Wednesday's Writer's Tip - Characters Alive

Techniques of The Selling Writer by Dwight V Swain gives some advice about making the characters seem to move under their own power.  These are a few of the things to remember after you've learned what they lack and what compensation they seek which brings their character realization.

Look at self image. Does the character think he can do anything or does he feel as if anything he tries will fail. Does she think she's a nerd or a bombshell? These inner images really help drive the character. And we're always looking at the alpha male and trying to see beneath the surface to see what's beneath that vaneered surface. Or what prods the girl with glasses to go after a dream.

Consistency is another area to pay attention to. If your character reacts to a stimuli in one way when you begin the book, he or she should act in the same way when the stimuli appears. Unless this comes when they must make a decision or action that goes against this behavior. If this happens, make sure this scene is played out in full.

Learn to discover the cause from the effect. John a mild mannered man slugs someone. Mary tears up an outfit she thought was stunning. Why did this happen, you ask. Then find the reason. Cause and effect are important elements of character development.

Thursday's Opening Scene from The Amber Tower - Amber Chronicles by Janet Lane Walters

Rafel Riva, crown prince of Rivand, felt restless and the only reason he could imagine for his desire to flee the palace lay in the ball to be held that evening.  Four and twenty young women of lineage and wealth had been invited.  The thought of meeting and greeting them chilled him.

He glared at his mother’s back.  His escape from the palace had been delayed while she gushed about the gaggle of girls who would attend.  Each one had been evaluated as to their suitability as a bride.  Her choices had been based on the prestige they would bring to the family.

The queen turned.  “Rafel, you are five and twenty.  ‘Tis time you were wed.  You must choose one for your bride and make her the happiest of women.”

And him the glummest of men.  “Yes, mother.”

“Three princesses are among the most eligible.  The duke’s daughter will also do.  But a princess will bring honor to Rivand.”

His stomach clenched.  Choosing a bride meant there could be just one woman in his life.  A dreary and boring fate.  He liked women, all women.

He hurried along the corridor toward a side door and an escape from the noise and bustle of preparation.  All to celebrate an event he found distasteful.  So engrossed in his plan to escape when a hand clamped his shoulder he reached for his sword.

“Son, I’m glad I caught you.”  The king smiled.  “Have you seen any among the young ladies you would choose as a bride?”

Rafel shook his head.  He had avoided watching the arrivals of the past few days.  “I’ve been busy.”

“I have several suggestions.  The time has come for you to put aside your wild ways and settle into providing heirs for Rivand.”

“Leave your list with my body servant.  Mother left hers.”

The king nodded.  “I will.  Perhaps by comparing the two you will find the perfect candidate.  My list contains those who come from prolific families.  I expect you and your chosen bride to present the kingdom with a son by this time next year.  There’s nothing like a son to drive wildness from a man.”

“Yes, Father.”  Rafel’s hand tightened on the hilt of his sword.  Was there a need for an heir to have an heir?  He had three younger brothers, all in line for the throne.

Rafel watched his father walk away.  Only a few strands of gray touched the king’s dark hair.  His father was a hale man and good for many more years of rule.  As thoughts of twenty or thirty years of being crown prince arose, Rafel groaned.

He reached the exit nearest the stable and slipped outside.  The brother next in line for the throne emerged from behind the hedge.  “Rafe, aren’t you excited?”

“About what?”

“The ball.”

Rafel shrugged.  “Nor particularly.”

“But you might find love with one of the ladies.”

“Or eternal unhappiness.  What is love beyond a trap lauded by the verses of poets?  I have no desire to marry.  If you like you are welcome to them all.”

Peder frowned.  “Everyone says you must marry.”  He scuffed the dirt with the toe of his boot.  “What if you chose the maiden I love?”

Rafel leaned against the palace wall.  “Do you have a choice?”

“I do.  She loves me but her parents are angling for the heir to the throne.  You have all the luck.”           

Luck, Rafel thought.  “Hardly.”  Tonight he would meet young women all vying for his attention.  He pushed away from the wall.  “See you at the ball.”

“Where are you going?”

“For a ride.”

“You’d better be back in time.”

Rafel laughed.  “If I’m not, you can take my place.”  He dashed to the stable.

