Winter, The Love-Hate Time of Year

It's supposed to get above freezing today. Hooray! Until the next storm hits tonight. Here in the Northwest, I think we can love snow a little bit more than the rest of the country, this year. Or maybe not. We don't get really hard winters as a rule, so when the bad weather hits, we've usually forgotten how to drive in snow and ice.

I admit I hate being cold now, but I remember the time when I really loved it. These days, I love it, but mostly from the warm side of the window. Still, all those memories have to be good for something. That would be writing stories, of course.

We walked to school back then- yes, walked. About a mile. We girls were allowed to wear snow pants, but we had to take them off when we got to school. Yes, girls wore dresses back then.

And we went ice skating on the town reservoir, or on Weber's Lake, in the evenings. Every day we watched the temperatures and gauged the thickness of the ice by whether the temperature got above freezing. We calculated it in terms of days, and every day above freezing, even an hour, took a day off the total count. It took four days minimum below freezing all day and night for enough ice to skate, which meant we allowed at least six days for safety.

Skating was at its best on nights when the moon was full and a bonfire blazed on the shore, where hot chocolate seemed to appear in cups from moms who had dared to join us, and now and then marshmallows were blackened to taste. The ice sometimes grew so thick we could have driven cars on it, but no one ever dared. Our cars were too precious to risk. And sometimes when the lake was getting even colder, giant cracks would echo from one end of the lake to another as we'd skate over it. It was spooky. But we all knew how ice expanded as it froze, and the cracks meant the ice was getting even thicker. We would be safer, not in more danger.

On my 13th birthday, we loaded into cars and drove to a remote creek that was maybe 30 to 50 feet wide and not very deep, but was frozen along its entire course. We skated what seemed like miles up the creek until it narrowed too much and the ice had buckled too badly because it was too shallow. And then we skated back, and were so exhausted we could hardly manage to get into the cars to go home.

Mom had a special treat for us- Because it was also the day before Valentines Day, she had made meringue cups in heart shapes, baked them till they browned, and filled them with strawberry ice cream. I had never been all that fond of strawberry ice cream, but that day it seemed really special.

Ice skating was like flying to me. I wasn't all that good at it, but I rarely fell, and I felt like I soared when I skated. I didn't like Crack the Whip- the guys seemed to think it was funny to put the girls at the end so they'd fall. And we probably looked pretty awkward when we tried to skate with one leg dangling in the air behind us while we spread our arms and pretended to be flying swans.

And there were those who had boyfriends, who snuggled near the fire instead of skating. I didn't, but I don't think I cared, because I loved the skating and I preferred being out on the ice with the boys who loved it too.

I don't have any photos from those skating times. But the memories endured. And the love of soaring over the ice came to the surface again in a book, His Majesty, the Prince of Toads, a story that takes place in the frigid winter of 1816, and my hero finds a way to use Sophie's love of skating to give her a gift to ease her pain in coming to grips with a tragedy she had shut out of her mind many years before. But when he takes her out on the ice that frozen night, he is making a frightening sacrifice, knowing his war injury of shrapnel in his knee is aggravated by such action as skating. The pain is horrendous, and his biggest fear is that he will lose his leg. But for Sophie's need, he takes the risk, doing everything he can to hide his pain from her.

I won't tell you more, in case you haven't read it. I'm hoping and planning on a re-issue of the book soon. But if you get a chance to read it, you'll know, when Sophie skates, she's really me, in a way that isn't often true of my characters. But it's also where Sophie is really Sophie, and where she finds her lost life. And where Lucas finds true heroism. On the ice.

Delle

Under- $100 eBook Reader Is Here! and Other Exciting News

For years I've been hearing people say they wouldn't read ebooks until they could buy an ebook reader for under $100. That seemed to be a Magic price point for people everywhere. Kindle and Sony changed the price point for a lot of people by providing e-ink and better book accessibility, but still many readers wanted that cheap, no-frills reader, and couldn't understand why it couldn't be done.

Well, now there finally is one, available at Fictionwise/eBookwise sites, for $89.95. It's the eBookwise 1150. True, it's not a nice slick new model with e-ink screen. http://www.ebookwise.com/ebookwise/ebookwise1150.htm

Description:
The size of a paperback book, weighing about a pound, and with its backlit screen, the eBookwise-1150 gives new meaning to the term "light reading." The device also includes powerful electronic features that offer you a reading experience beyond that of a traditional book. You can turn pages and change the text orientation just by pushing a button. By simply touching the screen, you can enlarge the text size, bookmark pages, highlight passages, make notes, search for key words and hyperlink to other parts of the book.

