What does your choice of the viewpoint character have to do with plot? Actually a whole lot. Whether you choose to use a single character, two, three or more their eyes and voice will drive the plot. Let's look at some ways.
A single viewpoint can be in first, third and probably second person. If you choose a single person to tell the story the only things you can reveal to the reader are what this character sees, hears, feels and does. This can have limits and may make telling some types of stories difficult.
Choosing two or three is what many authors choose. Here they can use a hero, a heroine and a villain. Or just a hero and heroine. What this does is give two or more sides to the story. This works well in many genres. Here there are two or three voices and eyes to show what's happening. Confusion can come when the writer shifts the viewpoint character and manages to muddy the plot.
There are two types of multiple character viewpoints. One is omniscient where all points of view are given but the writer is actually the person telling the story. This can become confusing and the reader can get lost. Sometimes the writer manages to switch the viewpoint in the middle of a sentence, Not comfortable for the reader.
The second kind of multiple viewpoints is to have a group of characters each with their own chapter or scene and showing the action through their eyes. This can be difficult when the writer forgets whose head they're in.
Though some writers switch viewpoints during a scene others don't. Too frequent switches make the reader feel like they're watching a tennis match.
No matter what kind of viewpoint you choose to write remember you should establish the pattern early in the story and stick to the pattern. Changing midstream or at the end of a book can confuse the reader.
Remember while writing the story you can change your mind about what viewpoint to use. Sometimes experiment with shifts can make the plot come alive.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Inspired by Bird by Bird - Coming to the end
Off to a slow start today. Anne Lamott in the latest piece from Bird By Bird asks this question. How do you know when you're done? I think every writer has been in this place and asks this question, How many times can you go over a manuscript and make small changes like a for the her for the. The list could go on and on. Some writers go on and on with revisions and never seem to reach the end. The reason seems to be a quest for perfection. What I learned in this small essay is perfection is never reached. The end of a piece comes when you've done the best you can at this point in your career. Go back and look at your own early writings. They're usually not as wonderful as what you're doing today, but they were the best you could do at the time.
I have this feeling when I know the book I'm working on is done to the best I can do at the time. I become thoroughly sick or the characters. Thinking about doing one more read through makes me want to toss my guts. Then I know it's time to move on and find new characters to let into my life and become my latest obsessions.
How about you? Do you have a point at which you say "This is the best I can do. Need to send this out into the world."
I have this feeling when I know the book I'm working on is done to the best I can do at the time. I become thoroughly sick or the characters. Thinking about doing one more read through makes me want to toss my guts. Then I know it's time to move on and find new characters to let into my life and become my latest obsessions.
How about you? Do you have a point at which you say "This is the best I can do. Need to send this out into the world."
Monday, March 28, 2011
28 March - Week Behind and Week Ahead
I'll do this backwards. First is a complaint. I hate paper cuts. I have them on two fingers and typing becomes interesting especially when I have to put on a bandair. Not that's off my chest let's look at the week ahead. I'll be inspired by Bird By Bird tomorrow, More exploration of Plot on Wednesday, Thursday will be an interview when those I've sent out are returned, Friday I'm nearing the end of Becoming Your Own Critique Partner for Writing Tips. Saturday will see part of a chapter from All Our Yesterdays, actually part of a section since there are no chapters in this book. Originally written as a serial but combined into a book. Sunday I'll pop around and find more blogs to visit.
Last week's writing went well and am within about 3 to 4000 words of finishing Confrontations. Always a sad and a happy time. Sad to leave the characters behind since I've spent many years living with them but happy to see all the loose ends tied up. At least I hope I've managed this. Looking forward to a new start on a new story. Not a book this time but a novella. Though for me a short piece takes proportionally the same time or longer than a novel. I have trouble thinking short and many times in reading shorter pieces feel cheated in some respect.
Last week's writing went well and am within about 3 to 4000 words of finishing Confrontations. Always a sad and a happy time. Sad to leave the characters behind since I've spent many years living with them but happy to see all the loose ends tied up. At least I hope I've managed this. Looking forward to a new start on a new story. Not a book this time but a novella. Though for me a short piece takes proportionally the same time or longer than a novel. I have trouble thinking short and many times in reading shorter pieces feel cheated in some respect.
Sunday, March 27, 2011
3 Blog Visit Sunday
http://heroineswithhearts.blogspot.com/ This blog has a visit with Jane Toombs and other interesting data
http://fantasybookcritic.blogspot.com/ For fantasy lovers with indepth reviews and interviews
http://ffnp.blogspot.com/ More fantasy articles and interviews
http://fantasybookcritic.blogspot.com/ For fantasy lovers with indepth reviews and interviews
http://ffnp.blogspot.com/ More fantasy articles and interviews
Saturday, March 26, 2011
1st Chapter Saturday - The rest of Whispers Out of Yesteryear
In Whispers, I may have broken every law of writing that I know, except I don't think I did. Whispers is a reincarnation vovel based mych on the past lives of the characters and I do mean events from the distant past and of the near past. This story is also based on a past incident in my own life. Hope you enjoy.
Whispers Out of Yesteryear
Janet Lane Walters
DiskUs Publishing
*****
July 2000
"Not the children!"
Willow Carey jerked into a sitting position. Her heart thudded in her chest. Waves of terror flooded her thoughts. She gulped deep breaths of air.
She stared at the familiar surroundings and wondered why the bedroom seemed alien. Like a shroud, the sheet had twisted around her legs. She tugged it free. Her sleep shirt, soaked with perspiration, clung to her skin. She shook her head to dislodge the fragments of the nightmare that had awakened her. Terror, grief and rage had followed her into consciousness. What? Why?
Once her heart rate slowed, she reached for the alarm clock. Too late to go back to sleep and too early to get ready for work. As the effects of the adrenaline rush faded, her sense of uneasiness grew.
She hugged her knees. Once again, she had failed but she couldn’t remember who or how.
Moments later, she stood in the shower. Warm water washed away the sour smell of fear. The nightmare wasn’t new. Six years had passed since the last time the cry had jolted her awake. Always the same urgency and the same surge of emotions. No matter how hard she tried, she never remembered more than the cry.
She stepped from the shower. After pulling on a blue terry cloth robe, she stripped the bed and stuffed the damp sheets in the hamper.
What had triggered the dream? With the thoroughness of a pathologist seeking the cause of death, she examined the past few days and found no incident that could be called a trigger.
As she made the bed, she recalled the first time she’d dreamed. She’d been sixteen. She and her twin had been at Indian’s Sorrow visiting their aunt. Willow had always loved staying there. This time had been different. One memory lodged in her thoughts.
"Willow, come here. This is so neat." Brooke had opened the gate at the side of the garden.
Willow halted at the opening. She looked beyond her sister. "Get away from the edge."
"I’m fine." Brooke leaned forward. "The rocks look like a giant’s teeth. Come see."
"I can’t."
Brooke laughed. "Chicken."
"Something dreadful happened here."
"And I thought I was the one with the imagination and you were the logical one." Brooke spun around. "I love this place. Do you think Aunt Willow will leave it to us? She doesn’t have kids."
"I don’t..." Willow had turned away. She hadn’t been able to say she didn’t want Indian’s Sorrow. The land had been in the family forever and something bound her to this place.
That night she’d dreamed. Terror had slid insidious fingers of fear into her sleep. When the summer had ended, she’d been happy to go home.
Until her aunt’s death, she hadn’t gone back. Then she learned the house and the land were hers, not a legacy to be shared with her twin.
Brooke had been furious. She’d accused Willow of taking advantage of their aunt. Since that day, their relationship had been strained. Brooke’s coldness had hurt.
Willow sighed. The land was hers but she’d lost her sister.
She sat on the edge of the bed. Where was Brooke? Five months ago, they had talked for a few minutes at an art gallery exhibition of Brooke’s paintings. Silly surface chatter with no meaning and no sense of their old bond.
Was her twin all right? She used to know when Brooke was in trouble, but the connection they’d shared had vanished. Willow tore her thoughts from the void left by the rift.
