J.M. Robison's Blog, page 3
December 21, 2017
Why Having Strict Story Rules Makes For A Better Story
What is a story rule? It is that rule which you create in your character and/or plot that is never to be broken. Example: RULE - a man wears a mask because no one is allowed to see his face. SO WHAT DOES THAT MEAN? – it means he always wears a mask. Because no one is allowed to see his face. No exception.I just recently finished reading A Map Of Bones by James Rollins (great book) but there was a “story rule” in that book James Rollins created which he then broke, whether because he wasn’t paying attention or didn’t care, or both, I feel are issues and lessened the quality of the book from being truly amazing.The story rule James broke was the Imperator always wore some mask because no one was allowed to see his face and know who he was. But then, toward the final scene in the book, the Imperator shows up without his mask and everyone knows who he is. There is no explanation for it. He just shows up and everyone sees his face.I’m certain the problem James faced was the reader NEEDING to know who the Imperator was, and the only way for that to happen was for a character to see the Imperator’s face and recognize him.But how James did it was cheap. He created a rule at the beginning because it was convenient, and then broke that same rule at the end because it was convenient.Don’t do this.Doing that deteriorates the quality of the story. We are not allowed in real life to break rules. The sun rises every day. We can’t break that rule. We can’t breathe under water. Fire burns. The wind blows. We can’t break any of these “life” rules for our convenience, so why would you do it in your writing?If you create a story rule, stick with it.
In a series of mine – THE LOST GODS – I have a prestigious skilled group called Bladehands. I’ll use this as my example because I have a few unbreakable story rules about these guys…Bladehands are extremely good with a blade. So good that RULE: only a Bladehand can fight another Bladehand. No exception. *This rule became a problem for me, because I had non-Bladehand character Joe wanting to fight and kill Bladehand Bob. I desperately wanted this to happen because of the revenge Joe wanted on Bob. But determined not to break my own rule, I thought really hard about it and came up with an even better idea, which I explain in #2.In training to become a Bladehand, you receive a horrendous scar on your body. RULE: every Bladehand has a scar. *This own rule became a problem for me, because I had created Bladehand Bob but had no idea what his scar would be, because I wanted his scar to have importance. Despite this dilemma, I stuck to this story rule and thought about it really hard and finally decided that Bladehand Bob DOESN’T have this scar because – what for it – HE’S NOT A REAL BLADEHAND. He’s just pretending to be one, makes everyone believe he is one, just to further his own agenda. At the end it is revealed and that revelation adds so much more depth to the story itself and brought about an unexpected characterization of this pretend Bladehand and is one of the best features of this story. Sure glade I didn’t break this story rule.Let’s say I fudged my two Bladehand rules. Let’s say Bladehand Bob WAS actually a Bladehand, and I didn’t give him a scar. Had I been lazy – made it convenient for myself – I would not have forced my brain to come up with an interesting twist in the story and the final scene would not be as revenge-filled nor as epic.Now for James Rollins case…he broke his own rule and in doing so robbed his own story of an even better character and an even better plot. Just like rules of life, if you create a rule of story, your characters will be forced to think harder to come up with a way to circumvent that rule. Your CHARACTERS will do that, not you. We can’t breathe under water, but you want to reach the bottom of lake anyway, so we invented scuba diving gear. Fire burns. Don’t want to get burned? Fire proof material was created. The RULE didn’t change, but we just got smarter to circumvent them.James Rollins could have kept his rule in place and not had his Imperator reveal his face to anyone. James could have had a character wrestle with him and in that process the mask was taken off his face and THEN everyone could know who he was. But James didn’t do that. He just broke his own rule, I guess, because it was easier? He forgot? Both are terrible excuses, and because of it the story lost a tad bit of its magic for me.IF YOU SKIMMED: if you create a story rule, never break it. Make your characters smarter so they are able to circumvent the rule, instead. Breaking story rules you create robs the story of something amazing you could only have thought up if you’d thought HARDER about how to get AROUND this unbreakable rule instead of breaking it.
In a series of mine – THE LOST GODS – I have a prestigious skilled group called Bladehands. I’ll use this as my example because I have a few unbreakable story rules about these guys…Bladehands are extremely good with a blade. So good that RULE: only a Bladehand can fight another Bladehand. No exception. *This rule became a problem for me, because I had non-Bladehand character Joe wanting to fight and kill Bladehand Bob. I desperately wanted this to happen because of the revenge Joe wanted on Bob. But determined not to break my own rule, I thought really hard about it and came up with an even better idea, which I explain in #2.In training to become a Bladehand, you receive a horrendous scar on your body. RULE: every Bladehand has a scar. *This own rule became a problem for me, because I had created Bladehand Bob but had no idea what his scar would be, because I wanted his scar to have importance. Despite this dilemma, I stuck to this story rule and thought about it really hard and finally decided that Bladehand Bob DOESN’T have this scar because – what for it – HE’S NOT A REAL BLADEHAND. He’s just pretending to be one, makes everyone believe he is one, just to further his own agenda. At the end it is revealed and that revelation adds so much more depth to the story itself and brought about an unexpected characterization of this pretend Bladehand and is one of the best features of this story. Sure glade I didn’t break this story rule.Let’s say I fudged my two Bladehand rules. Let’s say Bladehand Bob WAS actually a Bladehand, and I didn’t give him a scar. Had I been lazy – made it convenient for myself – I would not have forced my brain to come up with an interesting twist in the story and the final scene would not be as revenge-filled nor as epic.Now for James Rollins case…he broke his own rule and in doing so robbed his own story of an even better character and an even better plot. Just like rules of life, if you create a rule of story, your characters will be forced to think harder to come up with a way to circumvent that rule. Your CHARACTERS will do that, not you. We can’t breathe under water, but you want to reach the bottom of lake anyway, so we invented scuba diving gear. Fire burns. Don’t want to get burned? Fire proof material was created. The RULE didn’t change, but we just got smarter to circumvent them.James Rollins could have kept his rule in place and not had his Imperator reveal his face to anyone. James could have had a character wrestle with him and in that process the mask was taken off his face and THEN everyone could know who he was. But James didn’t do that. He just broke his own rule, I guess, because it was easier? He forgot? Both are terrible excuses, and because of it the story lost a tad bit of its magic for me.IF YOU SKIMMED: if you create a story rule, never break it. Make your characters smarter so they are able to circumvent the rule, instead. Breaking story rules you create robs the story of something amazing you could only have thought up if you’d thought HARDER about how to get AROUND this unbreakable rule instead of breaking it.
