All posts for the month July, 2008

Pop Fiction Novelists

Published July 31, 2008 by ladyserenity92

Pop Fiction Novelist writers create original and updated stories for publication. Some pop fiction novelist are commissioned by sponsors, write for hire by making an outline and selling it to publishing companies (freelancing), or self-publish their books at book convention or an art market. Many run a computer log (Blog) and sell their novels in an e-book.Employment of pop fiction authors writing a blog is expected to grow by the year 2014. The job is expected to be competitive as many people are attracted to the occupation. Employment is expected to increase in a fast pace as demand grows for e-publications. The growing popularity of blogs allow pop novelist to get their work read and get recognized for their talent. Pop fiction novelist sometimes get paid for their work.
Pop novelist get paid up to $25,113-$55,599 yearly. There is an increasingly need for new pop novelist to develop new stories for readers with special interests. Online publication is becoming a fast demand for the cyber-world. Pop fiction novelists must be able to express their ideas and logics clearly; they must also love to write.

A pop fiction novelist must also do heavy research, do countless interviews, and take lots of notes and do hours of editing before sending their work to print. They must be creative, curious, knowledgeable, self-motivated and be very persevered. Pop novelist must demonstrate good judgment and strong ethics in their writing.

Often times, if a book written by a pop fiction novelist is very popular with the public, the novelist’s book becomes a television show, a movie, a video game, or a Broadway play. Today, comic books (graphic novels) are becoming a huge hit. These books use pictures to tell a story. Few pop novelist take art classes to build up their skills to become both illustrators and writers.

Being a pop novelist was not easy. Many times, gatekeepers at book publishing companies shun out new, unknown authors. Without market testing new books, printing companies over run huge orders of books to bookstores on consignment. As a result, the publishers and the author wasted not only money, but also destroyed hundreds of unsold books. In today’s world, pop Fiction novelist can pay about $100 to publish their first book.

Online bookstores such as Amazon, Borders and Books-a-Million are selling e-novels written by new authors. Some websites like The NovWritMo Club hold novel writing contest for National Novel Writers Month during the month of November.

Pop Fiction novelist choose instead to write their novels by cell phone (cell phone/pocket phone novel) or by e-book that can be downloaded onto an ebook device like Kinder. It takes a pop fiction novelist about six months to many years to produce a story. To be a pop fiction novelist, you have to make sacrifices in order to produce and promote your book.

The good thing about being a novelist is that you are in control of your story; you can let your people in your story be who you want to be. You don’t need a desk and chair at all; you can let this big, wide world be your desk and chair.

There were a lot of writers who did not have a lot of money to publish a book, some were lucky enough to buy a piece of paper and a pen. I love to write. I hope my report is enough to tell you about the career of a pop fiction novelist.









The Remembrance of Michael and T’yanna

Published July 30, 2008 by ladyserenity92

Everyday I still dream about my two cousins, and the laughter and tears that we shared. I was like an older sister to them. To Michael, I was like a sister; to T’yanna, I was like a fairy god cousin. I took them to the movies, took them shopping and out to eat at the best dollar-restaurants that were in Albemarle, North Carolina. Yes, my friend, those were the best days of my childhood.

When I was the year of ides (fifteen-years old), my Grandma was nearing Death’s door. Mom and Dad made the tough decision to leave behind the comforts and wealth of Boston, Mass. to go to Albemarle, North Carolina to be with her. We rode on the road for about a full day until we stopped at our new house in Albemarle.

I automatically felt homesick over missing my old home. For days I cried and threw temper-tantrums all over the house, yelling and fighting. When Grandma passed away, I threw the biggest fit in all of America. Just as I was about to run away from home, I was invited over to a barbeque at an aunt’s house.

When I arrived at the barbeque, my two Mulatto cousins dashed over toward me with welcome arms. There were Cousin Michael and Cousin T’yanna. T’yanna did a cartwheel for me as Michael gave me a cup of cola. I stopped being angry and gave my two cousins hugs and kisses. My Cousin T’yanna was pretty as a Daisy. And as a result, I called her ‘Daisy’. I realized that even in a small town there was always someone who loves you just the way you are.

Michael and I did things kids like us would do. We played video games and go to school. We even walked over to the movies to see the latest flick that was playing. With Daisy, she and I would watch cartoons and played with her baby sister, Madison. When Halloween came, Daisy was dressed up as a princess and Michael was dressed up as a vampire.

During Thanksgiving, Daisy, her parents, Madison and I watched television with our other cousins and family. When the food was ready, Michael was already in a seat at the table. Thanksgiving left and in its place was Christmas. My Cousin Daisy read the story of Jacob’s ladder and wanted a ladder of her own. Everyday she climbed up the trees, wanting to reach the sky. Everyday she would ask Santa or her parents to bring her a ladder so she could climb up to the heavens to chat with all of the angels.

