Ask the Author: C.Q. Cook
Answered Questions (7)
C.Q. Cook
Currently there are two books out! But there will be five or seven total books!
C.Q. Cook
Unsurprisingly, this is in the back of my book:
About a week or so before seventh grade, my sister decided that she was going to move her swingy hammock chair from the downstairs living room corner all the way up to her messy bedroom. She dismantled the chair parts, took out the canvas and the wooden poles that gave it structure, pulled off the expandable hanging footrest, throwing all these things upstairs on her unmade bed, and then dragged the metal C-frame that held everything up and its long X-base somehow across the house. I didn’t know how she did it, but with M.E., anything was possible.
She spent hours destroying her Christmas present, lugging it around and reassembling it. Our bedrooms were right next to each other so I had the luck to hear the loud tinks of metal clanking against each other. I spent most of that day with a headache and watching loud TV on my uncomfortable bed with the fan turned on because it got very hot in the summer in Maryland.
Eventually, the day came close to an end. The sun finally slumped down in the west and the sky gleamed a dark murky purple. All the lights in the house were turned on, my family still buzzing with energy. Bored, I went into M.E.’s room and sat on her bed, watching her work. I think that at that point, the fact that Ellie, my older sister, was leaving for college had really sunk in. In a few days, I wouldn’t see her anymore. In another year or so, I wouldn’t see M.E. either.
M.E. must’ve been annoyed with me for bothering her, sitting on her bed, asking her questions that she didn’t feel like answering. M.E. always found my presence annoying when I was younger.
“Dammit,� she cursed, arms pushing the garbage in her room around. M.E. always had the mouth of a sailor, it was a good thing that she actually liked to sail.
“What?� M.E. didn’t answer for a moment. “What?�
“I can’t find the damn screw,� she huffed. Her short legs managed to carry her out of her room in quick long strides, tan skin turning around the corner a moment before I processed that she was leaving.
I sat there for a while, listening to M.E. on her loud mission to find the screw. She asked Mom and wondered where Dad was and shuffled through piles around the house before I heard the garage and then the basement door open. I could imagine from two levels above on her soft bed--so much comfier than mine--and fingers tapping impatiently, the red velvety carpet of the basement stairs between her toes, dangerous with all the wood chippings and potentially fatal rusty nails. I looked around her room again at the spilling bookshelves and dirty desk with dirty bowls and glasses stacked up high.
How do you get a screw? I thought as I waited for my sister’s return. There was the obvious of just getting one out of the basement, of course. And there was asking Dad for help or looking around some more, or if it was that important, then just buying one from the store. But then my brain jumped three steps ahead and thought of time travel and teleportation or conjuring witches.
Why not just create one yourself? And I could imagine it, two palms clenched over each other and a burst of light flashing inside your palms, out coming a slightly rusted screw. The action replayed itself over and over, like the chorus of a song singing on repeat in your head, that one little line with the backdrop of the bass or drums stuck there for five hours until you find a new melody to play. And then, I could think about the reasons leading up to that screw appearing and what the imagined person would do with that screw. When I look back on it, this was when I felt everything shift.
Something so simple, a screw, sparking an explosion of stampeding thoughts, battling with one another to get attention. Me! Me! Me! They would scream, begging me to follow their trail of exploration. I didn’t know what I was doing, but I lunged out of M.E.’s bed and ran down the stairs, my feet ploppitingy, ploppitying down each step. I crashed into a kitchen chair as I rushed for the family computer, turning it on and tapping my feet anxiously
When I finally got a blank Word document pulled up, I was typing as fast as my unskilled fingers could, chasing a thought that could leave me at any moment if I didn’t write it down in that instant. Eventually I sat down, after it hurt to be standing, arched over the computer keyboard for a long time. M.E. probably found a screw to fix her hammock chair but that didn’t matter to me anymore because that night, I stole my mom’s laptop and wrote for hours until it was so late, I almost fell asleep with both the lights and computer still on.
In the morning, I kept writing, kept thinking. And the day after that, and the day after that, I wrote. I wrote until I finished writing the first draft of my first book, and then I wrote some more for my second draft. And I never stopped writing, for the stories I was working on had become a part of me and I could never let that piece go.
And that, was how The Alem were born, with one missing screw and a burst of imagination.
