"Look", It's a Hook for a Book!

My friend, and fellow Nebraska Writers Guild author, Brian Crouse,  invited me to post an few paragraphs of what I’m working on. The rules of this game say the word “look” has to be in the sample. 

I've been working on the novel adaptation of my script, "Modified Flight Plan," co-authored with my good friend and writing partner, triple-amputee pilot, Brian Thomas. I typed "look" into my search box, and the first section that came up is one of my favorite passages, a pivotal moment from early in the story, before Brian became an amputee.  Without further ado, here is an excerpt from "Modified Flight Plan," due out in 2013. 

Brian threw his book bag, keys, and motorcycle helmet, on the kitchen counter. Mom turned from the sink. Soapy water dripped from her hands as she reached for a towel. He knew the look on her face. Distant and sad. She knew something--and whatever it was, he most likely wouldn't like it. She picked up an envelope from the counter and handed it to him. Her voice caught. "I'm so sorry, honey."

His hands shook as he pulled the sheet of paper from the envelope. His ears rang and heat flushed into his face. "We regret to inform you that due to uncontrolled platelet counts related to your Idiopathic Thrombocytopenia Purpura, your medical certificate has been revoked. Please return any certificates to Federal Aviation Administration, Aerospace Medical Certification Division, AAM-300 , CAMI Building , 6500 S. MacArthur Blvd, Oklahoma City, Oklahoma 73169 "

He threw the paper on the counter, grabbed his helmet and keys, and stormed out the door. Somewhere his mind registered Mom's voice calling after him, but all he could think was he had to get out of there.

At first he just rode, not even mindful of where he was. Nothing but the growl of the engine, the vibration of the pavement beneath him, and the rhythmic swirl of wind as it whipped past him. Eventually, Brian found himself at the marina overlooking the wide sprawl of the upper Missouri river before it reached Gavin's Point Dam. He parked the bike and wandered out to sit. The cool breeze off the water brushed against his hair as he stared out over the water and surveyed the Nebraska bluffs on the other side.

The thought flashed across his mind that it wouldn't take much to let the rushing water pull him under and drown what remained of his soul. They can't take flying away from me. It was all that kept him going through the bleeding, the chemo, with all the horrible side effects. Knowing that for those precious few hours, he'd soar with the eagles. His dad was a pilot. So was his mom. His oldest brother, Dana, had left home for the Air Force when he was in second grade. It wasn't fair.

He absent-mindedly picked up a rock and tossed it a few times in his hands, then threw it as hard as he could into the river. His eyes stung with tears, but even alone, he refused to let them fall. Brian took in a deep breath. He knew where to go. The only place in the world he could go.

By the time he reached the Springfield Airport, darkness had already fallen. His headlight cut a deep cone into the moonless night. He slid the corrugated steel hangar door open and caressed the side of the plane as he approached the cockpit door. He reached inside, turned the master switch on and flipped a couple of switches on the dashboard. Behind him, the runway lights turned on, two long rows of white cutting the surrounding corn field in a swath. He walked out to the airstrip and sat in the center of the asphalt runway.

 He had no idea how long he'd been there, nothing but the gentle breeze rustling the cornstalks when something disturbed the air beside him. Dad patted his shoulder as he sat down beside him. His deep voice softened. "You can't keep a good pilot down."

Brian scoffed. "Tell that to the FAA."

Dad shook his head and laughed. "Not like I've ever known you to follow the rules."

"This time, I might have to."

Dad's big palm clapped his shoulder again. "You'll beat it. If anyone can find a way, it will be you."

"I’m cursed. We hoped one day I'd outgrow it, and I'd be normal. Now I’m older and things keep getting worse."

I hope you enjoyed this excerpt from our upcoming book!  Now, head over to check out another friend, author Ron Heacock, who will share some of his upcoming book as well!  Ron is a man of many talents and artistic endeavors, and I can't wait to get a "look" at what he's working on!  If you'd like to share a "look" at your work in progress, join in, and post a link to your blog post in your comments below!  I'm "look"ing forward to seeing what you're working on, too. 

  

You want me to WHAT?!?!?

During November, I wrote the first draft of the book version of Modified Flight Plan, the true story of an amazing friend, triple-amputee pilot, Brian Thomas.  One thing I have learned telling his story--and just having him as a friend, is that you need to be prepared to find ways around the random road blocks life throws in your path. 

Case in point, Friday night, we were preparing for his very first television interview.  Wardrobe?  Check.  Reviewing script and book notes to prepare for interview?  Check.  Putting a spit-shine on the Cessna 205 he planned to take the reporter flying in the next morning?  Check.  Charging the hook that died while putting the spit-shine on the plane?  Check.  We had it covered...right?

Or something like that.  

Brian  mentioned he needed my help to sew the webbing on his wheelchair where it was tearing loose.  I have done some upholstery work in my time, and heck, I've sewn wedding dresses.  No problem.

Problem.  

