New Story

Hey guys, I'm focusing on writing college essays and filling out applications. It's important but it's a lot of work, so sorry that I haven't been posting much recently. I'm currently working on a short story, though, so let's hope it's a hit! It should be coming your way hopefully within the next few weeks.

Crime of Passion

You smell of spices, and smoke
And sometimes of sadness
Your scent draws me in
Like a buffalo to water,
A scent I need and
A scent I know

My soul finds yours
In a sea of people
Reaching out to softly
Steal you away from the madness
To coax you away
Quietly, so softly

And I love you, oh
I love you
When you sing and walk
With me
In the afternoons

And I see you and wonder
If anyone would notice
If I stole you away
And loved you to death

Essays again

Sorry I haven't been posting lately. I've been busy preparing my college essays!

It has actually been fun for me to fill out college applications and write about myself. Has anyone on here been doing the same?

Interesting article

Here is an interesting article on what makes a good story.


http://www.readerviews.com/Articles-WritingGoodStory.html


Here is the written article:

What Makes A Good Story?

Why do some books stink?

Why do some books remain memorable, their characters living in our minds long after we have closed the book?

 A good book doesn’t just depend on the reader’s taste. Definite rules exist for creating a story the reader will enjoy.

Why do people read novels in the first place? I think Ayn Rand was right when she said, “I read a novel for the purpose of seeing the kind of people I would want to see in real life and living through the kind of experience I would want to live through.”

The kind of experience I want to live through is a positive one. Too many modern stories—books and films—are depressing. A good writer does not depress his readers or offer them negative portrayals of life. We do not need any more stories of drug dealers, prostitutes, crime and murder. While I enjoy a good mystery, I don’t need to read about a sensational killing filled with blood and gore. Now, I’m not saying stories can’t have a drug dealer or a prostitute in them, but the author does need to consider the purpose of including such characters in the story.

Some writers will argue that such characters represent “reality” and that life isn’t always rosy. I agree, but we don’t need to wallow in misery. I am reminded of Peter O’Toole, as Don Quixote in the film “Man of La Mancha,” declaring, “Maddest of all is to see life as it is and not as it should be!”

Authors must not limit themselves to depicting life as it is—that is equivalent to being a photographer, when the author’s task and privilege is to be an artist, a painter who creates an interpretation of what he sees.

Authors have a grave responsibility to take life and depict it in a way that will help us live ours. The story does not require a moral, but it should make us understand life better and inspire us. Stories need to be uplifting and heroic; readers need something to grasp upon when they have had a bad day, something that makes them feel they can go on, and do more than go on, to inspire them to persevere. Reading about the hum-drum dysfunctional family next door will not do that. To write books about such people and their messed up lives is not doing one’s job as a novelist—it is giving up on life and one’s readers.

A reader wants to relate to characters like himself, but characters just slightly better than him or her—characters he can see himself becoming, characters who struggle to achieve, and make us believe we are capable of achievement.

The key element to a good story is a main character who is a hero, NOT an anti-hero like so many of our modern-day stories.

The second key element is an uplifting plot, where the hero overcomes an obstacle that either makes him a better person or makes the world a better place—usually both.

The problem with modern stories is we have been brainwashed into admiring unattractive characters. Let me give you an example of a bad story, one modern literary critics wrongly choose to celebrate. The book is “Molloy” by Samuel Beckett, a writer best known for his play “Waiting for Godot.” “Molloy” is considered by literary critics to be one of the greatest novels of the twentieth century. It’s so fantastic, in fact, that I couldn’t read past page twenty. Why? I couldn’t relate to the character. I did not care about the character. I saw nothing in the character to admire or make me want to be like him.

In the novel’s first twenty long-winded, first-person, stream-of-consciousness pages, I learned that Molloy, a grown man, apparently not too mentally stable, likes to ride around on his bicycle while worrying he will lose the pieces of paper he keeps in his pockets for wiping his rear because he is constantly concerned his mother will yell at him if he gets poopy stains in his underwear. My first question at the start of this article was, “Why do some books stink?” I think in the case of “Molloy,” we have the answer in those poopy stains.

