C. Aubrey Hall's Blog, page 27

Stop Watching!

Does your protagonist jump into trouble, take on opponents, and try to get things done?

Or does your protagonist hang back timidly–or sensibly–refusing to dip a toe in the quagmire of story problems?

When you read over one of your scenes, is the protagonist just standing there, listening to two other characters debate?

Or is your protagonist at the center of the action?

In evaluating your stories, always ask yourself these questions. If your protagonist is creeping around in the attic and pauses to listen in to what is–in your authorial mind–a “very important conversation that will have a vital bearing on events to come” then you aren’t really writing a strong scene of conflict. You just think you are.

The conflict between secondary characters is never going to be as interesting to readers as the conflict between the protagonist and someone else.

Beware the trap of sidelining your protagonist. The star of your story should be at the center of the action … unless you switch viewpoints. The star shouldn’t be sitting in the bleachers, watching other characters at work.

Consider if you were putting together a movie instead of writing a story. Let’s say that you’re paying your protagonist a hefty sum of money to perform, yet the script has put Paolo Protagonist in a chair beneath an umbrella with a cool drink. The upcoming story action is going to center on Sidekick Sam and Confidant Charlie. They’re supposed to be playing tennis but instead they’re arguing because Sam thinks Charlie has learned Paolo’s secret and is upset that Paolo would trust Charlie more than anyone else. So Sam is trying to wheedle the secret from Charlie, and Charlie refuses to spill it.

Back and forth they argue. It’s a good scene with directly opposing conflict. Paolo may enjoy watching it. He may laugh at Sam’s attempts to trick Charlie, and Paolo may be proud of Charlie’s loyalty. At the end of the scene, Sam stomps away, frustrated and angrier than before.

Do you think you did a good job, presenting that to your audience?

Nope!

Why not? Because the audience wants to see the star perform.

You may argue that the scene was indeed about the star. “They were talking about Paolo the whole time!” you may insist.

Yeah, but it’s not the same thing. Consider this scenario instead:

Paolo needs to confide in someone. He shares his secret with Charlie, whom he trusts.

Later, Sam comes to him and berates Paolo for not trusting him. “How can you trust Charlie and not me?” he asks. “Why don’t you tell me the secret, too?”

But Paolo won’t. Whatever his motivation happens to be, for some reason he’s not trusting Sam with the information. At the end of the scene, Sam is angry and frustrated. He breaks his friendship with Paolo and withdraws his assistance from the important project looming ahead.

Now Paolo has managed not to spill his secret, but he’s lost a valuable ally.

Do you see the difference? Putting Paolo in the story action of the scene is going to be more interesting than merely having him watching and listening.

The protagonist–the viewpoint character–must participate in advancing the story.

Always check. You may find that you have some vivid and contentious secondary characters who are stealing scenes–and possibly the story–from your star. Don’t diminish them. Just give your protagonist a job to do.

Getting Started

One of the most frequently asked questions I encounter is how do I go about planning a book, outlining plot, designing characters, etc.

There are specific tactics for those tasks, of course, but no matter how methodical, disciplined, and professional I try to be, I still make sure I allow time for thinking. Just thinking, sifting, mentally evaluating, letting my story sense guide me toward what’s right and what’s not quite there. It’s like driving in the fog. You can almost see the road. You have to go slow. You keep the headlights dim. And you trust your training and skill in maneuvering the car.

Often, I’ll go ahead and run with any spark of inspiration I have as an idea begins to take shape in my mind. I’ll write a few pages–not many–just enough to capture an image or a partial scene. It’s not plotting. Usually I write these fragments as a way to gain a nodding acquaintance with a character.

I need my story people to start moving about, doing things, before I can gain an inkling of who they really are and what they might be going for.

At the same time, I drape names on them much the same way little girls dress their dolls or a placid cat. Maybe the little girl is an Alice. No, she’s an Efner. No, neither. She’s blonde and delicate, frail even. She needs a more ethereal name. {I often don’t know what the character looks like until I start the naming auditions.} One process sparks another … the creative imagination at work.