I don't know what the heck they make wheelchair webbing out of, but that stuff must have some magical charm protecting it from needle penetration.  Good grief.  The material thickness should have whizzed right through my sewing machine.  HA!  Not even close.  I didn't even know my machine could lock up the way it did with the wheelchair webbing stuck with the needle buried in the bobbin channel.  Yeah, that was fun to try to get out without breaking my rather expensive embroidery-capable Brother sewing machine. 

Hand sew it.  

It's one simple straight seam, and I have heavy-duty thread, an upholstery needle, and a thimble.  What could possibly go wrong?

Uhhh huhh... I also did not know pushing a THICK needle through a magically impervious but deceptively thin sheet of...is it fair to call it fabric?? could snap it right in half.  Well, huh. 

So here we sat, at nearly 11 pm, with a looming interview first thing in the morning, a disassembled wheelchair, and a CURSED piece of material I had no idea how to fix.  There aren't any urgent care centers for wheelchairs, I am fairly certain.

 

We both stared at the mess for a few minutes, and Brian grabbed the staple gun out of my (hot pink) tool bag.  "Staple it."

Say WHAT?!?

It's not like upholstering a couch, I don't have a wood frame to staple it TO. 

"Shoot the staples through the material, into the carpet, then bend the staples with your (hot pink) pliers." 

Why do I suspect this is not going to end well?  "Hey, we need to cancel the interview.  I inadvertently stapled Brian's wheelchair seat to my floor..."

Oh what the hell...  It wasn't like we had much for other options.  With great trepidation, I pulled the trigger and shot the staple through the dreaded wheelchair fabric and into the carpet.  Ka-pow.  Then I gently lifted the edges.  Low and behold, it pulled up cleanly.  I grabbed the pliers and bent the sharp ends over into a tight metal stitch.

 

This just might work. 

Ka-pow, ka-pow, ka-pow.  I managed to finish repairing the split seam without inflicting bodily damage to either of us, and Brian reassembled his wheelchair.  Whew.  I commented that he really should take the thing in and get a proper repair.  He reminded me of the screw he'd had in his tire since this summer (it's still in there)   and said his dad would be proud of his innovative repair idea.  I suspect the staples may be there a while.

Somehow, this is all fitting.  Brian's story is really one about finding creative ways around roadblocks--no matter what they may be.  If he wasn't truly an expert at doing this, he would be sitting at home collecting disability checks every month, and likely being miserable.  Instead, he was back at work six months to the day from his illness, and he soars with the eagles when he flies.

Besides... I was out of the good duct tape.

That Poem

I am not a poet.  This is important to know up front.  But, I have the utmost respect for those dedicated to the art form of weaving magical images with minimal words.  Today, the subject of the word "that" came up, and I cringed.  That is one of those overused kudzu words I hunt and destroy when I am editing.

Double-thats make me nearly convulse.

But, in the spirit of fun, I made it a point to come up with ways to use not only double-thats, triple-thats, and even a quadruple-that in phrases that actually make sense... and to make it more challenging, turn it into a poem.

It's November, so I am participating in National Novel Writing Month, or NaNoWriMo.  There are likely more uses of the word that in my draft than I want to think about... and I won't even look for them until December.  So, in the mean time, enjoy a plethora of the word THAT!

What is it that that that conveys,
That little word that causes editors such dismay,
That that that makes them gnash their teeth,
That that that emphasizes writing that is weak,
That that that needs to go away,
Highlight that that, hit delete and pray,
That that that that disappears,
Will save that editor grief, and that many tears.

It's Almost HERE... and I'm reading to get ready!

It's almost November... and that means NaNoWriMo time.  National Novel Writing Month, and adventure in living where the goal is to write a 50,000 word novel in 30 days.  It's intense.  Plus, I am a Walmart manager.  Nothing much happens during November at Walmart, right? 

Stop laughing. 

I mean it. 

Writers read.  When I'm writing screenplays, I read movie scripts.  So, having just finished two scripts, I've read a lot of them, but not much prose.  To get back into the novel-writing mode, I decided to read the second book in The Passage series.  A nice little (698 page) tome set in a post-apocalyptic world ravaged by the living dead...something of a cross between vampires and zombies... created by the US Army as an experimental weapon.  Funny how that never turns out the way they hope.

In any event, I do love some things that Justin Cronin does in his writing.  Take for example the following passage. 

More bodies lay near the hotel entrance. Not bodies, strictly speaking--more a zone of human body parts. A woman police officer eviscerated as she'd stepped from her cruiser. She rested with her back propped against the fender, her pistol still clutched in her hand, her chest opened like the flaps of a trench coat. A man in a shiny purple track suit, wearing enough gold around his neck to fill a pirate chest had been hurled upward, his torso lodging like a kite in the limbs of a maple tree; His bottom half had come to rest on the hood of a jewel-black Mercedes. The man's legs were crossed at the lower ankles as if the lower half of his body hadn't heard it was missing the rest. ---Justin Cronin, The Twelve. 

Great stuff. 

Vivid. 

