Saturday's chapter - 3rd of The Quest For The White Jewel

Here's the third chapter and introduces my favorite character in the story.

Chapter Three

From The Songs of Earda
I'm on my way to Pala.
I need to see the Queen
To ask her why the Jewel is Black
And where the White has gone.

Oh Earda, my Earda
Once a land of light.
The magic of the Queen grows dim
And soon the night will come.

A chill wind caused Andalor to pull his cloak tighter. He fought the gale for every step he gained. The words of a song he'd heard in a dreary inn played in his thoughts. He frowned. Everyone knew the Queen's Jewel was as dark as a blind man's sight.

Perhaps he was a fool on a noddy's errand, but the Queen needed to hear about the blight on the land and the desolation of people's lives. A few drops of rain splattered on the dusty road. How far to the nearest inn where for a few songs, he might earn a night's lodging and a meal?

He pulled his lute from his back and tucked the instrument beneath his cloak. If he didn't find shelter soon, he would have to burrow in the woods.

Wind whipped his hood from his head, then changed direction to beat against his back. An omen, he thought. He raised his head and saw a lane leading to a large house with lights in several windows. No inn, but perhaps a place to shelter for the night. Chill rain sprayed his face. He broke into a loping run down the path between two rows of briars. Aided by the gusts that dashed against his back, he soon reached the steps leading to a broad porch.

Several of the lights flickered and went out. Had the family retired for the night? The hour was not that late. He crossed to the door. If all were abed, he could sleep on one of the many benches against the wall. He'd gone hungry before and he'd slept outside, but he preferred to work for room and board. He raised the brass knocker and banged the metal plate.

The door opened a crack. An elderly man peered out. "What do you here?"

"I beg a night's shelter and a meal."

"Do you know whose house this is?" The man's dark eyes skimmed Andalor's face

"Afraid I have no idea. Saw the house from the road just as the storm broke." To the east and Pala, the sky displayed a multitude of colored streaks of lightning.

"Who be you?" The elderly man made his demand in a deep and haughty voice.

"Andalor, a minstrel." Andalor's breath caught. Beyond the servant, a young woman appeared. Lovely of face. Comely of body. A rope of silver hair curved over her shoulder, caressed one breast and tumbled to her waist. Who was she?

"Macker, who braves the storm to visit?"

"No visitor," the old man said. "Just a minstrel seeking food and shelter from the storm."

"Then bid him enter. We've rooms to spare. Perhaps he'll stay to amuse me while I await my summons."

Her voice was silk and velvet, the tone rich and lush. Andalor stared into eyes of crystalline blue and found one of the things he'd sought in his travels -- the woman of his dreams.

"You know 'tis not allowed," the old man said. "You have much to master before your time comes, and lessons aplenty to learn about your future responsibilities."

Her lips thinned. "For five years since I was four and ten, I've been cloistered with none but you and the servants for company. Unless you count the mages who creep and pry. Admit him." Her pale eyes darkened. "Any more lessons and I'll scream."

"It will be as you wish, Milady Reena."

The door swung wider and the stoop-shouldered man stepped aside. Andalor swept off his cloak and bowed low. "My humble thanks, Milady." He lightly touched her fingers and raised them to his lips. "How very pleased I am to meet you."

"And my pleasure as well. You may rise."

Her eyes held a hint of the same bemusement he felt. Who was she? She'd been called Reena. Had she been named for the Queen? The common people frequently chose to name their daughters for the Queen, but this Reena was surely not of that class. He released her hand.

She waved the old man forward. "Show him to the Blue Room and see he has a change of clothes." She took the lute. "Once you are dry, you may join me for dinner, and later, I will listen to your stories and your songs."

Andalor bowed again. "'Twill be my pleasure." Her sultry gaze held the promise of other entertainments, yet her cheeks glowed like those of an untried maiden. "I'll not tarry, my queen of beauty."

"I'm not Queen yet."

