Sarah Black's Blog: Book Report, page 11
May 16, 2013
The Happy Secret
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fLJsdq...
The Happy Secret to Better Work by Shawn Achor
I listen to TED talks in the morning when I am supposed to be exercising, and this morning I listened to Shawn Achor tell us the delightful story of turning his sister into a unicorn.
There are always bullet points in a Ted Talk, and the former Naval Officer still in my heart loves bullet points. Here is the short list:
Creating Lasting Positive Change
1. 3 Gratitudes
2. Journaling
3. Exercise
4. Meditation
5. Random Acts of Kindness
The Happy Secret to Better Work by Shawn Achor
I listen to TED talks in the morning when I am supposed to be exercising, and this morning I listened to Shawn Achor tell us the delightful story of turning his sister into a unicorn.
There are always bullet points in a Ted Talk, and the former Naval Officer still in my heart loves bullet points. Here is the short list:
Creating Lasting Positive Change
1. 3 Gratitudes
2. Journaling
3. Exercise
4. Meditation
5. Random Acts of Kindness
May 11, 2013
Living Large in the Beautiful World: Kim and The General Discuss Decorating
At the end of The General and the Horse-Lord, Kim and Billy have gone wild with the General’s credit card, ready to redecorate the house. The new book, The General and the Elephant Clock of Al-Jazari, picks up with John and Kim having a friendly little chat about the new couch.
John pushed open the kitchen door. The jury was still out on the new decorating. He had thought he was sending Kim and Billy out for an extra desk and bed, but that had somehow turned into a re-do of the entire house. He had to admit the kitchen was cheerful. Kim and Billy had painted the kitchen walls bright cream enamel, then painted trim in tangerine and aqua. The curtains were tangerine with cream polka-dots, and there were little cars zooming all over the walls, hand-painted by a bunch of Kim and Billy’s artist friends. The new dining room table was Formica, with stainless silver legs, and the chairs were padded in aqua vinyl. Kim and Billy were very pleased with the kitchen. Gabriel liked it, as well, though he might have been just trying to get along. John was okay with the changes. The kitchen, he thought, was fine. It just didn’t look like his kitchen. It looked like the kitchen of a person who was considerably cooler than he was. The same could be said about the living room.
Kim was waiting for him to come in from his run, and he swooped down on John and wrapped his arms around his waist for a quick hug. “How’s my favorite uncle?”
John studied his face. “I’m fine. What’s happening with you?”
“Not too much.” Kim was head down into the fridge, looking for something to snack on that had not had a face or a mother. He’d explained to John this was his new criteria for healthy eating. “Can we talk about the couch?”
John crossed his arms over his chest. “So talk.”
Kim stood up and leaned back against the counter. “Okay, you have every right to be pissed off. You told me not to get a new couch and I did anyway. I know I spent more money on the redecorating than you had planned. What I want to know is if you hate the couch for itself, or if you’re just mad at me for disregarding what you told me to do?”
John sighed. “The new couch is fine. I admit it’s not really what I would have picked out.” He walked over and stared gloomily into the room. The new couch which Kim had been forbidden to purchase was cream colored Italian leather, a semi-circle with a round ottoman that looked like a giant leather polka dot. It was very sleek and modern. He’d purchased some round maple tables in a pale golden finish to go with it, and the rugs on the floor were also round, in various sizes and shades of cream and pale gold. The whole thing looked very…Danish.
“The thing is, four men can easily sit on the couch at the same time, say to watch a movie together. Two men can lay down on this couch at the same time, like if you and the Horse-Lord wanted to lay down together and read books. It’s extremely comfortable, Uncle John. I just wish you would give it a chance.”
“Okay, I’m willing to give it a chance. And I admit it is very comfortable. With the new rug and the new tables it looks like winter, 1968, has come to Albuquerque. Peter Max in psychedelic white, not really my style, but I’m okay with it.”
“Peter Max? Winter?” Now Kim had his arms folded. “Holy shit! It’s not white. It’s cream! Big difference in tone and temperature. Okay, so tell me what you think would be the perfect couch. Maybe we can figure out how to meet in the middle.”
John thought a moment. “I suppose I’d like a couch that’s a little…browner. Maybe plaid would be good.”
“Okay, no plaid. I’m sorry, but no. A person would have to be deranged to buy a plaid couch. I will see what I can do about brown.” Kim looked around. “We could add some caramel accents, maybe a throw. I want you to like it.” He sounded young all of the sudden. “It’s really important to me that you like it. If you want, I can split the cost of the new couch with you.” He tried to hand John some cash. “I’ve got $275.00 as a down payment on my half.”
“I don’t want your money.” John stared at him. Kim was Korean, with eyes that always gave away what he was thinking. He was totally unable to keep a secret. John couldn’t help but notice the light in his face, like he was about to start laughing. “Wait a minute. Is this the money you made writing term papers for the students in my Political History seminar?” Kim was grinning now, and he shoved the cash back in his pocket. “Are you under the impression you’re too old to spank? Twenty-three isn’t too old.”
Kim was laughing now. “You don’t believe in spanking. Okay, let me and Billy see what we can come up with. Something browner.” He turned back to the garage. “What’s brown, anyway? Dirt? Gravy? Shit?”
“Wood, you knucklehead. Wood and chocolate bars and Gabriel’s hair, all brown.”
John pushed open the kitchen door. The jury was still out on the new decorating. He had thought he was sending Kim and Billy out for an extra desk and bed, but that had somehow turned into a re-do of the entire house. He had to admit the kitchen was cheerful. Kim and Billy had painted the kitchen walls bright cream enamel, then painted trim in tangerine and aqua. The curtains were tangerine with cream polka-dots, and there were little cars zooming all over the walls, hand-painted by a bunch of Kim and Billy’s artist friends. The new dining room table was Formica, with stainless silver legs, and the chairs were padded in aqua vinyl. Kim and Billy were very pleased with the kitchen. Gabriel liked it, as well, though he might have been just trying to get along. John was okay with the changes. The kitchen, he thought, was fine. It just didn’t look like his kitchen. It looked like the kitchen of a person who was considerably cooler than he was. The same could be said about the living room.
Kim was waiting for him to come in from his run, and he swooped down on John and wrapped his arms around his waist for a quick hug. “How’s my favorite uncle?”
John studied his face. “I’m fine. What’s happening with you?”
“Not too much.” Kim was head down into the fridge, looking for something to snack on that had not had a face or a mother. He’d explained to John this was his new criteria for healthy eating. “Can we talk about the couch?”
John crossed his arms over his chest. “So talk.”
Kim stood up and leaned back against the counter. “Okay, you have every right to be pissed off. You told me not to get a new couch and I did anyway. I know I spent more money on the redecorating than you had planned. What I want to know is if you hate the couch for itself, or if you’re just mad at me for disregarding what you told me to do?”
John sighed. “The new couch is fine. I admit it’s not really what I would have picked out.” He walked over and stared gloomily into the room. The new couch which Kim had been forbidden to purchase was cream colored Italian leather, a semi-circle with a round ottoman that looked like a giant leather polka dot. It was very sleek and modern. He’d purchased some round maple tables in a pale golden finish to go with it, and the rugs on the floor were also round, in various sizes and shades of cream and pale gold. The whole thing looked very…Danish.
