Meredith Allard's Blog, page 48
September 24, 2011
Books for Sale–Fair Price
One thing I've learned from successful indie authors is that writers should have a number of works for sale. The more work an author offers, the more opportunities there are to make money. Even a number-fearing simpleton like myself can see the logic in this theory. A reader who finds her way to my Amazon page, for example, may not be so into my vampire story, but she might be interested in something else I have for sale. And if she likes that something else then maybe she'd be willing to give that vampire story a try. Dean Wesley Smith has a wonderful post on this topic. If you'd like to see it, check here.
In addition to Her Dear & Loving Husband I've written a number of short stories and three other novels. Why not put them out there? Thanks to Dean (and others who have come to the same conclusion), I've decided to begin publishing more of my work on Amazon. I've started with two short stories: "Looking(at)You(dot)Com," my tongue-in-cheek look at online dating, and "Keats House," about how poetry can help us see the beauty in little things, even a bird's song. Both stories appeared here, and I hope you enjoyed them. Beginning Monday, September 26, 2011, you'll be able to purchase them for $.99 for your Kindle.
I'm also in the process of publishing Victory Garden, my World War II/woman suffrage novel. Portions of Victory Garden appeared in Muse Apprentice Guild, and "Women at the White House" can be found here under the Fiction category. I am thrilled to share this novel with readers, and I hope those of you who love Her Dear & Loving Husband will enjoy this one too. Next out will be my novel set in Biblical Jerusalem, and then in the spring the second installment in the James and Sarah saga, Her Loving Husband's Curse, will hit the cyber shelves.
As I've leapt into the world of publishing, the main thing I've been struggling with is e-book pricing. There are many arguments about every possible price point and I didn't know what to do. I've heard that $.99 cents is the best price for an e-book, especially for a new author, so I priced my novel at $.99. Amanda Hocking and John Locke found success selling their books for $.99, and that was compelling evidence. But then I heard that $1.99 and $2.99 are also good–cheap for the reader but they allow the author to make a little more money–so I've sold the book at both. Then I heard that new authors should give their work away for free as a way to attract new readers, so I made Her Dear & Loving Husband free for awhile on Smashwords and BN. Then I read that indie authors should charge the same as traditional publishers—from the $7.99-$12.99 range—if they want to be taken seriously. What to do? Again, I find Dean Wesley Smith to be the voice of reason, and here's his post with his thoughts on how authors should price their e-books. Hey, the guy's even done the math.
I'm considering using Dean's prices, which are $.99 for a single short story, $2.99 for story collections or novellas, and $4.99-$5.99 for novels. Because here's what I've noticed from my own unscientific study of e-book pricing: books can sell well at all price points. If you look at the top sellers on Amazon, some are $.99, some are $2.99, some are $4.99, and some are $9.99 and higher. My unscientific study includes my own book. Her Dear & Loving Husband sells about the same whether it's $.99, $1.99, or $2.99. I'm curious about what might happen with a $4.99 price. Would my sales fall off completely? I agree that $4.99 is a fair price for the reader while still being fair to me as the author, and if I'm selling my short stories for $.99 then $4.99 seems good for an 85,000-word novel.
Now I'm wondering, do I keep the price lower until I'm able to get more work out there and readers can see I'm not a one-hit wonder? Do I suck it up and go with the $4.99 price tag and see what happens?
I've come to see indie publishing as a grand experiment. What we're doing now is so new that we're all learning as we go along. Just like with e-book pricing: one price point works for one author, another works for others. I need to find what works for me. I feel fortunate to be part of a movement that allows authors like myself to take charge of our own destiny.
Filed under: Indie Publishing Tagged: Amazon, e-book prices, indie publishing, kindle
September 17, 2011
The Window Dresser
This week I wanted to share a short story I wrote about two years ago. It's based on my great-grandfather, who really was called Henry (and he really was a window dresser). It's a look into what life was like in Brooklyn in the 1940s. Please enjoy.
* * * * *
My father was a window dresser for the largest clothing stores and the largest train station in Manhattan. When he worked he didn't just lay out the latest 1940s fashions of fitted suits and back-lined stockings for passers-by to see. He didn't just set the straight skirts and the bolero jackets and the belts, scarves, and hats on hangers or quickly dress the mannequins to protect their modesty from a curious public's eyes. My father was an artist, and he told stories in his windows, stories from fabrics and color that created emotion and depth and made even the most hurried passer-by pause, wonder, perhaps even go into the store and buy. Where others saw merchandise and profits, he saw a palette of possibilities. He saw inspiration everywhere. He saw things I never did see, though I tried. He saw the world through windows, he saw through to the other side of things, but I saw the world through my mother's eyes. My father had artistry and imagination. My mother had the weight of the world. I wanted to be more like my father, I wanted to believe in his dreaminess, but I was too practical, like my mother, and like my mother I often thought he was foolish for a man his age.
