Sunday, 2 July 2017

Communal Book Project Part Three



Lord Logenburt Part Three

By Thomas Roggenbuck 



Connect with Thomas on twitter!


(If you missed the first installments, check out parts one and two here first!)

The carriage bumped along the road, which didn’t help Frederic’s uneasy stomach. Even though it had been a few days since Vivian DuBois had come to talk with him, the conversation was fresh in his mind. He couldn’t believe he had agreed to help look for her. Perhaps he drank too much whiskey and it clouded his judgement; Tubs always said he drank too much. However, he knew the alcohol had no influence, or at least very little, on his decision to help the women. He had wanted an adventure, and it was why he was on his way to Baron Thomas Bleddyn’s manor.
The carriage came to a stop in the courtyard of the manor, a large complex with beautiful stain glass windows, magnificent archways, and stunning gardens. Frederic stood next to his carriage for a moment, taking in the scenery, before moving forward. A servant greeted him at the front entrance.
“How may I assist you, kind visitor?” the servant asked.
“My name is Lord Frederic Logenburt, and I’m seeking an audience with Baron Bleddyn,” Frederic said. He tried to keep his voice steady and his hands from shaking.
“Very well,” the servant said, giving Frederic a deep bow. “I will return soon with a response.” The servant ran off and Frederic reached inside his jacket, tugging out a flask of whiskey. Whiskey relaxed him, helped him think. The servant returned a short while later, beckoning for Frederic to follow him.
The servant knocked on two large oak doors, both with intricate drawings of nature on their faces. Frederic took another swig of whiskey as the servant opened the doors.
“Stay here. The Baron will be here to meet with you momentarily,” the servant said. “You want anything, my lord?”
Frederic shrugged. “I’ll take a glass of whiskey, if you don’t mind.”
The servant bowed again. “As you wish.” The servant returned moments later with a glass of whiskey. Despite the drink, Frederic couldn’t sit still. He stood and walked around the chairs, then the table, then the room. He paused as a piece of artwork caught his eye. A goat, headless and bloody, lay at a man’s feet. The man held the goat’s head high in the air. Frederic stared at it confused, trying to decipher its hidden meaning.
“I got that piece from a merchant from the Jecous Peninsula. Intriguing, right?” a voice said from behind him. Frederic turned around. Baron Thomas Bleddyn stopped next to him, staring at the painting on the wall. “Cost me a little more than I would have liked, but the man gave me a large discount, since he didn’t want to take it back with him. Have we met before?”
“No. No we haven’t.” Frederic forced the words out. He sipped at the whiskey the servant brought him. He stuck a hand towards the Baron. “Lord Frederic Logenburt, sir.”
“Pleasure,” the Baron said, shaking Frederic’s hand. “Why is it you’ve come? Surely not to admire my artwork?”
“A sister of a...friend has disappeared. She approached me the other night. I figured I’d come to you.”
The Baron scratched his chin. “Who is missing? And who’s your friend?”
“Vivian and Lea DuBois. Vivian approached me the other night. Lea is missing.” 
“Yeah, I know Lea. Cute little darling. She’s missing?”
Frederic swallowed. “Vivian told me she ran off with you, hence why I came here.” 
“No. No, Lea hasn’t been here in a while; definitely not in the past week.” The Baron turned and looked directly at Frederic, whose gut clenched. “Are you looking for her?” 
Slowly, Frederic nodded his head. “I promised Vivian that I would do the best I could to find Lea. I just assumed she was here and that I would have to lecture her about running off without anyone knowing, but it appears she isn’t here.” 
There was a silence. Frederic’s hands began to sweat, so he wrapped his hands around the cool glass of whiskey. He took another sip, before the Baron spoke again.
“Come,” he said, striding back the way he came.
Frederic stumbled after him; whiskey never allowed him to move fast. “Where are we going?”
“My quarters. I need to know what you know if we’re to find Lea.”

######

Stay tuned for part four! 

If you're interesting in joining the fun and writing for the Communal Book Project, connect with me on twitter or send an email to aj.chasingmytale@gmail.com.