“The thing is, four men can easily sit on the couch at the same time, say to watch a movie together. Two men can lay down on this couch at the same time, like if you and the Horse-Lord wanted to lay down together and read books. It’s extremely comfortable, Uncle John. I just wish you would give it a chance.”
“Okay, I’m willing to give it a chance. And I admit it is very comfortable. With the new rug and the new tables it looks like winter, 1968, has come to Albuquerque. Peter Max in psychedelic white, not really my style, but I’m okay with it.”
“Peter Max? Winter?” Now Kim had his arms folded. “Holy shit! It’s not white. It’s cream! Big difference in tone and temperature. Okay, so tell me what you think would be the perfect couch. Maybe we can figure out how to meet in the middle.”
John thought a moment. “I suppose I’d like a couch that’s a little…browner. Maybe plaid would be good.”
“Okay, no plaid. I’m sorry, but no. A person would have to be deranged to buy a plaid couch. I will see what I can do about brown.” Kim looked around. “We could add some caramel accents, maybe a throw. I want you to like it.” He sounded young all of the sudden. “It’s really important to me that you like it. If you want, I can split the cost of the new couch with you.” He tried to hand John some cash. “I’ve got $275.00 as a down payment on my half.”
“I don’t want your money.” John stared at him. Kim was Korean, with eyes that always gave away what he was thinking. He was totally unable to keep a secret. John couldn’t help but notice the light in his face, like he was about to start laughing. “Wait a minute. Is this the money you made writing term papers for the students in my Political History seminar?” Kim was grinning now, and he shoved the cash back in his pocket. “Are you under the impression you’re too old to spank? Twenty-three isn’t too old.”
Kim was laughing now. “You don’t believe in spanking. Okay, let me and Billy see what we can come up with. Something browner.” He turned back to the garage. “What’s brown, anyway? Dirt? Gravy? Shit?”
“Wood, you knucklehead. Wood and chocolate bars and Gabriel’s hair, all brown.”
May 4, 2013
Mistakes of a Beginning Writer
It’s the complexity I love, the strange space on the borderlands where good men pick up weapons, where bad men leave their black hearts behind and walk into the river to wash away their sins. The labels are the problem. The good guy, the bad guy, the hero, the villain. It’s a strange line we all walk, and at any time we can walk on down that line. I know there are outliers, people two standard deviations from the mean, but the majority of us move every day somewhere along a line that moves from the best person we can be to the worst.
For me as a writer, this complexity is what appeals. What happens when a person who knows they are essentially good does something that any fool can see is wrong? How does it change them? What do they do now? Try to make it right? Try to forget? Try to bring balance back to the Force? Have nightmares for the rest of their lives, or engage is miserably self-destructive behavior?
I don’t care what the rest of the world thinks of these flawed characters. The rest of the world can go gather up a bunch of rocks for the stoning. What matters to me as a writer is potential, human potential, run hard against the times, culture, history, hearts, blood.
If I start a story with the intention of pushing my worldview, that is propaganda. If I intend to write a story to show people that guns are bad, for instance, I will probably write a piece of propaganda crap. Don’t try to make a point. Just write what happens next.
I’m a new writer, and I don’t always hit the mark I intend. I remember taking lessons in Navajo weaving from a woman when I lived out in Navajo country, and she told me she was just a beginner. She had been weaving since she was a child, so, sixty or seventy years? She was a beginner because she was still just weaving her way into the heart of what she wanted to explore. I’m a beginner in that same way, and I will still be a beginner when the arthritis makes it painful to hit the keyboard. But I intend to write my way into the complex hearts of men, and when I do that, I am holding up a mirror to my own heart.
Good writers should be changed by what they learn, writing their own stories. There have been a couple of stories that have changed me, and I think of them as the ones that mean something, that I’m proud of. I love the new one, The General and the Horse-Lord. These men and women are like me, and not like me, and I am enjoying their company. They are exploring some issues I am also exploring—the loss of meaning in life when you change your career, the way that aging changes us, what it’s like to lose family, when you make a choice your heart directs. I have finished a second book with these characters and am nearly ready to start a third, strangely enough. Part of the fascination for me is the novelistic approach to the characters and the story, rather than the approach of writing a short story, very different. But also I am enjoying their company. They are thinking about the same things I’m thinking about, and through the writing, and the story, we can talk things over.
The other story I really love is Murder at Black Dog Springs. When it was first published, I had rushed the writing, and this was a complicated story that needed time. I was very unhappy with the quality of my own story, because I could see its potential. I just wasn’t there yet. I still think about pulling it out of the Kindle store and working on it. Because the characters are complex and difficult and deeply flawed and I am a beginning writer, and did not show them in all their beautiful colors. My favorite character ever written, Curtis Benally. What an interesting man. So easily condemned for what he does. But if all the men in the world were lined up in a row, waiting for judgment, I would go stand by his side, just so we could talk for awhile. And because I want to stand in his beautiful light.
Clearly I’m not writing for money! I’m publishing for money, and without a great deal of enthusiasm or success. Some days, reading over an editor’s comments, wondering if I have to have one more discussion about commas, I feel like every word is sandpaper across my skin. When the Kindle Store sends me a check for twenty-five dollars for the month, I wonder if that money meant anything to the people who bought my stories. Did they click on the button and download the book, without thinking about the exchange at all? Did that money mean something to them, did they work hard to earn it, and did they offer it in exchange for my story, knowing I also worked hard to write it? In other words, did the transaction have meaning for both of us? It does for me.
It means something to me, when people read my stories. But it’s not about money. It’s about meaning, and the wild and deep and hidden places in the human heart. And if people read my stories and then go gather up a bunch of rocks for the stoning, then I’ve failed as a writer to touch their hearts and minds. I’m a beginner! I’ll work harder next time.
For me as a writer, this complexity is what appeals. What happens when a person who knows they are essentially good does something that any fool can see is wrong? How does it change them? What do they do now? Try to make it right? Try to forget? Try to bring balance back to the Force? Have nightmares for the rest of their lives, or engage is miserably self-destructive behavior?
I don’t care what the rest of the world thinks of these flawed characters. The rest of the world can go gather up a bunch of rocks for the stoning. What matters to me as a writer is potential, human potential, run hard against the times, culture, history, hearts, blood.
If I start a story with the intention of pushing my worldview, that is propaganda. If I intend to write a story to show people that guns are bad, for instance, I will probably write a piece of propaganda crap. Don’t try to make a point. Just write what happens next.
I’m a new writer, and I don’t always hit the mark I intend. I remember taking lessons in Navajo weaving from a woman when I lived out in Navajo country, and she told me she was just a beginner. She had been weaving since she was a child, so, sixty or seventy years? She was a beginner because she was still just weaving her way into the heart of what she wanted to explore. I’m a beginner in that same way, and I will still be a beginner when the arthritis makes it painful to hit the keyboard. But I intend to write my way into the complex hearts of men, and when I do that, I am holding up a mirror to my own heart.
Good writers should be changed by what they learn, writing their own stories. There have been a couple of stories that have changed me, and I think of them as the ones that mean something, that I’m proud of. I love the new one, The General and the Horse-Lord. These men and women are like me, and not like me, and I am enjoying their company. They are exploring some issues I am also exploring—the loss of meaning in life when you change your career, the way that aging changes us, what it’s like to lose family, when you make a choice your heart directs. I have finished a second book with these characters and am nearly ready to start a third, strangely enough. Part of the fascination for me is the novelistic approach to the characters and the story, rather than the approach of writing a short story, very different. But also I am enjoying their company. They are thinking about the same things I’m thinking about, and through the writing, and the story, we can talk things over.
