Chocolate cake and choices

Let us assume that you were sat in restaurant and got the dessert menu.  There are loads and loads of lovely desserts any one of which you might quite like to have.  However when your waiter comes to the table he says the only thing on offer right now is choccy cake.  This isn't a bad thing so you go for the choccy cake (accept a job offer) only to be told that potentially there could have been an option to go with a very small portion of chocolate mousse.  Disappointment aside that you didn't have the option to make the choice the chocolate cake is still looking pretty good.  Only then the possibility of death by chocolate is suddenly dangled in front of you.  It's not quite ready yet but it might be an option ...


The above is a vague reference to some other events in my life, not writing related ... again.  I don't regret the decision I made but nor was I aware of any of the other options and am stuck wondering what if.

Confidence

I wrote about the dreaded writers block a couple of weeks ago.  Everyone gets the block in one way or another at some point, it may only last a few minutes or it might last years.  So there are days when writing  two words together that make sense cannot be done and your head is so empty of inspiration it's like a vacuum.  Those days of eerie emptiness are soul destroying, they make you question what you ever thought about trying to write.

The flip side of that coin is when everything seems inspired.  The days when stories and characters and just cool stuff is coming out of your ears.  Naturally a few days or weeks later you'll discover that 80% of what you were so enthused by is either a mirage or just cringeworthy.  

I'm not feeling this love of all ideas right now but I am missing it.  The crazy confidence that everything in my head is pure gold if only I can unearth it.  Of course that's never really the case and there's a lot of fools gold in there but I just miss the confidence.

0 to 80 ... in 9 months

This is not the acceleration speed of my car but probably a sign that I have lost it ... I'm going to cycle 81 miles in a race.  You see last year I decided I would do some running races.  Sadly I injured my knee whilst skiing and was told by the physio that the knee was not to be run on for 12 weeks.  This meant that the running races were out.  So to make up for it I have decided that I should enter the Caledonian Etape in May 2013.

This is a 81mile race in Scotland and I've probably cycled a max distance of about 40 miles in the past.  So I have 9 months to get ready.  So this weekend it's two laps of the park - which I am told is about 20miles.  This is terrifying.  

Books On Writing Part 1

I've had "Writing the Breakout Novel" by Donald Maass for a few years now and clearly remember reading it for the first time and feeling a bit boggled by it all. It almost made it to the charity pile no less than three times.  Only there was a little voice that kept telling me it might come in useful ... I'm so pleased I listened for once.

I reread it a couple of months ago and either I read a different book or perhaps it's just that I'm now ready for it.  This book is brilliant.  I love it.  There are examples of how to do it by the rules and examples of when the rules are broken, but it still works.  

Over the years I've amassed a lot of books on writing (including Stephen King's classic memoir 'On Writing'). The geek  in me loves them.  Loves reading about the mechanics of the craft, even if I don't always get it all.  I'd be hard pressed to recommend any one of them over another, because all of them have helped me in some way.  Even Strunk and White ... which I was forced to read by an English teacher.


On a separate note I'm a bit annoyed with myself.  I wrote this post late on Tuesday and scheduled it to appear on Wednesday when I knew I wouldn't have to time to post.  However, Blogger does not post it unless you press Publish ... which I forgot to do.  I just saved it. 

Musings on the blog and creativity (mostly creativity)

Part of the deal for the blog is that unless I can sustain three posts a week as a minimum there's really not much point in having a blog.  Also being interesting three times a week sounded sort of doable.  Now, of course, it feels like a lot of pressure.  I missed last Friday because ... well there's really no excuse as three posts a week really doesn't sound all that excessive.

This made me think about creativity in general.  Now none of these thoughts are particularly revolutionary but I'm sure that just about everyone involved in a creative endeavour at some point has thought about the need to be creative on demand.  There's a mystique that surrounds creativity.  Its origins are, by nature, somewhat  vague.  I couldn't tell you where inspiration comes from nor could I tell you why it happens. The muse tends to hit me with an idea at the most inopportune moments.  It's frustrating and glorious.  

However I do not think that creativity is entirely at the mercy of a Greek mythological creature (though that would be a good excuse when I'm really suffering from a lack of ideas).  Creativity or the internal ideas machine is most commonly compared to a muscle.  If you use it it will grow and if you neglect it it will wither away.  I like to compare it to a plant, creativity needs a lot of conditions to be right for it to grow well.  Certainly you can do things to help it along but ultimately if the conditions are hostile to creativity it won't flourish.  I don't think it's a delicate hothouse flower, it's actually a very hardy plant it will survive almost anywhere but you do need to prune and feed and harvest for there to be any point to it.