Monday, 26 June 2017

Communal Book Project Part Two

Thank you to all those who have volunteered to contribute to the Communal Book Project. Part Two is brought to you by Billy Owens Jr. Read on to find out what Lord Logenburt found on the other side of his door, or if you missed part One, catch up here!


Lord Logenburt Part Two 

Written by Billy Owens Jr


"Hello!" Frederic warmly greeted the visitor. Before him stood a young woman, fair-skinned, with long, raven tresses, deep emerald eyes, and a distraught demeanor. 

"Oh! H-hello," she stammered, surprised that someone answered the door. "I didn't think anyone would be up at this late hour. My sincerest apologies for disturbing you, it's just that I…" 

"Would you care to come in?" Frederic interrupted, gesturing with his arm for her to enter. Again, the woman was surprised, this time by hospitality. She thanked Frederic and went inside. 

This is it, Frederic thought to himself, as he escorted her to the study. A damsel in distress, danger may be afoot, and I could be the dashing hero to the rescue! Finally, a chance to escape this humdrum life!

As they entered the study, Frederic offered her to sit in his armchair. "Are you sure?" the timid woman asked. 

"Quite alright,” he replied with a reassuring smile. As he went to the wet bar to pour himself another glass of whiskey, it occurred to him how he would be remiss foregoing introductions in lieu of pleasantries, so he decided to kill two birds with one stone. “Would you care for a drink, Miss…?" 

"DuBois, Vivian DuBois, and no, thank you," she politely declined. 

Frederic pulled a stool from the bar and sat across from her. “I’m Frederic Logenburt, pleased to make your acquaintance.” That being said, it was time to address the situation at hand. “So, Miss DuBois, what sort of trouble are you in, and how can I be of assistance?”

Vivian deeply sighed. "It's my sister, Lea. Two nights ago, she left our house with her boyfriend, Thomas, and has yet to return. I’m used to her coming and going as she pleases, being out all hours of the night, but it has been two days, without so much as a random drop-by or a call. Two days!" 

Frederic pondered about what to ask next, as he wanted to choose his words carefully. He didn’t want to upset Vivian more than what she already was, but still, some questions needed asked. “Perhaps, Lea is staying with her boyfriend? What have the authorities said on the matter?“

“I can only assume she is, since I don’t know where he lives,” Vivian sobbed, “and the authorities have refused to help.”   

“Refused? “ Frederic uttered, stroking his mustache. This baffling situation made him thirsty for another glass. 

Vivian continued on as Frederic returned to the wet bar. “They said ‘it would not be in my best interest trifling in the affairs of a Bleddyn.’” 

Frederic stopped in mid-pour and sat the bottle down. “Bleddyn? Thomas Bleddyn?!" Frederic breathed.

“Yes, I guess so. Who is…” Vivian asked, seemingly bewildered.

Baron Thomas Bleddyn, a puckish rogue to say the least,” Frederic remarked.

“He’s a Baron?!” Vivian exclaimed, shaking her head, “Oh, Lea, what did you get yourself into?” She then slowly rose from the armchair, directed her attention to the wet bar. "Frederic, I believe I will have that drink now."

######


It's not too late to join the fun! Email me at aj.chasingmytale@gmail.com, or connect with me on Twitter! 

Stay tuned for Part Three!





Thursday, 15 June 2017

Writing Dialogue for Action Scenes


I'm heading into the last part of Act Two in my WIP, and the action is really cranking up. Enough with the talking, the thinking, the quietly figuring things out. It is time to bring out the big guns. Quite literally.

With this in mind, I found myself facing several hot action scenes, with fights, shootings, and car chases to choreograph. As I'm not overly experienced in any of these domains, I had a ton of research to do, not least because my car chase takes place in the real life setting of an area of London near St Paul's cathedral, and I wanted the setting to be spot-on. (Hello, Google Maps.)

On top of all that, the three characters involved are newly-formed allies, with a ton of stuff to say in order to get everyone on the same page, very fast, whilst escaping bad guys and dealing with a bullet wound.