By six fifteen, she was ready for work. She put a bright yellow smock embroidered with Native American symbols over her white uniform. The children loved to trace the lines and learn the meanings. So did she. Her apartment reflected her interest in that part of her heritage.
She paused to study the portrait Brooke had painted of the Three Sisters -- Corn, Squash and Beans. Though Willow had posed for the picture, her twin could have painted herself. Long black hair, warm brown eyes, cheekbones that added a hint of the exotic. Mirrors on the outside but opposites inside.
A sliver of the nightmare slid into focus. Brooke screamed. As though touched by a blast of frigid air, Willow rubbed her arms. What did it mean? Was Brooke in danger? She searched but the bond remained closed.
She had no appetite, but she brewed a cup of herbal tea and toasted a bran muffin. As she picked at the food, her thoughts returned to the nightmare. Why today and why when she wasn’t at Indian’s Sorrow? She scraped the remains of the muffin in the garbage and washed the dishes.
A persistent question nagged. What did the dream mean?
She tucked a pouch containing a Kelly clamp, bandage scissors and pens in her pocket.
With a stethoscope draped around her neck, she headed across the street to West End Hospital where she worked as a pediatric nurse.
*****
July 1755
Too late. Too late.
Jonathan Reed stopped for a brief rest. For two days since he’d seen signs of the Ottawas in the forest, the refrain had echoed in his thoughts. After he’d discovered the dismembered bodies of their captives, he’d known Rene DuBarri led the band of warriors. Such brutality was the man’s signature.
Dread filled his thoughts. The Long House. Corn Dreamer. The men and women who had befriended him were in danger. He feared he wouldn’t arrive in time with the warning.
He rubbed dirt into his hair to disguise the color. Hair of Fire was his name among the clan.
After gulping water from the skin he carried, he looked for signs of the enemy’s passage. Another mile or two and he would reach his goal. Though most of the warriors had traveled north, if he arrived in time, those who had remained could hold off the enemy until the women and children escaped.
The silence of the forest troubled him. No bird songs, no noises that signaled the presence of small animals. His fears rushed to the surface.
Too late. Too late.
No, he prayed. For with the clan and in the Long House, he’d found healing for his spirit and had learned to forgive himself. The guilt he’d felt after his wife’s death by her own hand had turned him into a wanderer. Corn Dreamer had helped him find peace and had taught him the skills of a healer.
Too late. Too late.
He pushed his fears to a corner of his mind and slowed to a walk. With caution, he slipped from tree to tree, senses alert and prayers forgotten. He was close enough to hear the songs of the women and the children's laughter. He felt a chill as icy as the winds of winter.
He staggered into the clearing and stared at the ruined Long House. Bitter acid burned in his throat. He had arrived too late.
As he stared at the scene of the massacre, he saw the broken bodies of his friends. Two warriors lay atop several of the enemy. He crept from the shadow of the trees and examined the strangers. Ottawas from DuBarri’s pack.
He edged toward the Long house. Sprawled bodies of women, infants and the older boys caused him to weave a serpentine path to the entrance of the bark-covered building. Just inside the entrance, he halted. A cry rose in his throat.
"Corn Dreamer." The man who’d taught him about medicine lay sprawled among the furs. The gaping hole in his chest told Jonathan what had been done.
‘Twas an honor. He sank to his knees. How could such a death be deemed an honor?
Swift on the heels of grief, anger rose. He backed from the Long House. This time he examined the bodies for the one he feared to find.
A soft cry startled him. He studied the clearing and saw no one but the dead. The sound came again. He strode toward the trees. Gray Squirrel Chatters huddled in the brush. Dried blood on her head showed where she’d been struck.
"It’s Hair of Fire. Where are the children? Where are the Willows?"
"Gone. Those who stink of fish have taken them."
"Where?"
She shrugged. "They do not have Willow Who Bends. She went to gather medicines."
"In the forest?"
"To the place where those who gave her a name grow. North by the stream."
He lifted the elderly woman and carried her to the cave where last fall he and the warriors had killed a bear. Though he wanted to search for the one whose image filled his thoughts, he owed Gray Squirrel Chatters care for the meals she’d shared with him. He cleaned her wounds and returned to the long house for furs, food and water. Only then did he set out to look for Willow Who Bends.
Too late. Too late. The refrain beat in his thoughts. Not this time, he vowed.
*****
July 2000
The persistent ring of the telephone pulled Reid Talbot from a disturbing dream. He felt as though he’d run for miles and never reached his goal. He rubbed his eyes and groped on the bedside stand for the phone. "Dr. Talbot here."
The gravely voice of Ben Rodgers, Greenesville’s Chief of Police requested Reid’s presence at the scene of an accident. "Two victims. Car slammed into an embankment on County Road 7."
For a moment, Reid wondered if he’d heard a hint of emotion in the usually stoic man’s voice. "Be right there."
"Don’t rush. One accident’s enough."
Reid pulled on a pair of jeans and a blue polo shirt. Who this time, he wondered. He hadn’t asked and Ben hadn’t said.
After jotting a note for his live-in housekeeper, he lifted his medical bag from the dresser. Before heading to his car, he stopped to look in on his sons. Gary lay curled on his side. The covers had barely been disturbed. Rob’s bed looked like a major battle had been fought. The boys’ red hair, several shades lighter than his, shone bright against the white sheets.
Twenty minutes later, he rounded a bend in the road and spotted the patrol car. A sick feeling settled in his gut. He knew the van and he knew the victims. In the four years since he’d settled in Greenesville, Warren and Nancy Carey had become his friends.
He parked behind the patrol car. Ben strode over. "You need to check them."
"I know." His stomach knotted. He looked at the shattered front end. There was no way either could have survived. Thoughts of his wife’s broken body arose. Her accident had taken place not far from here.
He grabbed the medical bag. Ben’s round face mirrored the same sick feeling that roiled in Reid’s gut. "You all right?" he asked.
"Good as I can be."
Reid reached the van. He sucked in a breath and felt for pulses.
"How long?" Ben asked.
"Can’t say without an autopsy. Six hours or so. Is there a need?"
Ben shrugged. "Won’t know ‘til the van’s been checked over. Was on my way to town for breakfast when I come on them. Not many folks travel this road at night."
"What do you think happened?" Reid turned away. There wasn’t a thing he could do and that made him feel helpless.
"Dear, I reckon." Ben rubbed his balding head. "Found a dead one ‘crost the road." He frowned. "Wonder what brought them home in the middle of the night. Thought they was staying in New York City a couple of weeks. Haven’t been gone more than one."
"I thought so, too."
"Asked me to check on Miss Mary and the kids. Talked to her yesterday morning. She didn’t mention they were coming back."
Reid averted his eyes from the van. He couldn’t look; he couldn’t even grieve. Not in public "Maybe she called them. Children could be a handful, especially for a seventy year old."
Ben chuckled. "She sure snookered you. She’s past eighty and she’s not one for admitting she can’t handle anything." He shook his head. "Them coming back don’t make sense."
Reid nodded. Warren and Nancy had been excited about the contract for a series of informative and witty histories of Colonial days. They’d talked about plays, museums and people they wanted to see. Would knowing why they cut their trip short explain the accident?
The ambulance arrived. One of the men approached. "You gonna sign the certificates now or later, Doc?"
Reid’s hands clenched. "At the hospital." He strode down the road and kept his back to the van. Sadness view with anger. Why these two? The accident was senseless and unfair.
Ben joined him. "They’re gone. You able to handle this? Know you was close."
"Yeah. Have you called Miss Mary?"
Ben shook his head. "Couldn’t face her. Don’t know how she’ll take this. Been living with them since her cabin burned down."
Reid nodded. Life in a small town had annoying moments but the closeness and caring when trouble occurred were among the reasons he’d remained after his wife’s death.
"I’ll tell her and call Warren’s daughters."
The older man snorted. "Wouldn’t surprise me none if they didn’t come."