As he saddled his roan gelding he overheard the head groom speaking to another man.  “Tonight the prince chooses a bride.  I’ve placed my money on the princess of Manir.  Who have you picked?”

The other man snorted.  “No choice for me.  One hundred years have passed since the witch took the first crown prince.”

Rafel frowned.  A witch.  How superstitious the lower classes were.  He’d only heard of witches in stories designed to frighten children into obedience.  He led the horse from the stable, mounted and rode through town to the south gate.  As his steed flowed from a walk to a canter he recalled the painting of a man called “The Lost Prince.”  Rumors said the young man had vanished mysteriously.  Rafel wished he could do the same and stay away long enough to miss the ball.

Sunlight filtering through the dense foliage of the summer growth roused him from his reverie.  How long had he been gone?  His stomach growled and he knew he’d missed the midday meal.  He tried to turn the horse but the steed burst into a gallop along the narrow trail.  As suddenly as the urge to return to the palace had arrived, the feeling vanished.  Rafel felt an eagerness to find the trail’s end.

The pounding pace continued.  Rafel loosened his hold on the reins.  Trying to halt the horse seemed impossible.  The trees opened into a clearing.  The steed halted at a picket fence.  Rafel frowned.  He’d never heard of anyone living in the forest.  He studied the scene.  Rose bushes lined the fence and filled the air with their sweet scent.  A path led from the gate through a garden with flowers on one side and a kitchen garden on the other.  The flagstones ended in front of a small weathered cottage.

Who lives here?  Rafel dismounted and walked to the gate.  He paused with his hand on the latch.  Wouldn’t be polite to wander into someone’s house without an invitation.  A trace of smoke rose from the chimney.  Someone lived here.  “Hello,” he called.

The cottage door opened and someone walked along the path.  As the person neared he saw a woman with hair the color of sunshine and a body with enough curves to intrigue him.  When she reached the gate, he met the gaze of eyes as blue as the summer sky.

“Welcome.”  She opened the gate.

The music of her voice danced along his spine.  “Who are you?”

“Some call me the Witch of the Woods.  I am Emme.  Are you the crown prince of this time?”

His brow furrowed.  What did she mean?  “I am Rafel Riva, crown prince of Rivand.”

She smiled.  He sensed something predatory in her gaze.  He stepped back.

“Enter my garden.”

Her honeyed voice lured him a step or two.  He grasped the gate.  “I wish I could, fair one, but I must return to the palace.”

Her laughter trilled.  “’Tis not to be.  You have been called.  You have a chance to end the curse I placed on the House of Riva.  You look so much like the one who came here before.  Your hair is black and your eyes are the green of summer leaves.”

“What is this curse?”  he asked.

“The first prince I called refused to announce his love for me.  His father, the king, tried to burn my refuge and failed. Every hundred years I will call the crown prince.  He will be given a chance to end what I called on the family.”

“What must I do?”

“Give me your love and marry me.”

Her answer produced a bark of laughter.  “Marriage.  You’ve chosen the wrong prince, my fair witch.  I prefer my single state.”

“That is not the answer I want to hear.”

Rafel studied her.  She was beautiful but so were other women.  “So you cursed my family for a selfish reason.  Just because my ancestor refused to love you.  What happened to him?”

“I don’t know.  He entered the amber globe and vanished.”  She waved her hand and a oval of amber appeared on the grass near his feet.

“Surely there’s another way.”  If she had lived a hundred years how did she remain young?  He rubbed his arms.  She must be a witch.

“The only way is for you to love and marry me.”

He shook his head.  “I can’t.”

“Not even to break the curse.”

Rafel squared his shoulders.  “Not even then.  If I said I loved you that would be a lie.  My mother wants me to marry for prestige and my father for heirs.  You demand love.  I can please none of you.”

She waved her hand.  “So be it.”

The amber globe grew until he was surrounded.  Rafel tried to escape but his blows bounced from the smooth surface.  He closed his eyes.  When he opened them he faced a forest but not the one he’d left for the leaves were touched with the bright colors of autumn.

“Come.”  A soft voice commanded.  “Come.”  The call came again, this time spurring him to run toward the trees.