Every morning my father looked through his bedroom window wondering how he would dress his mannequins that day. To him, the department store windows he dressed were glass eyes, sometimes larger, sometimes smaller, through which to see the beauty of life while it happened around you. Most people don't worry about windows except to think about how they want to cover them–with curtains, blinds, valances, or left bare. Sometimes they complain when their cleaning ladies don't clean their windows spotless so they shine like crystal. My father always chose bare windows though we lived in an old reconverted brownstone apartment, brown where the layers of paint hadn't chipped away, crowded among the clutter of other reconverted brownstones on our block. It was the 1940s, post war years when the men in wide-shouldered suits and fedoras and the women with pouty red lips and long curled-under hair walked the streets hailing cabs, going shopping, or leaving for work on the trolley cars. Treble trumpet sounds of Big Band music were the thumping soundtrack to the days. Even in the morning the sun cast long shadows on the city streets as it fell behind the high-wire gates of the Brooklyn Bridge, its broad promenade parading above the city like a giant cage overhead.
My father watched the lanky automobiles drive past, listened to the clanking bells of the trolley cars, and shook his head at the honking horns and the drivers waving angry fists. They were converging onto the same streets at the same time, headed towards the Bridge, the gateway to Manhattan, the other side. Through the window my father saw the mosaic of cart vendors selling fruits, pickles, smoked salmon, and pretzels lining the streets along with the women and children who purchased their daily rations there. Hebrew writing gave old-world character to the shops in our corner of the neighborhood. It was August in Brooklyn, a day when the air was so thick you could touch it, smell it, and bring it closer with your hand. My mother pushed open the windows and sighed.
"Henry," she said, "when are you going to move us from this place? It's too small, too cramped. I'm sweltering. Henry? Are you listening to me?"
"Soon, Molly," my father said. "Soon after I do enough windows."
"You always do the windows," my mother said. "That's all you do, the windows. When are you going to help me around here? You could do our windows."
"Soon, Molly, soon," my father said again. He turned to the window in the cramped living room and looked out. Brooklyn was a city of immigrants, and our neighborhood was no exception. From our living room you could see the tailor's shop with the storefront sign written in three languages—English, German, and Hebrew. Next door was the second-hand clothing store, the shirts calling to passers-by with frayed cuffs or turned-up collars. The old clothes were neat and straight on their hangers, hung evenly on the rack display. We were new once and worn proudly, they seemed to say through their flattened creases. Now they hung limply and gave the store a lingering sense of sadness because only extreme circumstances could bring people to sell the clothes off their backs. My father shook his head at the sight as he did every morning.
"They know nothing of artistry or presentation," he said. My mother handed him his cup of coffee, heavy and black, and he took a long sip while he looked at me. "Selma," he said, "do you see? Look how depressed that old coat looks. Like it would rather be burned than worn another day. There's no art there, no story. No one is going to want to go in and see what those clothes have to say."
Maybe no one should want to go in and see more, I thought. Who wants to buy someone else's decline? But my father was greatly agitated. He had artist eyes and the sight of a misused, unheeded window troubled him.
"Windows are glass eyes, Selma," he said. "They help you see outside, see the world, but they're also reflections of us. Through windows we can see in and out at the same time. When people look at my windows, they recognize themselves, but they also see who they could be, who they want to be. People want to be well dressed and fashionable, they want to look like movie stars, like Humphrey Bogart or Betty Grable, and they see that in my windows. Even if they never star in a moving picture, at least they can wear the clothes and look like one in the mirror." He put down his coffee cup and walked to the window, poking at the glass with his finger. "In that window over there people only see who they are, like they need reminding. In my windows, Selma, in my windows they see through who they are to who they could be. People can see that maybe they can be like Clark Gable or Bette Davis even if they can't afford Oleg Cassini or Dior or Chanel. Do you see?"
I looked up from my scrambled eggs and stared at the old-clothes shop. I tried to follow my father's whimsy, but no matter how hard I concentrated I could only see a half-off store with worn-out merchandise.
"Henry," my mother called, "for how many hours are you going to sit there staring out that window? Aren't you going to work today? Who are we, the Rockefellers that you can sit and stare like a nudnick all day? Henry? Are you listening to me?"
My father grinned with that look he shared only with windows. "Ideas, Molly. I'm getting ideas. I have to think of new ways of making the clothes look good. Who wants to look at old, unkempt rags hanging from a lopsided rack? Who will buy then? If I didn't have ideas my windows wouldn't look any better than there across the street."