Her response startled him. He followed the elderly man up the carved and curved staircase. The Queen-to-be? Was it possible? If so, his luck had turned. Perhaps she would enjoy his songs. Maybe his company would please her. If so, his fame and fortune were assured.

He turned to Macker. "Just who is she?"

"Milady Reena, daughter of the Queen. Soon she will come into her own. At any moment, Milady will be called to Pala and the Black Jewel will be hers. I pray you do naught to upset her calm."

"I'll play and sing. 'Tis what I do."

Macker opened a door along the upper hall. "All you need is here. Water will be brought." The old man wrinkled his nose. "Choose clothes from the wardrobe. They belong to Milady's father."

Andalor waited until Macker left before he entered the room. Blue dominated, from the bedcovers to the wall hangings and draperies. He strolled to the alcove where a deep hipbath waited to be filled. A stack of fluffy towels lay on one shelf, and a second held a variety of soaps.

While a line of male servants arrived with buckets of steaming water, Andalor stripped off his boots and tunic. Then he explored the wardrobe. Maybe a bit out of fashion but the quality was better than he'd known. He choose black breeches and a black tunic decorated with triangles in the colors of the Jewels. A shirt with full sleeves and tight cuffs completed his outfit. One of the men took his boots and returned with a pair of house shoes.

Andalor climbed into the water and scrubbed away the travel dust with spice-scented soap. He ducked his head and washed his hair. Dried and dressed, he left the room and strode downstairs. The time and the place seemed fortuitous and he intended to advance his position.

Macker waited at the foot of the stairs. He nodded in approval. "This way, Minstrel."

A long table of ebonwood dominated the spacious room. Milady Reena sat at the far end. The black gown she wore made her skin seem moonlight pale. She was lovely, but he would have dressed her in pastel shades.

Six empty chairs stood on either side of the table. She pointed to the one at her right hand. "Sit here. Since we are so few, why must we shout to be heard?"

"But...but..." Macker sputtered.

Reena smiled at the old man. "'Twill be easier for the servants if we all sit at one end of the table. Please let me dispense with formality tonight."

"Very well."

Andalor walked to the head of the table and bowed. "You do me honor, Milady Reena."

"Just Reena, Minstrel."

"Then I am Andalor."

A servant filled jewel-encrusted goblets with ruby wine. Platters of food arrived, the most he'd ever seen at a single meal. Though he wanted to gorge, he followed his hostess' lead and accepted small portions of rock salmon, banta, antel and hind, of vegetables and grain dishes, of appa, pinel and cheese. By the last sip of wine, he felt replete.

Their conversation had been a struggle for him since he needed to follow Macker's instructions. Reena bristled with questions about the places he'd been and all he'd seen. He told her of the beauty of the land and hid his knowledge of unrest, disease and poverty.

As the servants cleared the dishes away, Andalor held Reena's chair. "What now?"

"Come with me to the sitting room. I've had a servant oil and polish your lute."

"I would follow you to the edge of the world and into the unknown beyond." At this moment and maybe forever, he meant those words. "What songs would you like to hear?"

"Tell me about your childhood and how you came to join the Minstrel's Guild." She sighed. "I've had none but Macker and my mother's counselors to visit." She shuddered. "I do not like the mages."

"Nor do I, but most people fear them."

She nodded. "I hate them. 'Tis their fault I'm here with nothing but dreary lessons."

Andalor saw no reason for her isolation. She should reside in the palace and have companions of her own age. Why was she hidden here? Hardly for her safety. There'd been no Guards or walls with fortified gateposts. Though some of the male servants were burly men, they bore no weapons.

She curled in a massive chair reminiscent of a throne. He sat on a stool at her feet. Warmth from the fire in the massive fireplace heated his back, and her beauty seared his thoughts.

He told her of his childhood as the third son of a wood worker. He spoke of his gentle mother, of the father who'd made his lute, of the brother who had followed his father into the shop. Of the brother who'd shown a talent for weather prediction and who had been taken away by the mages, he kept silent. As he spoke, he strummed his lute.

"I envy you," she said.

