When I first started writing my stories, I shared them with a very good friend. She was someone who never judged me. Intrigued with what she considered an awe-inspiring skill, she asked me how I chose my characters.
Well, my heroine was actually simple.
I created her out of my feelings. No one will ever know her like I do. She possesses my passions, my fears, my code of ethics. She is also real, forward and makes her own way. When I make her dance over a page, she's acting out my very desires, thinking my thoughs. I know what she likes to eat, how she prefers to dress. She's funny, witty, sweet with an undelying naughtiness.
Choosing my hero, well, that was a different story all together. That's where the fantasy begins. He's not a shifter by any means, but he's also not altogether human. I should start from the begining, with my friend's question.
"How did you choose your hero?" she asked.
"It was easy," I said. "I slept with him."
"What!?" That was her response, but having become familiar with my eccentricity, she waited for my reply.
"Well, not for real. This is fiction." Let me explain.
There were three men who interviewed for the position, in my mind's eye. Consider the fact that I have owned my heroine, so I know what she prefers in her counterpart. These three, who have all made it into my books, have distinct personalities. There was only one way to figure them out. I took them all on a date.
Bachelor number 1 was flirtatious, powerful, and offered a slightly complicated relationship. I wanted to play with him, but it wouldn't lead to anything serious.
Bachelor number 2 was brainy, kind, and left me gaping half the time with his acquired knowledge. I wanted to be his friend and use his toys.
Bachelor number 3 liked Chinese noodles. He enjoyed mixing silk and leather. His passions ran deep, along with his temper. There was something in his eyes, a certainty that he would know exactly what to do and what to say. He held the world on his shoulders. Although he could handle it, he was secretly vulnerable. I needed to look deeper.
I let him take out to dinner. He wore one of those ruffled shirts that have no place on such a brawny man, and he looked fantastic. Leather pants hugged his hips down to his ankles like a glove. He poured me wine, a fine Merlot, rich, dark, full-bodied. He raised the cup to my lips and leaned forward. His eyes crinkled at the corners as I took that first sip. His lips tilted up just a fraction.
"Why are you doing this?" I heard myself whisper.
He leaned even closer, licked his lips. "I'm a filthy, lascivious, fornicating feline. What's your excuse?"
That's when I knew he was the one. He was secure. Life was at his fingertips. He was perfection.
I took him home and ravished him in the shower. He's been my hero ever since.
I get involved with my characters. It's how I make the stories work.
Artists will submerge themselves in their art. They will paint their bodies, stroke a brush against canvas relentlessly night after night before collapsing in a heap of exhaustion. During that time they might refuse to eat, bathe, sleep. That is passion, devotion, love for the art. Eccentric you say. You betcha, and it's what works for them. I respect that.
Writers write all the time, even when they're not holding a pen or stroking keys. They think about it, construct plots, carry pages of dialogue in their purse that they've scribbled on a pad in the spur of the moment because some great scenario just leaped into their heads. Well, at least I do.
I could be at the mall and wonder what my characters will wear, be watching a TV show and consider how they would react in a certain situation. If I'm at a restaurant, I wonder what food they would order from the menu or how so and so's hand would look while petting my dogs.
I love it, the whole process of writing, except for the querying part.
I'm going to close this post with a few words from a fabulous man. He's a buddy of mine who happens to make a guest appearance in one of my books. Centuries later he still has me in awe because of his liberal views of life.
*
I do not agree with what you have to say, but I'll defend to the death your
right to say it.
~VOLTAIRE~
Socrates believed that the gods provided us with a type of insanity. The illness was responsible for poetry, mysticism, love, and philosophy. He called it Divine Madness. We call it intuition, inspiration, the muse. Regardless, I have been contaminated. This blog is an attempt to share the ramblings in my head by the subtle stroking of keys. I'm going to touch upon those situations that move me and define me as human.
4/5/11
Poem 1: CRY LITTLE KITTY
I mentioned before that I wrote poetry during my teenage years. This is one I wrote for a friend. Oh, there was the occasional few who were drawn to me. They were usually kids who had encountered their own brand of cruelty. I discovered that these individuals who the world deemed less-than-perfect were beautiful people who felt their emotions deeply.