About a week or so before seventh grade, my sister decided that she was going to move her swingy hammock chair from the downstairs living room corner all the way up to her messy bedroom. She dismantled the chair parts, took out the canvas and the wooden poles that gave it structure, pulled off the expandable hanging footrest, throwing all these things upstairs on her unmade bed, and then dragged the metal C-frame that held everything up and its long X-base somehow across the house. I didn’t know how she did it, but with M.E., anything was possible.
She spent hours destroying her Christmas present, lugging it around and reassembling it. Our bedrooms were right next to each other so I had the luck to hear the loud tinks of metal clanking against each other. I spent most of that day with a headache and watching loud TV on my uncomfortable bed with the fan turned on because it got very hot in the summer in Maryland.
Eventually, the day came close to an end. The sun finally slumped down in the west and the sky gleamed a dark murky purple. All the lights in the house were turned on, my family still buzzing with energy. Bored, I went into M.E.’s room and sat on her bed, watching her work. I think that at that point, the fact that Ellie, my older sister, was leaving for college had really sunk in. In a few days, I wouldn’t see her anymore. In another year or so, I wouldn’t see M.E. either.
M.E. must’ve been annoyed with me for bothering her, sitting on her bed, asking her questions that she didn’t feel like answering. M.E. always found my presence annoying when I was younger.
“Dammit,� she cursed, arms pushing the garbage in her room around. M.E. always had the mouth of a sailor, it was a good thing that she actually liked to sail.
“What?� M.E. didn’t answer for a moment. “What?�
“I can’t find the damn screw,� she huffed. Her short legs managed to carry her out of her room in quick long strides, tan skin turning around the corner a moment before I processed that she was leaving.
I sat there for a while, listening to M.E. on her loud mission to find the screw. She asked Mom and wondered where Dad was and shuffled through piles around the house before I heard the garage and then the basement door open. I could imagine from two levels above on her soft bed--so much comfier than mine--and fingers tapping impatiently, the red velvety carpet of the basement stairs between her toes, dangerous with all the wood chippings and potentially fatal rusty nails. I looked around her room again at the spilling bookshelves and dirty desk with dirty bowls and glasses stacked up high.
How do you get a screw? I thought as I waited for my sister’s return. There was the obvious of just getting one out of the basement, of course. And there was asking Dad for help or looking around some more, or if it was that important, then just buying one from the store. But then my brain jumped three steps ahead and thought of time travel and teleportation or conjuring witches.
Why not just create one yourself? And I could imagine it, two palms clenched over each other and a burst of light flashing inside your palms, out coming a slightly rusted screw. The action replayed itself over and over, like the chorus of a song singing on repeat in your head, that one little line with the backdrop of the bass or drums stuck there for five hours until you find a new melody to play. And then, I could think about the reasons leading up to that screw appearing and what the imagined person would do with that screw. When I look back on it, this was when I felt everything shift.
Something so simple, a screw, sparking an explosion of stampeding thoughts, battling with one another to get attention. Me! Me! Me! They would scream, begging me to follow their trail of exploration. I didn’t know what I was doing, but I lunged out of M.E.’s bed and ran down the stairs, my feet ploppitingy, ploppitying down each step. I crashed into a kitchen chair as I rushed for the family computer, turning it on and tapping my feet anxiously
When I finally got a blank Word document pulled up, I was typing as fast as my unskilled fingers could, chasing a thought that could leave me at any moment if I didn’t write it down in that instant. Eventually I sat down, after it hurt to be standing, arched over the computer keyboard for a long time. M.E. probably found a screw to fix her hammock chair but that didn’t matter to me anymore because that night, I stole my mom’s laptop and wrote for hours until it was so late, I almost fell asleep with both the lights and computer still on.
In the morning, I kept writing, kept thinking. And the day after that, and the day after that, I wrote. I wrote until I finished writing the first draft of my first book, and then I wrote some more for my second draft. And I never stopped writing, for the stories I was working on had become a part of me and I could never let that piece go.
And that, was how The Alem were born, with one missing screw and a burst of imagination.
C.Q. Cook
I've been writing for six years now on this book. At this point, it's like breathing. If I don't write, I'm not really alive. I love it so much, so at this point it's not hard to inspire myself into writing, I'm constantly inspired. Also, if I didn't write, I'd be devastated. I have this entire universe in my head and these living, breathing characters who are so bright and colorful, and it just wouldn't do them justice if no one but me heard their voices.
C.Q. Cook
Book number two! And a novella for a different story altogether. And some fanfiction, that I should probably stop working on now that I'm an "official" author.