My mother wrung her hands around the dishtowel. "Ideas? What do you need ideas for?" She began whisking flour and baking soda for the mandel bread she was baking. "Your father wants ideas," she said, shrugging her shoulders. "Maybe he'll get an idea to be helpful once in a while. Can't boil water to make coffee, but ideas he wants. Go ahead, Henry. Feed your family on ideas."
I gathered my book bag and got ready for school. While I put on my sweater my sister came into the kitchen and wrinkled her nose.
"Smells like rotten eggs," she said, turning away to check herself in the mirror in the dining room. The day before our brother brought home a friend, and as soon as my sister saw him she became flirty, vivacious, and she even laughed a little. My brother told his friend how our sister had taken to walking around the navy yard, cultivating the hungry glances of the young sailors temporarily dry on land. When the friend finally responded to my sister's flirtiness she rebuffed him.
"He lives across the street," she explained while tucking a stray curl behind her ear. "He doesn't have any more than we do."
"That's right," my mother said. "My mother said to me before I married your father, she said to me, 'What, are you crazy? You're marrying a window dresser? You can marry a rich man as easily as you can marry a poor one.' Marry rich, girls. Then you'll be provided for and you won't have to struggle the way I struggle."
"We don't struggle, Molly," my father said. "We work. People have to work."
"We don't struggle. You're sitting there looking for ideas telling me we don't struggle."
"Come here, Molly," my father said, gesturing towards her with his hand. "Come see. There is magic through this window." He pointed, happy the way my brother was happy whenever we went to see the Dodgers play at Ebbets Field. Reluctantly, my mother joined him.
"What do you see, Henry," she asked, "because all I see are smelly fish mongers and someone's falling-apart laundry thrown over the line in their backyard."
"No, no," my father said, "that's not it at all. There is inspiration everywhere. Look at the colors—there are rainbows down there. Do you see how the sun is reflecting prisms in the puddles? I bet I could recreate that in my windows if I used a light bulb and a mirror. Look at the space and the shadows. See how the people move, like they're dancing a minuet. Listen to the music of the voices. It's poetry, Molly, all of it. It's poetry because it's beautiful, and it's beautiful because it's real. When you look for the beauty the world shimmers."
"Now it's shimmers he wants yet," my mother said, throwing her hands into the air. "Do you know how much cleaning it takes to get shimmers?" She shook her head. "He can't crack an egg to scramble it but he can see shimmers. I don't know what to do with him."
My father disappeared to dress himself in his well-pressed suit with a pink carnation in his buttonhole. He always dressed himself with the same snazzy flair and latest style he used to dress the mannequins in his windows. He came into the kitchen tugging on his sleeves and straightening his tie. "Such a dandy," my mother said while she slid the mandel bread into the oven. "Always the creases ironed, the shoes shined. Even when it rains he wakes up 20 minutes early to shine his shoes while I walk around in a schmata."
"I told you I'd buy you new clothes, Molly. I know all the latest fashions and you won't let me buy you some new clothes."
"Who has money for new clothes? I'm here cooking and cleaning and you're looking for ideas that shimmer like the sun or the rainbows or whatever it was you were going on about over there."
My father laughed. He never got angry with my mother, never yelled at her, never felt frustrated with her.
"Listen to your mother go on," he said, and then he kissed her on her bun-pulled hair. "Just like the day we were married." My mother always smiled then, remembering why she had married him all those years ago, even if he was just a window dresser.
"Go on and dress your windows," she said, blushing and pushing him away with a playful hand. She brushed his cheek with her dishcloth. "Go and make your shimmers."
"Shimmers come to life in my windows," my father said, smiling widely. "Dreams come to life in my windows. You should come and see them sometime."
He picked up his overcoat and pulled his fedora over his eyes. He left for his day walking with light, happy steps, whistling while he stepped into the street and disappeared into the crowd. He knew exactly how he was going to dress the windows that day, with a light bulb and mirrors sending kaleidoscope shimmers into the city street outside, and that brought him the greatest joy of all–knowing that he had a new story to tell and a window to show it through.
Filed under: Fiction Tagged: Brooklyn, fiction, historical fiction, The Window Dresser
September 10, 2011
Hooray for Book Bloggers
Next week, beginning on September 12, Her Dear & Loving Husband goes on a virtual book tour visiting blogs all over. Recently, I read an interview with Amanda Hocking where she sang the praises of book bloggers, and I, too, am thankful for these nice people who love books so much they feel compelled to write about them. Book bloggers are open to reviewing and featuring indie books in a way traditional outlets aren't, and they're an important platform for indie authors like myself.