Tuesday's Inspiration - Good Fiction - thoughts by Janet Lane Walters

"Good fiction does not deal in codes of conduct. It affirms responsible humanness." This bit from John Gardner's On Becoming A Novelist set me thinking. I have a BA in English and sat through several courses where I was to find the Theme behind the stories. For me this was the hardest thing to do. The teachers seemed to be looking for that "code of conduct" to make the story valid.

For me the most interesting part of the story belonged to the characters and how they acted and reacted to the events in their life. I didn't fail the courses. I did fairly well but every analysis of the stories in class found me on the opposite side from the teacher. Was this because I was already a writer when I went for this degree. Probably. One teacher told me finding the theme wasn't the writer's responsibility. Their purpose was to write  characters who engaged with the problems they faced and to show what they were facing.

I only once wrote a story where there might be a theme but not really. When writing Code Blue, I finished the book and was asked by an editor to let her know what the theme of the book entailed. This wasn't my current publisher of the book but one many times ago. The only thing I could come up with was many of the characters had some kind of obsession. But this is a very general theme. So is Love, Murder and other areas writers write about.

The real thrill of a story for me is how the characters walk the road called plot and how each deals with what happens in their lives and the lives of the other characters.

Meandering On Monday With Janet Lane Walters

Meander 1 - Going to try an experiment in the next few days to see if Amazon will let me post reviews. Will do one for a friend and one for an unknown. I have read both of these books and enjoyed them but one will see what I'm permitted to do. Part of this is to work on what's going on with the group I'm part of to see if this will work. Who knows. I have no great thoughts on the matter.

Meander 2 - Winter is here with a vengeance this year. The cold continues and though I know it's colder for other people what really bothers me is the squirrels in the attic. There have been six removed so far and they seem to continue making their way into our warmth. Do not like squirrels. Also the cold has made matters a mess since there is no water in the kitchen, once again. So we wait to see if the weather will warm enough to defrost the pipes.

Mender 3 - Am progressing rapidly with Melodic Dreams but not rapidly enough for I would like to begin a new story and am trying to think of how it will go. The story is beginning to move my nights. We'll see since when I'm partly finished with this one I'll put the 2 rights back books up and see what happens. Those 2 books earned little to nothing from the former publisher and I do think that was a lie but I'm so glad to be out of there.

3 Blog Visit Sunday discovered by Janet Lane Walters

http://www.emlynley.com/blog/2014/01/using-triberr-2014/

http://www.spajonas.com/2014/01/16/increasing-facebook-page-engagements-the-one-two-

http://bwlpp.blogspot.com/2014/01/now-available-green-and-gold-mystery.html?utm_source=feedburner&utm_medium=feed&utm_campaign=Feed%3A+BooksYoullLoveFromBooksWeLove+%28Books+You%27ll+Love+from+Books+We+Love%29

Saturday;s Chapter from Cooking Up Love by Gemma Brocato

Cooking Up Love

By Gemma Brocato

Find me on Goodreads, Facebook and Twitter

Chapter 1

What a dump.

Jemima George added an exclamation point and hit Send on her smartphone. A sigh surged up from her toes as she glanced around at the café she’d just inherited. Walking through the door of Caro’s Taste was like stepping into a time machine with a direct route to late nineteen eighty.

Grant Dubois, her aunt’s lawyer, augmented the sensation. He could have been a cover model on a senior citizen’s romance novel. His shoulder length salt-and-pepper hair flowed around his face as if stirred by a slight breeze, even though they were inside with the door firmly shut. He appeared fit, but his broad chest had begun the inevitable shift toward a softening waistline. The retro style, antiquated Windbreaker and shiny shirt, unbuttoned to midway down his chest, made his overall image the tiniest bit seedy. And he’d worn that getup to the funeral. The only things missing were gold chains and a pinkie ring.

“I’ve invited a local contractor to join us,” Grant said. “I thought you’d appreciate a cost estimate to update the space. It’s been a while, as I’m sure you can tell.”

“I don’t know about renovations. I’ll probably list it for sale. I need to get back to New York.” She scanned her vibrating phone and read Resa’s reply to her text.

The café or the town?

Jem keyed in the café and pressed send before returning her attention to the lawyer, surprised by the undisguised animosity on his face.