My mind zigzags back and forth. I’ll consider names and appearance. Then I’ll think about what the character is doing and why. I’ll pause, waiting for a glimmer of emotional life inside the construct. Scared? Why is the little boy afraid? Is something hunting him? Is he running? No, he’s swimming for his life. He’s fallen in the river and the current is sweeping him along.

Then I go back to see if a name has stuck yet. Is the boy called Will? It’s such a relief when character and name occur to me simultaneously. Many times, though, I’m less lucky and have to keep searching.

Once the name clicks into place, I get insight into personality traits. Maybe a couple of traits, to start with. Then I’m back at the plot again, trying to figure out what my frightened boy is doing, where he’s going, what’s after him.

I may write another fragment, this time working on the setting. It could be from a different viewpoint.

All of this is preliminary, most of it in my head. This is when I tend to stay off the expressway and take the slow streets home. I’m too absent-minded at such times to be driving 70 mph in rush hour! Sometimes I pull into my driveway and come out of the creative trance with no clear recollection of driving home at all.

With names in place, a couple of important characters in mind, an inkling of what the setting is, what two or three of their personality traits are, and what kind of trouble they’re possibly in, I can then settle down to work out the rest.

That’s when I reach for the technique of character construction. I’ve intuited the central core of my protagonist. The rest can be added from my trained knowledge of what makes a viable character. I’m building from the Legos of story role, goal, character self-concept, personality traits, flaws and contradictions, and motivation.

When I get stuck, I switch to plot development and work out the protagonist’s goal. As soon as I have that, I check through the shadowy, half-built cast to see if I’ve got an antagonist. If not, I start building one, making sure he or she has a directly opposing goal.

And if the goals won’t line up in direct, clear opposition, I’m forced to step back and rethink the characters. Maybe I’ve chosen the wrong individual to be my protagonist. Who else can do the job? Who? So the boy in the river isn’t my star player. Is he the story catalyst? Does he need to drown and wash up on the bank for the real protagonist to find?

And so forth … until there’s an outline from start to finish, and I have enough plot worked out that I can write a true draft of Chapter One. And Chapter Two. And Chapter Three. I’ll pause there and double-check my outline, assuring myself that I’m on track and nothing feels “off.” Then it’s full throttle forward.

Some of my writer friends are able to sit down and start outlining plot right away. They don’t meander through the intuitive process first.

If I could do that, I would. It would be more efficient and better economics when dawdling can sometimes cost me a contract.

But that’s not my process. It’s not the way I like to work. Writing is always a challenging job, so I might as well go about it the way I prefer–as much as possible.

My way isn’t going to work for everyone. We each have to figure out our own path, then trust it.

Your story sense will tell you when it’s time to truly start writing. Practice and experience can guide you there, as well. If you listen–truly listen–to your story sense, it’s the best mentor you’ve got and it rarely steers you wrong.

Plot vs. Character

The old chicken/egg conundrum. Should a writer start with plot? Should a writer start with character?

There are stories that are predominately character driven. They’re heavy on introspection and slow of pace. What actually transpires in the story–and it may not be much–is less important than the feelings and reactions of the viewpoint characters.

THREE WOMEN AT THE WATER’S EDGE by Nancy Thayer is such a book. I haven’t read it in years, but I think it’s nearly all sequel with next-to-no actual scenes. It’s a wonderful novel. The viewpoint characters–two sisters and their mother–are sympathetic women trying to feel their way forward into achieving new lives and new perspectives about themselves.

Then there are stories that are predominately plot driven. They’re heavy on action and swift of pace. What transpires in the story–the external plot line, if you will–is all that matters. The feelings and reactions of the protagonist are barely registered. There’s next-to-no growth within the protagonist, and practically no arc of change for that character.

