Tag: author

About Writing

Writing for readers

Autumn

At some point during the writing process, you have to start thinking about your readers.

I don’t mean you should sellout and introduce a teenage vampire who spends all day angsting about how much he hates himself, and all night getting spanked in the local underground BDSM scene, before being chosen to participate in a deadly game of wits and survival. Yuck. No.

When you chat with someone face-to-face, it’s considered polite to speak clearly and audibly, and to continually read the other person’s cues to make sure they aren’t growing bored by your rambling. When you’re done, you say goodbye instead of just walking away.

Writing should be approached with the same considerations. While it’s much harder to work without a present audience yawning and glancing at their cell phones, it’s good to empathize with imaginary readers and place yourself in their shoes, so to speak.

Continually ask yourself questions like:

“Is this sentence clear or do I need to reword it?”

“Is this part boring?”

“Are my transitions smooth or jarring?”

“Does this paragraph flow when I read it out loud, or is it choppy?”

“Is the end too abrupt?”

Etc, etc, etc.

Your readers are your best friends; they’re the ones who appreciate a part of you that even your parents don’t know about (at least for many of us writers, lol). Don’t take them for granted. Be a gracious host and make sure that they’re having a good time.

If you know someone you trust who fits your target audience, go ahead and use them as a beta reader. Watch them read. Pay attention to their facial expressions and body language. While they may say that something is good, a wrinkled brow and down turned mouth will tell you that there was something unsatisfying, but they might not be able to articulate it. Don’t take it personally, just think about how to make it better. I promise you that it’s a good feeling to come back with the improved version and watch someone gush over something they were previously “meh” about.

While it’s good practice to write the first draft for yourself, be in the habit of rewriting the last one for your readers. They have the power to set you down and dismiss you forever, so don’t lord your ego over them. Be nice and considerate, and show some appreciation.

About Writing

Character Descriptions

Autumn

The other day I asked my husband, “What the heck does it mean when people describe eyes as ‘almond-shaped’?”

So he pulled up some references on drawing eyes and explained the differences, before grabbing some photographs for me to guess which shape the eyes would be.

I proved that I will never be a visual artist when I described them all as, “eye-shaped.”

A lot of writers describe characters like they’re sitting next to a sketch artist, who wants to know just how wide their forehead is in relation to the height of their nostrils and all that, but personally I’m not visually oriented enough to pull that off. I like to joke that I would make a terrible witness to a crime, because my description would be along the lines of, “He looked like an evil horse, only with fish eyes . . . no, I haven’t the slightest clue how tall he was.”

When I look at someone, I don’t notice many physical details; I think of them in metaphorical and emotional terms instead. That’s why I think that all eyes are ‘eye-shaped,’ but some of them are more fish-like than others.

Everyone is going to picture something different when they visualize my horsey villain, but the mental image will tickle the fancy far more than “long face and wide-set eyes.” I care more about amusement than pedantry when it comes to my craft.

The next time you write a character description, don’t try to force Brad Pitt’s face on all your readers — it’s okay to step back, paint with broad strokes, and say something different. Let your readers choose for themselves what they want to imagine. A story that asks for a little thought in return will be far more engaging than one that spoon-feeds every detail.

2009-10-16-beartato-drawharrisonfrommemory
If I were an artist…

Source

Stories

WP – The Suit part 1

Autumn

The Suit is powerfull. A mech for some, body armor for others, always unique to each person who wore it. Those who wear it, hear the words “not original user, booting basic mode” As a joke, your sergeant gives you The Suit and the first thing you hear is: “User detected: Welcome back, Commander”

 

Carol had won the envy of the entire base by receiving the job of cleaning the Suit between uses. She would proudly enter the bunker with her soft cloths and polish, and tenderly buff away every scuff of dirt that marred the paint. Every single time, she held her breath with the anxiety that the Suit had been scratched, and she was relieved when her love revealed that it had magically held its integrity through every bombardment. No one knew where it had come from, but it had become the pride and joy of the military, and she was its sacred Keeper. She often joked that the Suit took up so much of her time and attention, she didn’t have any affection left to share with another human being.

