It's not a real job. Not a day job. Not a job in the dictionary definition of the word. You can't clock in and out or fill out a sensible timesheet - not really. If I did, mine might go something like this:
3:54am: dreamt of conversation between Bree and Graham. Thought about turning on light and writing it down. Decided to replay in my head a couple of times so as not to forget.
4:30am: lay on my back worried I would forget scene (see above)
7:05am woken by teenager thumping down the hall. Remembered something about a conversation between two characters. Kicked myself for not writing it down.
8:00am in the shower. Remembered conversation. Got out of shower and wrote details on toilet paper. Floor covered in puddles but essence of scene successfully captured.
10:00 wonders if time spent on daily cryptic crossword counts...
11:00 on the way back from taking youngest out to the horses, and in between remembering new road rule, was 'given' another scene. This one about dead bodies and missing bodies and had to turn off radio so I could listen to what the characters were saying. No pen or paper in car so some of it lost by the time I got home to write it down.
12:30 File has been open for an hour. Word count has gone from 97179 to 97233 to 97170 to 97350. The dump file has continued to expand.
1:00 finished looking over editor's notes again. Decided I disagreed about putting in Rachel's thoughts about her love life at this particular moment - there's no way I was thinking about sex when I was throwing up....
4:00 Wonders if watching back-to-back episodes of The Big C counts as research. And, playing computer solitaire
10Pm: In bed, electric blanket on, chores completed and the book is up on the screen, the curser blinking at me like the pointed finger of an angry aunt.
Sometime after, I drift off thinking about a scene and wondering when someone will invent an app that allows me to download all the stuff in my head straight to the laptop - even better if it can done while I sleep.
Monday, March 26, 2012
Sunday, March 11, 2012
Character versus Story
I have been thinking a lot about one of my initially minor characters, Bree. Bree is the youngest sister of Duncan and Rachel. She's a brat. In the first book, she's stroppy, demanding, and absolutely devoted to her big brother. Fleance's is wary of her and the feeling is mutual. Keavy, Fleance's adoptive sister, adores her.
In book two, the strength of her will and penchant for violence is touched on as she grows from a child into a person. And, by the end of of Bloodlines, it is very clear how much she hates Fleance.
Bree is tall like her brother and sister. She's been brought up in the royal court. She has grown a lot since we first met the young girl being lifted over the puddles by her big brother. She's determined, angry and has a plan.
To be honest, I'm having a damn hard time trying to wrestle her into line.
I've been a teacher since the late 1980s and I've met various forms of this character: girls who are mean; girls who are super insightful - way beyond their years; girls who are tall (or short) for their age. Currently, I have a student who looks 17 or 18. She's a model. She's intelligent, articulate and posed. She's only just 13. I first met her when she was 11 and I thought she was in high school. She's also absolutely wonderfully kind and generous.
I've had a couple of people suggest that what Bree is busting to do in Book 3 is not 'realistic' - after all, she's still a child. What I've realized is that the Bree that has come out on the page in Banquo's Son and Bloodlines is only the tip of the character who has been living inside my head. My editor gets her (and understands her - thanks Katie!) and so does my agent.
So, today is Bree's day. I'm going to give her her head and see where she leads us and what damage she does.
In the words of my eldest child, she has to do something catastrophic - everything else will be lame.
I've got the story all mapped out but it might be that the force of this one character alters the course.
I'll keep you posted.
What fun!
In book two, the strength of her will and penchant for violence is touched on as she grows from a child into a person. And, by the end of of Bloodlines, it is very clear how much she hates Fleance.
Bree is tall like her brother and sister. She's been brought up in the royal court. She has grown a lot since we first met the young girl being lifted over the puddles by her big brother. She's determined, angry and has a plan.
To be honest, I'm having a damn hard time trying to wrestle her into line.
I've been a teacher since the late 1980s and I've met various forms of this character: girls who are mean; girls who are super insightful - way beyond their years; girls who are tall (or short) for their age. Currently, I have a student who looks 17 or 18. She's a model. She's intelligent, articulate and posed. She's only just 13. I first met her when she was 11 and I thought she was in high school. She's also absolutely wonderfully kind and generous.