For an example: take your pick among any of Ian Fleming’s James Bond novels. These books are driven by the story problem, the political dynamics, the cat-and-mouse suspense games, and the stunts. Readers have been fascinated by 007 for decades, but not because of his inner angst or dimensional growth. (His huge appeal operates instead on an entirely different writing principle.)

Another example would be THE MALTESE FALCON by Dashiell Hammett. If you read that expecting to delve into the innermost workings of Sam Spade’s heart, you’ll be disappointed. If you read it for the mystery, the noir flavor, the convoluted twists and turns, and the quirky cast of character types, then it’s enjoyable.

My personal preference lies with stories that entwine character and plot so that I get two tales in one. There’s an internal story, with the protagonist being hit with some huge change in circumstances. The protagonist is then pushed from her comfort zone, forcing her to grow or adapt swiftly in order to cope with what’s happening. Her goal and decisions and attempts to solve her problem form the external story. Each story line–inner and outer–impinge on the other.

An example would be Jane Austen’s PRIDE AND PREJUDICE. Elizabeth wants a husband. Because of that story goal, she attends a ball with the purpose of meeting and possibly attracting an eligible suitor. She meets Mr. Darcy and dislikes him on sight for his rude haughtiness toward her. Mr. Darcy’s opposing goal is that he does not want to be Elizabeth’s husband.

Every subsequent meeting delivers a clash of their strong personalities. Each clash works to alter their perceptions of each other until love wins over scandal, unequal social position, dreadful family members, and misunderstandings. Both Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy have grown as people while solving their various story problems.

Now, when writing or developing a story idea … whether you think of a plot event first or you choose to start with character design, what matters is that you understand the following two writing dynamics:

Plot derives from character goals and actions.

Character is altered by plot events and setbacks.

Trusting Enough to Fall

Have you ever been to one of those corporate seminars where they have people pair off and then topple backward, trusting their new partner to catch them?

Writing along the lines of technique can be a bit like that. It’s scary and hard. So much easier to remain timid and hold back.

Yet until you can force yourself to trust the proven principles of writing enough to follow them, your writing will probably never grow or improve past a certain point.

Back in the old days, when I was learning to write, my instructor Jack Bickham used to drill us mercilessly in techniques such as scene construction or viewpoint management. Then he would talk about a book he loved–ZEN AND THE ART OF MOTORCYCLE MAINTENANCE–and he would tell us to “Trust the process.”

Over and over, he stressed that dictum: “Trust the process.”

At the time, I didn’t know much about the zen philosophy and I didn’t always understand what he was trying to teach us. But he repeated “Trust the process” so often that it became imprinted on my brain.

So eventually I did trust technique enough to use it. Other than learning scene construction and the importance of conflict, trusting the process–the principles of writing, if you will–is probably the most valuable lesson that Bickham ever imparted to me.

Believing in the foundation techniques of plot and story progression got me my first publication. It got me better contracts. It kept me publishing steadily across my career. It served me well that year when I was homeless, distracted by insurance claims adjusters, and struggling to meet a book deadline. Even now, when I’m frustrated or lost, baffled by the Gordian knot I’ve somehow wound my plot into, I can hear that gruff voice speaking to me: “Trust the process.”

That’s when I stop, calm myself down, review the writing craft that I know, and make myself go to the most basic rules of writing.

The solution to my problem is always there. Always. I may not like that solution. It may involve throwing out pages or jettisoning a character. But it’s there. And if I grasp it and move forward, I reach the finish of my story without fail.

Ray Bradbury said to master the techniques of writing so that you don’t have to think about them anymore. You can then concentrate fully on your story.

Sound advice.

I spend my working days watching my fledglings crowding along the edge of uncertainty, afraid to test their wings, afraid to jump and soar, afraid that if they try they’ll fall.

They’re just learning the principles of how plots are made and scenes are constructed and stories are ended in dramatic climax. They barely grasp these concepts. They struggle to try them and falter, and when that happens they hunch up and lose their nerve.

