Kimberly Packard's Blog, page 2

Point of No Return

In story structure, there’s a point when your characters cross the threshold. The moment when they can’t uninitiate the call to action, they can’t go back to the way life was, blissfully ignoring how their lives have changed. How their viewpoint has changed.

It’s hard to tell the call to adventure, “Thanks but no thanks.”

This usually happens around Act 1 and while this is something that focuses on character development, it’s something that happens to authors as well.

I’ve recently crossed that threshold with my new WIP. I’m nearly 1/3 the way in, just crossed the 100-page mark of the story and I find myself completely thrilled with the story, in love with the characters and the words are flowing like the mighty Mississippi.

This is the moment when I’m no longer in control of the story. I’m not driving, I’ve scooted over to the passenger seat. I feel confident to let Elaina (my main character) take the wheel. She’s proven to be smart, sassy and a bit formidable (okay, maybe I’m a little afraid of her).

I think I know where we’re going and while Elaina may take a detour or two on the way, I’m sure we can get there. As long as I trust her. As long as I stay out of her way.

And, as long as I know that the story we’ve created and the secrets we’ve uncovered can never be stuffed back into Pandora’s box.

We’re crested the point of no return. So we soldier on, trusting our only weapon. Words.

NaNo to Wri Mo?

Ahhh, the last day of October. Halloween. All Hallow’s Eve. And, the eve of NaNoWriMo

Across the country and abroad, writers are saying goodbye to their friends and loved ones. They are preparing care packets filled with everything a writer needs – coffee, wine, kleenex and M&M’s. They are giving long looks, as if memorizing what their little writer looks like before sending them off to pen a novel in 30 days.

(By the way, I should point out that NaNoWriMo coincides with No Shave November … Don’t think that’s a coincidence)

I’ve long admired the folks who dive into NaNo. It’s the ultimate test of endurance, mental strength and stick-with-it-ness. A writer’s marathon.

And, like a good cheerer-onner that I am, I’ve clapped from the sidelines. But, this is the year, maybe I should jump into the crowd and jog/write alongside my peers.

I won’t lie, my second novel all but stalled my writing career. I felt like a hamster on a wheel with it. It wasn’t a bad story, but I wasn’t getting anywhere with it. So, I put it aside, stepped out of my cage and started down the path of something new. The course was both familiar and new, but one word followed by another and suddenly, I have a story.

The momentum with this story is unbelievable. Two months into it and I’m at 20,000 words. Since I tend to make up my own rules anyway, I’m going to use NaNo to make serious headway on finishing this one. If that’s the case, if I can add 50,000 words to this WIP, then I’d be just a few chapters away.

So, what does that mean and why the heck should anyone care?

That means that I can still do it. That I can still make words that make sentences, sentences that make scenes, and scenes that tell a story. It means that while Vortex may come out of this exercise as one hot mess, it will be a finished hot mess. I can edit that.

It means that I’ll have my groove back, giving me the confidence to go back to Pardon Falls, step out of the hamster wheel and finally get that story ready for public consumption.

Judgement-Free Writing

I’ve recently committed a heinous crime. No one was hurt, nothing’s gone missing (well, aside from a few marbles in my head) and I won’t break into a cold sweat when I pass a police officer on the street.

The crime I committed was against myself. More specifically, it was against my novel. My Muse even.

I’ve said before that my Muse personified is that sweet, crazy hippie. A free spirit, she just wants to run wild, letting words and stories flow freely, telling me to trust her, she knows where we’re going. And yes, we’ll have enough gas to get there.

As free-spirited as she is, she’s also deathly afraid of my inner editor. The editor is the mean girl bully that is always asking is why are we doing this, does that word make sense and is that what you’re going to wear.

My crime is against Pardon Falls. I let the mean girl in, and my Muse tried her best to help me, but she was in the bathroom crying way too much. So, I sent the mean girl shopping and the Muse and I are working on a new story.

In a way, working on this new story is my punishment. My way to repay my Muse for the hurt I’ve caused her. To show her I’m a changed person, I’m using the road map I created in Alexandra Sokoloff’s class at West Texas Writers’ Academy, but I’m letting her drive. I’m not telling her she’s swerving, or speeding. I’m not correcting her when she takes her eyes off the road (don’t worry folks, no car crashes in my imagination). I’m just letting her drive. With the top down. As fast and as far as she can take me.

She’s happy. Writing without judgement is exhilarating. I think this is why NaNoWriMo is so enticing. It’s writing fast, without thinking about anything but the blank page and road ahead of you.