Kindle, meanwhile, is planning on giving away FREE the new software for reading Kindle-formatted books on your PC.

http://www.amazon.com/gp/feature.html/ref=kcp_pc_mkt_lnd?docId=1000426311

This might not be interesting to some people, but there is a surprisingly large number of people who have become accustomed to reading on their PC, laptops or mini-laptops (netbooks). Some of these folks, like me, were once the very people who said they couldn't read for hours on a computer screen. But that was before screens became so sharp and clear. It was also before we just plain got used to using computers for so many hours a day. Now that the Kindle software will become available any day now, this means Amazon is now a source for me to buy my ebooks. And I don't have to spend a few hundred bucks to buy a device that, for me, isn't what it's cracked up to be. In fact, e-ink screens hurt my eyes and give me headaches.

My main complaint about the Kindle and other e-ink devices is that the screens are so small. Sure, I can enlarge the font, but then I'm spending time frustratingly scrolling side to side as well as up and down. Or I have to re-format into something decidedly un-book-like that sometimes splits words in strange places or duplicates lines or paragraphs when scrolling to the supposed next page.


The Kindle DX is larger, almost the size of a sheet of paper. More my size. But at $489? I'm afraid not. But it is a factor in driving down the prices of other less-endowed ebook readers. The Kindle 2 is now $259 at Amazon, and Christmas is coming. I'm betting there will be a price reduction suddenly announced just in time for holiday shopping.

And Sony? Showing improvement- much sleeker, better models. And I've seen older models on sale at Fry's Electronics for $159-179. They're getting less proprietary, and adding more formats like PDF. You can access public libraries and Google Books Online. But not with the older model that's on sale. So you'd still be stuck with the Sony store, where books are more expensive.

The Foxit eSlick was also recently spotted at Fry's Electronics, (brick and mortar stores) as was the Jetbook. Prices for both were running around $179. It's probably no surprise to you that both companies are probably coming out with new models. Funny thing how lower prices show up just before new model releases, isn't it? But sometimes that's the best way to buy technology. Foxit, by the way, does seem to have resolved its battery drain problem, which was its major drawback.
Jetbook's manufacturers, ECTACO, have just announced they will be releasing a new model, the Jetbook Lite, which will come out at $149! It's not an e-ink screen, and is more like the eBookwise, but seems to have a few more features.


What about the Nook? A different technology that shows lots of promise. Although the reading screen is grayscale, there's a touch screen for commands that's in color. Why? Maybe because most ebooks are still text only and don't need color? But I'm still waiting for the aility to read and see books full of pictures. Color pictures. At least Nook is showing the possibility. Price: $259. Oops, right back up there in the sky.

And a new wrinkle in Nook's sleeve: Barnes & Noble is now being sued by Spring Corp for stealing the secrets of their Alex under the guise of a cooperative partner venture. According to Spring, B&N actually participated in meetings with them regarding developing a "Kindle Killer" reader, without telling Spring they actually had a device of their own under development.

The bottom line? If you want a cheap reader, it's available, now. If you have a netbook, you will very soon be able to get Kindle software and buy Kindle books without buying a Kindle.

You can still get great deals, often at better prices than Kindle, on Fictionwise and EBookwise. As for the fancy, expensive devices, well, spend your money if you want. They're good deals if this is what you want. But they'll all be better buys next year, both cheaper and better-featured. And Christmas is coming. The field is getting very competitive. Let's make that extremely competitive.

DAMNED AND DANGEROUS-The Making of a Hero

Meet my new hero. He's Captain Nick Torrington of the 4th Dragoons, and instead of Napoleon's soldiers, he's fighting demons. Blood sucking demons who want to take his soul and are doing a damn good job of it. His only way out of it risks the life of the woman he has come to love. For the man known for his reckless courage- the man dubbed the Hero's Hero, this is unthinkable. Which will he sacrifice? His soul or his beloved?