I didn't intend on becoming an indie author (like most indie authors). About ten years ago, around the time I started The Copperfield Review, I finished a Civil War novel and began seeking a publisher. Like most writers, I had my share of successes and failures. I had a lot of rejection letters. Eventually, I found two agents, but neither worked out as I hoped. The first seemed nice enough but was more concerned about her already successful clients. The second decided to become a theatrical agent without telling her literary clients she had switched gears. One New York publishing house was interested but the deal fell through. Frustrated by the process, I decided to self-publish through a company where you pay them a substantial fee to create the cover and the layout, they sell it on their website, and they take a large cut of every book you sell.
I was mortified by the book they produced. The cover still makes me shudder in pain-filled epileptic seizures. It looks like something a lazy high school student would churn out in graphics class. They also made mistakes in the way words were hyphenated at the ends of lines. I'd point out the mistakes and they'd send me a new copy with different mistakes. Then they said they were going to start charging me for fixing the mistakes. When I argued that the problems weren't my fault, I got the condescending, "I'm sorry, ma'am, but our policy is to charge after the second round of corrections." And if I wanted a different cover that would cost more too. At the time, I was a new teacher living on a new teacher's salary and I didn't have money to pay for the changes. I tried to market the book, but it was only a half-hearted effort. If I thought the book looked low quality, what would others think? I let the book die a quiet death and went about my business on Copperfield and writing other novels, with a few short fiction and nonfiction pieces published here and there.
In April 2009 I began writing this little vampire book that would become Her Dear & Loving Husband. As before, I did the usual round of query letters to agents. As before, I received my share of rejection letters. But something was different this time. I was different this time. I wasn't content to let others determine whether or not my story should be read. In the past, after I received a certain number of rejection letters I'd think maybe they were right and that work shouldn't be published. But this time, with Her Dear & Loving Husband, I felt in my gut that I had written a story that people would like if they had a chance to read it. I had enough positive feedback to think I was onto something, and I wasn't willing to let it go.
Before I go any further, I should say that after my disastrous experience with the "pay to play" publisher I had declared that I would never self-publish again. But in 2011 things are different. You can publish your own work—both as digital and paperback versions—for free. There are graphic artists who can make professional quality covers for a nominal fee. Technology has revolutionized publishing.
This wouldn't be the same as the "pay to play" publishing I had such a bad experience with. This would be my baby. I had complete creative control over my work. And this was my chance to begin the publishing company I had wanted for over a decade. While it's been a lot of work, I wouldn't trade the experience for anything because I learned that I didn't need anyone else's permission to do what is in my heart to do. As reviews for the novel come in, they're overwhelmingly positive and I'm grateful. It's nice to see that people are enjoying the story. And it's good to know there are book lovers who are open to reviewing books by indie authors/publishers like me. Book bloggers make all the difference in helping us find readers for our work.
Please join me from September 12 to October 8 as I visit the websites of some of these wonderful book bloggers. See the Blog Tour page for dates and links. The truth is, I'm having fun writing the guest posts and answering the interview questions. This is my chance to share Her Dear & Loving Husband with readers I might not have had the chance to connect with otherwise, and I'm grateful for the priceless opportunity.
Filed under: Book Blog Tours, Her Dear & Loving Husband Tagged: Bewitching Book Tours, Book Blogs, Her Dear & Loving Husband, indie publishing
September 3, 2011
Writing the Second Novel Part 3
Tip #3: Foreshadowing
What is foreshadowing? Foreshadowing plants clues for the reader. It drops hints about events to come. It creates suspense. It tells the reader to stay tuned. I describe foreshadowing as the writer leaving a trail of breadcrumbs for the reader to follow. Readers aren't sure where the trail leads, but the crumbs sure are tasty so they're willing to follow along. Then, when they get to their final destination, there's an "Aha!" moment where they realize that the journey, every step of it, makes sense. They can see how the turns and detours were connected all along.
Foreshadowing shouldn't be obvious. Sometimes the detail the author is pointing out may seem unimportant in the moment and it's not until later that we realize that that empty bottle of scotch on the kitchen floor or those keys left in the ignition in a car in a garage were clues. Sometimes authors like to drop false hints, known as as red herrings, to deliberately mislead readers. This is especially true in mystery and suspense novels.
They way I incorporate foreshadowing into my fiction is fairly simple. Whenever I begin a novel I create a blueprint, a rough outline of what I think will happen in the story. And, as I said before, I must know the ending so I know where I'm heading. Once I begin the first draft I try to work in a few scenes that I know will act as hints about what's to come. But I don't worry too much about foreshadowing in the first draft since I'm still feeling out the story and a lot of what I write will change as I understand more about the characters and the plot.