The master sergeant was considered to be the best pilot, which earned him more missions in the Suit than anyone else. However, unbeknownst to any of the higher ups, the cumulative effect was beginning to degrade his psychological resilience, and he was growing resentful of anyone else who touched what he was increasingly beginning to consider his own. Every time he donned the Suit, he thought about defying commands and never returning to base, certain that no one would be able to stop him if he turned renegade. Only the uncertainty of running from the military with no objective to follow kept him obedient, and his ache was a dark secret.

Brooding, he hung around to watch Carol work on his beloved Suit, and his heart stung with jealousy when he saw how tenderly she touched the metal. When she opened it up to wipe down the leather interior, he couldn’t stand it anymore; it was worse than walking in on a spouse in the thralls of another lover. He clapped his hand on her shoulder, roughly squeezed down, and growled, “You ever worn it?”

“No.” Carol winced and looked away, not daring to try to free herself. Something in his eyes didn’t look right, and she decided that it would be best to slip away as quick as she could before reporting him.

He lowered his mouth down next to her ear, and whispered with his lips brushing her skin, “Try it.”

“I’m not authorized,” she replied, tilting her head away. She scanned the bunker for anyone else to call out to, but it was lunchtime and the place was empty.

“Do you mean to tell me that you can repeatedly strip the Suit bare, and not feel the impulse to climb inside? Go on and try it, I won’t tattle.” His other hand seized her upper arm, his fingertips digging in deeply enough to leave bruises. He pushed her forward, banging her head against the interior.

“Here, I’ll even tell you what to expect,” he said, turning her around and holding her in position with his forearm, as he kicked her legs to get her to step inside. “Don’t worry when you hear the words, ‘User unknown: booting safe mode’, because it does that for everyone. Then it will squeeze tight for a moment before it releases like a breath of air, and you’ll feel like you aren’t wearing anything at all. Operating it is intuitive, so you’ll get the hang of it.”

He had completely lost his mind, Carol thought as she met his eyes. She was certain that he wouldn’t actually try to close her inside the Suit, knowing that it would give her the ability to turn him into a smoldering crater in a heartbeat. He was likely trying to get her fired, and that she couldn’t allow under any circumstance.

“Let me go,” she ordered, hoping that her voice sounded strong and commanding. “I’m not authorized to use the Suit, and I will report you for misconduct.”

“You think I care?” The master sergeant grabbed Carol’s chin and glared into her eyes. “You’ll have a fatal accident long before you report anything to anyone.”

The look of sheer malevolence on his face caused her to panic, and before she knew it she had hit the button to close the Suit. The master sergeant abruptly pulled his hand back with a cuss, and through the visor Carol could see that his wrist had been cut deeply, nearly severing his hand. She stayed very still, shocked and scared, wondering what she should do to get herself out of the metaphorical fire she had just jumped into. Then the interior of the Suit sprang alive with lights and a breeze of circulated air, as a computer voice spoke,

“User detected: welcome back, Commander.”

Carol’s heart stopped.

Now she was really in trouble.

 

Reddit

I rewrote the intro three times before I was finally satisfied with it.

All told, it took me about an hour to write those 774 words, and one person in particular described this story as, “just the prompt redone with more words added to it”. Lol.

I’m definitely in the camp that a well-written piece doesn’t need to be explained, so I want to make it clear that I’m not explaining the story itself, but rather my thought process behind it. I’m answering the question as to why it took me an hour to write this.

I made several changes to the premise of the prompt to come up with something that I personally liked. For starters, the main character is not ranked in the military, but instead holds a civilian job on base. Instead of a joking sergeant, I made that character a villain with a higher rank, but nicely situated in the middle, so he’s still very much subjected to protocol and orders. Frankly, the characters implied by the prompt struck me as boring, so I made them more interesting.