The other story I really love is Murder at Black Dog Springs. When it was first published, I had rushed the writing, and this was a complicated story that needed time. I was very unhappy with the quality of my own story, because I could see its potential. I just wasn’t there yet. I still think about pulling it out of the Kindle store and working on it. Because the characters are complex and difficult and deeply flawed and I am a beginning writer, and did not show them in all their beautiful colors. My favorite character ever written, Curtis Benally. What an interesting man. So easily condemned for what he does. But if all the men in the world were lined up in a row, waiting for judgment, I would go stand by his side, just so we could talk for awhile. And because I want to stand in his beautiful light.
Clearly I’m not writing for money! I’m publishing for money, and without a great deal of enthusiasm or success. Some days, reading over an editor’s comments, wondering if I have to have one more discussion about commas, I feel like every word is sandpaper across my skin. When the Kindle Store sends me a check for twenty-five dollars for the month, I wonder if that money meant anything to the people who bought my stories. Did they click on the button and download the book, without thinking about the exchange at all? Did that money mean something to them, did they work hard to earn it, and did they offer it in exchange for my story, knowing I also worked hard to write it? In other words, did the transaction have meaning for both of us? It does for me.
It means something to me, when people read my stories. But it’s not about money. It’s about meaning, and the wild and deep and hidden places in the human heart. And if people read my stories and then go gather up a bunch of rocks for the stoning, then I’ve failed as a writer to touch their hearts and minds. I’m a beginner! I’ll work harder next time.
April 30, 2013
Developing a Framework for a Gay Romance Series
Developing a Framework for a Gay Romance Series
I have to confess I’m a geek about theoretical frameworks. My second year in college, just admitted to the nursing program, and we take a course on theoretical models of practice. I was over the moon! The rest of the class was so bored they were asleep or threatening to quit. Mucho complaints- teach us how to give shots! But I loved the theory. It was the bones of the thing, the why behind the what.
I still love theoretical models, and have recently started working on developing a model for a book series. Like the rest of the world, I love to read series. I’ve been studying some of my favorite series, because for the first time, I have characters that I want to continue with, and before I start, I want to develop a model for how I will write their stories. So I looked at some of my favorites to analyze what I liked and why, and what I didn’t particularly like.
Favorites: Elizabeth Peters, Amelia Peabody and Vickie Bliss; JD Robb, Eve Dallas; Janet Evanavich Stephanie Plum; Suzanne Brockmann, Troubleshooters, and Josh Lanyon’s Adrian English series.
First problem and most significant point to decide: Who is the point of view character? The series are about evenly divided between maintaining a single POV character from story to story, and having different books in the series be about different characters, with different POVs. Brockmann has books in her SEAL Troubleshooter series with a different POV character from a core related group, and each book is both an action/adventure and a romance to be solved. The primary romantic lead is the POV character. The next book in the group is about a different person in the core group.
Amelia Peabody, and the Egyptian mysteries, uses a different model- the core group of characters solves a mystery each book, with the setting somewhere in Egypt, but relationships change, characters age and grow, each book is a different sequential year. JD Robb uses this same model in the Eve Dallas mysteries- each book centers around a crime that needs to be solved, but the core group of characters remains and their relationships mature and change over time. She has some degree of rotating POVs between Eve and the divine Roarke. Her books tend to start a matter of days or weeks after the last one ended, so the time line is fairly continuous. Elizabeth Peters also bent finally and gave the son, Ramses, some POV chapters because he was the age of going off and getting in trouble without his mother.
My problem with Brockmann’s model of a different POV character with each book is I get really invested in the characters and I don’t want to leave them at the end of the books. I was faintly irritated to find a loving couple had gone off and gotten pregnant and I was the last one to know, because we were on to a different guy’s story! I did like that her POV characters were tough guys, who have a really different perspective, and the badass language they use is fairly accurate for the guys I’ve always known. This model is very popular in our genre, because then each romantic guy gets his own story.
My preference, both as a reader and a writer, is to follow a single POV character over time. This works when the characters live through interesting times, when there is a great deal of both external conflict and nice juicy internal conflict. It allows the writer to dig down deep, get into the heart and bones, motivations, secrets, passions, fears. The real stuff. And you have to get to know somebody over time to dig down deep like that. That’s what I think now, but we’ll see if I maintain this belief over a series of books. If the guys start to annoy me, we will have to part ways.
Problem 2: But how do you maintain a strong conflict between romantic partners over a series of books, and still have a HEA?
Josh Lanyon gave us great sexual tension between his characters that lasted through a number of books. You just knew they were going to end up together or go up in a spontaneous fireball, and either would have been fun to read! Eve Dallas got her man, but, being clueless, kept screwing up and almost losing him. This is a great model that seems very real, a protag with limited romantic experience but with a great deal of other skills/knowledge.
Amelia and Emerson, being strong personalities, kept getting into physical trouble that put one or the other in danger, so there were times they thought they had lost one another, and then there would be an exciting rescue. Also, they tended to fight a lot, quite fun to watch. Vickie Bliss spent a lot of time being highly suspicious of the treacherous character she had fallen in love with, rightly so, since he was not to be trusted in anything except love. Most excellent character, Sir John Smythe.
I really like when characters nearly lose everything because they screw up. Reminds me of my own life. For me, a story of the evil overlords or some other external conflict keeping the characters apart is exciting, but less interesting in the long run. I’m talking Henry James, not Kafka.
I think the model Janet Evanavich uses with Stephanie Plum is less successful than the others mentioned regarding the romantic conundrum, being pulled between Ranger and Moretti. It’s a fairly simple either/or and doesn’t require any significant character development. She’s the same girl, they’re the same bad boys, as in the first story.
Third question: How do characters grow and develop over a series of stories? I think the model of characters within a family is one that forces character change and growth, as well as how the time line is handled. When Amelia had children, her behavior and relationships (but not mood) had to change. She also confronted her own prejudices as she became closer to her Egyptian family. As she got older, the changing times, the historical events played a part in the changes to her character. Significant life events, marriages, deaths, babies, all played a role in changing people, as they do in real life.
Eve Dallas had changing relationships with Roarke, Summerset, Peabody, Mavis as they worked together. They form a nontraditional family, and threats from inside and out move between them from story to story. The model here is they all work together, each bringing their particular skill, to solve the crime. It takes everyone working together. I’ve also seen the model in some stories where a particular member of the core group comes under threat, or attack, and the others band together to help or protect.
For me, the critical piece to enjoying a long running series is I have to see a character change and grow. That’s the whole point of the story for me, to see what’s going to happen next and what happens to someone I’ve become emotionally invested in. So I do not like every plot point or conflict solved. I want some issues left dangling for the next story. Because important issues are really going to take some work! And some things are never resolved.
I like the unchanging structure of plot from book to book, either a mystery to be solved, Adrian has to call Jake for help, or Amelia and Emerson arrive in Egypt for the new archeological season, or there is trouble in the world and the Seals get called in. But I sort of expect that the POV character will have changed from the beginning to the end of the story, and maybe some of their supporting family. Evanovich has some great comic characters, but they have remained fairly static over the course of the books.