"Willow will," Reid said.
Ben raised an eyebrow. "They why ain’t she come to visit?"
"She’s a nurse and works crazy hours. Warren, Nancy and the children visit her once a month."
Ben walked to the patrol car. "Seems one way to me. Makes me see red when families fall apart, Best you call them. I might shove my foot in wrong. See you."
After the patrol car pulled onto the road, Reid slumped in the driver’s seat. Warren and Nancy. Why?
He stared at the crumpled van. How was he going to tell Miss Mary and the children?
Five minutes later, he turned into the tree-lined lane leading to Indian’s Sorrow. For the hundredth time, he wondered how the place had been named. This morning the name seemed apt.
Sunrise tinged the white clapboard of the house pink. Doric columns supported the portico roof. He dashed up the steps and rang the bell.
Miss Mary opened the door. "What brings you here? Be needing one of my tonics?"
He shook his head. "Warren and Nancy."
"T’ain’t back from the big city. Why a body would want to go there is beyond me."
"I know they’re not back. They’ve been in an accident."
Her shoulders slumped. Her face aged to match the years she’d lived. "They was coming in the night. Hoped they’d changed their minds. Might as well come in." She headed past the stairs leading to the second floor and into the kitchen wing.
"Where are the children?"
"Tykes be sleeping." She filled a cup with coffee and put it in front of him. "Don’t have a notion why Warren and Nancy changed their plans, ‘cept he was mad ‘bout something. Heard it in his voice."
Reid inhaled the aromatic steam and gulped a mouthful. The bitter taste matched his thoughts. The hot liquid burned a trail to his stomach but failed to warm the frost that had settled deep. How would the children handle the loss of their parents? He remembered how his boys had grieved when their mother had died. Though she’d done little to earn the title, they had loved her.
He put the cup in the saucer. "They were almost home when they had the accident."
Miss Mary sank on the chair across the table from him. "Feared as much when they didn’t come. Need to tell the tykes when they wake. Pains me. Tired of telling folks ‘bout death." Her hands opened and closed. "Was me what brought Willow Grant the news ‘bout her man and baby. Place sure lives up to its name. Don’t know a body what lived here that don’t lose a loved one in some tragic way."
He put his hand over hers. "I’ll call Warren’s daughters."
She snorted. "Guess they’ll come. That Brooke was here ‘bout two months ago. Brought some slick city fella. Didn’t like him one bit. Had greedy eyes. She and Warren had a real fuss."
Reid frowned. Warren had seldom talked about Brooke.
"And that Willow. Had hopes for her. When she come summers, she helped me with my herbs. Day after her aunt’s funeral, she run and ain’t been back. House and land be hers."
"Thought it was Warren’s."
"Land goes to the oldest girl in each generation. Willow and Brooke be the last in the direct line, so it’s hers. Them things don’t mean much to young folks these days."
"She’ll come for the children."
Speculation flashed in her eyes. Reid looked away. Even Warren hadn’t known about his connection to Willow and how he’d destroyed her trust by withholding the truth.
"Believe that when I see her. Run out of here that morning like ghosts was on her tail."
"She’ll come," he repeated. "I know her. She was a nurse at the hospital where I did my residency. Do you have her number?"
"I’ll fetch the book."
While Reid waited for the elderly woman to return, vivid images of Willow filled his thoughts and stirred memories of how much he’d needed her love, of how she’d been the one to fill the emptiness he’d felt all his life. He groaned.
Miss Mary dropped an indexed book on the table. "I’ll check the tykes. Tell them girls they’d better come flying. They be needed."
He opened the directory to C. Willow’s name and number were scrawled in Warren’s bold script. Brooke’s had been added by Nancy. He tried that number.
"We’re sorry but the number you’ve reached has been disconnected."
He frowned. He’d hoped to speak to Brooke and let her pass the news to Willow. Even thinking about her stirred regrets and guilt. He dialed her number. After six rings, her throaty voice informed him she was unavailable but to leave a message.
He slumped in the chair. What now? His news couldn’t wait and he didn’t want to leave a message. Was she at the hospital? Had she changed her shift from evenings? He called West End Hospital and asked for the Pediatric Unit.
Five years ago, he and Willow had met at a patient’s bedside. After her shift, they’d gone to the cafeteria to discuss the case. That had been the first of many late night meetings. Memories of their first kiss flooded his thoughts.
He’d cupped her face and kissed her lightly. "I feel as though I’ve known you forever."
"Forever," she had repeated. "To the spirit world and beyond."
Those words had sounded right and as though she’d said them to him once before. Except, he’d believed she hadn’t been talking about the past. She’d wanted a future he couldn’t promise.
"Pediatrics, Miss Carey speaking."
Her voice curled around him like a velvet glove. "Willow, it’s Reid Talbot."
"Dr. Talbot." Her voice flattened. "What can I do for you?"
Love me, he thought. Her formality doused his hopes. Did she still hate him? He recalled the night she’d walked away. Her obsidian eyes had flashed with anger and her long black braid had slapped against her back. "I have some bad news."
"Not the children." Her words echoed the ones that had awakened her.
"Your father. Nancy. An accident. They were killed."
For a moment, his words failed to register. Tears trickled down her cheeks. "Were they mugged?"
"Their van. Just outside Greenesville."
"But they were in New York." She didn’t understand. Like a gush of molten lava, anger flashed in her thoughts. I’ll follow him to the spirit world and beyond. I will have revenge. Her hands shook. What am I thinking? "Why were they coming home?"
"I don’t know."
"Mara and Pete?"
"With Miss Mary. Will you come?"
Was there a choice? She sucked in a shuddering breath and wiped her eyes. "Yes." A whisper from the past brushed her skin. She shivered. "As soon as I can arrange relief here. Sometime later...this afternoon or early evening."
"If you need anything, Miss Mary has my number."
"Thank you."
He heard grief in her voice and marveled at her control. Except, she’d always shown a stoic’s face to the world. "We need to talk..." He swallowed the rest of his words. Today wasn’t the time to tell her he was a widower. "Will you be all right? Is there..."
"I have to be. Mara and Pete need me...Does Brooke know?"
"Her number’s been disconnected."
"I’ll find her."
He hated the sorrow he heard in her voice. He reached for the now cold coffee and drained the cup.
Miss Mary shuffled into the room. "Tykes still be asleep. Them girls coming?"
"Willow will be here this afternoon."
The elderly woman sniffed. "Why so long?"
"Nurses can’t just abandon their patients. The nursing office will have to find a relief." He waved away a refill. "Couldn’t reach Brooke. What’s she like?"
"On the outside, a body’d think she was Willow, but she’s soft inside and easy led. Kind of selfish. Carried on something fierce when she learned the place was her twin’s and not for them both."
"Why?"
"Willow’s oldest by fifteen minutes. Just ‘cause they’re twins don’t change the giving."
Reid rose. "I must get to the hospital. Call if you need anything."
She followed him to the door. "Always been a Willow here to now."
Would Willow stay or would she take the children to the city? Could he persuade her to give the town and him another chance? He paused on the porch. "Want me to stay until the children are up?"
"I’ll be doing what’s needed." She remained at the door. "Willow be the one to need you."
Will she? From the ice he’d heard in her voice, he believed she’d be the last person to ask for his help.
Whispers Out of Yesteryear
Janet Lane Walters
DiskUs Publishing
*****
July 2000
"Not the children!"
Willow Carey jerked into a sitting position. Her heart thudded in her chest. Waves of terror flooded her thoughts. She gulped deep breaths of air.
She stared at the familiar surroundings and wondered why the bedroom seemed alien. Like a shroud, the sheet had twisted around her legs. She tugged it free. Her sleep shirt, soaked with perspiration, clung to her skin. She shook her head to dislodge the fragments of the nightmare that had awakened her. Terror, grief and rage had followed her into consciousness. What? Why?
Once her heart rate slowed, she reached for the alarm clock. Too late to go back to sleep and too early to get ready for work. As the effects of the adrenaline rush faded, her sense of uneasiness grew.
