Ginger Simpson's Blog, page 62

MOTIVATE YOUR CHARACTERS AND PLOT BY RITA KARNOPP

As with each of us . . . characters in our books change as the story progresses.  The growth of a character is very important.  I think this aspect of writing is sometimes overlooked or even forgotten.  We focus so much on what is happening externally that we forget what is happening internally.We need to learn what motivates our character as the story progresses.  They must have reasons why they do the things they do.  They must have reasons why they resist the right decision.  They also must have reasons why they react the way they do.  Each of these ‘reasons’ is what motivates our characters as well as drives the plot of the book.
Confused? Don't be; it's simpler than it may seem. Characters can be broken down into four groups:
1.    The never changing character – they refuse to change in personality and motivation.  You get what you see.The no-personality changer – they don’t change or grow during the story –but they want to.  The changing character – they change but their motivation does not.Finally we have the characters who changes throughout the story - as their motivation also progresses.While plotting out the story we must decide, ‘what is the key motivation for each main character?’  This will add incredible depth to the story.  Always be aware that character and plot are entwined.  The never changing character – I’ve often heard that a character must change – even if in a small way.  Why?  Think about James Bond – he’s smart, debonair’, unstoppable, and he gets the girl.  His character has a single direct motivation the entire length of the story.  At the end, Bond is still smart, debonair’, unstoppable, and he gets the girl.

And when you think about it - his motivation doesn’t change either. He accepts a mission, and he doesn’t stop until it’s accomplished.  There are always the ‘mini’ motivation interruptions such as saving a woman from drowning or escaping a death trap.
We can apply this never changing character with a direct motivation to any genre’.  Our responsibility is to present the reader with a character and goal clearly and powerfully obvious from the start.  There will be no doubt who this character is and why he’s doing what he's doing.   This then gives us (the writer) ‘license’ to complicate the story plot.
Be aware – an unchanging character with a direct goal still can react or respond to more than one emotion at any given moment. Our Mr. Bond might feel attraction to a knock-out blonde and at the same time distrust her.  If your character feels two conflicting things toward another character, bring this to life in the scene in which it happens. Then—and this is the important part—return to the main goal in the next scene. This tells us that his motivation is unchanged. Although Bond, for instance, has just made love with a woman, she hasn’t fundamentally changed him. He’s not changed in either his behavior or mission as a result of her attractions.The no-personality changer – This type of story focuses on a character who doesn’t change in persona or attitude, but what he/she wants as a result of story aftermaths.These characters are often the heroes or villains. The heroes are admirable characters from the beginning. They don’t change because the writer has created a character that is supporting an ideal/situation that he/she clearly represents and embodies.  Say for instance saving an endangered species or leading a group to keep oil from being drilled in sacred Native ground.The fact is your character starts-out heroic and you don’t want him to change. The changing character – Then there are the stories where the major character changes notably. The character has a single cause/motivation due to his/her backstory.  Consider Pollyanna’s aunt.  She refused to show kindness and love – because as a young woman she’d been hurt by the man she loved.  A lot had to happen to her before she realized it was okay to reach out and love.  The point here – she had to change for the story/plot to have resolution.Keep in mind when you write the changing character:·         His/her character change must result in response to story consequences or results. Develop the story so your character changes the way you want.·         Your character must have emotional responses to these events. ·         Make sure the character change is emphasized. The ‘change’ must be shown. This is called validation, and it’s crucial for all changing characters.·         You must add validation at the end of the story so the reader knows this character’s change is not temporary. Usually this ending validation is on a larger scale than what has gone before. Readers enjoy and are satisfied at the end of a book when there’s a changing character/single motivation.Characters who changes throughout the story - as their motivation also progresses -  Of the four characters, this is the most complex fictional pattern. A character’s personality as well as their goals change throughout the story. Simplify this character – change him/her from a self-centered model to a caring person – putting life in danger to save the child-type.   With this type of character your hero/heroine’s changes must be dramatic and prove they are a result of the horrendous events, be supported by believably portrayed emotions, and be confirmed by ensuing actions on his/her part. Books We Love released Rita’s 16th book, Whispering Wind http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00KDQZM5O
Montana Territory 1865 – Pregnant and alone, Tsopo, Wind, leaves her Blackfoot people to save her lifelong friend, Kom-zit-api, An Honest Man, from untrue accusations. '

Kom-zit-api finds Wind and asks her to be his sits-beside-him wife. Before she can give him an answer, he dies saving her from Crow warriors. Trapper, Jake McKinney hears her cries and finds her down on a ledge, birthing a child that has arrived too soon. Now Wind finds herself at a crossroads.

Ashamed and confused, she accepts McKinney’s offer to go with him to the Big Belt Mountains, where his Confederate war buddies are prospecting for gold.

They meet brothers, Tucker and Alexander Walsh on the trail. McKinney, with his valuable bales of furs and buffalo robes, and the Walsh brothers, with their four wagons of supplies, strike a partnership. They’ll start up a general store for miners on the east side of the Missouri River near Diamond City.

Wind reveals possession of a gold nugget the size of her thumb. Her father gave it to her, and she knows where in Confederate Gulch it was found. The men make her an equal partner in their business they are now calling Whispering Wind.