It is safer, of course, to stay on the ground and fold their wings and refuse to try. Staying put brings no risk.

But staying put brings no glory either.

You can’t trust the process if you never jump.

Maybe you crash and fail the first few times. Practice more! Try it again. Adopt the motto of GALAXY QUEST: “Never give up. Never surrender!”

You must believe it’s possible to solve the mystery of writing. You must believe that you can do it. If you lacked any ability to write you wouldn’t be drawn to it in the first place.

Like Dumbo in the Disney animated film, you have to grasp the magic feather and fly.

Find the process that works for you. Learn it. Practice it until you can recite it in your sleep. Master it. And then trust it.

It will catch you every time.

It will catch you.

The Wings of Relief

Thanks for bearing with me. By now, those of you who are regular readers of this blog recognize when I’m having a fit of the sullens because life (or my day job) isn’t letting me write.

All writers face that problem regularly. I shouldn’t inflict my tantrums on you.

However, writing about today’s frustration–while it perhaps should have been confined to my journal–gave me release. The moment I clicked “Publish,” I felt better.

And this evening, I’ve found a tiny sliver of time to jot down notes for the book idea that came to me this morning. It will still be a while until I can schedule time to evaluate whether it’s viable enough to work into a plot, but the first sketch is in place–the who, what, when, where, and why–if you will.

Doing even that is a way to set the mental percolator perking. While I’m asleep tonight, while I’m at work tomorrow, my imagination can bubble away.

Over the years, I’ve learned to trust my story instincts and listen to what my temper–and temperament–are trying to show me.

If the inner writer is raging, I have to let it vent. Once it’s calm, I reward it with a spell of writing or thinking. That’ll keep it happy for a while. But I know this restless, cranky, irascible mood all too well.

I get this way whenever I’m starting a book–not the development and plotting, but the actual writing. It’s simply my process. I won’t ease up on the moody bouts of irritation, the growling, the snarling, and the short fuse of temper until I have at least three solid chapters and feel that the book is truly underway.

Then I’ll relax. I might even become a tolerable human being once more.

The YA plot I’ve been refining, developing, revising, tweaking, and stewing over all summer is finally at the stage for actual writing. There’s enough steam built up. Time to ease off the brake and … roll.

The Washing of Trash

Writers, by inclination and design, are curious creatures. We like to poke our noses into many things, all by reason of “I can use that in a book someday!”

Yes, it’s useful to wander down many crooked little trails leading to some serendipitous destination. It’s useful to encounter discoveries, new technologies, unusual settings, odd cultures, etc.

But writers also need processing time. We have to sort, filter, reject, and masticate. We need opportunity, calm, and a wide pool of no-more-input on occasion. There’s a reason the wise writers of the past crept off to sit by ponds or to write in the little hut in the backyard or to live a hermit’s life for part of the year.

Non-writers may happily buzz about their busy lives, shrugging off whatever overwhelms them. It’s not so easy for a writer to shrug anything off.

I’m angry about what transpired today at my cell phone provider store. I’m angry because I wanted to install a free app, but to do so necessitated purchasing a $15 iTunes gift card. It’s a racket. I feel cheated, infringed on, and taken advantage of.

Most people wouldn’t care. But I do. I’m artistic, creative, dramatic, and prone to overreaction. I’ve never been content to be a drone or a lemming that does what it’s told and happily jumps off the cliff because it’s there. Just knowing that many people enjoy eating kale makes me want to run in the opposite direction and eat cake.

How will I use today’s experience in fiction? It will probably filter into some story with themes of deceit and betrayal. Still, it’s cold comfort at the moment.

Recently my community expanded its curbside recycling program, with the result that my to-be-recycled trash now exceeds my destined-for-the-landfill trash. I’m cool with that. However, I now spend time prepping the recyclables. I’m washing yogurt cups and pickle jars so they can be thrown away. How much potable water is being wasted on cleaning the trash?