She hugged her knees. Once again, she had failed but she couldn’t remember who or how.
Moments later, she stood in the shower. Warm water washed away the sour smell of fear. The nightmare wasn’t new. Six years had passed since the last time the cry had jolted her awake. Always the same urgency and the same surge of emotions. No matter how hard she tried, she never remembered more than the cry.
She stepped from the shower. After pulling on a blue terry cloth robe, she stripped the bed and stuffed the damp sheets in the hamper.
What had triggered the dream? With the thoroughness of a pathologist seeking the cause of death, she examined the past few days and found no incident that could be called a trigger.
As she made the bed, she recalled the first time she’d dreamed. She’d been sixteen. She and her twin had been at Indian’s Sorrow visiting their aunt. Willow had always loved staying there. This time had been different. One memory lodged in her thoughts.
"Willow, come here. This is so neat." Brooke had opened the gate at the side of the garden.
Willow halted at the opening. She looked beyond her sister. "Get away from the edge."
"I’m fine." Brooke leaned forward. "The rocks look like a giant’s teeth. Come see."
"I can’t."
Brooke laughed. "Chicken."
"Something dreadful happened here."
"And I thought I was the one with the imagination and you were the logical one." Brooke spun around. "I love this place. Do you think Aunt Willow will leave it to us? She doesn’t have kids."
"I don’t..." Willow had turned away. She hadn’t been able to say she didn’t want Indian’s Sorrow. The land had been in the family forever and something bound her to this place.
That night she’d dreamed. Terror had slid insidious fingers of fear into her sleep. When the summer had ended, she’d been happy to go home.
Until her aunt’s death, she hadn’t gone back. Then she learned the house and the land were hers, not a legacy to be shared with her twin.
Brooke had been furious. She’d accused Willow of taking advantage of their aunt. Since that day, their relationship had been strained. Brooke’s coldness had hurt.
Willow sighed. The land was hers but she’d lost her sister.
She sat on the edge of the bed. Where was Brooke? Five months ago, they had talked for a few minutes at an art gallery exhibition of Brooke’s paintings. Silly surface chatter with no meaning and no sense of their old bond.
Was her twin all right? She used to know when Brooke was in trouble, but the connection they’d shared had vanished. Willow tore her thoughts from the void left by the rift.
By six fifteen, she was ready for work. She put a bright yellow smock embroidered with Native American symbols over her white uniform. The children loved to trace the lines and learn the meanings. So did she. Her apartment reflected her interest in that part of her heritage.
She paused to study the portrait Brooke had painted of the Three Sisters -- Corn, Squash and Beans. Though Willow had posed for the picture, her twin could have painted herself. Long black hair, warm brown eyes, cheekbones that added a hint of the exotic. Mirrors on the outside but opposites inside.
A sliver of the nightmare slid into focus. Brooke screamed. As though touched by a blast of frigid air, Willow rubbed her arms. What did it mean? Was Brooke in danger? She searched but the bond remained closed.
She had no appetite, but she brewed a cup of herbal tea and toasted a bran muffin. As she picked at the food, her thoughts returned to the nightmare. Why today and why when she wasn’t at Indian’s Sorrow? She scraped the remains of the muffin in the garbage and washed the dishes.
A persistent question nagged. What did the dream mean?
She tucked a pouch containing a Kelly clamp, bandage scissors and pens in her pocket.
With a stethoscope draped around her neck, she headed across the street to West End Hospital where she worked as a pediatric nurse.
*****
July 1755
Too late. Too late.
Jonathan Reed stopped for a brief rest. For two days since he’d seen signs of the Ottawas in the forest, the refrain had echoed in his thoughts. After he’d discovered the dismembered bodies of their captives, he’d known Rene DuBarri led the band of warriors. Such brutality was the man’s signature.
Dread filled his thoughts. The Long House. Corn Dreamer. The men and women who had befriended him were in danger. He feared he wouldn’t arrive in time with the warning.
He rubbed dirt into his hair to disguise the color. Hair of Fire was his name among the clan.
After gulping water from the skin he carried, he looked for signs of the enemy’s passage. Another mile or two and he would reach his goal. Though most of the warriors had traveled north, if he arrived in time, those who had remained could hold off the enemy until the women and children escaped.
The silence of the forest troubled him. No bird songs, no noises that signaled the presence of small animals. His fears rushed to the surface.
Too late. Too late.
No, he prayed. For with the clan and in the Long House, he’d found healing for his spirit and had learned to forgive himself. The guilt he’d felt after his wife’s death by her own hand had turned him into a wanderer. Corn Dreamer had helped him find peace and had taught him the skills of a healer.
Too late. Too late.
He pushed his fears to a corner of his mind and slowed to a walk. With caution, he slipped from tree to tree, senses alert and prayers forgotten. He was close enough to hear the songs of the women and the children's laughter. He felt a chill as icy as the winds of winter.
He staggered into the clearing and stared at the ruined Long House. Bitter acid burned in his throat. He had arrived too late.
As he stared at the scene of the massacre, he saw the broken bodies of his friends. Two warriors lay atop several of the enemy. He crept from the shadow of the trees and examined the strangers. Ottawas from DuBarri’s pack.
He edged toward the Long house. Sprawled bodies of women, infants and the older boys caused him to weave a serpentine path to the entrance of the bark-covered building. Just inside the entrance, he halted. A cry rose in his throat.
"Corn Dreamer." The man who’d taught him about medicine lay sprawled among the furs. The gaping hole in his chest told Jonathan what had been done.
‘Twas an honor. He sank to his knees. How could such a death be deemed an honor?
Swift on the heels of grief, anger rose. He backed from the Long House. This time he examined the bodies for the one he feared to find.
A soft cry startled him. He studied the clearing and saw no one but the dead. The sound came again. He strode toward the trees. Gray Squirrel Chatters huddled in the brush. Dried blood on her head showed where she’d been struck.
"It’s Hair of Fire. Where are the children? Where are the Willows?"
"Gone. Those who stink of fish have taken them."
"Where?"
She shrugged. "They do not have Willow Who Bends. She went to gather medicines."
"In the forest?"
"To the place where those who gave her a name grow. North by the stream."
He lifted the elderly woman and carried her to the cave where last fall he and the warriors had killed a bear. Though he wanted to search for the one whose image filled his thoughts, he owed Gray Squirrel Chatters care for the meals she’d shared with him. He cleaned her wounds and returned to the long house for furs, food and water. Only then did he set out to look for Willow Who Bends.
Too late. Too late. The refrain beat in his thoughts. Not this time, he vowed.
*****
July 2000
The persistent ring of the telephone pulled Reid Talbot from a disturbing dream. He felt as though he’d run for miles and never reached his goal. He rubbed his eyes and groped on the bedside stand for the phone. "Dr. Talbot here."
The gravely voice of Ben Rodgers, Greenesville’s Chief of Police requested Reid’s presence at the scene of an accident. "Two victims. Car slammed into an embankment on County Road 7."
For a moment, Reid wondered if he’d heard a hint of emotion in the usually stoic man’s voice. "Be right there."
"Don’t rush. One accident’s enough."
Reid pulled on a pair of jeans and a blue polo shirt. Who this time, he wondered. He hadn’t asked and Ben hadn’t said.
After jotting a note for his live-in housekeeper, he lifted his medical bag from the dresser. Before heading to his car, he stopped to look in on his sons. Gary lay curled on his side. The covers had barely been disturbed. Rob’s bed looked like a major battle had been fought. The boys’ red hair, several shades lighter than his, shone bright against the white sheets.
Twenty minutes later, he rounded a bend in the road and spotted the patrol car. A sick feeling settled in his gut. He knew the van and he knew the victims. In the four years since he’d settled in Greenesville, Warren and Nancy Carey had become his friends.
He parked behind the patrol car. Ben strode over. "You need to check them."
