How our characters affect us

I really enjoy my main character in Risk and R.A.G.E. Kris Rose is an intense, optimistic, don't-take-no-crap-from-no-one individual who is often funny and horribly flawed. However, of late I have been rather annoyed with her. Granted, she's going through a rough patch and, as the story goes, being very progressive in a rather negative direction. Even though it's a part of the story and it's something she has to go through for the sake of tension and even though I know she'll be okay in the end, I can't help feeling dragged down with her. I've been walking around the house for several weeks with the weight of her despair in my head and not a whole lot of hope on the horizon. Honestly, this segment is taking way too long to write and if it keeps going on this way, it might just send me to the loony bin.

Well last night I went on a great run. I haven't run in months because, let's face it, I've been hibernating (the cold and I don't get along so well). So I braved the first snow storm in months and ran until I was sore and cold and quite exhilarated--down right cheery. Then I sat down at my computer and wrote poor, depressed Kris Rose a turning point. Talk about breathing a sigh of relief. Now her optimism is in my head and I've been walking around the house whistling and plotting happy things for this character.

Then I started wondering, was Kris Rose affecting me or was it the other way around? How often do I have horrible writer's block because I'm cheerful and my character's depressed? How often am I feeling mellow and content and my character needs to go beat people up? How often am I snarling mad and my character has to go and smooch her boyfriend? The best times for writing, I've found, are when my characters and I are in perfect harmony. Nothing satisfies me more than, in lieu of yelling at my kids, having Rose throw a few punches, or instead of wasting three hours in front of the TV, writing a quiet conversation between friends.

Therapy manuscript? I suppose so. Just don't think to ill of me when you read it and discover there's way more shooting and punching then there is hugging.

Oh the horrible things we do

I heard a quote once that went something like this, "It's the responsibility of authors to create interesting, likable characters and then do horrible things to them."

I am reminded of this quate almost every time I sit down with my laptop and punch a few letters that will undoubtedly having my poor characters begging for mercy. Writing had to go on hiatus during Christmas, not due to family activities or even the need to spend time shopping or wrapping. No, actually it was because I needed to do something horrible to a character that I absolutely adore, that would cause him no end to pain. I know I've said in the past that when you're stuck on a scene, violence is always the answer. Write something violent and you're sure to stir things up and make them interesting. In this case, however, the impending violence tore at my heartstrings and I agonized for days on a way to fix it, change it, or simply write around it to spare my poor character from having to go through it. I even imagined in my head what I would say to him if he ever confronted me about my bloody pen (or keyboard, as it were). Honestly, I have to say that I have a great answer for him having something to do with the fact that things were already heading in that direction when the story started and for crying out loud, I'm trying my best to write him out of it.

There are always going to be things we can't prevent. Do we ignore these situations and hope they go away? Do we try to fix it knowing that the end will be the same anyway or maybe scoot around it trying to find a different solution? Well, every situation is different and any one of those solutions could possibly work.

However, in this particular case there was no way around it. I had to do that horrible thing to that wonderful character and you know what? He's handling it fine. Coming right around despite what I put him through. You can often find a rainbow on the other side of the storm.

50K

As milestones go 50K words when you're writing a novel is a pretty good one as the average novel size is between 70K words and 100K words. Why am I spouting off about word counts again? Okay, okay, I'm sure you already guessed it. Yes, I hit and passed 50K words yesterday.

Thank you! Thank you very much!

I actually am not entirely sure how I feel about it. On one hand I'm ecstatic that I've written as much as that and gotten as far as I have in the story. On the other hand, I have been writing in a thousand different directions putting in so many deliberate inconsistencies simply to get the story down.

I say deliberate and I mean it, although I am not happy about it. The thing is, I have a general idea of where the story is going. Characters will go to location A and then leave for location B before dropping character X over into a ravine before moving onto location C. So far I have done just that, moved my characters to the locations I want them to be. The trouble is, I'm not at all clear about their end games or their motivations. Only the conclusion of the novel can clear that up for me but as that is yet unwritten I have locations A, B, and C accounted for but the reason character X was thrown into the ravine only makes sense in chapters 7 and 9 but not chapters 8, 12 and 13.

This happens to grieve me deeply and causes no end to problems with writers block and irritation with my characters because I'm not entirely sure what they want. I suppose if this were my first novel, I might be able to live with it simply because Stephan King said so in his novel on Writing (a new writer's bible on the craft). However, this is my second novel I am operating on an entirely different way of writing than I'm used to. R.A.G.E. was edited to the T throughout every step of writing. I always felt really good about whatever was written previously before I went onto the next section.