While I could live atop a stinky landfill, if forced to it, I can’t survive without drinking water.

It’s hard to process such niggling worries. I stand at my kitchen sink and remind myself that Agatha Christie liked to work out her mystery plots while she did the dishes. Can I plot while I’m rinsing off garbage?

So far, it’s not working for me. Instead of persuading my inner writer to start dictating … “Irmentrude picked up the last yogurt cup to be washed. It wasn’t her husband’s brand or flavor. She knew then–with a stabbing pain in her heart–that he’d been unfaithful. Once again, he’d brought infidelity into their home, sharing the intimacy of the marital refrigerator with some hussy.“

Nope. I can’t get that story to flow.

Instead, I keep thinking about waste. Waste of water. Waste of unnecessary packaging. Waste of time. Waste of serenity because I’m living in an age of information overload, and there’s never time to process anything the way my artistic nature seeks to.

Do I stifle my inner artist? Nope.

Do I retrain my inner artist? Absolutely not!

Do I rebel a little and stop washing trash? Maybe.

Even better, do I figure out a way to retreat to Walden’s Pond, some quiet landscape where I can tune out, drop out, turn off, shut down, and otherwise silence the chattering beast of too much everything?

I need nothing more raucous than the song of crickets for a while. No more distractions of greedy computer companies, obstreperous insurance companies, demanding bosses, meetings, hard-to-please editors, and software updates. At least not for a little while. (Yes, folks. I know that what I need is called a vacation.)

Right now, I have an idea in my head that needs me to listen to it, to give it a chance. Just as when you’re building a fire, there’s that delicate moment when the spark is poised between going out and swelling into flame. Mishandle it, and it’s gone forever.

So, too, are story ideas. Defer them and ignore them long enough and they fade away. There will be others, of course, but sometimes you have to regret the one that died.

A month ago, a cool idea of mine faded from too much deferment. I’m too busy to develop it. Yes, I bought a notebook for it. I invited it to grow, sort of, but then I never found the actual time to sit down and mull over the characters.

It’s not dead, but it’s become pale and uninteresting.

Today’s idea is most intriguing, but I shan’t get around to it this afternoon. The phone debacle took too big of a chunk from my day. Now I have other responsibilities. I’m already telling my inner writer: just wait a while; maybe we’ll sit down together at bedtime and jot down the character names.

Inner writer knows differently. It’s not fooled. It will wait, like the child at the window who gazes across the street at the birthday party he wasn’t invited to, but after the trash of the day is washed and I’m ready to lay down my weary head, there probably won’t be any chance to breathe life onto this tiny spark of an idea.

When I began my career, I learned quickly that the world did not pause or make room for writers. But it was possible for a writer to push the world aside and establish quiet places and little rooms of solitude where thinking and writing could be done.

Now, I can’t push the world aside. I must do battle to force it back. And sometimes the battle is so fierce I’m too worn to make use of my victory.

Once I’m done sulking today and in a better mood, I’ll be less pessimistic. I’ll pick up my new notebook, and I’ll name these wisps of characters and put flesh on them and give them a setting and figure out what they want as goals so I can start building a plot.

It won’t be as bad as I’m making it today. It never is.

(Provided I can stop washing trash at the expense of writing.)

Logical Conflict

Dramatic story action–aka scene conflict–should be choreographed with as much meticulous care as a movie director blocking out a scene on a movie set. In the latter situation, every actor is shown his marks. The stunt people plan out their sequence of moves. Every punch. Every somersault. Every pivot. All of it imagined and positioned so that by the time the director yells, “Action!” people know what to do.

The lazy writer approaches scene conflict with a casual sentence of narrative summary:

And then all hell broke loose.

And then pandemonium broke out.

Action erupted on all sides.

You get the idea. Lazy Writer is counting on readers using their imaginations to fill in the gaps that ole Lazy ain’t gonna provide.