"I know." His stomach knotted. He looked at the shattered front end. There was no way either could have survived. Thoughts of his wife’s broken body arose. Her accident had taken place not far from here.
He grabbed the medical bag. Ben’s round face mirrored the same sick feeling that roiled in Reid’s gut. "You all right?" he asked.
"Good as I can be."
Reid reached the van. He sucked in a breath and felt for pulses.
"How long?" Ben asked.
"Can’t say without an autopsy. Six hours or so. Is there a need?"
Ben shrugged. "Won’t know ‘til the van’s been checked over. Was on my way to town for breakfast when I come on them. Not many folks travel this road at night."
"What do you think happened?" Reid turned away. There wasn’t a thing he could do and that made him feel helpless.
"Dear, I reckon." Ben rubbed his balding head. "Found a dead one ‘crost the road." He frowned. "Wonder what brought them home in the middle of the night. Thought they was staying in New York City a couple of weeks. Haven’t been gone more than one."
"I thought so, too."
"Asked me to check on Miss Mary and the kids. Talked to her yesterday morning. She didn’t mention they were coming back."
Reid averted his eyes from the van. He couldn’t look; he couldn’t even grieve. Not in public "Maybe she called them. Children could be a handful, especially for a seventy year old."
Ben chuckled. "She sure snookered you. She’s past eighty and she’s not one for admitting she can’t handle anything." He shook his head. "Them coming back don’t make sense."
Reid nodded. Warren and Nancy had been excited about the contract for a series of informative and witty histories of Colonial days. They’d talked about plays, museums and people they wanted to see. Would knowing why they cut their trip short explain the accident?
The ambulance arrived. One of the men approached. "You gonna sign the certificates now or later, Doc?"
Reid’s hands clenched. "At the hospital." He strode down the road and kept his back to the van. Sadness view with anger. Why these two? The accident was senseless and unfair.
Ben joined him. "They’re gone. You able to handle this? Know you was close."
"Yeah. Have you called Miss Mary?"
Ben shook his head. "Couldn’t face her. Don’t know how she’ll take this. Been living with them since her cabin burned down."
Reid nodded. Life in a small town had annoying moments but the closeness and caring when trouble occurred were among the reasons he’d remained after his wife’s death.
"I’ll tell her and call Warren’s daughters."
The older man snorted. "Wouldn’t surprise me none if they didn’t come."
"Willow will," Reid said.
Ben raised an eyebrow. "They why ain’t she come to visit?"
"She’s a nurse and works crazy hours. Warren, Nancy and the children visit her once a month."
Ben walked to the patrol car. "Seems one way to me. Makes me see red when families fall apart, Best you call them. I might shove my foot in wrong. See you."
After the patrol car pulled onto the road, Reid slumped in the driver’s seat. Warren and Nancy. Why?
He stared at the crumpled van. How was he going to tell Miss Mary and the children?
Five minutes later, he turned into the tree-lined lane leading to Indian’s Sorrow. For the hundredth time, he wondered how the place had been named. This morning the name seemed apt.
Sunrise tinged the white clapboard of the house pink. Doric columns supported the portico roof. He dashed up the steps and rang the bell.
Miss Mary opened the door. "What brings you here? Be needing one of my tonics?"
He shook his head. "Warren and Nancy."
"T’ain’t back from the big city. Why a body would want to go there is beyond me."
"I know they’re not back. They’ve been in an accident."
Her shoulders slumped. Her face aged to match the years she’d lived. "They was coming in the night. Hoped they’d changed their minds. Might as well come in." She headed past the stairs leading to the second floor and into the kitchen wing.
"Where are the children?"
"Tykes be sleeping." She filled a cup with coffee and put it in front of him. "Don’t have a notion why Warren and Nancy changed their plans, ‘cept he was mad ‘bout something. Heard it in his voice."
Reid inhaled the aromatic steam and gulped a mouthful. The bitter taste matched his thoughts. The hot liquid burned a trail to his stomach but failed to warm the frost that had settled deep. How would the children handle the loss of their parents? He remembered how his boys had grieved when their mother had died. Though she’d done little to earn the title, they had loved her.
He put the cup in the saucer. "They were almost home when they had the accident."
Miss Mary sank on the chair across the table from him. "Feared as much when they didn’t come. Need to tell the tykes when they wake. Pains me. Tired of telling folks ‘bout death." Her hands opened and closed. "Was me what brought Willow Grant the news ‘bout her man and baby. Place sure lives up to its name. Don’t know a body what lived here that don’t lose a loved one in some tragic way."
He put his hand over hers. "I’ll call Warren’s daughters."
She snorted. "Guess they’ll come. That Brooke was here ‘bout two months ago. Brought some slick city fella. Didn’t like him one bit. Had greedy eyes. She and Warren had a real fuss."
Reid frowned. Warren had seldom talked about Brooke.
"And that Willow. Had hopes for her. When she come summers, she helped me with my herbs. Day after her aunt’s funeral, she run and ain’t been back. House and land be hers."
"Thought it was Warren’s."
"Land goes to the oldest girl in each generation. Willow and Brooke be the last in the direct line, so it’s hers. Them things don’t mean much to young folks these days."
"She’ll come for the children."
Speculation flashed in her eyes. Reid looked away. Even Warren hadn’t known about his connection to Willow and how he’d destroyed her trust by withholding the truth.
"Believe that when I see her. Run out of here that morning like ghosts was on her tail."
"She’ll come," he repeated. "I know her. She was a nurse at the hospital where I did my residency. Do you have her number?"
"I’ll fetch the book."
While Reid waited for the elderly woman to return, vivid images of Willow filled his thoughts and stirred memories of how much he’d needed her love, of how she’d been the one to fill the emptiness he’d felt all his life. He groaned.
Miss Mary dropped an indexed book on the table. "I’ll check the tykes. Tell them girls they’d better come flying. They be needed."
He opened the directory to C. Willow’s name and number were scrawled in Warren’s bold script. Brooke’s had been added by Nancy. He tried that number.
"We’re sorry but the number you’ve reached has been disconnected."
He frowned. He’d hoped to speak to Brooke and let her pass the news to Willow. Even thinking about her stirred regrets and guilt. He dialed her number. After six rings, her throaty voice informed him she was unavailable but to leave a message.
He slumped in the chair. What now? His news couldn’t wait and he didn’t want to leave a message. Was she at the hospital? Had she changed her shift from evenings? He called West End Hospital and asked for the Pediatric Unit.
Five years ago, he and Willow had met at a patient’s bedside. After her shift, they’d gone to the cafeteria to discuss the case. That had been the first of many late night meetings. Memories of their first kiss flooded his thoughts.
He’d cupped her face and kissed her lightly. "I feel as though I’ve known you forever."
"Forever," she had repeated. "To the spirit world and beyond."
Those words had sounded right and as though she’d said them to him once before. Except, he’d believed she hadn’t been talking about the past. She’d wanted a future he couldn’t promise.
"Pediatrics, Miss Carey speaking."
Her voice curled around him like a velvet glove. "Willow, it’s Reid Talbot."
"Dr. Talbot." Her voice flattened. "What can I do for you?"
Love me, he thought. Her formality doused his hopes. Did she still hate him? He recalled the night she’d walked away. Her obsidian eyes had flashed with anger and her long black braid had slapped against her back. "I have some bad news."
"Not the children." Her words echoed the ones that had awakened her.
"Your father. Nancy. An accident. They were killed."
For a moment, his words failed to register. Tears trickled down her cheeks. "Were they mugged?"
"Their van. Just outside Greenesville."
"But they were in New York." She didn’t understand. Like a gush of molten lava, anger flashed in her thoughts. I’ll follow him to the spirit world and beyond. I will have revenge. Her hands shook. What am I thinking? "Why were they coming home?"
"I don’t know."
"Mara and Pete?"
"With Miss Mary. Will you come?"
Was there a choice? She sucked in a shuddering breath and wiped her eyes. "Yes." A whisper from the past brushed her skin. She shivered. "As soon as I can arrange relief here. Sometime later...this afternoon or early evening."
