Wednesday's Writer's Tip - Story World

When reading the next little section of Techniques of a Selling Writer, I learned how some things stick in your mind. My copy iof Swight V. Swain's book had been loaned out and never returned. I was doing a talk at NJRW about World Building For All Genres. I really remembered all the points in this book when it had been five or six years since I'd had a copy of the book in hand. So look at what these are.

Unfamiliar world. Whether you write contemporary, historical, paranormal, fantasy or science fiction, the reader doesn't know your world. As the writer, you need to draw them into the world. That was his first point. So you really need to know your world to draw the reader inside.

How does one do this? Through the senses is the second point Mr. Swain made. This is something I need to go back and remind myself of so many times. When I write about a hospital, how do I bring the chaos this world seems to the reader into focus. Sight, sound, smell, taste and touch are essential to making the world become one the reader can enter.

For a time, while re-reading this section, the third point puzzled me.  The world you're creating is subjective. Finally I realized what this meant. The focus character must interact with the setting and his or her actions and reactions to the world are what makes a reader believe in the story world you've created.

What I'm saying is often just a few pages you've read stick with you and soom become an automatic writing response.

Tuesday's Inspiration ala Phyllis A. Whitney #aminspired

Many years ago, I read a lot of books by Phyllis A. Whitney. So when I came across this esay, I decided to look to see what could inspire me today. What she talks about is Endings. Everyone knows if the opening of a story doesn't pull the reader in, no one will read the story. Here's one thing Phyllis A. Whitney said about the ending. This inspired me to look at mine.

"If we don't provide an ending that will seem right, our story or novel will bring no satisfaction to the reader." She goes on to mention that the satisfactory ending is what brings the reader to look for more stories from the same author.

Having read this, I'll save some of her remarks on what compromises a satisfactory ending for later posts.

Have you ever read a book by an author you've never read before and suddenly gone on a binge of reading everything that author wrote? Or have you ever read a story by a new author and decided you would never read another thing they wrote?

The opening drew you in. The middle was interesting and exciting but the end was blah. I've often found this to be the case since I read almost as much as I write. Some of the things that bother me when I choose not to read a book by the same author is that the end left me cold. I suddenly didn't care about the characters or that they had met their goal. Another thing that always sends me to find another author is the epilogue that talks about six months later, a year later the hero and heroine are not getting married, having the baby or the detective sits down and explains what he or she have done, step by step by step. For me if the punch, happy or sad when the characters reach their goal isn't there, I don't need the author to add a note.

So I'm now thinking about the endings of my stories in a new light. How about you?

Meandering on Monday with Janet Lane Walters #amwriting

Thinking about series. My writing friend Karen Wiesner has a book coming out called Writing The Fiction Series. http://www.angelfire.com/stars4/kswiesner/nonfiction2.html This site gives a bit about the series. I haven't read it yet, but I will since I've fallen into writing a series or two. Some of my series were planned to be just that and some like mold just grew. My Affinities series began as a single book or so I thought but as I was writing out the book's synopsis I realized the story had grown to epic proportions. Book Synopsis for me are usually 8 to 10 pages. This one ended up at close to fifty. The Seduction series was to be four books with the 4 editors of the magazines. Then my publisher put the first 3 books into a paperbacl book leaving one of the family alone so I set out to plan two more books using characters who had appeared in other books. I still have one of these stories to write and will soon begin. I've had other series that fizzled. The Opposition Series ended up with only three books when I'd first designed 12 books but I got bored with the series. Will I ever come back to them. I suppose I will. I've started a new series that I intend to finish and the stories will be only novella length or short novels.

How about you? Do you write in series? Does some character in a story demand their own view in the spotlight?

As to my writing. Am moving closer to the end of moonchild 1 and getting ready to do a draft of what is now turned into 2 books since one would be too long. What I'm doins is making words as my granddaughter used to say. Looking at characters and seeing what makes them tick and moving them through their paces.

I am also trying to figure how to write a tongue in cheek piece about It was a thing that bothers me a great deal. Just decided never to buy one author because of the number of times on the first page I saw it was or it had or just it.

