Multi-Dimensional Characters

　

Multi-dimensional characters.

As an avid elevator stalker, I meet a lot of people. Most of them know me by name, which can prove embarrassing because I have a difficult time matching a face to a name. In order to remember these individuals if I pass them along the way, I've developed a few nicknames. Here are a few.

1) Unusual Face Guy.

He looks like Jean Claude Van Damme, banged his forehead against the garage door, wore a band aid for a week. He's stocky and gets all blushy when I say hi.

2) Elliptical Farter.

He doesn't acknowledge me in elevators, or anywhere else. One fine day, I was at the gym doing butterflies. He was on the elliptical. Believing he was safe and not counting on my excellent hearing, he let one rip. The man had obviously scarfed a large amount of burritos. Needless to say, my reps were cut short and he's bore the name ever since.

3) Old Delivery Guy.

I think his name is Seb. Nicest man in the world, has to be 90. He's chipper than I am, and that's saying much. I've found myself wondering what it would be like to meet him in heaven. Don't ask me why.

4) Aunt B.

I ran into her on Halloween. I'm not much for extremes when it comes to dressing in costumes at work, so I dressed normally, except for well-placed little horns on my head. She asked me if I was a demon. I said, "No, I'm just horny." If looks could kill. She acts as if I don't exist. The woman must have sex through a whole in the blanket. Okay, I'm being mean.

In the bright side, I would never hurt any one's feelings, so I say these things in private. If they ever read this blog, they will have no clue that I'm referring to them.

I'm posting this to illustrate the depth of individuals. We are all more than skin deep.

Maybe Unusual Face Guy coaches a softball team because, with his busy schedule, it's the only time he can spend with his daughter. He could be a stripper on the side to earn some extra cash to pay his alimony and get his daughter through college. Or perhaps he has a boyfriend, the result of his breakup with his wife.

Elliptical Farter probably has an excellent sense of humor. He just doesn't use it with me. Maybe he adores his grandchildren and is recovering from a deadly disease. The possibility of not seeing his grandkids again depresses him. Right now he hates the world, but the doctor told him the elliptical and other exercise regiments would help with his recovery.

Old Delivery Guy sits in the backyard drinking beer with his dog and texting an elderly lady he met in Phoenix at a writer's conference. She's planning on moving in with him soon. They'll be married in the fall. She reminds him of his high school sweetheart; I'm just guessing. On weekends, he visits retirement homes utilizing his dog for therapy.

Aunt B has a part time job as a prison guard. She has to be tough as nails. Any attempt at sexual innuendos has to be stopped short. She knits, makes quilts, and has an obsession for beaded bracelets. At night, she soaks in a tub and pretends to be a mermaid while burning a scented candle reeking of manly musk.

Okay, I'm playing, but I will never forget these people. I've traveled into their minds, their hearts and discovered things that excite them, move them, make them angry. That's how you form a multi-dimensional character.

The bottom line: It's not about how Johnny stepped on a rock. It's about why he did it, what he felt when he was doing it, did he have an alternate motive. Was the rock too small for him to use it to crack someone's head open. I can go on and on, but rocks are boring.

See ya tomorrow.

Venturing Outside My Norm

I'm facing a dilemma.

Last week Bryce mentioned that he'd like to possess the mindset to write YA fiction. I always believed that was out of my loop. Then Roland chimes in and suggests that I give it a try. I might surprise myself. Thank you for your words of encouragement.

Well, okay. I'm strangely attracted to experimenting. It's the way I learn, so I considered it, just for a few minutes, never anticipating the outcome.

Enter Muse...

My mind became inundated with ideas. I couldn't hold back the flow. Then came Emily (Protagonist 1). She insisted on being a part of it, gave me her first and last name, screamed it into my head. With her, she brought a twin brother (Edward). They hinted that there were spare pages taking up room in my computer. They're filled with dialogue and plot just begging to be used, and they would be perfect for this, simple to convert them to YA fantasy.

"You're kidding," I said. "I don't have time for this."

Then she threw in the conflict, a proverbial apple. I gave in. I hopped out of the shower. (It's a great place to encourage the flow of ideas.) Next thing I knew I was sitting at my PC paging through the suggested draft. I'll be darned if she wasn't right.

I had two chapters sitting there of a discarded manuscript I was saving for later use. The way I outlined it saves room for about four books if I should choose to pursue YA. I played with it. When I was done, there it was, two polished chapters of YA fantasy.

Now, there's an even bigger problem.

I'm presently editing adult fantasy to get it ready for querying. I'm also working on plot for paranormal romance. I have a day job, family, other responsibilities. My day is vivisected to fit everyone into the equation. How in the world am I going to write this other book?

I could give up sleep, but that would just botch my creativity. I could give up working out and keel over from a heart attack. I could give up sex...not an option. I could give up showering...yuk. I could write it during breaks and lunch. Nope, that would interfere with my blogging time. Someone posted that they write in ten minute increments...not sufficient for me.

