Wrinkles, Warts And All

Characters are only make believe people in a book, right?
Wrong.
They can be as real, or as flat, as the author makes them.
Sometimes, they can be mirrors for readers, or the author. If the author has written a compelling character, readers sometimes ask "is that you?"
Not every character is the author on paper. Sometimes the writer will take an aspect of themselves and flesh out their character with that part. Sometimes, the character can be all that we are not. That works for both good and bad.
I have written characters that I wanted to be, and some that were the worst parts of me.
But no matter how that character is written, they can indeed make or break a story.

Nothing turns me off faster than an abusive, whining, needy character; so you'll likely never find one in any of my works.
There's nothing redeeming about them.
I'd much rather write about a flawed character who genuinely wants to be better. Braver, more honorable, kinder....whatever, but they must be striving to be a better person somehow.

I want to read about, and write about characters that are as close to realistic as possible. Bad habits, foibles, wrinkles, warts and all.

What do you want to see in a character?

"I Rise"

"I Rise"

Maya Angelou

“I Rise.”

You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may tread me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I’ll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
‘Cause I walk like I’ve got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I’ll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.

Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don’t you take it awful hard
‘Cause I laugh like I’ve got gold mines
Diggin’ in my own back yard.

You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I’ll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I’ve got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history’s shame
I rise
Up from a past that’s rooted in pain
I rise
I’m a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.

My Readers Stories

As a writer, I frequently get ideas for stories when I cannot write them down. In the shower, grilling at the barbeque, as I fall asleep. I always tell myself to remember these ideas, and sometimes it works. More often than not, it doesn’t and the gem is forgotten by the time I reach paper or a keyboard.

The one thing that has stayed consistent however is the direction I feel myself being pulled in by the Universe. Increasingly, I find myself drawn toward short fiction, no matter how much I love novels. And I know what I want to write.

I want to write about women coming out. Lesbians and those who swear they aren’t. Woman being independent on their own, women in the wild woods together, depending on each other. I want to write about the secret life that a forest takes on when no one is there to see it. I want to write about the deep, mystical aspects of women’s lives. About the pulses that help shape us.

I want to write about the spirit world. Spirit dogs that refuse to leave their people when they pass on. The spirits of loved family members who watch over us and keep us safe. Guardian angels that are not related at all, but issued people as assignments and responsibilities.

But I also want to write about dragons and Elves and swords that have deep histories. I want to write about gemstones that madmen have killed for, quests that define  characters that are not expected to win the day.

I want to write about women drawn together by forces they don’t understand. Powerful women, damaged, fractured women that need love. women who trek across countries seeking answers and find love along the way.

I want to write all of it.

I want to share it with those who understand these things.

Some of it I have written. Some of these tales are still being written, some are ignored and neglected. Some are still looking for a published home.

I’ve done a lot of thinking about a writing career over the years.

At one time I thought perhaps the freelance route was for me.

But it seemed too dry to hold my passion for long.

Looking back, I have a writing career, albeit a small one. I have a few articles under my belt, a novel, a series of children’s stories and three or four published short stories out there somewhere.

So lately my thoughts have turned to a collection of short fiction.

I, of course, am an impatient writer. I want a drawer full of short stories, much like Ray Bradbury and Stephen King claimed to have had.

But when they were at their prime is not the writer’s world of today.

Today, it’s dog eat dog, and everyone is a writer with the advent of self-publishing. Now that so many are writing, how do we make our individual voice rise above the din of all the other writers doing the same thing?

Persistence, a writer friend told me.

I watched a movie recently that I cannot get out of my mind. Not because the actresses were gorgeous, which they were. Not because one of the characters was straight at the beginning of the film, but because the story was honest, and so common.

A straight woman and lesbian develop an attraction and the straight woman gives up everything for her lover.

Pretty simple story, right? But it was done so well, acted so exquisitely, written so brutally honest … that particular hour and a bit might never leave my writer’s brain.

And that’s how I want my work to be perceived in time.

Only I want that to hurry up and happen now. I don’t want to have to die before anyone realizes I might have been pretty good at this writing thing.

But I suppose the only way for that to happen is for me to keep my butt in this chair and write.

Finish the fantasy story about the lesbian half-elf, and put it out there to see if they love it like I do.

Finish the story about the woman disfigured by hatred, but redeemed by love.

Finish the story about two women such polar opposites who share a ghost between them and eventually fall in love, in spite of the shared ghost.

Then, find my readers, my people who will nod as they read and know I told their stories.

I know they must be out there somewhere...

Grieving For A Manuscript

From Goodreads:

May 17, 1824: Before dying in Greece, Lord Byron entrusted a friend with his memoirs. Other friends, worried that the memoirs would be scandalous, fought to destroy the manuscript—190 years ago today, they succeeded, tearing it up and burning it in the office of Byron's publisher.