Why would I want to read about Mr. Poopy-Pants? What is heroic about this character? How is his story going to benefit me? I knew after twenty pages, nothing about Poopy-man was going to make me feel better about myself, or convince me I want to spend several hours of my time reading about him. (In all fairness to Beckett, I did skim the rest of the book, but the story did not get any better).

In good literature, a hero overcomes obstacles that are worth overcoming. Often the obstacle is himself, and he achieves it when he has to make a decision that requires action, which in turn advances the plot.

An example of a good story is “The Scarlet Pimpernel.” It’s not really a tale of the French Revolution. It’s the story of the love of a man and woman, and how that love is threatened by a misunderstanding between them. Percy is the Scarlet Pimpernel who rescues French aristocrats from the guillotine. He must keep his identity a secret from his newlywed wife because he mistakenly believes she has betrayed the Marquis St. Cyr to the guillotine, so he feels he cannot trust her. Marguerite suffers throughout the book because she does not understand the loss of her husband’s affection. When her brother’s life is threatened because the French government learns he is part of the Scarlet Pimpernel’s band, Marguerite is blackmailed into helping betray the Pimpernel, not realizing he is her husband.

“The Scarlet Pimpernel” is a fantastic story because life and love are at stake, and the author, Baroness Orczy, formulates the plot to make matters as difficult as possible for the characters so that the reader keeps turning the page to find out what happens.

In the end, when Marguerite and Percy’s misunderstanding is resolved during a dramatic ending that endangers their lives, the happy ending brings a sense of relief and joy to the reader. Readers respond to it because they wish their own difficulties can be corrected and their own lives will be as noble as Percy and Marguerite’s become.

I don’t care what becomes of Beckett’s Mr. Poopy-pants. I do care whether Marguerite wins back her husband’s love, and whether her husband will live so he can forgive her. I certainly don’t want to be Mr. Poopy-pants, but I do want to know the steadfast love Marguerite and Percy find in the end, and I want to believe love matters, and that good triumphs over evil.

What makes a good story, therefore, are 1) likeable characters who inspire me to be a better person and 2) a plot with something important at stake, a plot that inspires me, like the story’s characters, to seek a better world. Then, when I turn the book’s last page, I can feel satisfied and say, “That was a good story.”

Birthday

May 9 is my birthday. I will be 17 years old. I have lived for 17 years on Earth, and I hope to live many more!

Rewrites

Well, after having the flu for a week, it looks like a weekend of English essay rewrites and makeup homework. That's one of the bad things about high school- when you miss a week of school, you are constantly playing catch-up. Six pages of Great Gatsby Analysis revisions is underway. Happy weekend, people, and don't get the flu. And if you do, don't come to math class so you can give it to others.

Update

Working on a short screenplay.. check back later for more!

Britany Stops Smoking - Brooke Becker

StarCast

Hey, Guys! Great news!

I was recently chosen to be one of StarCast's Best Performers. Thousands of people send trial monologues to this rapidly developing site, and the best are displayed on the site and showcased to top casting directors, talent agents, and other industry professionals. My monologue, "Britany Stops Smoking", took me about three days to memorize, prepare for, and film. I am eagerly awaiting contact from film industry professionals and am so glad to have been given this honor. Check it out at:

https://www.starcastauditions.com/best-performances

Writing

Sorry that I haven't been posting a lot lately. Things are a bit crazy around here!

With preparing to look at colleges and school, I haven't been writing a lot. I even stopped writing in my dream journal. I plan to pick it up again by next weekend. I find that I have the urge to write on here a lot about the world of cinema and acting. I would like to start another blog just for that, but I feel like I would have trouble maintaining this one. What do you think?