He brings these bit players onto the stage, and fully develops them in a few choice descriptions, then slides over them onto the next.  Yet, the image is left seared in the reader's memory.  An art, really.  A writer who pays attention to every character, without boring us with long, useless, backstory. 

That's why I read a LOT.  I find techniques I admire--and I emulate them!  I also look at the things that pull me out of a story.  Cronin has writing that makes me cringe, too.  He uses way too many passives, and cliché-ridden similes, like, "His brain felt as jumpy as corn in a hot pan."  Cringe-worthy.  You learn from other writers' bad habits too.   

I'm off to prep for NaNo.  Hope you'll join me.  www.nanowrimo.org. 

The Twelve

The Tao of Travel

I've always had a fascination with travel, yet never really understood what it was about making a journey that I was attracted to.  I think I may have figured part of it out.  I'm a writer.  I form new worlds simply by willing them to be.  My words breathe life into characters and places never imagined before.  Heady stuff. 

I think part of my love of traveling has to do with the suspension of reality that takes place during a trip.  Time doesn't even have the same definitions.  Everything is a new possibility, and I love it all. 

Writers are also readers, and really good writers read a lot.  I don't know how good a writer I am, but reading is like breathing for me.  Recently, I've found my always eclectic taste drawn to works with a somewhat more mystical and philosophical nature.  My imagination drawn to how I fit in the scheme of life and nature.

   

Traveling brings those connections closer to the surface.  It is easy to miss things when you are caught up in the mundane routines of daily life.  Things slip into simple repetitive motions.  It is like the cords that connect you to the universe fade and curl up inside. 

I'm one of those people who believe the journey is more important than the destination.  I've never been a rigid agenda-type traveler.  I know roughly where I want to go, and let Destiny take care of the rest. (I write the same way, for the most part)  I can't think of how many wonderful side-trips and amazing experiences I would have missed had I been compelled to stick to my initial plans.  Some of those are the moments where I have found myself closest to what I imagine Nirvana to be. 

 It's a bittersweet moment, when you head for home, whether it be from a weekend away, or a lengthy sojourn.  But, as the ribbons of Interstate contract and pull me closer, I have to wonder if it isn't precisely the contrast between the expanse of the unknown and the security of the routine that makes me complete.  It reminds me of The Wizard Of Oz.  How the brilliance of Oz only became evident against the harsh black and white of Kansas.  Part of me needs the grounding reality, as much as the other part longs for the bright blue horizon.  

Lucky Number Seven Meme

I was tagged not one, but TWICE for this, so I figured that meant I should play along.  Here's the idea.

1. Go to page 77 of your current manuscript/work-in-progress (MS/WIP).

2. Go to the seventh line of your MS/WIP.

3. Copy down the next seven lines, sentences, or paragraphs, and post them as they are written.

4. Tag seven writers and let them know.

So, this is from my current Work In Progress, "Walk Me Home."

Russ pulled off his warm up jacket.  He'd left his singlet sleeves down, and that exposed the tape around his chest.  Parts of it were coming lose, and one area showed a tinge of red.

            Cathy drew in a deep breath.  "You're bleeding.  We need to get you re-taped.  I've watched this guy.  He's tough, and he's ready.  You need to be careful."

            She went with him to the team's athletic trainer, and stood by as he replaced the tape on Russ's chest.  Her eyes stayed on his face, darting occasionally to his injuries, but she still offered him nothing but words of encouragement.  As the trainer finished, he pulled his singlet up and flexed his arms a few times to see how it felt.  Better.  Not great, but better.

            "You know," he gave her a sidelong glance and smiled, "today you have went out of your way to be nice to me.  I don't know that I want to get hurt so you'll always be like this, but it is a pleasant side effect."

            She laughed and stuck out her tongue at him, but she grasped his hand as they walked to the mat.  He looked at the clock.  All he needed to do was hang on for seven minutes.  All he wanted to do was get out the door with two wins one loss.  The referee called him to the table for instructions.  He was shocked to see both coaches and his final opponent meet him.  "You want to forfeit?"  Both coaches asked him at the same time.

            The absurdity of the situation struck Russ as funny, and he started to laugh.  One look at the mass of tape surrounding his chest told him it might be the wisest decision, but in that moment, he knew the only way he was going off the mat was after the final buzzer--or after a pin.

Now, for who I tag...

Mary Unger

Bev Teche

Bryce Marin

Emily Judd

Phyllicia Spidell

Torie Taibemal
Jenny Bates.  

Have fun!

My Kitchen Floor is Shiny, and that's Not Necessarily a Good Thing.

My kitchen floor is clean--and this is not a good thing.  You would think having a shiny kitchen floor would make me happy, and usually this would be a fair statement .  But, the path to cleanliness is often messy.  Let me elaborate.

I decided I was hungry for chile rellanos.  A lady I work with is from Brazil, and she makes fabulous rellanos.  Since it would most certainly be an abuse of my authority as a manager to cajole her into making them just because I am hungry for them, I decided to make them myself. 

