Barbara Neville's Blog, page 2
May 18, 2017
Free chapter: Fire & Rain
"Fire & Rain" is the third installment in the Cha'a Many Horses series. Which is an offshoot of the Spirit Animal series. It comes after "Hell to Pay"
(Cha'a Many Horses #2).If you're reading both series, "Against the Wind" (Spirit Animal #11) falls between the two chronologically.
Both series share commonality, like Diana Gabaldon's Outlander series, which has Lord John Grey books and Jamie Fraser books. My Spirit Animal series has time travel, whereas the Cha'a many Horses books are historical western fiction that take place in the mid-1880's.
Here it is in 1886:
“Do not go where the path may lead, go instead where there is no path and leave a trail.”-Ralph Waldo Emerson
1 Sounds of Silence
The stunning sound of silence beats in his ears like an ancient drum that has lost its skin; one whose wooden shell has rotted away to dust. The silence of the ages.
Sure, the bugs and the birds still work away at their days. And the prairie dogs. And many others. Busy living their lives.
He watches and listens. Waiting for what’s missing.
It’s hot. Sweltering hot here. Humid, too. Sultry. He’s dripping sweat just sitting his horse. Only an hour has passed since he swam in the river to cool off.
Thor, the Viking god of thunder, strikes hammer to anvil, sending a distant warning of what’s to come. Mjölnir, his hammer, eking out justice for all.
Thunder and lightning heat up the distant eastern horizon, warming up their lungs for later, ramping up to an earth-wrenching storm.
Hoping to subject the vast prairie to a thunderous hell on wheels. Tornado's east, anvil clouds here; hence, Thor. The clouds are the anvil. The humidity feels like the sound wave from the hammer. Sparks fly when they collide.
He sniffs the air, waiting, watching. The ozone is already burning up his nose into his brain. Electric. The hallmark of summer days past and future.
A golden eagle soars above; a songbird chirps to her hatchlings. Meadowlark.
A skinny wolf skulks by, nosing at some old dried chips. Inhaling the aroma of the past. Likely remembering the times of plenty himself. Remembering that other thunder.
The big sound. The constant, ever moving herd. The snuffling and stomping, the tearing at the succulent blades of the vast grass sod. The rolling, the humping. The occasional playful runs of the young. Endless herds moving endlessly. Following the sun and moon, the changing seasons.
But, now, they have been quelled. Maybe forever.
The mammoths of the plains are almost all gone. Killed by a tiny gnat on the planet.
A gnat who in its wisdom, or lack thereof, picked up the first sparking stone and started a fire. Who ran the longest miles. Invented the spear, the bow, the gun, and greed, and trade, and money. And all the strange things that go hand in hand with humankind.
Because of man, the monarch of the plains, the owner of all he surveyed and trod across, has been laid to waste.
Sure, there are a few scattered herds still grazing, roaming, following the seasons. Enduring the unending wind. Their thick curly-haired robes still warm him at night. And shelter his son. But, not forever. They too will pass.
He mourns the buffalo.
They are all guilty. Even his people and the people of his brothers, all are guilty of this slaughter. They have lived off the herds for untold generations. Mostly a luxurious life. Spotted with a few starving times, sure. But, all in all a good life. A noble life.
Then, when the horse arrived, life became a thrill that knew no end. Travel was an adventure. The hunt, more exhilarating than ever before.
Life was easy. And hard. The hunt became a joy. The competition between the peoples for space and bounty, an unending war.
“Easy, Magpie,” he says, drawn back to the here and now by the sudden pricking of her ears, the raising of her head. A flinch of her back muscles. A waft of horse sweat fills the air like sweet perfume.
He pets her neck, soothing the young mare’s nerves. Seeing and smelling nothing new himself.
The sponge grasses, where her hoofs mashed them, are a promise of life renewed.
He flicks the end of the reins against his bare leg merely to make a noise, to fill the silence left by their deaths. Millions and millions of deaths. The noble buffalo, giver of life.