The revising stage is where I go heavy on the foreshadowing. Now I understand the story, the plot is set, so I go back into earlier chapters and find places where I can drop those tasty breadcrumbs I want readers to follow. For example, in Her Dear & Loving Husband there's the opening scene with Sarah and her landlady where the landlady warns Sarah about the ghosts from the Salem Witch Trials that still haunt Salem. Ghosts in Salem? Sarah dismisses the irrational concern, saying she doesn't believe in ghosts. What at first seems like an odd conversation between Sarah and her elderly landlady becomes important because this is Sarah's first hint of the supernatural world she has unknowingly entered in Salem.
And there's the scene in The Witches Lair where Sarah receives the psychic reading from Olivia, the motherly Wiccan who is also a powerful seer. I wanted the reader to sense that something big is coming for Sarah, and since Salem, Massachusetts really is a center for Wiccans and psychics, I thought Olivia's prophecy was the way to do it.
In this scene I used dialogue to create the foreshadowing. Olivia's cryptic words to Sarah? "I can see that he will find you. He is here and he will find you." When Sarah asks who, Olivia responds, "He will. The one who has been waiting for you. He has been waiting for you for oh so very long." The phrase "oh so very long" isn't remarkable in itself until another character says something similar later on. Is there a connection between Olivia's "oh so very long" and this other character? You'll need to keep reading to find out.
Keep in mind that if you promise something through foreshadowing, deliver it. If you hint at a connection between characters, then develop that connection. If you bring that empty bottle of scotch to the readers's attention, then show why that bottle was important—someone is hiding alcoholism, for example. Otherwise the breadcrumbs become a wasted opportunity. It's true that sometimes a cigar is just a cigar, but if you're going to make a point of showing that cigar to your readers it should have some purpose.
If you're writing a series you can carry your foreshadowing through your next books. Does the fact that Olivia is a powerful seer play an important role in books two and three of the Loving Husband Trilogy? You betcha. Will Sarah continue learning about the supernatural world? You know it. Then there's that nosy reporter determined to reveal James's secret. Will he cause more problems for our favorite preternatural professor? That's the beginning of a new trail of breadcrumbs I hope readers will follow through the journey of Her Loving Husband's Curse.
I love foreshadowing. I love the connectedness it brings to a story. It's an important part of fiction writing, and it's a great tool to bind the books in a series together.
Filed under: Her Dear & Loving Husband, Her Loving Husband's Curse, Writing Tagged: Her Dear & Loving Husband, Her Loving Husband's Curse, Salem, writing, writing the second novel, writing tips
September 1, 2011
Her Dear & Loving Husband–Chapter 3
CHAPTER 3
James Wentworth arrived on the campus of Salem State College a half an hour after dark. He parked his black Ford Explorer in the parking lot off Loring Avenue near the Central Campus and walked past the Admissions Office and the bookstore, stepping out of the way of a student speeding toward the bike path. After he walked into the library he paused by the door to watch the young people studying at the tables, searching the stacks, hunch-ing over the computers, so raw and fresh they still had that new-car smell. They had so much ahead of them, James mused. The world was exciting to them, adventures waiting to be had, dreams to be discovered, loves to be found and lost and lost and found. The students in the library were naïve, yes, but that would be tempered by experience and learning. Some of them thought they already knew everything they would ever need to know, but James had compassion for them. We think we know it all, but we never do, no matter how long we live.
Class that night was lively. These students had opinions and they liked discussing and debating, which kept the energy high. There is no worse class than when there were thirty silent students who wanted nothing more than to listen to the professor speak for fifty minutes and leave. That night's class was an independent study seminar where the students chose which work of literature they would focus on. Usually, James found, the young people were predictable in their choices—Dickens, Shakespeare, Twain, Thoreau—but that term the students were more creative. One was studying Oscar Wilde's The Picture of Dorian Gray about the cursed man who never ages, a story James thought of often. He was amused by the choice, and curious.
"Why The Picture of Dorian Gray?" he asked.
"Staying young forever?" Kendall said. "How cool is that? I mean, don't you want your hair to stay blond, Professor? You want to turn old and gray?"
James shook his head. "On the outside Dorian stayed young-looking and fresh-seeming, but on the inside he became decrepit in ways no one would guess. His physical body didn't age, but the catch was, as the years passed, he grew more depraved and detached from human decency." James looked at Kendall, a Junior about twenty years of age, her sandy-brown hair slung back in a ponytail, wearing a blue and orange Salem State College t-shirt with the Viking logo. Her expression hadn't changed.