Who is Nick? Where did he come from in my mind? There's an excerpt below, and some pictures that inspired me. He's like this tortured contemporary warrior, but without the modern touches. And like the one fighting the winged demon for possession of the frightened black horse. He's like the man I turned to bronze for the Hero cover. Nick is all of these, but something more.

And if you like the opening, please consider following the links above for the Scarlet Boa contest and give it a vote. It's #99. And the deadline is October 31, so hurry.

***

DAMNED AND DANGEROUS

July 22, 1812
Salamanca, Spain

It was an omen, the soldiers said. A violent thunderstorm the night before a battle always brought victory to the British Army.
Captain Nicholas Torrington had little use for omens. Battles were won by fighting. Today, the gory red sun glared through smoke and dust to blind the enemy, and the roar of cannon deafened them to the oncoming thunder of a thousand hoofbeats. The dragoons galloping up the slope toward the French were riding into glory.
Nick raced hell-for-leather at the head of his squadron, blood pounding in his veins like drums as they veered toward the fleeing enemy to cut them off. Frantic French infantry rushed to form a square. Their muskets rose in unison. They fired.
A ball hit the colonel and threw him from his saddle. In the flash of glances, Nick caught what was in the colonel's eyes. Death. He shoved down his rising bile and raced on. The colonel would have demanded it of him, as he did of himself.
A ball caught Nick in the hip, searing through him like tearing fire. The saddle disappeared from beneath him. Even before he screamed, another ball slammed into his skull. Brilliant light sheared through his head . He floated in the air with the thick dust that hung above its Mother Earth, his last thoughts oozing away like blood . The Hero's Hero. . . The Drunken Poet-Warrior. . . Fitting way to die. His father would be proud at last. . .
* * *
He hears the round shot singing, feels it whistling by him,
In the rush of battle as the horses charge the square.
Flash of steel is gleaming. Guns spew forth their grapeshot.
Screams of men and horses rip the wind and split the air.
On Azan's burning slopes. . .
God, no. He'd composed better verse roaring drunk, in the officer's mess as they celebrated a battle by getting as sotted as the ranks. He was good at it, they said. Composing verse. He never remembered, though. He could only do it when he was dead drunk. Now he was only dead. Ought to be a relationship there. Dead drunk. . . Dead. . .
What rhymes with slopes? Copes? Hopes? Mopes? God, all poets should be consigned to Hell for the pain they wreak on their victims. Which was probably where he was– in Hell. He had no form, no substance. Except dead men didn't write rhymes. Or maybe only really bad ones. He sure couldn't be in Heaven. God and all His angels knew he wasn't saint material.
He lingered in the nothingness above the battlefield, yet, no, he didn't float. He lay on the ground, trapped in his body, a prisoner waiting to be freed of the pain, trouble, strife. Yet a strangely comforting warmth washed around his neck and oozed into his hair at the base of his scalp, the copper scent oddly like. . .
Blood. His own. Nick's eyes popped open.
A ghoul stared back at him. Not a man– its skin too gray, eyes pale as sheets. Blood clung to the corners of its mouth beside great fangs tinged pink from its feast.
Nick was the feast. Bloody Hell. He really was in Hell.
The demon stiffened and blinked. "Oh. Terribly sorry, old fellow. Thought you were dead."
"What the devil?" Nick tried to push himself up from the ground, but his arms, his legs seemed boneless. His senses gathered as he breathed dense, acrid air. Moans of wounded and dying men and horses bombarded him as they never had before.
The ghoul dabbed a folded handkerchief to his lips as his ashen flesh brightened to normal. Red-rimmed white eyes brightened to gray and the fangs vanished into a mouthful of straight, gleaming teeth.
"Rankine!"
Lieutenant Harry Rankine of the 4th Dragoons! Nick willed his hand to touch the prickling skin and oozing blood on his neck. "What the devil is going on here?"
Rankine winced as he dipped his head with a self-effacing wince. "Terribly sorry, really," he said. "Awfully gauche of me. I do try to stick to the dead, I assure you. Creates all sorts of unwanted complications otherwise. And you did seem quite dead." He licked his lips. "But now I think of it, you do taste rather fresh."
"Bloody hell! You were sucking out my blood!"
"Well, yes. Didn't think you'd miss it."
Rage pumped through Nick, but as he sat up, pain clanged in his head like the inside of a bell. He clamped his head between his hands. Hell, wait a minute. He'd been shot– his entire brain had exploded. He'd felt it. He couldn't be alive, much less thinking. He forced himself to his feet, and lightning pain stabbed through his hip, sending bile rising in his throat.
"Easy there, dear fellow," said Rankine.
"I'm going to kill you, Rankine."
Rankine cocked his head. His angelic smile curled up the corners of his mouth as he pointed a finger at Nick. Lightning streaked through him. His muscles froze. He could be stone, for all his futile efforts to move.
"Not bloody likely," said Rankine with a pleasant lilt. "Actually if you'll give it some thought, you'll see I've done you a bit of a favor. You would have been dead, you know. Merely a slight miscalculation on my part. Happens now and then, although I do my best to prevent it. Makes you my responsibility, sort of like a son one didn't count on producing."

