Constipated Storylines

Here it is, the middle of August. Already. Where did this month go? Couple of family birthdays, mine included. But the bigger news, I've been working on a book proposal for The Sanctum. A literary agent is interested in shopping the book to the Christian publishers. I have to give it that chance. God always opens doors for me; sometimes I miss it, but sometimes I manage to step through it, in spite of myself.

I'm still struggling with the first draft of the next novel, but (and it's a big but) when I decided to get quiet and quit fretting over it, that's when the characters began to talk again. It's taking a new turn, and frankly, I'm surprised at the direction. Moved to tears over the last chapter, I tucked my tail between my legs and said to my protagonist, Okay, I'll shut up. You tell me the story. Use my fingers, and I'll just clean it up when you're done.

That's what happens when your writing hits a detour. A roadblock. You get constipated and it often becomes a test of wills between you and your characters. They always win with me. Eventually. I'm a storyline softie. I think until you understand the disappointments, the pain of life, you're not as open to the rough road of your characters. Writing the story in your head is difficult enough. Adding in the voices of the characters, it adds a new element. You either fight it, or yield to the seduction.

Sometimes I think that's why our writing improves in the midst of our own aging process. When I was younger, everything had to be perfect. Literally everything. Though I still battle with perfection on every level, I find my edges have softened. In my body, and in my writing. I'm not as hard on myself. I'm more open to my fellowman, and in the struggles of my characters. It's a nasty world out there. And as a Christian, I see many who shut their eyes to world Christ told us to save.

Writing reality is not like watching reality shows on TV. That's not real. They know there's a camera in the room. There's a producer on set. It's not real. Reality can only be found in books. Even if it's fiction. Think about it.

Allowing your characters to speak to you is necessary. Detouring from the outline of the story may save the story. Getting quiet is better than giving up. Wouldn't you agree?

Blessings to you and yours.

Can't Take The Heat?

I find myself reluctant to blog during the heat. We live in a century house with no air conditioning, which really isn't much of problem in northeast Ohio except for a week or two a year when the air is so humid you can barely breathe. It's difficult to move around. Cool showers twice a day help, but getting work done is a chore.

Today we woke to find cooler temperatures and I'm reminded of growing up without air conditioning. We didn't think twice about it. Nobody had it. Mom kept big oscillating fans in the kitchen and living room and we stood within inches after an afternoon in the sun, our hands sticky from a cherry Popsicle drip. Glasses of iced Kool-Aid sweat on our shorts. Hair pulled up into ponytails, our sunburned faces knew nothing about sun block. It was the 'sixties and we didn't give a flip about anything other than the next cold bottle of pop and maybe a trip to the local swimming hole.

Sitting here now in my old house with the bees and hornets swarming around the porch, I listen to the sound of summer's wavy heat floating through the screen door. I can't get away from it, I can only drown it out with a fan or two. By the time the trash truck picks up last weeks bags, the cicadas will join in with the bees. I watch the pond evaporate before my eyes. Time for iced tea and egg salad. Heat does a number on my appetite. And my worth ethic. My computer generates too much heat, becomes my typical excuse.

But ... then ... I'm reminded of the summers of my youth, when not even the heat could stop us from building tents over clotheslines and riding miles on our bikes to explore new frontiers. We never thought twice about sex offenders or that there was such a thing. Life was good and sweet and we had not a care or a worry in the world. Not even a skinned knee could stop us from a trip to the store where an electric Coca-Cola sign was the swinging door between worlds. A hand full of Pixie Sticks and cooling green bottles in a metal box was all it took to forget about the oppressive heat.

Since it's cooler today, I'll pound out a few pages. But my mind wants to listen to the giggles of girls, their secrets and their dreams. This next novel is in full swing, and I find that often part of the writing process is allowing your characters to take shape off the page first. This summer's heat is a good excuse to do just that.

Blessings to you and yours.

Why Writers Plow Their Literary Field

I took a look back at my blogs and found this one. In the midst of writing The Sanctum, my soul was screaming. I've come a long way since then. I'm proud to say this novel has also come a long way, and will be released as an e-book within a few weeks. This field is now ready for harvest.

April 8, 2010
I've been plowing my literary field this spring. My office is a mess. I've written scenes for my next novel; they're splayed across a long, skinny table as I work relentlessly on this story. I'm concentrating on my research and pulling it in as needed. In a few weeks I'm visiting a wolf sanctuary. If my suspicions are correct, wolves are not what they have been portrayed. A critical piece of the narrative, the wolves represent the strange and the misunderstood. That which needs protected. Not destroyed.

As I roll deeper into the story, I'm finding--once again--my characters have voices of their own, totally separate and apart from mine. It's a bizarre metamorphosis. I look down and suddenly my fingers are those of a thirteen-year-old girl, fair and fragile. Within minutes, they turn old and masculine. They're covered with tobacco that clings to my arms like pine resin. They belong to a black man who types as fast as the wind. He's got a few things to say. Because it's 1960, and the times, they are a changing.

A scene change and my hands belong to another character. They're slow and angry, and hot to the touch. Dangerous. They belong to a man, this time he's white and wrinkled. The fingers pound the keys and occasionally they ball into a fist. But just like that, they fade into another set of hands and suddenly I'm needing to get up and find my own fingers again. I need coffee. A break. It's not easy allowing these characters to flow through you and come out your fingers. It's not easy.

I have to laugh. I think I've read and studied every good book on writing from here to eternity in the past twenty years. But nobody can teach you how to tell a great story. Don Maass has come about as close to anybody I've heard, but in the end ... I've learned it's almost a spiritual thing. My explanation is that we have to become somebody else.

We have go inside the man/woman/boy/girl/animal we're writing about. Look at the world from their eyes. A good storyteller can write it down and make it believable. But a great storyteller can become his or her character and make it real. I can only hope that in the end, that is my accomplishment.

One does not write to fulfill a fantasy. Or to become rich. A real writer writes until their eyes dim and burn, until their skin goes puckered and droopy, until their finger bones unhinge and scatter. Until they shrivel up and fade away. Take away a writer's pencil or keyboard, and you strip the soul away. A writer is many people, patiently waiting for their turn to tell their story. A real writer writes because if they don't, they go mad and become a conglomerate of all of the characters stored inside them.

That's it. It's how God made me. I can't help it. I plow my literary field and life goes on. Until one day when it stops. Hopefully, by then, every character inside of me will have had their chance to use my fingers.

Blessings to you and yours.