S.R. Karfelt's Blog, page 30

BLANK - A Shieldmaiden's Tale - Available May 15, 2014!

Some people have a hard time fitting into the world.
All of her life Carole Blank has been a little faster, a little stronger, and a little uncooperative. The voices in her head want her to follow their rules, and although they’re usually right, Carole doesn’t always listen.
As a Marine, Carole’s unnatural abilities and penchant for fighting are useful. Unfortunately, her inability to follow orders over the demands of the voices gets her into trouble.
Enter Lieutenant Colonel Ted White, a man she is inexplicably drawn to. A man who sentences her to the life of an assassin while denying her the only thing she’s ever wanted—him.
Follow the journey of a woman born in the wrong world, as she fights for a place to belong and sacrifices everything for those she loves.
BLANK is a prequel and Book Two in the Warrior of the Ages series.
by S. R. Karfelt


There will be an on-line release party with excellent and awesome giveaways. You can S. R. Karfelt/Nicole Mason Photographyparticipate right here on release day. I’m looking forward to you meeting Carole Blank. She’s a little amazing, a little scary, and not a little unique. Her story is both heart-breaking and an affirmation to the will of the human spirit.

Begin Again – Why Your First Draft Isn’t A Novel

Blown Glass Flower by S. R. Karfelt



Glassblowing is a hobby I’ve picked up. I’ve yet to make anything completely on my own, so I’m a novice however enthusiastic. There’s always an expert gaffer at my side giving instruction. Sometimes the gaffer will use the blow tube to create a small version of what we’re going to make together. It gives me a visual of the process. After they’ve masterfully made a miniature glass flower or such, they’ll immerse it into a pail of water to cool it and then heartlessly smack it into a bucket, breaking the glass into pieces.
They don’t even mind throwing away their little masterpiece. It’s just a tool, a rough draft, practice.
That is where you need to be as a writer too, because your early work isn’t a book. It’s a draft. Ouch, right? I’m not saying it isn’t brilliant. I’m saying it isn’t ready to show the story you want to tell.
With some work writing can be made ready. If I put the time into glassblowing that I put into writing, I think I could change my novice status. It’s a matter of how much work I’m willing to do.
Yep, writing is work. Welcome to the real world.
First drafts are some of my favorite writing. They contain too much information but its information the writer needs to know, not the reader. They might meander, and have too many characters and detail, or they might be bland and basic, and detail needs to be painted in later.  They’re sure to be full of errors, and telling instead of showing, an important distinction.
After writing my first draft of Warrior of the Ages, and doctoring it quietly for a couple of years, I gave a version of it to someone to read. I waited impatiently for their astonished praise. It didn’t come. “Ah,” they said, “You can’t have thirty pages of backstory.” WHAT? What are you talking about? They didn’t like it. The story didn’t say to the reader what it said to the writer. The work came in when I started to make that happen.
I had to learn how to write a novel by today’s standards.
I’m attaching the beginning of Warrior of the Ages from a few years before publication. If you can make it through the end (feel free to skim) you’ll see the beginning of the published book. There’s a bit of a difference.