Christmas came first to my Cousin Daisy. As she woke up that crispy, December morning, Daisy crawled out of her warm covers, got up from the couch, and went toward the Christmas tree to look for her ladder that she shined for. When she got to the Christmas tree, she looked away from all of the smiling dolls, the cute stuffed animals, the untouched books of boy wizards and princesses from days of old; she even looked under the boxes of European candies and enveloped Christmas cards stuffed with money. Daisy’s smile quickly turned into a pout; for the ladder that she hoped for was nowhere to be found beyond the shimmering, unwrapped boxes and enveloped holiday cards.

(If you think that was a sad day for Daisy, it was nothing compared to what my Cousin Michael went through.) Michael and his sister had a fight over a harmless video game. Though it all, Michael took the time to call up Daisy to wish her a ‘Merry Christmas.’ That made Daisy glow with happiness.
As the years went by, I watched them grow up along with me. I always thought I get to see them grow up into adults. I had hoped that they would live forever. One day Mom broke the news that Daisy had cancer. (No, she didn’t have a pet crab, but I wish that it was one.) I did what any cousin would do; I treated her like a princess and prayed for her. She lived for one year just to be a flower girl at her parents wedding. And Michael was telling Daisy that she looked pretty. He told her that when she was bald and when her hair grew back.

My brother had a dream that Michael was walking up the steps to a door. My brother was begging Michael not to go up those steps and was restrained him in his arms. Michael, as strong willed as a powerful bull, broke free from my brother’s hold. “Let me go, man,” he told him, “I’ve got to go. You can’t go with me, I have to go alone. See you later!” My brother could only watch Cousin Michael go up the steps and open the door to the light.

Then Cousin Melissa (Daisy’s mom) had a dream about her daughter. She was in the kitchen having a snack for herself and her unborn child, when the phone rang. Melissa picked up the phone and asked who it was. It was her daughter, Daisy from the hospital. “Some people want me to come with them to their new home,” she told her mom happily. “What people, Baby?” Melissa asked her.

“I can’t tell you. I have to behave for them before they come to the hospital to pick me up. I’ve got to go. I see you, Mattie, Daddy and Brother later. I love you, goodbye.”

In place of her daughter’s child-like, angelic voice was a dial tone.

The next day after the uncanny dreams, Michael was gunned down. The sister that he sometimes cared about and fought with slipped away in her arms. Two days later, Daisy fell asleep in her hospital bed after watching a children’s program and never woke up. They were finally reunited together in Heaven.

The resent years have been bittersweet for my family and me. Melissa had her son, and Michael’s sister graduated from high school. I would like to add more good news to my paper; if I did, it’ll become a memoir.

I didn’t type this paper to make anyone wept at the untimely deaths of two young children, instead I want anyone who reads my story to understand that the death of a loved one doesn’t mean that their life is over; but their memory will live on forever. Think of the good times that you shared with them and know that love is much stronger than death.

I know that both my cousins aren’t coming back anymore, but my memories of them will live on forever in my heart.



Rage (Skit) Part two

Published July 27, 2008 by ladyserenity92

Act 2

The Dinning Room

Ada is at the table with her dad, waiting for a signal to fire the gun. As Ada is finished eating, she rises up and looks around the room. Dad looks at his daughter.

Dad: Ada, is something wrong?

Ada beings to talk strangely; as in a trance.

Ada: Those who do harm to others will be punished.

She reaches into her jacket pocket.

Ada: Those who steal from the poor will have their treasures’ paid to the poor three times.

Family Member: (Whispering) what has gotten into that child?

Ada: Those who defy the request of the requestor shall fall along with their household.

Ada pulls out the gun. The household panics as she points the gun at her father.

Dad: (Begging) Ada, you don’t want to do this! Please, let me live.

Ada: (Smiling) I’ve lived 20 years of hell, Dad. Every time someone hurts me or takes avenge of me, people laugh at me, or tell me to annoy it and that I’ll have the last laugh. Well, my last laugh has come.

Family Member: Child, think about what you’re doing.

Ada: Shut up!

Ada, (still holding the gun against her dad), is feeling a rush of power she has never possessed before. Ada’s dad gets upon his knees and is in near tears.

Dad: I’ll give you what ever you want, sweetheart! I’ll repay you the money your brother stole from you. I’ll repay you in my will. Please, Ada! I love you, I’m sorry; don’t kill me!

Ada pauses briefly. It is a 30 second pause. After the pause, Ada puts the gun against her father and pulls the trigger. There is a gunshot, along with screaming. Dad falls to the floor, dead.