Jem blinked and the look was gone, replaced by a bland facade. An arc of guilt for being caught texting while he was talking forced heat into her cheeks. “Sorry. What were you saying?” She set the phone on a nearby table and shook her head to clear the odd sensation Grant’s shifting expressions had created.

“I urge you not to be hasty. Caroline’s income didn’t allow her to entertain thoughts of buying a Caribbean island for retirement, but she was comfortable. She left you quite a nice inheritance, between savings and insurance.” He waved his hands vaguely around the tiny shop, his quicksilver expression at odds with his words. “However, I’d completely understand if you wish to wash your hands of it. I’d be delighted to handle the details of liquidating for you.”

“I just can’t pick up and move to Granite Pointe. I have a job I really like.” Jem did a slow turn, surveying the room. “Even if I found someone I trusted, it doesn’t make sense to run it long distance.”

“Really liking your job isn’t the same as loving it.” Grant’s eyes twinkled as he widened his hands in a question. “Are you passionate about your work?”

Passion, huh? Jeez, he knew how to milk his resemblance to a cover model. His words were earnest, but his body language implied he’d like her on the next bus out of town.

“Besides,” Grant continued, “the café is only open mornings. Still plenty of free time to carry on Caroline’s work with our local environmental group. Her loss will hit them hardest.”

Jem cocked her head to the side, feeling like she’d fallen down the rabbit hole. The sour look on Grant’s face and the insincerity of his tone told her what he really thought of the idea of her staying, in spite of his encouraging words. What was his deal? “What happened? When I saw her in New York two months ago, her health was excellent. Do you know—”

Grant held up one finger and pulled his mobile phone from his jacket pocket, frowning at the display.

“Sorry, I have to take this. Excuse me.” He turned away to answer the call.

Jem looked around the café she now owned. She’d been a frequent visitor as a child, and memories of the smells and sounds of the busy restaurant echoed through her mind. As a teen, she’d worked here each summer. If serving coffee and pastries to the locals could be called work.

Granite Pointe was pretty as a picture as she gazed through oversized front windows. She shrugged out of her coat and tossed it on the counter next to her purse and cell phone. The heavy black wool had been welcome as the wind blew through the cemetery.

Trailing her hand along the butcher-block counter, she wandered toward the kitchen door. Walking along the display cases occupying one wall of the narrow space, she briefly considered the possibility of owning and operating the little shop.

Her lips quirked into a slight smile and she shook her head, rejecting the thought. Her life was in New York, as assistant and chef to Margo Tremont, reality television’s latest darling in the chronicles of the rich, fabulous and ridiculous.

It was where she lived and played with her hopefully soon-to-be fiancé, Phil Centers. They’d been a couple for two years, and Jem was as positive he’d propose soon as she was eager to become his wife. They were perfect for each other. Both of them were going places and he’d make the journey together fun.

No, Granite Pointe, Massachusetts would remain a great place to visit, but it wouldn’t do as a residence or place of business.

“I’m sorry. It was extremely rude of me to interrupt our conversation.” Grant strolled back toward her. Well, she’d been put in her place. “Unfortunately, I have a small problem at the office. Jack Kerrigan, the contractor I mentioned earlier, should be here soon. Do you mind waiting alone?”

“Sure, no worries. As I said earlier, I’d rather see a realtor than a builder. I’m just not in a spot to consider moving here.”

“Please don’t rush into this decision. If you do decide to sell, some basic remodeling might appeal to potential buyers. You’re bound to get your investment back through an increased sale price.”

“Some updates might be necessary, even if it’s just a fresh coat of paint and refinishing the floors.” She critically eyed the rough pine plank flooring. “However, I’m sure I won’t change my mind.”

The first real smile she’d seen from Grant creased wrinkles on his brow and around his eyes as he zipped up his jacket. With a curt nod, he pulled on gloves and, twisting the doorknob jerked the door open, hastily grabbing it as the wind caught it. The small bell above the frame tinkled merrily. She grinned as he quickstepped his way across the street, his long hair flowing out behind him. Yes, ma’am, he could be the father of that famous model gracing the covers of the naughty books Caroline had constantly read.

Jem slipped behind the counter, heading to the coffee maker. Despite the warmth of her gray sweater dress and black suede boots, she remained cold. A hot cup of coffee would hit the spot.