I've had a couple of people suggest that what Bree is busting to do in Book 3 is not 'realistic' - after all, she's still a child. What I've realized is that the Bree that has come out on the page in Banquo's Son and Bloodlines is only the tip of the character who has been living inside my head. My editor gets her (and understands her - thanks Katie!) and so does my agent.
So, today is Bree's day. I'm going to give her her head and see where she leads us and what damage she does.
In the words of my eldest child, she has to do something catastrophic - everything else will be lame.
I've got the story all mapped out but it might be that the force of this one character alters the course.
I'll keep you posted.
What fun!
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
laying the foundation - check
2011 was spent writing and rewriting the draft that would eventually be sent to my editor. In 2010, my editor, agent and I had pretty well nutted out the detailed synopsis so last year was simply about writing the story.
Um.
But, though the above sentence (um) and the one before it are easy to type, making it come true has proved to be harder. In my youth, I have worked on construction and building/renovation sites. Then, I was impatient to 'MAKE SOMETHING' not understanding the need for good planning, accurate drafting and careful foundation work.
I eventually learned my lesson and became a much better renovator because of it.
With Birthright, the planning was done perfectly (and audited); the drafting was solidly done. Now, it feels like I've built the house, painted most of the walls and put the furniture in only to have my agent and editor come through and humm and haaa.
They are the professionals. I have no artistic talent: I can make a tasty, nutritious meal but no cordon blu stuff. I sit at my writing desk now with all of Katie's fantastic suggestions: to move the red two-seater red onto the landing to stand beside the maiden hair fern (which I'd shoved in the bathroom). This is metaphorically speaking of course. With a simple wave of her (editorial) hand, she has brought to life my sound and solid and somewhat plain opening chapters and for that I am ever grateful. (the above photo is of a couple of pages of her 'suggestions')
I have never yet met a good writer who produces great writing all on their own. Don't think I want to otherwise I might be tempted to do something awful to them *grin*
Monday, January 2, 2012
Happy New Year and here's the opening of Birthright
Prologue
Scotland, May, 1055
They were the feared, the spurned, the filthy. Stinking women with grotesque exaggerations of the normal human afflictions. Most people fled from their approaches but a few hurled abuse and objects. Sometimes, these mortals’ threats were as terrible as the prophecies the women themselves uttered.
And, with the king’s ban on their vocation, it had become more dangerous of late to advertise their activity. So, the three had gathered, as was their moonlit custom, to a hovel half way between the back-road from Perth to Scone because this would ensure their safety from either the small group of pious villagers or the monks. It would keep secret their plan.
All who had knowledge of the spirit world knew that things kept in secret held power. And this was crucial to what they had planned.
For the past hour, they had been preparing themselves by drinking the bitter, intoxicating liquid made for such a meeting and boasting about the disastrous events caused by their devices.
‘She did think it were her husband,’ one said at the end of her story. They laughed at the stupidity of the dull wife.
The second finished her account gleefully exclaiming, ‘The lad was so upset he threw himself, weighted-dead with rocks, into the loch.’ The other two squealed with excitment. ‘Let us hope they blame the king,’ the woman added and her companions, grinning, nodded vigorously.
The final of their trio grabbed her conspirators, silencing them. She recounted a pastoral problem ending in death for some. Her eyes reflected the light from the candles and fire and she then offered her act of deceit. ‘They said the belly ache was the barley. No one thought that the wheat was the cause.’
All three clapped their hands. The first to speak then raise her cup. ‘Another victory!’
On it went until the eldest among them, wearing an eclectic arrangement of senseless clothing, threw the contents of her cup onto the earthen floor. She coughed, wiped her mouth and then waited for the other two to be silent and give her their full attention.
Her crusted eyes intent on mischief, she tilted her head. ‘When shall we three meet again?’ The recognition in their faces was a pleasing acknowledgement of her wit.
The tall, white-haired companion, the youngest of the three, nodded, expressionless. ‘Let us say: in thunder, lightning and in rain.’