Ada turns the gun over to herself.

Ada: I won’t trouble you anymore, since I am a loser. This is the only way.

Ada turns the gun toward the family member.

Family Member: No!

Ada pulls the trigger and shots the family member in the shoulder. Ada returns the gun and puts it on her heart.

Ada: (whispering) I’m sorry.

Ada closes her eyes just as the family member struggles to get to her. Ada pulls the trigger and shoots herself. Ada falls down to the floor. She looks back at her family from the ground.

Ada: (dying voice) At last, I have the last laugh.

Ada dies as the family member collapses to the floor from their injury. Another person rushed to her aid as two more members of the family race to the two lifeless bodies of the father and daughter in pools of blood.

Curtain falls.


Rage (Skit) Part one

Published July 26, 2008 by ladyserenity92


It is the start of the family dinner and the family has sat down at the dinning room table to eat. Upstairs the eldest daughter, Ada has just finished up loading up her gun. Ada is a troubled twenty year old woman who was recently left out of her grandmother’s will. Ada is often tormented by the family. As a last resort, she has brought a gun to deal with the conflict once and for all.

Ada: (Looking at the gun) I really don’t want to do this. But there is just no other way. My family has given me no choice.

Ada looks at the letter on the bed (perhaps a suicide note). Ada looks around the room and tucks the gun into her jacket. There are footsteps behind the door. The door gently opens and Ada’s dad steps into the room. Dad is a fail man (about late forties/early fifties. He knows that his life is about to end by the apologizing glance upon his daughter. Dad tries to stop fate by talking words of symphony.

Dad: Sweetheart, it’s time to eat. I’m sure a good meal will make you forget what has happened to you with your brother and with the family.

Ada: (Pointing voice) It was $25,000. I’ve worked hard and all I got was nothing. You know I am struggling just to stay in college.

Dad: I understand, dear. I know that you’re a hard worker and grandma knows that. At the last minuet, she decided that your brother needed the money. I know that you still love your brother and the family.

Ada: (Rising her voice, tersely) After he stole from me and called me a theft, and lied on me to Grandma that I was in a robbery; and you still love him? Well, I don’t.

Dad walks over to his daughter and places his hand upon her shoulder.

Dad: I know that you can forgive your brother and the family. Now, come downstairs.

Dad exits. Ada follows.

(End of part one)

Nikki’s Dream

Published July 25, 2008 by ladyserenity92

Every since she was a little girl, Nikki had always loved to write. Everyday she would write on any type of paper, even on brown grocery bags brought from the store. For five years going, Nikki has written works that can be stretched to the ends of the earth. In creative writing class that day, Nikki read a story that she wrote; sweet, yet short. The class loved it like Pepsi Cola. Nikki’s teacher mouthed out a message. “I’d like to see you after class about your story,” she said.

Nikki stayed after class to get a friendly ‘scolding’ from the teacher. “It’s too short.” She pointed out. “I know, ma’am,” Nikki replied, “I thought you wanted a ‘short story’.” Nikki’s teacher sighed. “Nikki, I know you can do better to make your story longer. Bring me a longer story.”

Nikki walked home crushed like ice. I thought it was good. I thought everyone loved it. Nikki knew her teacher was telling her something; Nikki knew it deeply. For a year now, Nikki had been battling a demon known as writer’s block. The distractions, the progratsitons; it was driving her crazy. Nikki knew that she had to fight the demon of writer’s block or face losing her dream as a writer forever.


When she got home, Nikki saw a note posted on the table:



Working late!

Dinner’s in the fridge. Enjoy!



For some strange reason, Nikki was feeling hungry. Nikki went over to the fridge and opened the door. She was faced with a pot of udon soup. Nikki took the pot out of the fridge, heated the soup on the stove, and ate it. It was so good; she ate another bowl before taking a nap.

Nikki woke up to a knock on her door. Nikki rushed over to the door and opened it. When the door was wide open, Nikki was faced with an angry woman. “I—” Nikki

stammered. “You better get on the bus, right now!” the woman chastised. Without another word, Nikki did as she was told and put on her shoes and jacket.

The woman turned out to be a teacher from one of the stories Nikki had forgotten to finish. As Nikki got out to the yellow school bus, the sky had turned rosy-pink. Nikki got on the bus and saw a seat waiting for her next to a girl with blue hair in a ying-yang cut. As Nikki sat down, she took a look at the children on the bus. Nikki knew all the kids were in her unfinished stories she had neglected.