And, of course, I had to mentally model the world they lived in. Very little of this step gets written down, but it’s essential to give a sense of solidity to the story.

Then the characters needed motivations and personalities. I personally feel that this part was rushed, and if I were writing this as a novel, I would come back and agonize over it before publishing, especially with my master sergeant character. Since this was written for Reddit, I didn’t have days to devote to that much nit-pickiness.

Finally, the writing itself. I wanted to take a direct approach that was compelling and easy to understand, which took a couple of false starts before I found my groove. Rather than aiming to look awesome and gain lots of immediate kudos, my goal was to create something that subtly wriggled into your brain so you found yourself randomly thinking about it two weeks later, wondering about the characters and what happens to them next. This would be the book that you initially pass over, then end up buying later because you can’t get the first chapter out of your head.

Which, on the surface, looks a lot like, “just the prompt redone with more words added to it”.

Ultimately, I feel that this was a successful story. I did not expect people to find it as engaging as they did, and the theories the readers came up with has me humbled with the strength of their creativity. As I told my husband, “Now I’m guaranteed to disappoint them if I write more!”

About Writing

Most people can’t write

Autumn

Most people can’t write.

I know, we live in a society where everyone is expected to be hyper-accepting and non-judgmental, blindly praising, “That’s really good!” before ghosting off so you can never be pressed for your real opinion. But I’ve never been able to follow the crowd.

I realized that fact in my Advanced Creative Writing class, when I was surrounded by students who were presumably SERIOUS about writing, had already studied it to some extent, yet who were producing stories that were on par with a regular English student’s. Whaa?

I see it all the time in writing communities now. People will proudly declare, “Writing is my passion!” then not even know how to use a semicolon correctly. Critique wise, one is expected to point out typos in addition to blind praise, and I tend to get a bad name for myself by saying what actually needs to be improved to make the story better. I do it for myself, truthfully, because analyzing others keeps me on my toes with my own writing.

No, writing isn’t your passion. Your passion is feeling special, and you don’t care at all about the agonizing hours of rewriting, coupled with the constant study of grammar, storytelling, and psychology, second-guessing every sentence with intense embarrassment that someone will notice how mediocre it is. You want to be complimented more than you want to be skilled.

Sadly, there are also plenty of people who have the potential to be good, but they are unwilling to set their egos aside to learn how to improve themselves. In the end, they aren’t any different from the others.

Ah, how cruel I am.

You must be asking now, “Can you write?” eager to knock me down a peg after my self-important rant.

Barely.

I know how to edit mercilessly and handle criticism.

That’s what makes the difference.

About Writing

Complaining

Autumn

Why do I complain so much about contemporary literature?

Personally, I’m not likely to run into any sort of shortage of used books to read — as anyone who has been in a thrift store can attest to — so the hottest new releases don’t have any affect on me no matter how badly they are written. If I were to speak truthfully from the coldest place in my heart, I think it would be a relief if publishing houses died wholesale. Good riddance.

Contemporary literature is all about making money. Idealistically, we want to believe that ‘high quality = more profit’, but the popularity of the YouTube channel ‘5 Minute Crafts’ is undeniable proof that sentiment just isn’t true. Profit comes from tickling algorithms coupled with click-bait, and corporations have turned it into a science.

The thing is, ‘5 Minute Crafts’ and its ilk aren’t harmlessly mediocre underneath all the hype. I’ve seen videos promoting burning your hair with a candle, soaking strawberries in bleach, and other such activities that have no business in a DIY context, and should never be tried at home. Seriously, burning your hair is not a fast way to get rid of split ends, it is a stinky way to get rid of your hair. People are prophesying that these channels will one day kill YouTube.

Let’s bring the topic back to books: publishing houses, and by extension writers, are excessively geared towards money. The algorithms utilize formulaic stories that just so happen to hit all the right trending key words, and the shiny covers function as the click bait. Whether or not the story is actually well written and engaging is never the question.

