Back in the Saddle

I’m afraid I’m a bit rusty with this whole writing thing. I haven’t written since my last blog, and I mean I haven’t written anything. It’s fairly sad. And depressing.

But I’m telling myself that sometimes it’s good to take a break. Just because I haven’t written in the last few months (or even done anything writing related like critiquing or e-mailing) doesn’t mean I love what I do any less. It just means I needed an extended vacation or that life intervened at a time in my life where I haven’t figured out yet how to budget time for what I love to do with time for what I need to do.

Despite what I tell myself, it doesn’t mean that it’s any less difficult to get back into the swing of things. I look at the blank screen and panic. How did I ever know to fill the empty spaces? Bravely, I try a few sentences and shudder at the sudden rise of “be” verbs. Lordy, but did I always rely so heavily on those pesky easy-outs?

My fingers have memorized the backspace key. Just to spice things up, they have the occasional tryst with the delete, but the backspace stakes the greatest claim. I erase those offending sentences and try again. “No ‘be’ verbs,” I tell myself. “Think beyond the ‘was’ and ‘were’.”

Suddenly, adverbs crop up like mushrooms after a storm. If that weren’t bad enough, they pepper themselves with bad similes.

*Sighs* But here is where I raise my fist in defiance. I will conquer this again!

Archiving

I read an article in this month’s RWA Romance Writers Report magazine about authors keeping documentation of their creative processes: manuscripts, notes, research, etc, and it got me thinking about my own box o’ dabbling. I’m a pack rat by nature, but I’ve been fighting the tendency in the last few years. Moving eight times in the last eight years will have that effect on a person.

When I was a kid, I used to make my own “books” from notebook paper, posterboard, glitter paint, and yarn. The first few pages of a story would be carefully handwritten, though never completed, and I while I kept a few of them, I certainly didn’t keep all of them. I didn’t feel I needed to since most of the stories were thinly veiled replicas of books I’d read, and even then they contained too little actual writing.

Eventually, I progressed to spirals. I still love, love, love spirals. Really. I love them. They’re a catch-all for notes, research tidbits, ideas, character sketches, and the occasional chunk of a manuscript since I handwrite in longhand as a writer’s block remedy. These I’ve kept, often returning to older ones in search of free space to write, resulting in notebooks with monthly or even yearly jumps in stories and ideas.

Whenever I flip through my spirals, I always come across some bit that I don’t remember writing or an interesting idea I’d jotted down but haven’t yet begun. After reading the article in the RWR, I selected one such spiral (also because I plan on writing some today and wanted to begin by handwriting to get the mojo going), and I found a wide range of notes: a story concept, critique notes about a friend’s manuscript, two pages of a back burner story, grammar concepts for potential language creation, a brief character sketch, and some random comment about Canada that I have no idea why I wrote it. I doubt my spirals would make sense to anyone else, especially considering they don’t always make sense even to me, but I’ve enjoyed them.

The best display of my writing evolution, however, is in a manuscript that I began in 1995 and on which I still continue to work from time-to-time. I liken this story to how I learned to crochet. No scarves or baby blankets for me. When I learned to crochet, I decided to start right in with a blanket large enough to cover a queen-sized bed. Needless to say, one edge of the blanket is tight and knotted, but in the eight years it took me to complete, you can see the slow smoothing of my work, the progress from awkward and clumsy to confident and clean. While I won’t say my writing now is even near clean and smooth, I will say that you can see a similar progression in my Story That Never Ends. The dabbling and meandering, the story that shifts like sand and the turns of phrase that clank along like an old engine, all begin to ease and evolve with the plot itself.

My spirals are a glimpse into the workings of my mind, while the STNE is the evolution of my style. I doubt anyone will be interested in either, but I always enjoy the glimpses of the way I used to be.

Friday Feature: Why Did I Like This Movie?