December 12, 2017
Lost Gods Excerpt, Book Four
BELOW EXCERPT PULLED FROM BOOK 4 OF THE LOST GODSBY J.M. ROBISON:Talon stretched. They’d been discussing with their heads down for an hour.Rubbing both eyes and smacking his lips still greasy from the hot meal, he stood. “Gotta empty the bowels,” he said, patting his stomach, and weaved among the patrons in the room who filled up every chair and table, several of them hooded, keeping their heads down.Sciath scrapped a fingernail into the wood. Clothes finally dried, his eyes drooped in half-sleep. They’d spent the rest of their money on dinner. There was no telling where they would sleep tonight.Radak was currently in the company of Andrast’s Lord. According to the inn host, Radak had rented a room in this very inn for tonight and would be returning to it before the gas lamps dimmed.Talon would follow Radak invisible to his room, sneak inside with him, discover what he’d done to their friends somehow, and leave without anyone ever knowing the how, why, or who.That was the easy part. The hard part would be then getting to Malandore to rescue–Talon ran back to their table, breathless.“Alamarr, you have to come see this!”“See what?”“This inn has a toilet.”“A what?”“A porcelain seat you sit on to empty your bowels. It flushes. Inn host called it a toilet.”“Flushes? What does that even mean?”“Come look.” Talon tugged on Alamarr’s sleeve until Alamarr relented and followed him.Sciath turned in his seat, watching the pair disappear around a corner. A full minute lapsed and Alamarr dashed around the corner, waving frantically at Sciath for him to join them.Sciath looked at Calthania. Her back lifted up and down. She hadn’t said a word in the passed hour. He stood up to join Alamarr.Sciath followed Alamarr to a tiny closet, almost not wide enough to fit Sciath’s broad shoulders. He looked down at a white porcelain seat with a massive bowel filled with water in the center, the bowel narrowing at the bottom into a narrow funnel which disappeared.“Watch this.” Talon shouldered passed Sciath and yanked on a chain hanging from the ceiling. Water gushed around in a circle inside the bowl, flushing all down the narrow funnel with a gurgle. They all stood silent, watching the bowel fill back up.“Inn host said there’s only two in all of Eloshonna,” Talon said. “Radak caught wind of some engineer playing around with the idea of one, and hired him to put one in Malandore Castle and this inn, since Radak stays here so much.”“Wouldn’t that be grand,” Alamarr said, “Radak comes in to use this toilet, Talon kills him, and we drain his blood and cut up his body into little pieces and flush them all down the toilet to hide the evidence. Everyone will then be like, ‘How did Radak die’? and the response? ‘Drowned’.”Talon snorted, covering his nose. Sciath looked skeptically at his grinning friend. “You’re gruesome.”“It would work, wouldn’t it?”“We’re not here to kill…do you hear that?”All three of them, crammed in the toilet closet, listened as heavy boots tromped into the crowded room.“Is there a man in here who is part barbarian, elf, and human?” an authoritative voice called.Everyone in the inn held their breath. Even the three men in the toilet closet. The inn host new. But he wasn’t saying anything. So did Calthania. She didn’t respond, either.“Inn keeper,” said the same voice, “have you seen–”“Yes, yes,” the inn host said in a frantic hustle, clearly unwilling in his tone but without choice. “He went back to the toilet not a moment ago.”Alamarr, hanging the most outside the closet, rammed his shoulder into Talon and Sciath, shoving them both inside. Following, Alamarr closed the door and flipped the lock.Sciath pressed against one wall, Talon directly across, both with a foot front and rear of the toilet. With no where else to go, Alamarr stood on the toilet, bracing his balance on Talon’s and Sciath’s shoulders.“Exactly, what did this accomplish,” Sciath asked, the small space heating up with all three of their rampant breathing.“Keeping you alive.”“For what, another minute longer?”Massive fists pounded on the door, shaking the walls. “Come out by order of King Radak.”“Haymiel is king,” Alamarr snapped. “And if you don’t mind, I’m dropping a shit, so leave me in peace until I’m done.” For emphasis, he pressed his palm against his lips and blew, making a long, fluctuating farting sound.“I don’t care if you’re consummating. Open this door–”“I can’t hear you.” Alamarr pulled on the chain, the sound of gushing water churning inside the small, cramped space of the room. When the bowel refilled, Alamarr flushed it again.Harder pounding on the door, like a shoulder driving into it. The wood buckled. “Get out right now.”“What? What did you say?” Alamarr removed his shirt and shoved it into the bowel, stuffing it tightly into the funnel. He flushed it. Water pooled up and dumped over the rim, splattering Sciath’s and Talon’s boots. He flushed again. More water. It flooded under the door.“Oops,” Alamarr said to cries of, “Awk!” and “Gross!” “Sorry. Dropped a big one.”Another shoulder to the door, but a prompt, “Umph!” and a heavy crash of armor on floor testified the man slipped and fell.Alamarr kept flushing. While other, half-attempts were made on the slick floor on the other side of the door to ram it open, Alamarr motioned the other two to lean in. “Remove your boots, both of you. You’ll have better grip barefoot.”They both did, without question. Alamarr, too.“I’m going to stop flushing and shove my finger under the door. When one of them grabs it, Sciath, unlock and kick the door open as hard as you can. Talon, remain invisible and rush the first man you see. Throw your boots at him to distract him while you do. If you hit hard enough, he’ll slip on the water. The rest we’ll have to take as-is, since we don’t know how many are out there. Ready?” Alamarr flushed one more time and stepped off the toilet, shoving a finger under the door.“I’m right here!” he taunted. “Pull me out–OUCH!”Taking his cue, with an added forward thrust of his hips, Sciath rammed the heel of his foot hard into the unlocked door.It blasted open. Not a particular heavy thing, with the force of his kick, the door slammed into the armored man’s head – who was bent over, holding onto Alamarr’s finger. His winged mask saved most of his face from the blow, but his entire body tumbled over and rolled. His armor looked identical to those on Avanor who pursued them. They were called Knives?Talon’s brown boots came out of nowhere, landing on the second masked man’s face who reacted with an upward swing of his arms to block them. His body folded in half, slipping on the wet floor as an invisible Talon tackled him.The third and last man Sciath delivered a straight punch to his face with his right, gloved arm.The man’s head knocked backward and he slipped on the floor, remaining still.Alamarr came out with his sodden shirt dripping in his hand. “Let’s be gone.”They stepped over the man’s body, rocking side to side on his stomach and holding his neck, moaning.Calthania stood nearby, a ready chair in her hands. Sciath made a motion with his hands and she set it down, following.The inn host rushed around the counter to the closet with the toilet, both hands going to his hair. “My toilet!”