Warrior of the Ages by S. R. KarfeltAn Early Version
He actually tried to make it a point not to complain about it.  It's not like he had anyone to talk to about it anyway.  But he didn't allow himself to even think negatively.  If he ever did it could spiral down into darkness in an instant.  Into madness even.  It wasn't like he opened his eyes at birth and thought "Oh damn, here we go again".  He didn't usually even remember until he was about five or six, or if he was really fortunate later.  Once he'd been nine, but that time his Clan had been so chaotic that he probably just hadn't had enough time to think about much more than survival and food.  Of course every Being of Earth had Shades.  The dark ending memories of random Beings who had gone on before them.  They came unbidden to everyone's mind during dreams and sometimes even when they were awake.  No one liked their Shades, but they were useful.  It was a shortcut to learning languages, or facts of life - like war or danger or consequences - and most especially Shades taught you that life was short, very short.  They taught you that life could end in the blink of an eye.
            Yet Kah'tahr's Shades were different, very different.  They weren't random moments from other Being's last moments on earth.  They were real memories, his real memories.  Because Kah'tahr didn't stop.  Oh he died.  He'd died countless times.  He couldn't think of a way he hadn't died - well no - there was one way he hadn't died and he was kind of hoping that he'd go that way sometime.  He had died in every awful conceivable way a man could die, and many dull ways and some that actually made him laugh when he remembered.  He could remember every single death if he'd ever taken the time to go through them, and he could remember every single life too.  It was just that Kah'tahr certainly knew how short life was and he definitely didn't waste time going over the past. 
            The memories came in handy of course.  Like with all Beings of Earth he used the past to determine his current actions.  Still he tried to hold from the knowledge of his past as long as he could.  He tried to immerse himself in childhood, especially if he were lucky enough to have one where he truly could be carefree.  Those were his favorites.  His reality would start to intrude in flashes once he reached the age of consciousness of course.  Still as a child that simply meant he was a bit brighter than most, a bit more talented, at first anyway.  Then it usually came when something familiar stirred it.  A deja vu that even a five year old couldn't deny.  Then the memories would come flooding through like a tidal wave, like a hurricane, his reality.  Oh, I am again. 
            His name was not the same of course, he had whatever name his parents had given him.  His Clans were usually as diverse as any Clan of Beings of Earth, though he had often been in the same Clans.  He'd often had the same names too.  He wondered if anyone, anywhere really realized how many different ways the name John could be used.  One thing NEVER changed though, and that was the way he looked.  At seven feet tall he'd stood out in a crowd for eons.  He almost never looked at himself, not in a reflective surface and not in a mirror.  He didn't have to, not even to shave.  He knew that face, every curve and dimple and divot on it.  He knew his body, knew exactly what his strengths and weaknesses were.  He knew his talents, he knew his giftings and he knew his duty.  For no matter where on earth he was born or to what Clan he knew what he would become.  Warrior. 
            For the last few centuries he'd been Warrior of ilu, before that it had been called  a variety of similar names, before that Warrior of El and on and on and on.  His duty was to protect, to protect his Clan and if he were fortunate to do whatever was necessary to ensure the survival of his kind.  That is what he did.  He tried.  While he repeated time after time, always looking the same, he was not completely alone with the awareness of that repetitive anomaly.  There was inevitably recognition.  He starred in many Beings Shades - at least physically.  He recognized the look as he'd come to think of it.  Sometimes it was just a pause and a stare and sometimes it was more pronounced, "I have a Shade where this Being looks EXACTLY like you" to even the times when he'd been put to death for it.  Usually by a warring Clan, but occasionally by his own.
            Always looking the same had drawbacks.  He'd been born into countless clans where he surely did not look like anyone else.  As a grown man he had dark blond hair and steely eyes and towered over most of his Clansmen.  It kind of caused a stir when his parents were Asian, Indian or African.  He wondered if he and his parents were often put to death for it.  Especially a mother.  The times when he had no Mother and was never told what had become of her, he worried that she'd been punished for having a son that didn't belong physically.  If that was the case, or if there were times when he was killed as a babe for that difference he never remembered it.  Most Clans would never kill a babe.  Most Clans would never kill a woman.  But some did.  He never lasted very long in those clans, he never lasted very long in general.  That wasn't much of an anomaly.  Most Warriors of ilu didn't make it to their hundred birthday.  A few times he had lived to be fifty though, and he remembered those times fondly.  Usually twenty or thirty was as good as it got.  It didn't really matter how talented or skilled you were, when your life was battle it was all a matter of math in the end.  Sooner or later your number was up, right or wrong, good or bad, all were born and all died.