And the wars, the tribes, the peoples had lost so many and so much. Now, their very lives were unutterably changed by the loss.
And the encroachment of the strange new people. Those who brought the horse. They came and came, in unending waves. From the south first, and now the east. More powerful than the buffalo themselves.
Along with their new contraption, inching it’s way across the land. Splitting it in two.
He can see the endless rails from his outlook, shimmering silver in the staggering afternoon sun. Sleeping now. But, when they do come alive, and tremble with fear themselves at the coming; the big engines honk and bellow and race across the plains, not unlike, but also nothing like the buffalo.
Only the roar brings old memories. Ancient tales of a midnight stampede. A crushing weight as they trampled everything in some forgotten ancestor’s camp. Changing history with the deaths.
An errant tear slides down his cheekbone. Intent on sharing its moisture with the grass.
No more would die from stampedes, they're are too few stampeders left. And, today, it feels like they will never return.
Not unlike the dung beetles working so hard on the ground near his mare’s hooves. Working at a fresh pile of turds that the mare has dropped while he waits. Could the buffalo dung beetle survive now, he wondered? Without the buffalo pies? Or were their ranks dwindling, too? And, what of the wolves? The foxes. Even the bear. Where would their next meals come from?
He turns back to watching the plains, Magpie knows something or someone is there. He sights between her ears and waits for it to appear. The land looks flat and endless, as if one could spot every speck of life moving out there.
It’s a lie. The minute dips can hide an army. And, too often, had.
His knotted reins are testament to that. The reminder of war and its senselessness.
Many braves would speak of the glory of battle, the coups counted, the scalps taken. But, he thought that, in their minds, each of them carried the horror, too. Hidden deep inside. Under the gruffness.
He is here because of a dream. Ironic, because the dream told him where to find the true dreamer. Cha’a Many Horses. His woman.
She was lost. As was his son, Góshé. And the dream told him that it was here that he should seek them. In the valley where the ancients walked. Here on the Purgatory River in a state called Colorado. A new state. Only ten years old. A big rectangle. Cut from the lands of his ancestors as if with a knife. To the heart.
His mare flinches, raising her head even higher.
“Easy, babe.” Bigan Dalaá, Apache for One Hand, raises the knotted reins with his hook and eases her down the switchback trail. Raising his remaining hand high above his head and sweeping it across the air in a grand wave of greeting.
The newcomers are Nemene, known to the white eyes as Comanche. They must have had the dream also. And come to help.
His moccasined feet dangle below the mare’s belly. His long bare legs feel the warmth of her body through her shedding fur. His bare chest is tanning, darker with each passing minute. Time edges ever forward. He brushes at his long auburn hair, almost dislodging the feathers.
Then, he starts. There’s a yell. His yell. He’s shouting her name. He’s in a panic.
Sitting up abruptly, he looks around the room. Disoriented. The dream is gone. The prairie, Thor, the Comanche.
He needs to go back into the dream to find them. To blaze a trail through to its end. To find Cha’a. And little Góshé.Hell to Pay
(Cha'a Many Horses #2).If you're reading both series, "Against the Wind" (Spirit Animal #11) falls between the two chronologically.
Both series share commonality, like Diana Gabaldon's Outlander series, which has Lord John Grey books and Jamie Fraser books. My Spirit Animal series has time travel, whereas the Cha'a many Horses books are historical western fiction that take place in the mid-1880's.
Here it is in 1886:
“Do not go where the path may lead, go instead where there is no path and leave a trail.”-Ralph Waldo Emerson
1 Sounds of Silence
The stunning sound of silence beats in his ears like an ancient drum that has lost its skin; one whose wooden shell has rotted away to dust. The silence of the ages.
Sure, the bugs and the birds still work away at their days. And the prairie dogs. And many others. Busy living their lives.
He watches and listens. Waiting for what’s missing.
It’s hot. Sweltering hot here. Humid, too. Sultry. He’s dripping sweat just sitting his horse. Only an hour has passed since he swam in the river to cool off.