You see, it doesn’t matter how much teachers extol the virtues of reading, no one is going to bother if the experience is a tedious one. Every time I hear someone say that they hate reading, I sympathize with the statement, “Most books suck.”

I say that as a writer.

The last I heard, fiction sales have been steadily dropping for some time now, and I don’t believe that the popularity of video streaming or video games has anything to do with it — movies have existed for quite some time, and the adage has always been, “the book is better” up until now. I believe that fiction is dying because no one gives a shit if the reader has an enjoyable experience or not, so long as they can collect on the royalties.

Statistically I also contribute to “the death of the novel”, because I haven’t purchased anything new in the last ten years, even though I still read books. I’m not voracious by any stretch of the imagination, but I’m usually working my way through something. I’m sure there are others who read plenty of fiction, but who also prefer used books, or websites that provide content for free. Humans have loved storytelling since the dawn of time, and that isn’t going to change.

I complain about contemporary literature because, as a writer, I often feel like I’ve dedicated my life to a field that is gaining an increasingly bad rap through blatant mismanagement. It doesn’t matter how much love and attention I put into producing quality works if people have been taught through experience to hate reading in the first place.

Since I’m not delusional enough to believe that my solitary rumblings are going to have any sort of effect on the world, I often wonder what other sort of venues are there for connecting with readers. How can I publish novels without resorting to books? How can I stand apart from contemporary literature?

Stories

Writing prompt – Rebirth

Autumn

You just died. You go toward the light, but when you reach it, you emerge into a delivery room as a brand new, screaming baby. You have no more control over this new body than any other baby, and no one looking at you has any idea that you possess the consciousness and memories of your old life

 

At 53, my life hadn’t been long enough. After all the stumbles and faux pas of youth, I had finally begun to figure things out, and I had finally begun to look forward to each morning. My children had grown and moved out, leaving me with enough time to think, and perhaps more importantly to sleep, and I had realized with startling clarity what was Important, and what wasn’t. My deepest regret was that most of my life had been spent missing out on the good things in favor of the superficial.

My death was abrupt, and perhaps a little glorious. While I was driving home from work, a sudden yet powerful gust of wind knocked a semi-truck off of an overpass and into the path of my car down below. My last image was of apples scattered around the freeway.

I was surprised that there really was a tunnel with a light at the end of it – having never experienced death before, I didn’t know what to expect. As I sped along, I thought about everything I had done, everything I had loved or regretted, and I felt sad that it was over when so many things were about to begin. I closed my eyes in preparation of entering the blinding light in front of me.

Suddenly air filled my lungs, and I let out a scream in shock. My body was heavy, my legs and arms were completely limp and unresponsive; I couldn’t even lift my head. Some giant held me, snuggling me against itself, so I slowly opened my eyes and stared in dumbfounded amazement up at my daughter’s face. She was huge.

Or rather, I was tiny.

She was laughing and crying, with sweat on her brow and bags under her eyes. It dawned on me that she had just given birth … to me.

Freaky.

“I don’t know why, but she reminds me so much of my mom,” my daughter said, beaming down at me. “I wish she could have been here … I miss her so much!” Her happiness quickly changed to sobbing, and inwardly I nodded understandingly at the mood swings that happen so fast during those first few moments after giving birth. I wished that I could have reached out to comfort her, but all I could manage was to stare, and that felt ineffectual as well. Everything beyond her face was so blurry, I couldn’t tell who she was talking to. Her husband, I hoped, because otherwise I’d have to have a word with him.

She began to stroke my face and hair, and it was so soothing that I felt myself drift off to sleep despite my best efforts to stay awake. The last words I heard before a slipped into a deep slumber were, “Let’s name her Rebecca, after my mother.”

I had been given a second chance, with the people that I had held most dear in my previous life, and this time I wasn’t going to waste it.

On Reddit

Stories

Lyra and Malachi chapter 1

Autumn

I started this novel about a month before baby #4 had me hurling my guts out in the toilet, and by the time I was up for writing again, the thread of inspiration was gone.