Writing the dialogue and action for these scenes was hard. The kind of stuff that makes me want to throw in the towel and take up knitting instead. So I did what any self-respecting writer would do. I took the easy route.

First I wrote the car chase, with minimal dialogue (mostly 'ouches' and 'look behind yous' and 'helps') and lots of raging action, then, in the subsequent lull before the next disaster, the three amigos had a good old chin wag with a ton-load of characterisation, and got it all off their chests.

The scene fell flat.

I was sad. I cried a little, moaned a little, grumbled a little, realised nobody was listening to me, and took a break from the scene. Then, when I came back, I had an epiphany.

*insert witty dialogue into action scene*

Voilà.

I took most of the dialogue (with some exceptions) and weaved it into the action scene, alternating between full-on car chase and vibrant (I hope) conversation, pumping life into this scene until it pulsated with energy. Now the characters are having a real great time, bonding fast as they race through the streets of London, popping tyres and dodging bullets.

Also, I was able to cut out most of the action beats and dialogue tags from the original conversation, hence reducing word count. Since my WIP is comparable to an oversized heifer, this is good.

I plan to use this technique again. When I face a scene that requires heavy action and sharp dialogue, I'll write them separately, then blend them as one. A bit like a smoothie. Minus the lumps.







Saturday, 10 June 2017

Communal Book Project aka Write a Book With Me!

Hello peeps and peepettes!

If, like me, you love summer and feel full of the joys of the sun, you might like to undertake a new project with me, just for fun. (Disclaimer: for those of you in the southern hemisphere, I'm sorry. Good luck with your descent into winter. And yes, you can still play!)

So, calling all writers, young or less young, experienced or less experienced, published or less published!

I'd like to launch a game on my blog to write a story with YOUR contribution. The rules are thus:

1. Read Part One below and let me know if you want in!

2. Each participant will contribute a section to the story, anything from 300 to 1000 words.

3. You will have to wait until the person before you completes and posts their section, so each contribution runs on from the previous in a way that makes at least a little bit of sense.

4. Other than that, no rules! Write however you like, develop the story in whatever way you see fit, and let's see where this goes! Oh, and keep it clean please. This is a PG blog. Thanks for understanding.

DON'T LEAVE ME HANGING!


Lord Logenburt and the Knock at the Door
Part One by AJ Watt

Midnight. 

The grandfather’s clock chimed the first stroke of the hour in the elegant hallway. Lord Frederic Logenburt sat in his study in a high-backed leather armchair and listened to time. As always, it passed with the same deliberate slowness, taunting the lonely. Each chime seemed to last minutes, each intermittent silence even longer. He lifted the tumbler to his mouth, and tipped back the last of his whiskey. The half-melted ice wet his thick moustache and the liquor slipped down his throat. 

On the fourth chime, Frederic placed his glass on the spindly side table. On the fifth, he eased himself out of his chair with a telltale stiffness that betrayed long-term idleness. On the sixth, he glanced at the array of photographs on the recently polished sideboard. On the seventh, he walked the length of the spacious room, and, on the eighth, opened the door. The ninth saw him cross the hallway, the clock now chiming only a foot from his right ear. On the tenth, he placed a large hand on the staircase banister, and set his foot on the first step. By the eleventh, he was five steps up the wide staircase, painfully aware that tomorrow would herald just as much excitement as the today, namely, none. 

The twelfth chime rang out, and Frederic paused for a second on the staircase. The clock fell silent, like the rest of the house. He supposed there was noise in the kitchen. Even his dull and dutiful servants couldn’t clean up in complete silence. But it was so far away, with three closed doors between them, that he wouldn’t know if they were in there dancing the can-can. Frederic sighed.

Then, at the exact moment that the thirteenth stroke would have chimed, had there been a thirteenth stroke, a loud knock sounded on the door below him. Frederic froze. It had been years since a knock had sounded at any time of the night, and he suspected it never had at midnight. His ancestors had been an even duller bunch than himself. 

As if by magic, his butler Tubs appeared at the foot of the stairs, and headed swiftly for the door. 