3 Blog Visit Sunday - discoveries by Janet Lane Walters

http://www.sheehanmiles.com/2013/03/29/book-piracy-and-me/

http://kristynphipps.com/social-media-2-0-1/

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Saturday's Chapter from Savage Possession by Margaret Tanner

SAVAGE POSSESSION




Several weeks after Storm’s arrival on his doorstep, Martin awoke to sleeting rain lashing at the windows. Storm still slept, worn out from their torrid passion. So young and vulnerable. He eased himself out of bed and felt a sudden surge of compassion. What must it be like to have spent time with those brutal gypsies? To have no memory of your previous life? The fear – loss - absolute bewilderment.

After he washed and dressed he strode downstairs. “Sam!” His father’s cousin, Sam Bainbridge sat in the kitchen sipping a cup of tea. “How are you?” Martin clapped the wizened, gray haired man on the shoulder. “Profitable trip?”

“Yes, I sold all my sketches.”

“Good, I’m pleased for you. When did you arrive home?”

“Last night. I must say, you've done a fine job with the kitchen, or is Mrs. Irvine back?”

“No.” Martin grinned. “I had help.”

“One of your women friends from Melbourne?”

“I still can’t believe what happened myself, but I answered a bang on my door one stormy night and found a girl slumped on my doorstep.”

“You’ve been drinking again.”

“I swear I did find a fey young woman on my doorstep. Actually she’s upstairs.” He gave a low chuckle on seeing the shocked expression on Sam’s face. “You can meet her in a few minutes.”

“Where did she come from?”

“I had no idea when I first found her. Because of the stormy conditions I named her Storm. She’d suffered a blow to the head and had amnesia. The only words that made any sense were ‘Black Stallion, so I assumed she’d come from there.”

“What!”

In reality she’d escaped from some gypsy encampment.”

“For heaven’s sake. You brought some gypsy’s whore in off the street. Martin, are you mad?”

“She wasn’t a whore when she came here, pure as the driven snow, in fact, but she’s a whore now, for my exclusive use. I’ve taught her everything I know. A man could travel the world and not find better.”

“Have you lost your mind?”

“No. Well, maybe I have. My little storm girl drives me to the point of insanity. I’m like a rutting stallion around her.”

“Don’t be crude,” Sam snapped. “Didn’t you make any effort to find out her identity?”

“Yes. I did. She can’t remember what happened to her prior to stumbling into the gypsy encampment. They abused her and she ran away. She’s good in bed.” He laughed at the old man’s grimace of distaste. “And an excellent cook and housekeeper, too.”

Martin glanced up. Storm hovered in the doorway. “I thought I heard voices.”

She wore one of the gowns he had bought her, a blue taffeta that complimented her blue eyes. Her silver hair, draped like a cloak across her shoulders, shimmered like moonbeams when she moved.

“Come here and meet Sam, my cousin about three times removed.”

As he stepped over to draw her into the room, the old man rose to his feet. Sam’s face turned red, then the color drained away, leaving him haggard and sick looking.

“Are you all right?” Martin dropped Storm's hand and strode over to the old man. “What’s wrong?”

Sam struggled to speak, but couldn't get any words out. Veins bulged in his neck. Martin feared he might have a seizure.

“Hurry, Storm. Get him some brandy.”

She dashed off, and on her return put the half full glass into Sam’s shaking hand.

“Drink this.” She patted his arm. “It will make you feel better.”

The old man’s hands trembled so much she guided the glass to his lips. He swallowed the contents in a couple of gulps and coughed and spluttered.

“This is the girl?” Sam’s mouth dropped open, a pulse convulsed in his jaw. “Oh my God, Martin. What have you done?”

“What the hell’s the matter with you?” Martin tried to hide his worry. Had the old man lost his mind?

“Would you like some more brandy?” Storm asked.

“No, no thank you. Drink has been the ruin of the Mulvaneys.”

“For God’s sake, Sam. What’s wrong?”

“Your, your, Storm is named Elizabeth,” Sam said in a harsh whisper. “Elizabeth Campbell, old Fergus’ granddaughter.”