I’ve wondered if three books should be the max for a series, because so much change and growth can happen in that amount of time, but then the major conflicts are all resolved. I usually love the first three books in a new series the most, and find the ones after that to be less interesting. William Gibson writes modern sci-fi novels, not really sci fi but that’s how he was pegged early on, but he writes books in groups of three, which seem to have a lovely symmetry. Or maybe at three books, the POV character changes. But some of my favs have been very long running.
Notes on the conflict: this has been a sticky wicket for me. To really have tension and narrative drive, something has to be at stake. The threat has to mean something, has to pose a danger. The typical mystery is a murder and the culprit needs to be found before he does it again. In suspense, there could be a nuclear armament gone missing, or a terrorist threat, of some upswelling of hate that threatens peace in the universe.
The threat needs to be credible or who could keep going? My problem writing to this model is the number of clichés in mysteries and murder stories and the emotional difficulty of spending any amount of time in the head of a crazy person. And the angst is frankly hard to take some days. I wonder if there isn’t another model we could consider.
Resolution to this type of conflict is justice. Balance is returned to the universe. Bad is punished. What if we used a more subtle approach, and let the resolution be that people were better than they were when we started? We don’t want to be Lord Peter Whimsey, in bed with the covers over his head while they’re building the gallows for the creep who deserves to hang. We want the world to be a better place when we’re done. This is going to be the challenge I set myself, to work on developing these types of conflicts/resolutions.
So this is what I like, and what I’m thinking about with my new General and the Horse-Lord series. I’m wondering what other people think about what makes for the elements of a good series? What is the perfect model?
I have to confess I’m a geek about theoretical frameworks. My second year in college, just admitted to the nursing program, and we take a course on theoretical models of practice. I was over the moon! The rest of the class was so bored they were asleep or threatening to quit. Mucho complaints- teach us how to give shots! But I loved the theory. It was the bones of the thing, the why behind the what.
I still love theoretical models, and have recently started working on developing a model for a book series. Like the rest of the world, I love to read series. I’ve been studying some of my favorite series, because for the first time, I have characters that I want to continue with, and before I start, I want to develop a model for how I will write their stories. So I looked at some of my favorites to analyze what I liked and why, and what I didn’t particularly like.
Favorites: Elizabeth Peters, Amelia Peabody and Vickie Bliss; JD Robb, Eve Dallas; Janet Evanavich Stephanie Plum; Suzanne Brockmann, Troubleshooters, and Josh Lanyon’s Adrian English series.
First problem and most significant point to decide: Who is the point of view character? The series are about evenly divided between maintaining a single POV character from story to story, and having different books in the series be about different characters, with different POVs. Brockmann has books in her SEAL Troubleshooter series with a different POV character from a core related group, and each book is both an action/adventure and a romance to be solved. The primary romantic lead is the POV character. The next book in the group is about a different person in the core group.
Amelia Peabody, and the Egyptian mysteries, uses a different model- the core group of characters solves a mystery each book, with the setting somewhere in Egypt, but relationships change, characters age and grow, each book is a different sequential year. JD Robb uses this same model in the Eve Dallas mysteries- each book centers around a crime that needs to be solved, but the core group of characters remains and their relationships mature and change over time. She has some degree of rotating POVs between Eve and the divine Roarke. Her books tend to start a matter of days or weeks after the last one ended, so the time line is fairly continuous. Elizabeth Peters also bent finally and gave the son, Ramses, some POV chapters because he was the age of going off and getting in trouble without his mother.
My problem with Brockmann’s model of a different POV character with each book is I get really invested in the characters and I don’t want to leave them at the end of the books. I was faintly irritated to find a loving couple had gone off and gotten pregnant and I was the last one to know, because we were on to a different guy’s story! I did like that her POV characters were tough guys, who have a really different perspective, and the badass language they use is fairly accurate for the guys I’ve always known. This model is very popular in our genre, because then each romantic guy gets his own story.
My preference, both as a reader and a writer, is to follow a single POV character over time. This works when the characters live through interesting times, when there is a great deal of both external conflict and nice juicy internal conflict. It allows the writer to dig down deep, get into the heart and bones, motivations, secrets, passions, fears. The real stuff. And you have to get to know somebody over time to dig down deep like that. That’s what I think now, but we’ll see if I maintain this belief over a series of books. If the guys start to annoy me, we will have to part ways.
Problem 2: But how do you maintain a strong conflict between romantic partners over a series of books, and still have a HEA?
Josh Lanyon gave us great sexual tension between his characters that lasted through a number of books. You just knew they were going to end up together or go up in a spontaneous fireball, and either would have been fun to read! Eve Dallas got her man, but, being clueless, kept screwing up and almost losing him. This is a great model that seems very real, a protag with limited romantic experience but with a great deal of other skills/knowledge.
Amelia and Emerson, being strong personalities, kept getting into physical trouble that put one or the other in danger, so there were times they thought they had lost one another, and then there would be an exciting rescue. Also, they tended to fight a lot, quite fun to watch. Vickie Bliss spent a lot of time being highly suspicious of the treacherous character she had fallen in love with, rightly so, since he was not to be trusted in anything except love. Most excellent character, Sir John Smythe.
I really like when characters nearly lose everything because they screw up. Reminds me of my own life. For me, a story of the evil overlords or some other external conflict keeping the characters apart is exciting, but less interesting in the long run. I’m talking Henry James, not Kafka.
I think the model Janet Evanavich uses with Stephanie Plum is less successful than the others mentioned regarding the romantic conundrum, being pulled between Ranger and Moretti. It’s a fairly simple either/or and doesn’t require any significant character development. She’s the same girl, they’re the same bad boys, as in the first story.
Third question: How do characters grow and develop over a series of stories? I think the model of characters within a family is one that forces character change and growth, as well as how the time line is handled. When Amelia had children, her behavior and relationships (but not mood) had to change. She also confronted her own prejudices as she became closer to her Egyptian family. As she got older, the changing times, the historical events played a part in the changes to her character. Significant life events, marriages, deaths, babies, all played a role in changing people, as they do in real life.
Eve Dallas had changing relationships with Roarke, Summerset, Peabody, Mavis as they worked together. They form a nontraditional family, and threats from inside and out move between them from story to story. The model here is they all work together, each bringing their particular skill, to solve the crime. It takes everyone working together. I’ve also seen the model in some stories where a particular member of the core group comes under threat, or attack, and the others band together to help or protect.
For me, the critical piece to enjoying a long running series is I have to see a character change and grow. That’s the whole point of the story for me, to see what’s going to happen next and what happens to someone I’ve become emotionally invested in. So I do not like every plot point or conflict solved. I want some issues left dangling for the next story. Because important issues are really going to take some work! And some things are never resolved.
I like the unchanging structure of plot from book to book, either a mystery to be solved, Adrian has to call Jake for help, or Amelia and Emerson arrive in Egypt for the new archeological season, or there is trouble in the world and the Seals get called in. But I sort of expect that the POV character will have changed from the beginning to the end of the story, and maybe some of their supporting family. Evanovich has some great comic characters, but they have remained fairly static over the course of the books.
I’ve wondered if three books should be the max for a series, because so much change and growth can happen in that amount of time, but then the major conflicts are all resolved. I usually love the first three books in a new series the most, and find the ones after that to be less interesting. William Gibson writes modern sci-fi novels, not really sci fi but that’s how he was pegged early on, but he writes books in groups of three, which seem to have a lovely symmetry. Or maybe at three books, the POV character changes. But some of my favs have been very long running.
