like it. It is messy and sticky.
Start with topics you know — even in fiction — it is more real that way.
Leave the Litter-A-Chure at the door — Talk to your readers, do not try to impress them with your vocabulary. Otherwise you are just masturbating on the page in public. No one wants to watch. Trust me.
Open a vein — Lawrence Block said that and he is correct. Write from your heart, not your head.
A good yarn goes a long way — and remember it is SHOW them not TELL them.
Writer’s write — Find a way to write every day. EVERY DAY! One author wrote a mere hour a day and created more than 50 novels doing just that.
Create dialogue that is real — there is nothing worse than stilted dialogue. Write like people talk. If you need help, go to the mall and sit where you can hear people talk, record their conversations on paper to get a “feel” for dialogue.
Develop a perspective and stick to it. Unless you are really good, stick with one perspective, tell the story from one point of view.
Leave out the boring stuff — If it does not further the story – do not put it in.
The bottom line is that when you write, write in a manner that keeps the reader turning the page. Draw them in — make them want to find out how it ends. Even if they do not like the ending — if you write well enough, they will read it cover to cover. They may say “I hate that book.,” of “what a stupid ending,” or “I cudda done better.”
But they read it and felt something about it. And to me — that is what it is all about anyway.
Getting your readers to feel.
I was so stoked when I recently received this unsolicited review of my book, “…this book must be read by millions…” I always thought that myself — not because of some egoistic need, but because this little novella really has healing within it — fiction story and all. When I wrote it, it was more like I channeled it — I watched a movie and tried in the best manner possible to describe what I was seeing.?? But then many authors have shared with me that’s the way it works for them as well. Books really do come out of the ether and have a life all their own. If the energy feels right to you, and you’d like to read more, check out the Squidoo page Award Winning Fiction or hop on over to the Book’s website and read the first chapters for free http://www.ChangingPlanes.net.
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