"If you need anything, Miss Mary has my number."
"Thank you."
He heard grief in her voice and marveled at her control. Except, she’d always shown a stoic’s face to the world. "We need to talk..." He swallowed the rest of his words. Today wasn’t the time to tell her he was a widower. "Will you be all right? Is there..."
"I have to be. Mara and Pete need me...Does Brooke know?"
"Her number’s been disconnected."
"I’ll find her."
He hated the sorrow he heard in her voice. He reached for the now cold coffee and drained the cup.
Miss Mary shuffled into the room. "Tykes still be asleep. Them girls coming?"
"Willow will be here this afternoon."
The elderly woman sniffed. "Why so long?"
"Nurses can’t just abandon their patients. The nursing office will have to find a relief." He waved away a refill. "Couldn’t reach Brooke. What’s she like?"
"On the outside, a body’d think she was Willow, but she’s soft inside and easy led. Kind of selfish. Carried on something fierce when she learned the place was her twin’s and not for them both."
"Why?"
"Willow’s oldest by fifteen minutes. Just ‘cause they’re twins don’t change the giving."
Reid rose. "I must get to the hospital. Call if you need anything."
She followed him to the door. "Always been a Willow here to now."
Would Willow stay or would she take the children to the city? Could he persuade her to give the town and him another chance? He paused on the porch. "Want me to stay until the children are up?"
"I’ll be doing what’s needed." She remained at the door. "Willow be the one to need you."
Will she? From the ice he’d heard in her voice, he believed she’d be the last person to ask for his help.
Friday, March 25, 2011
2 Kinds of Time - help from Becoming Your Own Critique Partner
There are two kinds of time the writer must deal with. One is chronological and the other is subjective.
Chronological time in a piece of fiction is the time span from the beginning of the story to the end. This is objective time. This can sometimes throw a writer off. I once wrote up a storm and had several impossible events happen at the same moment in different scenes. I've learned to make a sort of calendar when I'm revising to help me catch these moments. When dealing with chronological time the reader needs to know. Using things like the summer day, the month of may, 1997, morning, afternoon, and other descriptive words for time lets the reader know when the characters are. I've read books where each segment has a time line as the opening. Tuesday, July 20th 1997 9 AM. This gives the reader a specific time to hone in on and helps the author remain on track. Not letting the reader know the when can confuse them and make them scratch their heads trying to figure the when.
Now there's subjective time. This is a matter of pacing. When a character dreads a coming event, the time span seems endless. Using long sentences, introspection can help the reader find the same sense of dread. On the reverse when a character looks forward to an event the time can either drag or speed. The use of pacing by the author can bring the reader along. Chase scenes are ones where time tends to speed. This is true of all action scenes. I've made myself nearly breathless along with my characters while writing an action scene. To me this means I've accomplished what I wanted to do. Often these are the scenes that need little revision.
One thing about time is to remember how much time occurs between the events when moving to a new scene. I recently read a book where the heroine woke, heard noises and rushed downstairs fully dressed when there was no time for her to change our of her night clothes. Irritated me as a reader and perhsps irritated other readers. I hope not for the story was a good one. Using a little time, the writer could have had the events not be almost spontaneous but a lapse of a short time to allow the young lady to don those clothes she wasn't wearing at the top of the steps but at the bottom.
Chronological time in a piece of fiction is the time span from the beginning of the story to the end. This is objective time. This can sometimes throw a writer off. I once wrote up a storm and had several impossible events happen at the same moment in different scenes. I've learned to make a sort of calendar when I'm revising to help me catch these moments. When dealing with chronological time the reader needs to know. Using things like the summer day, the month of may, 1997, morning, afternoon, and other descriptive words for time lets the reader know when the characters are. I've read books where each segment has a time line as the opening. Tuesday, July 20th 1997 9 AM. This gives the reader a specific time to hone in on and helps the author remain on track. Not letting the reader know the when can confuse them and make them scratch their heads trying to figure the when.
Now there's subjective time. This is a matter of pacing. When a character dreads a coming event, the time span seems endless. Using long sentences, introspection can help the reader find the same sense of dread. On the reverse when a character looks forward to an event the time can either drag or speed. The use of pacing by the author can bring the reader along. Chase scenes are ones where time tends to speed. This is true of all action scenes. I've made myself nearly breathless along with my characters while writing an action scene. To me this means I've accomplished what I wanted to do. Often these are the scenes that need little revision.
One thing about time is to remember how much time occurs between the events when moving to a new scene. I recently read a book where the heroine woke, heard noises and rushed downstairs fully dressed when there was no time for her to change our of her night clothes. Irritated me as a reader and perhsps irritated other readers. I hope not for the story was a good one. Using a little time, the writer could have had the events not be almost spontaneous but a lapse of a short time to allow the young lady to don those clothes she wasn't wearing at the top of the steps but at the bottom.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Thursday's Interview Anne K. Albert
Today's interview is with Anne k. Albert, a fellow Vanilla Heart author. She writes in two of the categories that I do and her books will soon be on my reading list. We also read some of the same books.
1. What's your genre or do you write in more than one?
Anne – I write both mystery and romantic suspense stories that chill the spine, warm the heart, and soothe the soul…all with a delightful touch of humor.
2. Did you choose your genre or did it choose you?
Anne – Both chose me! As a child I read Nancy Drew, the Hardy Boys and Trixie Belden, then as a teen discovered Agatha Christie, Raymond Chandler and so many others. I’ve always loved to figure out whodunit!
3. Is there any genre you'd like to try? Or is there one you wouldn't?
Anne – I could never write a psychological thriller, nor could I write a story that includes graphic violence. It would gnaw at my very soul. As much as I’m awed by the genius of the writers responsible for the Dexter television series, I stopped watching after the second season. I found I could not sleep at nights, and even now, just hearing the theme music from that show causes all sorts of heart palpitations!
One genre I have dabbled in, and would like to do more, is young adult. I’ve written the first draft of a story, but it’s a long way from publication. Completing it, however, is definitely on my bucket list.
4. What fiction do you read for pleasure?
Anne – I read what I write - cozy mysteries and sweet romantic suspense stories. I prefer the blood and gore to be left off stage, and that goes for sex scenes as well. I’ve always been more interested in the action and suspense.
5. Tell me a bit about yourself and how long you've been writing.
Anne – I’ve been writing for ever, but it began as letters to friends and family members. (This was long before email, text messaging, Facebook and Twitter!) I used to write pages and pages and my husband’s grandmother would always comment that I should be a writer. I never took her seriously because, well, in my mind, ordinary people like me did not write books. Then, one day, it occurred to me that perhaps I could do it. I had no idea how to write a full length book, of course, but I was determined that my story would have a dead body, a puzzle to solve and interesting characters.
6. Which of your characters is your favorite?
Anne –I love all of my characters in different ways, but if I had to pick just one it would be Val from FRANK, INCENSE AND MURIEL. She’s Muriel’s aunt, in her sixties, lives life to the fullest, and is not afraid to age or be herself. She’s warmhearted, eccentric, and fun.
7. Are there villains in your books and how were they created?
Anne – Oh, yes, I always have a villain in my stories. They’re people like you and me, but somewhere along the road of life they took the wrong path. They’re not necessarily evil or wicked, but they have no objection to trampling over people to attain their objective.
8. What are you working on now?
Anne – I’m writing “Protecting Hope”. It’s the second book of my romantic suspense Piedmont Island Trilogy series. It will be released in e-book format in August 2011 and the print version comes out September 2011.
9. What's your latest release and how did the idea arrive?
Anne – My latest release is FRANK, INCENSE AND MURIEL. When I began this story I had no intention of it ever being published. I viewed it as a fun, entertaining read for my eyes only. But within a few chapters, I knew I had something worthwhile. I’m very proud of this book, the plot and its characters. It’s available in e-book format with the print version available in July 2011.