Sometimes, it works. Sometimes, it doesn’t.

Doughty Writer … (Isn’t that word cool? I’ve always wanted to use doughty in a sentence! It means valiant and full of resolution.) … Doughty Writer works harder to bring story action alive in a logical, cause-and-effect way.

So what does Doughty do in planning out a scene’s conflict?

Step 1: Determine the protagonist, antagonist, clashing goals, motivations, and outcome. This is a general overview of what the scene’s going to be about, where it’s going to start, and how it will end.

Step 2: Determine the key points in the protagonist’s strategy. What is the character going to say or do in order to win the argument? It’s helpful to list these in order of importance or dramatic value.

Step 3: Determine the key points in the antagonist’s strategy. What ace does the villain have up her sleeve? What trick does she intend to play? How will she cheat? How far will she go?

Step 4: Decide which of the two opposing characters will launch the conflict. If you have a very goal-oriented, proactive protagonist, then this individual should take action on the scene goal. The opponent will then react to that.

Step 5: With the first action or comment, write the rest of the conflict in moment-by-moment increments. Writers have different terms for the same technique: stimulus & response; motivation & response; action & reaction; cause & effect, etc. They all involve the same type of step-by-step progression through the scene.

Step 6: Think in a linear, logical progression. If Beauregard aims his gun at Lucius, what will Lucius do first? And what will Beauregard do as a result of Lucius’s action?

Step 7: As the conflict intensifies, write the action in smaller and smaller increments.

John opened the valve.

Water gushed from the pipe and hit him in the face.

Sputtering, he turned the valve to shut it off.

She said, “Don’t go.”

He paused, avoiding her gaze, then walked out the door.

Step 8: Make sure your characters remember their opposing goals. Scenes can fail in the middle because a writer loses track of what the conflict is actually about. Losing sight of the goal means a dissipation of conflict.

Step 9: Avoid smoothness. Writing in small, directly linked cause-and-effect increments lends itself to choppy sentences. Remember that the story should make sense first. Smooth, elegant sentence flow should come secondary.

Step 10: Avoid simultaneous actions. What we’re trying to do is cause readers to imagine things happening at once. But we’re really laying out an orderly progression of possibly disorderly behavior from our characters. We should eschew such words as “as,” “while,” “during,” and “when” because they tend to convey simultaneous action. Rely on them too heavily in the cause of smooth writing, and you’ll lose the logic of cause-and-effect progression.

Digging Holes Without Shovels

I’m back in the classroom after a long, lovely leave of absence. For the past four weeks, I’ve met with students and sent them–one after another–back to the drawing board when they’ve brought me plot outlines.

I feel like a gardener who’s returned home to find the flowerbeds choked with weeds. Earlier this month, I finally got around to pruning two of my crepe myrtles, shrubs that I’m training into trees. They’d developed numerous side sprouts and were growing into the wrong shapes. As soon as I snipped and shaped, it was perhaps less than a week before new shoots were sprouting where I’d pruned.

My students are exactly like these rebellious sprouts. They’re trying to plot while assiduously ignoring one of the most basic tenets of fiction writing.

A. You need a protagonist.

Not just any character in the cast will do. You need someone to stand up, stand out, take action, and by-golly DO something, right or wrong.

B. You need an antagonist.

Not just a guy with a dark mustache who lives in a remote castle and broods over the townspeople he wants to harm. But an antagonist to the protagonist.

This means an opponent, someone actively thwarting whatever the protagonist is trying to do.

Without this competitor, this obstacle, this individual who’s really in the way, we have no hope of cooking up a viable story.

So why do the inexperienced writers want to dispense with this individual?

Is it because I’ve said the antagonistic character must exist, and a little rebellion is at work?

Is it because newbie writers no longer understand the concept of a villain? How can that be when the world is filled with villains? We see them on the news every day.

Is it because there’s a misunderstanding about the way stories work through opposition?