Thor, the Viking god of thunder, strikes hammer to anvil, sending a distant warning of what’s to come. Mjölnir, his hammer, eking out justice for all.
Thunder and lightning heat up the distant eastern horizon, warming up their lungs for later, ramping up to an earth-wrenching storm.
Hoping to subject the vast prairie to a thunderous hell on wheels. Tornado's east, anvil clouds here; hence, Thor. The clouds are the anvil. The humidity feels like the sound wave from the hammer. Sparks fly when they collide.
He sniffs the air, waiting, watching. The ozone is already burning up his nose into his brain. Electric. The hallmark of summer days past and future.
A golden eagle soars above; a songbird chirps to her hatchlings. Meadowlark.
A skinny wolf skulks by, nosing at some old dried chips. Inhaling the aroma of the past. Likely remembering the times of plenty himself. Remembering that other thunder.
The big sound. The constant, ever moving herd. The snuffling and stomping, the tearing at the succulent blades of the vast grass sod. The rolling, the humping. The occasional playful runs of the young. Endless herds moving endlessly. Following the sun and moon, the changing seasons.
But, now, they have been quelled. Maybe forever.
The mammoths of the plains are almost all gone. Killed by a tiny gnat on the planet.
A gnat who in its wisdom, or lack thereof, picked up the first sparking stone and started a fire. Who ran the longest miles. Invented the spear, the bow, the gun, and greed, and trade, and money. And all the strange things that go hand in hand with humankind.
Because of man, the monarch of the plains, the owner of all he surveyed and trod across, has been laid to waste.
Sure, there are a few scattered herds still grazing, roaming, following the seasons. Enduring the unending wind. Their thick curly-haired robes still warm him at night. And shelter his son. But, not forever. They too will pass.
He mourns the buffalo.
They are all guilty. Even his people and the people of his brothers, all are guilty of this slaughter. They have lived off the herds for untold generations. Mostly a luxurious life. Spotted with a few starving times, sure. But, all in all a good life. A noble life.
Then, when the horse arrived, life became a thrill that knew no end. Travel was an adventure. The hunt, more exhilarating than ever before.
Life was easy. And hard. The hunt became a joy. The competition between the peoples for space and bounty, an unending war.
“Easy, Magpie,” he says, drawn back to the here and now by the sudden pricking of her ears, the raising of her head. A flinch of her back muscles. A waft of horse sweat fills the air like sweet perfume.
He pets her neck, soothing the young mare’s nerves. Seeing and smelling nothing new himself.
The sponge grasses, where her hoofs mashed them, are a promise of life renewed.
He flicks the end of the reins against his bare leg merely to make a noise, to fill the silence left by their deaths. Millions and millions of deaths. The noble buffalo, giver of life.
And the wars, the tribes, the peoples had lost so many and so much. Now, their very lives were unutterably changed by the loss.
And the encroachment of the strange new people. Those who brought the horse. They came and came, in unending waves. From the south first, and now the east. More powerful than the buffalo themselves.
Along with their new contraption, inching it’s way across the land. Splitting it in two.
He can see the endless rails from his outlook, shimmering silver in the staggering afternoon sun. Sleeping now. But, when they do come alive, and tremble with fear themselves at the coming; the big engines honk and bellow and race across the plains, not unlike, but also nothing like the buffalo.
Only the roar brings old memories. Ancient tales of a midnight stampede. A crushing weight as they trampled everything in some forgotten ancestor’s camp. Changing history with the deaths.
An errant tear slides down his cheekbone. Intent on sharing its moisture with the grass.
No more would die from stampedes, they're are too few stampeders left. And, today, it feels like they will never return.
Not unlike the dung beetles working so hard on the ground near his mare’s hooves. Working at a fresh pile of turds that the mare has dropped while he waits. Could the buffalo dung beetle survive now, he wondered? Without the buffalo pies? Or were their ranks dwindling, too? And, what of the wolves? The foxes. Even the bear. Where would their next meals come from?