He heard yearning in her voice. "And when you were a child?"

She sighed. "I stayed in the nursery with my nurse or played alone in the garden."

How sad, he thought. To change the mood, he sang a rollicking song about a lyrcat and a flitter who fell in love.

She laughed and her eyes lost some of their sadness. "Now, tell me about the land and the people's lives. Tell me the things you couldn't say when Macker was there to listen. When I hold the Jewel, I must know where and who to help."

He could spin a pretty tale where all was sweet and bright, but the truth beat in his chest like a blacksmith's hammer.

Until a servant came to bank the fire, he told her what he'd seen and heard. The tales were broken by songs, old and new. "Now you know how the people suffer."

She met his gaze. "I fear you speak the truth. My mother is dying and before her illness, she grieved for my father. One day, he vanished from the palace and never returned. My mother leans heavily on the advice of the Brotherhood of Mages. When I am Queen, they will be dismissed." Her voice broke. "'Tis not that I wish her dead, I just want her to hear me."

He took her hand in his. "Death comes to all and chooses its time with no thought for those left behind. Have the Healers no help for the Queen?"

"No one tells me a thing. I haven't seen her since the day I was brought here."

She closed her eyes, but not before he caught a glimpse of fear in her eyes. "How sad."

She leaned toward him. "Can you stay awhile?"

Once again, he wondered why she'd been banished from the palace. He would not ask yet. "A minstrel wanders when and where he pleases. There is no one waiting for me to arrive. Yes, I will stay and go to Pala with you."

Dimples appeared in her cheeks. "That would be most pleasant. I hope many tendays pass before I'm summoned."

He drew her into his arms and hugged her. A brotherly embrace, though he felt nothing like a brother.

She touched his face. "I've never had a friend." She stepped away. "Good night."

"Until tomorrow." He watched her run lightly down the hall. Satisfaction filled him until a disturbing thought arose. If he didn't take care, Reena would steal his heart and he would lose the freedom to wander as he pleased.

Friday's Writer's Tip - Revision - Point of View

On one of the loops I belong to we ahd a discussion about changing viewpoints of a story from first person to third. A number of us had this experience and found the reason was to make the story better. Mine came with the Mrs. Miller series. The first book was written in first person but when I was revising I found my character had run amok with personal comments on just about everything. I decided to try it in third person and so I did but then I found I didn't want the other characters to come into play. I changed it back again. This time I was able to control the character's asides. They came only when there was something for her to orate about.

So how do you know if you've chosen the right viewpoint. Remember in first person only what the character sees, hears, tastes, smells and touches can be described. Also one must remember your character isn't a mindreader. Having her know what someone is thinking pulls the reader out of the first person and into a sort of foggy place.

Third person allows the writer to explore several people. There is also omniscent where the writer goes into everyone's heads and thoughts. This viewpoint isn't used frequently today. So it's back to third person. How do you revise viewpoint?

Is there a definite point of view? Does the author interfere? If so, change those places.

Is the viewpoint consistent? Watch starting out in one person's head and wandering into another without using a smooth transition. I once read a mss from a new writer where there were three viewpoints in the same sentence. Even when using omniscence that's a stretch.

Are you following the rules? If you drift into the viewpoint of a minor character, this isn't playing right with the reader unless this pattern is established early on.

Is the story strong enough to support multiple points of views? If this is your decisions make sure there are smooth transitions. Don't make your reader suffer from whip lash.

So when revising, consider all these points and choose the point of view that's the best one for the story.

Thursday's Interview - Meg Mims - On Writing

Meg is back to share a bit of the writing process with you.