So, I broiled, skinned, and cleaned the guts out of the poblano peppers, then stuffed them with cheese.  After they were battered, I went to fry them.  Now, this is where the fun comes in.  Since the divorce, I live in an apartment.  An apartment with a tiny galley kitchen.  A tiny galley kitchen that is about 3.7 inches from the fire alarm.  I swear, I can't boil water without the alarm going off.  So, any time I cook, I have a big plastic cutting board at the ready to go wave fan-like in front of the stupid thing to direct the non-existent smoke the other way.  (I think it must be hungry, and it is yelling at me for not offering it anything to eat)

In any event, I was standing in front of the stove, frying the rellanos and even though I KNOW the alarm is likely to go off, I jumped about a mile into the air when it did.  In the process, I knocked the handle of the skillet, and splashed hot oil onto the burner.  You know what happens when hot oil gets on the burner?  You got it... FIRE!  Now, I grew up cooking on an amazing gas stove, and if you watch any cooking shows, you know that chefs aren't fazed by a bit of flame.  (Funny side-note, the alarm was eerily silent while there were actual FLAMES in the kitchen.  Odd, huh?)  I went to move the skillet off the burner, and do something I should have done in the first place, put it on the back burner.  Splash.  More grease, this time, on the floor. 

I wiped up the worst of the grease, and it really did make the floor shine.  Shine=Slick.  So, imagine me trying to finish frying the rellanos and not fall down on a floor that now has now become a shiny oil-skating rink. I am still in Physical Therapy for a knee injury from a recent car accident, so this in itself was a challenge. 

I finally got the rellanos all fried, and safely into the oven to bake, and I surveyed the kitchen.  No wonder I roll my eyes when my daughter asks me why I don't like to cook for her.  Batter covered counter, including the handles on the sink, flecks of flour everywhere, poblano pepper skins in the sink, and an oil slick on the floor.  Not even going to mention what the stove top looked like, not much gives me nightmares, but that might. 

I am happy to say that the kitchen is now probably cleaner than it has been in a while.  I guess that's a good thing, but wow, that was a lot of work just for a chile rellano. 

After you're done laughing at my cooking mis-adventure, I'm sure your next question is "What about the chile rellanos?"  Here it is.  Not as good as Maria's, but not bad, either!

Dating for Purses

I get into relationships with my purses.  I mean, serious, long-term relationships.  It starts with speed dating, which involves trolling the stores, comparing online sites, looking at fashion spreads...  

Like real speed dating, there are  some duds, and some you want to get to know more.  Once I've identified the potentials, I spend some time getting to know the creme of the crop.  You're going to potentially spend a lot of time with a purse, you need to bond with it.  Get to know it inside and out. 

Like human dates, every purse candidate will come with strengths and flaws.  You have to decide which ones are deal-breakers.  For me, deal-breakers are vinyl construction, lacking a zipper closure, icky straps, not enough pockets, and generally being ugly.  Oh, and ladies, back me up on this one--size matters.  There is a fine line between laughably too small, and painfully too large.  Like I said, it's a lot like dating.

 

Another thing that is a lot like dating?  If you snooze, you lose.  It is possible to find the perfect purse, and miss your opportunity because you hesitated too long.  Nothing, and I mean nothing, is as frustrating as showing up at a store, credit card in hand, to find out your potential soul-mate purse has been snatched up by some other purse-nabbing hussy.  

So, you might ask, what did I end up with?  Red leather, (matches my red leather briefcase) big enough to hold my stash of stuff for my upcoming trip to Los Angeles, nice straps and pretty hardware.  The print material inside was a bonus.  I love you my new shiny purse... at least for now.

Newton's Laws of Motion

Newton's Laws, and Yes, This About Writing!

                My formal educational background is not in writing--or any liberal art.  I spent my collegiate formation as a scientist.  Hard, cold facts, and immutable laws of  physics.  And, believe it or not, some of that science background has come in quite handy, and in more ways than you might imagine.  So, I am going to break down  Newton's Laws of Motion, and how I think they relate to writing.

                Rule #1: Every object in a state of uniform motion tends to remain in that state of motion unless an external force is applied to it.

                There are two statements about this law that are important.  The first states that a body at rest will remain at rest until acted on by some force.  What this means is you will never, ever write anything unless you apply some force to the chair and start writing.  Thinking about writing, dreaming about writing, wondering about writing... nope.  You. Must. Write. 

                The second is that a body in motion will remain in motion until acted upon by another force.  So, great, you are writing.  Wonderful.  Words and ideas are making their way onto the page.  What force might cause that to cease?  In the physical world we live in, we usually will think of things like gravity, even air resistance.  Oh, I understand resistance in writing.  What things tend to get in the way of writing?  Work, family, chores... the list is endless.  Even more insidious are the forces of apathy.  Inner doubt.  That kind of resistance is sometimes even harder to overcome.  So, be aware of it when  writing starts taking a back seat.  Write anyway.  Make it a habit.  I have a sheet of paper on my writing board that is divided into 365 squares, each numbered.  Every day I write, I can mark through that day in red.  My goal is to fill that page with red marks by the end of the year.  An object in motion remaining in motion.