Warrior of the AgesBy S. R. Karfelt
Immortality probably made a man patient. Part-time immortality, the kind that Kahtar had been inflicted with, didn’t. Crammed inside his squad car in what was possibly the hottest May Day in his existence reminded him of being locked inside an iron maiden. Except those weapons of torture had been wooden coffins, not metal, though if memory served they had better ventilation. Across a clearing framed by spindly trees, his rookie sat inside a second patrol car. Kahtar watched Honor Monroe gaze at himself in the rearview mirror, both hands twisting his spiky hairdo to perfection, and paying no attention to his surroundings. The kid had no idea how close he was to being shaved bald. Not that there was anything dangerous around for miles, but still. Closing his eyes to shut out the visual of Honor now picking at his teeth, Kahtar gripped the steering wheel and stilled. Military crew-cut almost flush with the ceiling, it brushed against the fabric with each breath. His mind sharpened and focused, flying outward like a stealth aircraft, scanning with a precision beyond the capability of any man-made radar. The beating wings of buzzing insects, larvae crawling through rotting wood, the clear air rife with invisible particles filled his senses. His scan moved up through the blossoming trees before plunging down, far beneath the mulch of last year’s fallen leaves. Kahtar forced his mind through the forest floor. It took years to learn to identify what was in the ground, but he’d had plenty of time to perfect the skill. Abruptly pulled from the depths of the earth by another warrior’s scan crossing into his, it felt like a shard of glass plunged deep into his brain. Pressing his fingers against his skull he tried to ease the dark shadow. The interfering scan lifted as the culprit approached.“Hoy!” His entirely too enthusiastic rookie rounded the patrol car, hair artfully arranged, teeth apparently picked. “Sorry about that! Not used to being around my own kind anymore!” A tour of duty in the Middle East might have made the man forget his manners, but it hadn’t dimmed his chipper demeanor. Honor Monroe approached police work with the same animation he gave a game of stickball. His hand smacked against the windshield, and the kid peered at him, shouting through the glass.“Chief? We’re partners today. Real cops sit in the same car with their partners.”Kahtar glared into Honor Monroe’s bright eyes. “Monroe, I doubt your own mother would sit in a car with you all day.” For emphasis Kahtar rolled the window up. Honor wisely hurried towards his own squad car. The kid had a lot to learn. It was very tempting to scan right through his head, but Kahtar resisted the impulse to make him cry on his first day playing cops.Closing his eyes to focus, Kahtar’s scan resumed, moving down the country road. Scanning asphalt felt almost poisonous, he could practically smell it, taste tar on his tongue. Simultaneously, he shoved his mind east and west, following the road in both directions at once. From one edge of his scan came movement, a vehicle from the west. It blew through his mind, instantly engulfed by his mental radar. He digested every minute detail: 3,109 pounds of metal and synthetic substances, one 140 pound human being, vehicle speed fluctuating between 65 and 70 mph. For today, barely speeding was still speeding because Honor Monroe’s scan still hovered dangerously near, and Kahtar was in no mood to have it bite into his head again. Besides, the more unpleasant he could make a trip to the village of Willowyth, the less likely people were to want to return.Turning the key, Honor’s second voice, somehow as enthusiastic as his real voice, sounded in Kahtar’s mind. “Chief? I feel it too! The car’s yellow!”Ignoring Honor, he edged the patrol car to the roadway. The speeding car appeared atop a little knoll, a bright yellow Saab convertible. Honor Monroe insisted he could scan color, and although often wrong, he did seem to have some sort of extra gift. Honor’s annoyingly enthusiastic second voice sounded very faintly as Kahtar pulled onto the highway behind the Saab. “I was right, wasn’t I?” “Just stay out of trouble. I’ll be fifteen minutes, tops.” He wondered if his second voice sounded as annoyed as he felt.
S. R. Karfelt - Blown Glass Paperweight



The delta between my first drafts and my completed novels has grown closer. I understand how to show instead of tell better. I still have a fondness for my stream of consciousness writing, and someday I’ll find a way to incorporate that into a novel in an acceptable manner. In the meantime I write on, and continue to learn.

Wild Rumpus

Pippalou




The day she was born was the happiest day of her parent’s lives. “She’s perfect,” said her father, “Absolutely,” said her mother, and she was, absolutely perfect.Okay, that’s pretty much plagiarized word for word from Kevin Henke’s book Chrysanthemum, but it captures my feelings completely. I’m not referring to the births of my books, those had much longer and more painful labors, nor were they absolutely perfect upon arrival. Nope, I’m referring to the birth of my oldest daughter. In celebration of her birthday, I want to tell the story of her birth, glitter globian style.


Once Upon a Time…I was in the hospital well in advance of my daughter’s birth because I just don’t do pregnancy well. Either that or I really put my back into it and gestate with all of my might. Let’s look at it that way. You know all those gorgeous pregnant women wearing their designer gowns or two piece swimsuits? Slackers! And a pox on all their houses! No, no, I don’t begrudge them their perfection at all. I’m far too jealous for that. I wanted to be one of those annoying women. I looked more like one of those primitive fertility goddess statues carved from a hunk of clay. People around me would run and take cover. No, that’s an exaggeration. People would actually gasp in horror and ask if I needed help or was okay.