"Dorian looked young, Professor Wentworth. Isn't that all that matters?"
"A youthful appearance is certainly valued in our society, but don't you think there could be problems always looking the same while you grew in knowledge and experience?"
"But looking young forever would keep me out of the plastic surgeon's office."
"Fair enough," James said.
"I mean, my sister is twenty-five, and she's already getting Botox."
James sighed as he surveyed the classroom, admiring the bright, fresh faces, and he wondered how many others were con-vinced they looked old when they were oh so very young. He scanned the list in his hand and his eyes grew wide. He pressed his wire-rimmed eyeglasses against his nose as he looked at Trisha, sitting front and center, a bright student, one of his hard-est workers, and he didn't know whether to laugh or cry at her choice. He wouldn't have guessed it of her.
"Why did you choose Bram Stoker's Dracula?" he asked.
"Because I love that genre," Trisha said. "I love the idea that there are supernatural beings so extraordinary out there walking unnoticed among us. Since we're not looking for them we don't see them, and when we do see them it might be too late."
"Do you believe in vampires?" he asked.
"Of course not. That's silly."
"Yes," he said. "That is very silly."
"Besides, even if there were really vampires no one would believe it. It just doesn't seem possible."
"You're right. Let's hope we never have to find out."
Levon Jackson, another bright student, an ice hockey player touted as a potential NHL draft, patted Trisha's shoulder and shouted a loud "Amen!"
James sat on the edge of the instructor's desk at the front of the room. Levon was one of his favorites that term, in two of his classes, and the young man so rarely shared without raising his hand. Though James insisted from the first day that students didn't need to raise their hands, this was college, not kinder-garten, Levon was always respectful, polite, waiting for James's attention before he spoke.
"Amen to what, Levon?" James asked.
"Amen to let's hope we never have to find out. Who wants to learn there's some nasty old vamp lurking around somewhere?"
"There's nothing to find out," said Jeremy, who had aspir-ations of doctoral school at Harvard. "Who wants to waste time on make-believe?"
"Vampires could be real," Kendall said. As other students laughed and hissed, she turned her scrunched face to the class. "Why not? Stranger things have happened."
"How can something be dead and alive at the same time?" Jeremy asked.
"I'm not saying it's true," Kendall said. "I'm just saying it's possible."
Levon slapped his large hands over his ears, his palms flat against his head. "I don't want to hear any more about vampires!" James couldn't tell if he was joking.
Jeremy smirked. "You must cover your ears a lot, Levon. Everyone everywhere is talking about vampires. Vampire movies. Vampire television shows. Vampire books." Jeremy's fingers went to his temples and he shook his head from side to side. "I am so damn sick of vampires."
James watched his students with a mixture of amusement and caution. He didn't want to stifle the conversation, and he wouldn't quell their questioning, but he didn't like the turn the conversation had taken. Levon turned his desk so he could look Jeremy in the eye. He wasn't intimidating, James noted, only serious.
"My pastor says there are evil spirits, minions of Satan, all around us, especially at night. He says they seek innocent souls to prey on, and if we're not careful the evil will consume us." Levon looked around the room, one student at a time, without a hint of sarcasm. "I know there's evil in the world. Maybe it's ghosts. Maybe it's witches. Maybe it's vampires. Maybe it's the Devil himself. Whatever it is, I don't want any part of it, and I don't want it anywhere near me. Evil like that needs to be destroyed."
"Do you really believe that?" Jeremy asked.
"I do."
The students argued amongst each other, some louder than others. They were so caught up in their opinions they didn't notice as James moved from the desk to the window. He unhooked the latch and pushed the glass up, letting in a cool blast of air, the combined scent of the salty sea and the storm dropping soon. Suddenly the shouting voices stopped. James heard the silence, but he didn't turn around. He watched the tree leaves sigh and weave from their branches. He watched the moon hanging in wait overhead. He wasn't trying to be dramatic. He was waiting for the right words to come.
"That could be dangerous," he said finally, "making judg-ments and deciding where, or if, others have the right to live." He was talking to no one in particular, to the windowpane, the trees, the night breeze, his own furrowed brow. "People have lost their lives because of such judgments."
"What that is, Professor, is a loaf of bullshit," said Jeremy.
The class laughed.
"It isn't," said Levon. "I don't want anything to do with any vampires. I don't want to see anything about them. I don't want to hear anything about them. They're evil."