The characters in this novel are amongst my oldest and dearest, so one day it will be written and published, come hell or high water. For now, it will continue to grow and mature in that secret place where stories reside before they’re ready for the world.

When I re-read this chapter, I thought that the end seemed forced and unnatural, and lacked the strength of the opening. It’s probably a good thing that I’m not tackling this particular story for the time being.

 

News of the Father’s arrival spread like a wildfire through the town’s grapevine, and after only two days everyone had heard the name: Evan Malachi, the traveling priest. He was staying with their own pastor, would be delivering the sermon on Sunday, and was already completely booked up for lunches and dinners for the entirety of his stay.

Lyra was at the early morning market when she first heard the name. As she studied through her lists of groceries, two middle-aged women passed by chittering about how attractive the traveling priest was. By the time she was juggling three baskets full of vegetables, she had heard all about Father Malachi. No one was able to agree on his age, but they all reported that he had vibrant gold hair and a handsome face. Those who had already spoken to him said that he was engaging and articulate, with charisma to spare.

It was no surprise to Lyra when the first thing out of Mrs. Grady’s mouth was, “Have you heard about Father Malachi?”

Setting one of the baskets down on Mrs. Grady’s table, Lyra replied, “I’ve heard of nothing else.”

“I have yet to meet him, but everyone who has is absolutely smitten with him. Oh, if only there was a way to get him over to our house for dinner!”

“I’m sure that you’ll think of a way to ask him,” Lyra answered, distracted. She was staring at her list, frowning at the realization that she had forgotten to write down the price of the carrots. No matter what everyone else said, that darned Father Malachi was already making her life more difficult than she cared for. She was going to have to estimate low, and suffer the difference in her pay.

“Here’s the price for the groceries, Mrs. Grady. I’ll be back to clean after I finish making the rest of my deliveries.”

“Do a thorough job this time. We’ll never know if a certain visitor is going to be coming over.” Mrs. Grady took the receipt from Lyra and disappeared towards her husband’s study, while Lyra let herself out through the back door.

After her father’s death four months ago, Lyra had taken up employment between three different households, managing the basic upkeep and errands. None of them were rich enough to afford a full-time servant, but they could pay her for a couple hours of work every day. Lyra was barely managing to keep her father’s house, and after only four months she was already beginning to feel worn down.

Her father had been a carpenter, and the two of them had lived comfortably. Her mother died when she was very young, but her father often shared with her the locket he wore that contained her mother’s picture, and told wonderful stories about his deceased wife. Whenever Lyra snuggled against her father’s chest and listened to him talk about her mother, it was easy to imagine that she had stepped out to pick wildflowers, and would come back home soon to pop delicious, puffy bread dough into the oven to bake. When her father died, she lost her mother a second time as well.

Lyra worked hard, and despite Mrs. Grady’s implication, she was one of the best maids around. Her three houses were better kept than Mr. Neils, the only man in town with both cooks and servants. She refused to work for someone who was always holding the subject of rent and threat of eviction over her head, and Mr. Niels already had the rest of the town in the palm of his hand. Lyra didn’t want to give him more power over her than he already had.

Like everyone else, Lyra attended church every Sunday, but not because she believed in it. She wanted her employers to see her there and rest assured in the idea that she was too pious to ever steal from them, but the truth was that Lyra hated God. She would sit in her pew every week and curse Him for taking away good people like her father and mother, while money-grubbing landlords like Mr. Niels continued on in perfect health. Lyra couldn’t love a God who ran the world in such a fashion. She still cried every night over the death of her father, but she was never going to let her sorrow show in public.

As far as she was concerned, Father Malachi was a pawn for a vengeful and petty God, and the sooner he left, the sooner her life would continue on the same as before, though she didn’t particularly like where it was going – or, rather, wasn’t.

Even still, after leaving the third household to return home, having spent the entire day endlessly hearing others talk about him yet again, her curiosity was piqued. Despite herself, Lyra was beginning to look forward to Sunday.