                Rule #2: The relationship between an object's mass m, its acceleration a, and the applied force F is F = ma. Acceleration and force are vectors (as indicated by their symbols being displayed in slant bold font); in this law the direction of the force vector is the same as the direction of the acceleration vector.

                Take a deep breath.  This isn't as complicated as it might seem, or at least not where writing is concerned.  Basically, Newton's Second Law says that acceleration is increased by force, and decreased by mass.  Okay, so let's consider mass as the size of the story.  A short story is perhaps easier to get in motion, and keep in motion, than, a novel the size of War and Peace.  But, the key here is that we are talking about acceleration.  So, the more force (butt glued to chair, writing) you apply, the faster it goes.  Yes, writing picks up speed the more you write!  You will get to know your characters, you will become more familiar with the world they inhabit, and your writing skills will grow.  I like this law--a lot!  It's like training to run a marathon.  The stronger your writing muscles become, the easier it is to finish the race.

                Rule #3: The mutual forces of action and reaction between two bodies are equal, opposite and collinear.

                Another way this Law is stated is; For every reaction, there is an equal and  opposite reaction.  Hmmm.  What does that mean for writing?  Oh, you are going to LOVE this one.  If you write long enough, things won't remain the same.  They change.  For example, you find yourself getting things like this.

And this:

                Well, that's it for my physics lesson today.  I am back to writing, because I want to accelerate towards other goals.  Like some of these. 

                Until next time, apply some glue to the chair, and get to work on some physics--I mean writing!

Can't You Smell I'm Writing?

Writers all have different little tricks they use to help them get into the mood of a story, or to connect with a character.  On my desk, I have plenty of little knick-knack items, most related to a story or character.  Things I can pick up, fiddle with, throw if I'm having a really off day, and generally remind me of what I'm working on. But those things don't really do much to help me when the words simply aren't flowing the way I want.

I'm one of those writers who loves to engage all of the senses in my writing.  I want to immerse you in a scene.  Sights, sounds, taste, tactile, and aroma.  And I have found that one way I can call my creative muse is by the use of scents.  I search out smells that evoke the mood I want to create.  The perfect candle, or just the right incense--sometimes even the right cologne can transport me directly into the ambience I need to make the words flow from my soul onto the page.  I don't know why it works that way for me, but it does.  Probably a Pavlovian response of some sort.  Smell the candle, write the words.

 

Yes, I write horror, and other dark fiction, so you might be wondering if I have a stash of blood-scented candles, and the answer is no, I don't.  But, in one story, I have a demon, masquerading as a woman--a rather beautiful woman.  For her, jasmine and orchids set the mood.  Exotic, and a little dangerous.  Sage, bergamot, musk, those all evoke an image of the unknown for me as well.  Especially the sage.  I even own a bottle of a deep, rich men's cologne.  One spritz is all it takes for me to channel the character I imagine wearing it. 

When I need inspiration, I'll go wander in a candle shop, or certainly the candle aisle in my store.  I have a literal treasure trove of candles, incense, essential oils--and each evokes a different emotional response.  Even more, once a scent engages my muse, my writing becomes more descriptive in the use of all of the senses.  I have a candle called Angel Whispers.  It's a clean scent, almost like a gentle spring rain, mingled with flowers in bloom.  It takes my writing in a much different direction than the deep musky sage and bergamot candle.  That one is mysterious--dangerous.  I used that one when working on "The Hunt," a story filled with magic and mayhem.  When I was working on the scenes with the Minister in "The Hunt," I found burning incense was helpful, even though incense is more of a Catholic thing, and my minister is Lutheran.  My Catholic brain didn't care one iota. It's all about the mood I, the writer, associate with the smell.  All I know is that for me, it works.  So, if you see me wandering the candle aisle deep in thought, it's all research, me attempting to appease the muse without destroying the budget in the process.  I always end up with so many scents that pique my imagination.

 

I'd love to know what works for you?  Music, sights, smells, touch, taste?... How do you USE your senses to add layers of meaning to your writing? 

Write on!!

Lisa

Star Wars, you Rule-Breaker!

Last night I watched arguably one of the most famous movies ever to prepare for a plotting talk I'm going to be doing in October for Pagan Musings podcast.  "Star Wars, Episode IV, A New Hope."  (Not that we knew it was episode IV in 1977, it was just "Star Wars")  I chose this movie because it is so universally recognized, and it also fits the basic plot paradigm I want to cover.  Or so I thought.  But, as I analyze my notes, what I find is how many of the current screenplay conventions George Lucas broke in this script. 

Yes, Star Wars absolutely fits the paradigm I'm going to use in the podcast.  So, if you want to know how, you'll have to tune in to find out.  October 22nd, 7-9pm CST, on  www.blogtalkradio.com/Pagan-Musings or on iTunes at http://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/pagan-musings-blog-talk-radio/id343159333.

I want to talk about a couple of the "screenwriting rules" George Lucas chose to ignore when he crafted "Star Wars."