Nothing like her peaceful village, Wind finds herself among ramshackle clusters of tents, lean-tos, and crude log cabins. The main street is a knee-deep mud trail mixed with horse manure, lined with make-shift stores, hotels, rowdy saloons, and a single assayer’s office. Wind aspires to find love and happiness where greed rules actions above common sense. Dressed like a white woman, hiding her part Blackfeet blood, she faces being one of a few women in a wild, lawless mining territory. Who can she trust? Can she survive where so many men have failed?

A PAGE STRAIGHT FROM GINGER SIMPSON #apagestraightfrom

White Heart, Lakota Spirit byGinger Simpson
 Her gaze dropped to examine her hands. Her once-manicured nails were now jagged from hard work, and scraping countlessanimals hides had calloused her palms. Gone was the naive and helpless Cecile, and in her place, Green Eyes, a woman who decorated clothing with beautiful quills, made moccasins from softened hides, and even erected tepees.
During their trip to the village, Lone Eagle had kept assuring her she would be safe, but the Sioux’s reception made her question his promise. Curious at first, then angry, the villagers demanded to know why he had brought a white woman to their home. But, little by little she gained their acceptance, and found peace and contentment with the very people she thought hated her.
A few loving faces crossed her mind—Rain Woman, her Un`cior grandmother, the tribe’s beloved medicine woman, with herleathery complexion and toothless grin. And Little Dove, petite and delicately featured, a treasured friend and sister-in-law. Both had been among the first to offer their friendship. Spotted Doe,Green Eyes’ only real enemy, was dead because she couldn’t accept that Lone Eagle chose a white woman over her. In a pursuit to find where Spotted Doe had hidden Green Eye’s son, the franticwoman lost her footing and fell to her death. Where had the past eight years gone?
Somewhere in the village another sorrowful cry drew her thoughts back to present–the irony struck her. Today, amongst all the grief, came a reason to celebrate. Lone Eagle would becomethe new chief.

This book was published by Eternal Press and is available on my Amazon page in both download and print.  If you know about history between the red and whites, then you will understand  this book is in no way sexist, and I certainly don't see how someone could compare my beautiful cover to something from Fredericks of Hollywood.  These are just some of the comments made by trolls on Amazon, so if you like what you read, I'd appreciate a REAL review.  I'm so pleased that Amazon has changed the review process so that people actually have to READ the book in order to leave comments.

BOY, DO MY CHARACTERS GUIDE ME - GINGER SIMPSON

Cover by Michelle LeeAuthor's don't always have an ending in mind...especially when you don't plot. As a "pantser," (commonly known as writing by the seat of one's pants,) my characters drive the story and when it's over, it's over.  I'm often shocked at how my books end, but they always make sense...at least to me.

 In the case of one, I received some bad reviews because there wasn't an obvious HEA.  If you're a history buff, you would most certainly realize that a woman and a half breed could not possibily find that happily ever after in the 1800s since neither would be accepted by their own race...and a half breed didn't actually belong to one.  Doesn't that make sense?  Obviously it didn't to some.
Cover by Michelle Lee
Sarah ended her story with the possibility of the love continuing in modern day, but that wasn't enough...so I combined the second story, Sarah's Passion,  with the first, Sarah's Hear t, and hopefully created an ending that fulfilled what most readers want in Sarah's Heart and Passion .


Fiction still requires a degree of reality, especially when it comes to the heart.  Readers read to escape and find the fantasies missing from their own lives, and if the endings are less than satisfactory, you'll hear about it, trust me.  Funny thought, I felt like a traitor to Sarah when I changed her ending.  It was what I pictured for her, but not how she told the story.  Oh well...we must please our audience.

Cover by Michelle Lee Being a pantser is like having someone tell you a story.  I never know where it's headed until I get there.  I have faith in my characters, as Rita does, so much so that I rely on them to make the story interesting.   I've been pleased with each and every one of them.

 My primary job  is to add in the smells, tastes and emotions.   In other words...take the story I'm being TOLD and SHOW it to the reader.  If you want to be a good author, you have to do that.  Involving the reader in the story is critical.  They have to be able to step into the character's shoes and be part of the action.

How often have you read a book that makes your heart hurt?  You cry for the heroine/hero or inhale the smell of that apple pie baking in the oven?  Those traits are the sign of great writing.  You've become the lead character in the book and you "feel" what the story is about.  If I can't connect with the characters or don't get a sense of inclusion, I usually don't finish the book.  Too much back story or description can make the reader think, "who cares?" and you don't want that to happen.

I just had to add my two cents worth since I don't "plot."  Yesterday, Rita talked about letting your characters guide you, and boy do I.  In some ways being a "pantser" is a good thing, but it definitely limits you to how your story ends...and in most cases, word count.  My stories star's don't give a hoot about how long or short a book is.

If you'd like to judge for yourself about Sarah's story and the questionnable ending, Sarah's Heart , Sarah's Passion , and Sarah's Heart and Passion are all available on my amazon page.  I'd love to know what you think.