She pulled the supplies she needed from a box directly below the machine and rinsed the pot in the nearby sink. The shop had closed when Aunt Caro got sick, so a fine coating of dust had built up in the entire space. A melancholy ache bloomed in the center of her chest. God, she couldn’t believe Caro was gone.

Shoot! Grant hadn’t answered her question about what might have caused Caroline’s death. So far, no one had answered the question. She’d have to remember to ask him later. Swishing soapy water around the carafe, she rinsed it before returning to the machine. She slipped a filter and ground coffee into the basket and poured clean water in the reservoir. After she flipped the switch to start the machine, she grabbed her cell phone and leaned against the counter to wait for the coffee to brew.

She’d missed three calls in a very short time. The first from Phil, the last two, within seconds of each other, were from Resa, followed by an urgent text from her with the code that meant there was an emergency with their boss. WTF! Another 911.

With Margo, emergencies were an everyday occurrence.

As she scanned the messages, another came in from Phil.

Hey Baby—hope all went well today. Crazy busy, no time to talk. Late client meeting. Will call tomorrow.

Par for the course with Phil. She sighed mentally. There was always a meeting or crazy day lately. Although he was a junior partner in a prestigious law firm today, he wouldn’t be for much longer. With her connections, more business had flowed Phil’s way, impressing the senior partners. Increased billings equaled a promotion.

Because of his success, he took phone calls all hours of the day and night, and worked nearly every weekend. They hadn’t been able to grab any real alone time for the past four months. Her filming schedule with Margo didn’t help the situation. She sighed, a deep, resigned exhale.

She speed-dialed Resa, who answered so quickly she must have been waiting with her phone in hand.

“Hi, Sweetie.” Resa jumped right in. “How are you? Did everything go well this morning? Was it awful? Is the café really a dump? How soon can you wrap things up there and get back?”

Used to Resa’s rapid-fire questions, Jem grinned. “Okay, yes, not as awful as it could have been, dump might have been too strong and I don’t know.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know?” Resa shrieked, zeroing in on the last answer. “I thought you were going to leave it in the hands of the lawyer and get your skinny ass back here.”

“The building is solid, even kind of interesting, but the interior needs work. It’s funny, I don’t remember the exposed brick.” She squinted her eyes at the walls in question. “I haven’t even made it into the kitchen yet. I’m waiting for a contractor to arrive. I won’t get a very good price if I put it on the market as is. On the plus side, the neighborhood has potential. It’s in a great location. Granite Pointe is a fun, historically significant place. Not Manhattan, but it has its own brand of charm.”

“Ooh, sounds like someone might be thinking about staying.”

“No! No way. I belong in New York. But the lawyer said something about having passion for what I do. Which made me think…could I be more passionate about another career choice? The work I do is challenging some days, but do I honestly love it?”

“As if you would have passion for frying eggs and making muffins.” Resa laughed. “Although, you do make the best I’ve ever eaten.”

“Well, I can see the upside of a less Margo-like life. Speaking of which, what’s up with her?”

“It’s a few clowns short of a circus here today. Production asked to film Thursday instead of Friday. Margo’s clueless about her calendar. The computer network is down, thanks to the cable company, so we aren’t sure it will work. I know you have her schedule memorized, so I made the executive decision to bother you with the question. Even though I know Margo’s schedule is the last thing you want to deal with now.” Resa lowered her voice and continued, “I mean, shit, you’re on bereavement leave. I’m so sorry to bother you when you’re dealing with so much else. Caro’s death was so sudden, I mean.”

“I’m still struggling with that,” Jem admitted to her friend as the coffee finished brewing. Tucking the phone under her chin, she grabbed a cup. “She was fine when I saw her in January. Then, three weeks ago, she gets the flu. Now, she’s gone. It doesn’t make any sense to me. I asked Grant, the lawyer, but he avoided answering. He made some lame excuse about an office emergency and left me here to meet the contractor—”

The bell above the door tinkled again. Jem glanced over her shoulder at the man who walked in. His back was to her as he pushed the door closed against the wind. When he turned around, she froze.

The next winner of the Sexiest Man Alive title stood in her café.

Friday's How She Does It featuring Gemma Brocato

We all know there are six elements of fiction. Who, What, When, Where, Why and How. I believe the first five lead to the sixth which for me is plot. What's your take on this?