‘Tubs,’ Frederic called out sharply. ‘I’ll get it myself tonight.’ 

Tubs swung around and almost lost his balance. His eyes bulged for a moment, before he blinked and restored them to their usual state of placidity. ‘Yes indeed, sir,’ he said with a slight bow. 

Frederic ran down the staircase, and passed Tubs, who waited with his hands behind his back. Frederic stopped. ‘You may go, Tubs,’ he announced, and waved a hand to emphasise the matter. 

‘Go, sir?’ Tubs repeated uncertainly, as if testing it out. 

‘Indeed,’ Frederic said. ‘Go. Retreat. Stand down. Disappear. I’ll see you in the morning.’ 

The knock sounded again. Tubs stared at Frederic and his lower jaw dropped half an inch. ‘Sir,’ he began. 

Frederic straightened up to remind Tubs just who was boss and felt some satisfaction at the embarrassment that crossed his butler’s face. He knew the man trained his staff to never refute a direct order. Tubs’ eyes dropped to the carpet and he bowed again. 

‘Yes, sir,’ he said, and walked stiffly away. 

Frederic waited for him to leave the hallway by means of one of the doorways, and for said door to close behind him. He didn’t know precisely why he was waiting, just that he wanted to do this by himself. Just for once. Something about the midnight hammering convinced him that adventure lay on the other side of his door, and adventure had Lord Logenburt’s name on it, not his aged greying butler’s. 

Once alone, he slid back the metal bolt, turned the key, and opened the door.

######

Update! Part Two has been posted! Read it here


Thursday, 8 June 2017

Why I don't believe in TBR lists...


Joining Twitter was a great writing move. I discovered a whole word of people like me, people who love to read and love to write and love to waste spend a lot of time talking about both. I also discovered the TBR.

To Be Read.

I do get it. Honestly, I do. I'm the first to agree that there are so many great books out there and hundreds that I'd love to read, preferably today. My monthly visit to the bookstore usually results in carrying splitting bags across town back to the car, and I won't even mention the kindle store. I try to slip the credit card bill into the trash before my husband sees it. So yeah, I have a lot of books to read.

But this life throws us constant demands. Every single day we're expected to do a whole host of things, and do them well. Brush your teeth. Get your kids to school on time. Don't get fired. Don't flunk high school. Concentrate on real conversations while running over scenes in your head.

And what about the even bigger worries in life? Am I getting 10k steps in every day? Do I floss enough to avoid horrible gum infections? Why are the recycling bins always overflowing? Did I 'like' every notification on Twitter?

Then you get the lists. Shopping lists. Lists of people to call. Workout lists. Lists of recipes to try. And the TBR list.

No.

I draw the line at a TBR list. Reading is my escape. My peaceful, beautiful, imaginative world of escapism. (Not to be confused with peaceful beautiful stories because most often they are conflict-ridden and dangerous, but that's another topic.)

I will not stress my reading life by creating more pressure for myself. I will read the book I feel like reading, when I want to, and at the speed I want. I will devour it like pizza or savour it like raspberry macaroons or pick at it like overcooked broccoli. If I want to, I'll spew it up and chew it all over again, or maybe just the bits I loved. And while I'm enjoying pizza, I won't be thinking of tacos. When I'm sipping on rum with clinky ice, I won't be worrying that I'm missing out on a milkshake.

There are many cities I will never get to visit. Many cars I'll never get to drive. Many shoes I'll never get to wear. Many, many, people I'll never get to meet, and many books I'll never read. I made my peace with that.

So, yeah, I have a lot of books to read. Will I list them on a piece of paper to make it all the more real? Will I put them in order, as if I could possibly foresee what I feel like reading in seventeen days time? Will I check them off when I've read them, one more thing to be smug about in this world of self-importance? No to all of that. I'll just read the book, live the magic, and reduce the stress. Then I can cross yoga off my to-do list. Win-win.

What about you, readers? Do you swear by TBRs? Let me know. Heck, try to change my mind! I'm nothing if not highly influenceable.