Let your characters guide you - by Rita Karnopp

Before we begin typing that first word - we always (or most times) have the ending in mind.  There are a couple books I had an idea of what I wanted my end result to be – how I got there was something of a mystery.  My point – Be open minded while writing - Keep in mind – what works for one book won’t always work for the next.  Characters in each book are different and you must always let them lead you through each scene.  Listen to them  . . . and give them free rein!
How exciting when your character demands something different – something you never thought of!  Allow your characters to add atmosphere and excitement.  Think of it this way – as your characters develop . . . the story unfolds into places you never imagined. 
Release the control. You know you’re a talented writer. That doesn’t mean you’re instantly good at letting go – giving your character permission to be him/herself.
Never start writing a book with ideas set in stone.  Guidelines will keep you from writing yourself into a corner, but don’t be so controlling you won’t allow something unexpected to happen. 
Allow your characters to laugh, cry, have highs and definitely lows.  Make them feel . . . and the reader will respond.  By allowing your character a ‘voice’  - the dialog will flow with ease and belief.  Step in because you don’t like the direction and your reader will be jerked out of the scene – maybe forever.
Believe in your characters. As I said at the beginning, we don’t always end up where we think we will.  That’s the good news!  When your character surprises you while you’re writing – it surprises the reader.  Some of my greatest scenes were created by my characters; their personality, reaction, and drive or direction leading them to places only they can imagine.  Trust them – you’ll love where it takes you!
Thunder by Rita Karnopp
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00FM1IO0U
The world of professional wresting is a volatile, exciting, and action-packed world and even more so behind the scenes. Keme (Thunder), a Blackfeet fan favorite wrestler at the top of his game, is found hanging from the rafters of his training facility.  Is it murder . . . or suicide?
Find Rita at:   ritakarnopp@bresnan.net

HIT THE ROAD JACK...DANIELS!