“What!” The statement was like a mule kick to his stomach and Martin almost doubled over with shock.

“No! She can’t be,” he rasped.

“Didn’t you see the resemblance?”

“What’s the matter?” Storm asked in a panic stricken voice.

Martin ignored her distress. “You’re a Campbell,” he snarled, advancing towards her with deadly intent. “Get out of my sight.”

“But, Martin,” she pleaded, “what have I done?”

“Done?” He gritted his teeth to stop himself grabbing hold of her. “You’re the granddaughter of my mortal enemy.”

“Stop it,” Sam intervened. “Go to your room, girlie, until we sort this mess out.”

As she fled, Martin hurled a string of curses at her.

“I’ve made a whore out of Fergus Campbell’s granddaughter. Better than killing the old bastard.” He gave a harsh bark of laughter. “I heard somewhere he doted on those twins of his. I ought to grab her by the scruff of the neck, drag her to the Black Stallion and tell everyone in the public bar what a talented little harlot I turned her into.” He enjoyed the idea for a moment.

“Listen to me, son.”

“No. You listen to me. I’ve waited years for a chance to destroy old Fergus. He ruined my life. Oh, revenge will be sweet. Took a stock whip to me once, did you know that? I want that Scottish Highland pride ground into the dust. I want him to be so humiliated he’ll want to crawl off somewhere and die.”

“What about the girl? You said the gypsies abused her.”

“They did, but she’s a whore, a Campbell whore.”

“You can’t blame her for what happened years ago. Bury the past for the love of God,” Sam pleaded. “This thirst for revenge will destroy you.”

“Oh, I’ve waited, bided my time for an opportunity like this.” Martin’s heart filled up with such bitterness, he wondered why it didn’t burst wide open and spill on to the floor.

“You’ve ruined the poor girl’s life, isn’t that enough?”

“No,” he ground the word out. His hatred reverberated around the kitchen and chilled the air.

“How long has she been here?”

Martin shrugged. “Several weeks. Why?”

“And you were, er, um with her every night?”

“Yeah.” His lips twisted into a vicious smile. “Every single night, sometimes during the day, too.”

“No,um, er,” Sam spluttered, red faced with embarrassment, “monthly ailment?

“What!”

“No monthly…”

“I heard you.” Martin’s gut clenched.

“And?”

“No.”

“You should do the honorable thing and offer marriage.”

“Marriage!” Martin rocked back on his heels. “I’ve no plans to marry. If I did it wouldn’t be to a Campbell.”

“You might have got her with child.”

“Hell.” The churning in his gut returned a hundred fold. He felt physically ill.

“You've ruined her chances of marriage to a decent man. If she’s with child, God alone knows what will happen to her.”

“Fergus Campbell’s precious granddaughter having a bastard.” Martin bared his teeth into a snarl. “Yes, I like it.”

“The child will have Mulvaney blood in its veins, have you forgotten?”

“No.”

“Please, I’ve thought of you as the son I never had. How many times did I save you from those vicious beatings your father meted out?”

“Plenty of times.” Martin forked his fingers through his hair to get his anger under control. If it weren’t for Sam he would have been bashed to a pulp as a boy.

“Then listen to me, son, I’m older and a lot wiser than you. I’ve watched hatred of the Campbells devour you over the years. Don't let what happened in the past ruin the rest of your life. The past is dead and buried. Let it stay that way.”

“You think old Fergus would let a Mulvaney marry his precious granddaughter?” Martin’s mouth twisted. “A snowflake in hell would fare better.”

“Not if she carried your child. He’d have to agree or risk her being ostracized when everyone found out. She’s his sole granddaughter, the apple of his eye. He might hate the Mulvaneys, but worships her.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Martin,” Sam persisted.

“What?” He clasped his hands behind his back so Sam wouldn’t see them shaking. This would have to be one of the worst moments in his life. Why the hell hadn’t he seen the resemblance to old Fergus? The blonde hair. Those arresting pale blue eyes. Too inebriated and shocked when he first found her to notice the likeness, and later, too blinded by lust.