December 11, 2017
A Thousand Hearts: a free short story and poem anthology by J.M. Robison
Download A Thousand Hearts free on smashwords. Read a sample from the book below:
It splattered on the back of his neck in a coil of shivers sliding down his skin. Drip. Drip. Drip. It slithered into his shirt; a snaking river of soulless hunger, chomping at his flesh to feed their endless bellies. He couldn’t fathom why hostages fought to remove blind folds in all the stories he heard. He would count it a small mercy for him to shut his eyes against all the mechanical teeth and claws dangling in slashes of silver above him, panting in hunger as the draft touched them, water sluicing off the fine edges like drool, splattering on the back of his neck. Drip. Drip. Drip. A monster with an endless hunger. But he was going to feed it anyway, like feeding leaves into the wind. Sucking, tossing, whirling in oblivion to circle the world and return for more. He didn’t think it was possible to finally reach a point when his heart stopped racing and his lungs stopped obeying his screams he was certain were pushed into the future with his volume and fervency. In these last three hours, he had done things and said things and agreed to things he wouldn’t have ever done even in an audience of his friends with pretty Miala watching with a kiss for his reward. But here water drooled on him. He could move away from it if he wanted. They had removed his chains already. But he remained, soaking his shirt, trying to figure out if his unwillingness to move was powered from a defiance that he would no longer fight his end or to prove he was no longer afraid of it. The door in front of him opened so soundlessly, it was a moment before he noticed the slice of blackness gaping and ready to swallow him. Time to feed the monster. Drip. Drip. Drip. His masked escort beckoned him, curling fingers like claws. But it wasn’t Miala with his kiss of a reward. She had screamed with him as he was dragged backward with a sack over his head. The beckoning became more fervent. The monster of knives and fire is hungry, it seemed to say. Its heart beat thrummed in his ears already; a drip drip dripping on the back of his neck. His masked escort removed the hood and the mask. A spill of liquid night slipped over her shoulders, framing the jewels of her eyes and innocent little pout of her lips. Miala didn’t have lips like that. A goddess maybe, but not Miala. Miala didn’t even have the velvety warmth of skin which this woman had brushed away his fears, caressed acceptance into the cracks of his anguish. Her eyes bore into him, and he was ashamed he fought her when she brought him here. His heat begged for forgiveness. Reminded of his acceptance, he remained undecided whether to beg to let him stay and stare at her eyes for the rest of eternity or to leap into her embrace which would smother and carry him to an endless pool of hunger. A promised kiss for his reward. The drip drip drip was no longer the drooling of knives above his head, no longer the heartbeat of the monster of death he was going to feed. It was a word. Go. Go. Go swiftly into her warmth where she would whisper promises of touches and reassure him that death was just one more step, one more blink of an eye. A reanimated heart pulsed blood back into his limbs and he dashed into her embrace. “My kiss?” A question. A plea. “Too soon.” A breath like a star’s sigh passed over his face. “Are you ready to come with me?” “Please.” He clung onto her cloak like a child to its mother, begging as he trailed her through the throat of the monster, deeper and deeper into its entrails. The thwarm of his own heart in his neck, in his brain counting down the clock his moment of life and passion would end in the same breath. What a clashing to herald him into a death throbbing with his own endless hunger, searching for a way back into his life to do it all again. The knife, the blood will bow against her lips, her warmth. Upon the crimson table he laid himself, already aching from the absence of her skin. She leaned over him, her lips hushing words against his closed eyes. “The gods must have a willing sacrifice.” “Please.” It was the only word he could choke out. He reached for her. She let him touch her this time, slid his hands across her skin, pulling her down so he could drink of her breath to give him life again in the eternity she was sending him to. The hungry monster didn’t growl or hiss. It simply slipped into his view above him with a daggered flash. He watched it arrive because he would not blink against the eternal depth of her jeweled eyes. He wished he had two hearts to offer… a thousand hearts to beat and pulse in his body in time with the dip and draw of her lips against his and remain alive long enough so she could cut out each one. But he only had one heart to offer. The hungry monster dipped a fang into his chest; a cold, sharp bite that seized his breath and arched his back. Her kisses deepened and he softened. Another bit. Another flinch of his mortal carcass. “Weak…” she murmured against his mouth. He wasn’t weak. He couldn’t be. If he died too soon he would be robbed of her fire moaning against his lips. He wished he had more hearts. The monster chomped and gnawed with ancient practice, his chest heaving up and down with every stroke. Sawing bone rumbled a hallow echo in his body as if counting down to the last sever. The pain of knowing her kiss would end outweighed any other trivial mortal ailments. His heart throbbed in her fingers as she lifted it above him, pulsing blood down her throat and chest, making him wish he had more blood to wash over her luscious skin. Crimson looked so pretty against her skin of star dust. Her jewels held his gaze until the dark wash of her hair swirled around him in a cocoon of dark eternity, his heart finally drained of blood. Drip. Drip. Drip.DOWNLOAD FOR FREE
It splattered on the back of his neck in a coil of shivers sliding down his skin. Drip. Drip. Drip. It slithered into his shirt; a snaking river of soulless hunger, chomping at his flesh to feed their endless bellies. He couldn’t fathom why hostages fought to remove blind folds in all the stories he heard. He would count it a small mercy for him to shut his eyes against all the mechanical teeth and claws dangling in slashes of silver above him, panting in hunger as the draft touched them, water sluicing off the fine edges like drool, splattering on the back of his neck. Drip. Drip. Drip. A monster with an endless hunger. But he was going to feed it anyway, like feeding leaves into the wind. Sucking, tossing, whirling in oblivion to circle the world and return for more. He didn’t think it was possible to finally reach a point when his heart stopped racing and his lungs stopped obeying his screams he was certain were pushed into the future with his volume and fervency. In these last three hours, he had done things and said things and agreed to things he wouldn’t have ever done even in an audience of his friends with pretty Miala watching with a kiss for his reward. But here water drooled on him. He could move away from it if he wanted. They had removed his chains already. But he remained, soaking his shirt, trying to figure out if his unwillingness to move was powered from a defiance that he would no longer fight his end or to prove he was no longer afraid of it. The door in front of him opened so soundlessly, it was a moment before he noticed the slice of blackness gaping and ready to swallow him. Time to feed the monster. Drip. Drip. Drip. His masked escort beckoned him, curling fingers like claws. But it wasn’t Miala with his kiss of a reward. She had screamed with him as he was dragged backward with a sack over his head. The beckoning became more fervent. The monster of knives and fire is hungry, it seemed to say. Its heart beat thrummed in his ears already; a drip drip dripping on the back of his neck. His masked escort removed the hood and the mask. A spill of liquid night slipped over her shoulders, framing the jewels of her eyes and innocent little pout of her lips. Miala didn’t have lips like that. A goddess maybe, but not Miala. Miala didn’t even have the velvety warmth of skin which this woman had brushed away his fears, caressed acceptance into the cracks of his anguish. Her eyes bore into him, and he was ashamed he fought her when she brought him here. His heat begged for forgiveness. Reminded of his acceptance, he remained undecided whether to beg to let him stay and stare at her eyes for the rest of eternity or to leap into her embrace which would smother and carry him to an endless pool of hunger. A promised kiss for his reward. The drip drip drip was no longer the drooling of knives above his head, no longer the heartbeat of the monster of death he was going to feed. It was a word. Go. Go. Go swiftly into her warmth where she would whisper promises of touches and reassure him that death was just one more step, one more blink of an eye. A reanimated heart pulsed blood back into his limbs and he dashed into her embrace. “My kiss?” A question. A plea. “Too soon.” A breath like a star’s sigh passed over his face. “Are you ready to come with me?” “Please.” He clung onto her cloak like a child to its mother, begging as he trailed her through the throat of the monster, deeper and deeper into