I’m going to call my friend Stacie to protect her identity. At the time I wrote this poem she was living with a guy, someone much older. Somehow she came across a tiny kitten that had been abandoned by it’s mother. She kept it for exactly two days feeding it from a bottle, but the man she lived with grew angry because the kitten kept them up at night. The selfish bastard made her choose.
She had no one if he left her, so she did something many girls do in her situation. She betrayed herself. They took the kitten in the car with them, drove to a fancy house and dumped the kitten in the backyard in the hopes that the people living there would happen upon it and take it in. It was a gamble. Then, they drove away. She never knew what became of the kitten but blamed herself often.
When she finally told me the story she had been crying for days. Both her actions and her grief broke my heart. And so I wrote this poem for her, the kitten, and so many others that are taken for granted. I have made no alterations to the poem since the day I wrote it when I was about fifteen.
Cry little kitty, cry because your mother’s womb has brought you to a cold and heartless world.
Cry little kitty, for the breast that once nursed you abandoned you to the cruelty of human hands.
Cry little kitty, for in a world where kids go hungry and people exploit each other no one will hear your little kitty cries.
Cry little kitty because I hear you, and my tears go with you, and my memories will always have you.
Cry little kitty that your little grey eyes and your pink button nose feel the hatred inside human hearts.
Cry little kitty, for here comes the master to take you in his arms, caress your little kitty head, and give you his love.
Now little kitty, cry no more.
I’m going to call my friend Stacie to protect her identity. At the time I wrote this poem she was living with a guy, someone much older. Somehow she came across a tiny kitten that had been abandoned by it’s mother. She kept it for exactly two days feeding it from a bottle, but the man she lived with grew angry because the kitten kept them up at night. The selfish bastard made her choose.
She had no one if he left her, so she did something many girls do in her situation. She betrayed herself. They took the kitten in the car with them, drove to a fancy house and dumped the kitten in the backyard in the hopes that the people living there would happen upon it and take it in. It was a gamble. Then, they drove away. She never knew what became of the kitten but blamed herself often.
When she finally told me the story she had been crying for days. Both her actions and her grief broke my heart. And so I wrote this poem for her, the kitten, and so many others that are taken for granted. I have made no alterations to the poem since the day I wrote it when I was about fifteen.
CRY LITTLE KITTY
Cry little kitty, for the breast that once nursed you abandoned you to the cruelty of human hands.
Cry little kitty, for in a world where kids go hungry and people exploit each other no one will hear your little kitty cries.
Cry little kitty because I hear you, and my tears go with you, and my memories will always have you.
Cry little kitty that your little grey eyes and your pink button nose feel the hatred inside human hearts.
Cry little kitty, for here comes the master to take you in his arms, caress your little kitty head, and give you his love.
Now little kitty, cry no more.
4/4/11
Psych 101: Fantasy
Back in my college years, a long, long time ago, I tinkered with the idea of becoming a psychologist. I thought that I could offer advice, a shoulder to cry on for those damanged souls. I was just starting to break out of my shell. Mother Theresa was in my heart. Then, my sociology teacher said something extraordinary.
People spend 90% of the time thinking about sex.
What? The man was either delusional or high on something. I've yet to find evidence to the fact. There is no way in the world. People just don't do that. Come on. What a waste of time. Never pose such a scenario to someone with an overactive imagination.
"That can't be right," I finally said. Then, I cocked my head and pictured him in speedos.
Note to self: Eliminate speedos from all future fantasies...hmm, unless they're strapped to Johnny Depp, Brad Pitt, that guy from Pearl Harbor, or some other hottie.
It's no wonder that when I tell my friends that I write fantasy, they glance around, lips quivering, cow-eyed, and consider sticking their faces inside a desk drawer.
"No, no," I say. "Not the stuff you think about 90% of the time. You know, the genre, fantasy."