Are the words I’m writing perfect? Heck no, but some of them are pretty damn good and I’m seeing things in this character that wouldn’t have come out if I was judging myself.

There is so much judgment in our everyday lives. Writing should be a sacred space. The creation of sentences, paragraphs and words should be treated as the birth of a child, born perfect but needing some guidance to grow. Judgement during creation stunts that growth.

And that is my crime. I judged myself all the way through Pardon Falls. I’m hoping that if I prove myself to my Muse with this new story, she’ll come back to me and help me finish that one. I’m not giving up on it. Just the opposite, I’m ready to fight for it. But when I face the mean girl bully inner critic, I need my Muse on my side.

Birth of a Phoenix

I had a realization earlier this week. One that made me stop to reflect on where I was, where I am today and the people who helped along the way. Roughly 10 years ago, Phoenix was born.

The idea came from when I worked corporate communications for a former Fortune 500 company. I was in charge of contract announcements, and was getting antsy waiting on the legal department to approve a press release. The corporate attorney quipped, “Be patient, I’m trying to keep you out of jail for confusing a million dollar deal for a billion dollar deal.”

That off-hand comment took my breath away. I mean, I look fairly good in orange and I’m good at making friends … so it’s not that. What happened was, a seed of an idea began to germinate in my head.

For weeks after, I found myself always going back to that comment and the what-if that followed. What if someone in my position was manipulated into committing securities fraud? What if she believed someone she trusted, but he ended up using her?

During my daily commutes, I’d find myself imagining the story and before long, Phoenix took shape in my head. From there, it took many drafts, many edits, lots of tears, some wine and the confidence of my friends, family and amazing publisher.

Kids, that is the birth story of Phoenix. Pardon Falls came to my during a long drive to far southwest Texas. A few others that are waiting in the wing came from watching the news, hearing an interview with a vocalist and, my favorite and a story I can’t wait to write, the main character sharing his motto – “Just because everyone dies, doesn’t mean it has to be boring.”

Story genesis is fascinating. To me, it’s like unwrapping a present from the universe. Most of the stories come to me fully formed in a giant whoosh. Those that don’t are a little harder to write, but I think what that means is the “whoosh” stories are like falling stars. They are hanging out in orbit, waiting for an author ready to write and and then they streak across the sky to us.

Flash Fiction: The Trouble with Bubbles

I should be editing. I’m pretty sure everyone on the planet has doubts that I’m ever going to finish my next novel. Heck, even I’m starting to wonder that. So, to bring back the joy of writing, I thought I’d warm up with a little writing exercise. Found a prompt and took 10 minutes to write this quick little piece. It’s mostly unedited – I mean I did give it a read to make sure I wouldn’t embarrass myself further. And I’m sure my writing group is shaking their heads at the fact that it’s un-workshopped.

But, dear readers and friends, this is my gift to you. For your patience, for your encouragement and to prove to you (and me) that I can still put a couple of words together.

Enjoy!

Bubbles. Bubbles everywhere.

It would have been a comical life-imitating-art from that iconic 70s family sitcom if it hadn’t been her mother-in-law’s newly renovated utility room with the state-of-the-art, can-do-everything-but-fold washing machine. OK, so she didn’t see the “high-efficiency” sign until she closed the lid. Or, the fact that the soap went into a tiny dispenser until after she had soaked her kids’ fish-smelly, grass-stained clothes with detergent.

Laura glanced around the room, the bubbles multiplied like Tribbles and were twice as troublesome. They slid across the Italian tile – who puts Italian tile in a utility room anyway? The bubbles were eager to let their presence be known, to escape into the world. To take over Manhattan. Starting with Austin, Texas, of course.

“I have to show you my pride and joy of this house,” her mother-in-law’s voice floated through the walls. “I could just live in the utility room.”

Crap.

Laura scooped up a handful of bubbles and tossed them in the sink, but the washing machine burped out more.

Crap. Crap!

The click of heels assaulted the air like a firing squad readying for her death. With a final belch, the machine cut off and the last of the bubbles slid down its closed mouth. The sight reminder her so much of Jabba the Hutt. Down to the mocking laughter. Laura watched way too much Star Wars with the boys.

“We have the best tile, top of the line washer and dryer, and my favorite feature is the hidden cleaning closet behind the door.”

Like a gift from the Patron Saint of Daughter-in-Laws, Laura flung open the closet and stared breathlessly at the vacuum cleaner as the angels sang.