Monday - snippets

Early this year I took a writing course and started on a story about a guardian angel trying to save a soul.  I took inspiration (loosely) from Faust.  So the man in question has already sold his soul to the devil, making things a bit difficult for the angel who's not feeling particularly charitable.

I've played around with an opening scene and can't quite decide if it should be 1. When my lost soul loses his soul.  2.  When the Angel grudgingly accepts the mission.  or 3.  When the Angel and lost soul finally meet.

This is option 1:


Dominic tried to keep his knees from shaking, the last thing he wanted to do was to become unsteady and fall from the chair prematurely. They had put a blindfold on him so he couldn’t see where exactly he was, but it was likely they were in one of the abandoned warehouses that Phil kept exactly for these sorts of occasions.

No one every looks out for you. Dominic thought bitterly. You have to be your own look out.

Phil, Dom’s now ex boss, obviously wasn’t here he just wanted Dominic out of the way. Some of the burlier henchmen had been dispatched and they’d been none too gentle in getting the job done so far.

It wasn’t fair, he’d just been in the wrong place at the right time.

Dominic took another shuddering breath and tried twist his head out of the noose again. Bribing his way out of this hadn’t worked, talking his way out hadn’t worked and begging had only made them laugh. Cold sweat trickled down Dom’s back.

He’d do anything to get out of this. He’d give anything to just get a chance to get away. One chance, just one chance.

Dom stiffened as he felt someone untie the blindfold. He blinked in the dim light - he was alone in a large and grimy space. A few faint rays of early morning sunshine filtered through tall windows dull with years of neglect and pollution. Dom tried to twist round but the chair gave an immediate lurch, his heart hammered like a hamster’s.

A soft laugh behind his left ear made him twitch involuntarily and the chair wobbled again beneath him. A soft whisper of almost words breathe against the back of his neck.

“You think this is funny?!” Dominic put as much venom into the words as he could muster, but his voice still sounded unsteady with fear.

“From where I’m standing it’s not too bad.” The voice was male, smooth and cultured, with the slightest hint of an accent. Someone jiggled the chair a little.

The trouble with titles

I hate trying to come up with a title.  It's so difficult and so many of them are so naff and just painful and it turns me into an enormous whinge ...

My current larger work in progress (wip) was called Oak, Ash and Thorn - a direct quote from Edmund Spencer's 'The Fairy Queen' - which I decided was a bit too geeky and obscure.  I've been trying to find a better title for the last eternity and a half and have finally renamed it.  It is now (drum roll please):

The Splintered Thorn -  a title that amazingly not only has something to do with the story but also sounds sort of interesting.  I think I'm even more relieved than when I finally figured out what's motivating the villain.

This one has been especially frustrating as it's taken a bit over a year to actually find a title that I like.  Perhaps this will get easier as I go along.

Writer's block

With longer pieces of work I find that around the 40,000 word mark there's a wall.  Suddenly the story seems banal, the characters flat and I hate the whole process of coming up with ideas.  This is where writer's block starts, this fear that writing is impossible.  


However I can't sit there and just let the feelings of woe overwhelm me.  So I have distraction techniques.  If I can't write one story I'll write another, this is why short stories are so great.  A quick 2000 word story can be knocked out in a matter of hours, it might take a bit longer to finish it off properly but the bones will be there.  The other alternative is to take a character you've already created and write a little scene or story just for them. 


In this case I've taken a character from my current WIP (which I am re-editing an even more soul destroying place than 40,000 words) and written a scene that happens after the end of the book.  I needed to reconnect a bit with the character make them real and exciting again, because right now they all feel like problems that need solutions.


Anyhow here's what I'm working on to get the creative juices flowing again:

Lunar Phase

The minute the charm above the door had started screaming, not out loud obviously but silently in a magical sort of way, Trish had ducked into the back office leaving behind a rustle of glass beads.  Now she peered out from behind the beaded curtain at the large were person browsing the romance section.  He probably knew she was there, his nose would have told him that already.  Hiding in the back just gave her an illusion of safety and a chance to steady her nerves.

The charm was there to alert her to the big bads of the supernatural world, or at least the big bads that were a threat to her, which was all of them.  Werebeastman out there was definitely a big bad, anything that could change into a crazed beast once a month or more was bad news.

Trish took another deep calming breath before she walked out from the back office. The glass beads tinkled and rattled behind her and she took stock of the man pretending to be engrossed in the cover blurb of a book with a gaudy pink cover, he’d obviously moved on to chick lit.  He was tall, 6 foot plus, dark hair and hungry looking, but then that was a feature of any were beast.  They all looked like you might be their next meal.  In fact as he had looked up at her with fathomless dark eyes she had an uncomfortable sensation that she was being evaluated.