Lyra started her work early in the morning, so she would always have the afternoons and evenings free to herself. She liked to spend them in the meadow just outside of town when she wasn’t busy with her own survival, and had beaten a little path through the woods with her journeying, though she was careful to make sure that it looked like it was only used by deer – the meadow was her secret, and she didn’t want it to become a popular spot for picnics. Her own chores were simple and easy to complete now that she was living alone, and once she was done she set to work making a little basket of food. Then Lyra was off.

It had turned into a hot summer day, but the shade of the trees was cool and pleasant. The worries that usually plagued her began to fade away as she walked through the forest, remaining behind as she moved towards her sanctuary. The birds were singing energetically in the tree tops, and Lyra closed her eyes as she took in a deep breath, taking a moment to feel the forest around her with her spirit.

A loud thump and breaking twigs made her jump and gasp, and Lyra’s eyes snapped open to see a startled looking man standing in front of her. He had vibrant gold hair that hung freely around his shoulders, and his face was smooth, young, and handsome. His eyes held Lyra’s gaze, a vivid shade of turquoise that held more wisdom than she had seen before, even amongst the eldest members of her community. He was wearing a simple black cassock with buttons down the front, but his figure looked strong and fit underneath, and around his neck he wore a gold cross on a long chain. Lyra didn’t have to guess at his identity.

Father Malachi.

“Good evening!” he exclaimed, somehow seeming more off-balance than Lyra felt. “I believe we haven’t met before; I’m–”

“I know.” Lyra tore her eyes away from his, then pushed past him to keep going to the meadow. She felt indignant, that he would invade her private sanctuary then look as if she had stumbled across his secret. He followed after her.

“Forgive me if I startled you.” His voice was like velvet, soft yet masculine, with a cadence that penetrated her heart and set it at ease. Lyra liked it, and could easily imagine herself sitting and listening to him preach every day if she didn’t have anything else to do; she now understood why no one could talk of anything else. He continued speaking, “I was doing a touch of exploring, and I hadn’t realized that any people knew about this path. I wouldn’t have bumbled so much if I had expected to find you.”

Lyra stopped and turned to face him. “Look, Father, as far as I know I’m the only person who knows about this place, and I’d like to keep it that way. I come here to be alone.” She hoped that her emphasis would help him understand the hint, though she was conflicted about whether or not she actually wanted him to leave. Somehow, she had ended up with Father Malachi all to herself, to talk about whatever she desired with no one around to interrupt. Lyra found that she had a lot on her mind that she wanted to say to the traveling priest, or perhaps more to God through him.

“I am sworn to secrecy, my daughter.” He smiled as he drew his fingers across his lips.

Lyra quickly walked across the meadow to sit down on her favorite spot of soft grass, biting the inside of her cheek to keep herself from crying. Father Malachi had made her think of her deceased father, and her soul stung with the absence of her parents. She had every intention of letting go and sobbing, but he was still following her and she didn’t want him to see her weaknesses. Lyra didn’t say anything as she straightened her skirt over her legs, then pulled an apple out of her basket and began shining it to give herself something to do.

“May I ask your name?” Father Malachi sat down next to her.

“Lyra,” she snapped.

“It’s a beautiful name, and it suits you well.” Without asking permission, he reached over and took the apple out of Lyra’s hands, then took a big bite through it’s shiny red skin and crisp fruit. “Mm, it’s very delicious. Thank you.”

Lyra was stunned. “That’s . . . mine!”

He grinned and held it out to her. “Would you like it back?”

“No!” Lyra couldn’t make heads or tails out of his behavior, and she wondered if he wasn’t entirely of sound mind, but that didn’t stop her outrage. “That was supposed to be part of my dinner!”

“What else did you bring?” He reached for her basket, but she snatched it up and held it against her chest.

“Go away!”

“Got you.” Father Malachi took another bite of the apple and winked. “Are you feeling better now?”

Something new and indescribable filled Lyra’s center, a sort of epiphany mixed with even more confusion. “What?” All of the fire was gone from her now.