It was new. It was beautiful. It was going to save her butt and soak up every last one of these bastard bubbles.

With the swiftness of a ninja, Laura plugged in the cleaner, unsheathed the hose and started sucking.

“Die, die, die,” Laura hissed as the mechanical savior slurped and gurgled.

She took a step back to reach more bubbles and promptly felt something hot and wet slide down her leg. Leave it to her mother-in-law to get one of the fancy bagless cleaners. Bubbles spewed from the vent of the vacuum and her nose tickled with the smell of electrical burning.

Crap. Crap. Crap!

“Oh, I wonder who’s down here,” she heard her mother-in-law’s surprised voice on the other side of the door.

Like a victim in a horror movie, Laura watched as the knob began turning in slow motion. The roar of the vacuum hid her curses and prayers. The smell of fresh linen – or was it sunny day? they smelled the same – detergent fought against the sulphury smell of … wait, is that fire?

Just as the door pushed open, a pop cracked through the air and the room went dark.

Laura finally exhaled. Thank God her mother-in-law wouldn’t see all the bubbles.

 

Finding that Spark

Fourth of July. A holiday filled with stars and stripes and sunburns. As the unofficial mid-point of summer, we still have that gleam in our eye before we mosey into the canine side of the season.

It’s also a holiday filled with sparks. And while the lights in the sky are sparked by fire the stories that live within us are ignited by something else.

A drive to entertain others through stories. A need to release those voices in our head. Sheer madness.

For some of us, it’s all of the above.

So where do authors find that spark? That drive to sit down at our computers for hours at a time leaving our dogs un-walked and gardens un-weeded?

It’s from our friends (the real ones, the imaginary ones just cause trouble). It’s through friends I’ve made through writing groups, academies, book signings, classes, book clubs and the good old-fashioned interweb.

These people fuel my writing. They are the glue that holds my butt to the seat. They cheer me on when I question my ability, and they call me out if I’m writing lazily. When my Muse plays hide and seek, they step in and fill her place. They laugh with me and wipe away my tears. We brainstorm together and finish each other’s sentence (spoken and written).

Writing is a very lonely profession. It’s just me and the voices in my head. It’s really nice to have friends that can hear them too.

To all my friends, this 4th of July when you watch the fireworks overhead, know that you are my catalyst, my spark. Here’s to all of us shining brightly and making a loud boom.

Cheers!

Camp Howyouwriteit: Plotters vs. Pantsters

Ahhh, summer camp. We take the bus out to the idyllic woods and either you get off at Camp Plotter, flying it’s very well-constructed flag, or Camp Pantster, flying, well, someone’s pants.

The two camps get along reasonably well. Sometimes you’ll find someone sneaking from one camp to the other, just to see what’s going on, but they usually sprint back through the woods as if Jason is chasing them.

Once you choose your camp, are you locked into a lifetime of Camp Plotter or Camp Pantster t-shirts? In a word, no. There’s actually a secret third camp, Camp Tweeners (not to be confused with the short-skirt wearing, belly-bearing, know-it-all pre-teens. They’re glamping the next town over).

According to James Scott Bell in his books on Super Structure and Write Your Novel from the Middle (both highly recommended), he said that writers can learn to be Tweeners.

Here’s another way to look at it. You’re taking a road trip from New York to California. The Plotter has every twist, turn and road stop perfectly planned. The Pantster just knows she needs to end up in California. Eventually.

Who do you think will get there more efficiently with a little gas in the tank? Yep, the Plotter. But who do you think will have more fun? The Pantster (because there’s this great little biker bar in Nashville …).

I’ve made no secret that I’m a long-standing member of Camp Pantster (hey! those are MY pants!) but I’m now sneaking over to the Plotter camp and I may take up residency in Camp Tweener. During a week-long academy, I learned plotting tips from the amazing Alexandra Sokoloff. From her, I’ve learned that I just need to know where I’m starting, a few key stops along the way and where I’m going.

I tried my hand at plotting a new novel and you know what, my Muse didn’t feel shackled one bit! And now, I’ve pulled the car over to study the map for Pardon Falls to see maybe when I took that left turn at Albuquerque and how I can get myself on track.

When I sit down to write my third, already plotted-out novel, will it come effortlessly? Probably not. Every story is wonderfully different with its own challenges. But I’ve got a full tank of gas and I know where I’m going.