A second of silence in the stuffy room then raucous noise as they roared wickedly at their vivacity. How clever they were to remember the power of using the identical question and response from another time. Their black hearts hoped for similar ruinous results as it would please their master.
But, on with the plan.
The third of the group scratched at her cropped head. ‘When the helter skelter does begin,’ she said, crushing a fat louse between her blackened fingers.
The first woman sniffed. ‘That will be after reaping.’
‘Cat will mew and ass will bray,’ whined her shorn-headed sister, twisting her hands.
‘A king might laud but maids will pray,’ sang the youngest, her pale complexion ghost-like in the moonshine.
‘Yes,’ cried the first woman. ‘Set to store the kingdom’s rule.’
They held hands and began to walk slowly in a circle, chanting:
‘Make and mar him as a fool.’
‘When the place?’
‘Before the spring.’
‘There to meet with Scotland’s king.’ With that, they joined hands again and began to pace around, dirty and powerful incantations dredged up from the blackness of their soul, to wind a charm strong enough to do what must be done.
Scotland, May, 1055
They were the feared, the spurned, the filthy. Stinking women with grotesque exaggerations of the normal human afflictions. Most people fled from their approaches but a few hurled abuse and objects. Sometimes, these mortals’ threats were as terrible as the prophecies the women themselves uttered.
And, with the king’s ban on their vocation, it had become more dangerous of late to advertise their activity. So, the three had gathered, as was their moonlit custom, to a hovel half way between the back-road from Perth to Scone because this would ensure their safety from either the small group of pious villagers or the monks. It would keep secret their plan.
All who had knowledge of the spirit world knew that things kept in secret held power. And this was crucial to what they had planned.
For the past hour, they had been preparing themselves by drinking the bitter, intoxicating liquid made for such a meeting and boasting about the disastrous events caused by their devices.
‘She did think it were her husband,’ one said at the end of her story. They laughed at the stupidity of the dull wife.
The second finished her account gleefully exclaiming, ‘The lad was so upset he threw himself, weighted-dead with rocks, into the loch.’ The other two squealed with excitment. ‘Let us hope they blame the king,’ the woman added and her companions, grinning, nodded vigorously.
The final of their trio grabbed her conspirators, silencing them. She recounted a pastoral problem ending in death for some. Her eyes reflected the light from the candles and fire and she then offered her act of deceit. ‘They said the belly ache was the barley. No one thought that the wheat was the cause.’
All three clapped their hands. The first to speak then raise her cup. ‘Another victory!’
On it went until the eldest among them, wearing an eclectic arrangement of senseless clothing, threw the contents of her cup onto the earthen floor. She coughed, wiped her mouth and then waited for the other two to be silent and give her their full attention.
Her crusted eyes intent on mischief, she tilted her head. ‘When shall we three meet again?’ The recognition in their faces was a pleasing acknowledgement of her wit.
The tall, white-haired companion, the youngest of the three, nodded, expressionless. ‘Let us say: in thunder, lightning and in rain.’
A second of silence in the stuffy room then raucous noise as they roared wickedly at their vivacity. How clever they were to remember the power of using the identical question and response from another time. Their black hearts hoped for similar ruinous results as it would please their master.
But, on with the plan.
The third of the group scratched at her cropped head. ‘When the helter skelter does begin,’ she said, crushing a fat louse between her blackened fingers.
The first woman sniffed. ‘That will be after reaping.’
‘Cat will mew and ass will bray,’ whined her shorn-headed sister, twisting her hands.
‘A king might laud but maids will pray,’ sang the youngest, her pale complexion ghost-like in the moonshine.
‘Yes,’ cried the first woman. ‘Set to store the kingdom’s rule.’
They held hands and began to walk slowly in a circle, chanting:
‘Make and mar him as a fool.’
‘When the place?’
‘Before the spring.’
‘There to meet with Scotland’s king.’ With that, they joined hands again and began to pace around, dirty and powerful incantations dredged up from the blackness of their soul, to wind a charm strong enough to do what must be done.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)