Go on girl, brazen it out.  A bit of silent encouragement never hurt.  “You don’t look like much of a romance reader.”  Trish cringed at the somewhat breathless tone she’d developed.

“No?” Dark brows pulled together in a frown, giving him an increasingly dangerous look.  He looked down at the book in his hands and replaced it on the shelf.

Oh boy he had to be the strong monosyllabic type.  “Anything I can help you with?” Trish felt momentarily proud of the flatness she managed to inject into her voice.  It sounded unafraid and mature.

“I’ve heard a lot about you.”  The man’s voice was deep and raspy.  It did not sound reassuring, it sounded like he’d prefer to be growling.

Trish heaved an internal sigh, she knew what was coming and this could be short or it could be long.  She wasn’t in the mood or prepared for him hanging about in the shop all day.  “My sister has a fairy kingdom and is involved with a fairy prince, if that’s what you’re talking about.”  Apparently everyone and their dog had heard about that.

“Yet you’re still here.”  He took a step closer to the counter, and paused giving her another appraising look. 

“Yes.  Where else would I be?”  Trish involuntarily tensed as the man took a step towards her.

Craig stared at the little witch standing behind the counter and gripping it like her life depended on it.  She was small and sleek like a cat.  Dark hair neatly bobbed brushed against her chin and her mouth was a strawberry red pout.  Pretty blue eyes held wariness and now confusion.

“How’d you get out of fairy?”  he asked.  It puzzled him, she didn’t look particularly strong and she didn’t carry herself like she packed much magical punch.  However, at that question a small smile crooked the corners of her mouth, and she seemed to relax a little.

“I walked.  One foot in front of the other and my sister has some influence there.”  Trish felt a whoosh of relief, so it could just be curiosity, there’d been a lot of nosey parkers snooping around trying to figure out if somehow she’d stumbled across some powerful mojo.  “The question is, what are you doing in my shop?  Satisfied your curiosity yet?”  Trish raked her eyes over him, beat up leather jacket, scuffed boots and jeans – nothing controversial there.

Craig saw the look she gave him and stepped closer again, this time she didn’t tense up.  He risked another step.  “I’m not here because I’m curious.”

Trish raised one eyebrow, she was done asking questions. 

“I’ve got a problem.”  He took another step towards the counter.  Two more steps and he’d be right in front of her.

“Oookaay.  And you are here because you want a tarot reading?” Trish gestured towards the back of the shop.

He frowned again.  “No, I need your help.”

“I’m pretty good with the cards you know.  There’s all sorts of things, interesting things, you might find out.”  Trish had an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of her stomach that whatever his problem was she didn’t want to know anything about it.

“That’s not the sort of help I need.”  He took two more steps and stopped at the counter. 

“Ohkaay.  I can’t help you then.  We don’t do potions or spells for sale here.”  Trish hoped that by dropping a ‘we’ in there he’d assume there was someone out of sight and smell.

Trish’s breath hitched when the man growled and his eyes flashed from dark brown to a lupine gold.  This was very bad.

Rejection - it's even less fun than I thought

I know that stuff (writing) has to be sent out to actually get published, but I'm not enjoying the rejections. It's not that I wasn't prepared, I was totally expecting rejections but they still suck.

The last few months  I've sent my little fledgling book out to oodles of agents but none have been interested.  Most of the time the rejections are very polite so it's not like I've been horribly insulted, of course as they are politely bland there's no encouragement either.  All in all it's just frustrating, obviously that story wasn't it for that agent but there's no clue as to why.  And no matter how polite the rejection it is still just that ... a rejection and each one knocks your confidence.  


So I need to develop a thicker skin and I'm certainly much better at it at rejection 40+ than I was at rejection number 3 (this was when rejections still sent me into a tailspin of despondency), but I'm still not exactly shrugging each one off.  I'll report back when I'm at rejection 140 ... 

I know they're not real people but ...

A while back I mentioned to my boyfriend that I was deeply disappointed in one of my characters.  He was a bit quirky, heart in the right place, dedicated, a little rough around the edges and set up to be the good guy.  The guy who is doing everything for the right reasons, the guy you can trust.  Except for one thing, he's a terrible terrible boyfriend.  His relationship history is littered with broken hearts.  


Inevitably this led to the discussion of imaginary or real ... can I really tell the difference.  Well of course I can.  Radleigh (my disappointing good guy) isn't real, I know that but my disappointment was.  Even if I made him up and should therefore really know everything about him.