Oscar Night

As many of you know, the Academy Awards are one of the most important ceremonies in the film industry. Actors, writers, directors, and other artists are honored and recognized for their work on this night. The 2012 Oscars are on Sunday February 29, and once again, I will most likely only be watching from my television. A few years ago, after watching the ceremony with a friend, I promised myself that one day I would be THERE, either on stage, in the audience, or present in some other fashion. It is my dream to immerse myself in the films and to be a part of them, and to talk with other actors and directors (and writers, of course) who know the industry and have had the privilege to be part of it. As an aspiring actress and screenwriter, I wistfully watch as others take part in film history and know that this year is not my time. I know that I can do it, and given the chance, I will go. But not this year, apparently. Not this year.

Depth Perceptions

I draw up my words as
A child draws a sloshing bucket,
Struggling with the rope
That descends into the cold, stone well.

I spill my words onto paper as
A fisherman heaves a net overboard
Woven by a tired wife
Always waiting for his return.

I coax my words to form as
A little girl urges her kitten
To come out from under the cabinet
And into the warming sun.

Pintrest

I've decided to create a Pintrest account! Follow me at browneyedgal95 for some great antique pictures.

Broken

Thought my phone

Was

Broken, when you

Never

Called me back.

Turns out you

Broke

My heart instead

And now you're

Wearing

Black

Of Diamonds and Dragonflies

Shafts of moonlight collecting dust
Settle on the grasses of
My garden of rust.
My paintings are fading
At the hands of time
And my diamond-set
Dragonflies are heavy with lyme.
It would be me to keep a garden
Frostbitten with unkempt
And try to re-create a world
Of my own vain attempt.

My Jolly Sailor Bold

My heart is pierced by Cupid, I disdain all glittering gold,
There is nothing can console me but my jolly sailor bold.
Come all you pretty fair maids, whoever you may be
Who love a jolly sailor bold that ploughs the raging sea.
My heart is pierced by Cupid, I disdain all glittering gold,
There is nothing can console me but my jolly sailor bold.
My heart is pierced by Cupid, I disdain all glittering gold,
There is nothing can console me but my jolly sailor bold.


-Hanz Zimmer, Pirates of the Caribbean: On Stranger Tides

Pearls

"This pearl has become my soul... If I give it up, I shall lose my soul."

- John Steinbeck, The Pearl

Dreams

I haven't been writing on this blog as much as I had wanted to. I have, however, been writing a lot in my dream journal. My dreams are so bizarre that it was suggested by several people that I keep a written account of all my dreams. As I read through them, I realized that while many make sense (such as anxiety dreams about driving and school), many do not (such as dreams about hidden cults and hairy llamas). Many of my dreams can be used as inspiration for a story, however, and other things. I have learned that this is a great way to get creativity: from my own overactive subconscious.

Love

Love is an irresistible desire to be irresistibly desired.

-Robert Frost

Quiet

Gothic Valentine

Black lipstick melting, dripping

And smeared in the sweat

Of the sun, glittering heels

And cheap fading leather

And notes scribbled blindly

In Sharpie, and crumpled

And silver pierced tongues

Clicking numbly in sync

To the pulsing guitars

And metal chains glinting

In soft candlelight

So the world turns on,

And the lights blow out.

College Searching

I am in the process of narrowing down my college choices, and it isn't easy. Many schools have excellent writing degrees and programs, beautiful campuses, and high ratings, but it isn't that simple to choose a school. I love the weather in California but I also love the old architecture in Connecticut. I was born in New York and lived in Connecticut for the first five years of my life, and I remember loving it. However, I am not a fan of cold weather. The differences in colleges and their different areas of study make choosing and researching difficult. I hope that when senior year rolls around, I am somewhat prepared to make these choices.

Editor's Choice Award

I was notified this morning that I have been chosen to receive an Editor's Choice award for my piece The Carousel on TeenInk. I am very excited to be recognized with this award and I hope that someday soon I will be able to make it into their printed magazine. To view my article, please visit the Fantasy page of TeenInk.com and look for "The Carousel" under the recently submitted tab. Please comment and rate the article as well. I always love to hear feedback!