Did you ever watch a movie that you liked, but you’re not entirely sure why? It’s not really a bad movie, but it’s not good enough to rise above the mediocrity, and yet for some reason you can’t stop thinking about it. The one I’m speaking of in particular is a sci-fi flick called Sunshine.

I know what I did like about it. The sun is dying, and the movie takes place aboard the the Icarus II, a spaceship carrying a huge bomb that the crew plans on sending into the star to reignite it. I don’t know much about astronomy, so okay–I’ll go with that. No problemo. The deal is, they swing around Mercury and realize that the first ship sent out, the Icarus I, is hovering near the sun sending out a distress signal with their bomb still intact. Now, they’d been sent out seven years prior, and everyone on the Icaraus II pretty much agrees that there’s not much of a chance that any of the crew could have survived given the lack of oxygen and food and all. You know, little things like that. A few want to go check it out anyway. They’re current trajectory will take them close enough to the first Icarus that, with a bit of tweaking, they can pass right by. The question: do they want to take the chance?

Now, this is the part I like. The crew recognizes that the fate of the entire world rests on them and this second-chance bomb strapped to their backs. For once, characters in a movie are taking this seriously. There’s no joking around. There’s no lighthearted comments or long drawn-out sob stories about how the people aboard the Icarus I might still be alive and wouldn’t it be giving up their humanity if they didn’t just check? I always hated that argument in movies. Given most circumstances, I’m all for stopping to help others, but I always felt that it detracts from the power of the story when people do that while millions and millions of other people depend on them.

And the Icarus II isn’t a ship out of Star Trek. There’s no quick turns or little stop-overs. The decision to check on the Icarus I could mean death for the crew of the Icarus II in more ways than one, which means death for everyone back on Earth. Of course, for the purposes of the story, they do need to check on the Icarus I, so how does the writer get them there without relying on the tired “But their lives are just as important as the millions upon millions back home”?

Simple. Logic. One of the scientists aboard reminds them all that there’s another bomb strapped to the back of the first Icarus. It’s a second chance in case something’s wrong with the one they have.

Now, I still have issues with this argument. The first being how the heck they’d planned on carting along the second bomb? These aren’t missiles, folks. These bombs are bigger than the freakin’ ship. And that’s if it’s even still operable.

But I could appreciate this argument much more than almost any other, so I was content.

The second part of the story that I really liked is when things started to go wrong. (As things are wont to do in such movies.) The first major error is caused by someone forgetting to take one of the thousands of variables into account. That’s it. He’s so worried about the change he’s required to make in the trajectory, so preoccupied with making sure everything’s right, that they’re heading in the right direction while still being able to complete their mission, that he forgets a detail that jeopardizes them all. How human is that? It’s the first time I really connected with any of the characters because it’s just so simple and honest. These are people under a ton of stress, and one of them f-ed up.

The visuals are stunning. Definite props for that, and the actors are all ones I recognize, though I couldn’t tell you any of their names if my life depended on it. I only know that they’re character actors, though I don’t know why they’re just character actors considering the majority of them have more talent than a lot of the starlets out there now.

Then we get into the “Um, wait. What the hell just happened?” that tips the scale toward the eye rolls and sighs of “Oh, come on!”. I don’t want to give away any major spoilers in case someone strolling along decides s/he wants to watch it, but suffice it to say the plot takes a turn for the pretty ridiculous toward the end. It’s metaphoric, but really–come on.

And despite those beautiful visuals, some of the camera work drives me crazy. The movie uses those little picture-flash effects that interrupt the flow of the story, though not often enough to give me the characteristic motion sickness.

Still, I have to wonder. I liked the movie. Quite a bit. But I’m not completely sure why.

Opportunity Cost

During my college course wanderings (the American tradition of “What the hell do I want to do with my degree?”), I took a few of economics courses, most specifically macroeconomics and socioeconomics. In other words, “Big Picture” economics. To be honest, I don’t remember as much as I should, but the one concept that’s always stayed with me is opportunity cost.

Now, what the heck does this have to do with writing?

I’m glad you asked.