10. Tell me about your latest book and how it came about. Enclose the opening of the book around 400 words.
Anne – It’s the week before Christmas when the stress of the holiday season is enough to frazzle anyone's nerves. To find a missing woman Frank and Muriel must deal with an embezzler, femme fatale, kidnapper, and of course, Muriel's eccentric, (but loveable) family.
Beginning excerpt from FRANK, INCENSE AND MURIEL:
Imagine my surprise when Frankie Salerno showed up at my front door one cold, December, Monday morning. Displaying a set of dimples that could make a grown woman cry, he gave me a quick once over and let out a long, slow, wolf whistle. “You’re looking good, Brian. Real good.”
Being ogled at is one thing. Being called that ridiculous nickname after a fifteen-year hiatus another. I felt a knot form in the pit of my stomach as my thoughts traveled back to Ms. Traynor’s ninth English class when Frankie wrote me a note. I have no idea of its contents. Nor do I care. All I know is the teacher intercepted it. She read it, raised an eyebrow, and zeroed in on me.
“I believe Frankie had you in mind when he wrote this,” she said.
To my horror, she began to read the note aloud. She got as far as the salutation he’d printed on the outside of the folded sheet of three-ring notepaper.
“To the Brian.”
The class erupted into fits of laughter and Ms. Traynor, satisfied we’d suffered enough humiliation for one day, returned the note to Frankie and resumed her lesson. From that day forward, I was the girl named Brian, and Frankie became my sworn enemy.
From where I stood a decade and a half later, not much had changed except that I’d grudgingly accepted my fate. Having a few more brain cells than feminine curves had advantages. If Frankie thought otherwise, so be it. He was entitled to his opinion. But really, who needed it? Or him?
“I’d like to say it’s great to see you again,” I said, “but we both know I’d be lying. Let’s end this before it gets messy, shall we?”
“Aw, come on.” He pressed his large, square hand on the screen door. “Do you have any idea how many Reeves are in the phonebook? It took me more than an hour to find you. I had to check the listings in Buffalo, Niagara Falls, Lackawanna–”
I held up my hand to silence him. I’d lived in western New York state all of my life and did not need a geography lesson. What I needed was to get on with my life. Without him. Still, I could not resist getting in the last word.
“It would’ve been quicker if you’d looked under ‘M’ instead of ‘B’,” I said.
“I was kidding about the Brian part.”
“Then why’d you say it?”
“I dunno. I was a jerk back in high school and some things never change. Besides, it says a lot more about me than it ever did about you. I’m the one who couldn’t spell brain.”
* * *
Thanks for featuring me today, Janet. It was such fun! I’d like to invite readers to visit me at my website: http://www.AnneKAlbert.com/ or my main blog: http://anne-k-albert.blogspot.com.
If they leave a comment mentioning this interview, I’ll enter their name in a draw to win a .pdf copy of FRANK, INCENSE AND MURIEL. The winner’s name will be announced on my mystery blog: http://muriel-reeves-mysteries.blogspot.com on April 1, 2011.
................................................................................................
--
Anne K. Albert
http://www.AnneKAlbert.com
http://anne-k-albert.blogspot.com
http://piedmont-island-trilogy.blogspot.com
http://muriel-reeves-mysteries.blogspot.com
1. What's your genre or do you write in more than one?
Anne – I write both mystery and romantic suspense stories that chill the spine, warm the heart, and soothe the soul…all with a delightful touch of humor.
2. Did you choose your genre or did it choose you?
Anne – Both chose me! As a child I read Nancy Drew, the Hardy Boys and Trixie Belden, then as a teen discovered Agatha Christie, Raymond Chandler and so many others. I’ve always loved to figure out whodunit!
3. Is there any genre you'd like to try? Or is there one you wouldn't?
Anne – I could never write a psychological thriller, nor could I write a story that includes graphic violence. It would gnaw at my very soul. As much as I’m awed by the genius of the writers responsible for the Dexter television series, I stopped watching after the second season. I found I could not sleep at nights, and even now, just hearing the theme music from that show causes all sorts of heart palpitations!
One genre I have dabbled in, and would like to do more, is young adult. I’ve written the first draft of a story, but it’s a long way from publication. Completing it, however, is definitely on my bucket list.
4. What fiction do you read for pleasure?
Anne – I read what I write - cozy mysteries and sweet romantic suspense stories. I prefer the blood and gore to be left off stage, and that goes for sex scenes as well. I’ve always been more interested in the action and suspense.
5. Tell me a bit about yourself and how long you've been writing.
Anne – I’ve been writing for ever, but it began as letters to friends and family members. (This was long before email, text messaging, Facebook and Twitter!) I used to write pages and pages and my husband’s grandmother would always comment that I should be a writer. I never took her seriously because, well, in my mind, ordinary people like me did not write books. Then, one day, it occurred to me that perhaps I could do it. I had no idea how to write a full length book, of course, but I was determined that my story would have a dead body, a puzzle to solve and interesting characters.
6. Which of your characters is your favorite?
Anne –I love all of my characters in different ways, but if I had to pick just one it would be Val from FRANK, INCENSE AND MURIEL. She’s Muriel’s aunt, in her sixties, lives life to the fullest, and is not afraid to age or be herself. She’s warmhearted, eccentric, and fun.
7. Are there villains in your books and how were they created?
Anne – Oh, yes, I always have a villain in my stories. They’re people like you and me, but somewhere along the road of life they took the wrong path. They’re not necessarily evil or wicked, but they have no objection to trampling over people to attain their objective.
8. What are you working on now?
Anne – I’m writing “Protecting Hope”. It’s the second book of my romantic suspense Piedmont Island Trilogy series. It will be released in e-book format in August 2011 and the print version comes out September 2011.
9. What's your latest release and how did the idea arrive?
Anne – My latest release is FRANK, INCENSE AND MURIEL. When I began this story I had no intention of it ever being published. I viewed it as a fun, entertaining read for my eyes only. But within a few chapters, I knew I had something worthwhile. I’m very proud of this book, the plot and its characters. It’s available in e-book format with the print version available in July 2011.
10. Tell me about your latest book and how it came about. Enclose the opening of the book around 400 words.
Anne – It’s the week before Christmas when the stress of the holiday season is enough to frazzle anyone's nerves. To find a missing woman Frank and Muriel must deal with an embezzler, femme fatale, kidnapper, and of course, Muriel's eccentric, (but loveable) family.
Beginning excerpt from FRANK, INCENSE AND MURIEL:
Imagine my surprise when Frankie Salerno showed up at my front door one cold, December, Monday morning. Displaying a set of dimples that could make a grown woman cry, he gave me a quick once over and let out a long, slow, wolf whistle. “You’re looking good, Brian. Real good.”
Being ogled at is one thing. Being called that ridiculous nickname after a fifteen-year hiatus another. I felt a knot form in the pit of my stomach as my thoughts traveled back to Ms. Traynor’s ninth English class when Frankie wrote me a note. I have no idea of its contents. Nor do I care. All I know is the teacher intercepted it. She read it, raised an eyebrow, and zeroed in on me.
“I believe Frankie had you in mind when he wrote this,” she said.
To my horror, she began to read the note aloud. She got as far as the salutation he’d printed on the outside of the folded sheet of three-ring notepaper.
“To the Brian.”
The class erupted into fits of laughter and Ms. Traynor, satisfied we’d suffered enough humiliation for one day, returned the note to Frankie and resumed her lesson. From that day forward, I was the girl named Brian, and Frankie became my sworn enemy.
From where I stood a decade and a half later, not much had changed except that I’d grudgingly accepted my fate. Having a few more brain cells than feminine curves had advantages. If Frankie thought otherwise, so be it. He was entitled to his opinion. But really, who needed it? Or him?
“I’d like to say it’s great to see you again,” I said, “but we both know I’d be lying. Let’s end this before it gets messy, shall we?”