its entrails. The thwarm of his own heart in his neck, in his brain counting down the clock his moment of life and passion would end in the same breath. What a clashing to herald him into a death throbbing with his own endless hunger, searching for a way back into his life to do it all again. The knife, the blood will bow against her lips, her warmth. Upon the crimson table he laid himself, already aching from the absence of her skin. She leaned over him, her lips hushing words against his closed eyes. “The gods must have a willing sacrifice.” “Please.” It was the only word he could choke out. He reached for her. She let him touch her this time, slid his hands across her skin, pulling her down so he could drink of her breath to give him life again in the eternity she was sending him to. The hungry monster didn’t growl or hiss. It simply slipped into his view above him with a daggered flash. He watched it arrive because he would not blink against the eternal depth of her jeweled eyes. He wished he had two hearts to offer… a thousand hearts to beat and pulse in his body in time with the dip and draw of her lips against his and remain alive long enough so she could cut out each one. But he only had one heart to offer. The hungry monster dipped a fang into his chest; a cold, sharp bite that seized his breath and arched his back. Her kisses deepened and he softened. Another bit. Another flinch of his mortal carcass. “Weak…” she murmured against his mouth. He wasn’t weak. He couldn’t be. If he died too soon he would be robbed of her fire moaning against his lips. He wished he had more hearts. The monster chomped and gnawed with ancient practice, his chest heaving up and down with every stroke. Sawing bone rumbled a hallow echo in his body as if counting down to the last sever. The pain of knowing her kiss would end outweighed any other trivial mortal ailments. His heart throbbed in her fingers as she lifted it above him, pulsing blood down her throat and chest, making him wish he had more blood to wash over her luscious skin. Crimson looked so pretty against her skin of star dust. Her jewels held his gaze until the dark wash of her hair swirled around him in a cocoon of dark eternity, his heart finally drained of blood. Drip. Drip. Drip.DOWNLOAD FOR FREE
The Importance Of Knowing Your Story’s Backstory, Even If You Don’t Reveal It To The Reader
I’m editing an old favorite story of mine – THE LOST GODS (16 years in the making. It’s gone through about 3 massive overhauls already.) I’m just about ready to send it off to beta readers after this last edit. A quick backstory before I continue: I have a character, Mianda, who’s half-human, half-barbarian. Her barbarian mother ran off with a human, got married, lived in hiding in the woods, gave birth to Mianda, died in childbirth, and the father was chased down by barbarian assassins because humans and barbarians are rival races. So Mianda, as a baby, was thrown into the keep of her human relatives on her father’s side, where she’s been ever since.This backstory for Mianda has been alive since the story’s conception 16 years ago. It’s always been there. I’ve had no reason to change it. Until…As of a year ago, I make it mandatory to throw each of my books into a text-to-speech reader (naturalreaders.com is a great one to use. It’s free.) and this is the first time I’ve put The Lost God through it. I don’t know why it finally took this text-to-speech reader to point out flaws in Mianda’s backstory to me – despite me having read this story a dozen times already – but it did. And here are the flaws:How did the human attract to the barbarian if they live so far away from each other?If humans and barbarians are rivals, who was the priest who married them?If Mianda’s father died while she was still a baby, who, then, found Mianda and brought her to his human relations?How did Mianda’s rescuers know Mianda’s father to know who his relatives were?Exactly why did the barbarians think it necessary to chase down the father and kill him? Yes, they are rivals, but in my story there is very little hostility between the races, more like a “you leave us alone, we leave you alone” stalemate, which didn’t qualify for barbarians to go into a tyrannical rage and chase down the human father. After all, the humans didn’t chase down the barbarian mother and kill her.
With these realized flaws, I sat down and drew up a brief outline and answered the “who, what, when, where, why, how” for Mianda’s backstory, and ended up changing some details in her backstory so it all made sense. Here is the new outline I drew up:Phoren (human) worked for the Trading Cycle caravan. Every time he came around to Forever Ice with the caravan, he’d speak with a pretty barbarian woman, Graedenbora. They became closer and closer every time Phoren can around. He, in fact, did not take his three month break between cycles, just so he could see her sooner. They became closer and closer with every trip, their conversations deeper and deeper. When the caravan camped that night to head out in the morning, those two snuck off together. Phoren confessed his love to her, and she him. He asked if she would run away with him. They knew they could not marry because there would be no one to perform the ceremony, as barbarians and humans were rival realms.They both ran away, living between Malandore and Forever ice in a cabin in the woods, hunting and trapping. She became pregnant and gave birth. Mianda was two years old when Graedenbora and Phoren got sick. Phoren – though weakened with sickness – took Mianda with him to care for her while he trekked toward Malandore in search of medicine. A fast acting sickness, he died before he got there.Mianda wondered lost and alone until travelers found her. Brought to Malandore, a search was done for her parents, finding her dead father, who was identified by relatives, who were bidden to adopt Mianda because they feared they’d be cursed by the Paragons if they did not.The reader isn’t going to know half these details. They’re not even going to know the names of her parents. This outline was for me to make sure the details the reader DOES know had a realistic chain of events connecting them. The old outline did not have a realistic chain of events connecting them. The new outline does, which will now change a few details in the story itself as Mianda lives through it.Are you worried you might have backstory that doesn't make sense?WHEN IN DOUBT, WRITE IT OUT.BLOG HIGHLIGHTS: Your reader doesn’t have to know the step-by-step to backstory, but YOU do to make sure the backstory has a realistic chain of events tying all parts together. A lot of ideas told in a very general, vague manner sound like they make sense, but actually writing them out step-by-step you’ll realize just how unrealistic they can be, like what happened to me.
With these realized flaws, I sat down and drew up a brief outline and answered the “who, what, when, where, why, how” for Mianda’s backstory, and ended up changing some details in her backstory so it all made sense. Here is the new outline I drew up:Phoren (human) worked for the Trading Cycle caravan. Every time he came around to Forever Ice with the caravan, he’d speak with a pretty barbarian woman, Graedenbora. They became closer and closer every time Phoren can around. He, in fact, did not take his three month break between cycles, just so he could see her sooner. They became closer and closer with every trip, their conversations deeper and deeper. When the caravan camped that night to head out in the morning, those two snuck off together. Phoren confessed his love to her, and she him. He asked if she would run away with him. They knew they could not marry because there would be no one to perform the ceremony, as barbarians and humans were rival realms.They both ran away, living between Malandore and Forever ice in a cabin in the woods, hunting and trapping. She became pregnant and gave birth. Mianda was two years old when Graedenbora and Phoren got sick. Phoren – though weakened with sickness – took Mianda with him to care for her while he trekked toward Malandore in search of medicine. A fast acting sickness, he died before he got there.Mianda wondered lost and alone until travelers found her. Brought to Malandore, a search was done for her parents, finding her dead father, who was identified by relatives, who were bidden to adopt Mianda because they feared they’d be cursed by the Paragons if they did not.The reader isn’t going to know half these details. They’re not even going to know the names of her parents. This outline was for me to make sure the details the reader DOES know had a realistic chain of events connecting them. The old outline did not have a realistic chain of events connecting them. The new outline does, which will now change a few details in the story itself as Mianda lives through it.Are you worried you might have backstory that doesn't make sense?WHEN IN DOUBT, WRITE IT OUT.BLOG HIGHLIGHTS: Your reader doesn’t have to know the step-by-step to backstory, but YOU do to make sure the backstory has a realistic chain of events tying all parts together. A lot of ideas told in a very general, vague manner sound like they make sense, but actually writing them out step-by-step you’ll realize just how unrealistic they can be, like what happened to me.