Opportunity Cost is what you give up to do something else. It’s the value of everything else you could be doing instead of what you choose to do. For example, when I choose to write, I’m giving up the opportunity to take care of practical needs (laundry, grocery shopping, cleaning) or indulge in hobbies (reading, taking a walk, watching a movie). The opportunity cost of my writing is the time, energy, and money that I need to do it. Every second of every days comes with opportunity costs, and we’ve learned to make decisions almost instinctively.

“This is what I have to do now,” I think. “So this is why I do it.” But that’s not really the reason why. I do what I do because I’ve determined, based on everything else I could be doing, that this is the best choice at the time. 

Each of the above examples (laundry, movie-watching, grocery shopping, etc.) comes with its own set of opportunity costs, and all the options must be weighed. When I think of all the daily intricacies involved, I’m amazed by just how much is processed and decided without our conscious awareness.

However, I didn’t bring up this topic to discuss my personal decision to write, but as a way to look at character development and to interpret GMC [Goal, Motivation, and Conflict]. The opportunity costs involved with the actions of a fictional character are exponentially greater than those of my own life because the possibilities are limitless given the very nature of fiction.

Our characters do what they do for a reason, and they’re often consciously unaware of active decision-making just like the rest of us. The decisions of which they ARE NOT aware are as important as the decisions of which they ARE aware. Their conscious decisions are external GMC; their unconcious decisions are internal GMC: their character traits and their personality as it’s been influenced by their personal history.

The reason why your character is unaware of certain decisions is because those decisions have become instinctive and habitual based on her past experiences. She’s learned to think or act a certain way without wondering about it, and it’s often when she realizes that she’s behaving or reacting abnormally, when she becomes conscious of her decisions and the opportunities costs involved, that the relationships within the story become important.

A character arc requires the eventual self-awareness of a character’s motivations before she’s able to change and grow, and it’s the realization of the opportunity costs of her decisions that sparks that awareness.

It’s the best thing to come out of economics class since supply and demand.

Red Light, Green Light

I watched the movie Sweet Land last night that had me thinking of narrative time jumps. The movie’s very good, but I almost didn’t get past the first 10-15 minutes. For the first five or so, the present overlaid with the past both in flashes of dialogue and images. Then, to make matters worse, the story began to jump between the present, the past of the late ’60’s (or so said the synopsis on the back of the movie), and the past of the early ’20’s. I had a hard time anchoring myself until it picked up the 1920’s storyline and began to follow that through.

Time jumps in stories are always very difficult for me to follow unless they’re a prologue or some similar past that leaps once and then follows a present storyline. I’m a very linear thinker. I write from beginning to end (save for one); that’s just how the story naturally evolves for me, so to ask me to keep up with constant back and forth between three separate times is confusing. I view them as three different stories entirely, even though they’re all referring to the original, the 1920’s story. For me, they have different characters, different themes, and different endings. I see the connection between them, the common thread, but they still remain separate. Even flashbacks can throw me off unless they’re handled really well.

I haven’t decided yet if the 1960’s storyline and the present storyline were entirely necessary to the plot. The movie is based on a short story by Will Weaver, “A Gravestone Made of Wheat“, which I haven’t read yet, so I don’t know if that’s how it was presented in literature though I’m assuming so. Maybe in the story it was necessary, but I go back and forth about the movie adaptation. There’s no clear POV in the 1960’s story, and the present story is just a way of rounding off a straight-up romance in a “literary” fashion, which I say with no ill will. Some people like to cut at the HEA, while some like the bittersweet. I’d have preferred if the movie focused entirely on the 1920’s storyline, but it’s still a wonderful film.

I don’t see this schizophrenic time jump in too many novels, though. I wonder if it has anything to do with the media, as I’m sure it’s easier to manage rapid back-and-forth with images rather than words. This, in turn, makes me wonder if that’s similiar to how authors who use the cut-and-paste writing method see their story. I see mine in emotions, for example. People and actions are colored in auras of various intensity, which evolve and change as the story grows. Do people who write scenes regardless of their place in the story see flashes of detailed images and sounds?