Well, if there is anything you don't know about me...this will solve that.  The following is a true, but sad, story of my earlier life: Taken from Pinterest
My fingers gripped the steeling wheel like a vise.  I glanced in the side mirror at my red-ringed eyes and wondered what I’d done.  Did I make the right decision?  I prayed I had, but inside my stomach knotted and I felt sick.  I’d just walked out of the only home I knew, with very few of my possessions, after telling my husband I was through.  I don’t think he heard or cared what I said.  He was still too drunk.  If I wasn’t so upset, I might have laughed at his surprise when I threw his glass of whiskey at him.  Liquid dripped from his nose and face while ice cubes gathered in his lap—his naked lap.  Maybe that was what took things to far.  I’d come home to find him passed out before, cigarettes burning in the carpet and chair, but this time…this time he was naked.
Damn it, it wasn’t just his house.  It was mine and my son’s, too.  After I flung the drink at him, I screamed how unfair he was to make us scared to turn the doorknob when we came home.  I didn’t dare bring anyone with me, and I noticed my son had stopped having friends over, too.  Whiskey dictated our entire life, and it pained me to see that black label that had ruined my marriage whenever I walked down the alcohol aisle in the grocery.  I wanted to smash the bottles just like the amber-colored contents had smashed my dreams.
Turning fifty was supposed be the start of new and exciting ventures in our lives:  Retirement, travel, freedom.  Who was I kidding?  He’d already retired, but not by choice.  His weight gain from drinking made it impossible for him to fit into his uniform anymore, and he certainly wasn’t in physical condition enough to engage in a foot chase with those he called “perps.”  I’d always heard that a huge percentage of policemen became alcoholics, but I never believed my husband would be among those statistics. I used to love him so much my heart hurt, but now the hurt was totally different.  I felt betrayed, and worst of all, guilty.  Had I done something to make him turn to booze?   
Don’t get me wrong.  I didn’t just snap at the first sign of his drinking and leave.  I’d tried everything I knew to salvage our thirty-two years together.  He was my high school sweetheart, and I thought we’d spend the rest of our lives together.  The only good thing I could find about the situation was that our kids were pretty much grown.  The oldest had married and had his own life, but the youngest still lived at home. His dad wasn’t being much of a role-model and I feared what the future would hold for my boys.
The first time I found a bottle in the refrigerator, I was confused.  We never bought booze, aside from maybe a six-pack of beer when we had our friends over to play cards.  I mentioned my find to him, but he assured me he’d only bought the bottle because it helped take the edge off his stressful days—helped him unwind.  I understood, so I let it go, but when that bottle disappeared and another took its place, I asked again. 
“I can stop anytime I want,” he said. “You’re worrying about nothing.” 
Then why did I find bottles in the laundry room, over the refrigerator, and even in the garage? How much booze was it taking to help him unwind?  He worked graveyard and I worked days so I had no idea how long he’d been drinking in secret.  What made him put the bottle in the refrigerator so I could find it?
He assured me he didn’t have a drinking problem and his sudden interest in Jack Daniels had nothing to do with me.  Bullshit!  His drinking had everything to do with me.  It worried me, consumed me, hurt me, and stressed me.  According to him, he didn’t need help, so I went to Al-anon a few times.  I heard my own story told by other women, but I found no solace in hearing how long they put up with their drinking spouses.  I refused to be an enabler. 
In my mind, if I threatened to leave, he’d snap out of it.  If he loved me as much as said, he wouldn’t want to lose me.  That plan didn’t work.  I even spent three days away from home, expecting him to call and beg me to come back, but he didn’t.  I reluctantly returned, thinking we might talk about it one more time and resolve the problem.  He still insisted his drinking was just “recreational” and not caused by anything I’d done or said.  Why didn’t I feel better?
I tried.  Honestly, I did.  For three more years before that fateful day when I gave him that alcohol bath.  I was done by then.  Tired of being treated like I was an idiot—like I couldn’t tell when he had been drinking.  His speech immediately became thick and slurred.  Sort of like he had a fur-coated tongue.  He’d lied about the ten-day rehab he attended, making me believe he entered for us.  You can’t imagine the heartache I felt when I received a phone call from his Lieutenant that revealed enrollment in the program was an ultimatum, not a choice. Oh, he learned something in rehab—how to cry.  Now he was a slobbering drunk.   Was this how I really wanted to spend my life?  No, it wasn’t.
A friend at work had left a note on my desk, along with a key to her home.  She offered a bedroom for my use and said we could discuss rental options later.  With that key in my pocket, I drove to her house and unpacked my few things.  I sat and cried because nothing there belonged to me. But, I had nowhere else to go nor the finances to get my own place.  I pulled myself together and called my sons.  I told them what I’d done, and they both understood, but I couldn’t leave my baby there…and I couldn’t bring him to share my lone bedroom.  I wrung my hands until they were raw, but no solutions came to mind.
The first thing I had to do was get rid of the bills.  I’d never even been late on one, but now I contemplated bankruptcy.  Lawyers cost money, so I sought the help of a paralegal.  With paperwork in hand, I forced myself to return “home” and have my husband sign on the dotted line.  I hadn’t even thought of divorce; I still clung to the hope that he’d decide I was worth more than his bottle.  He signed and I stopped paying the bills.  I felt like a loser—a flake.  So much for the thirty-plus year credit history I’d worked so hard to protect.  I had no choice.
My sister came to visit and was appalled at my living conditions.  She insisted that we look at apartments, even though I couldn’t afford the deposits at this point.  By the end of the weekend, she’d put down the first and last month’s rent for me, rented a U-haul, and along with my best gal pal, Carrie, drove to the house “he” and I shared and took all the furniture he wasn’t using.  I had no desire to make his life miserable.  I kept reminding myself that alcoholism is an illness.  At day’s end, my new apartment was fully arranged, decorated and everything unpacked.  Now I had a place for my son, and for the first time in my life, I faced living on my own.  I’d gone directly from my parent’s house to being married, so the thought of having my own space was a little exciting.