You can find it here: http://www.teenink.com/fiction/sci_fi_fantasy/article/421466/The-Carousel/

The Phantom's Opera

As I sit here and watch the film adaptation of The Phantom of the Opera (2004), I remember the way I was completely taken with it when I first saw it four years ago. Since then, I have learned every word of every song and every line of the entire movie (including the word changes in the stage version and alternate lyrics), learned almost the entire score on the piano, and spent hours on the internet researching every bit of information on the making of the movie and wishing I had been cast in it. The writers, Joel Schumacher and Andrew Lloyd Webber (also the director and composer) did an excellent job at turning the stage production into a film. A few minor changes were written into the script to distinguish it from the stage musical, including a slightly different ending and alteration of the timing of the chandelier scene.

As an aspiring actress, screenwriter, director and writer, this movie has been an inspiration to me from all aspects. Although unrealistic and confusing at times, the storyline is dark, romantic, mysterious and antiquated. The beautiful period costumes, photography, music, writing and stunning performances all add up to become a wonderful must-see.

"Slowly, gently, night unfurls it's splendor. Grasp it, sense it, tremulous and tender. Turn your face away from the garish light of day, turn your thoughts away from cold, unfeeling light- and listen to the music of the night."

Finding Time to Write

As a Junior in high school, it is difficult for me to find time to write anything at all besides for my schoolwork. In my AP English Literature class, we write an essay every week. This is somewhat creative, but I don't count it as creative writing. Because, well, it's not. It's an essay.

Between school, home life and homework, I have a hard time trying to write creatively. I write on the weekends, on breaks, and in the summertime, but sometimes I feel that it is not enough of a creative outlet for me. Hopefully, while maintaining this blog, I can set aside some time to write more frequently while still keeping up with my studies.

Carousel

Here is a small excerpt from Part 1 of one of my stories in-the-making, Carousel. You can read the entire piece here:

http://figment.com/books/204671-Carousel

1886

"The warehouse is silent. Dust and moonlight creep in through the vents, causing the windows to dress themselves in darkness and hide from the trees whose bare arms tap at the glass. Overgrown weeds and long, silvery grasses have, over time, wrapped themselves in and around the rotting wooden boards at the base of the building.

From inside the dark, dusty halls of the building come the faint sound of a hammer. An old man sits at a makeshift workbench, hammering at a large sheet of metal. Behind him, like a large, looming shadow, is a machine cloaked in a white canvas. The man stops his work and sighs. It is well into the night, and he had planned on finishing up hours ago. He stands and studies the draped mechanical wonder, his final masterpiece before retirement. He touches the corner of the fabric, and pulls. The canvas slides off the machine like butter on a hot dish, billowing down upon him before crumpling into a heap at his feet.

There, sitting in the middle of an abandoned warehouse, was a large and beautiful carousel."

Thanks, and feel free to check back in for more later!

Creamed Roses

The Dream Catcher

http://www.teenink.com/fiction/sci_fi_fantasy/article/170649/The-Dream-Catcher/

An original story I wrote a few years back in eighth grade. Enjoy.

The old man was dead.

The boy had never seen a dead person before, but he was sure the old man in the corner was dead. His withered head lay tilted to the ceiling, with wisps of white hair plastered against his wrinkled forehead. Eyes closed, he lay lifelessly propped up against the wall, with loose, torn clothing framing his thin body. His leathery hands clutched a bright yellow satchel, the straps worn and the material faded and dirt-stained. Yes, the boy was sure. The man was quite 

Photo credit: Sandy H., Woodbridge, CT

dead. 

The windows rattled as the train began to climb a steep hill, the floor groaning in protest. The boy imagined the wheels grasping the tracks, moving forward with determination. He looked out the window, and seeing the small green valley far beneath him, crossed his fingers hard and hoped that the wheels did not give up.