JESSA SLADE and Her Hero, ARCHER!

Look who's with us today! Jessa Slade has dropped by (or not exactly dropped, more like banged on the door because I over-slept) with her hero Ferris Archer from her new debut release, SEDUCED BY SHADOWS. And if you ever thought you'd never be seduced by a dark and dangerous demon-possessed hunk, think again. Because Archer, winner of ISOH's Most Deliciously Tortured Hero Award, has arrived.

And here's your chance to win a free copy of this fabulous new book, to set you onto a brand new form of addiction in Urban Fantasy. Just read and follow instructions at the bottom of our interview.

Jessa Slade: Hi, Delle. Thank you so much for letting me guest post with you today. You’ve given me the chance to hunt down the hero of my debut urban fantasy romance SEDUCED BY SHADOWS. Ferris Archer—an immortal warrior possessed by a repentant demon—has been a busy boy since the book hit the shelves at the beginning of this month and I’ve been curious how he’s handling the sudden exposure.

So please welcome to “In Search of Heroes”—

Archer: Where’s my shirt?

Jessa: I... Uh, sorry, what?

Archer: You wanted to know how I’m handling the exposure. I’m asking where you put my shirt.

Jessa: Oh, well, technically, your shirt isn’t my responsibility. That would be the cover artists and—

Archer: It’s November in Chicago. Rocking a leather jacket without a shirt is no easy task in Chicago in November.

Jessa (slightly peeved): I’m sure you’ve faced tougher challenges, my dear hero.

Archer: I’m not a hero.

Jessa (smug): That’s what all the real heroes say.

Archer (with a flat stare): I’m not a hero.

Jessa (backpedaling slightly): Not at the beginning of the book, perhaps. In fact, you called yourself garbage man to the damned. But the mission you and the other alpha male fighters undertook with the help of the repentant demons inside you was to save the world, destroying evil one gnarly bit at a time. What else would it take to make you a hero?

Archer: Most of the time, it’s not clear the world wants to be saved. Dragging it back from the brink against its will makes me a fool or a bully, not a hero.

Jessa: Are you always so optimistic?

Archer: Only on my good days.

Jessa: But you’re having good days now, now that you’ve found Sera Littlejohn, the first female possessed in the living memory of your band of not-so-merry men.

Archer (gaze softening): Yes.

Jessa (eyes rolling): By ‘yes’ I assume you mean you’re groovy without your shirt when she’s around?

Archer: She stripped everything else from me, why not my shirt along with my isolation, my fatalism, and my suicidal demon-slaying fury? Death and damnation seemed inevitable before her.

Jessa: And she took that away from you? How rude.

Archer: No kidding. Do you know how hard it is to maintain the required demon-slayer level of angst and arrogance when just the sight of her makes me melt inside?

Jessa: Hmm, I know you fought against it for an unholy number of pages.

Archer: Fighting is the only thing I knew for almost two centuries. I’d gotten damned good at it. Giving in... That was much riskier.

Jessa: I guess that’s what all you reluctant heroes lack—the love of a good woman to set you on the right path.

Archer (wryly): That was love? A boot kick in the ass that sends me sprawling in the middle of that path?

Jessa: When you need it, yeah. With the whole world relying on you, the battle of good and evil raging around you, weren’t the stakes high enough?

Archer: Perhaps too high. I may be talyan—a man possessed by a repentant demon—but I’m still just a man. The powers of good and evil that invade our world are just a reflection of the good and evil invading every soul. If after a few millennia the world still haven’t found a balance between dark and light, what chance does one man have?

Jessa: But for Sera, you took that chance. Love conquers all.