“Aw, come on.” He pressed his large, square hand on the screen door. “Do you have any idea how many Reeves are in the phonebook? It took me more than an hour to find you. I had to check the listings in Buffalo, Niagara Falls, Lackawanna–”
I held up my hand to silence him. I’d lived in western New York state all of my life and did not need a geography lesson. What I needed was to get on with my life. Without him. Still, I could not resist getting in the last word.
“It would’ve been quicker if you’d looked under ‘M’ instead of ‘B’,” I said.
“I was kidding about the Brian part.”
“Then why’d you say it?”
“I dunno. I was a jerk back in high school and some things never change. Besides, it says a lot more about me than it ever did about you. I’m the one who couldn’t spell brain.”
* * *
Thanks for featuring me today, Janet. It was such fun! I’d like to invite readers to visit me at my website: http://www.AnneKAlbert.com/ or my main blog: http://anne-k-albert.blogspot.com.
If they leave a comment mentioning this interview, I’ll enter their name in a draw to win a .pdf copy of FRANK, INCENSE AND MURIEL. The winner’s name will be announced on my mystery blog: http://muriel-reeves-mysteries.blogspot.com on April 1, 2011.
................................................................................................
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Anne K. Albert
http://www.AnneKAlbert.com
http://anne-k-albert.blogspot.com
http://piedmont-island-trilogy.blogspot.com
http://muriel-reeves-mysteries.blogspot.com
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
3 plus a few more things your opening should show -- On Plot
Openings of stories need to do three things.
1. Start the story moving - this means showing the reader what kind of story this is to be.
2. Introduce and show what the main character is about, who they are and what they want.
2. Engage the reader - This means making a promise that this story will be a good one.
There are a few extras like establishing the tone or mood of the story, perhaps showing a viewpoint character who isn't the hero or heroine but an observer, and perhaps throwing in a minor character or two who have a role in the story -- not too many for this becomes a mob scene.
How does a writer do these things? Talking here about the first 3 to 5 pages of a book/
1. Open with a scene - this is the easiest to do since it can show the main character or characters in action, give a hint of the setting. Things to avoid are long descriptive passages, huge sections of back story or opening with a bang that becomes a promise not kept during the rest of the book. This kind of opening can work for an action story.
2. Open with dialogue but before long one must add other elements.
3. Open with description - must be a masterful. 3 to 5 pages of description could bore the reader.
4. Start with a philosophical statement - As long as this doesn't go on for pages. Too much and it becomes preaching.
Remember the opening of a book is a promise of a good read and to do this revision is the way to go. Finish the book and then go back and revise. The opening may need to be changed and that's all right. Revision can be as much fun as getting the initial story down.
3. Open with Description - takes a master and
1. Start the story moving - this means showing the reader what kind of story this is to be.
2. Introduce and show what the main character is about, who they are and what they want.
2. Engage the reader - This means making a promise that this story will be a good one.
There are a few extras like establishing the tone or mood of the story, perhaps showing a viewpoint character who isn't the hero or heroine but an observer, and perhaps throwing in a minor character or two who have a role in the story -- not too many for this becomes a mob scene.
How does a writer do these things? Talking here about the first 3 to 5 pages of a book/
1. Open with a scene - this is the easiest to do since it can show the main character or characters in action, give a hint of the setting. Things to avoid are long descriptive passages, huge sections of back story or opening with a bang that becomes a promise not kept during the rest of the book. This kind of opening can work for an action story.
2. Open with dialogue but before long one must add other elements.
3. Open with description - must be a masterful. 3 to 5 pages of description could bore the reader.
4. Start with a philosophical statement - As long as this doesn't go on for pages. Too much and it becomes preaching.
Remember the opening of a book is a promise of a good read and to do this revision is the way to go. Finish the book and then go back and revise. The opening may need to be changed and that's all right. Revision can be as much fun as getting the initial story down.
3. Open with Description - takes a master and
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Inspired by Bird By Bird -- Plot Treatment
Reading this section of Anne Lamott's book brought to mind many of the times I've struggled and found myself backed into a corner when writing a boot. So many times I've done what she did and went back to the beginning to figure where I went wrong. She speaks of the book she'd worked on for two years and had her editor say it didn't work. I imagine the way she felt. After reading Bird By Bird for the first time, I began something that has worked for me.
The rough draft may wander all over the place and much of it won't be in the final version. No one sees this but me. Why? Frankly it doesn't make sense. Once I have the rough draft out of the way, I sit down like she did and do a treatment for each chapter of the book. Usually not more than a paragraph or two. Now some of these change as the story evolves, but having a plan is better than spending weeks and days on writing something that's not going anywhere. Whether it's flawed characters which hopefully you've made part of your psyche. Writing is something like acting. You need to become the characters you write. A flawed plot. Deciding where the important segments should be placed and you won't end up writing a book that wraps up the entire journey in a page or two.
Try a story treatment. Look at each chapter and find the purpose of that segment. Are you developing the characters, advancing the plot or giving needful information. If you can do more than one in a scene congratulate yourself and if all three figure in, you should have a scene that makes the story and the characters live.
The rough draft may wander all over the place and much of it won't be in the final version. No one sees this but me. Why? Frankly it doesn't make sense. Once I have the rough draft out of the way, I sit down like she did and do a treatment for each chapter of the book. Usually not more than a paragraph or two. Now some of these change as the story evolves, but having a plan is better than spending weeks and days on writing something that's not going anywhere. Whether it's flawed characters which hopefully you've made part of your psyche. Writing is something like acting. You need to become the characters you write. A flawed plot. Deciding where the important segments should be placed and you won't end up writing a book that wraps up the entire journey in a page or two.
Try a story treatment. Look at each chapter and find the purpose of that segment. Are you developing the characters, advancing the plot or giving needful information. If you can do more than one in a scene congratulate yourself and if all three figure in, you should have a scene that makes the story and the characters live.
Monday, March 21, 2011
21 March - Week behind and week ahead
Spring came yesterday and winter returned today. All right it's March when anything can and does happen. That's also the way it goes with writing. Just had a release Jewels of the Quill Anthology is now available. Struggled over this story which is a Repunzel take except it's the prince who ends up in the Amber Tower. Story was kind of a struggle to make this a romance since my mind wasn't working that way but with several edits the romance came about. Sometimes one has to listen to editors.
Writing during the past week was a bit slower than usual. Having to rejoin a story after a week's absence can take a bit of time but I'm on target now and hopefully this book will be done soon. This brought up something I find interesting. Are novellas really books. They are fictional stories but I don't count them as books. One of my publishers is going to release three novellas in print and I wonder if they will be together or they will be separate. June will make me their featured author and of this I'm very glad. It's nice to be featured. But that's in the future.
This week on the blog I'll be as usual still doing Inspired by Bird by Bird and by Becoming Your Own Critique Partner. That's Tuesday and Friday. Wednesday there will be more on Plot Development still on the opening chapter or so. Saturday will find the remainder of Chapter one of Whispers Out of Yesteryear. That's book 19 for First Chapter Saturday. Thursday's interview will be with Anne K. Albert a fellow Vanilla Heart author.
Then I'll start asking those people I met at EPICon and told about the blog. I collected cards and there is an eclectic selection of authors.
Writing during the past week was a bit slower than usual. Having to rejoin a story after a week's absence can take a bit of time but I'm on target now and hopefully this book will be done soon. This brought up something I find interesting. Are novellas really books. They are fictional stories but I don't count them as books. One of my publishers is going to release three novellas in print and I wonder if they will be together or they will be separate. June will make me their featured author and of this I'm very glad. It's nice to be featured. But that's in the future.
This week on the blog I'll be as usual still doing Inspired by Bird by Bird and by Becoming Your Own Critique Partner. That's Tuesday and Friday. Wednesday there will be more on Plot Development still on the opening chapter or so. Saturday will find the remainder of Chapter one of Whispers Out of Yesteryear. That's book 19 for First Chapter Saturday. Thursday's interview will be with Anne K. Albert a fellow Vanilla Heart author.
Then I'll start asking those people I met at EPICon and told about the blog. I collected cards and there is an eclectic selection of authors.
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