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

I usually have an "OH!" moment after I figure out the premise of a book. Sometimes the character KICKS me first, with a "HEY! write my story. NOW!" Or the heroine appears first, goes through a few changes when I explore a "background" for her including name changes, until it feels "right." But the official sleuth came first in my Lighthouse Mystery, Captain Cooper Dean, before I stumbled over amateur sleuth and artist Sydney Sinclair. As for Double Crossing, I started with the heroine -- she was Julia, then Rose, then Julia again, and then Lily. That name "fit" somehow. Ace appeared the moment he shows up in the story. And he refused to tell me his real name until the end. LOL. That happens sometimes. I do a complete work-up, filling out charts with birthdate (using Zodiac and Chinese astrology for traits sometimes helps), education, family, friends, work experience, marriages if any, hobbies and interests, values and most importantly, FEARS. I also ask "What would this character NOT do, ever?" and then try to incorporate that somehow, if possible.

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?

I try to write at least three chapters, to get a feel for where things are going and why -- the main character's goal, motive and the initial conflict. By that time, I try to stretch out the rest of the plot. I'm an outline writer... too much of a control freak to let them run wild. But at times they veer off the path, for very good reasons. I can tell when I start "spinning wheels" that something is wrong or someone is holding out, or I'm in the wrong character's Point of View. For Double Crossing, that didn't happen - the entire book is in Lily's POV. I loved writing it that way because it seems more intimate between the heroine and the reader.

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

Uhhhh. It depends. LOL. I've written a few manuscripts where I've gotten to the black moment and then ... what? And have to really think about how a character would get out of the situation. Which is why I'm such a plotter now. For Double Crossing, I knew the general ending but wanted to punch it up a bit. That took more work. I also needed to punch up the middle... you have to keep the reader turning pages or they'll put it down. I love creating a chapter ending that makes the reader keep reading.

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

Both. I once visited Evanston years ago, and knew I wanted to set a historical there - the houses were so pretty near the lake. I could imagine what it would be like in the 1800s. And I do keep several types of research books on my shelves, from architecture to floor plans to historical photograph collections. I also love checking on-line for old photos. I love love love research. Probably too much, LOL. But settings are also "characters" in my opinion - and very important. They need to as vivid and real as the characters.

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

Again, both. I love the internet. But you can't always trust what you read on the web, so consider the source. I learned that long ago in college. But I've also found some awesome books available only through searching eBay, or Amazon, Alibris and other small presses. One was published in 1872, Westward by Rail, written by an Englishman who traveled across from London to San Francisco by boat and the transcontinental train. But in August of 1869, they had not finished the bridge across the Missouri River between Council Bluffs and Omaha - that took research. Since the Central Pacific railroad ended in Sacramento, I had to research to figure out a unique place for the book's ending. Did I say I love research?

6. Give a short excerpt from the book you want to promote - 400 to 500 words.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


“Lily Granville, I shall never forgive or forget this trick!”




All the noisy conversation died at that trumpeting voice.




Heart in my throat, I turned to the doorway and stared along with everyone else at Aunt Sylvia. Like a steamship plowing the ocean waves, she surged through the crowded room with Sir Vaughn following. Kate stared at me, blue eyes wide. Charles looked dumbfounded. Aunt Sylvia loomed over us in dull black, her thick veil pulled away, her expression livid. Sir Vaughn sniffed the air in disdain.




“I say, this reminds me of an Irish pub.”




“Uh—won’t you join us?” Charles had scrambled out of his chair and pulled two empty seats from an adjoining table. I stood as well, my fists clenched.




“Miss Kimball, this is my aunt, Lady Stanhope and her husband.”




“Sir Vaughn,” he said and inserted his monocle. The Englishman peered at Kate’s bosom with appreciation before he addressed me. “My dear Miss Granville, you have no idea how worried we’ve been. Lucky for us that Miss Mason knew your plans.”




I bit down on my lip. “Adele told you?”




Charles mouthed an apology to me, but Aunt Sylvia shoved him aside and plopped down on the chair. “First, you left Evanston without a proper chaperone,” she said, and began ticking off numbers on her gloved fingers. “Second, it seems you forgot you’re in mourning for your poor father. Third, you left without my permission—”




“I’m going to California to find Uncle Harrison, my legal guardian,” I interrupted.