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http://www.amazon.co.uk/Savage-Possession-ebook/dp/B008EL0FTI/ref=sr_1_4?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1351309491&sr=1-4

Friday's How She Does It with Margaret Tanner

1. How do you create your characters? Do you have a specific process?


They just come to me, but in a very basic form, so I then set about "flehsing them out,." so to speak.



2. Do your characters come before the plot? Do you sketch out your plot or do you let the characters develop the route to the end?

My hero and heroine always come before the plot. Although when I think of my main characters, a few of their dilemas seem to pop up viertually at the same time. I am a pantser, so the majority of my story falls into place as I write. After I have finished the story, I then go back and tweak a few character traits to enhance the plot.

3. Do you know how the story will end before you begin? In a general way or a specific one?

I always know how the story will end. In fact, I usually know the ending before the beginning, strange as that might seem.

4. Do you choose settings you know or do you have books of settings and plans of houses sitting around?

I try to choose settings that I know. I write historicals so it makes things a little more difficult than if I were writing a modern day story. I usually try to set my stories in the same country area give or take a few miles, that way it does cut down on research. And lets face it, countryside, terrains trees, flowers etc. haven't changed much in a couple of hundred years.

5. Where do you do your research? On line or from books?

I do a lot of research in libraries. I do some on line research, but am very selective as I don't put too much trust in some on-line sites. I have found quite a lot of historical errors on line, unfortunately.

6. Are you a draft writer or do you revise as you go along and why?

I write an initial rough draft, and by write, I mean with pen on paper. After that I type it on to my computer and do most of my editing from there. I find ideas seem to flow much better when I use long hand. A computer screen doesn't do anything for my creative juices.

Thursday's Opening - The Secret of the Jewels by Janet Lane Walters

THE SECRET OF THE JEWELS


ONE

THE YELLOW JEWEL

~







Seven Jewels and seven threads. Find them, twine them, bind them into a braid to discover how to unlock the secret of the Jewels. What was pale becomes dark and dark changes to light. Sometimes destruction is the way to end a cycle of tyranny. Blazing sun and icy moons unite in the Yellow Jewel. You must go over land, across the sea and back again. Seek the thread and learn this lesson. What makes a home does not have to be a place. Fears may lurk and fears are faced when one learns to trust.

~*~

Disa turned and waved farewell to the Holders and their Chosen who remained at the mages’ stronghold. All but she and Brader stayed to tend to the living and the dead. Just days ago, the elderly healer had appeared and had given prophecies to all. The moment Disa had heard those words she knew she and Brader had to leave. Their role in the destruction of the mages lair had ended. The overland journey to Quato where they would board a ship to Thanis would take a seven day.

She prodded her horned horse and caught up with her companion. “Must we race like prisoners released from a dungeon?”

He slowed his steed. “Why not? I wish to reach my home as soon as I can.”

Home, she thought. Hers had been a peddler’s wagon and then the tavern in Pala. She didn’t understand his being drawn to a place. “Thy home won’t run.”

He laughed. “Thee are right, but some inner yearning pushes me to hurry to High Sanctuary. What if the mages have established a refuge there?”

She made a face. “Didn’t Andalor mention a ship filled with Queen’s Guards and mages that arrived in Quato around the time when thee did?”

“One or more might have remained. I need to find out.”

She supposed he was right but that wasn’t his real reason for the rush to return to his home. He wanted to visit his mother’s grave to bid her farewell. Did he really believe her spirit lingered on this plane waiting to hear of the success or failure of Liara’s quest?

At dusk they arrived in Desert’s Edge where they purchased enough supplies for the journey. She nearly suggested they stop at the Healers’ House for medicinals, but could think of none they would need before they reached the market in Quato.

Eight days of traveling from dawn to dusk brought them to the seaport town. On the outskirts they passed the villa where she had received her Jewel. “Remember our time here?” she asked.

“Clearly. What a pompous fool I was. Attacking Valmir when he wasn’t the enemy. Angering Liara and thee.”