C.Q. Cook
Write! Write! Write! Don't let anyone tell you your writing isn't worth it, but be open for logical and important advice on the workings of your writing. Your readers and your fellow writers know what works and what doesn't, so heed their advice. But at the end of the day, if you're not willing to make the effort when it comes to your writing to keep at it, then maybe you should look at doing something else...
C.Q. Cook
The best part, without a doubt, is the world building. I have entire notebooks, cabinets, and sketches dedicated to the intricacies of world building. Nothing is more fun than understanding what makes the world you've created tick. What are the rules, the boundaries, the bridling details full of magic? My absolute favorite part is coming up with this stuff.
The other thing that's so great? When people actually read my stuff and I get to gush about all the little things I squeezed in there. It might sound a little vain: how much I love my own writing, but if anything, it's validating to hear what people enjoyed and what they loved. There's nothing more enriching than hearing the thoughts of your avid readers. Love you all!
The other thing that's so great? When people actually read my stuff and I get to gush about all the little things I squeezed in there. It might sound a little vain: how much I love my own writing, but if anything, it's validating to hear what people enjoyed and what they loved. There's nothing more enriching than hearing the thoughts of your avid readers. Love you all!
C.Q. Cook
This is not an easy problem, I will tell you that! The first thing to acknowledge when you feel blocked is that it's not going to last forever, so don't beat yourself up. It happens to the best of us, but if you love writing, it'll never go away.
Now, if we're talking about short stories, the best thing for you to do is get up, take a walk or a shower, maybe jam out to a song, but the point is to take a breather. Then, sit down, preferably with some water or a snack, and think back to what made you want to write this piece in the first place. For me, I write towards an image, so if I haven't gotten there yet, keep aiming for that place, and if you have, look for the little niglets of plot you haven't solved and try to answer those questions now. When you write, make sure you don't leave too many loose threads for readers to gnaw on.
If you're writing a novel, again, reread. Specifically, reread the first chapter. Try to recapture the vibe you had in the first chapter and get pumped again. Also, I like to keep about a thousand notes on my phone and on pieces of paper of ideas for my books and the bits of world building. There will be something in there to inspire. Finally, reread the chapter before, you were going somewhere. Novels are threads of plot and writers know just how to pull them together. Trust your instincts. Finally, you're allowed to write a shitty first draft. Actually, that's encouraged. Write the shitty first draft. Write up to ten shitty first drafts (I know I did.)
And, if you want to know how to start writing, you just gotta do it. It can be only two hundred words about your living room's setting, it could be a single sentence about the planets, it could be an entire manifesto on the uses of a paper clip, it doesn't matter as long as you're writing. Writing breeds writing which breeds writing which breeds even more writing. Eventually, you're going to stumble across something you love and will want to write more about. Take your time. It'll all be okay.
Now, if we're talking about short stories, the best thing for you to do is get up, take a walk or a shower, maybe jam out to a song, but the point is to take a breather. Then, sit down, preferably with some water or a snack, and think back to what made you want to write this piece in the first place. For me, I write towards an image, so if I haven't gotten there yet, keep aiming for that place, and if you have, look for the little niglets of plot you haven't solved and try to answer those questions now. When you write, make sure you don't leave too many loose threads for readers to gnaw on.
If you're writing a novel, again, reread. Specifically, reread the first chapter. Try to recapture the vibe you had in the first chapter and get pumped again. Also, I like to keep about a thousand notes on my phone and on pieces of paper of ideas for my books and the bits of world building. There will be something in there to inspire. Finally, reread the chapter before, you were going somewhere. Novels are threads of plot and writers know just how to pull them together. Trust your instincts. Finally, you're allowed to write a shitty first draft. Actually, that's encouraged. Write the shitty first draft. Write up to ten shitty first drafts (I know I did.)
And, if you want to know how to start writing, you just gotta do it. It can be only two hundred words about your living room's setting, it could be a single sentence about the planets, it could be an entire manifesto on the uses of a paper clip, it doesn't matter as long as you're writing. Writing breeds writing which breeds writing which breeds even more writing. Eventually, you're going to stumble across something you love and will want to write more about. Take your time. It'll all be okay.
About Å·±¦ÓéÀÖ Q&A
Ask and answer questions about books!
You can pose questions to the Å·±¦ÓéÀÖ community with Reader Q&A, or ask your favorite author a question with Ask the Author.