There were extravagant baby showers I couldn’t attend because I was lying somewhere like an orca on the shore. Friends visited me to toss water on me so I wouldn’t dehydrate, and specialists tried to get me back into the water. Family traveled across the country to tend to my other children, and to decorate the baby’s room because I couldn’t do much with my short flippers.


A team of medical professionals had managed to relocate me to a hospital. Plopped on top a groaning gurney, I gestated. Loudly. I’m never doing this again, I said, often. My mother-in-law demanded I birth my daughter on tax day because her plane was leaving the next day and she was sick of waiting. I cooperated. With the help of a team of Obstetricians, early labor was purposely begun and my baby was magicked out. Truly magicked too, as difficult and complicated as pregnancy was for me, labor was just that easy. I could be the poster child for the woman who births a baby and returns to work in the fields. My husband handed me the video camera to film while we were in the delivery room. I wanted to walk back to my room with my baby. They wouldn’t let me. “I feel great!” I told Dear Hubby. “I want to have a sister for her as soon as possible! That wasn’t bad at all!” Dear Hubby, my mother-in-law, and visiting friends in the labor and delivery area tried to slap sense into me, but they couldn’t catch me because I was dancing around with my perfect baby.


My perfect baby had shoulder length black hair at birth, and it stuck straight out like a terrified chicken. Since Dear Hubby and I are both blondes, this phenomenon caused my mother-in-law no end of concern. She tried to slick it down and hide it under baby hats. I fluffed it up, slapped a big bow on it, and called her Max in honor of Where the Wild Things Are. Max has often asked what time she was born, and my answer always is: at the right time and just in time. Max was a horribly perfect baby, she roared her terrible roars and gnashed her terrible teeth and rolled her terrible eyes and showed her terrible claws, and when I look back over time I see very clearly, she really was absolutely perfect.


My Wild Thing

          “Oh, please don't go—we'll eat you up—we love you so!” Maurice Sendak, Where the Wild Things Are

My Numbered Days

Xandert

According to Stephen King “If you intend to write as truthfully as you can, your days as a member of polite society are numbered.” ― Stephen King, On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft

On Writing is in the top two of my all time favorite books about writing. This quote kicked me a good one. Being on the outs with polite society is something I struggle with. (As if I have a social life in any part of society, but hypothetically I mean.) I write Action Adventure and I tend to give the muse free reign in order to give the story all the room it needs to live. That means I write what I write with the full knowledge that not everyone will get it or approve.

There’s a quote I picked up at writer conferences, and I have to paraphrase it because I can’t remember the exact wording, but it goes something like this:

Don't write to please everyone; if you do no one will like it. Write for yourself, and some people will like it and some won’t. ~ Who said this first? I couldn’t find the source.

Fact is the book hasn’t been written that everybody likes. At the last conference I attended, it was mentioned that if you try to sell your book by touting that everyone will like it, you have just lost all credibility. As a matter of fact the top selling books are:

1.    The Bible – Six Billion Sold2.    Quotations of Chairman Mao – 900,000,0003.    The American Spelling Book – Up to 100,000,000*

Which of those books do you have? I know many of you will own a copy of the first one. Okay then, would you say that everyone likes that book? The point is there is no book that everyone will like.

As a writer of course I want people to like my work, but I’m also fully aware that life doesn’t work like that. I write Action Adventure with a slight twist of fantasy—think time travel, immortality, mind reading, etc. I also like to inject wry humor into my writing. I tend to see humor in most situations. That doesn’t mean, however, that I won’t tackle painful or uncomfortable topics, including layering in a bit of inappropriate humor. Or interject a naughty word into dialogue, or a mildly racy scene if it is relevant to the story line, both things that can leave me on the outs in some circles.

Do I care? Yes. Do I care enough not to write a story that is on my heart? No.Recently I read The Glass Castle by Jeannette Walls, and throughout the book I was touched and inspired by her candid honestly regarding her childhood. It certainly isn’t easy to bare your soul in any book, let alone in such a painful and honest memoir. It does make me wonder what constitutes the type of writing that knocks an author out of polite society? Some obvious answers came to mind.