Then go get back to your power reading.







Thursday, 20 April 2017

Saving The Scene 101: Character Motivations

I know, I know, it's been awhile.

I've been slinging words every day for Camp NaNo and blogging has been bottom of my priority list. However, today I had an epiphany, and I just had to share it with the good people of the Kingdom of Creative Writing.

Have you ever written a scene or chapter that just felt flat? Maybe even one that should feel exciting, but no matter how much you kneaded it, you couldn't get it to rise any higher than a crepe?

I have.

That is, I am.

Chapter Twenty-Two (shudder)

I have three of the best critique partners I could wish for, and they are all waiting for chapter twenty-two. Chapters twenty-three through thirty-two are written, revised, edited, and ready to see the light of day, but twenty-two... well, shudder.

Oh, sorry. I mentioned that.

Today's post is brought to you courtesy of a Major Revelation. After weeks of agonising over chapter twenty-two, I finally understood the root of the problem.

See, chapter twenty-two was destined for great things. Chapter twenty-two could be considered the cherry on the top of the sundae of Act Two. Chapter twenty-two is when my protagonist meets her birth father, who gave her up for adoption when she was a baby. (The birth father is also in prison for murder, and the protagonist is trying to discover why she has superhuman strength.) So yeah, chapter twenty-two should be awesome.

Why did it underwhelm me to the point of being physically incapable of sending it out into the wide world?

Problems with character motivation.

The issue with characters is that they are extremely volatile beings. Sometimes they are so strong-willed that they take the decisions right out of our writer hands, and sometimes they are limper than a wet spaghetti. When they aren't shouting from the rooftops what they want and the measures they'll take to get there, they can be found sulking in a corner, without any desires at all.

So back to my scene. The protagonist is sorted. I've been walking, swimming, riding motorbikes in her shoes for far too many months. She's also the POV character so yeah, listen up people. Everyone knows what she wants from this long-overdue encounter.

But the birth dad?

Not so much.

And it all comes down to motivations, people. Not his motivation twenty plus years ago when he gave up his daughter, but his motivation today, going into this reunion. And today, it finally hit me that this was the issue with my scene. Everybody in a scene needs to want something.

Yup, everybody. Not just the main character whose motivations you probably know better than your own. But everybody else.

The problem is, I knew this. I know it. My WIP is riddled with opposing agendas. I knew they all needed motivation. But when it came down to this particular scene, I was counting on the setup to bring all the greatness, when the greatness would only come when I figured out what that character sitting across from my MC really wanted.

Now I know.

And now I'm going to go write it.



What about you, writers? Ever written a scene that felt flat? Was a lack of character motivation the issue, or something entirely different? Leave a comment below!







Thursday, 9 March 2017

Writing Lesson from 'Six of Crows': Character Descriptions


After a very productive morning during which I finally broke the back of a very pesky chapter that has been irking me for some time, I find myself with time to spare, and bring to you a post I have been waiting for weeks to write...

Writing Lessons from Six of Crows by Leigh Bardugo. (No spoilers here. You may read this in all safety, then go buy the book.)

The discrepancy between this and the blog title lies in the simple fact that several lessons have been learnt reading Six of Crows, but for the sake of the well-established format of my blog posts i.e. "one book, one lesson" (nobody mention that this is only the third post), I have chosen to write about character descriptions.

In case you were wondering, the runner-up lessons were "How to Write Successful Flashbacks" and "How to Use Backstory to Advance the Plot". So, yeah. Maybe I'll come back to those one day, if I ever run out of books to blog about. (Unlikely.)

*clears throat*

Characters...

For an action-packed heist, this book is all about character. Even the title refers to the six main characters, each of which are about as different from each other as half-a-dozen teenagers could be. The characters breathe life into this story, they drive the plot, they create the disasters, they get themselves into, and out of, their own holes. And considering there are five main POVs and two additional ones, I found myself relating quite easily to all of them.

The descriptions, all told from another character's third person point of view, are pulsating with life and layers.