Rule:  Never open with an information dump, or in other words, disguise your exposition. 

Hello, that iconic scroll at the beginning?  You know how it goes, "A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away..."  Not to mention, why a long time ago?  Doesn't that mean the people I'm supposed to cheer on and care about are DEAD???!!!???  And why far, far away?  These are some scary bad guys.  Shouldn't this story be happening RIGHT NOW, and so close these bad guys are just one hyper-jump to light speed away from Earth, where they can wreak some real damage?  But the crawl at the beginning of each movie--information dump! 

Rule:  The story question must be posed in the first ten minutes of the film.  This sets up who is the "Good Guy" and who is the "Bad Guy", and ultimately, the question of who will win. 

Oh, man do we get a great glimpse of the bad guys.  When the huge Imperial ship chased down Princess Leia's ship in the opening sequence, the sound in the theatre rumbled.  It was massive, powerful--unstoppable.  Then Vader enters.  The breathing alone, coupled with the black mask and cape... then the guy kills someone with ONE HAND.  Hello, I don't think anyone--or anything can take him out.  And that's before he chokes someone out with his MIND.  But, where is our "Good Guy?"  Is it the lady with the cinnamon-rolls on the sides of her head?  How about the weird little robot that doesn't even talk, only beeps??  Uptight gold robot?  I don't know.  Ten minutes pass, and Luke Skywalker hasn't even hit the screen yet.  But, when Luke finally hits the screen, we know immediately that this immature, whiny kid is going to either have to defeat Vader, or die trying.  We just don't see how it is ever going to be possible. 

I could cover a lot of territory in how the script fits or doesn't fit standard conventions, but this would be a book, not a blog entry, so I'll end with one final "rule" Lucas breaks in "Star Wars."

Rule:  The Good Guy (Luke)  needs to control his own destiny, and defeat the Bad Guy (Vader) on his own merits.  (No one can rush in and save him at the last second.) 

Yes, Luke controls the Force, he flies into insurmountable odds and aims at the target.  But hold on a moment.  Vader is about to blast him out of the sky.  He's right on his tail, we're waiting for Luke to make a move against him... and no.  Han Solo to the rescue, and it is HAN who blasts Vader into the nether-regions of space.  Now, we know that there are a five more episodes to this story.  George Lucas knew he had way more story than he could fit into one movie.  But, he had to fight to greenlight "Star Wars," and the studio had no intentions of promising him anything until the first movie delivered.  Heck with a  working title like, "Adventures of Luke Starkiller, as taken from the Journal of the Whills, Saga I: The Star Wars." it's no wonder the studio balked (Okay, so that's Rule #4, you need a short, amazing, and compelling title, but since the film came out as "Star Wars," I'm not going to harp on it.)  My point is, in 1977, Lucas had no idea if he would ever see the completion of his vision, and his hero just let the sidekick clobber the bad guy.  Typically a fail as far as scripts go. 

"Star Wars," was one of those films that made an indelible mark on my psyche.  I lost count of how many times I saw it during the summer of 1977.  Why?  The characters, the story, the ground-breaking uniqueness of the film itself--I still love every frame of it.  When I look at the overall arc of the six films, I am so impressed at the craftsmanship--and Lucas's ability to successfully bend the screenwriting rules to give us a story that spanned a nearly three-decade time frame, from May, 1977-August 2008. Heck, I struggle to maintain continuity for a two-hour (120 page) script.  I bow before the Force. 

Have I captured your interest?  Don't forget, October 22nd, Pagan Musings Podcast.  It will be archived on the Blogtalk radio site, and on iTunes if you miss it.  Just in time to get your opus plotted for National Novel Writing Month 2011.  November 1-30.  I'll be leading the charge, and updating every week on how the Lincoln Region is doing on Pagan Musings.  Come be part of the magic!  www.nanowrimo.org!  

Editing 101: Search and Destroy Mission; FELT

A recent facebook discussion on the use of the word “felt” brought about an idea to demonstrate how I go about editing my own work.  The book “Dead Reckoning” from the Sookie Stackhouse book series created the discussion, so I am using a page from it to show what I’m talking about.  In general, “felt” is telling.  It deprives the reader of sharing the experience.  Also, I'm adding some photos from the HBO television series, "True Blood," based on the books.

 

Book selection:  “Dead Reckoning,” by Charlaine Harris, 2011.  Page 107.

I highlighted the words “feel” and “felt, and the word “that.”  Passives also abound, as highlighted in blue, but I am going to cover passives in my next blog, so I highlighted them as a matter of practice.  I also highlight –ly words, and “just,” but again, I’ll save those for future editing exercises. 

Here’s the page:

She might have judged herself, but now that I’d gotten over the shock of seeing my grandmother as a woman, I didn’t judge her.  Who was I to throw stones?  The preacher had told me that all sins were equal in the eyes of God, but I couldn’t help but feel (for example) that a child molester was worse than a person who cheated on his income tax, or a lonely woman who’d had unsanctioned sex because she wanted a baby.  I was probably wrong, because we also weren’t supposed to pick and choose which rules we obeyed, but that was the way I felt.