The sun was setting, melting into the sea like hot wax. Wind whipped through the boy’s hair and stung his cheeks as he craned his neck to see the ocean in the far distance, the waters lit on fire as the sun sank deeper, deeper. Colors danced across the sky, bathing the earth in a warm glow as they taunted the night, refusing to give in to the impending darkness falling from above. The colors danced their way into the boy’s eyes, shimmering like glass, as he watched and wished the night would never come.

The boy turned and eyed the old man. It was noon when the boy had boarded the train, along with other noisy, dirty people. They had crammed into the tiny room, like fish into a net, shoving and sighing and complaining about anything they could think of. The man had lain sleeping, or so he thought, the entire time. Several stations later, the boy and the man were alone, as the train puffed through valleys and climbed rolling green hills, and carried them away to nowhere.

The boy noticed the satchel. It was a cheerful, canary-yellow, a bright splotch against the dirty, torn clothing that the man wore. The boy wondered why such a man was carrying such a bag, and he wondered what could be in it. The man had not stirred, and lay slumped against the wooden beams, unmoving. The boy looked around. The darkness was seeping in through the cracks in the windowsills, pounding on the walls. The boy’s heart pounded as he crept silently towards the old man, inching his way across the floor. The boards rumbled beneath his feet as he walked unsteadily, then crouched on his hands and knees beside the man.

The boy reached out and touched the bag. It was soft and worn, like a child’s blanket that has been loved to shreds. His small hands were reaching for the clasp when he heard a voice, deep and rumbling from behind him.

“Boy, what’re you doing with my bag?”

The boy spun around to face the old man, who was very much alive and sitting up. The old man watched him curiously as he fumbled for words. “I… I uh… Well, I just wanted to…” The boy stood trembling, staring at the old, “dead” man, who was waiting for him to speak. The man slowly pulled himself up against the wall and sat with his arms folded. “You wanted to see what was in my bag, did you?” The old man chuckled. “There aren’t many people who don’t. What’s your name, boy?”

“I dunno.”

“What d’ya mean, you dunno?”

“Don’t remember it.”

The boy sat down, staring warily at the old man. He was a small, frail man, all bent and twisted over. His hair and scruffy beard were white, and his eyes were a milky blue. 

“Boy, how old are you?”

“Eight, I think.”

“You think?”

“Yeah.”

The man looked him over.

“A bit on the small side, are you?”

“I dunno.”

The boy glanced out the window. There was only a small slice of the sun left, the brilliant colors drowning in the ocean. The old man’s eyes grew soft.

“So you wanted to see inside my bag, did you?”

The boy nodded nervously. 

“Well, I would show you, but I can’t. I can’t show anyone. If I did, they would escape.”

The boy’s eyes lit up. “What would escape?”

The old man looked around, and seeing no one, motioned for the boy to come closer. Cupping his hand to his mouth, the old man leaned in close to the boy’s head and whispered, “Why, the dreams would escape!”

The boy stared. “There ain’t such thing.”

The old man pulled back. “Ain’t such thing! See, you see this here?” He held up the satchel. “They’re all in here. All the dreams. When someone gives up on a dream, it flies away, and I catch it, see? And I put ‘em in here. All of ‘em.”

The boy inched closer. “You can’t do that. There isn’t nothing like that possible.”

The old man shook his head. “See, when a person lets go of one o’ their dreams, or when it’s killed, it flies away, right out of them, into this.” He held up the yellow bag. “And I take them with me, everywhere. I never know when I could need ‘em.”

The train whistled and began to chug down the other side of the hill. The boy gazed at the old man in wonder. “Are they heavy?”

The man laughed. “No, ‘course not. Dreams are like clouds; weightless, made of air. Here, feel this bag yourself. It feel heavy to you?” He handed the bag to the boy. The boy shifted it back and forth in his small hands, stroking the soft underside of the satchel, and feeling the lightness of it in his palms. The boy hesitated.

“What color are dreams?”

The old man sat thinking quietly for a few seconds. “Dreams are all the colors. They are any color you want them to be. They are like the wind, boy. They have no color.”

The boy sat turning this over in mind. The old man watched him silently. 