1.    Taking a politically incorrect view of any topic? I’ll bet this is one. We seem to be currently in a world where you can lose your job for contributing financially to the wrong cause. And you will be judged by an army of Tweeters. Context/Personal Privacy are so Old School.

2.    Creating a worrisome or frightening character? If you write the next Hannibal Lecter, will your neighbors still ask you to babysit? Has Stephen King ever been asked to babysit? Hmmm. (Note to self…)

3.    Did E. L. James, who wrote Fifty Shades of Grey, get into trouble with her Mum?

4.    How about a memoir that will get you uninvited from all family events throughout eternity? Although after reading The Glass Castle, that’s not always a bad thing.

5.    When you plop down next to your Pastor/Spiritual Advisor at a function and he says, “I read your book,” how does that make you feel about how the assassin in the book handled moral dilemmas? Or does your mind go immediately to checking out a new church?

Does it seem a better option to write within a box, using popular guidelines? To attempt never to offend? Why not simply write defensively and cautiously? Ah, that is the question. My answer is because as a writer I feel an obligation to tell my stories in an honest, candid way. My question for you is twofold. How far will you go to stay within the boundaries of polite society? What is more important truth or comfort?


*Stat quoted from Russell Ash’s The Top Ten of Everything 2002

Monk, Hannibal, and Gandalf

NDPetitt




Recently I joined Toastmasters to improve my speaking skills. In the past public speaking was something I avoided. That was because I used to believe that things outside my comfort zone were best left alone.



What was I thinking?



All the fun stuff is outside my comfort zone. Turns out I like stepping outside my comfort zone.



Sometimes I find that things I thought would be frightening weren't at all. Stuff like hiking alone in the woods at night, or hiking into the wilderness.



I'm not saying fears aren't to be respected, I'm saying facing them is exhilarating.



A long time ago I thought I was afraid to fly. Of course I did it anyway, and kept right on doing it, and one day I realized not only was I not afraid, I liked it. So I kicked it up a notch. Click here to see how far I went past that fear.



So far I've only given a few speeches, but I think I'll like that too. Writing is a solitary occupation. Speaking to a group, especially about writing and related topics, it's a bit of a blast.



Blog talk radio invited me to chat about character development. Breathing life into characters is about my favorite part of writing a book. I love getting to know them, and fleshing them out. Click here and check it out if that's your thing too. Then come back and tell me about stepping outside your comfort zone. I'm interested to hear how that worked out for you.

God, Mother Nature, and Father Time Walk into a Café…(Part Two)

Hot Black



(If you missed Part One click here!)