Notes on the conflict: this has been a sticky wicket for me. To really have tension and narrative drive, something has to be at stake. The threat has to mean something, has to pose a danger. The typical mystery is a murder and the culprit needs to be found before he does it again. In suspense, there could be a nuclear armament gone missing, or a terrorist threat, of some upswelling of hate that threatens peace in the universe.
The threat needs to be credible or who could keep going? My problem writing to this model is the number of clichés in mysteries and murder stories and the emotional difficulty of spending any amount of time in the head of a crazy person. And the angst is frankly hard to take some days. I wonder if there isn’t another model we could consider.
Resolution to this type of conflict is justice. Balance is returned to the universe. Bad is punished. What if we used a more subtle approach, and let the resolution be that people were better than they were when we started? We don’t want to be Lord Peter Whimsey, in bed with the covers over his head while they’re building the gallows for the creep who deserves to hang. We want the world to be a better place when we’re done. This is going to be the challenge I set myself, to work on developing these types of conflicts/resolutions.
So this is what I like, and what I’m thinking about with my new General and the Horse-Lord series. I’m wondering what other people think about what makes for the elements of a good series? What is the perfect model?
April 28, 2013
my picks for the guys who will play the General and the Horse Lord in the movie!
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April 27, 2013
Defeated by html!
I was going to post images of the two actors I've picked out to play the General and the Horse-Lord in the movie, but cannot get it to work. I'm sure it's me! Only an hour to this futile task, though, and I have to get back to work!
April 23, 2013
A Sneak Peak at the new book: The General and the Elephant clock of Al-Jazari
John received a couple of interesting emails the next morning. Gabriel was up and gone early, with plans to stop by his house and have breakfast with the kids. The first email was from an old colleague and fellow Brigadier General, David Painter. John didn’t particularly like the man. They had worked together several times in the past. Painter was good, had what John would call episodic brilliance, but his work tended to be sloppy. He didn’t always put in the time and research that John felt was needed for their work to bring about lasting change. He also tended to be sloppy in his dress, in his personal manner, as if his wild and original mind meant the same rules didn’t apply to him. But they knew each other well, both strengths and weaknesses. John winced at the name on the email, thinking Painter was exactly the sort of man he did not want to discuss his coming out with in any detail. Not that he had much choice, since he’d splashed every bit of privacy he’d ever had across the cover of Out magazine.
The second email was from Abdullah, a very polite thank you note to himself and Gabriel for rescuing him yesterday. John looked at it for a moment, appreciating Abdullah’s good manners, and then he replied: Are you sending me an email from the garage? Or have you skipped town already?
The answer came moments later: I’m in the garage.
If you would like, you can come into the kitchen and speak to me in person.
Abdullah wrote back: I’m about to climb into the shower. See you in a few minutes.
John shook his head at the screen for a long moment, and wondered if Abdullah and Kim emailed each other from the bathroom. No, email was dead, he’d read that somewhere. Instant Messaging? Texting, that was it. So much easier than speech, apparently. Maybe they would evolve right out of their vocal cords, and human communications would consist exclusively of written messages and a few grunts and gentle hoots, like the Great Apes.
John turned back to the first email, wondering if he needed to complain about the younger generation first thing in the morning, every morning, or if his time would be better spent doing pushups.
“Hey, John, long time. I saw the cover of Out. It’s making the rounds in DC, everybody saying they knew it all along and wondering what took you so long to grab your cojones and tell the truth. Your pilot looks like he’s held up well.”
John could feel his blood pressure spike, a drumbeat behind his eye that might be an aneurysm getting ready to blow.
“I heard you quit the university. Little dust up with the locals? Well, you were always a sucker for a boy in trouble. That’s why I’m calling on you. I’ve got a couple of boys in serious trouble, former Rangers, in lovely Tunisia. They’ve been working for me as contractors in Algeria. I could go in and level the fuckers and get my boys out of there, but things seem a bit fragile in northern Africa right now. Maybe a peacemaker would be a better choice. And no matter our differences, John, you were a peacemaker. You always brought home the right solution. That was your great gift, understanding the right solution to the problem. So how about you hop on a plane to DC and talk to me about these boys? I heard your pilot went to law school. Why don’t you bring him along? I’ve got a couple of plane tickets at the airport for tomorrow, and a hotel reservation. First class, if you care about that shit. I’m assuming you two can share a room? Appreciate it, John.”
He forwarded the email to Gabriel. John Painter knew how to hit the soft spots. “Just give me a little job to do, and I’ll follow you anywhere, you fuckhead,” John said to the kitchen wall. He walked back to their bedroom, pulled an overnight bag from the closet shelf.
Kim found him putting a load of clothes into the washer. “Hey, Uncle J. What’s up?”
John looked at him for a long moment. Kim had his hands on his hips, had prepared himself for a royal ass-chewing. He was a brave kid, John thought suddenly, and the affection he felt for the boy was suddenly on his face. Kim reached out and hugged him, his face buried in John’s neck. Even at twenty-three, his first thought had been to come find his uncle and face the music. But John had no time right now to get into it.
“Kim, I’ve got to leave tomorrow, go up to DC. I don’t know any more than that.”
“What can I do?”
John shook his head. “Everything’s done. I’ll need you to watch over Billy and Juan if Gabriel comes with.”
“Sure, no problem.”
“Keep everyone safe,” John said, and Kim’s face flushed.
“I hear you. You can count on me.”
“I always do, kiddo.”
He followed John to his bedroom, studied the clothes laid out on the bed, and the passport. “Not that white shirt. Take the gray one. You have to leave the country? Where are you going? I can keep an eye on CNN for a sudden flare in hostilities.”
“Not exactly sure, but I heard talk about Algeria and Tunisia.”
“Oh, God.” Kim sat down on the side of the bed. “Tunisia, isn’t that where Arab Spring turned from smoke to fire?”
John glanced at him. “Nice metaphor. And yes, it started in Tunisia. But we don’t have to assume that’s the only trouble that can brew. It’s still a Muslim country at the end of the day. Lots of ways for Americans to get into trouble.”
“That’s what this is? A rescue mission?”
“Seems likely, but I don’t really know. Kim, you know that stupid magazine came out this week and every jerk at St. Matthews High School is going to mention to Juan that they’ve seen it. I’m worried about him.”
“And the Horse-Lord says he needs to just suck it up and take it like a man?”
“No, it’s not like that.” John sat down on the bed. “He wants Juan to stop making Martha crazy with his behavior, using this issue as an excuse to act out every hostile teenaged impulse, and he also wants to let the adults handle issues of bullying. The school authorities, or the police.”
Kim was nodding. “Right. That is so not going to happen. Have you both forgotten Juan is fifteen now?”
“He’s not one of your baby gang-bangers, Kim. He’s an Army kid. He has braces and goes to Catholic school and lives in the suburbs.”
“Yeah, I know. I’m worried, too. He’s hardly talking to me anymore, or Billy. It’s like he’s grown up really fast and he’s tough inside. He’s strong in his anger. Young Luke is turning toward the dark side.” Kim grinned for a moment. “I wonder how I would show that in a picture? Maybe I’ll get him to let me take his picture. Feel him out a little bit.”