Oh, the ponders I ponder.

A Woman Pretending to Be a Man Pretending to be a Woman?*

“I like the story.”

I beamed. “Thanks.”

“Except your hero sounds like a woman wrote him.”

“Oh. Um…” What does one say to something like this? Duh? I glanced down at myself. Unmistakeably female. I had vague recollections and clutter-fueled memories of typing masculine descriptions and short structured dialogue. My hero, therefore, was most definitely written by a woman. I looked at the thin stack of papers on the table as though the words would rearrange into a detailed explanation of what it was about my hero that gave away my gender.

“You mean he’s too feminine?” I asked, when the printed words stayed put. My hero was, after all, mostly beta. I know the dangers walking that line. Heaven forbid I somehow emasculated him, despite my strong efforts to keep him distinctly male even with his passive-aggressive tendencies.

“No, he’s definitely a guy.”

Whew. 

“He just…”

“Sounds like a woman wrote him.”

“Yeah.”

I stared at my would-be critiquer. Herein lies the conundrum. The closest I can figure the problem, it’s not that my hero sounded feminine or acted feminine, but the explanations and descriptions associated with his point of view were feminine. What I, an author and woman, noticed and described about him was feminine.

Of course, I could very well be wrong. This is one of those melon-scratchers that I’ve never been 100% clear on. I know I’ve read female characters written by men who were undoubtably written by men. In fact, I read a book by a male author who is applauded for writing believable women, only to wonder where the hell someone had gotten that idea. Could I pinpoint where the problem lay? Nope. Then again, I hadn’t been analyzing works as much as I do now. Anyone have any ideas on this subject? Or any suggestions of authors to read who have realistic characters of the opposite gender?

[*From the Julie Andrews movie Victor Victoria.]

Character Stories

Every good character has layers. Like an onion. Or a parfait.

A writer can achieve these layers by recognizing the discrepancy between what her character thinks his true story is, and what the writer knows his true story is. Confusing, yes? Since I’d alluded to the movie Shrek, we’ll continue with the example. Hopefully, you’ve seen the movie. If not–dude, you should totally cue up your Netflix. It’s hysterical.

But I digress.

Shrek has a fairly clear understanding of his story: he’s a big, smelly ogre saddled with a journey to save his home. He expects to go out, get the job done, and then return to being the big, smelly ogre who occasionally has to scare off pitchfork wielding mobs. Shrek’s story according to Shrek is the saving of his swamp home.

As the story progresses, however, the viewer begins to realize that this isn’t Shrek’s true story. We realize that Shrek’s journey to get his home back is a motivation, not the story, which is where a lot of fictional characters get mixed up. They confuse their motivations or goals with their stories; they define themselves by what they’re doing or what they’re about to do, and not necessarily by who they are or how they grow as a person.

Shrek’s true story is to learn to accept himself. He has to come to terms with his self-loathing, which he doesn’t even realize he carries around, and this process is forced by the relationship with Fiona and guided by Donkey. Shrek still firmly holds on to the belief that his true story is the saving of his home until it’s actually done. Only then, once home and again alone, does he begin to realize that his story’s not quite finished.

As the saying goes, there’s more to the story.

So it goes with pretty much all fictional characters. Their stories are learning processes for them; they need to grow and evolve, which means they must have an initial, inherent misunderstanding of what their story is in the beginning. This is what changes, what blossoms, and what gets the readers to connect with the characters. Our job as writers is to recognize what our characters believe and what we know to be true and then to reflect that evolution between denial and acceptance.

This is the difference between external and internal plot. The external plot is the vehicle that carries the internal plot. All our characters’ see at first is that nice, shiny new car. They want that car. What they don’t see is the engine. The gleaming chrome, cherry paint, and leather interior are only the flashing trappings of a V8; they give the engine a purpose, but ask anyone who’s had to pinch pennies, and she’ll tell you that a good, reliable engine touts the fancy trappings every time. (Well, that and a few airbags.)