Both ways have their pros and cons, although I find myself increasingly more frustrated with Risk, and not at all certain it will ever come fully together. For now I'll continue along the path I sprinting down, (I say sprinting because sometimes I feel like I'm running so fast, I'm stubbing my toes and tripping over rocks whereas with R.A.G.E. I was tiptoeing ever so carefully for the 8 months it took me to write it).

The editing phase sometime in January or February (if I can continue at this pace) will probably be just as much work as the writing phase. However at least by that time I'll have the ending and hopefully know all the characters motivations. I might even be able to save character X from that ravine.

What to do, what to do

What if you're not totally jazzed about a chapter you need to write? Does that mean there is a problem with it?

First off, let me just brag for a moment. Dimensional Risk (the sequel to R.A.G.E.) hit 20,000 words this week. For all of those who don't obsess over word count, that equals about 80 double spaced pages or in Risk's case, 7 chapters.

I've been feeling pretty good about myself, you know, taking Stephan King's advice from his book On Writing and just plowing ahead, taking little time for editing or stressing over where the story is going. I have to say it's quite liberating to be able to write and write and write, knowing I'm probably doing the best thing for the book but on the other hand I have to keep up a mantra in my head reminding myself that it doesn't have to be perfect, gosh darn it, we live in a modern age where changing a word, sentence, paragraph or even a chapter is as easy as *highlight*delete*move cursor*type new section*.

Okay, back to my original question. I hit 23,284 words today (again about 87 pages double spaced) and found myself at a road block. Now unlike the other writer's blocks I hit with frequency, this has less to do with not knowing what to write next but rather, I just don't wanna write it. The content of the next chapter seems almost dull to me. I suppose it will have a lot of action, shooting, screaming, lighting and other crap that I so much enjoy putting in my work, but I think my sense of boredom comes from my main character having cut herself off from everyone. More than just about anything (writing related) I enjoy writing dialogue. Now having a main character distant from the other main characters makes for a lot of lackluster if not downright non-existent dialogue *sob*.

So what's my fix? Do I just plow through and write it so I can get to the much more character-centric, interesting and easy to write chapter 9, or do I find a way to change chapter 8 so it appeals to me more? What would you do?

Power-less powercords

So, blogging from an iPod may be the most rediculous idea you've ever heard. I say, true. Expect lots of typos. So the power cord to my laptop died utterly and completely, leaving me *sniffle* without any means to feed my obsession *sob*. So here I am sitting on the floor of the bathroom going on hour two of "child-on-toilet-until-he-pees", blogging from my iPod touch. I have to say, a computer-less me is incredibly productive in other ways, hence the removal of wallpaper and subsequent painting of aforementioned bathroom on whose floor I am residing while I type this. Potty-training and painting--can you imagine a greater hell?

Now lest you think this writing hiatus will make my writing suffer(don't forget I'm writing this from an iPod--me the non-texter of the world) no, I don't think my writing is suffering. It has given me a great deal of time to think about character and plot. Now I know my poor characters are screaming into the silent void of their non-working computer home asking, "what about us?! You left us in a really bad place!!" I should feel bad but considering all the horrid things I am planning to do to them, they should appreciate the reprieve. I will cut this short now because my pointer finger is starting to cramp from one-fingered typing. Let's just say that forced breaks in writing are not always bad. It can give you insight into a scene you are writing not previously considered. I probably shouldn't be too productive in the home, though, or my husband might just procestinate replacing my powercord.

The Bright Light Amidst the Poo-pile

Two contrasting experiences today. First of all, being a mommy royally sucks sometimes but fortunately it's all piled on at once. Today is one of those piles.

However, amidst the pile (let's call it a poo-pile day, just to show this figurative contrast) there is always something that can lift your spirits, even if it exists in a completely separate realm. I got a partial manuscript request about a week ago from a wonderfully reputable agent. In doing my research on this agency, I was pleased to note that out of the 239 queries recorded (courtesy of www.querytracker.net) mine was one of 6 they requested more material on. Not only was I bouncing off the walls in joy at having someone interested in RAGE (yipee!!) but it told me that my query letter (long revised, rewritten and generally stressed over) really can't be that bad. I mean, hey, if one agency liked it, why not others?

So today amidst aforementioned poo-pile, I was able to take an interesting side tour on my way to grocery shopping (4 children + 2 dogs = the frequent poo-pile day) to the post office to mail in my submission. Now I know they are not going to look at it the second it gets there in 3 to 4 days. In fact they told me they wouldn't get to it for 90+ day but it was still exhilarating sending my baby into the hard publishing world with all her perty, brand-spankin' new edits and find out if she pasts muster. Will they like her? Will she be exactly what they're looking for? Will they be able to see and understand her potential and all the money she will make them if they will just accept her for who she is?