Definition: Fantasy is a genre of fiction that uses magic and other supernatural phenomena as a primary element of plot, theme, or setting. Many works within the genre take place in fictional worlds where magic is common. Fantasy is generally distinguished from science fiction and horror by the expectation that it steers clear of (pseudo-)scientific and macabre themes, respectively, though there is a great deal of overlap between the three (which are subgenres of speculative fiction).
It's like a thin line you walk. Careful which way to sway your hips. I am confused about something. There are agents out there that say they don't represent fantasy or science fiction, but they will represent speculative fiction. If the two are subgenres of the one....well, you see my confusion.
I began writing a spectacular paranormal romance,which wasn't a romance at all, eventhough there's a hot thriving love story in it, because there's not a real HEA until the second book. It became fiction.
Wait, you throw in an alien or two, another planet, then it has aspects of science fiction.
Now, insert a unicorn, a secret power, go do something crazy like toss in a tiny purple fairy who chugs beer, hocks loogies, and curses in five languages just because he can, and ouila, we have achieved fantasy.
Note to self: Annihilate nasty little hocking fairy before he finds his way into any of my books.
I can't seem to help myself. No matter what I try to write, it becomes fantasy. Everything else just seems so dull in comparison. So I've embraced it. I am a fantasy writer. There is a series of ten books waiting to be published, and I continue to query my little heart out.
Tune in tomorrow and find out how I chose my characters.
As for psychology, eh, Ziggy Freud lost me at penis envy. In honor of my college years, here's a quote from a shrink.
"I must learn to love the fool in me the one who feels too much, talks too much, takes too many chances, wins sometimes and loses often, lacks self-control, loves and hates, hurts and gets hurt, promises and breaks promise, laughs and cries."
~Theodore Isaac Rubin~
People spend 90% of the time thinking about sex.
What? The man was either delusional or high on something. I've yet to find evidence to the fact. There is no way in the world. People just don't do that. Come on. What a waste of time. Never pose such a scenario to someone with an overactive imagination.
"That can't be right," I finally said. Then, I cocked my head and pictured him in speedos.
Note to self: Eliminate speedos from all future fantasies...hmm, unless they're strapped to Johnny Depp, Brad Pitt, that guy from Pearl Harbor, or some other hottie.
It's no wonder that when I tell my friends that I write fantasy, they glance around, lips quivering, cow-eyed, and consider sticking their faces inside a desk drawer.
"No, no," I say. "Not the stuff you think about 90% of the time. You know, the genre, fantasy."
Definition: Fantasy is a genre of fiction that uses magic and other supernatural phenomena as a primary element of plot, theme, or setting. Many works within the genre take place in fictional worlds where magic is common. Fantasy is generally distinguished from science fiction and horror by the expectation that it steers clear of (pseudo-)scientific and macabre themes, respectively, though there is a great deal of overlap between the three (which are subgenres of speculative fiction).
It's like a thin line you walk. Careful which way to sway your hips. I am confused about something. There are agents out there that say they don't represent fantasy or science fiction, but they will represent speculative fiction. If the two are subgenres of the one....well, you see my confusion.
I began writing a spectacular paranormal romance,which wasn't a romance at all, eventhough there's a hot thriving love story in it, because there's not a real HEA until the second book. It became fiction.
Wait, you throw in an alien or two, another planet, then it has aspects of science fiction.
Now, insert a unicorn, a secret power, go do something crazy like toss in a tiny purple fairy who chugs beer, hocks loogies, and curses in five languages just because he can, and ouila, we have achieved fantasy.
Note to self: Annihilate nasty little hocking fairy before he finds his way into any of my books.
I can't seem to help myself. No matter what I try to write, it becomes fantasy. Everything else just seems so dull in comparison. So I've embraced it. I am a fantasy writer. There is a series of ten books waiting to be published, and I continue to query my little heart out.
Tune in tomorrow and find out how I chose my characters.
As for psychology, eh, Ziggy Freud lost me at penis envy. In honor of my college years, here's a quote from a shrink.
"I must learn to love the fool in me the one who feels too much, talks too much, takes too many chances, wins sometimes and loses often, lacks self-control, loves and hates, hurts and gets hurt, promises and breaks promise, laughs and cries."
~Theodore Isaac Rubin~
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