He turns back to watching the plains, Magpie knows something or someone is there. He sights between her ears and waits for it to appear. The land looks flat and endless, as if one could spot every speck of life moving out there.
It’s a lie. The minute dips can hide an army. And, too often, had.
His knotted reins are testament to that. The reminder of war and its senselessness.
Many braves would speak of the glory of battle, the coups counted, the scalps taken. But, he thought that, in their minds, each of them carried the horror, too. Hidden deep inside. Under the gruffness.
He is here because of a dream. Ironic, because the dream told him where to find the true dreamer. Cha’a Many Horses. His woman.
She was lost. As was his son, Góshé. And the dream told him that it was here that he should seek them. In the valley where the ancients walked. Here on the Purgatory River in a state called Colorado. A new state. Only ten years old. A big rectangle. Cut from the lands of his ancestors as if with a knife. To the heart.
His mare flinches, raising her head even higher.
“Easy, babe.” Bigan Dalaá, Apache for One Hand, raises the knotted reins with his hook and eases her down the switchback trail. Raising his remaining hand high above his head and sweeping it across the air in a grand wave of greeting.
The newcomers are Nemene, known to the white eyes as Comanche. They must have had the dream also. And come to help.
His moccasined feet dangle below the mare’s belly. His long bare legs feel the warmth of her body through her shedding fur. His bare chest is tanning, darker with each passing minute. Time edges ever forward. He brushes at his long auburn hair, almost dislodging the feathers.
Then, he starts. There’s a yell. His yell. He’s shouting her name. He’s in a panic.
Sitting up abruptly, he looks around the room. Disoriented. The dream is gone. The prairie, Thor, the Comanche.
He needs to go back into the dream to find them. To blaze a trail through to its end. To find Cha’a. And little Góshé.Hell to Pay
March 25, 2017
Goat ropers
Like any other author, I get interrupted. But, probably by different things than most. Earlier today I was setting up a new author page at: https://books.pronoun.com/barbaranevi...
And my puppy buyer showed up. Okay, I walk out, call the puppy and take him out to his new boy. No problem, but then Pa, a good guy and repeat buyer who just drove two hundred miles to get here, says. "You sold all your goats?"
"Nope," I say. "They're out loose on (a few thousand acres) of pasture." The fun begins.
After walking a lot, searching (my little corner of Arizona has a lot of riparian forest, even white goats are hard to find) one of the boys spots them.
They finally come partway to my call, but spot that I have strangers with me, uh oh. Goats don't like strangers. they know that strange people eat goats. They turn back. So, I send the strangers to hide and go down, wade the river, almost losing my crocs in the mud. Several times.
I chase nineteen spooky goats back and forth for half an hour. Finally, I wear them out and get them turned the right direction (no thanks to my overexcited herding dog). Get them in the pen, still spooky, chase them down. They escape my rickety fence. We catch them again, get them all caught, and send the happy family, their three new goats and cute Great Pyrenees puppy, toward home.
Two hours have passed. I untie the herding dog (yes, Tater was grounded) and drink a half gallon of water (wishing it was five o'clock somewhere).
Next, I sit gratefully down to resume my argument with slow, rural,' closest neighbor is a half mile away and you live in a hole between the hills' internet. There might have been cussing. Okay, there was cussing. It always helps. The goat chasing is more fun than waiting on the internet gods,,,
The author page turns out beautiful, by the way. Funny, though,
how they say that writers need more exercise.
And my puppy buyer showed up. Okay, I walk out, call the puppy and take him out to his new boy. No problem, but then Pa, a good guy and repeat buyer who just drove two hundred miles to get here, says. "You sold all your goats?"
"Nope," I say. "They're out loose on (a few thousand acres) of pasture." The fun begins.
After walking a lot, searching (my little corner of Arizona has a lot of riparian forest, even white goats are hard to find) one of the boys spots them.
They finally come partway to my call, but spot that I have strangers with me, uh oh. Goats don't like strangers. they know that strange people eat goats. They turn back. So, I send the strangers to hide and go down, wade the river, almost losing my crocs in the mud. Several times.