For some reason it doesn't always work that way.  When creating a story I have a pretty good idea of exactly what the main characters are like, because I've spent a lot of time working on them and getting to understand how they can best tell the story.  In a sense I've come to know them over a period of months.  A lot of my secondary characters are a bit more roughly sketched and that's fine, I don't need to know as much about them because they are there to support the main cast not outshine them.


Radleigh was a secondary character with a fairly straightforward small part.  He wasn't supposed to be a big character, he was supposed to show up the villains flaws and he was supposed to create a counterpoint to my protagonist (who's a bit tortured). 


However, I took a writing class and we were asked to take a look at a character, write up a character sheet and write a letter from their point of view.  So to start with a fresh character I thought it wouldn't harm to use Radleigh.  This is where I started to look at the likely motivations for why Radleigh wants to be the good guy so badly, why is he so dedicated and why does he ride a scooter*?  What sorts of flaws does he have, what's his Achilles heel and what makes him sad?  In short the sort of questions that I know for my main characters, because I will need to use all of this information.  

Knowing all these things for a secondary character just makes me want to write him a story and inevitably he's muscled his way into the plot, which leaves a bit of a problem.  He doesn't really fit in, I already know that many of the scenes are going to go and that makes me sort of sad, because despite his problems I like Radleigh and I'm not sure I'm going to be ready to let him go so quickly.

The solution is not to rewrite the original story but to write a sequel with Radleigh ... yes, because I need more writing projects.

*He rides a scooter because he lives in London and there's the congestion charge to think of and he's a copper so he's got a car for work and well I liked the idea of an ex rugby playing bloke on a little blue scooter.

Whisky - it's what the lady wants

Inspiration is a funny thing, you never know when it might strike.  There are ways that you can kick start inspiration but other times it comes out of nowhere.  Last week, whilst I was working diligently on the novel, I suddenly wanted a glass of whisky.  This surprised me as 1) I'm not much of a drinker and 2) it was the middle of the day.  I'll admit to being partial to a nice smoky west coast whisky but not in the middle of the day all on my lonesome.  Still the nagging voice about whisky did not go away, after a couple of days of wanting whisky and not drinking any I started prodding at this overwhelming need.  


I have a habit of getting a bit overly involved with characters that I make up.  However, despite being nominally in charge of my own imagination I was unprepared for Simone, who being in some emotional turmoil was feeling more than a little unreasonable.  

Writing out a first scene with Simone to set up what is going on has at least calmed her down a little.  She no longer demands drinks in the middle of the day.

Here's a quick sample of my first draft for an opening scene:


Simone? Open the door.” Max hammered the front door. He’d been here for 10 minutes and he knew she was in there. He could hear her, singing. It was a miracle all the dogs in the neighbourhood weren’t howling along. There was a brief lull in the music. He pounded the door again. Eventually he heard someone scrabbling at the locks.

Simone opened the door, her hair was sticking up on one side as if she’d woken up and forgotten to comb it. She had serious panda eyes on the go as well. Not that he blamed her for that. The last few days hadn’t been easy.

“Hey Max. Maxxy boy. How. Are. You.” Simone poked Max on the shoulder and grinned up at him.

“Sober.”

“Bummer. I’m not.” Simone waved him into the house and walked with elaborate care towards the kitchen.

“I heard about Finn.” Max closed the door and nudged the pile of post to one side with his foot. He pulled off one shoe and noted there was one abandoned black stiletto on the wooden hallway floor.

“This is a shoe free household!” she bellowed from the kitchen. “Because God forbid you mark on the floor and walk.” Simone came back into the hallway and stared at Max. She was holding two glasses both half full with an amber liquid. “I’ve been wearing stilettos. But I took them off.” The whisky sloshed around in the glasses as she gestured vaguely in the direction of the shoe. “I’d let you wear them.”

“Thanks Si, I’m good.” Max looked at the two glasses in her hands. “How much have you drunk.”

“I am having a whiskey tasting.” She held out one glass.

“Ehm. Is this Eric’s?”

“Possessivenesslyion is nine tenths of the law.” Simone inhaled deeply through her nose and exhaled out her mouth.

“Are you going to throw up?”

“Nope. Take the damn whiskey.” Simone weaved a bit where she was standing.

The glass was waved around in front of his face. Eric was going to be pissed about this. Max grabbed the glass and took a swig. “Gahrg. Shit. That’s strong.” It burned down the back of his throat and left him with a mouthful of ash.

“Cask strength.”

“Warn me next time.” Max shook his head to try to clear some of the fumes. He took a deep breath. “None of this has been your fault.”

Simone walked back towards the kitchen, casting a glare back over her shoulder. “Fuck off.”

Undeterred Max followed her. On the counter was Eric’s entire single malt collection, in front of each bottle there was a glass.