Silence fell over the class again. James turned from the window and saw twenty-five oh so very young faces waiting for him to make sense of it all. That was how class often went. James offered some topic of discussion based on their reading, the students would discuss, or argue, and then James would share some insight that tied the pieces together. Then the students left with some new knowledge that hopefully they'd remember, some lesson they'd carry all their lives, or at least until the next midterm. James wished they would take more responsibility for forming their own opinions, but he was the professor, after all, the one with the college degrees paid to profess his knowledge to classes of impressionable minds. But that night the class had a different feel. He didn't know if the students could sense the shift, but he could. For the first time, he didn't know what to say.
Timothy Wolfe, a dark-haired, pale-skinned student, stood up in the back of the class, a flash of anger in his black eyes. James gave Timothy a warning glance, but Timothy didn't seem to see him. Rather, James guessed from Timothy's glint, that he was being ignored.
"Why do you assume vampires are evil?" Timothy asked.
The other students turned around, surprised, as if they had never noticed Timothy before. And they probably hadn't. He was always so quiet, never answering a question or offering an opinion, staking out his usual seat in the back near the door, bolting as soon as James dismissed them. James stood back, his arms crossed over his chest, watching Timothy's every move as the boy walked toward Levon, the ice hockey goalie, looking like David challenging Goliath.
"Timothy…" James said, caution in his tone.
Timothy jabbed a frustrated finger in Levon's direction. "I mean, if vampires were real, which they're not, but if they were, everyone thinks they'd be evil. But not everyone is the same."
"There can't be any such thing as a nice vampire," Levon said. "They're bloodthirsty, angry devils who'd suck the life right out of you. Who knows how many people they'd kill. Probably one a night." Levon stood up, and his athlete's physique towered above Timothy, who looked too small, too fragile suddenly. "Vam-pires are the way they are, and they all belong in one category: villain."
James looked at Levon. For the first time that night he was annoyed with the young man. "You don't believe that people, human or otherwise, can overcome their violent tendencies?" he asked.
"I don't."
"No matter how much they want to change? No matter how resolved they are? Are we victims of some predetermined destiny? I knew some people who thought that way once. They weren't a pleasant group to live around."
"I think if you're mean you're mean and if you're not you're not."
"You've been watching too many horror movies," Jeremy said. He didn't try to hide his disdain. He closed his textbook and shut down his notebook computer. He looked at the time, at the door, at the window. Then he began texting on his cell phone. James didn't stop him.
"If I knew a hot vampire like Edward or Bill I'd give them as much of my blood as they wanted," Trisha said. She giggled, and so did the girls sitting next to her. "They could bite me anytime."
James looked at the clock on the wall. "Time's up," he said. "See you next week."
As the others filtered single file from the classroom, Levon turned to James. "No hard feelings, Doctor Wentworth?"
"Of course not, Levon."
Levon smiled, a flash of white brilliance, and he extended his hand. James stepped behind the instructor's desk, sliding his hands into the pockets of his khaki trousers.
"I'm sorry," James said. "I have a cold and I don't want you to get sick. You have a big game tomorrow night."
Levon pointed out his folded arm instead. "All right, elbow bump."
James laughed, and they touched elbows.
"Good luck tomorrow night," James said.
"You coming to the game?"
"I'd love to but I can't. Midterms coming up, you know. Maybe next time."
"You need to get out more. I never see you out with the other professors, and I never see you around town. You never go to the games. Are you married?"
James was startled by the suddenness of the question, and he tried to set his expression. He didn't want Levon to see how shocked he was, but the look on Levon's face told him he had not been quick enough.
"I didn't mean anything by it," Levon said. "I was just wonder-ing if you had anyone waiting for you at home."
"Not anymore."
"Too bad. You're a youngish guy, what, about fifty?"
James shook his head. "You young people think everyone older than you is fifty. I'm thirty, Levon."
"All right, thirty, even better. From the way the girls giggle about you, you must be okay. They all have a crush on you."
"They do not."
"They do." Levon threw his backpack over one shoulder. "You should find a friend before it's too late, Doctor Wentworth, you know, a nice lady. That's all I'm saying."
James sat on the edge of a student desk, his arms crossed over his chest as he watched the young man in front of him.
"You're right," James said, laughing, like the fact that he kept so much to himself was the biggest joke in the world. "Not about finding a nice lady. I did that once. I mean about getting to a game. I'll come soon. I promise."
Levon seemed satisfied with that answer. As Levon left the classroom, James saw Timothy loitering outside. By the time James stepped over to talk to him, Timothy had disappeared. James looked down the hallway and heard the boy's quick-time steps crossing the pavement of College Drive. He knew he would have to talk to Timothy about that, again, soon. It didn't help anything to have him disappearing like a slight-of-hand trick. James went back into the classroom, packed up his book bag, and left campus, not as quickly as Timothy, but fast enough. It had been a long night.