I couldn't possibly let the story go, not when it's so clear in my head. I've been tinkering with the idea of designating a couple of days a week just to focus on this story. Ugh, I hate multitasking. There never seems to be enough time for anything. I can sit in front of my PC, dive into a story and suddenly it's time for bed. That only goes to show that time is another big illusion.

Until tomorrow.

Another Day for Poetry

Saturday I started the day  at 6 AM with the usual two hours of writing.  I went garage-saling to find the perfect pots for my new plants.  The day grew hotter, but still I planted.  Then I greeted the Rapture with a pint of chocolate java mash icecream in hand and visions of what tomorrow would look like dancing around in my head.  I can't help that part.  I'm a writer.  Secretly I hoped my joke proved to be true and that a huge spaceship would soar overhead.  I sat outside surrounded by plants, dogs, and hubby.  The sky clouded over, then the clouds passed up by.  A little part of me was disappointed that I didn't get to chat with aliens, but I kept that to myself and finised up the coffee icecream. 

I thought that in celebration of the new day I should post a poem from my past.  I didn't last week because I was too busy writing one up for Rachelle Gardner's blog.  So here goes.

People have always discounted and condemned what they can’t understand. My family never grasped the fact that I didn’t fit in with the rest of society when I was growing up. They often criticized everything I did and said, and most of all my devotion to all things supernatural. It was one thing to believe, but to make it a part of your life, to see God in everything so that you’re unbiased and willing to find perfection in something considered silly by others, well that was useless, insane. Nah, it’s just the mind of a writer, this writer. I do believe I wrote this one for my guardian angel.
　
　
　
I KNOW BETTER
　
A glimpse of the heavens is but a desire for man, so they tell me,
But when you angel light dances in my eyes I know better.

They say you’re not real. You’re only in my mind.
I’d be a fool to dwell on you too much,
But when you take my hand, I know better.

I’m told you are abstract. I should hold on to more tangible things.
I must be going crazy, but when you put your arms around me, I know better.

They say I’ll have a life filled with loneliness. I have so many years ahead of me,
Why waste them on you.

They scream They shout. They cry. They try to control me,
But when you spread your wings and we fly, I know better.

Live Like There's No Tomorrow

　

There's been a lot of talk lately about the end of world. Now it's supposed to start on Saturday at 12:01. The good will be sucked up into the Heavens, which means I'll be pounding my fists onto my desk. "Hell no, we won't go!"

My writing career has only just begun.

I have lived trough several of these so-called man-made phenomenons...all of them prophesizing the end. People looking for a quick fix to all of their problems will believe anything. For everyone who tells me the end is coming tomorrow, I scoff.

"Don't be silly," I say. "Tomorrow will be the first day of our alien invasion. Please do come to my party. I'll be the one on the roof holding up the sign for the aliens that reads (FREE BEER HERE)."

And the sale of science fiction novels will sky-rocket. Better get busy writing.

I try not to take things too seriously, unless they're important. I find that everything can be resolved with uninhibited laughter and do sport some lovely laugh lines to prove it. Drop all the fake stuff, just get along. Let's sit and discuss matters over a cup of coffee.

When our building was being remodelled, we were asked to name the conference rooms. I'm not one to pass up an opportunity to flex creative wings, so I submitted several ideas. One of them was seven artists, which was chosen for one of the floors. The others weren't quite so popular but served to tickle me anyway.

Seven types of laughter, such as the laugh, chuckle or chortle, guffaw or snicker, the snort and the giggle. It would have been wonderful if they had chosen this one.

I can picture the suits walking into the giggle room. The very sound of the word makes my lips twitch. Life should be simple. We over-complicate it with ridiculous extremes.

Maybe today should be about what makes us happy. For me those things are simple.

(A quiet evening spent with the hubby, 15 minutes of romping with dogs, an hour of uninterrupted writing, laughing so hard I wet my pants, dipping into a favorite brand of ice-cream, sticking my head through the sunroof so the wind can mess up my hair and hit me in the face, riding a roller coaster while someone snaps a picture of my tonsils, telling someone I love them.)

Yes, these are simple things. Some are even things a child would do. We forget how to have fun after we grow up. Maybe it would be in the worlds best interest to take a step back, forget about the nonsense, make a mudpie just because you can.  Go out and do something you haven't done in ages.

And most of all, and I can't stress this enough, just enjoy being alive.

All that will be in fine print at the bottom of the sign I'm holding up for the aliens.

Have a great weekend everyone!

The Purpose of Sex

Hmm, there’s a pattern here. I’m writing about sex again. Why?  It’s a wonderful tool to show the development of a character. However, there is something called overdoing it.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m all for detail, but when it comes to my discarded fantasy manuscript, I was doing it all wrong. Yikes, talk about bad erotica.  Live and learn.

I decided to play with it. How would the story flow if I tweaked certain sex scenes?