Father Time dropped into the restaurant booth right next to Mother Nature. She scooted away, keeping her pristine gown from his dusty moth-eaten suit. Her revolving halo of birds and butterflies moved with her. Father Time rubbed his hands over swollen eyes; his five o’clock shadow appeared grayish. He removed his top hat and sat it on the seat between them.
“Sorry I’m late,” he addressed God, sitting across the booth from them. Beams of sunlight came through the windows of the café, illuminating the creator of the universe.
“No worries, you look tired,” God said.
“Yeah,” Mother Nature narrowed sharp eyes at her seat mate. “The year just began but you already look like late November. What gives?”
Father Time put his elbows on the table and buried his face in his hands. “Time! I just can’t keep up! It’s exhausting. Remember when we’d say ‘Just a second!’ and it meant we’d be quick? Well, no one wants to wait an entire second for anything anymore. Now it’s all about milliseconds, microseconds, and nanoseconds. Not to mention picoseconds!” His voice ended on a sob.
Mother Nature sniffed. “I get the other end of it. People want me to stop time so they can look twenty forever. Like let me reorder the universe to recapture your wasted youth! As if!”
Father Time ignored her. He clasped his hands together, hound-dog eyes imploring God. “Boss, I know you don’t make mistakes, but you know how bad I am at math!” His lips trembled. “My nerves are shot! Everybody wants more time! How many more ways can I divvy it up and keep track?”
“Pffft!” Beside him Mother Nature snorted. “Ignore them! I do. Technically time doesn’t really even exist anyway. It’s just cosmic paperwork!”
“Mother,” God reprimanded gently.
“Organization is vital to the universe!” Father Time snapped at her. One of the little birds circling Mother Nature’s head flew across the café to hide in a silk ficus tree. “Organization is something you wouldn’t understand, you’re all about chaos!”
“Ebb and flow are not chaos! How dare you use that word!”
“Where would your seasons be without time?! Not that they’re recognizable anymore. It’s cold where it should be hot and hot where it should be cold. There’s snow where it should be not, and sun when it’s not hot!”
“Oh thank you, Dr. Seuss! Do you want to try to regulate this planet for even one day? You couldn’t handle it for a femtosecond! Math that!”
“Oh go stabilize a quark!”
A frown darkened Mother Nature’s face, but she spoke sweetly, shooting a smug glance in God’s direction. “Did you know today’s Friday? God wanted cherry pie so he changed Thursday—which is rhubarb—into Friday just for a piece of pie.”
Father Time ran trembling hands through his hair until it stuck straight up, white strands visible among dark. “So that’s a twenty-four hour hop—forward—then, for the entire planet? Oh, no! Death is gonna be furious with me! What about all the people who were supposed to die yesterday? Will there be twice as many today?”
God lifted a mug of hot cocoa from thin air and shoved it into Father Time’s hands. “You worry too much. Death isn’t your department.”
“That guy creeps me out,” Father Time whimpered. “What’s with the scythe? He carries it everywhere, even to meetings.”
“It’s just his bit of flair,” Mother Nature said, “Like your top hot.”
“And your bird halo? You’ve got poop on your shoulder.”
“I do not!” She huffed, nabbing a napkin out of the dispenser to wipe at her gown.
The waitress appeared at the end of the table, and set her tray down. She slid an enormous salad to Mother Nature. God got a huge slice of cherry pie and a mug of tea. She sized up Father Time with a glance.
“We don’t have a liquor license, how about a bowl of soup? On the house.”
“I don’t have time to eat,” Father Time told her. “It’s Friday. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do about that. I mean if it was Thursday I might have had time for a bowl of soup, or maybe a three-minute egg, but it’s Friday and I’m hosed.”
“Yeah…” She tapped her fingers against the metal tray. “Will that be everything then?” Without waiting for an answer she left, forgetting her tray.
“Wait!” Mother Nature hollered after her. “I have a tip for you. Preservatives don’t just retard wilt!”
“You’re rude,” Father Time said. “She deserves the early Friday this week just because she had to put up with you.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Is she warming your polar ice cap?”
“I’m going to assume you’re speaking of global warming. As if she’s solely responsible for that.” Father Time slurped his cocoa loudly.
“They’re all culpable.” Mother Nature used her bird doody napkin to wipe his chocolate moustache, leaving a dodgy-looking smear on his upper lip.
“Is global warming really even a thing?” Father Time asked, “Just because people want ice and air-conditioning you’re going to blame them for your regulatory problem?”
Mother Nature’s face went beet red, grizzled wisps of her hair stood straight out. Static electricity snapped audibly throughout the restaurant, lighting up in little bursts like exploding fireflies. The muffled protests of people unfortunate enough to touch anything at that moment sounded around them.
“Children!” God said, “Enough. I can’t take you anywhere, can I? Just once it would be nice if we could go to the same place twice.” A Styrofoam container appeared on the table and he slid his pie into it, and stood up in a swish of shimmering white robes, clutching it. “You’ve got to learn to roll with the punches. I mean where would I be if I took everything personally?”
A heavy-set manager walking past their booth helpfully nabbed the waitress’s metal tray off their table. A jolt of static electricity zapped against his hand so strongly that it was briefly visible. He dropped the tray and bellowed out an expletive that involved God’s name.
“See what I mean?” God said, turning his attention to the manager who stood shaking his wounded hand. “If I did dang that tray, Son, it would do more than numb your hand.” He glided across the restaurant and out the front door. The bewildered manager stared after him.
Wild-eyed, Mother Nature hissed, “I’d smote them if they used my name like that.”
Father Time rose to his feet and jammed his top hat on. “You’re not nearly as famous, or trust me, they would.” And he followed after God, exiting the front door.
“Why do I always get stuck with the bill?” Mother Nature grumbled, digging in her pocket. She slammed a couple dirty rocks on the table and snapped at the manager, “Keep the change!” One of her stray birds flew to rejoin her revolving halo as she tromped across the restaurant and out the door.

~ The End



(And the moral of the story is...?)