Kaz, the leader of the gang, is a rough and tough youth, who leads the group with his own agenda and a great deal of flair. Most of the time. Here are my favourite descriptions of Kaz in the opening chapters.

"He was a collection of hard lines and tailored edges - sharp jaw, lean build, wool coat snug across his shoulders..."

"Kaz stood with both gloved hands resting on the carved crow's head of his cane. He looked totally at ease, his narrow face obscured by the brim of his hat... she'd come to understand that it was a joke he played on the upstanding merchers. He enjoyed looking like one of them."

"Inej knew the moment Kaz entered the Slat. His presence reverberated through the cramped rooms and crooked hallways as every thug, thief, dealer, conman, and steerer came a little more awake." This one is particularly genius, as it acts as a description of both an essential element of Kaz's character, and also of the setting of their home.

Inej is a soft-footed 'thief of secrets' who climbs walls, picks locks, and spies on everyone. The following descriptions of Inej were actually my favourite lines in the whole book. Beautifully written.

"Inej had a way of making you feel her silence. It tugged at your edges..."

"He'd heard other members of the gang say she moved like a cat, but he suspected cats would sit attentively at her feet to learn her methods..."

"He didn't see her go, only sensed her absence."

"No one else moved like that, as if the world were smoke and she was just passing through it."

Jesper is a twitchy, hyperactive guy with an addiction to gambling and a love for guns. He's my favourite character of all six. I think he's the one who seems the "simplest", but there's a lot more to him.

"With a great sigh, Jesper removed the gunbelts at his hips. She had to admit he looked less himself without them. The Zemeni sharpshooter was long-limbed, brown-skinned, constantly in motion..."

"He had yet to give up his rifle and the silhouette of it across his back made him resemble a gawky, long-limbed bird..."

"Whenever he got cranky he liked to lay his hands on a gun, like a child seeking the comfort of a favoured doll."

"Jesper always felt better when people were shooting at him. It wasn't that he liked the idea of dying... but if he was worrying about staying alive, he couldn't be thinking about anything else. That sound - the swift, shocking report of gunfire - called the scattered, irascible, permanently seeking part of his mind into focus like nothing else. It was better than being at the tables and waiting for the flop..." This is a genius interpretation of Jesper's ADHD, which is never stated outright, but is unquestionably present.

So, to summarise, Bardugo's characters are:
- well-developed
- unique
- described in original ways
- characterised by a small number of elements that are central to them and bring them alive.

On that note, I'd better get back to my WIP and practise.

Readers, which are your favourite characters in Six of Crows or other books, and why did they come alive for you?

Writers, how do you craft your writing to ensure that characters are well-rounded and well-described?



Sunday, 26 February 2017

What I Learned from 'Thanks for the Memories', by Cecelia Ahern.



Good morning/day/evening to you, dear readers. (It's late evening for me, and I'm eschewing my responsibilities to bring you my latest post...)

What I Learned Reading Thanks for the Memories, by Cecelia Ahern (published by Harper Collins). Many of you will know her as the author of 'P.S. I Love You'.

This book is not my usual kind of read. It's most definitely romance, which I rarely read as a genre. My sister gave it to me, and the first thing I should say is I COULD NOT PUT IT DOWN.

I literally kept dashing to my room to read another chapter in secret. If that doesn't deserve a blog post, I don't know what does.

So, before I get into the nitty gritty of how Ahern pulled this off so well, I'll start with: go read the book. If you enjoy romance with a great cast of characters, main and secondary, a beautifully engaging setting, and a perfect ending, you'll love this. It will not make you cry as much as 'P.S. I Love You' but it will definitely pull at the heart strings. The main character's elderly dad is an epic character, who will you never forget. (Or at least not for awhile. I read this a few months ago.)

Right. So. That said, I'll jump right in.

SPOILER

This book certainly upholds the 'keep them apart till the ending' principle. But I did not know that when I started reading, of course. The two main characters first meet in chapter seven (of forty-three),  so pretty early on. From that moment on there's a sort of cat-and-mouse chase that almost brings them together several times, and it is infuriatingly effective. As the reader, I had absolutely no clue about how or when they were going to connect and, as I said before, I couldn't put the book down.