Ah ha! Perhaps that’s the reason.

You think up a protagonist. You even figure out what the character wants.

Good, so far!

But then, why shouldn’t we want the protagonist to achieve that aim, that desire?

Because it’s dull. There’s no adventure, no excitement, no suspense, no entertainment if Biff the Hero proclaims, “I’m in love with the princess and I want to marry her and live happily ever after.” And the princess’s father says, “Biff, you look like a handsome young man. My blessings on you both.”

End of story in three sentences.

A story needs conflict in order to move from start to finish. It can’t achieve conflict without the antagonist. It’s that simple, that basic.

Are we as a society so entitled, so privileged these days that the concept of having to work toward something, of having to strive for delayed gratification is simply inconceivable?

I don’t know. Story construction–once the veil of mystery is parted–is so simple. You just have to trust it, and if you do, you can write stories.

Without the conflict between two directly opposing characters, there’s no uncertainty of outcome that spins the story across twenty pages … or two-hundred.

“But I’m writing a romance story,” someone might protest. “I don’t have a Snidely Whiplash villain to carry off the girl. There’s just my heroine and the hero, and if they don’t like each other how can they fall in love?”

Well, duh. Let’s consider the construction a moment. Girl meets guy. She likes him. Her inner voice whispers, He’s THE ONE. She smiles at him in encouragement, hoping he’ll show interest in her and ask her out. She may even be bold enough to ask him out to dinner.

Where’s the conflict? Where’s the opposing goal?

From the guy, of course. If she’s thinking, He’s THE ONE, then he should be thinking, Cute girl, but I won’t be caught. I don’t want to be THE ONE to anybody.

There we are. The goals are in direct opposition, and as the story progresses the characters are struggling between that conflict plus a growing attraction despite all the setbacks.

Or it can be the guy who’s smitten and the girl who’s uninterested at first. Think of PRIDE AND PREJUDICE, where they both take an instant superficial dislike to each other. Then Mr. Darcy is the first to reconsider. Think of GONE WITH THE WIND, where Scarlett and Rhett are made for each other but so rarely in sync. Think of the Tracy/Hepburn film, ADAM’S RIB, where they’re deeply in love and happily married, until they take opposing sides in a trial.

Now, if we’re writing a mystery, what are we to do? It’s not a thriller, where good guy and bad guy are face-to-face, waving guns and shouting at each other. We don’t even know who the bad guy is!

Well, let’s see. An off-stage villain, a hidden, shadowy character.

This is the perpetrator, the one whodunnit. This individual doesn’t want to be caught, and so this character is concealing evidence, lying, and manipulating.

We have an investigator, the sleuth. This individual wants to catch the perpetrator and make him pay for his crime. This person is sniffing around, asking questions, seeking and searching, circling ever closer to an increasingly desperate villain.

Even in these two genres, the principle of opposition is still in play.

Directly opposing goals and their setup is not rocket science. It’s a basic foundation of plotting.

Ignore it, and you might as well be scratching at the hard ground with your bare hands, thinking you’re going to dig a hole without a shovel. You might achieve a slight depression, but you’ll never gain a well.

Drat! (The Update)

Well, I was in error today. Sue Grafton’s W IS FOR WITNESS won’t be released until September 10.

And I didn’t dine tonight with Sid Halley. No, I spooned my soup without having the new Felix Francis mystery to read at the table.

So after a long day of eager anticipation, my evening has proven to be a bummer. The Francis mystery was indeed at my local bookstore, but I’ve decided to delay gratification in favor of a better discount. Blame it on the book budget, which is tight these days. (Especially after a binge at the estate sale.)

Still, I can be patient. These delays are but trifles. Meanwhile, I have plenty of other books to read.