November 29, 2017
Christianity and Literary Torture Scenes
I am a Christian, as I stated before in my sister blog post: Christianity and Literary Sex Scenes. I was raised to believe in doing what is right, and to distinguish that which is right from wrong. I do not condone the torture of any living persons or animals of any kind. With that being said, I want to make you aware that as an author, you are essentially the Creator of your world. As the Creator, you have a say in what goes into your universe. You can choose to not have violence or torture of any kind, and there is nothing wrong with that. However, in my world, The Vincent Series, there is a great evil and lesser evils that live throughout. Vincent and Jeebs often face these evils, and eventually, torture does come into play.There are two reasons why I write torture scenes.When a character is tortured, they are brought down to a very venerable level. There is a saying that comes to mind, you cannot experience the highest of highs if you do not experience the lowest of lows. When a character is venerable, you can reveal their true nature.After their true nature is revealed the reader can experience how the character overcomes such a difficult time in his or her life.People relate to sadness, but overall they want to know that they can triumph over that sadness. If a character can overcome that horrific event. If they can still grow and succeed in living a happy life, then maybe we can overcome our own worldly problems.This leaves the question: How can I as a Christian write a torture scene and not feel guilty?The best scenes are the scenes that are left to the reader’s imagination. When I was in college, I wrote a Short Film script called Enthusiastic Intern. The script involved two characters, one a female, the other a male. The male was a student who recently passed his CPR/ Rescuer training and was enthusiastic to use his skills. He grew impatient and decided to spread skittles and marbles on a jogging path in order to treat those who had fallen.
During the middle of the short film, a woman trips and he goes to her aid. Underneath his normal clothes, he is wearing a full set of scrubs and goes to work on the woman’s sprained ankle. She doesn’t want his help, but he insists by quoting from the medical manual. “If a patient is unconscious, then the caretaker can provide medical assistance under the Complied Consent Rule.” He proceeds to knock the woman out with the rulebook and she falls off-screen.The next shot consisted of just the “Doctor’s” upper half with the woman just out of shot underneath him. The man then begins to pull out saws, hammers, medical supplies, a straitjacket, etc. In the end, the woman looks very comically wrapped in gauze, and a variety of bandages, including the straitjacket. The point is, I did not show the woman, I left it up to the reader’s imagination to fill-in-the-blanks. These techniques also apply to Literary Torture Scenes.This next part contains SPOILERS(In Vincent the Quest for light, Vincent James Aralias, a 100-year-old vampire, perpetually stuck in his 30s searches for the cure to walk in the daylight. He returns to his home and finds that he cannot keep the truth from Rodolfo, Leader of the South American Vampire Clan (Quetzalcoatl). Vincent doesn’t want the gift to walk in the light to fall into the wrong hands so he lies about having it, and that costs him his freedom.)Below I am going to give you two examples of torture scenes, one implied and the other a little more written.Implied Scene:There were never less than three vampires monitoring me at all times. They traded shifts keeping me awake and constantly prodded me for answers. Rodolfo was smart. He already knew that I was no longer just a vampire, but he needed proof. I found out a few things about myself during those long weeks. I learned that I had a great resolve for torture. I also came to the understanding that the ingestion of dead coagulated blood mixed with an injected dose of silver nitrate made me very ill. It was only by the end of the fourth, or maybe the fifth week, that I was beginning to think that no matter what they did. No matter how much I wished it all to end. I couldn’t die.Rodolfo’s frustrations only made it worse. He instructed his guards to hold me down and pry open my mouth. My fangs rejected their action but they were useless and I was too weak to fight them. Rodolfo asked me his barrage of questions one last time. “What really happened in Tibet? Were you successful in obtaining the light cure? Are you a Talduel?”I pulled against my restraints. I had stopped talking altogether two or three days ago. Rodolfo was not amused. The vampire behind me pulled my head back and pried open my mouth with some type of metal crank. I had seen a similar device used at a dentist office. I couldn’t remember the name, but it sure did as it was designed to do.I couldn’t shut my mouth. Rodolfo poured three cups full of dead blood down my throat. It was thick. I felt the need to purge my stomach. The guard removed the metal crank and gagged my mouth preventing me from doing so. The room was spinning as the blood worked its toxic magic. Rodolfo’s voice burned my ears and the light overhead stung my eyes. I viewed the world through a blurred haze for the next few days.I implied the long hall of the torture, as you can see above. This allowed the story to move forward where my character as in a venerable state without adding too much horrific detail. Rodolfo wants information, and Vincent won’t give it to him. Essentially, this is a push and pull type of scene. This is where Vincent is weakened but not broken fully. That is why later in the book I followed up with a more in-depth torture scene. However, you could have your character break with just an in-plied method. Unfortunately, my book called for more, and because I was open the needs of my character and the plot I didn’t feel guilty writing the deeper scenes.More in-depth torture scene:The door was left open only to allow Rodolfo admittance. He held a staff in one hand and walked halfway to me. “So, it is true.” He remarked. “You bear the light cure.”I kept quiet.“How did you accomplish this?”I watched him and the metal staff in his hand.He snickered at his thought. “How did a spoiled brat like you get such power?”I spat the remaining blood from my mouth and shifted my weight trying to anticipate his next move.“No matter.” He stepped to one side walking only a few feet from me. I cursed that he was just out of reach. “The point is.” He swung his staff high bringing it down on my back.“Ah!” I fell to the floor. My back popped and a few of my ribs cracked. I coughed and slowly got back to my knees as one of my ribs snapped back into place. An odd sensation crawled over my skin but I ignored it.“You lied to us.” He continued and brought the bar back down on me again. I grunted against the incredible blow. “You lied to your family.” I tried to get back to my knees. I was barely able to lift my shoulders when he struck me again. “You swore an oath to your Clan.” He walked around me and hit my back a fourth time. “And you failed them.” Then a fifth.My broken bones began to mend themselves back into place. It was a slow grueling process. My heart raced and skipped as my ribs shattered and reformed. I then noted a new sensation. My skin was crawling again just under the surface. It was spreading throughout my body. My skin was burning and my blood was boiling. I couldn’t move. Rodolfo was behind me and brought the bar around to the front of my neck. He pulled back on my throat, crushing my vocal cords.He continued to pull until I could see him over me. My spine was bent unnaturally backward compressing my bones. My arms were still bound preventing me from reaching the bar at my throat. My lower back was broken and I could not move my legs. Rodolfo leaned over me grinding the bar until I bit my tongue. Breathing was near impossible. He wanted me to see his face and pressed harder if I shut my eyes. He commanded me to open them and I obeyed.I used dialogue to break up the different acts of pain. The dialogue in itself can be used to humble your characters as well as break up lengthy action scenes. When I wrote this scene it was a little different than the implied scene. I actually had two different characters with two different motives. Rodolfo is a traditional vampire and Vincent upset his beliefs. So, not only did Rodolfo want answers from Vincent, he also wanted to let him know that this was personal. The scene goes a little more in-depth, but I don’t want to spoil the book for you. Rodolfo was essentially scared of change and Vincent represented the biggest change of them all. He brings Vincent to his breaking point and that fuels the desires, or lack of desires, in Vincent leading into book two.