She reached for his hand. “Thee feared someone would harm her and keep her from the quest.” She sighed. “I wonder how the others fare.”

“If there were problems couldn’t they reach us on the inner path?” Brader asked.

“I don’t know. I’ve listened every night and the voices have grown fainter. Should we stay here or go directly to the docks?”

He prodded his horse. “This is too far from town. We’ll find an inn. Word of ships leaving for Thanis will be heard at one, but we can’t leave for a day or two.”

She nodded. “We have to sell the horses.”

“And arrange for passage. We’re too late for today’s animal market.”

Once inside the town Disa led him to the inn where she and Andalor had stayed. They were in luck and one of the suites on the third story was available. After leaving their packs in the suite’s central room, they ordered a meal to be brought as soon as they finished in the baths.

A short time after returning to the suite, Disa opened the door for a serving woman bearing a large tray of food. Disa inhaled the aroma of brewed chokla and grinned. She slipped the woman a coin. Brader entered from his sleeping chamber. He fastened his amber colored hair at his nape with a thong.

“What of our plans for tomorrow?” Disa filled a mug with her chosen drink.

“Sell the horses. Find a ship. Purchase some extra food for the journey. Ship’s food is plain and sometimes not tasty.”

“Will we have to wait long?” Though they’d taken coins from the mages’ treasury, if they were forced to stay too long their coins would vanish.

He shrugged. “Who knows? I’ll slip down to the common room. Someone there will know about sailings.”

Disa lifted a banta leg. “No tragon.”

He laughed. “Guess Liara told thee how little tolerance I have for spirits. I’ll stick to ale.”

Though Disa had planned to stay awake until Brader returned, the soft mattress lulled her to sleep.

In the morning as soon as they broke their fast, they led their steeds to the animal market. After selling the horses and gear they had enough to buy passage on the ship Brader had heard about the evening before.

Disa walked to the dock with him. While he boarded to arrange for berths, she sat on a bench. She stared at the ship. Seemed sturdy but she had no knowledge about boats. As she watched, burly men carried crates and bales up a wooden ramp to be stowed in the holds.

Her thoughts drifted to the prophecy. Did it mean they would remain on the isle? Would they find more danger in Thanis? In two seasons she’d been part of two arcane battles. One to destroy the Black Jewel and the other to destroy the stronghold of the mages. Would the changes she, Liara and Stilenta had spoken about ever come to fruition?

For an instant, she pressed her hand against the Yellow Jewel she wore beneath her tunic. Did she control the gem or did it play subtle games with her thoughts? She rubbed her arms and felt as though the sun hid behind a cloud. Until she knew the answer she would be cautious about using the Jewel.

“Ho, Disa.”

Brader’s deep voice broke into her thoughts. He descended the long ramp from the ship. His broad grin spoke of success. She ran to him. “When do we leave?”

“The ship sails on the morning tide.” He made a face. “I don’t like the idea of sailing but there’s no other way to reach High Sanctuary.”

“Will there be storms like the one that stranded Stilenta on that isle? Or nearly drowned thee?”

“This isn’t the season. I’ve just no liking for the sea.”

“When thee came this way thee had wound fever. Liara feared for thy life. She said the sea water aided thy healing.”

He nodded. “All wasn’t ill. We found Valmir and Stilenta. Do thee think the Jewels played a role in the shipwreck?”

Disa looked away. If she admitted her concerns about the Jewels they might become true.

He grasped her arm. “Do they?”

She heard fear and curiosity in his voice. “I don’t know. Tell me what else troubles thee.”

He stared at the ground. “When the wind fills the sails and the waves roll, the motion of the ship is unsettling. My gut complains and my appetite flees.”

“There are herbs that can help. I’ll buy some.”

“And food, too. The trip can be as long as a lunar and a half or as short as two tendays. Ship food isn’t the best. Thee can shop and I’ll trade some of the gems from the stronghold for coins.”

Disa linked arms with him. They left the booming shouts and grunts of the stevedores and entered the noisy market square. The aroma of food and spices, the colors and varieties of the wares enchanted her. Brader headed to a shop with a wide selection of jewelry glittering behind the glass window. She strolled along the booths and made choices.