“Whatever you think is best, Kim. I usually try to stay out of sight until a crisis looms. He’s not speaking to me, either.”
“You’ll keep yourself safe, won’t you? And the Horse-Lord? Just because I’m grown up doesn’t mean I don’t need you anymore.”
“Now you have Abdullah. Is that what I’m to understand? The two of you, together?”
Kim nodded, pulled at a loose thread on the bedspread. “Yeah. I think so. I think we’re going to be like you and Gabriel. Two bodies, one heart, all our lives. That’s how it seems to me, but I don’t want to jump the gun. It’s early days yet. Half the time we start a conversation getting along and end the conversation fighting and I have no idea why.”
“You’re just feeling your boundaries, defining yourselves to each other. That’s what I’ve always wanted for you, a real relationship, a family of your own. You guys can even adopt kids if you wanted. I’m really very pleased, Kim.” He looked at what Kim was doing and frowned. “Don’t pull on that thread. I’ve got some scissors in the bathroom if you need to clip a loose thread. I know how much you spent on this new bedspread.”
“Speaking of that.” Kim stared at him until he put the tie down on the bed.
“What? We’re not going to talk about the furniture again, are we?”
“No, we’re not. But there is something I want to talk to you about. Uncle John, you need to update your style.” Kim raised a hand to quell any protests, but John was too surprised to complain. “You’re still wearing your military haircut, still wearing suits that look to my eye about twenty years out of date. I mean, a single breasted navy blue with three buttons? Please, stop torturing me. You need a makeover, and you needed it, like, yesterday.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“You’re out now. You have to maintain a certain style, up your cool factor just a bit. You have an image to maintain now you’re out of the closet.”
“Why?”
“Because people will judge you by your clothes. For God’s sake, nobody would believe you’re related to me! This is my rep too, Uncle John. You’re about to go back to DC, and you need to stroll in with some killer style, not like some lonely, bored, miserable retired general who’s mooning around, thinking about the glory days. DC has seen plenty of those. You want to blast in there and have the town talking about you.”
“I think that ship already sailed, Kim.”
“Talking about you in a good way. Look, you’re a winter. You shouldn’t be playing about with all these muddy blues.” Kim was flipping through his ties.
“What are you talking about? It’s the middle of summer.”
That got him a pitiful look. Kim stood up and crossed his arms. “What I am talking about is gunmetal gray with teal accents, made by Emporio Armani. What the Army cares about is the work. But you’re about to jump into a new shark tank, Uncle John, and in this shark tank they care about money. I will not have those dickhead bluebloods look down on you because of your clothes. We’re going shopping tonight, after supper.”
John’s mind was flipping frantically through any reasonable excuse. “But what about Abdullah? He just got here.”
“He’s not going anywhere. I know more about this than you.” Kim’s face softened, and he looked at John kindly, a doting smile on his face. “I know more about this than you, and I’m not going to argue anymore. We’re going to buy a new suit, along with two shirts and ties, and one leisure outfit. I repeat, I will not argue with you. I know there is available credit on your Navy Federal Visa. You paid off the furniture already. If you argue with me,” he said, holding up a hand to stop John, “I am going to start going to the plasma bank and I will sell blood until I have paid back every cent I spent on the couch.” John had no doubt, looking at the angle of his jaw, that Kim meant every word.
What the hell was a leisure outfit? John looked down at himself, jeans and a faded chambray shirt. Kim closed his eyes as if he were in pain.
“These are weapons, Uncle John.” Kim was speaking as if John were a little slow. “This is a new war, and these are your weapons.”
The second email was from Abdullah, a very polite thank you note to himself and Gabriel for rescuing him yesterday. John looked at it for a moment, appreciating Abdullah’s good manners, and then he replied: Are you sending me an email from the garage? Or have you skipped town already?
The answer came moments later: I’m in the garage.
If you would like, you can come into the kitchen and speak to me in person.
Abdullah wrote back: I’m about to climb into the shower. See you in a few minutes.
John shook his head at the screen for a long moment, and wondered if Abdullah and Kim emailed each other from the bathroom. No, email was dead, he’d read that somewhere. Instant Messaging? Texting, that was it. So much easier than speech, apparently. Maybe they would evolve right out of their vocal cords, and human communications would consist exclusively of written messages and a few grunts and gentle hoots, like the Great Apes.
John turned back to the first email, wondering if he needed to complain about the younger generation first thing in the morning, every morning, or if his time would be better spent doing pushups.
“Hey, John, long time. I saw the cover of Out. It’s making the rounds in DC, everybody saying they knew it all along and wondering what took you so long to grab your cojones and tell the truth. Your pilot looks like he’s held up well.”
John could feel his blood pressure spike, a drumbeat behind his eye that might be an aneurysm getting ready to blow.
“I heard you quit the university. Little dust up with the locals? Well, you were always a sucker for a boy in trouble. That’s why I’m calling on you. I’ve got a couple of boys in serious trouble, former Rangers, in lovely Tunisia. They’ve been working for me as contractors in Algeria. I could go in and level the fuckers and get my boys out of there, but things seem a bit fragile in northern Africa right now. Maybe a peacemaker would be a better choice. And no matter our differences, John, you were a peacemaker. You always brought home the right solution. That was your great gift, understanding the right solution to the problem. So how about you hop on a plane to DC and talk to me about these boys? I heard your pilot went to law school. Why don’t you bring him along? I’ve got a couple of plane tickets at the airport for tomorrow, and a hotel reservation. First class, if you care about that shit. I’m assuming you two can share a room? Appreciate it, John.”
He forwarded the email to Gabriel. John Painter knew how to hit the soft spots. “Just give me a little job to do, and I’ll follow you anywhere, you fuckhead,” John said to the kitchen wall. He walked back to their bedroom, pulled an overnight bag from the closet shelf.
Kim found him putting a load of clothes into the washer. “Hey, Uncle J. What’s up?”
John looked at him for a long moment. Kim had his hands on his hips, had prepared himself for a royal ass-chewing. He was a brave kid, John thought suddenly, and the affection he felt for the boy was suddenly on his face. Kim reached out and hugged him, his face buried in John’s neck. Even at twenty-three, his first thought had been to come find his uncle and face the music. But John had no time right now to get into it.
“Kim, I’ve got to leave tomorrow, go up to DC. I don’t know any more than that.”
“What can I do?”
John shook his head. “Everything’s done. I’ll need you to watch over Billy and Juan if Gabriel comes with.”
“Sure, no problem.”
“Keep everyone safe,” John said, and Kim’s face flushed.
“I hear you. You can count on me.”
“I always do, kiddo.”
He followed John to his bedroom, studied the clothes laid out on the bed, and the passport. “Not that white shirt. Take the gray one. You have to leave the country? Where are you going? I can keep an eye on CNN for a sudden flare in hostilities.”
“Not exactly sure, but I heard talk about Algeria and Tunisia.”
“Oh, God.” Kim sat down on the side of the bed. “Tunisia, isn’t that where Arab Spring turned from smoke to fire?”
John glanced at him. “Nice metaphor. And yes, it started in Tunisia. But we don’t have to assume that’s the only trouble that can brew. It’s still a Muslim country at the end of the day. Lots of ways for Americans to get into trouble.”
“That’s what this is? A rescue mission?”
“Seems likely, but I don’t really know. Kim, you know that stupid magazine came out this week and every jerk at St. Matthews High School is going to mention to Juan that they’ve seen it. I’m worried about him.”