“You were on the verge of tears, but you didn’t want it to show. Unfortunately, my dearest daughter, you’re not as skilled at hiding your feelings as you think you are.”

Lyra felt insulted yet relieved. “I was under the impression that everyone else in town was feeding you. There’s no reason for you to take my food as well.”

“Yes, I have been promised an assortment of exquisite meals from the finest cooks that your town has to offer, but that doesn’t change the pleasure of an apple. So, my dearest daughter, is this really the entirety of your dinner?”

Lyra felt herself blushing, partly in shame over her meager meal, and partly because he kept referring to her as his ‘dearest daughter.’ She was already becoming attached to the traveling priest, and she knew that it would break her heart to watch him move on. “Yes . . .”

“But you can cook, with talent as well.”

“How did . . .?” Lyra stared at him, numbly handing over the basket when Father Malachi gestured for it.

“Smoked gouda,” he said as he pulled out her cheese. “It combines wonderfully with fresh apple, yet is a little more costly. From the state of your dress, you are carefully managing your finances, yet you still decided to indulge in this particular treat.”

Lyra clenched her jaw and said tightly, “I stopped cooking after my father died four months ago.”

“Ah, the reason for my dearest daughter’s pain.” Father Malachi set the basket down and wrapped an arm around Lyra, pulling her against him. “It’s perfectly acceptable to hurt. You don’t have to hide from me.”

“I miss my daddy.” Lyra felt like she was reverting to childish behavior, that she wasn’t carrying herself in a manner than was appropriate for a grown woman. Tears slipped out of her eyes, and she wrapped her arms around Father Malachi’s neck as she began to cry. “I miss my daddy so much!”

How did this end up happening?

Somehow, Father Malachi had pierced her mind and stolen the thoughts that she kept hidden there.

Lyra was a small child, crying in the arms of a stranger over the loss of her father, and now that she had grasped him she didn’t want to let him go. She wanted to stay with Father Malachi, to always be his dearest daughter, to depend on him for the safety and protection that she had been living without.

What was it about Father Malachi that made her feel that way?

About Writing

Endings

Autumn

I’ve reached the point where I had planned on ending the story in my current WIP, only to discover that I even kind of hate myself with how inconclusive in feels.

I realized that there needed to be a sequel about a month or so ago, which was heartbreaking because I always figured my attention span was too short to write serials (naturally, I’m saying this after I spent close to a year on a single rough draft), but the story demands more, and thus I have no choice. There will be a book two.

I figured that I could go ahead with the ending of book number one as originally planned, since it was open enough to seamlessly slide into a sequel without any problems. Now that I have it written down, I’ve realized that it’s actually a giant cliffhanger with too many incomplete threads left dangling. Wow. After all this time, how could I not realize that the ending needed to be more complete?

I need to wrap something up, even if I leave the big picture unfinished for the sequel. I just don’t know what can be conveniently closed for good.

So instead of declaring the draft finished, I’m back to the drawing board.

Ah, writing. You tricky demon.

About Writing

Book Covers

Autumn

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My husband found The Regiment (published 1987) in a used bookstore back in 2010, and a few days later handed it over to me with the instruction that I *had* to read it. The Regiment is a scifi novel that is deeply philosophical, with a subtle element of spirituality woven in, and it influenced the way I think of every day life. It’s definitely one of my favorites.

It was never unpacked after our last move, and now currently resides in a box in the basement, so it’s been awhile since I’ve read it. One of these days I’ll get around to unpacking those boxes, but that day is not today.

The thing is, my husband and I got a very good laugh about the cover, and we still occasionally reference how bad it is. The picture is only vaguely related to the novel at best, and the tagline is so badly wrong that I suspect whoever wrote it hadn’t even read a summary. Excellent book, terrible cover.

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I purchased Wicked Lovely when it was a new release in 2008, back when I was young and trusting. I consider it to be a guilty pleasure, since while I adore the idea of faerie courts in the book, I think that it is put together in a way that is shallow and a touch crude.