I chase nineteen spooky goats back and forth for half an hour. Finally, I wear them out and get them turned the right direction (no thanks to my overexcited herding dog). Get them in the pen, still spooky, chase them down. They escape my rickety fence. We catch them again, get them all caught, and send the happy family, their three new goats and cute Great Pyrenees puppy, toward home.
Two hours have passed. I untie the herding dog (yes, Tater was grounded) and drink a half gallon of water (wishing it was five o'clock somewhere).
Next, I sit gratefully down to resume my argument with slow, rural,' closest neighbor is a half mile away and you live in a hole between the hills' internet. There might have been cussing. Okay, there was cussing. It always helps. The goat chasing is more fun than waiting on the internet gods,,,
The author page turns out beautiful, by the way. Funny, though,
how they say that writers need more exercise.
March 19, 2017
Spenser, HItch & Cole, Jesse Stone & Sunny Randall
I just found this today. Interesting that I write like my favorite author did. Maybe the mental process affects the tone of the outcome. Some call it pantser (as in seat of the pants) as opposed to planner. I prefer to call it the shotgun approach. All I know is that my fingers often, indeed, do the thinking:
"Between 1973 and 2011, Robert B. Parker published nearly 70 books. Almost all of them were bestsellers.
"He started each of his books with a very brief sketch of an idea—a sentence or two, sometimes more. There was never a detailed outline. As he wrote, Bob usually wasn't sure what would happen until it did.
"He would sit down to write five and, later, ten pages a day. Once he was in his "groove," the words flowed easily, frequently leading him and his characters in unanticipated directions. Bob loved to write, and he always wondered at how his fingers often seemed to do the thinking for him." From the official website: robertbparker.net
"Between 1973 and 2011, Robert B. Parker published nearly 70 books. Almost all of them were bestsellers.
"He started each of his books with a very brief sketch of an idea—a sentence or two, sometimes more. There was never a detailed outline. As he wrote, Bob usually wasn't sure what would happen until it did.
"He would sit down to write five and, later, ten pages a day. Once he was in his "groove," the words flowed easily, frequently leading him and his characters in unanticipated directions. Bob loved to write, and he always wondered at how his fingers often seemed to do the thinking for him." From the official website: robertbparker.net
March 14, 2017
Outlaws & Lawdogs
Who is your favorite character? I especially like Vic in Craig Johnson's Longmire series. I like Walt too. And Henry.
And Craig himself is, not surprisingly, very entertaining. I just saw him speak, along with A. Martinez another well spoken man (he plays Jacob Nighthorse in the Longmire series on Netflix) at the Tucson Festival of Books.
I aspire to write as well as Craig, give me another few decades...
When asked how many more books would there be in the Longmire series; Craig said something that rang true for me. He might just go at his desk, like Robert Parker. Type "The end" then keel over.
He loves the world he's written and it shows in the books. I have the same problem, I wrote two spinoff books which stand alone and are western historical fiction, but they tied into the first series and sure enough, the next book in the first series ties the spinoff duo right back into the action. Hey, I tried my damndest (or darndest if you don't like cussing) to escape. But it's love. I love my characters. Especially the bad guys. Now, in my books it can, at times, be hard to tell who is who (whom?). My good guys skate along the ragged edge because they disagree with the powers that be. They are outlaws and lawmen, both.
Someone suggested I should share bit about myself:
Besides writing I raise goats, chickens, guineas, and peacocks, along with Great Pyrenees livestock guardian dogs. They keep the predators away from my fowl and livestock. I have a couple of horses, too. And one female pup left. She is for sale.
I live next to the border wall. Everyone knows which border has the wall, don't we? Yikes.