The process is often subtle. Force the point too much, and a writer walks the edge of sounding too preachy, which can often turn off a reader. Not only that, but it’s possible to threaten the believability of the story. If you continuously slap your characters with the truth, the reader will become annoyed and frustrated by the fact that the character just doesn’t get what’s so obvious. Of course, rules thrive on exceptions, but usually it’s recommended to know the rules before you go about bending them.

Tomorrow I’ll haul Michelle out of her cafe corner to tell us her story, and see what she believes her truth to be. I always like to get to know a character a bit, find out her beliefs and disbeliefs, before I dig around to find the true story.

[And, as an aside, notice I said beliefs and disbeliefs, and not "likes" and "dislikes". Using the car analogy again, the beliefs and disbeliefs are the vehicle itself. The likes and dislikes are all the fancy bells and whistles: the XM radio, the GPS system, the gazillion cupholders, and so on. I wouldn't mind having them, but they're not absolutely necessary to get from point A to point B. Of course, this is all just my personal opinion. Feel free to agree or disagree.]

Fact or Fiction Game

So, anyone willing to take a guess at which stories were fact and which were fiction? You can leave your guess in the comments section or, if you’re a tad shy, shoot me an e-mail at nicole@nicolereillan.com with “FOF Game” in the subject line. The first person to guess correctly, or the first person to come the closest by midnight central time on Wednesday 4/16 gets her/his choice of any paperback mentioned on the site. (Harry Potter and the Deathly Hollows and Sojourn not included.)

Want to read them again? They’re listed here:

Story #1

Story #2

Story #3

Story #4

Story #5

I’m curious to see how this goes, as it’s a good lesson for me. Does my fiction pass as fact and vice-versa? Or do I need to brush up on my craft? (Sorry, Beanie Baby. Family’s ineligible.)

Thanks everyone!

I Will Be Back

The Fact or Fiction Game will continue soon, so do not despair! I know it’s been keeping you up at night, haunting your thoughts, slipping into your daily consciousness and all that, but alas! alack! and heavens to betsy, it will begin again!

A Story Seed

Last night was one of those times when stories flitted willy-nilly about my mind. Characters blossomed, ideas took root, and concepts became concrete scenes. It would have been wonderful, except it was nearing midnight, and I was trying to sleep.

That always seems to be the case with me. These great ideas pop into my mind at the most inopportune times. I’ve burned many a meal running for a notepad, learned to jot semi-legible notes without having to look away from the road, and keep pens and spirals scattered throughout my small apartment. I had to learn the latter the hard way, when I had an idea before going to sleep and thought to myself, “Oooh, I like that. In fact, I like it so much I won’t need to write it down right now. I can remember that in the morning.”

Morning comes and, yep, you guessed it. I remember that I had a great story idea, but I don’t remember what.

Every once in a while though, a scene (and not a concept) will appear, playing vivid in my mind like a movie. But what makes these scenes stand out from all the others is the intensity of the emotion. I feel what the character feels. And these scenes stay with me until they find a home in a story; they never dull, they never fade, they just wait. This is what happened last night. Unfortunately, this scene doesn’t fit into any of my current WIPs, nor does it fit into the concept of any of my back burner stories.

I have the defining scene of a character’s history, I know how it’s worked into the story that I’ll tell, I just don’t know what that story is. Of course, the last thing I need is another back burner story. I think the last count was somewhere around twelve or so, and I have the feeling that this new one might be yet another paranormal. Nicole to Brain: Concentrate on the romantic comedies; those are the ones next in line for production!

Sometimes I don’t know which is worse: writer’s block or scene schizophrenia.

On the plus side, I managed to tap back into the main character of PYNIMY, one of my two current works-in-progress. I’d lost touch with her for awhile, but she’s deigned to open up again, which means I managed to pick up a good word count this weekend.

Also, carrier pigeons.