Mind you, I’d still rate the book 3.5/5, and I even followed the author’s blog for awhile clear back then, so I mean it when I describe this as a guilty pleasure. I read the sequel, Ink Exchange, and every now and then ponder whether or not I should get more books by Melissa Marr, just to see how her writing has been coming along. Unfortunately, the premise of the novels never unfolded in a satisfying fashion, so I continue to hold back. There’s just too much of a modern twist in her writing.

Wanna guess why I bought this book back then?

The cover.

It was pretty.

The contents therein did not match expectations. If the cover had actually reflected the story, I wouldn’t have spent my hard-earned pennies on it, because I’m not a modern sort of person by any stretch of the imagination. Now that it’s 11 years later, I might cut the cover off, frame it, and hang it on the wall where I can look at it, but I’m not all that inclined toward reading the novel again. It’s probably a good thing that this book is also squirreled away in the basement.

I might, at some point in the future, write my own version of faerie courts to tell the story that I had wanted to read back then, though my cover won’t be anywhere near as pretty if I do. I’ll have to rely on the strength of words alone to generate appeal, and we all know how well that will work, le sigh.

At least I’ll have the satisfaction of a good story.

I don’t judge books by their covers anymore; beauty is only skin deep.

 

About Writing

Sentence Length

Autumn

I’ve done some groaning on this topic recently, so I figured that it wouldn’t be a bad idea to expound a little more. So, how long should sentences be?

Despite the ubiquity of Twitter-friendly writing in contemporary literature, even Pinterest advises against putting too many short sentences in a row. Why? Because they are monotonous and difficult to read.

However, the counter advice of using varying lengths also has the potential of being misused. If you think to yourself, “I have too many long sentences in this paragraph; I’m going to throw in a short one to spice things up!” STOP AND THINK AGAIN. Longer sentences can provide plenty of variety on their own, especially if you are skilled at using less common punctuation like semicolons or dashes. Learn the intricacies of grammar instead.

Unless you are a poetry master (or giving yourself a writing challenge for the fun of it), don’t try to default to any sort of formulas for sentence length (such as, long, long, short, medium). Don’t use short sentences for the sake of having short sentences. The human brain is smart enough to naturally pick up patterns across paragraphs, and using the same one over and over will become monotonous. Unfortunately, that monotony is also the reason why it’s easy to slip into following patterns in the first place — brains are lazy.

Instead, follow this rule of thumb: The more important the idea is, the more concise the sentence should be.

For example:

He was fucked.

Versus:

He was in the unfortunate position — and he had to admit that it was entirely his fault — of finding himself in a dire situation.

The former conveys a sense of urgency and finality that the latter doesn’t possess, because the effect is softened by the use of more words. In the second sentence, we naturally expect the character to find a way out, despite his dire situation, because the urgency just isn’t there. However, there’s no arguing with the simplicity of the three words that compose the first sentence. He’s fucked, and that’s that.

Let’s do another example:

His eyes were blue, surrounded by aging skin that was creased with smile lines, which made them seem soft and friendly.

Versus:

His eyes were blue. They were surrounded by aging skin that was creased with smile lines, making them seem soft and friendly.

In the first sentence, the fact that this character’s eyes are blue matter less than the fact that they are soft and friendly, and the color might never be mentioned again. The point of this sentence is to give the reader a general idea of how this character looks.

In the second sentence, the character’s eyes are *blue*, and the reader subconsciously expects this emphasis to be important later on. Maybe they’re blue because he’s secretly an angel, or maybe someone will recognize him by his eyes after he’s been inflicted with amnesia, or something. This sort of emphasis is a subtle and effective form of foreshadowing. Cool, huh?

For the most part, read your writing out loud to hear how it sounds; you can even record yourself then play it back to get a better idea the flow. If you don’t like what you hear, fix it. Most of us read with an internal voice narrating to ourselves, and writers need to be mindful of that fact when they are plying their craft. That’s how you create something enjoyable.