Writing a scene whether it consists of Sex, Torture or other immoral acts should only be placed in a book if it drives the plot. We as Christians don’t have to feel guilty creating a great story. Often our characters won’t share the same moral beliefs as we do, but we can write with integrity. We can imply and set up events in a tasteful way. We don’t need to write porn or a snuff scene. We can show horrors through conversation, or memory. We can apply actions that allude to further horrors. Just remember, write what makes you comfortable.Nothing is set in stone. You can show evil without being evil. The ability to tap into imagination and build worlds is what makes a writer great, not the amount of visual blood you throw down on a page. Make motives clear, build upon sensations, surrounding factors, and revise until you have something to work with. Always keep pressing forward, you can do anything you set your mind to. Keep writing!Thank you for reading,Miranda Chapman.Find me on my website: mirandachapmanbooks.comTwitter @MchapmanbooksFacebook @mirandachapmanbooks
October 5, 2017
How To Save $30 A Month On Hootsuite And Get The Same Result
If you’re familiar with Hootsuite, you know the cheapest paid version is $30 a month. It has a great feature called “bulk uploader” which I have discovered just today. Only, I’m living pay check to pay and can’t afford it.WHAT IS THE BULK UPLOADER?It allows you to upload past scheduled posts to repost them all at once to a specified schedule, that way you don’t have re-create every post every freaking time. Just upload the old ones. It costs $30.SAVE $30Go into Hootsuite and create brand new posts to be scheduled, and schedule them. Do this to as many posts as you want to save for future posting. Before you hit the “send now” button or “schedule”, copy that post where you’ve already inserted your hashtags (optional), shortened link, and whoever you want to tag (for twitter ex: @JMRobison). My post looks like this:Christianity and Literary Swearing via @JMRobison#Christianity #writingadvicehttp://ow.ly/itWJ30fER1XTo test this easy madness, copy the above post, drop it into Hootsuite’s scheduler, and hit “send now”. Go to your social media and see how it looks.It looks good and it took you zero time.Copy the post you created and paste it into a word document. Title this document “I’m saving $30. I’m so awesome”. Paste all your posts to this document, separated in some way so they will be easy to copy and paste later (you might have to insert a space before and after your shortened link to format it properly.)Save your document. Now, next time you want to repost an old post, refer to your document, copy the post you want, paste it into Hootsuite’s scheduler, and hit “send now”/”schedule. How long did that take you? $30 cheaper, that’s for sure.
July 31, 2017
Why I Stopped Wearing a Bra to Work
I work at an interesting place. It’s a building with now windows on the exterior walls, doors that remain locked until you radio for them to be opened, and people screaming “Go to hell!” when I ask if they want breakfast.I’m a Deputy Sheriff and I work in a county jail.
I wear several layers: bra, tank top, stab-proof vest, and uniform shirt. I was assigned to work our control room in the jail, which is a job where you sit alone in the room, locked inside, watching cameras, answering phones, listening to the radio.I was thirsty. I have a bathroom in here, but no cups. I radioed my fellow deputies to bring me cups, but they were busy and I got tired (and thirsty) of waiting. Resorting to cupping water into my hand via sink is not beneath me, but when I raced to and from the bathroom to watch cameras, answer phones, and listen to the radio, I reached the point where I was just looking for SOMETHING to hold water.I found a liter-sized pitcher in the cupboard. Pleased, I filled it with water, probably more water than I needed but I’d never drank directly out of a pitcher before so it was hard to tell. I carried my pitcher of water back to my seat, and because I’m watching the cameras on my approach, I slam the pitcher into the back of my chair.Water shot up and splashed down my front. Not picky about where it went, it soaked me beneath my stab vest.I have zero ventilation beneath my stab vest, so where my uniform would dry on its own, I had to remove my uniform shirt, stab vest, and bra. My bra soaked up most of the water (#girlproblems) so as soon as my tank top dried, I replaced my stab vest and uniform shirt so I could be duty-ready once again and put my bra somewhere to dry.As I went about my day, I came closer to a turning-point in my life: I don’t need a bra. I’m only a B size, and since I have a thick plate of stab-proof fabric over my chest, it serves well for its own support. Further, I stopped sweating as badly since I was down one layer. It’s been five months. I haven’t worn a bra to work since.
I wear several layers: bra, tank top, stab-proof vest, and uniform shirt. I was assigned to work our control room in the jail, which is a job where you sit alone in the room, locked inside, watching cameras, answering phones, listening to the radio.I was thirsty. I have a bathroom in here, but no cups. I radioed my fellow deputies to bring me cups, but they were busy and I got tired (and thirsty) of waiting. Resorting to cupping water into my hand via sink is not beneath me, but when I raced to and from the bathroom to watch cameras, answer phones, and listen to the radio, I reached the point where I was just looking for SOMETHING to hold water.I found a liter-sized pitcher in the cupboard. Pleased, I filled it with water, probably more water than I needed but I’d never drank directly out of a pitcher before so it was hard to tell. I carried my pitcher of water back to my seat, and because I’m watching the cameras on my approach, I slam the pitcher into the back of my chair.Water shot up and splashed down my front. Not picky about where it went, it soaked me beneath my stab vest.I have zero ventilation beneath my stab vest, so where my uniform would dry on its own, I had to remove my uniform shirt, stab vest, and bra. My bra soaked up most of the water (#girlproblems) so as soon as my tank top dried, I replaced my stab vest and uniform shirt so I could be duty-ready once again and put my bra somewhere to dry.As I went about my day, I came closer to a turning-point in my life: I don’t need a bra. I’m only a B size, and since I have a thick plate of stab-proof fabric over my chest, it serves well for its own support. Further, I stopped sweating as badly since I was down one layer. It’s been five months. I haven’t worn a bra to work since.
July 29, 2017
I Was Captured Last Night
But I escaped out of the window, turned into a bird, and flew away. Have you ever sat down and analyzed your dreams? If they are some message trying to warn you, or even guide you? I have the weird dreams where some guy shrinks my mom and puts her in the freezer, but then I have dreams that have a recurring theme, and that theme has changed three times during my growth in life. I’d have nightmares growing up, where I’d be sitting in the car and the car would start up and drive away on its own, and since I didn’t know how to drive, the car took me wherever it wanted to go. This recurred every so often until I was sixteen. I had the dream again, but this time, knowing how to drive, when the car in my dream started up and started driving on its own, I climbed into the driver seat and took control. I never had that dream again.No, not that dream. The theme of my dreams changed after that to where 90% of every dream I had was now about some guy chasing me. The guy was always different. No one I knew. Never a female. And I was always on the run to get as far away as possible because hiding was useless. He always knew where I would hide. One dream I ran so far away the bad guy got tired and stopped chasing me. But since that was the entire purpose of my dream, I wandered around bored and wishing the bad guy would chase me again. I joined the army and deployed to Afghanistan. Around the time I returned from Afghanistan, those dreams stopped.My mind took a break from themed dreams, until I started working as a deputy sheriff in the jail. The jail has no windows and I stay in it for 12 hours every work day. The doors are opened by someone else when I ask permission. My dreams are now themed after me being captured be a man (always a man. I’ve no idea why. I’m not scared of men). He always captures me, though I never know why or what for. And I always escape out of a window, turn into a bird, and fly away.Do you have themed dreams? What events created them/changed them?