The children were schooled aged and Nikki knew that she was the oldest. The girl with the haircut reached into her pocket book and pulled out a tube of candy balls. “Want some?” she asked, “they’re real good.” Nikki thanked the girl and took some. In each bite, the flavors of mint, grape, cherry and peach tasted as real as day. Just the way she had described it in her old writings back in junior high. Nikki knew the girl from her story. “Is your name ‘Chrissy Greystone?’” Nikki asked the girl. “How’d you know?” the girl returned. Nikki blushed, “Oh, you remind me of someone I’ve met.” “I’d like to meet your friend one day.” Nikki told the girl about herself. In return, Chrissy told a little about herself to Nikki. A tomboy who likes dresses and books in secret, likes cooking and has two brothers and a sister. Hates her mom for abandoning her and is a daddy’s girl. Just like in the story Nikki forgot to finish.

As the school bus drove on, Nikki felt a slap on the back of her head from behind. Nikki rose up from her chair, bopped the boy, and gave him a good scolding. The scolding was so hard; the boy felt wax oozing out of his ears. The boy never bothered Nikki again.

Chrissy was fascinated. “The way I handle that kid, I always made him eat dirt, and he still hashes on me,” she said. “It’s called ‘psychological scolding,” Nikki told her. Nikki and Chrissy became best friends.

The bus ride turned out to be a trip to the waterfalls. The falls were beautiful and smelled of fresh rain. The rainbow put the icing on the cake to the falls. Nikki and Chrissy hung out with the other children and the teacher. As Nikki interacted with the children and teacher, she uncovered more about them from the stories she long ceased writing about. Nikki played in the forest with the children. At lunch, Chrissy shared her lunch with Nikki. Peanut butter and marshmallow cream sandwiches. Yum!

As the sun set, Nikki and the children rode back home. Inside the bus, Chrissy sparked up the conversion. “You know, I enjoyed spending time with you, Miss Nikki,” she said. Chrissy turned over the lid and became serious. “I don’t know where I’ll go after this ride. Once we get off, there’ll be no more of me. One day I’m on a field trip with my friends; the next I’ll be history.” Chrissy turned her eyes to Nikki. “Why do you keep me and everyone else on the edge? You write out a plan for us on notepaper, and when something comes up you stop. Look at me. Look at everybody. We need you to finish up with our lives. We miss you, Miss Nikki.” The bus made a stop. Outside the window, Nikki saw her old friends. The charters that wanted her to finish up their fates on the paper. “A lot of people want to see my charters in the pages of my published book,” Nikki said to herself. “A little bit of polish, cuts and paint can fix up a broken sprit.” Chrissy told her. “That’s what you wrote in my story.”


The bus door opened and Nikki stepped out. As Nikki walked to her door, she felt the people from her stories putting their hopes on her. When Nikki looked back, she saw Chrissy smiling and shooing her away like a lost dog. Nikki opened her door and went upstairs to her room to take her nap once more.

Nikki woke up to her mom entering into her bedroom. “Hi, honey,” she said. “I see that you ate well.” “Mom, I just had the funniest dream,” Nikki said. “I was kidnapped by a teacher and taken for a ride on a field trip, and this girl I had written about back on spring break was talking to me; and all these people from my stories were telling me to finish up on my writing. And—“”Oh, my bad!” Mom said. “I must’ve put in a little too much salt. I’ll get you some water.” Mom left out of room and left her daughter alone. Nikki went over to her bed and reached under to get out her box of unfinished stories. Nikki brought the box over to her desk and opened it when she sat down. After sorting out the stories, she began to type the first unfinished story. Nikki knew it would take her 25 days to finish what she had long forgotten. In the middle of wrapping up one story, Nikki turned her chair to see a little girl with a blue yin-yang haircut, giving her a smile. “Thank you!” she said. In return, Nikki gave the girl a wink.

Sunday Trick

Published July 24, 2008 by ladyserenity92

When I was nine, I had an older brother. On April Fool’s day, I decided to play a trick on him.

It was on that Sunday while he slept, that I hid his glasses where he wouldn’t find them. A moment later, I heard my brother cry, “where are my glasses?” Brother turned the house upside down trying to find them.

I was at the table eating breakfast, when he stormed into the kitchen. Turning his glance at me, he barked, “Where are they?”

I looked at my brother innocently. “I don’t know what you talking about?”

“I want my glasses, Drew.”

“I don’t know where they are.”

Mom finished up with breakfast and set a plate on the table for my brother. Mom asked Brother, “Honey, would you mind getting the orange juice out of the fridge?”

Brother went over to the fridge and opened the door. Right in front of him on the self, next to the carton of orange juice were the glasses he’d been looking for. He looked at both Mom and me from the fridge. I gave Brother a smile. “April Fools!” I said before laughing. Mom Laughed, too. But Brother didn’t find it at all funny.

This story is fiction. Anyone in this story living or dead is confidential.

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