I shoved my confused thoughts back into a corner of my head and picked up the cluviel dor again.  Touching its smoothness was pure pleasure, like the happiness I’d felt when I’d hugged my great-grandfather—but times about two hundred.  The cluviel dor was about the size of two stacked Oreo cookies.  I rubbed it against my cheek and felt like purring. 

Did you have to have a magic word to open it?

“Abracadabra,” I said.  “Please and thank you.”

Nope, didn’t work, plus I felt like an idiot.  “Open Sesame,” I whispered.  “Presto change-o.”  Nope.

But thinking of magic gave me an idea.  I e-mailed Amelia, and it was a difficult message to phrase.  I know e-mail isn’t totally secure, but I also had no reason to think anyone considered my few messages of any importance.  I wrote, “I hate to ask, but besides doing that research on the blood bond for me, can you find out about a fae thing? Initials c. d.?” That was as subtle as I could get. 

Then I returned to my admiration of the cluviel dor.  Did you have to be a pure fairy to open it? No that couldn’t be the case.  It had been a gift to my grandmother, presumably to use in case of dire need, and she had been completely human.

I wished it hadn’t been far away in the attic when she’d been attacked.  Whenever I remembered how she’d been discarded on the kitchen floor like offal, soaking in her own blood, I felt both sick and furious.  Maybe if she’d had time to fetch the cluviel dor, she could have saved herself.

Now, here’s how I would reword it:

Perhaps my grandmother judged herself, but after the shock of seeing her as a woman subsided, I didn’t.   Who was I to throw stones?  The preacher said all sins were equal in the eyes of God, but in my opinion, a child molester ranked worse than someone who cheated on their income tax, or a lonely woman who engaged in unsanctioned sex because she wanted a baby.  Wrong?  Maybe, since he also said not to pick or chose which rules to obey.

I shoved my confused thoughts into a corner of my mind and picked up the cluviel dor.  My fingers ran over the smooth object, about the size of two stacked Oreos.  Cats purr when stroked, and as I rubbed it against my cheek, I understood why.  Happiness flooded through me, reminding me of hugging my great-grandfather, only magnified a couple hundred times. 

Maybe magic words opened it?

“Abracadabra?”  I held my breath a moment, then continued, “Please and thank you.”

Nope, didn’t work.  Not to mention, horribly cliché.  I paused.  Oh well, why not?  “Open sesame?”  I rolled the cluviel dor in my hands.  “Presto change-o?” 

Nope.

But, thinking of magic gave me an idea.  So, I e-mailed Amelia.  It took some time to come up with the phrasing.  Even though I doubted anyone considered my messages important, e-mail isn’t exactly secure.  “I hate to ask, but while you’re researching the blood bond for me, could you find out about a fae thing with the initials c.d?”  Subtle, right?

I hit send, then returned to admire the cluviel dor.  Maybe only a pure fairy could open it?  No, Fintan gifted it to my completely human grandmother, presumably to use in case of dire need.

I remembered my grandmother’s body, left discarded on the kitchen floor like offal, soaking in her own blood.  Bile rose in my throat and my nails bit into my palms.  Maybe if she had the cluviel dor with her, she could have saved herself.

Notice NO felts, thats, and look at the reduction in passives.  This goes to show, I’m not saying ALL passives are bad.  Now, I hope you’ll add your thoughts or edits.  Plus, I hope you enjoyed the eye-candy!

Powerlessness and Letting Go

I started my "writing half of the week," with a full list of things I wanted to accomplish.  That's not anything new and unusal, all professional writers set goals--and work to meet them.  But, sometimes life gets in the way, and not always in ways we can predict.

In December of 2010, a little over a year ago, my now three year-old granddaughter Abigail was diagnosed with Idiopathic Thrombocytopenia Purpura, an autoimmune blood disorder that causes her body to destroy her platelets.  She's done well with treatment, even though she's required regular blood product transfusions.  To date, over 6,000 donors have helped keep this little Princess alive. 

About a third of kids with ITP will have only one episode of the disease, about a third will have recurrences that subside within a year, and about a third will have life-long problems.  Since Abigail is past the one year mark, it is likely she is in the chronic category.  Another constant concern for kids with ITP is the risk of it developing into Leukemia or Lymphoma. Last week, Abigail's blood showed some things that raise the concern of this happening.  Yesterday, they drew more blood to repeat the smears.  If they are also abnormal, a bone marrow biopsy will be the next step.   

Waiting for lab results is always difficult.  But, today, with all these "things" I want to get done, I found myself looking up at a photograph of Abigail on my wall and dissolving into tears.  It hit me, this is the first time in the year Abigail's had ITP that I have cried.  It's never been my nature to break down, something I think has a lot to do with my nursing background.  But today I am not the nurse, I am a grandmother and a mother. I can't DO anything to change what she's going through, all I can do is love and support my daughter and son-in-law, and of course Abigail as they face the unknown. 