Filed under: Fiction, Her Dear & Loving Husband Tagged: fiction, Her Dear & Loving Husband
August 27, 2011
Writing the Second Novel Part 2
Tip #2: Discover what other writers have to say about it (and this goes for anything you're writing)
Whenever I have a new task ahead of me, something I haven't done before, the first thing I do is seek information from writers who have traveled that road before. There's a benefit to searching out tips and hints since others have already been there, done that, whatever that is you're doing right now. Learn from them. Sit at their feet and listen to what they have to say about their experiences, their mistakes, and their successes, like Luke Skywalker learning from the wisdom of Yoda (I'm not implying that writers are small, green, and heavily wrinkled—though I can think of a few that fit that description). I learned how to open myself up and not become stifled when writing a first draft by reading Natalie Goldberg and Anne Lamott. There is a ton of information—countless articles and books—about how to write a novel. But what do these experts have to say about writing the second novel in a series?
There's a fair amount of information about how to write a second novel that is just a second novel—in other words, unrelated in any way to the first novel. An unrelated second novel can and should be written in a different style, with different characters, different situations. For myself, I found an unrelated next novel easier to write than the second novel in a series. Her Dear & Loving Husband isn't my first novel, you see. I have three others written in years gone by. Each of the three were unrelated to the other, and I didn't have any trouble as I moved onto each subequent book. Since each novel was completely different from the one before, I could approach it in a fresh, new way and not feel tied down by expectations created by the previous story.
A second novel in a series, on the other hand, is a completely different animal. It should have the same style, the same theme, and a related plot. Often, though not always, it has the same characters. How do you give readers what they loved about the first book while keeping them guessing so they're surprised by characters they're already comfortable with? That is the million dollar question when it comes to writing the second book in a series.
Part of the reason I struggled when I began writing Her Loving Husband's Curse was because I couldn't find a whole lot of anything from anyone about the specific struggles of writing a second novel. With a lack of any hard evidence about what works and what doesn't, I felt like I was largely on my own. Still, I pressed on and struggled through, missing the sage advice I've relied on whenever I encountered a new challenge in writing. From the few sources I found, one common theme that echoed throughout was how the second novel needs to be "the same but different." I agree. But how do I accomplish that?
There are a few places where you can find useful information. I mentioned the guest blog from Bradley P. Beaulieu in my last post. Just a few days ago, Joanna Penn's excellent website The Creative Penn featured an interview with Pip Ballantine and Tee Morris, authors of the London steampunk novel Phoenix Rising: A Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences. I'm paraphrasing here, but one of the aspects of writing a series they talked about was that each book should have its own story yet there should be an over-arching theme that ties the pieces together. They also mention having a dangling plot thread which shows readers that there's a larger plot throughout the books. I think this goes along with what I said in my last post, only I phrased it differently. To me, it helped to think of all three books as being part of the same, larger story. This way the theme is evident throughout, and the plot feels connected because it follows through each subsequent story. In the interview, Ballantine and Morris also talk about the current trend for publishers to sign for two books. If you'd like to read or listen to the interview, click here. As I find more on this topic, I'll post it. If you find a great resource on writing the second novel in a series, by all means…share!
I also looked to see what other writers have done with their second books. This tip is obvious, though it took some time to occur to me. I'm a little slow sometimes. Try reading the second book in several series and see how the author handles it. I chose to read the first and second books if I hadn't read the series before since I wanted to see how the author transitioned from book one to book two. As I read, I looked for specific information (and, yes, I took notes). How much information from the first book does the author use? How does the plot flow from book one to book two, or were they seemingly unrelated or only loosely related? If the plot in book two seemed unrelated to the plot in book one, I tended not to like book two as much. That's just a personal observation. How do the characters change and grow? What is the common thread that binds the stories together? For myself, I only looked at novels that featured the same characters in each book because in my series you'll see the same cast throughout the trilogy.
Okay, so in this case—writing the second novel in a series—there might not be a ton of information. Since I'm still finishing up the second novel, I hope I can take what I'm struggling with (and learning from) and use that to help others. We can also see how other authors have transitioned from book one to book two. We can learn from other authors what we want to do, as well as what we don't want to do, and that is valuable information as we write the second novel that is the same but different from the one before.
Filed under: Her Dear & Loving Husband, Her Loving Husband's Curse, Writing Tagged: fiction, Her Dear & Loving Husband, Her Loving Husband's Curse, writing, writing the second novel, writing tips
August 18, 2011
Writing the Second Novel Part 1
August 17, 2011
Second Book Lessons
August 11, 2011
Salem Town Part 3
August 5, 2011
Salem Town Part 2