“And the Horse-Lord says he needs to just suck it up and take it like a man?”
“No, it’s not like that.” John sat down on the bed. “He wants Juan to stop making Martha crazy with his behavior, using this issue as an excuse to act out every hostile teenaged impulse, and he also wants to let the adults handle issues of bullying. The school authorities, or the police.”
Kim was nodding. “Right. That is so not going to happen. Have you both forgotten Juan is fifteen now?”
“He’s not one of your baby gang-bangers, Kim. He’s an Army kid. He has braces and goes to Catholic school and lives in the suburbs.”
“Yeah, I know. I’m worried, too. He’s hardly talking to me anymore, or Billy. It’s like he’s grown up really fast and he’s tough inside. He’s strong in his anger. Young Luke is turning toward the dark side.” Kim grinned for a moment. “I wonder how I would show that in a picture? Maybe I’ll get him to let me take his picture. Feel him out a little bit.”
“Whatever you think is best, Kim. I usually try to stay out of sight until a crisis looms. He’s not speaking to me, either.”
“You’ll keep yourself safe, won’t you? And the Horse-Lord? Just because I’m grown up doesn’t mean I don’t need you anymore.”
“Now you have Abdullah. Is that what I’m to understand? The two of you, together?”
Kim nodded, pulled at a loose thread on the bedspread. “Yeah. I think so. I think we’re going to be like you and Gabriel. Two bodies, one heart, all our lives. That’s how it seems to me, but I don’t want to jump the gun. It’s early days yet. Half the time we start a conversation getting along and end the conversation fighting and I have no idea why.”
“You’re just feeling your boundaries, defining yourselves to each other. That’s what I’ve always wanted for you, a real relationship, a family of your own. You guys can even adopt kids if you wanted. I’m really very pleased, Kim.” He looked at what Kim was doing and frowned. “Don’t pull on that thread. I’ve got some scissors in the bathroom if you need to clip a loose thread. I know how much you spent on this new bedspread.”
“Speaking of that.” Kim stared at him until he put the tie down on the bed.
“What? We’re not going to talk about the furniture again, are we?”
“No, we’re not. But there is something I want to talk to you about. Uncle John, you need to update your style.” Kim raised a hand to quell any protests, but John was too surprised to complain. “You’re still wearing your military haircut, still wearing suits that look to my eye about twenty years out of date. I mean, a single breasted navy blue with three buttons? Please, stop torturing me. You need a makeover, and you needed it, like, yesterday.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“You’re out now. You have to maintain a certain style, up your cool factor just a bit. You have an image to maintain now you’re out of the closet.”
“Why?”
“Because people will judge you by your clothes. For God’s sake, nobody would believe you’re related to me! This is my rep too, Uncle John. You’re about to go back to DC, and you need to stroll in with some killer style, not like some lonely, bored, miserable retired general who’s mooning around, thinking about the glory days. DC has seen plenty of those. You want to blast in there and have the town talking about you.”
“I think that ship already sailed, Kim.”
“Talking about you in a good way. Look, you’re a winter. You shouldn’t be playing about with all these muddy blues.” Kim was flipping through his ties.
“What are you talking about? It’s the middle of summer.”
That got him a pitiful look. Kim stood up and crossed his arms. “What I am talking about is gunmetal gray with teal accents, made by Emporio Armani. What the Army cares about is the work. But you’re about to jump into a new shark tank, Uncle John, and in this shark tank they care about money. I will not have those dickhead bluebloods look down on you because of your clothes. We’re going shopping tonight, after supper.”
John’s mind was flipping frantically through any reasonable excuse. “But what about Abdullah? He just got here.”
“He’s not going anywhere. I know more about this than you.” Kim’s face softened, and he looked at John kindly, a doting smile on his face. “I know more about this than you, and I’m not going to argue anymore. We’re going to buy a new suit, along with two shirts and ties, and one leisure outfit. I repeat, I will not argue with you. I know there is available credit on your Navy Federal Visa. You paid off the furniture already. If you argue with me,” he said, holding up a hand to stop John, “I am going to start going to the plasma bank and I will sell blood until I have paid back every cent I spent on the couch.” John had no doubt, looking at the angle of his jaw, that Kim meant every word.
What the hell was a leisure outfit? John looked down at himself, jeans and a faded chambray shirt. Kim closed his eyes as if he were in pain.
“These are weapons, Uncle John.” Kim was speaking as if John were a little slow. “This is a new war, and these are your weapons.”
April 16, 2013
The Real Fictional World, and Where Kim Came From
The Real Fictional World, and Where Kim Came From
A writing teacher told me I couldn’t use the name Denny’s in a story because they might sue me. I thought I would be overjoyed if Denny’s sued me, because it meant someone was actually reading my story! Holy hell, how cool would that be? A Denny’s executive, reading my story, saying, wtf? Is this story for real? That girl’s dangerous!
It’s risky using actual events in a fictional story because you may find yourself not willing to bend the event to fit the needs of the story, some little voice in your head saying, that’s not the way it really happened! The needs of the story trump the need to be factual. But I like to use real experiences, at least the parts that add something to a scene, and I’ve solved the problem by just calling everything fiction. I hope it will keep me from getting sued, but, hey! if not, I hope I made you really uncomfortable!
In The General and the Horse-Lord, just out from Dreamspinner, there are several scenes that are real, or based on something that really happened. I went to Isotopes Park, to the ball game, and screamed like a loon when the boys won by a beauty of a home run with the bases loaded. I took careful notes of the park, wanting to hit the nail on the head in describing it. The man sitting behind me poured his beer down the back of my shirt in the excitement of the moment, but that detail added nothing to the scene, so I left it out.
Ho Ho’s, the Chinese restaurant on the corner of Yale and Central, is actually called Big Chow’s, which I think is even funnier than Ho Ho. I changed it so they wouldn’t sue me. I was in Big Chow’s when two elderly Chinese women working behind the counter got into a pot sticker fight. I mentioned this in the story, but I didn’t have John watch the entire fight, because mediator that he is, he would have stopped the fight and negotiated peace, and that scene actually would have added little. I love Big Chow’s. They have a special of 10 pot stickers for 2 dollars. I love you guys, so please don’t sue me.
I was looking through my files of old short stories, looking for something else, and I found a story called Goldenboy I wrote several years ago. This story is not only true, but also factual. I did go to New Orleans on a field trip the year I was twelve, and I did have the encounter I described in the story. What I didn’t realize until just now is that I probably based the character of Kim on this boy. Strange how the mind takes our memories and turns them into beautiful stories.
Anyway, here’s Goldenboy:
On the bus ride to New Orleans, the nuns reviewed our schedule: light breakfast at Café Du Monde, walk around Jackson Square, the buddy system was in effect here, go into the cathedral and light a candle and pray if we were so inclined, and a late lunch at The Court of Two Sisters. If anyone snuck off alone, or set one foot on Bourbon Street, we would be loaded back onto our bus and driven home in disgrace. Donna Brown was my assigned buddy, and I was happy for this because I was hoping we could be friends.