The last time she’d visited this market, mages had made dark blotches to gloom the atmosphere. Today there were none and only a few Queen’s Guards.

What would she and Brader find when they reached the isle where he and Liara had been raised? With a sigh, Disa thought of the friends they’d left at the mages’ stronghold. How did they fare? What secrets had they discovered?

She bought a mug of cider and sat on a bench beneath a canopy. As she sipped the cool liquid she sought her friends on the inner path. She heard faint buzzes but no words. Was the distance too great or was Brader’s help essential? She finished the drink and returned the mug. Had the choice to scatter been wrong?

Worrying about what couldn’t be changed wasted time. She stopped at a basket maker’s stall and purchased two lidded containers. At the herbalist’s she filled the compartments of one with a selection of herbs, spices and medicinals.

The aroma of chokla drew her across the square. She indulged in a powder for beverages, some candies for the voyage and two large pastries for the evening meal. After choosing other treats she carried the baskets to the inn.

When she reached the suite, she found Brader rolling their blankets. Their packs sat on the floor along with two sacks. “When are we off?” she asked.

Brader looked up. “After the evening meal we’ll board the ship.”

“But they don’t sail until morning.”

Brader chuckled. “The tide goes out at dawn. We need to be aboard before then.”

“Why? We’ve paid them. Wouldn’t they wait?”

“Not for a moment. Days from now we’d find another ship and have no coins to spare.”

Disa reached for her pack, blanket roll and the two baskets. “Then we’ll do what we must. I wish we didn’t have to go.”

He gathered his share of the baggage. “We must. I need to tell my mother what occurred so she can leave this plane for the next.”

Did he really believe his mother’s shade lingered? She reached for the door. “We’ll need a cart to carry these things to the ship.”

“Agreed.” Brader followed her into the hall. “Just pray the sea sickness doesn’t grab me.”

“I have medicines for that.” They walked downstairs and entered the common room. Brader laughed at the chokla pastry and gave her part of his. When they finished the meal they hired a barrow boy to cart their belongings to the ship.

As they boarded, Disa noticed the name painted on the ship’s side. The Amber Lady. She turned to Brader. “With that name and my Jewel we should have a pleasant journey.”

Her prediction proved true. With sunny days, clear nights, the brisk breezes filled the sails. The ship seemed to dance across the waves. Eighteen days after their departure from Quato the shores of the isle appeared in the distance.

Disa stood at the rail beside Brader. Large gray birds swooped through the air and dove toward the water. They emerged with fish dangling from their beaks and circled the small fishing skiffs. “What are they?”

“Lorns,” Brader said. “Fishermen train them to catch the fish.” He pointed to one of the boats as they glided past.

Disa watched as a bird dropped the fish and flew away. A man placed the fish in a tub. “Enterprising but what about the poor birds being robbed of their catch?”

“They’re given the heads and entrails.”

Disa shook her head. “Each to his own. When will we leave for thy home?”

He grinned. “First we have to dock. Won’t be today or even tomorrow. I’d like to see if any merchants are headed toward the mountains.”

“Why?”

“If there are we can travel part way with them.”

She met his gaze. “Do thee expect trouble?”

He shrugged. “I’ve a feeling. Can’t explain. On our way here, Liara and I ran afoul of some Queen’s Guards. They might still be around.”

Disa sucked in a breath. Could he be right? But Liara was the queen now and any of the Guards should be sworn to her. Disa shouldered her pack and blanket roll. She lifted the nearly empty baskets and followed him down the ramp. Uneasiness settled in her gut.

They walked away from the wharfs and paused outside a large inn. Brader pushed open the door. “Looks as good as any.”

“There’s one of the merchants from the ship.”

Brader dropped the things he carried. “See to the rooms. I’ll discover what he plans.”

A short time later he returned. “He journeys in our direction and would be pleased to have us join him. He leaves in three days. We’ll have time to purchase hill ponies and camping gear.”

Disa nodded. “Having our own supplies is a good idea.” She looked around to see if anyone was near. “We need to keep silent about the Jewel I wear.”