“Fourth, you didn’t consider the possibility of scandal at all. Mr. Mason hasn’t even proposed to you, according to his sister.”




“Uncle Harrison is expecting me.”




I ignored a twinge of guilt while the fib hovered between us. Her mouth pinched tight, she drummed her fingers on the tablecloth. Charles stood quiet, his face beet red, one hand smoothing back his fair hair, the other adjusting his collar and tie. Angry yells and shouts drifted through the window panes from the street, drowning out the resumed conversation around us, the clatter of plates and flatware. Outside, I caught sight of several men who fought with bare fists. They kicked, bit, scratched and pummeled. Sir Vaughn glanced out the window and then sat across from my aunt. He waved a hand.




“Common ruffians. These rustic surroundings breed a lack of manners.”




“Lily, you have no idea of the dangers. My husband traveled to Nevada earlier this year,” Aunt Sylvia said. “Neither you or Mr. Mason have considered the impropriety of this.”




“He’s a gentleman for escorting me.”




“I can see for myself what you both are—”




A blood-curdling yell, similar to what I’d read about an Indian war cry, stopped her cold. The moment I glanced up, the window exploded. Shards of glass rained on us and a man rolled over the table. Scattering plates, flatware, cups and teapot, before he crashed onto the floor—unconscious, and half-draped in the tablecloth among the broken china and glass.

Mere inches from my feet.



~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

--

Meg Mims

~Intriguing Mystery, Vivid History~
DOUBLE CROSSING
Astraea Press, Amazon and B&N

Wednesday - On Plot - Bad ending -- The gods step in

Another kind of bad ending is the one where none of the characters have a role in the ending. The gods step in and the ending is a big bang up one that leaves the reader shaking their heads. This is generally not a problem for me since I usually know the ending before I begin the story and I also know the beginning.

When a writer comes up with this kind of an ending, and it doesn't necessarily mean the gods really step in. What it means is the writer can't find a way to end the story. They could go on and on past the resolution without having a resolution so they bring in something not planned for and there is an ending. The flood waters come and wash the characters away. A bomb drops and all the characters are gone. The writer dusts off his hands and says that's a wrap.

A wrap or a cheat. An ending doesn't have to be happy or sad. It must be satisfactory. For the ending the be satisfactory clues to the end of the story must be planted throughout the story. When the end happens the reader can sigh and say I suspected that's what would happen.

Leave the gods, the machines or the disasters our of the ending unless you've planted the seeds throughout the story. This will leave the reader feeling satisfied even if the ending is not what they imagined.

Tuesday's Inspirations - Courage and Creativity - Symbols

When reading the bit from The Courage To Create by Rollo May, I found a segment on symbols. The symbolic language and the symbols one uses when writing often become part of the "writer voice." At a conference I heard a dynamic speaker, Debra Dixon, talking about the "Writer's Voice." This dels with word choice and many other things. During the talk I kind of drifted off on the symbols. There are ones I use frequently and I don't think they're there by choice.

Symbols are often things important to the writer and are born in the unconscious. When writing suddenly they're just there and they often are used to describe a character's state of mind.

What are your symbols? Do they creep into your writing when you are unaware of even using them. These symbols can be used and explored often taking the writer along a side track to something important to their characters and to the writer's own life. Take a look at your own fiction and see what symbols frequently appear in your stories. Look at these symbols and see where they lead you, perhaps to a deeper story.

5 September - Week behind Week ahead - Snakes and Crocodiles

Last week went well with The Chosen of Horu. Now have the book 16% done and hopefully will get a lot more done this wwek. Had a glitch and didn't get much done on Saturday. Had the two youngest grandchildren for a few hours. At ages 3 and 4, they exhausted me. One wanted to be outside and the other wanted to be inside. Felt like the Solomon thing except it was the grandma being pulled in half. They are the busiest children I've ever been around but then everything is new to them since their early years weren't spent in this country. It's a pleasure to see such curiosity. After they left I collapsed with a good book.