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Treating Book Parasites

Books are parasites. They live inside us. Growing. Feeding off us. And, sometimes, they can make their authors crippled with fear.

I know that sounds harsh, but I mean it in the nicest way possible.

The only cure for these parasites is to write them. We have to get them out of our system. And, if we’re lucky enough to be able to publish them, we share our cooties with readers. While this form of the parasite tends to be a lesser version, some books do stay with the readers for a while. Don’t worry, that’s a good parasite.

Once we are able to cure a parasite, a new one usually pops into place. But that’s Ok. That’s healthy. A new story enters our mind, we write it, get it into the world and then rinse and repeat.

I’ve had a parasite stuck with me for a while. Those aren’t exactly healthy. They cause frustration, hair pulling, outbursts, teeth gnashing, involuntary housecleaning and cold sores.

So, I went to see the doctor. A whole team of specialists to be exact in the form of West Texas Writers’ Academy. There I spent a week with the brilliant Alexandra Sokoloff learning how to plot and many afternoons and evenings with a wonderful tribe of fellow patients. It was tough, tears shed (both from laughing and really truly crying), and only a little bit of hair was pulled, but at the end of it all I plotted my way to a new parasite. One that I am already head over heels in love with.

And, the best part, I think I found a cure for that parasite that’s been living inside me. With the gentle nudging of the new one eager to take up residency in my body, I think it’s time to extract this sucker, let it infiltrate some readers and get the world ready for the newest affliction.

My Wordy Valentine

Books are like a relationship. You put a lot of effort into it, flirt with it, flutter your eyelashes and maybe, just maybe, that story will like you back.

My debut novel, Phoenix, was my first love. We spent long weekends together. Some late nights, too. Fumbling through the fictive dream, sometimes getting it right, sometimes just getting our braces locked together.

We managed to make it through high school to publication without too much drama. But, alas, it was time to graduate and move on to college.

That’s where I met Pardon Falls. While there’s some commonalities between the two, where Phoenix was that easy affable book-next-door, Pardon Falls is that moody book that makes me feel like the wittiest girl in the world one minute, only to leave me binge watching My So Called Life while shoveling ice cream into my mouth the next.

If Pardon Falls were truly a boy, he’d be that long-haired dreamy guy in flannel and ripped jeans playing a heartfelt ballad on his guitar for me to make up for catching him flirting with my roommate. We all know how these relationships end, but we still jump in with both feet understanding that the broken heart comes with the territory.

But these second relationships are where we truly learn about ourselves. This is where we learn who we are. We learn our strengths, our weaknesses. We learn what makes us happy, and what drives us crazy. We learn to give, we learn to take.

And, most importantly, we learn to love.

 

2015 … The Year of Endings

Ahhh, 2015. The air is filled with that new-year smell. Fresh beginnings, resolutions, sweat, black-eyed peas … everything you need to start your year off right.

For most people, a new year means new beginnings. But, I’m not most people, so 2015, for me, means a year of endings.

Oh don’t worry, this isn’t some grand announcement or cry for help (unless you want to tie down my Muse, then ya, I could use your help). Nope, this is simply me putting my foot down to finish something(s).

I don’t have half-started knitting projects or half-planted gardens. That’s not what I meant by finishing something. The something I need to finish – the really big something – is Pardon Falls, the follow up to Phoenix. And, it’s not that I can’t write those two blessed words – The End. I can. I have, like eight or nine times (I’ve stopped numbering my drafts at this point).

I just can’t seem to feel like it’s finished. I can’t let go. To the point that if Pardon Falls were a canvas, and I was tinkering with it by adding paint, I’m pretty sure we’d be looking at a black canvas by now.

Sigh.

So see, I need it to end. For the characters, for the people who want to know what happens next, and for me.

2015 is about ending Pardon Falls, and then maybe with that ending comes the beginning of the end for Amanda, the final piece of her story. But Pardon Falls isn’t the only ending I have planned for this year. I also plan to end:

1. Self-doubt

2. Fear

3. Pantstering (but I plan to keep making up new words!)

4. Wasting Time

5. World Hunger (a girl’s gotta try, right?)

This list could go on and on, but I probably should start my year of endings with ending this blog post and getting back to work on Pardon Falls. Because, we know, it isn’t going to end itself.

P.S. I finished this blog while waiting to meet a dear friend for coffee. Shared with her that 2015 is my year of endings and she quickly did my numerology. My number for 2015 is commonly associated with endings … (*cue spooky music*).