“Boy, what’re you doing here all alone?”

The boy looked up. “They were taking Mama away. In a big car. Said she didn’t know how to take care of me since Papa died. I think she knew they were coming.” He bent low over the yellow satchel, one finger still gently stroking the leathery bottom of the bag. “She gave me a train ticket,” he said softly, “and some bread, and a photograph. She said to go to San Francisco, that I could maybe find somewhere there to work or somethin’.”

The old man studied him. “So you remember that but you can’t remember your own name?”

The boy looked up at him quickly, and then let out a small sigh. “My name is Sam.” He reluctantly held out the bag.

The old man nodded, and took it. “See here, Sam, this bag is all I’ve got, but it’s all I need. I’ve got everything, Sam. Everything!” The old man’s hands were shaking, but his eyes shone.

The boy stared at him. “But how come you barely even got clothes?”

The old man leaned back and smiled contentedly. “Boy, when you’re as old as I am, you find you hardly need clothes. I’ve got something no one else in the world has. I’ve got dreams, Sam. All the dead and dying dreams. But one day I’ll open this bag and let them all out, and they’ll fly all over the world, and people will have hope again.” His eyes clouded. “The world is empty of it, boy,” he whispered. “Don’t let yourself give up.”

The train began to slow, and then abruptly stopped with a long squeal as the wheels scraped against the metal tracks. The boy looked out the window, but could see nothing but darkness. The train doors opened. The boy watched as the old man slowly began to stand, wincing as he pulled himself up. He began to hobble towards the open doors. Just as he was about to step out into the freezing night air, he turned to the boy, and called, “Don’t let your dreams die, boy. Sometimes, they’re all you got.” Then, he disappeared through the doorway. The doors slammed tightly shut, and the train began to roll forward.

The room was quiet, except for the vibrating of the walls as the train began to gather speed. The lights flickered slightly. The boy looked around, and saw that he was alone.

Then something bright caught his eye. He turned to see the yellow bag, lying on the floor. The boy looked at it for a moment, and began to move towards it. Taking it in his hands, he caressed it, and began to reach for the faded metal clasp. He stopped, and old man’s words echoed in his mind, “One day I’ll open this bag and let them all out, and they’ll fly all over the world, and people will have hope again.” The boy hesitated, and then undid the clasp. He pulled the top open, and peered eagerly inside. But he saw nothing except the bottom of the satchel, the seams ripping at the corners. 

Disappointed, he closed the bag and threw it aside. He sat for a moment with his arms folded over his knees, lost in thought. 

But suddenly, he was filled with hope. He could make it to San Francisco. He would somehow find his mother again. He would survive. The boy reached into his pocket and withdrew a black and white photograph, staring at the three smiling faces until they were carved into his memory. He placed it inside the yellow bag, and snapped it shut. Glancing outside, he knew that soon the dawn would break, and that the dark night sky would begin to lighten, and the glinting stars slowly burn out one by one.

He barely had a future. But he had all the dreams to last a lifetime.

Links to a few stories

Here are links to a few of my stories that I have posted online, either to Teen Ink or Figment. I have many more, and I am writing more all the time, but here are a few for now:

http://figment.com/books/204671-Carousel

http://www.teenink.com/fiction/realistic_fiction/article/125946/Seashells/

http://www.teenink.com/fiction/all/article/156915/The-Decision/

My First Post

My name is Brooke Becker. I am a 16-year old author, and I have decided to start my own blog. This blog will mainly be about my writings, my life, my observations, and will follow me as I pursue my passions and interests. I hope to connect with other people, to share my creativity, and to influence others in a positive way.

In this first post, I will share a bit about myself and my interests. I write short stories, poetry, and fiction. I am currently trying my hand at screenwriting, and am loving it as well. I also love art (whether it be painting, drawing, scrapbooking, etc.), acting (both film and stage), reading, and fashion. In this blog I will be focusing on my writing, though, and will occasionally add bits and pieces of my other works and creative outlets.

Please follow me as I enter the world of blogging!