So let's just summarize for a moment, shall we? Poo-pile days suck big time. Sometimes you don't even need 4 children and 2 dogs to have one. Sometimes it's the publishing industry that you're piled under. Maybe it's the endless writing, editing and query letters that are killing you at the moment. Then just remember that even while under the stress and stench of one such day there can often be that small glowing ember of happiness that says, "I can survive this! Someone wants to look at my precious manuscript!" and just watch yourself dig out of the pile holding out that shining submission to the postmaster, who takes it between two fingers while holding his nose.

Just for fun

True story

On any given hour of any given day, the untamed tones of wild children resonate throughout the jungle of domesticity. What could be more fascinating, yet at the same time frightening, then to listen to the discordant tones while attempting to ascertain the nature of each conflict?

On this particular date, the feral yowls of J.J. resounded from the lair of his most potent enemy--a porcelain demonite by the name of Latrine. J.J. had been betrayed. The matron of his flesh had joined forces with Latrine in order to alter his future--a future he was loath to part with.

J.J. had fought this battle over the course of the last six moons but felt his stamina wavering. Each fight had ended with J.J. trapped in the clutches of Latrine and very seldom had he been able to secure even the smallest victory. He was sure his mother no longer loved him as, with a snarl, she lit a candle in order to vacate the scented spirits from the lair. The slamming of the gates behind her signified a moment for him to plan a defense even while Latrine held him in her cold clutches.

A brilliant idea astounded him for a moment and he took a shuddering breath as the magnitude of possible victory climbed into his chest. His mother may have left him to his nemesis but in her haste to dispel the spirits she had overlooked a powerful weapon.

Latrine did not notice or care as he reached a small rebellious hand toward the sacred scroll belonging to the demonite. The softness of the scroll slid seductively across his palm, his small face scrunching in concentration. If only he could eliminate one enemy with the unwitting weapon his mother had left. Perhaps with the loss of the sacred scroll his adversaries would be demoralized enough to abandon their foolish quest.

With a rapid flick of his wrist, J.J. captured the scroll and without another thought, set it above the flaming candle. With a roar, the scroll ignited, instantly turning into a brilliant inferno. Not expecting quite so much commotion from the typically docile aid to the demonite, J.J. dropped the scroll with a squeal.

Apparently the scroll was not the unassuming facilitator he had always considered it to be. It landed at his feet with a shower of sparks and ash, before rolling toward the basin of hallowed water. The lapping flames devoured the base of the pedestal, licking upward with great billowing clouds of smoke. J.J.’s scent spirits abandoned him with fervor, but he saw his chance.

Leaping away from Latrine, he bellowed a cry of triumph but also terror as Latrine’s lair was consumed. A cough burst from his throat as he raced toward the gates, a shrill alarm sounding from without the walls.

The shackles made from his clothing, hampered his escape but as he saw the closed gates, he realized he might have overstepped his zeal for conquest. Surely this would be the battle to end all battles—surely, even after securing the smallest win, he would not be able to complete his escape.

A rush of cool air brushed his face, as his mother swung the gates wide. Regret and terror flushed her face and she dragged him from the lair before rushing into the inferno to aid her new master. Sobs racked her throat and J.J. could not look away as she acquired a sturdy colorful vessel, a boat of great importance to him and scooped the very lifeblood from Latrine’s body in order to calm the fire.

The blaze quieted and J.J. stood in astonishment surveying the shattered sanctuary of his foe. His mother coughed into her hands, hunched over Latrine. J.J. felt only remorse at her grief. He had not known how much the demonite meant to her. For the first time since the beginning of the war, J.J. entered Latrine’s lair willingly, placing a small hand on his mothers shoulder, whispering sincere apologies. She flung her arms around him, sending happy waves of gratitude crashing around him in her pleasure of his safety. Perhaps it was time to find a common ground and cease the violence.


The consensus had always been that toilet training was an absolute pain. Expect messy floors. Expect messy clothes. No one had ever mentioned smoke inhalation or conflagration.

As one who had witnessed the flames, I only felt relief as I surveyed the minimal damage. A patch of bubbled linoleum and a slightly scorched cabinet—it could have been a lot worse. However for someone not knowing anything had happened, a delicate touch was needed.

The sound of an engine accompanied a crunch of tires turning into the driveway. I leaned casually against the doorframe as my husband exited his car. J.J. watched me quietly from his tricycle in the living room. He seemed frozen in place, his wide blue eyes staring at me as though he had never seen me before. I turned my attention to his father as he strode up the front steps.

“J.J. lit the bathroom on fire today,” I said, “and it’s really bad…”