If we take the leading lady to be the protagonist (her PoV is first person), and the guy to be the antagonist (his PoV is third person - his actions mostly keep them apart), this principle can be applied to any genre. By knowing that they will inevitably meet at some point, and something big will happen, Ahern keeps the reader guessing all through the book. The trick, I think, was all the 'almosts'. If the two leads had separate story lines that never touched until the end, this nail-biting urgency would be lacking. It was the multiple 'will-they-won't-theys' that kept me turning those pages.

In my current WIP, a superhero/spy mystery, the main confrontation between the protagonist and the antagonist comes, as it should, right at the climax, pages from the end. But I'm attempting to apply this principle by giving them plenty of 'almosts' to keep things hot.

I guess my beta readers will let me know if it works!

Readers, which books have you read with plenty of 'almosts'?
Writers, have you applied this principle to your story?












Sunday, 12 February 2017

Great Almond Street and What I Learned Writing a Short Story


Writing a novel is exciting, but also excruciating and exhausting. I hit a low in December, and very nearly lobbed my WIP into the nearest black hole I could find. Fortunately, a timely suggestion to join a critique group kept me going, and said WIP has thus far escaped the relentless pull of the gravitational force otherwise known as Giving Up. 

You may have heard of it. 

So, December was a time for Doing Something Else. I blame this partly (or maybe entirely) on the 95k I wrote during November's NaNoWriMo. I needed a post-NaNo detox. 

Then I discovered The Winter Writing Contest, hosted by Short Fiction Break, and decided to have a go at writing a short story. This particular contest attracted me due to its workshops where other participants could read and give feedback on each other's stories before the final contest deadline. There was also the option to receive feedback from the judges, win or lose. 

My story, Great Almond Street, was selected as one of ten runners-up! Needless to say, this was a huge boost of encouragement, and to top it all off, I learned so much during this experience. I'm now fully convinced that all writers should experiment with short stories every now and then. 

Here are my humble reasons why. 

1. Every word counts. 


Literally. The word count on this competition was 1500 words. That's less than the average scene in my novel. Every single word has to make a difference. Every word must advance the plot, characterize, or foreshadow. Or, preferably, do all three. 

This was an excellent lesson for my long and rambling novel, currently weighing it at well over 120,000 pounds words. Sharpens knife. 

2. The premise must be, dare I say, magical. 


I hummed and hawed over various story ideas that fit the theme, and none of them connected. None of them stuck. I started a few half-hearted drafts, and knew they were going nowhere. 

Then my husband inspired me with the mention of conjoined twins, and I knew immediately I had my story. I knew the story would be told from one of the twin's POV, and I knew what would happen to the twins. 

I believe this is the single most important reason why my story was successful. I could have written any of the mediocre ideas I'd had, but they would have never been anything other than mediocre. (Same writer, same brain, same dog-eared Thesaurus on the same desk.) 

This realization scares me. My WIP premise may not be all it should. 

Never mind, I'm still learning. 

3. The importance of voice. 


Of those who were kind enough to read and comment on my story, many mentioned the voice. A child's voice, no older than six or seven. This story, told by the mother, would have been different. Told by the father, different too. Told by the other twin, definitely different. 

Voice is paramount to a great story. It's what keeps us reading. Writing from a child's POV was a new experience, but beautifully refreshing. Over ten years of working as a speech-language pathologist gave me a particularly developed 'feel' for how children speak. I'm so happy this came across as legitimate in my story. 

Not every character's voice comes as easily, but come it must, if the story is to shine. 