This week I must do some research. In writing we often have to face our fears, or at least have our characters face them for us. This week it's SNAKES and CROCODILES. Those are in capitals because I feel that way about them. On my shelf I found a book about snakes and have been delving into the words and pictures. I do not have one on crocodiles so I'll hit the internet for that. This is what I get for placing a story in an ancient Egypt. The snake will die but the crocodile won't. At least I have some magical creatures in the story to rid my hero and heroine of the crocs. That's what's wonderful about writing fantasy. One can find a way to chase the fears away.

The goal for this week is to work on the plot draft of another five to seven chapters. Hopefully I'll find a way to keep the schedule going. Would like to finish this story and move on to another that's beginning to perculate. Writing is a never ending business.

3 Blog visit Sunday

http://www.suspensebyanne.blogspot.com/ I'm here for the month of September with a book being given away

http://vampireexplored.wordpress.com/ I've been interviewed with a chance to win a book

http://www.pageturnersblog.com/#axzz1WvgIKpuH YA review site

Saturday's chapter - 2nd of The Quest For The White Jewel

Chapter Two

From The Armsmen's Guide
Beware the hidden enemy for he lurks in your heart.

Brader pulled a tunic over his head. The strains of music drifted through the open window. He leaned on the sill and thought about tonight's festival honoring spring's return. Last night, a lass newly arrived in the village had flirted with him each time she and her cousin had strolled past. Alas, he'd already promised another to be her squire for the evening. Perhaps tonight.

He frowned. Maybe he should remain in the keep. There'd been a subtle tension in his mother's voice when she had sent him for Liara. The news brought by the afternoon's visitors had troubled the Yellow Holder, but she hadn't shared her concerns with him. Had she told Liara?

He pressed his hands against the stone wall. His mother held a Jewel, but he could never follow her. Not that he wanted to stay here. He wanted to go to Pala and join the Queen's Guard. Too often, the villagers sought to use him to gain his mother's attention. He wanted to be liked for himself and not for his mother's position.

He strode to his bed and grasped the sword, his last name day present from his mother. That had been a day of triumph. He had bested his trainer with the sword, knife and bow.

The door rattled. He crossed and lifted the latch.

"Brader, your mother wants to see you."

Liara leaned against the door frame. Her crystal blue eyes were rimmed with red. "What's wrong? Is she worse?"

"Not that she'll admit."

"And you, is something wrong?"

She shook her head. "I'm tired and confused. Go to Tana. Then we'll talk."

"In the morning. I've plans for the evening. 'Tis the festival."

As he walked away, he shook his head. Liara, the stoic, had been crying and there could be but one reason. He smashed his fist against the wall. "Not yet." After swallowing the lump in his throat, he entered his mother's room. He strode to the bedside and took her hands. Their iciness deepened his concern. "Has the Healer been summoned?"

"There is naught she can do for me and I have no time for a Healing. Liara must leave at once and you must go with her."

"How can I desert you? Who will close your eyes and who will speak the final blessing? You cannot embark on your journey to the next plane alone."

"I won't be alone. Listen... Liara is niece to the Queen. When she dies, Liara must hold the White or there will be great destruction throughout the land. Even the High Sanctuary will fall."

Brader slumped on the chair beside the bed. "Liara? I thought she would hold your Jewel. What do you mean by the White?"

"'Tis the true ruler of the Jewels."

"And Liara will be the one to hold it? That means she's..." He shook his head. Liara was his foster sister, a foundling his mother had given a home. What would happen to their friendship now? "And your Jewel."

"Another will come for mine. You and Liara must leave. Go to Thanis and find a ship to Quato. She needs your strength and your skill at arms to keep her safe until she bonds with her Jewel. On the table are maps. Study and burn them."

A dozen protests formed and were swallowed. He reached for the maps and studied the route marked with dark ink. Quato to Stone Mountain, across the Great Desert to the Screaming Hills. When he had the route memorized, he burned the maps in the fireplace. "When must we leave?"