I've never thought of it that way. To me, the plot, or the idea comes first, then you have to use the 5 Ws and the H in the most advantageous way to tell the story. I'm not a plotter at all, but my degree is in journalism, so writing the perfect lead has been ingrained in me. 

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

 When I'm imagining the story in my head, my characters "tell" me what they are like. It's a matter of listing to my head and my heart to do them justice.

2. Do your characters come before the plot?

That depends on the story. But generally, the characters come first. 

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

 I write romance, so I always know the story will end with a happily ever after. I conceive a story knowing the beginning, middle and end and work to stay true to those elements.   

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

My Five Senses series is set in a small tourist town in Massachusetts and I had an image in my mind of what the town looks like based on a visit to the east coast when I was in high school. I have a magazine of house plans, but I don't really ever get into home layouts much. As I'm writing, I keep scene images in my mind. I do find myself having to check back occasionally to make sure I don't put a second story on a ranch house.

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

The Internet is a fabulous tool for research, isn't it? But I'm always careful to research the same information on three different sites, just to be safe. Plus, I always try to find a person to interview whenever I'm writing about a job. For Hearts in Harmony (Book 2), I interviewed a Music Therapist, for the third book in the series, I spoke to a professional photographer. I loved to learn as much as I can before I attempt to write about a topic.

6. Are you a draft writer or do you revise as you go along and why? Do you sketch out your plot or do you let the characters develop the route to the end?

 I revise as I go along, just to make sure I capture the right level of emotion and description. Plus, it helps me to re-read and revise the last chapter I've written before I begin the next one. And, I'm a pushover - my characters develop the route to the end. Sometimes, they see things I haven't. That's always a bit surprising. 

Gemma Brocato

Weaving Adventure and Romance Together

Cooking Up Love Out Now

Hearts in Harmony due out Spring, 2014

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Thursday's Opening Scene from Amber Chronicles by Janet Lane Walters

Released yesterday or late the day before is the Amber Chronicles consisting of some short stories and some novellas. Here's the opening scene to the first story in the collection.

The Amber Orb

Strains of music wafted from the ball room of the Amber Palace into the garden. Emme tapped her foot against the flagstone walk in an angry counterpoint to the dulcet tones. With each passing moment, the realization of another failure strengthened. Four times a prince had appeared at the palace seeking her hand in marriage. Four times the prince had chosen one of her younger sisters. Tonight the last prince would name her youngest as his chosen bride.

With great effort Emme capped her anger. Lysanda would pay just as her other sisters had. As the oldest, she should have been the first to find a bridegroom. Envy twisted with jealousy to form a rope binding her thoughts. This prince should be here for he was the last of the eligible ones in this world called Amber suited for training as a wizard and destined to sit on the amber throne beside Emme’s.

The scent of roses, jasmine and bluet filled the air with their sweet breath. The heavy aroma pressed against her forcing Emme to gasp.

She heard light tapping of slippers on the stones and knew Lysanda approached. Her sister expected to find Prince, what was his name, waiting to declare his love. Then amber lights would radiate across the night sky announcing Emme had failed again. That would not happen.

Lysanda came into view. Her hair, a few shades darker than Emme’s pure amber tones, hung in ringlets down her back. “Where is Rendel?” she asked.

“Looking for you,” Emme said. “I sent him to the Tower of Sighs.”

“Why?”

Emme stepped toward her sister. She smiled at the alarm in Lysanda’s pale blue eyes. Only Emme’s matched the blue of a summer sky. “You stole him. He was to be my prince.”

Lysanda asked. “He fell in love with me. His heart once given can never change.” She stepped closer. “Don’t think to take him from me. That is impossible.”

Emme fisted her hand on her hips. “I have no desire for a man who chose another over me. I’m sure he believes he will be able to rule you for your power is small and you can never sit on the amber throne. You have taken my last chance for love and rulership. I will take what he feels is important from you.”

Lysanda tore her gaze from Emme’s face. “What do you mean?”

“Face me, sister. Power against power or are you afraid?”

“I fear no one. I am a witch with power equal to yours.”