I have to wonder, was it too hard for them to read it and make an informed decision? Who knows what knowledge they destroyed. But that's the feeling behind all books that are burned or otherwise destroyed, isn't it? I know there have been many instances of book burnings throughout history.

We should grieve each time a book is burned. It only shows a lack  of wisdom, I think.

But that's just my two cents worth.

Lessons From A Writing Life

My local library isn't the world's best, but it feeds my brain. I guess that's all I can ask. At least this last trip in, I actually had to tear myself away from the shelves so that I didn't overload myself. One book among the large pile I brought home was Terry Brooks "Sometimes The Magic Works".
Yes, Terry Brooks of The Sword of Shannara" fame.
This is one of those books that reads like you got to have coffee, or a few beer, with one of the most accomplished, lucky writers still alive.

My poor partner has been subjected to my mumblings at random moments for some time now, so I think she's used to me. But tonight, I just had to read her a little ... well, two passages really. These words express writing for me better than anything I could have stuttered out.
Here, read this, and if you're a writer, published or not, you'll understand and agree. I'll bet you even nod your head.
If you're a reader, you'll see a little of what makes writers tick.
And mumble...

"Writing is habit-forming. It is addictive. You get caught up in the challenge of the storytelling process. You become enchanted with the worlds and characters you create. The worlds are your home and the characters your friends. You come to know both as well as you know yourself. Born of you, they become a part of you...If I don't write, I become restless and ill-tempered. I become dissatisfied. My reaction to not writing is both physical and emotional. I am incomplete without my work. I am so closely bound to it, so much identified by it, that without it I think I would crumble into dust and drift away."

I couldn't have said it better myself, Mr. Brooks.
Thank you.

Aspiring Is For Pansies

I saw this on a writing blog I frequent. For me, this could be a tattoo, permanently inked into my arm where I can see it and repeat the words over and over.

"Screw aspiring. Aspiring is for pansies. It takes guts to be a writer." 

Kristen Lamb 

The Introspective Side of Writing

(I've always thought the graphic above should be on a t-shirt. I'd buy five)

Little brings out the introspective side of me like warm weather.

Our dogs  go outside frequently, for a variety of reasons, and this affords me more time to think. My thoughts lately turn to many things, not the least of which is my writing.

Writerly-thoughts come to the forefront of my mind more often than not. I ponder what I think of as a “come-back”, how best to do it, who do I want to write for in a shorter format, what publisher would I shop my newest novels to when I finally finish them, and so on. 

I think about how uprooting my family has influenced my writing, my muse and how I look at life. I ponder the things I want to write about, how I attempt to construct my week so that I allow my writing time to grow, and how often that plan falls flat.

We all lead complex lives, and often we all feel as if we are the only ones with this much on our plates. Some of us can roll with demands on our time and some need to guard our writing time like a dragon with a horde of gold. (Yes, I have just seen The Desolation of Smaug, why do you ask?) 

One aspect of my life includes caring for aging parents who like to think they do a lot around the house, but most of the time they are calling me up from the basement to do something for them. I don’t mean this as a complaint, I knew this was coming when I moved my little family back up north. I use this to illustrate how our lives can cut into writing time. I can be hip-deep in a love scene when a sudden shout from the floor above demands my immediate attention. Never mind questing lips and thrusting hips, now I’m needed to change a bed, or uncover an air conditioner, hang a new light, or some other task that could have been mentioned before I sat down.

My parents know I’m a writer. They know I’ve written a novel that’s been out of print for years. They’re usually proud of the series of children’s short fiction I’ve written. They know I’ve written a couple of articles published in vague magazines no one has heard of. They’ve enjoyed the short stories I’ve written in the past two years. They don’t understand why I write fan fiction, and then obsess over it. They’ve even bragged about my writing to their acquaintances. But they never hesitate to interrupt my writing time.

I let them have their own way for a while before I have to slam limits down. I’m pretty sure other writers have issues similar to this. 

But how do we writers without a time of our own, and a separate place to write outside our homes, carve out that which is necessary to our creative genius?

Ray Bradbury and Stephen King, and even J.K Rowling have all said that writers must be able to focus on their inner voices, write every day or until our eyes bleed. Easier said than done, I say.

I think about all of these things while I stand in the sun, waiting for my ‘old man dog’ to find just the right spot too relieve himself. I continue to chew over my thoughts while my ‘toddler dog’ tries to stalk the rabbits in the yard.

I have yet to find the answers.

In the meantime, the longest winter inspires me to write about adventurers stranded in blizzards. The local newspaper spawns outline notes about a woman and her dog stuck on a train without fuel in the middle of the dark woods miles from any community. While I search for answers, I write about a hunter who saves a white moose from hypothermia.

I still don’t have the answers I seek, but I think I’m making my writerly-comeback.

One short story, one outline, one blog-entry at a time.