"I should have sent you a tenday ago. You must be gone before dawn. Take care. Guards have been sent. They may be accompanied by mages." She reached beneath her pillow and handed him a leather pouch. "Coins for the journey. Go not as yourselves but as villagers seeking a better life."

He kissed her cheek and held her close. "Do you want me to fetch your maid?"

"Let her sleep. I will be fine."

As he left the room, he began to plan. Two mail vests. Armsmen's clothes for him. Dark cloaks. A sword with a plain hilt rather than the jeweled one he wore. Knives, ropes, bow and arrows for Liara, trail rations and hill ponies.

The plans helped still his anxiety about his mother. And though he wanted to stay, he'd heard the command and concern in her voice and knew he had to obey.

Second room had risen by the time he would finish with preparations for the journey. He strode to his foster sister's room. She stood at the window. "Liara."

She turned. "She told you."

"Aye. Be ready to leave within the hour. Wear your oldest clothes. I'll come for you."

Liara shook her head. "I'll await you at the postern gate. 'Tis too much to understand."

"I know. Seems strange to me as well."

For a moment, he stared at her. She was beautiful, and he had never noticed. Until tonight, she'd been his playmate and his friend. What was she now?

He changed into travel clothes, then returned to his mother's room. As he paused in the doorway, he knew she had lied, a thing she had never done before. At the bedside, he knelt and took her hand. "'Tis not my choice to leave you before the parting ceremony, but since you believe Liara and I most go, so be it."

He cleared his throat. "Farewell, Mother. May the sun shine on your days and the moons light your nights. When the quest ends, I will return and tell you how we fared so your shade will no longer hover between this plane and the next."

He closed her eyes and left the room. He would keep her parting a secret until he and Liara were well away from the keep, for he knew she would want to return.

Friday's Writer's Tip - On Revision - Finishing Dialogue

Now that you've decided to look at dialogue to revise, how do you go about this. When I first began writing, I used to take segments where the dialogue was heavy and isolate it from the rest of the mss. The segment looked like the script of a play without stage directions.

First I went through and tightened everything. Getting rid of repetitions except where the repetition was needed. We've all seen segments of dialogue where one character repeats, maybe in different words, but it's the same thing that character A has already said.

Then I sharpened the dialogue, making sure each person said what I meant them to say. This meant sometimes adding and sometimes subtracting words.

The third step was to fill in the blanks. Sometimes a character was leaving out too much and making the reader guess. Those were often signified by the -- or the ... moments in the dialogue.

The next was to make sure the character's dialogue was true to their nature. People in different professions and different social milleaus use different words. Making sure their dialogue fit their nature helps individualize your characters.

Finally I read the lines aloud for rhythm and sense. I now read it in my head. Reading dialogue aloud can make people look at you in a strange fashion.

Thursday's Interview - Barbara Meyers

Today's interview is with Barbara Meyers.


1. What's your genre or do you write in more than one?

Mostly I write contemporary romance and sometime in two romance sub-genres: romantic comedy and romantic suspense. I also write women’s fiction with a strong romantic element. I’ve experimented with young adult and fantasy.


2. Did you choose your genre or did it choose you?

Both, I think. My mother watched soap operas when I was growing up. I loved the drama and the relationships. When I got older, I cut my teeth on Rosemary Rogers, Bertrice Small and Kathleen Woodiwiss among others. Along the way I also read a few disappointing romance novels until one day I threw one of those across the room after I finished it and proclaimed, “I can write better than that!” I did. I do. I have.


3. Is there any genre you'd like to try? Or is there one you wouldn't?

I wouldn’t rule anything out, but I probably wouldn’t venture into writing science or historical fiction.

4. What fiction do you read for pleasure?

I love suspense of all kinds, although I find romantic suspense done well can be difficult to find. I read a lot of psychological suspense and women’s fiction. I don’t, as a general rule, search out or read romance novels.

5. Tell me a bit about yourself and how long you've been writing,

I’ve been writing for twenty-plus years, but my publishing career is just starting to take off. I live in Southwest Florida with my dog and my first husband. Both my children are grown. For the past eight years I’ve worked at the local Starbucks, currently as a shift supervisor. It’s a great job for a writer.