Godzilla Editing

Photo Credit: 123




Truth be told all a writer really wants when she sends her work to the editor is this in reply: Sweet Merciful Heavens! This is perfect as it is! I recommend you get to work on the sequel immediately.

That is NOT what she gets or what she needs, I’m talking about what she WANTS.

Contrary to the type of editing done on college essays, editing a novel isn’t just about punctuation and grammar. It’s about whether or not the manuscript says what the writer means it to say.

Did the writer fall so deep into the writer-rabbit-hole that she forgot little details like:

o   Does every scene start out so the reader knows where it is taking place? While you’re writing it, you always know where the scene is so it is easy to leave out that little detail. But the reader shouldn't have to work too hard to figure out where the action is taking place. It's like forgetting to tell your family where you hid the sour cream cheddar potato chips, except you don’t do this on purpose.
o   If it is necessary to know who is talking in dialogue, can the reader tell without too much effort? (We’ve all had to count back on dialogue haven’t we? That was Ron, that was Harry, Ron, Harry, okay.)
o   Are there enough beats or too many? Beats are little bits of action tossed in to help with the visual, Stephanie wrote while trying to tug the end of one of her six scarves out of the wheel of her chair.
o   Is action sequential? Did I forget the hero stood up two times in the last paragraph, but never sat down between them?
o   Did anyone in the novel change names/eye color or accidentally disappear?
o   Is there too much detail anywhere? Or not enough?
o   Did the writer start telling the story instead of showing? This is a big no-no.
§  Tinker tore open her visa bill with the edge of a dirty salad fork. She groaned. I have got to stay off of Amazon! Holy cow how many times did I order pizza last month?
§  Tinker tore open her visa bill. She had a serious problem with math and never seemed to realize that all the little things would add up over the month. She bought books on Amazon about every other day, not to mention little things that caught her eye. She ordered pizza at least twice a week.
§  Can you tell which of the above is showing and which one is telling? I thought so.


Obviously these are important and necessary changes to the betterment of a story. I’m always amazed at how beautiful my editor can make my book. You’d never guess that she looks and sounds exactly like Godzilla. Okay, not really, she’s actually quite lovely, but after she’s tromped all over my manuscript it feels like she’s Godzilla-ed my Tokyo, if you know what I mean.

The Mists of Avalon and Shades of Grey

Photo Credit: Raspberry Lime



This little book by Marion Zimmer Bradley is one that I read ages ago. I pulled it out of the forgotten pile to pass along to someone. It always stuck in my head because it’s a King Arthur tale written from the point of view of the character traditionally known as Morgan LeFay. I was never able to view Morgan (Morgaine in TMoA) as anything other than misunderstood after reading it.

Perspective is an amazing thing. It mucks up all our beautiful and clear black and white perceptions of the world.

Perspective can turn everything to shades of grey.

As I reread this book I found my perspective had changed too. When the characters made the same poor choices I had much less patience. Do you ever reread books? They can be old friends, and it is easy to get impatient with old friends if they keep making the same mistakes.

Whenever I write a book there is almost always an antagonist that has his own perspective. In my head (and admittedly sometimes on paper too) I’ll write my antagonist’s view on what is happening. I like three dimensional characters, and a shallow predictable villain is just boring. Often I wonder if the reader could see a story from the antagonist’s perspective, would they change sides?

For instance when I went to public school, Christopher Columbus, the Mayflower, and Plymouth Rock were told from one point of view. That was the Pilgrim’s escaping religious persecution POV. Since then someone thought to point out that story had a different slant when viewed from the Native American viewpoint. Now that story is often viewed differently.

In The Mists of Avalon the story revolves around a tale where Arthur becomes High King with the help of Avalon. He swears to protect all the people of Brittan, Christian, Druid, and the Old Tribes. Over time Christianity takes a firm foothold in the land, and Arthur’s promise becomes less and less important to both Arthur and most of the kingdom.

The book doesn’t focus much on a side character named Father Patricius—though it is obvious to the reader that he is probably St. Patrick. You know the man famous for driving the snakes out of Ireland? In this story the snakes that are driven out of the land are actually Druids—they wear serpent tattoos on their wrists. When you see the story from the perspective of one practicing the old religion of the land, you see shades of grey.