New Orleans is full of disturbing ripe smells. Down in Jackson Square, the chicory coffee fought against the heavy wet tang of the river, the shrimp boil coming from little French houses, yeast bread, cherry tobacco from someone’s pipe. The waiter at Café Du Monde had a black moustache and lines around his eyes, and he gave me a sip of black chicory coffee and then laughed at the look on my face. “Black is too bitter for a young girl,” he said. “Try it with the cream and sugar.” And he poured a cup from a steaming pitcher held high. The little square donuts were just out of the fryer, sprinkled with powdered sugar, and the coffee smelled so dark and rich, it was all so rich, the donuts and the river and the thick sweet air, it was all I could do not to bury my face in the plate and eat it all up like a dog.
Donna Brown told me she wanted to go into the cathedral and light a candle for her grandmother, and she showed me the fifty-cent piece she was going to put in the box. I told her I wanted to walk around Jackson Square and look at the pictures and the artists. We agreed on one circuit.
The boy had skin that was strangely golden-colored, with black eyes shaped by a country a long way from America. He was nearly naked, smooth golden chest, long golden arms, wearing a pair of dirty white shorts and some flip-flops. He was sketching, a pad of paper against his crossed thigh, a cigarette stuck in the corner of his mouth. I must have stood there for a moment too long, staring at him, because he started smiling, glancing between me and the paper.
“Look at this,” he said, and held up the sketch. A little kid in a plaid skirt and white blouse. He thought I looked like a baby. “You can have this for five dollars,” he said.
I put my hands behind my back. “I don’t have five dollars.”
“I’ll just have to keep it, then.” I looked at his face, strange smiling eyes shaped like a quick curved line of charcoal, that beautiful skin. He took the cigarette out of his mouth, held the filter toward me between two fingers. “Taste this.”
His fingers smelled like smoke and oil pastels, and I took the cigarette between my lips, held it there, felt his fingers touch my cheek, and he smiled at the smoke rising in the air between us.
Donna grabbed my arm, pulling me away. “I’m telling Sister what you did,” she said, and I jerked my arm out of her hand, looked back at the golden boy. He was sketching again, but he looked up and winked at me, the cigarette back in the corner of his mouth.
We went straight to the Cathedral, knelt in front of the votive candles, and Donna’s fifty-cent piece would not fit in the box. I closed my eyes, tasted chicory coffee and cigarette smoke, felt his fingers touch my cheek, and I prayed and prayed and prayed.
A writing teacher told me I couldn’t use the name Denny’s in a story because they might sue me. I thought I would be overjoyed if Denny’s sued me, because it meant someone was actually reading my story! Holy hell, how cool would that be? A Denny’s executive, reading my story, saying, wtf? Is this story for real? That girl’s dangerous!
It’s risky using actual events in a fictional story because you may find yourself not willing to bend the event to fit the needs of the story, some little voice in your head saying, that’s not the way it really happened! The needs of the story trump the need to be factual. But I like to use real experiences, at least the parts that add something to a scene, and I’ve solved the problem by just calling everything fiction. I hope it will keep me from getting sued, but, hey! if not, I hope I made you really uncomfortable!
In The General and the Horse-Lord, just out from Dreamspinner, there are several scenes that are real, or based on something that really happened. I went to Isotopes Park, to the ball game, and screamed like a loon when the boys won by a beauty of a home run with the bases loaded. I took careful notes of the park, wanting to hit the nail on the head in describing it. The man sitting behind me poured his beer down the back of my shirt in the excitement of the moment, but that detail added nothing to the scene, so I left it out.
Ho Ho’s, the Chinese restaurant on the corner of Yale and Central, is actually called Big Chow’s, which I think is even funnier than Ho Ho. I changed it so they wouldn’t sue me. I was in Big Chow’s when two elderly Chinese women working behind the counter got into a pot sticker fight. I mentioned this in the story, but I didn’t have John watch the entire fight, because mediator that he is, he would have stopped the fight and negotiated peace, and that scene actually would have added little. I love Big Chow’s. They have a special of 10 pot stickers for 2 dollars. I love you guys, so please don’t sue me.
I was looking through my files of old short stories, looking for something else, and I found a story called Goldenboy I wrote several years ago. This story is not only true, but also factual. I did go to New Orleans on a field trip the year I was twelve, and I did have the encounter I described in the story. What I didn’t realize until just now is that I probably based the character of Kim on this boy. Strange how the mind takes our memories and turns them into beautiful stories.
Anyway, here’s Goldenboy:
On the bus ride to New Orleans, the nuns reviewed our schedule: light breakfast at Café Du Monde, walk around Jackson Square, the buddy system was in effect here, go into the cathedral and light a candle and pray if we were so inclined, and a late lunch at The Court of Two Sisters. If anyone snuck off alone, or set one foot on Bourbon Street, we would be loaded back onto our bus and driven home in disgrace. Donna Brown was my assigned buddy, and I was happy for this because I was hoping we could be friends.
New Orleans is full of disturbing ripe smells. Down in Jackson Square, the chicory coffee fought against the heavy wet tang of the river, the shrimp boil coming from little French houses, yeast bread, cherry tobacco from someone’s pipe. The waiter at Café Du Monde had a black moustache and lines around his eyes, and he gave me a sip of black chicory coffee and then laughed at the look on my face. “Black is too bitter for a young girl,” he said. “Try it with the cream and sugar.” And he poured a cup from a steaming pitcher held high. The little square donuts were just out of the fryer, sprinkled with powdered sugar, and the coffee smelled so dark and rich, it was all so rich, the donuts and the river and the thick sweet air, it was all I could do not to bury my face in the plate and eat it all up like a dog.
Donna Brown told me she wanted to go into the cathedral and light a candle for her grandmother, and she showed me the fifty-cent piece she was going to put in the box. I told her I wanted to walk around Jackson Square and look at the pictures and the artists. We agreed on one circuit.
The boy had skin that was strangely golden-colored, with black eyes shaped by a country a long way from America. He was nearly naked, smooth golden chest, long golden arms, wearing a pair of dirty white shorts and some flip-flops. He was sketching, a pad of paper against his crossed thigh, a cigarette stuck in the corner of his mouth. I must have stood there for a moment too long, staring at him, because he started smiling, glancing between me and the paper.
“Look at this,” he said, and held up the sketch. A little kid in a plaid skirt and white blouse. He thought I looked like a baby. “You can have this for five dollars,” he said.
I put my hands behind my back. “I don’t have five dollars.”
“I’ll just have to keep it, then.” I looked at his face, strange smiling eyes shaped like a quick curved line of charcoal, that beautiful skin. He took the cigarette out of his mouth, held the filter toward me between two fingers. “Taste this.”
His fingers smelled like smoke and oil pastels, and I took the cigarette between my lips, held it there, felt his fingers touch my cheek, and he smiled at the smoke rising in the air between us.
Donna grabbed my arm, pulling me away. “I’m telling Sister what you did,” she said, and I jerked my arm out of her hand, looked back at the golden boy. He was sketching again, but he looked up and winked at me, the cigarette back in the corner of his mouth.
We went straight to the Cathedral, knelt in front of the votive candles, and Donna’s fifty-cent piece would not fit in the box. I closed my eyes, tasted chicory coffee and cigarette smoke, felt his fingers touch my cheek, and I prayed and prayed and prayed.
April 13, 2013
New Story at The Armchair Reader
Cole Riann is hosting a new story today, Open Your Eyes to Water, to celebrate the publication of The General and the Horse-Lord. There is a giveaway, too, for a free ebook. Here's the link--
http://coleriann.com/
http://coleriann.com/
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