He looked away. “Thee are right.”



* * *

Wednesday's Writer's Tip - Feelings #amlearning

I've always connected feelings to emotions. Is this true or false? Are there layers to Feelings I haven't explored. While re-reading Techniques of a Selling Writer by Dwight V. Swain, one of the best books on writing I've ever read, I came across this bit about Feelings. "Feeling is a thing you build through manipulation of motivation and reaction." Mr. Swain says there are a number of steps to building feelings in a story. I've found them of much interest.

The writer has to decide what is good and what is bad. This took me a lot of thinking and I thought about mysteries I've written where death plays a large role. Death can be good or bad. Death brings feelings among the created characters. An expected death when a person has been suffering could be a good death. In some stories I've read, a character has sacrificed theit life for another. This could be considered a good death. Murder on the other hand can be considered a bad death. Or is it?

How does one decide? What about the facts? Are they things we read in books? Yes. Are they things we have been taught that others around us believe? Generally. So what doe facts have to do with feelings? Much depends on the person viewing the facts and this is where character creating comes into play. Using a character's reaction to a fact can deepen his character. While the character might not react to the fact the same way as the writer has, the writer must stay true to what the created person would believe and act. This can be difficult since it means the writer must put themselves into the character's shoes. That becomes the second stage of showing Feelings or emotions.

Tuesday's Inspiration ala Helen Van Slyke

Looking over the book of old essays be writers and came across this. I'm not sure I ever read any of Helen Van Slyke's stories but what she said made sense to me. "My 'success' as a contemporary novelist lies in two overworked words : identity and empathy." This triggered off some thoughts about writing.

To me identity is knowing my characters and understand what makes them what they are and how they became. Doesn't matter if they're the good guys or the bad guys if I can't find some point to identify with them they'll remain as cardboard characters. Do you feel the same and come to identify with all your characters? I'm not really talking about all the characters in the stories I tell. Some are there just to make an appearance. The ones I must identify with are those who play a large role in the story even if they're minor characters.

Now for empathy. Empathy is deeper than sympathy. What it means is walking in a character's shoes and essentially becoming them for a time while they reveal themselves on paper. Identifying and feeling empathy for the heros and heroines is much easier than for the villains. This can be done and must be done. Sometimes this is easy and at other times empathizing with someone who is truly evil can be hard but it must be done. Part of this is giving them some trait that gives them a reason for their behavior that resonates with you. One of my villains has a great love for his mother. Now, this is a twisted love but this trait allowed me to empathize with him.

How about you? Do you identify with your characters and go beyond that to empathize with them? Sometimes easy, sometimes hard but reaching that point can bring the reader to the same feelings even for the bad guys.

Meandering On Monday with Janet Lane Walters

Been thinking a lot about the way I write and how I do draft after draft. Sometimes I enby those people who can sit down and write their story from start to finish and do their revisions as they write. But I've discovered I can't write this way. I have to get to the end before I can see what needs to be changed in the beginning , what needs to be added and what needs to be taken away. For me in the writing each new thing I discover about the characters means there is something about their early development I missed when first writing. As the drafts continue, the characters evolve. This evolution interests me greatly. I often feel like a mother watching a child grow. The stories I've written and the characters I've developed are the children of my mind and being such, they have to grow.  I also look at the way I write as being like a painter though I use words. Start with the base coat the idea and then continue to add the layers until the picture is complete. How do you write? Are you one who must go back and revise each scene before you start another or are you like me who must apply layer after layed one coat at a time?

That's the meander today. About my current writing. I'm typing in the chapters for Moonchild 1, and blocking out Moonchild 2. Plus doing some work in removing words from the Goddesses of Er, a book I now believe must be turned from one to two simply because of the complexity of the plot and the diversity of the characters. I've also found letting time for the draft to sit gives me a fresh look when I begin another. Sometimes I think I get drunk on words and that's a good thing for a writer. Perhaps a little sign on the bulletin board above my desk would be a good idea. "Drunk On Words." What do you think? It's a better idea than being drunk on alcohol for a writer.