The story is epic, beginning with Arthur’s mother. It explains the story behind Excalibur, and how the legendary king came to have a son with his own sister. It takes us to Camelot and the round table. We quest for the Holy Grail. The entire tale is told by the women of the kingdom, mostly by the historically maligned Morgan Le Fey (Morgaine), Arthur’s sister. We see Christianity sweep the land, often from the point of view of one being swept away.


It is shades of grey and perspective, and fascinating, even if the characters make the same poor choices they made last time you read the book.

Top Ten Things I Like About Winter

Photo Credit: Vilhelm



10.  I liked naked trees. There I’ve said it.

 9.  When a storm hits no one can get up or down my driveway, so I have a legitimate excuse to write obsessively, and not leave my house.

 8.  My landscaping looks like everyone else’s. You’d never know I don’t landscape or weed.

 7.  The grass doesn’t need mowed.

 6.  At night all that snow is a giant reflector for the moon. That means it lights up the inside of the house—unless the moon is dark—and clumsy people don’t walk into stuff as much.

 5.  During sunny days all that snow is a giant reflector for the sun, and there is something very uplifting when the entire landscape is dazzling, and blindingly bright.

 4.  When I look outside I can tell by the footprints what types of animals skulk around my house. Are snow snakes a thing? Because I think they lurk outside my office window.

 3.  I like when the snowplow plows up the end of my driveway really high, because I drive a Jeep, and I like to play car commercial. If I’m ever found embedded in a snow bank at the end of my driveway, you’ll know I failed to bust out.

 2.  Every time there is a warm up you get to watch the snow die slowly. I really like watching it liquefy. It brings out the killer in me.


 1.  My top favorite thing about winter, hands-down, is when I live someplace where it doesn’t visit, and I only see it on holiday cards once a year.

Multitasking

Morgue Files Karpati Gabor


Recently a Communications Major posted this to my wall on Facebook.

Typical conversations with you go like this:
Email from SRKarfelt: What do you think of A, B, C?
Email from ComMaj: I think C.
FB from SRKarfelt: Why do you think C? What about D, E, or F?
FB from ComMaj: I think C yada yada. Email me.
Text from SRKarfelt: What about A/C or B/E?
Text from ComMaj: *jumble of autocorrect disasters and missing words while I multitask* EMAIL ME.
Email from SRKarfelt to A Different Account I Rarely Check: Why do you want me to email you?
Text from SRKarfelt: Check your email.
FB from SRKarfelt: What about XYZ?
Comm major mind is exploding.
— feeling dizzy.

For a Communications Major she obviously has a bit of trouble keeping up with the conversation, don’t you think? I am well aware this was meant to communicate that I needed to streamline my communications with her, but what did I hear? “Dang, you’re excellent at holding your train of thought across multi-media.”

Yep. That’s what I really thought. It’s a gift.

Once I had a desk job in an office – the kind where you get to talk to real people instead of your imaginary friends. At my performance review my boss praised my work, but opened his office door to point at my work area. “You need to get organized.”  “I am organized,” I said. He gave me The Look, I’m sure we’ve all experienced The Look. “I can find anything,” I told him, eyeballing the piles of paperwork mounded up on my desk, cabinets, and chairs. He named a random form and I jumped up, dug neatly through a box beside my desk, and produced it. Hah! I thought. “You need to get organized like everyone else does,” he said, “It’s not professional.”

S. R. Karfelt Madness to My MethodI get that, I really do, and I like the way organized looks. Isn’t that why most of us prefer to shop at Target over Walmart? It’s color-coded and neat. But when I’m working, really working, I need everything nearby. If it’s not, I forget it exists. This would explain why I have six copies of Self-Editing for Fiction Writers, four copies of Holes by Louis Sachar, and three copies of Outlander by Diana Gabaldon (none of which I can find beyond my kindle version). Well, that and because I often give those books away as gifts.

It also explains why I use multiple computers (I keep all the old crippled ones. They’re my old friends and have served me well. What? You just toss yours out? After all they’ve done for you?). If it isn’t at my fingertips, there’s a good chance it has fallen off my radar. Occasionally I’ve been complimented for my quick completion of tasks. Don’t be impressed. For me it’s now or never.

At any given time my WIPs (Work in Progress) are open, and social media is on a phone or tablet or whatever works. That is how I streamline. How else can you do it if you don’t do it all at once? I want to know. How do you do it? What is the secret to your multitasking success?