July 27, 2017
Magic Isn't Real, So Why Does it Feel Realistic?
I shared a blog post to my Facebook writer’s group. In this blog I said, “And in all things, writing must be realistic.”A fellow writer commented, “No, it mustn't! Real life is boring and mostly doesn't happen as we want it to. The hero saving the day at the last second isn’t realistic, but that’s what we write. The couple falling in love despite everything trying to keep them apart isn’ realistic, but we write it. I write happy endings. Is that realistic? No. Will that stop me writing them? Absolutely not! Long live unrealistic writing!”It then occurred to me that, though I know what realistic writing is, there are those who do not. This blog post is a more detailed explanation than I gave my fellow writer.Fellow Writer is right. We write unrealistic things. Magic is not real. Coming back to life from the dead is not real. Dragons, fairies, mermaids, are not real. Yet we write about them, and they are realistic. How so? I’ll couple this with another thought I shared on social media today:
It's a paradox us writers know how to bend... ...and that is being realistic in unrealistic situations. We do this by creating a bubble. The bubble is made up of genre and setting. What is setting? Setting is the backdrop against which the characters act out the events. A story with a poorly-portrayed setting is like a play on a bare stage. You have character and plot (the important parts) but no sense of place. And within this bubble we then insert our plot and characters.What you’ve just done is created your own reality. It’s not real, but your characters function within that reality as if it’s real to them. REAL TO THE CHARACTERS, because if it’s real for the characters, it’s real for the reader. That’s how we create realism in fiction.Two people falling in love despite the odds is unrealistic, but the world the characters function on inside the bubble you created has a foundation that makes it believable. Now, if a unicorn flies out of the sky and carries these two people to Candyland, THAT is not realistic according to the rules you set forth in your bubble. You did not include unicorns when you were constructing your bubble.
IF YOU SKIMMED… If your characters believe it to be real, your readers will to. This is how we create realism in fiction.
It's a paradox us writers know how to bend... ...and that is being realistic in unrealistic situations. We do this by creating a bubble. The bubble is made up of genre and setting. What is setting? Setting is the backdrop against which the characters act out the events. A story with a poorly-portrayed setting is like a play on a bare stage. You have character and plot (the important parts) but no sense of place. And within this bubble we then insert our plot and characters.What you’ve just done is created your own reality. It’s not real, but your characters function within that reality as if it’s real to them. REAL TO THE CHARACTERS, because if it’s real for the characters, it’s real for the reader. That’s how we create realism in fiction.Two people falling in love despite the odds is unrealistic, but the world the characters function on inside the bubble you created has a foundation that makes it believable. Now, if a unicorn flies out of the sky and carries these two people to Candyland, THAT is not realistic according to the rules you set forth in your bubble. You did not include unicorns when you were constructing your bubble.IF YOU SKIMMED… If your characters believe it to be real, your readers will to. This is how we create realism in fiction.
July 24, 2017
Christianity and Literary Sex Scenes
As a Christian there is a negative connotation when it comes to sex. It is often portrayed as being, “Inappropriate to talk about,” or “bad” to a certain extent. I have been Christian all my life and I was taught to wait until marriage to have sex, and I did just that. It was a wonderful experience to share my entire self for the first time with my husband, who had also waited. There are many paths one can choose, but I am a huge advocate on waiting to have sex before marriage. It is a hard choice but most good things are just that, hard. I am however, still human. I have had thoughts of sex and when I was engaged, I was so in love with my fiancé that it was extremely hard to wait, but we did. My parents were very open to me about sex, and if I had any questions they would be straight forward. I also learned the intricate details of both the female and male body during my training as an Emergency Medical Technician. When I began writing I never thought that I would feel guilty when my story called for a sex scene, but I did.Today I would like to go over a few reasons why writing sex scenes as a Christian shouldn’t make you feel guilty, how I overcame my feelings of guilt, and how you can keep your moral beliefs even if your characters don’t share the same background.Let us start with why a sex scene shouldn’t make you feel guilty.Sex is a normal part of life. It is a way to connect with another human being and to share the love and fondness for one another. Sex can be a great stress reliever and can help you slow down and realign your priorities with the one you love. (At least I have found it a great tool to get to know my spouse on a deeper level.) Even knowing all of that, I still had a hard time writing a sex scene for the first time in my second novel Vincent: The Race Against Fate. My Character Vincent Aralias is a 101 year old vampire, who in the first book; Vincent: The Quest for Light; Believes in Fate and an afterlife but he isn’t really considered Christian. Vampires have a long life span where they often just take on mates for a few decades and move on. With that ideal, most Vampires skip the morality of waiting for marriage.Vincent is relatively young compared to others in the novel and he falls in love with (SPOILER ALERT)Lillian also known as Lilly.They build up a relationship in book one and it is not until book two that they really bond and fall in love and have sex. But as a writer, I had a purpose to write a sex scene. Vincent in the first novel was tortured and broken (I was a bit evil to my character). In order for him to heal and overcome his loneliness and PTSD, he and Lilly had sex, and enjoyed each other. They built a bond and fell in love (before I destroyed their lives some more.) Both Vincent and Lilly needed that moment to overcome past trials, build a familiar connection, and have a special (almost sacred) moment to look back on before the inevitable Vampiric War that was to come.This idea and purpose helped me push past my guilt, because for one, my characters were not guilty about it, and two I didn’t write a pornographic scene. I wrote their love for one another. The book is still being modified but here is a sneak peek of my sex scene within book two:
(Vincent had just been tortured and imprisoned for possessing the ability to walk in the day light. His fangs were brutally torn out so he couldn’t feed. The lack of blood made him hallucinate horrific events and he was honestly completely alone to endure his trials. Lilly, with the help of others, rescued him and brought him back to a rebel outpost to heal before they try to retake the castle and his right to the North American Vampire throne. He finds himself with Lilly and she comforts him and the day progresses.)Lilly and I walked slowly to my room. She held my side but I was able to walk mostly on my own. I just wanted to be near her. She smelled sweet and reminded me of simpler times. She opened the door and shut it behind us. I held onto her until we reached the bed. I sat down and looked up at her. My hands were on her waist. She looked down at me with loving eyes but held a scrunched expression.“What?” I asked calmly.“I am still getting use to your eyes.” She slid her hand across my temples.I shut my eyes feeling her soft skin against mine. I opened them again and found her face closer. She knelt and kissed my forehead, then my cheek and, at long last, my lips. She lifted her head.“Ha!” She gleamed. “Your eyes are back to blue!” She looked into them. “Maybe you just needed to relax.” She examined them. I rolled my eyes, I didn’t care. I pulled her back to me and kissed her long and hard. I scooped her up into my arms and onto my bed. She laughed as I tickled her neck with my mouth. “Vincent.” She smiled. “What has gotten into you?”