And I dont like it.

In my last blog post, I talked about why I write horror, and how I plumb the depths of my own soul when I write.  What I realize today is that I am terrified of not being in control.  From nursing and medicine, to being a retail manager, and even being the future president of the Nebraska Writers Guild, I gravitate to roles that allow me to shape my own world.  Think about it, don't fiction writers do this every day?  My rules, I make them up.  I tell my characters what to do, I create every detail of my story worlds.  I don't want to bow to God's will, I want to BE God. 

It's Holy Week, and I contemplate Christ's surrender as he faced his death.  The taunts, "If you are the Son of God, come down from the cross." 

As I search for solace, I recall Christ's words, "Father, if it is your will, let this cup pass from me; yet your will not mine be done."

As a grandmother, I pray that this cup pass from our family.  I can't make myself finish the sentence.  I'm praying for the grace to be able to finish it, and to have the conviction to back it up.  Is that me wanting to be God?  Absolutely.  It's my character flaw. 

I'm working with the plot for a short story, and in big letters on my notes page is the word, SURRENDER.  I'm not quite sure how I'm going to use it yet, but salvation will either be had or lost over that one word.  Writing truly is self-analysis on the page.  I'll let you know how it works out. 

As for Abigail, check out Abigail's Angels (ITP Support) on Facebook.  My daughter Megan, and Abigail are changing lives.  They are much better at this surrender thing than me.  You guys are my heroes! 
http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=1192173510#!/pages/Abigails-Angels-ITP-support/140680835987109

 



     

Horror. Why we love to read it, and why I love to write it.

April 8-10th will be the 2011 Nebraska Writers Guild Spring Conference.  One of the many things I'll be doing to help with this conference is having a table to display information about speculative fiction.  What's that?  Speculative fiction encompasses the darker side of literature.  Subjects ranging from pure horror to science fiction and fantasy.  To prepare, I've spent a lot of time thinking about horror.  Why are people drawn to it?  Why do I write horror?

Horror writer Douglas Winter says it very well. " Horror is not a genre, like the mystery or science fiction or the western. It is not a kind of fiction, meant to be confined to the ghetto of a special shelf in libraries or bookstores. Horror is an emotion."

A well-crafted horror story posesses the ability to grab my attention, and forces me to confront some part of my psyche I'd rather not face.  Yesterday, I was talking to a fellow writer about writing dark fiction.  (Hi Emily!)  I made the observation that if I am not squirming in my seat when I'm writing horror, I'm not digging deep enough inside the recesses of my own soul.  In a very real way, writing horror is a window into the author's being.  In gifted horror writer Joe Hill's story, "You will Hear the Locust Sing," Francis, the main character, turns into a giant bug, who then proceeds to eat his father.  It doesn't take much to realize that Joe just might be having some major daddy-issues with his rather famous horror writer father, one Stephen King. 

Yes, writing horror is catharsis, therapy, and if done well, something that alters the way the reader views the world.  I challenge readers of Alice Seibold's, "The Lovely Bones," to come away unchanged.  The best-selling Tim LaHaye/Jerry Jenkins "Left Behind"series fits this definition as well.  Disagree with me?  The Horror Writers of America don't!  They even list the Bible as a horror book.  Demons, plagues, apocalypses... Yep, that fits my definition for horror.

I sometimes wonder what readers of my stories will infer about my innermost thoughts from reading my work.  My co-authors, D. Anthony Brown, Brian Thomas, and Johnny Houser's demons will end up on display too.  Or at least they will if we do our job as writers well.  Because, if it doesn't make me squirm in my chair when I'm writing it, I can promise you won't squirm in yours when you are reading it.

I'll leave you with this, and I hope you'll take time to add your own stories as comments.

I remember the very first real horror book I ever read.  I was in seventh grade, and staying overnight at my friend Renee's house along with friends Sandy and Lynnette.  I was wearing a white flannel nightgown, with white lace on the yoke, laying on the floor in a sleeping bag, and even though the rest of the girls had drifted off to sleep, or were gushing about boys, maybe some of both.  I picked up this book, and from the title, it was about a girl.  A girl in High School. So, I started reading.  And I could. Not. Stop! The book was "Carrie."  I read the entire thing, cover to cover, that night by flashlight, curled up in a ball in that sleeping bag on Renee's hardwood bedroom floor. 

Notice how detailed this memory is.  It was one of those PROFOUND moments, one that changed my life forever.  Yes the details of the story scared the bejezus out of me, but the emotional impact was much deeper.  I couldn't stop thinking about that poor Carrie, how many horrific things she'd endured, and how she'd managed to fight back against everything and everyone that oppressed her.  I was a geeky, sometimes bullied junior high student, and it resonated with me.  It was more memorable than losing my virginity.  (No, I'm not sharing that story.  Sorry.  Maybe, just maybe it will show up in a future story.  I do write horror... bwahahaha) 

Now it's your turn.  What was YOUR first horror story?  Did it change you?  How?  Thanks for playing along!