Sex works with my characters because of the type of society they’ve been placed in, one lacking in certain taboos.

My hero suffers from tasteful cravings. My heroine is naughty beyond words. They both lead separate lives. Obstacles keep them apart.

Regardless of how many characters I introduce, the major sex should center around my protagonists, to show their reaction, their development, and gear all eyes toward them. I didn't want them to meet right away. This first book is meant to tease them, to show them that they need each other but can't have what they want, yet.

Editing sex can be fun, rewarding. (Presently giggling like a school girl.)

I refuse to let these two people get it on until at least the third book, at which time I will allow it to get hot and heavy. Practice makes perfect, and I’ve found that I can write a mean sex scene, regardless of gender.

I’ve also decided to enhance the fantasy for the minor characters to give us a glimpse into their heart and an idea of what their world looks like.

Looks like I’ve got my work cut out for me. Will post more about my progress next week.

Meanwhile, plots are jumbled in my head, twirling around, battling each other. When they fall into place, I should be able to advance with my paranormal romance. Oh, and here's an update on that, by the way.

Last night I sat at my PC and dumped a whole bunch of plot information. I'm not a plotter persay, but one single sentence helps to put my thoughts in perspective. Once I start moving forward with it again, the information should fill the next hundred pages nicely.

I'm also intrigued by the villain. Seldom do I like a villain, but he serves a key role. I'm not killing this one off. The muses are whispering that he's going to be something special. I'll be sticking him in the consecutive books. And in the fourth, he will be the hero.  On with the fun.

More Edits on WIP

I took a closer look at the conflict in that old discarded fantasy novel.

There are two villains, but both arrive at a different time in the story. I decided this deserves editing.

If I allude to the second conflict earlier in the story, it won’t seem like I’m tossing something in just to add bulk. In reality, the death of the first villain allows an entry to the second, but it also serves to divide the story, and that’s not what I want.

One of my favorite characters, who in fact plays a key factor in this tale, is a scientist/doctor. He will become privy to the second threat earlier in the novel and keep it under observation. It creates a flow.

Also, the first villain needs a little more depth added to her. She's manipulative, obssessive, cruel, and an absolute whore. Those are good things. It's what I envisioned for her, but none of that make me hate her. That can mean only one thing. I need to make her worse. It's imperative that she commits attrocities, something so aweful that it will make me resist killing her before her time. What to do? What to do? This is going to be fun.

I’ve discovered something wonderful in fixing this discarded novel. If we want a perfect book, it’s important not to marry it. That means be willing to change it. Toss things out, rewrite, add delete. It’s like cleaning a closet. Do what works, and have a good time doing it.

Critique yourself until you’re ready to slap yourself silly. Ten to one, when it falls into the hands of an editor, they’re going to want you to change some things anyway. Why not start now? Care enough to give the very best. Huh, isn't that Hallmark?

Tomorrow, I tackle sex.

More About Writing

I reached a stopping point in the my current WIP. I could feel the muses luring me away. I wrote 100 pages, and the thoughts that had been navigating so well suddenly came to a halt. I don’t force the writing. At least for me, that takes all the fun out of it. When that happens it’s necessary to shift focus.

I am primarily a fantasy writer, and I’ve been missing it. Although the paranormal romance has been going so well, I’m eager to submerge myself into the uncommon. I need to step outside the box, take a wacky pill, dive into the bizarre.

I pulled out an old manuscript, one I had let sit and considered shelved because of it’s lack of clarity. It was a story I had used to learn the writing craft before I knew even how to set margins.

I flipped through it, talked to it, asked it what it needed. What could I do to make every page sing to me? Artists are allowed their dose of eccentricity. Besides, there was no one else around.

I discovered several flaws, and the fact that I can see those now means that my skill has improved considerably since I started writing.

The story itself was good. It just needed a few adjustments.

I originally wrote it in first person, and the flow wasn’t there, so I experimented. It’s the best way to learn. I took the first 30 pages and switched them to third person. The difference was notable, incredible. That familiar tingle started, erupted like a volcano and tickled me to my toes.

Writing fantasy does that to me. I discovered a sense of direction, a refocus. I decided to see how far I could get with these 30 pages. It would mean a rewrite of the story, but the skeleton was there for me to play with.
I rewrote the prologue, then decided the story worked fine without it. If anything I can offer it as optional. I allowed the tale to be told by the hero, shifting focus away from the heroine at first. I would need to enhance his struggles. Conflict is what renders a book exciting.

It was my wish to show the story instead of telling about it, which meant I added more dialogue, physical
reactions, and deep thought. Soul-searching can be a wonderful tool.

I wanted the language to be enticing. Being a poet at heart, I like writing pretty prose, but it has to make
sense and draw the reader in.

Sunday morning I finished my edit on all 30 pages and brought an entire world to life.

I’m happy to say that this is a keeper, I can’t wait to see how the rest of it looks when I’m done, or when the muses suggest I return to the paranormal romance.