I could go on for pages and pages, telling the entire story…how he sold the house then moved into my neighborhood and still pursued me.  Of course he hadn’t quit drinking.  I finally had to tell him that I couldn’t be the person in his life to help him move on…he’d have to handle that on his own.  He had choices and he made a poor one.  I could tell you how I immersed myself in living the single life, enjoying freedoms I’d never had, but I fear that would paint a pretty awful picture for those who know me.  I became someone even I didn’t know.  I think the bulb came on over my head when my son suggested I make my own friends instead of hanging out with his. I was having a second childhood and doing all the things I never had a chance to do.  I’m not really proud of most of them, but if you learn something in the process, “they”, whoever they are, say you haven’t wasted your time.
It didn’t take long until I realized I missed my life.  Not the life I shared with a drunk, but all those years before when I was married to a handsome, loving man who always made me feel like the prettiest woman in the room no matter where we went.  I missed that guy.
Reality hit me hard when I was scheduled for an emergency hysterectomy.  My seventeen-year-old son wasn’t home enough to count on, and for once I felt truly alone. The night following the doctor’s appointment where the physician shared his worry that I might have ovarian cancer, sent a myriad of fearful thoughts spinning through my mind.   I still had a lot to do.  I didn’t want to die, and I felt certain that would be the outcome…especially when the doc had said he never had a patient survive the disease.
Now that I’d settled down for the night, the panic I’d fought all day seized my heart like a steel glove.  I had no one to comfort me…at least not anyone made of skin and bones.  Feeling lost and alone, I turned to God, as I always did when I had a crisis.  I prayed.  “Dear Lord, I’m so frightened.  I don’t want my life to end.  My youngest son still needs me to give him guidance, and I’d leave him in your hands Heavenly Father, but I think you probably have bigger fish to fry than the problems of one rebellious boy.  I often ask myself why he can’t be more self-reliant, like his older brother.  I don’t think my first-born needs me, but I need him.
Although I felt a good connection with God, I felt guilty asking him for so much.  I couldn’t brag like most televangelists who claimed the Lord spoke to them, but this time was different.  I finished my prayer, sobbing and hoping God heard me.  Questioning, actually, if he even existed though I believed…need to believe with my whole heart that he did.  Loud and clear, in the darkness of my room, a booming voice responded.  Nothing eloquent, not a lengthy conversation, just “You’ll be fine.”
The words were so clear. I turned the light on and glanced around the room. As I suspected, there was no one else there…at least that I could see.  I switched off the lamp, puzzled by the experience, yet realizing my tension, fear, and concern had all melted away.  I believed those assuring words and found the sleep that earlier evaded me.  The next morning at the hospital, an unusual calm surrounded me like comforting arms.  I went into surgery knowing I wasn’t alone.
God told the truth.  The biopsy results of my removed ovaries were benign.  And although I have no witness to bear testimony to my claim, I know I heard God that fateful night…I know I did.  I’m not sure if he spoke in a voice others could hear or if he spoke to my heart.  Nonetheless, he strengthened my faith and taught me you don’t always have to see or touch something to know it truly exists.  We never walk along as long as we have our belief.  I knew getting a divorce and starting over would somehow be a lot easier now.
My friend, Lisa, came and took care of me while I healed.  When I’d made a full recovery and went back to work, I vowed to change my life.  No more being the party girl—a century old woman acting half her age. I really needed a partner in my life. I investigated Internet dating, met a few men with whom I had no attraction or commonality, and then I went to a single’s dance that changed my life. 
For month’s, I had asked my single friend to go with me, but she always had an excuse.  One Sunday night, I decided I was going come hell or high water.  I recall sitting in the car, working up the nerve to walk into the dance, and when I finally went inside, the hostesses made what might have been a difficult moment, not so daunting at all.  It was there I found the other shoe I’d been missing—the man who proved what I thought had been such a wonderful marriage really hadn’t been.  We talked the evening away, sharing stories like we were best friends.  When he walked me to my car and kissed me goodnight, I really thought he’d never call me, but he did.  One month after I met him, I moved in with him, and shortly after that I filed for divorce.  My new love encouraged me by saying it was time because he didn’t want to live with another man’s wife. As soon as my divorce was final, we married, and that was fifteen years ago.  Life is so fleeting.  At sixty-six, I’m taking one day at a time and living it as though it might be my last.  We never know, do we?
For the longest time, my ex still stayed in touch. Of course he generally phoned when he’d had enough liquid courage to dial my number, but I must admit, I never asked him to stop calling.  That saying I heard so often from divorcing friends now made sense.  “I love him, but I’m not in love with him.”  Now, I’m married to my best friend, and I discovered that even at fifty you can find love again. You just have to look in the right places.
 Sadly, my ex-husband passed away a few years ago in May.  Although we were apart for years, his death left a hole in my heart.  He was my high-school sweetheart, the father of my children, and my real first love.  What died with him are answers about why he drank…why he threw us away for alcohol. I’ll never know, I guess.  I wish I could tell you that I’ve found some sort of peace in my life, but now I’m doomed to watch my sons repeat the past. I’m happy in my marriage, but not with my questionable tract record as a parent.  I’m not a prude.  I see nothing wrong with a beer now and then, but to have to know my boys can’t face life without their fists wrapped around a can pains me more than I can say.  I always thought I was a good mother, but now I wonder.  If living with one person dependent upon booze taught me anything, it’s you can’t change people, they have to do that for themselves.  As much as I love my sons, they have to man up, remember what alcohol did to their dad, and cast it aside.  Why don’t I see that happening?