Archer: Which explains the scars.

Jessa: Yeah, sorry about that. At least the black leather pants hide the evidence. Thanks for baring your souls and various other manly bits today, Archer. I’m sure we’ll see you around in the other novels of The Marked Souls.

Archer: If I had a shirt you’d see less of me.

Jessa: Don’t hold your breath, man.

Read Chapter 1 of SEDUCED BY SHADOWS at http://jessaslade.com
For a short story prequel to the world of the Marked Souls, visit http://tinyurl.com/MarkedSoulsPrequel

Want a chance to win a signed copy of SEDUCED BY SHADOWS? Leave a comment about the riskiest thing you’ve done to avoid love or embrace it.

IT ISN'T WRITER'S BLOCK- IT'S OPPORTUNITY

It's a sad fact for almost all authors that sometimes their writing gets stalled. We usually call it Writers' Block. Or we talk about the Muse having deserted us.

Writers tend to whip themselves unmercifully, especially when they aren't being productive. No matter how they rationalize, re-frame or euphemize, they are really blaming themselves. Nothing feels more helpless to a writer, because when writing is blocked, productivity dies. A physician doesn't say, "My Muse has left me today", but there's a reason. He is calling upon his accumulated knowledge more than on new insight. A runner doesn't claim his legs just won't work today. Because they will. They might not be up to top speed, but they move. But when a writer is blocked, the brain just isn't making the connections that allow work to flow.

Mental creativity is a very different activity. Other things, like a base of accumulated knowledge, are required for new creativity, but usually the formulation of new fiction has to come from a different part of the brain. And all kinds of things can interrupt or interfere. All writers run into the problem in some form or another, and they all fear it. Getting around it, over it, under it, or through it can be simple, or it can be a monumental struggle.

Writing is one of the most difficult jobs a person can do. In the initial phase of a writer's career, she often feels the free flow of new ideas, the amazing exhilaration that comes along with a new story, characters who jump to life on the page, and a setting that gains reality even as the words come out- it often seems so easy. The author believes in her own genius (she should, because it's real). But she doesn't know, and probably can't grasp at this moment that she has just been suckered in to the most difficult job she will ever try to do.

Soon she'll reach the hard part. Soon she'll learn her first wonder-creating efforts are full of flaws-- naive writing, plot inconsistencies, characters without motivation, or other things that could make her story a financial success. (Discounting those few authors who actually do sell their first story right away, of course.) She'll begin to realize there is no such thing as a perfect story, and yet she must always strive to reach perfection.

But she's hooked. She sets herself on a course to learn to write better. She takes courses, attends workshops, reads books, studies other authors, meets with and shares experiences with other authors. She now is learning the actual craft of writing, which takes her creativity to new heights.

When she really starts to get good is when she discovers the work getting harder. Nothing wrong with that. But she may also feel like her ideas are drying up. Probably not. More likely, she has learned to discard the initial ones that are the easy way out- the trite solutions. She's learned not to manipulate her characters into doing something abnormal for them just because she wants them to do it. She now plots more carefully, more accurately, and doesn't just stick in a scene, because she now knows a scene must be a logical consequence of previous action, not just another event.

All of this is harder. Just plain harder. Now that beautiful, euphoric glow of creativity must co-exist with hard core, down-to-earth writing skill and technique. She's reached the point where she understands that good story telling is hard work.

This is when she will run into real problems and few solutions. She feels like the beautiful creativity has dried up. She starts battering herself with her own insecurities. Is she a has-been? Did she never 'have it' in the first place? She feels like a fraud, because she should be producing, but isn't.

Usually this is also the point when outside influences can interfere more. Most writers have many other obligations and distractions. Their multi-tasking abilities could already be taxed to the limit, when here comes one more. Concentration wanes. New ideas just don't come. Self flagellation increases.

The reality: Creative work is different from other kinds of work. As we learn and hone new skills to create better and better work, we are setting ever higher standards for ourselves. We can't accept the work we did when we were first beginning because now we know how to do better. We must now aim for higher, better goals. Those easy solutions we found when we were so ignorant are no longer acceptable. Now we strive not just for a story but for THE story, the best story.