Great Almond Street


We lie together on the bed and watch Mummy pack all the new clothes into the suitcase. I play with the little ladybirds at the bottom of Sarah’s plaits, making them crawl up her shoulder and neck. Mummy holds up the new yellow daisy dresses.
“Daisies for the Queen!” Sarah giggles.
“The Queen is too busy,” I tell her once again.
“Mummy!”
Mummy blinks and turns around to fold the dresses. “We can certainly ask her.”
Sarah pokes me. “Told you,” she says, and sticks her tongue in my face. I stick mine back, a little further, because I am a little bit bigger than her.
“Mummy, can we have lollipops for breakfast?” Sarah lifts her head to look at Mummy, and I do the same. Of course Mummy will say no.
“Lollipops and chocolate,” Mummy says but she doesn’t turn around.
Sarah falls back against the pillow and laughs. “Tomorrow will be the best day ever!”
I laugh with her, because I love lollipops and chocolate too, but Mummy is being strange. I ask Daddy if she is sick. Daddy laughs and hugs us. He tells us to play on the swing before we have to leave. We sit together and ride through the sky. Her smile is a mirror picture of mine, except hers is a little bit bigger.
“They’re talking about the hospital,” I tell Sarah. “Great Almond Street.”

  

Wednesday, 8 February 2017

What I Learned Reading The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins

The bull has been taken by the horns (pardon the passive voice) and here is my first blog post for this my new writing platform. Howdy, readers, and thank you for stopping by.

Today I would like to kick off a long-standing series (I promise) of posts entitled 'What I Learned Reading...', and I have decided to give first place to, dum, dum, dum... The Hunger Games!

Why, you ask?

Short answer: It's awesome. Longer answer: I resisted the gravitational pull of society and did not read this book (or watch this movie) until the end of last year. My thirty-something brain had it branded as a soppy teenage book (even though I like reading YA), so yeah, I snobbishly held off.

Then, something happened.

I started writing fiction.

This happened about a year ago, overnight. Literally. I had a dream and it was about an awesome superhero girl who could fly and rescue people from tall buildings. I think the building in my dream could have been the Empire State Building. Random. I've only been to New York City once, and that was in the last millennia.

Soooo, after this dream, I decided to write a book about this awesome superhero girl, who, I discovered, did not have a goal, did not have a backstory, did not have an antagonist and did not have a point. A long and difficult year later, she found all those missing things. (And lost the ability to fly.) Or should I say, I found them for her, through many many hours and days and weeks and months of Learning The Craft.

(Small diversion here: The World Wide Web is amazing. How did people self-learn anything a generation ago?)

In my plentiful readings I kept coming across The Hunger Games, most often referred to as a great example of This, That and The Other.

So I read it. Then I read Catching Fire. Then I read Mockingjay. Then I watched the four movies.

Now I get it.

I'm not saying these books are perfect. (After all, what is, except maybe a fluffy little raspberry macaroon?) But they are pretty darn awesome in many diverse ways. And one thing I learned from Suzanne Collins is...

Character Reactions.

So you're going along in your story and something big happens. Massive. It could be shocking, surprising, scary, whatever. Your awesome protagonist has to react. Sure. So, what? She says 'I'm shocked?' Nah. She looks shocked? Yawn. Her jaw drops and her heart pounds? A little better, but pretty clichéd.

SPOILER ALERT for anyone else with a snobbish thirty-something brain who has not read The Hunger Games.

At the end of chapter one, Prim's name is called. She is going into the arena. Needless to say, Katniss, her sister, is shocked. She's scared. Worried. Whatever.

But this is how Ms Collins starts chapter two:

One time, when I was in a hide in a tree, waiting motionless for game to wander by, I dozed off and fell three meters to the ground, landing on my back. It was as if the impact had knocked every wisp of air from my lungs, and I lay there struggling to inhale, to exhale, to do anything. 

That's how I feel now, trying to remember how to breathe, unable to speak, totally stunned as the name bounces around the inside of my skull. Someone is gripping my arm, a boy from the Seam, and I think maybe I started to fall and he caught me. 

I love this. Collins cuts away from the present in the first paragraph, and gives a brief but clear description of a past event, then ties it into the present again. It is a visceral reaction, serves to bring in backstory, characterizes Katniss perfectly, foreshadows future events in trees, and speaks volumes as to how she is feeling right now.

I am attempting to apply this beautiful little nugget of writing to my own Work In Progress. It's harder than it looks, but I'm trying.

Chasing my tale.