Luckily, God is there for me…God and Kelly, my hubby, who loves me warts and all.

FRIDAY FREEBITS WITH GINGER #frifreebits

Invigorated by the fresh air and the sun's warmth on her face and body, Harlee's eyes finally adjusted to the brightness and the face of her hero.

"I suppose we should introduce ourselves."  She kept her fingers locked around the back of his neck and enjoyed the feel of his silken dark hair.

"I'm Logan Carruthers...live about five miles east of here."  His sweet tobacco breath assailed her face.

"I'm Harlee Wagner.  This here's my home."

"Harlee?"  That's a strange nae for a girl."

"My pa's name is Harl, so my ma just tacked on the lee."


The Well is available on Amazon.

JUMPSTART AND GET WRITING BY RITA KARNOPP

“So you have such a positive attitude, how do you give yourself a jumpstart to get your butt in the chair and get writing?”  The other day I was asked this question, and I decided it would be a great blogging subject.  How do we push ourselves into our offices to write?  Heaven forbid there are enough distractions and other things you could be doing – besides sitting in your quiet office, all alone, with your thoughts and a white screen staring back at you.  Exactly how do we give ourselves the strength to say it’s time to write?I truly believe writers are special people.  Yep we truly are!  I think the hardest things for us are our other responsibilities.  We have family, friends, housework, the JOB, yard, cooking, shopping, and of course church (in my case) and the hubby.  The list goes on and on.  In between all those responsibilities and distractions we must ‘make’ the time to write.  I don’t know if you’re like me – BUT – the other ‘stuff’ must  be done in order for me to concentrate on what I really want to do, write.  It’s not a hobby or what I do for fun.  Let’s face it, we love to write – but it is work. So I need the house clean, the dishes done, the bills paid, and even my office must be clean before I can sit in front of my computer.  Now that’s a bit easier these days since my kids are out of the nest.  J   But I started writing when my kids were three and five+ so there you have it, I understand it both ways.I don’t recommend three cups of coffee so you feel awake – that will just give you the jitters and make you feel unsettled.  A nice glass of ice water (or flavored – no calorie water) is what I recommend.  Get it right away so you don’t have an excuse to ‘leave’ your office and get side-tracked.  Yep, I know all the tricks … or mistakes.  You might even fix yourself a plate of celery sticks, carrot sticks, or even pea pods so you don’t get those chocolate cravings.If you tell yourself you ‘should’ be writing, yet you’re sitting on the couch trying to muster up the energy and drive to go write – ask yourself one thing – “What is my deadline date?”  What?  You don’t have a deadline date?  That is not good!  You MUST have goals and deadline dates or you’ll never accomplish what you want in life.  That doesn’t just apply to writing, but in this case it does. You need to sit down and look at your work in progress and answer these questions:·         What genre am I writing?·         World count for this work? ·         How many chapters will I have?·         Now- how long will it take me to write a chapter?·         Add a month in for unexpected distractions/responsibilities.·         What is my writing schedule?·         Finally – what is the deadline date to finish my book? You do this one thing and I guarantee you’ll get more books written than you’ve ever done before.  I always correlate it to this.  If you’re planning to go on a trip to Montana, you know you’d get maps and plot it out, you’d look at places to stop along the way to enjoy, there are hotels, costs to estimate, car to get in shape for the trip, etc.  If you just jumped in your car you might end up in Alaska!   Well, planning to write your next book is pretty much the same thing.  Don’t treat your writing like a ‘hobby.’  I hate it when people say, “that’s such a nice hobby.” I stop them and say, “This isn’t a hobby - it’s too much work for that.  Writing is my passion and I do it because it’s something I love and it gives me a feeling of accomplishment.  Don’t accept negativity – it’ll start making you feel negative – and you’ll start treating your writing like a hobby.  Once you start doing that, you won’t have the drive and excitement to go to your office and write at all. Think about your story while making breakfast, working at the office, going for your daily walks (or like me up Sander’s Hill twice a day during my breaks – it’s a humdinger).  Work out ideas, plots, and twists before you even get to your home office.  By the time your ‘scheduled’ writing time approaches – you’ll be raring to go and you’ll be itching to sit down and start typing.Get your background music going and you’re READY!  One thing I always do, to get myself back into my story, is to read the last two pages I’d finished from the day/night before.  This helps me get into the characters; where are they, who are they talking to, and what is their current situation?  That way I can continue without missing a beat from where I left off.  Next thing you know – two hours have passed and you’re shocked how many pages you’ve just finished.   When you push away from the computer you’ll have a feeling of satisfaction and pride.  You’re suddenly anxious and excited to write again tomorrow!  You can do this . . . day after day.  Oh – and book after book!  J You can find Rita Karnopp at:              (email)       ritakarnopp@bresnan.net             (publisher) http://bookswelove.net