6. Which of your characters is your favorite?

That is a hard question. At the moment, I’d say Trey Christopher, who will be featured in the third Braddock Brotherhood book from Samhain Publishing. He’s a small North Carolina town’s golden boy who made it big in the NFL and then crashed and burned. My story finds him returning to his hometown to rebuild his life and make amends. His goal is to stop behaving like an a**hole! I’m having fun watching him fight his addictions and take more care in his relationships with women than he has in the past.

7. Are there villains in your books and how were they created?

Some of my stories have villains and some don’t. Often you don’t need a villain because the characters are their own worst enemy. In Not Quite Heaven, I created the villain rather late, during one of many revisions. He arrived naturally, born out bitter resentment and grief he believes is caused by the hero.

8. What are you working on now?

A couple of things. The third book in The Braddock Brotherhood series, which I’ve tentatively titled The FirstTtime Again. It features a thirty-year-old virgin as the heroine and the aforementioned Trey Christopher as the hero.

I’m also working on a women’s fiction story about a woman whose life begins to unravel when she becomes pregnant by another man while her husband is in a coma.

9. What's your latest release and how did the idea arrive?

Not Quite Heaven came from one of the ultimate romantic premises: A man and a woman with a difficult past who are snowed in together. Initially, it’s set in the mountains of northern Maine and later moves back to New York City.

10. Tell me about your latest book and how it came about. Enclose the opening of the book around 400 words.

Not Quite Heaven explores how events and encounters from the past come back to haunt both the hero and the heroine and threaten the future they hope to build after they are forced to work together. The hero, Ian, is a best-selling author who may have lost his touch, so I created a story within the story. Ian unwittingly creates an alter ego in the character of police detective Ray Latimer. A slice of Ray’s story begins each chapter.

NOT QUITE HEAVEN

by Barbara Meyers

“Detective Latimer? You want to come have a look at this?”
Ray sauntered over to the rookie cop hunkered down on the wet pavement. He had little use for female trainees on the squad, especially if they were as eager to prove themselves as Officer Carrie Young. In Ray’s experience, women rarely knew as much as they thought they did, and someone always got hurt. Usually him.



Chapter 1
The computer keyboard hummed as the scene flowed from Ian’s imagination through his fingers and onto the screen. For once the dialogue came easily, the plot moved according to plan.
Sham rushed to the window in a flash of black and white fur. Ian ignored the dog’s growl. Nothing and no one would break his concentration. Not now. Not when, for once, the writing was going well.
Sham let loose with a series of sharp barks. Ian tensed, his fingers still poised over the keyboard.

The perfect twist of dialogue, the expression Ian envisioned in Ray Latimer’s eyes evaporated. Like the smoky tendrils of a dream which couldn’t be recaptured once awake, the essence of the scene remained but the specifics vanished. Such was the life of a writer.

“Damn it, Sham.” Ian gripped the arms of his chair and shoved it backward to stare out the window of his second floor office. To his amazement a bright red mini SUV, complete with skis strapped on top, partially covered by snow, sat in the driveway. “How in the hell?”

Several raps on the front door punctuated Sham’s excited woofs as he bounded down the stairs ahead of his master.
Through the peephole Ian eyed the woman on the doorstep as she shifted from one foot to the other.

His brain refused to accept the possibility a lone female had negotiated the treacherous mountain lane in such inclement winter weather to find him.

He took note of a red beret perched at a jaunty angle on top of dark hair and a matching scarf wound above the collar of an asphalt gray coat. With red-leather-gloved hands she rubbed her upper arms against the winter chill and continued to squirm.

Something about the woman was hauntingly, frighteningly familiar. Even as he told himself it couldn’t be he knew it was her. Ian’s initial annoyance at the interruption to his work multiplied ten-fold. He silently forgave Sham and transferred the blame where it belonged.
Ian yanked the door open.