And finding the best story is hard. It's simply not the same thing. Our writing job has changed. If writing is easy, then we need to be wary of it. It may not be the best we can do. The trite plot solution is the one that's easy to find. Anyone could think of it. It's the first thing that pops into a person's mind. Sometimes it's exactly the right solution. That's fine. But a book full of easy, trite solutions is of little interest. The answers that are hard to find are often the ones that give a book its unique twist and make it exciting.

When a story suddenly comes to a grinding halt, it's not because the author has lost her ability to create. Instead, she has reached a point of opportunity. It's her chance to dig very deep, work very hard, to find the one thing that will take her story out of the realm of the ordinary. It's her chance to find the magic world that really is her own creation, to find the unique and unexpected twist that takes her story beyond the boundaries of ordinary living into the extraordinary world fiction readers want.

So when you reach an insurmountable block in your writing, look at it as an opportunity. Time to work really, really hard, to dig, explore, search, experiment. Give yourself permission to try things that won't work, so you can study those and see if they subtly point to the path of something that might lead you to yet another path, knowing that each path, though it may not take you where you want to go, will show you something else that might change everything.

If story-telling were easy, anyone could do it. And no one would care.

Home Invader? Bandit? Or Just too friendly?

Before I get on with today's tale, I'd like to impart some Breaking News! Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy, who you may remember from PRIDE AND PREJUDICE, was the free-style disco champion of the whole of Derbyshire for a dozen years. Because "Gentlemen do not Conga". Don't believe me? Below is the proof, in this video by Mitchell & Webb:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gTchxR4suto

Now on with today's blog, about a weird little incident:

My favorite writing place is in my second-story bedroom, sitting cross-legged on my bed with my laptop. It's close to a window to the back yard, with nice fresh air and plenty of light this time of year. In winter, it's like a connection with the rest of the world.


You can see in this photo the ceiling is vaulted and the upper window is half-circular, over a 60 inch wide main window. And notice, the distance from lower window to roof is at least four feet. There are no outside ledges.

Our cats, such as Jinx, shown here, have also always loved this window, where they can look down on the back yard, and when it's open, sit in the breeze and chase birds in their imaginations. After replacing the screen four times over the years, I've gotten lax, knowing it would have fresh kitty claw marks in no time. It really needs to be done badly, but it's become just one more thing to fix someday.

The big weeping white pine outside the window has grown taller than the house, and now and then Jinx is more than usually interested in it because a huge, fat brown squirrel roams up the tree and onto the roof, where I can hear him scampering. I'm guessing it's the feast of pine nuts that has made him so big and chubby. He's often down on the deck or roaming around on the beams where we hang plants, and he and Jinx eye each other with wary interest. He must weigh several pounds and is probably half again the size of a normal squirrel. (This pic isn't my squirrel, who seems to be hiding from me now. But he looks a lot like mine. And note the paws.)

Yesterday I was hard at work polishing a manuscript when I heard that familiar sound of a cat clawing on the screen, and I yelled at Jinx. But I looked up and she wasn't there. Then I heard the noise again so I got up to look, and spotted a new snag in the screen.

As I stood at the window, close up, suddenly this little gray paw reached out right in front of my eyes. "Why, you little rascal!" I said, and the paw withdrew and vanished. Remember the squirrel in ICE AGE? That's what it looked like.

And yes, the tear in the screen was just a little bit bigger.

I went outside and I've looked and looked at that tree, and can't see how he did it. There is one branch almost close enough, since most are too distant, but it's very skinny. And he could only have done it if he weighs enough to bend the branch down. Even at that, he must have a really long reach. The little critter was trying to trapeze his way to my window!

Does he want to get into the house? Is he just curious? Or is he getting a bit too friendly? Maybe hearing my voice scared him off. He often just watches me when I'm out on the deck, but other times he's skittered away when he heard me coming out the door. I hope he doesn't ever really latch onto the screen because I don't know how he'd get down without about a 15 foot fall.

Back when I was a kid, we lived in Olney, Illinois, the Home of the White Squirrel, and we had a squirrel that would actually come in the house for a treat, until one day she was freaked by a noise and ran across my baby sister to get out. We never saw her again. So I've always been partial to squirrels. But I really don't want them in my house. I know too much about the critters, you see, and they can be as bad as coons when trapped inside.