Check out Rita's Whispers of the Native Soul Series
     
Whispering Sun ~ Whispering Wind ~ Whispering Spirits
        

A PAGE STRAIGHT FROM...#apagestraightfrom

Yellow Moon byGinger Simpson
Yellow Moon, stood in the arena and eyed the sacred tree.  It’s colorful paintings and images of the buffalo and other trinkets attested to a pending ceremony.  Warriors, dressed as the wooly beasts that sustained the tribes, gathered for a final buffalo dance to herald the piercing of children’s ears.  Yellow Moon wasn’t sure of the reason, but considered it some sort of initiation into the tribe.
While dancing and piercings took place, a runner was sent to summon the Sun Dancers from their lodges where they fasted and meditated.
Very few of the children even muttered a sound as holes were put into each ear lobe.  Taught from birth that silence could save their lives, their bravery was a testimony of their mother’s patience and love.  Would she be a good mother? 
  Yellow Moon turned to the girl next to her.  “Are you as happy as I am that women are excused from having to perform the Sun Dance?”
“Why is that?”  The young woman asked.
“Are you Lakota?”  Inquisitiveness cocked Yellow Moon’s head.
“I am Falling Snow of the Dakota.”
“Oh. Then you also follow Sioux belief that childbirth is even more painful than the levels experienced during the Sun Dance.  That is the reason we are excused.”  She looked back to the dancers and than back to Falling Snow.  “I have seen many births in the women’s hut.  Have you?”The young woman shook her head, her gaze focused on the line of children.  “There is my brother.”  She pointed out a boy who appeared to be around ten summers, then waved and smiled.
“He looks very brave.  I hope I can be when my time comes to give birth. Although I want many children, I do not look forward to squatting over a trough in the ground while grasping a pole to help me expel my baby.”
Falling Snow’s nose crinkled. “I have heard the cries of many families who have lost a beloved wife and mother to birthing a child.  The thought scares me.”  The girl’s throat wobbled with a hard swallow of remembrance.
“I too, have heard those cries, and watched firsthand during my monthly time, while mothers and babies were called home by the Great Spirit.  We can only pray we are one of the lucky ones when our time comes to be called Ina.”
Falling Snow nodded.  “Do you have a husband?”
“I have been promised to Thunder Eyes of the Santee.  He will dance today.”
The piercings ended and their conversation cut short when the Sun Dancers entered the arena.  Their painted bodies displayed the expected myriad of colors and symbols, and they followed two holy men to a bed of sage beneath the tree.  Those to be skewered lay upon the aromatic herbs while those who chose only to dance or have minor pain inflicted stood to the side.  Her gaze roamed the faces of those standing, looking for someone who resembled Thunder Eyes.  No one came close to looking as handsome.
She shifted her gaze to Thunder Eyes, who lay unflinching, while staring in thought and concentration.  Pride swelled Yellow Moon’s heart.  Was this what Ina felt at hearing her daughter’s name called?
Yellow Moon turned away and picked up a sage wreath with two spiked feathers attached.  She purposely averted her gaze when the holy man knelt to make incisions in her intended’s chest.  She looked back in time to see an awl drawn through the cuts, a wooden peg inserted through the gaping skin to which a rawhide rope, symbolizing an umbilical cord was attached.  She gnashed her teeth for his pain.  Tethered to the tree, Thunder Eyes was to dance while staring at the sun until his skin tore free.  How, she wondered, could childbirth hurt more?
With blood trickling down his chest, but his face still stoic and emotionless, Thunder Eyes was helped to his feet.  Yellow Moon, as instructed previously, stepped forward and placed the sage wreath upon his head.  “You are so brave,” she whispered. 
He gave no indication he’d heard, and adjusted his head adornment.
As the dance began, the sound of bone whistles filled the air.  Thunder Eyes, and the others connected to the Cottonwood approached the tree four times, and with each forward movement, touched the wood with their palms.  Yellow Moon joined the tribal prayers chanted by all to send strength and valor to the tree so those traits passed through to the participants with each contact they made. 
The dance seemed endless.  Only Thunder Eyes remained upright.  Other’s had torn away their flesh and fallen to the ground, still others had passed out from pain.  Those who chose to make less of a sacrifice danced to the side, their movements barely noticed by the crowd as most eyes focused on the skewers that tugged at Thunder Eyes’ chest.  His face remained impassionate and his mood, focused.
His body slanted away from the tree while blood seeped from his wounds, and the rawhide pulling his flesh into peaks made Yellow Moon wince.  His face to the sky, Thunder Eyes’ eagle-bone whistle sounded with each move he made.  Was blowing the instrument his way of dealing with the pain?
The sun had moved to the other side of the sky when he finally fell to his knees in exhaustion.  He quickly struggled to his feet and continued his dance, but only for a short time before the sound of tearing skin replaced his constant whistle.  Fresh red ran from his wounds, but the pleased look on his face denied any pain.  The Sun Dance was over, and Yellow Moon gazed with admiration and respect at her soon-to-be husband before he disappeared into the throngs of people who rushed forward to reward and congratulate him and the others.
Published by Books We Love and available on Amazon.

CREATE A BACKSTORY INTO YOUR NOVEL BY RITA KARNOPP

My first thriller, Atonement, opens with a serial killer and his victim . . . letting the reader into his world and mind.
     He bent her fingers back . . . all the way back. It cracked loud and final.  He shuddered with excitement and anticipation.  She cried for forgiveness, but the duct tape muddled her words and screams.  He hated tears.  How useless.     He slid the sharp, long, Bowie knife from the sheath on his belt.  A jolt of excitement shot through him. He preferred using a larger knife on bigger fingers.  How could he not enjoy the feel of the heavy righteous blade in his hand? The worn leather handle fit his palm. It was meant to be his.  Happiness filled him for the first time in weeks.     Now he’d take his time.  He’d hold back and savor the moment.     Who is this killer? What reasoning drives him to cut his victims fingers off? What has happened in his past that would give him fulfillment from such an act?  I won’t answer those questions in my opening pages. Why not? Because I want to reveal the answers in the backstory. Backstory has been described as a set of events created for a plot, offered as preceding and leading up to that plot. It’s a literary device of a narrative history all chronologically earlier than the narrative of primary interest.I think what they mean is it’s the ‘baggage’ of our life up to this point.  A backstory shares key elements— that may be depicted and revealed in a novel —affecting timing, reaction, input, support, and even shock value.Backstory helps to corroborate the setting as well as events and makes the reader care about what happens to the characters.But be careful: Backstory by definition takes the story backward and when you think about it – then it halts forward action.  No matter how careful you are – when that story screeches to a stop . . . your reader may decide to stop reading. Too Much, Too Soon -  Too much backstory in the opening pages can be the kiss of death.  I always resort to the comment, “No one waits for the action to begin.”  Writing  page after page of backstory at the beginning to set-up the story is not a good idea.  I know you’ve read them - you have to force yourself to keep reading – because you’re convinced the information must be important.  I will actually start skimming – waiting for the story to begin.  This is not a good thing to have happen in your story.Then there are the books that get off to an exciting start and just when I’m totally vested . . . the story stops to feed me backstory.  What??  I’m frustrated and anxious to find out what happens…and you’re making me wait???  No!Guess what?  There is plenty of time throughout the book to feed in information the reader needs to know about your characters.  Keep that story moving forward – make the reader turn those pages.If you find yourself typing backstory and it seems to be going slow . . . guess what . . . it feels the same way to your reader.  A good rule is sneak background in a little at a time without halting the flow of the story.  Timing Is Everything – So how do we sneak that backstory into the novel?  As I mentioned– it must be weaved, dropped, or told a little at a time that best serves the story.One of the best things I was told as a new writer was, “Remove the first chapter of your book.  This is where your book should start.  Is it exciting – filled with action and dialog?  If the answer is yes, start the book there – and weave the ‘backstory’ into the story as it evolves.”  That was some great writing advice.As we develop our story – we explore who our characters are and what they want or are planning on doing.  But we need to get to know their past in order to know what their future holds.  That doesn’t mean the reader has to be told this ‘backstory’ all in the first chapter.  And remember – if the reader doesn’t know everything right away – you have the ability to keep them guessing - what is making him/her tick?Ask yourself, what does my reader need to know?  Not everything in a person’s life is important to share with the reader.  If it doesn’t further the story or share something important about the character’s personality – leave it out.
I read in an article once, “In almost all cases, if it’s backstory, it needs to be cut.”  I typed that up and posted it on my office board.  It’s a great reminder – don’t get caught up with information overload.
Wow – I guess that pretty much sums it up.  When you think about it - no matter where we begin our stories, there’s always something that came before. What does the reader need to know?  Hold details back as long as you can.  Give that backstory a little at a time and you’ll keep your reader in the present . . .  turning the pages for more!
Have you read Rita’s 17th book, Whispering Spirits (Whispers of the Native Soul Book 3) [Kindle Edition]   http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00Q3UHVEY
   Devastated by her boyfriend’s murder, Summer Timber Wolf, Niipo Ómahkapi'si, goes back to Browning, Montana to take care of her Blackfeet grandmother.  That choice finds her living in the ways of the old ones in a tipi on the shores of St. Mary’s River in the shadow of the Chief Mountains.  Her Nah’ahtells her to listen to the whispering spirits of her ancestors.  They are her shield, her past, her present and her future.  Summer, however, is not so easily convinced.   It doesn’t take long before Summer realizes they’re not alone.  Has her boyfriend’s killer found them?  To protect her grandmother, Summer trusts their scout and protector, Cameron Running Crane.  Soon she doubts her decision and wonders if he’s the kind of killer we instinctively fear the most; a loved one.   The truth will be revealed in time . . . what she doesn’t know is who will survive.
Email Rita at: ritakarnopp@bresnan.net