Emme heard a slight tremor in her sister’s voice. Knowledge filled her. She would drain Lysanda and leave her weak. Three times before she had faced a sister and won. She would win this time as well.

She drew the wind to eddy around Lysanda in wispy bands to speed and tightened them. One by one Lysanda broke the restraints. With each snap, Emme absorbed the power of the breaking.

Emme set the torches of the garden blazing. Tendrils of fire flowed toward her sister.

Lysanda gathered the flames and sent burning orbs toward Emme. “You will not win.”

Emme pulled water from the fountain. Fire and water met turning to steam shrouding the air with sizzling vapor. With slow steps Emme moved through the mist. The earth shook beneath her feet. Lysanda’s body wove in an attempt to remain standing.

Emme grasped her sister’s wrist. “Cede to me.” She drained the essence of magic from her sister’s cells.

“A curse I cry.” Lysanda’s shrill voice pierced Emme’s concentration. “Long will you search. Until you can give with forcing and demanding you will be alone.”

Those words forced Emme to release her sister. Lysanda slumped to the ground. Four times one of her sisters had shouted the same curse. Four times a sister had survived. She raised her hand and released all she’d taken from Lysanda. Brilliant flashes of light colored the night sky with all the colors possible except for amber.

She heard the sound of pounding boots. The prince stepped into view. “What have you done?”

“What I had to. Lysanda remains a witch and in a hundred years or so she will recover. You will never become a wizard. You will never rule the world called Amber.

The prince drew his sword and stalked toward her. “Why have you done this to my beloved?”

“You chose the wrong sister as those before you have done. Take her. Announce your betrothal. You can’t defeat me. You are the last to try.”

The sword slipped from his hands. Lysanda stirred. He lifted her into his arms. “My love.” He glared at Emme. “You will never find love until you love another more than you love yourself.”

Emme turned and strode from the garden. Why didn’t triumph fill her? Her life had been destroyed. There would be no chance to take her rightful place. She hurried to her tower. Why did the shimmer amber walls seem cloaked with gray? Instead of going to her room at the tower’s peak where the city spread before her, she fled to the dark basement and sat in a shadowed corner.

Wednesday's Writer's Tip Fight or Flight + New Release

Amber Chronicles is a series of short stories and novellas where Emme is sent from the world called Amber to find love. From a young woman who wants someone to love her she must become one who will both love and be loved.

Now for the Writer's Tip. The hero and heroine have all their problems, goals in site but life looks hard ahead. How do they react to the events of their life. We've all heard of the Fight or Flight phenomena and this will show how the character acts. But remember a character who is a fighter may at some point feel retreat is the way to go. Or the character who has never faced the problem and has found ways to escape may one day decide to fight.

What can be a problem is when the decision to do either isn't true to the character. Reactions must be carefully built through the story so the change in the way a character faces a problem seems to be the logical next move.  So choose the moment carefully when your character faces the change. This may be their black moment or this could be a slow change as they turn from one way of facing the world and their problems.

My favorite is taking a character who has always walked away or found some way to escape facing their problems and becoming one who has to fight for what they want. Or the character who has fought for what they want but for the wrong things or in the wrong way. Watching a character change is what makes a story sing.

Tuesday's Inspiration - The Writer's Mind

This will be the last post listing some of the things that make a writer's mind. From John Gardner, "an inexplicable and incurable addiction to stories. written or oral, bad or good."

I've always been fascinated with stories and I'm sure the rest of you are also. The stories that strike me hard are ones I read and re-read. Not sure why. Then there are the stories that make me mad. Maybe the idea is good but the execution isn't. Now I read books for contests, sometimes whole books and sometimes just parts. When the story is good, I may feel a touch of envy but I continue reading and enjoying. Then there are those bad stories. I struggle to read them. I find myself trying to make them better, at least in my head.

Another quote from On Becoming A Novelist. "Writers would clearly be madmen if they weren't so psychologically complicated to settle on any given madness." Amusing yet probably true. People give odd looks when a group of writers is talking about how the people in their stories take charge, talk to them and seem to be as real to the author as the people in their lives. Face it, I once read "There is a thin line between genius and madness." I firmly believe writers walk this edge every time they write a story.

So don't be upset when people look at you strangely when they think you are talking to yourself. You're not, you're conversing with the characters you write.