THE EYE OF THE BEHOLDER: Vivid Imagery in Your Narrative

CURRENT WORK: Finishing up a cover art project today.
MOOD: Is groggy a mood? Read a book too late last night.
UPDATE: Hubby bowled 623 in 3 games last night. He's not so old after all!
*****

I'm reading a great book right now that totally hods my interest. I'll tell you all about it later this month, but right now, let me just say it's IMMORTAL OUTLAW by Lisa Hendrix, and it's an excellent example of my subject today.

I've read a lot of manuscripts lately that ought to be wonderful, at least in having a good plot and intriguing characters, yet somehow don't excite me. Personally I think that's fixable, where a story that has no conflict or character growth has to be completely re-thought. The story with the right skeleton can be fleshed out but a boneless body really can't move much, no matter how pretty the flesh. So let's talk about how to make the writing more exciting.

The first thing that comes to my mind is passive writing- I think because I've also seen a lot of that lately. I've caught myself doing it, too. I think it's something most of us do because it's part of everyday speech.

An explanation: Passive writing, passive voice and passive verbs are not the same thing, but they're related. Passive verbs are verbs that don't do any action, they simply "are". Zen-like. Passive voice occurs when the sentence is "written backwards" so to speak, and the subject is treated as the object. "It was written by me." instead of "I wrote it." Again, the passiveness takes over and makes the first sentence feel flat.

Passive writing involves all of these things and more. The work takes on a Zen-like inactivity. (Zen has its value as a state of mind, but genre fiction needs its opposite, action, to achieve its purpose.) Conflict is softened. The Black Moment is mitigated until it is sort of dove gray. The story loses its tautness and meanders, as if it can't find its purpose.

To me, passive writing also includes choosing words that lack a vivid sense. This includes verbs, nouns and modifiers. We can add our modifiers to them, but it's better if the main word bears most of the load. Often when I can't seem to get a visual of the scene, or the characters don't dance before my eyes, its because nothing in their descriptions has caught my imagination. They "move", but they don't "frolic". There's often a lot of thinking going on, but little of it is recollection of vivid scenes.

Sometimes those mental gyrations can be made vivid. As I was writing this, I remembered this scene as an example. Instead of Ned thinking about his twin sister's death, he recalls this scene:

Ned saw in his mind the newly green slope of parkland that ran down to the brook. Cecily laughed, no, giggled, as they ran together, each with a homemade kite, and she could not get hers into the air. He'd had to stop and do it for her, while she held his. But the minute he had her kite airborne, she squealed with delight and forgot about the one she had been holding for him. It slipped from the sky, tumbled limply downward and crashed against a rock.

Lots of internal thought is very hard on a story. That's because it lacks action. It lies either in the past or in the future, and so it doesn't have the intensity of the present. But in a scene like this, the memory Ned has of Cecily is one of action, so it SHOWS the memory as if it were right now, not so many years ago. Never does he think how much he still loves and misses his twin. But we know.

Adrienne de Wolfe once told me, "Enough of the brown horse! We know he's brown. You only need to say it once." Yes, every time I'd mentioned the horse, he'd been "brown horse". But it was not another word for brown I needed. Think about how much more vivid it would have been to show things about the horse's unique way of moving, the way it tossed its head, or plodded. The horse was no major actor in my story, but he could have added to the dramatic vitality of the knight who rode him if I had not portrayed him like a horse in a child's coloring book.

SHOW, DON'T TELL is the best way to make a story vivid. But I neglected some really important things in the paragraph above: the other four senses. We can see the mane tossing in the wind. But we need sprinklings of the other senses as well. Horses make all kinds of noises. Our hands running over their coats feel their sleekness, but if we rub the other way, they become bristly. We can scent them, for horses don't smell the same as pigs or cows. We can smell the dust their hooves churn into the air as they run. Dust, we can even taste. Use of the other senses beyond sight and hearing need to be used more sparingly, and all such details need to be chosen carefully and not over-used. I try to avoid more than one detail at a time because too much description can over-load a scene and bog it down.

Women, I think, write this way more often than men, but I could be wrong. I read mostly women's work. But I think we go overboard trying to get our points across. We seem to be afraid we haven't got our point across so we try to re-phrase it. Then we explain it. A recent paragraph in a manuscript I read had the heroine first think about what she was going to say, then say it. Then she showed her thoughts with her body language. Then she had a narrative paragraph following explaining why this had happened. If you want to bore me, this is how to do it. ell it to me once, one way, then get on with the story.