Who is this Jamie Hill???

That's okay, sometimes I don't even recognize myself. I'm Jamie Hill, and I'm pleased to be the newest member of the Dishin' it Out blog.
A little background. Like all writers will tell you, I wrote my first novel at (insert age here)-- age ten. It was written in ink on wide-rule notebook paper and bound with orange yarn I'd crocheted into a chain. (That was all I could crochet, chains. I was good at them!) Shelton and Her Huskies was the title. At age ten I knew nothing about raising huskies or babies, but Shelton had plenty of both. In retrospect, I'm pretty sure she had so many kids because I love choosing names for my characters and that storyline allowed me to name both children and dogs. It was pretty sad, I finally threw it away a few years back (kinda wish I hadn't now.) 
There were a couple more novels written in my elementary years and when I got to high school I stepped it up a notch. A couple novels and two screenplays, episodes of my then-favorite TV shows S.W.A.T. and Starsky and Hutch. By this time I'd advanced to spiral notebooks, and those I still have. Each book has plenty of cringe-worthy stuff but some keeper lines, in my opinion. And you'll have to take my opinion for it, because those will never see the light of day. 
In the late nineties I was a young mother with time on my hands. (I worked two jobs even back then, so go figure.) Every time I finished a Danielle Steel novel I closed the book and thought, "I could do that." So one night, I decided to try. A few years later, the resulting novel was a 128,000 word masterpiece/monstrosity that never attracted the interest of an agent, so I gave it a rest.
Right about that time, the internet was exploding. In researching agents online I discovered there were also publishers online, and something called 'ebooks'. What a notion! I found an interesting-looking publisher who had a call out for short stories, so I tried my hand and before too long I'd sold a few. What a heady feeling! Seeing my name on those first book covers was unlike anything I'd ever experienced. (I'd like to tell you that feeling passes but that would be a lie. Getting a new book cover is still one of my favorite things. Right up there with choosing names.)
Fast forward to present day. I've been with a handful of publishers online and currently have eleven novels published, plus one novella and a collection of short stories. Most of them are available in ebook and print on demand. Two of my books, Family Secrets and Pieces of the Past, are available at bookstores everywhere, just for the asking.
That 128,000 word masterpiece? It got edited down to about 80,000 words and is the first book in my Blame Game series, Blame it on the Stars. Those characters will always have a special place in my heart. But then, so do all my characters. I'll talk about that more in my weekly posts.
Ginger wondered earlier this week what type of posts I might be bringing to Dishin' it Out. I don't have a specific answer to that question but I will tell you I have a bizarre sense of humor and it often comes out in my writing. 


Some days I might be motivational, or educational. Some days a funny picture and a joke might be good enough. (Loves me some animals in Halloween costumes, just wait and see.)
I like to talk about music, too, though my tastes are very eclectic. Neil Diamond, Cher, Keith Urban, Train and Hootie and the Blowfish. I'm just sayin'.
'til next time!