Books, Books, and More Books

Today is a happy day. Felix Francis, son of mystery master Dick Francis, has a new mystery novel out, one featuring the best Francis character of all: Sid Halley. I first met Sid on a sunny autumn day in 1983. I’d signed up for a college class on mysteries. ODDS AGAINST was the first assignment. I was sitting in my car on my lunch break, munching on a tuna fish sandwich as I read the opening page and fell in love with Sid forever.

So far, Felix has done a good job of following in his father’s footsteps. The Dick Francis mystery franchise seems set to carry on for some time to come. And that suits me fine.

Sue Grafton’s “W” novel in her alphabet mysteries series is also due in stores today. I have fallen behind in reading the Grafton stories, but I have been faithfully buying each of them annually. What a monumental job, carrying on with 26 novels featuring the same protagonist. Way to go, Sue! Only three more to go. You can do it!

Earlier this summer, I mentioned in a post that I don’t allow myself to buy used books anymore due to my mold allergies. Well, two weeks ago, I fell off the wagon and bought a handsome old set of Bulwer-Lytton novels, circa 1892, quarter-bound in leather with illustrations. They have been sadly abused over the years, and when I found them at a junker’s overstock sale, they were heaped on a table outdoors in the baking sun. Some of them were broken; some intact. The seller gleefully told me he’d thought about removing the illustrations and selling those separately, but it was “too much trouble.” I bought them the way I would give a stray kitten a saucer of milk.

Someone has to save these relics of a more elegant and graceful life. Someone has to find them a better home.

It was like picking up an elderly gentleman who’d fallen in the gutter through no fault of his own and couldn’t quite stand up again.

So these books are now in my garage, awaiting a little leather polishing, until I can find a good home for them.

But as harmless as that act of salvage seemed, it opened a gate that I can’t seem to close. With Bulwer-Lytton residing in stately decay in my garage, I stumbled over a partial set of Abbey Girls novels by Elsie J. Oxenham, a series popular in Great Britain during the 1940s. I found them in an antiques/junk shop. The books were piled on a rickety table, obviously part of a series. They looked gentle and fun. They looked interesting. I succumbed in a mad splurge, refusing to even give them the “sniff” test for mustiness.

Now I dare not open them and breathe in their scent, so how will I read them? Alas. They called to me like sirens, and I could not resist their song tho I die for it.

This past weekend, I attended an estate sale liquidating the home of avid readers. There was the room filled with old, rare, and collectible books: Victorian authors, Edwardian authors, books with Art Nouveau cover illustrations, classics, and weighty old medical tomes. There was also the room of children’s books: picture books, chapter books, YA adventures, and an entire set of Nancy Drew. Then there was the room of modern paperbacks, chiefly romance and general fiction. There was the room featuring writing references and books on the writing craft. There was the room of sewing, quilting, and craft books. And outside, stacked on long tables ranging across the patio and into the yard beneath big shade trees, were the rest of the books: boxes of Erle Stanley Gardner’s Perry Mason stories, boxes of Agatha Christie, boxes of John D. MacDonald, and boxes and boxes and boxes of just about everything else.

I told myself no, no, no. I tried to be strong. I tried to resist. But then I found the Perry Mason books, at 25 cents each. I was outside. The scent of musty old books occasionally wafted through the fresh outdoor air before being blown away by the Oklahoma wind. I knew better. I did. And I bought them anyway.

What is it the English say? You might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb?

Okay, so hang me now.

I went for the volumes of Elizabeth Gaskell (she of Cranford fame). I went for Anthony Trollope. I found a book written about life on the prairie and one about teenage flying aces in WWI. I did my best to reject books bearing evidence of “tooth of worm” and those printed on such acid-corrupted cheap paper that the pages were an ugly dark brown. I kept saying to myself, “Put that back. Don’t get that one. You have enough. That’s too many.” And I came staggering out of that house with two huge shopping bags of wonderful reading–astonished at my dissipation in throwing all good sense to the winds.

How will I read them? Wearing a paint respirator mask, I suppose. (After I’m done with Felix Francis and Sid Halley.)