“I don’t know.” I felt almost primal hovering over her. I wanted her and it confused me. Was this Love, or was this a new form of Lust? I pressed my lips against hers. She was so warm and beautiful. Lilly returned the sentiment. She slid her hands up and down my back and played with my hair. I retracted my fangs, for once they were getting in my way, and I didn’t want to leave her lips. I gave her brief moments to breathe, but she was so intoxicating that I barely wanted to let up, even for a short amount of time. I pulled off my shirt and she took off hers. Her bra was blue and striped. The cups supported her breasts making them round and appealing. I kissed them gently and she looked at me. I could feel my eyes shift in color and the light from my pupils reflected in hers.“I could get use to this.” She sighed happily. This was going to be a good night.Then the next chapter I wrote:We stayed in bed for most of the day. The sun warmed our bare backs. I watched Lilly sleep and tried not to laugh when she snored. The light made the blue pigment in her dark hair stand out. I slid the back of my fingers down her spine. Her skin was soft and smooth. I held onto her hot shoulder. She sighed sweetly as my cool hands relieved some of the heat. She was beginning to wake up, but she didn’t want to open her eyes. I didn’t blame her. I too wanted to stay in the moment forever. She finally stretched and pulled the blanket towards her as she turned to lay on her back. I traced her veins on her neck and arm. She smiled and slowly opened her eyes.“Morning.” Her voice was tired but she looked well rested.“Good morning.” The corners of my mouth turned up showing my fangs. She reached up and touched them.The point being, is I didn’t actually write them physically going in and out of each other. It wasn’t needed. What was needed was their progression and when I chose to lead up and imply the actual act of intercourse, it added to the scene.This can also be used for dramatic moments, such as building up suspense or writing a tasteful (and I use that word loosely) torture scene. You don’t need to be guilty when writing a great story, just make sure you don’t cross that line into the land of Smut and Porn. If the scene doesn’t provide a purpose to grow your characters or build your story, then it is not needed.Your characters don’t all need to share your moral beliefs, but you do need to keep your target audience in mind. Write what makes you comfortable. Treat a sex scene like any other fight scene or dance, you can throw in a little bit of dialogue, make them move around the room or each other, and bring depth to your writing. We can be Christian and have our dragons too, and if you still don’t feel comfortable, pray about it, seek other’s advice or play around with scenes until you do feel comfortable. Writing is a way to express yourself and, like life, we adapt and grow. Have fun with your writing and if you feel guilty about what you are writing, evaluate why you are feeling that way, and then write and adapt until you have something you can work with. The point is to keep writing and be honest with yourself while doing so.Thank you for reading,Miranda Chapman.Look out for the release of Vincent The Quest for Light on August 12th 2017Find me on my website mirandachapmanbooks.comtwitter @mirandachapmanbookswww.facebook.com/mirandachapmanbooks
(Vincent had just been tortured and imprisoned for possessing the ability to walk in the day light. His fangs were brutally torn out so he couldn’t feed. The lack of blood made him hallucinate horrific events and he was honestly completely alone to endure his trials. Lilly, with the help of others, rescued him and brought him back to a rebel outpost to heal before they try to retake the castle and his right to the North American Vampire throne. He finds himself with Lilly and she comforts him and the day progresses.)Lilly and I walked slowly to my room. She held my side but I was able to walk mostly on my own. I just wanted to be near her. She smelled sweet and reminded me of simpler times. She opened the door and shut it behind us. I held onto her until we reached the bed. I sat down and looked up at her. My hands were on her waist. She looked down at me with loving eyes but held a scrunched expression.“What?” I asked calmly.“I am still getting use to your eyes.” She slid her hand across my temples.I shut my eyes feeling her soft skin against mine. I opened them again and found her face closer. She knelt and kissed my forehead, then my cheek and, at long last, my lips. She lifted her head.“Ha!” She gleamed. “Your eyes are back to blue!” She looked into them. “Maybe you just needed to relax.” She examined them. I rolled my eyes, I didn’t care. I pulled her back to me and kissed her long and hard. I scooped her up into my arms and onto my bed. She laughed as I tickled her neck with my mouth. “Vincent.” She smiled. “What has gotten into you?”“I don’t know.” I felt almost primal hovering over her. I wanted her and it confused me. Was this Love, or was this a new form of Lust? I pressed my lips against hers. She was so warm and beautiful. Lilly returned the sentiment. She slid her hands up and down my back and played with my hair. I retracted my fangs, for once they were getting in my way, and I didn’t want to leave her lips. I gave her brief moments to breathe, but she was so intoxicating that I barely wanted to let up, even for a short amount of time. I pulled off my shirt and she took off hers. Her bra was blue and striped. The cups supported her breasts making them round and appealing. I kissed them gently and she looked at me. I could feel my eyes shift in color and the light from my pupils reflected in hers.“I could get use to this.” She sighed happily. This was going to be a good night.Then the next chapter I wrote:We stayed in bed for most of the day. The sun warmed our bare backs. I watched Lilly sleep and tried not to laugh when she snored. The light made the blue pigment in her dark hair stand out. I slid the back of my fingers down her spine. Her skin was soft and smooth. I held onto her hot shoulder. She sighed sweetly as my cool hands relieved some of the heat. She was beginning to wake up, but she didn’t want to open her eyes. I didn’t blame her. I too wanted to stay in the moment forever. She finally stretched and pulled the blanket towards her as she turned to lay on her back. I traced her veins on her neck and arm. She smiled and slowly opened her eyes.“Morning.” Her voice was tired but she looked well rested.“Good morning.” The corners of my mouth turned up showing my fangs. She reached up and touched them.The point being, is I didn’t actually write them physically going in and out of each other. It wasn’t needed. What was needed was their progression and when I chose to lead up and imply the actual act of intercourse, it added to the scene.This can also be used for dramatic moments, such as building up suspense or writing a tasteful (and I use that word loosely) torture scene. You don’t need to be guilty when writing a great story, just make sure you don’t cross that line into the land of Smut and Porn. If the scene doesn’t provide a purpose to grow your characters or build your story, then it is not needed.Your characters don’t all need to share your moral beliefs, but you do need to keep your target audience in mind. Write what makes you comfortable. Treat a sex scene like any other fight scene or dance, you can throw in a little bit of dialogue, make them move around the room or each other, and bring depth to your writing. We can be Christian and have our dragons too, and if you still don’t feel comfortable, pray about it, seek other’s advice or play around with scenes until you do feel comfortable. Writing is a way to express yourself and, like life, we adapt and grow. Have fun with your writing and if you feel guilty about what you are writing, evaluate why you are feeling that way, and then write and adapt until you have something you can work with. The point is to keep writing and be honest with yourself while doing so.Thank you for reading,Miranda Chapman.Look out for the release of Vincent The Quest for Light on August 12th 2017Find me on my website mirandachapmanbooks.comtwitter @mirandachapmanbookswww.facebook.com/mirandachapmanbooks