Okay, enough about me. Who in my books is your favorite? Honestly, my favorite is whichever of the guys I am writing about at the moment. It's hard to look beyond that. In one book, I was only gonna have Spud and Wolf. Them other guys? They snuck in when I wasn't lookin'. I swear. I'm gonna try again in the next book. But, damned if I can decide which one or two to let ride. I started with the big guy, then thought maybe the twins... or Buzz and Wolf, or Buzz and Spud? And that damn Hammer is always wanting to say something smartass to Annie. Ay yi yi, fellas. Give a gal a break.
Also, look at the great photo I took for my latest book cover, Against the Wind is available to preorder now.
Happy trails.
And Craig himself is, not surprisingly, very entertaining. I just saw him speak, along with A. Martinez another well spoken man (he plays Jacob Nighthorse in the Longmire series on Netflix) at the Tucson Festival of Books.
I aspire to write as well as Craig, give me another few decades...
When asked how many more books would there be in the Longmire series; Craig said something that rang true for me. He might just go at his desk, like Robert Parker. Type "The end" then keel over.
He loves the world he's written and it shows in the books. I have the same problem, I wrote two spinoff books which stand alone and are western historical fiction, but they tied into the first series and sure enough, the next book in the first series ties the spinoff duo right back into the action. Hey, I tried my damndest (or darndest if you don't like cussing) to escape. But it's love. I love my characters. Especially the bad guys. Now, in my books it can, at times, be hard to tell who is who (whom?). My good guys skate along the ragged edge because they disagree with the powers that be. They are outlaws and lawmen, both.
Someone suggested I should share bit about myself:
Besides writing I raise goats, chickens, guineas, and peacocks, along with Great Pyrenees livestock guardian dogs. They keep the predators away from my fowl and livestock. I have a couple of horses, too. And one female pup left. She is for sale.
I live next to the border wall. Everyone knows which border has the wall, don't we? Yikes.
Okay, enough about me. Who in my books is your favorite? Honestly, my favorite is whichever of the guys I am writing about at the moment. It's hard to look beyond that. In one book, I was only gonna have Spud and Wolf. Them other guys? They snuck in when I wasn't lookin'. I swear. I'm gonna try again in the next book. But, damned if I can decide which one or two to let ride. I started with the big guy, then thought maybe the twins... or Buzz and Wolf, or Buzz and Spud? And that damn Hammer is always wanting to say something smartass to Annie. Ay yi yi, fellas. Give a gal a break.
Also, look at the great photo I took for my latest book cover, Against the Wind is available to preorder now.
Happy trails.
March 7, 2017
Tucson Fesitval of Books
One of the largest book festivals in the country happens in Tucson. March 11-12th 9:30-5:30
I will be signing books at the Southern Arizona Transportation Museum Booth, known informally as the railroad museum; look for the trains. My new historical western series takes place in Southern Arizona in the 1880's and (no surprise) includes the historic Arizona and New Mexico Railroad.
The book festival is free.
https://www.facebook.com/BarbaraNevil...
http://tucsonfestivalofbooks.org/
I will be signing books at the Southern Arizona Transportation Museum Booth, known informally as the railroad museum; look for the trains. My new historical western series takes place in Southern Arizona in the 1880's and (no surprise) includes the historic Arizona and New Mexico Railroad.
The book festival is free.
https://www.facebook.com/BarbaraNevil...
http://tucsonfestivalofbooks.org/
February 20, 2017
You, me or them?
I write in first person, because that's what I prefer to read. But some of my other characters cry out to be heard. Sure they can speak in dialogue. But some, like Ma'cho, seldom speak. We only see him through the protagonist's (Cha'a) eyes. And, while Ma'cho seldom speaks, he thinks in broad strokes. In Hell to Pay he added a new point of view (POV) to the book. I especially liked where he described Cha'a. He has a much deeper passion, a passion that Cha'a herself doesn't realize exists. And, he sees her very differently than she sees herself.
My favorite POV, though, is the antagonists. I use tiny slices. Simple peeks into their progress throughout a book, to add suspense. And to make them more three dimensional, usually through thought, because, in the last couple of books the bad guys (if that's what they are, my good guys aren't white knights either) work alone. And most of the time are out in the wilderness tracking my horseback Apache main characters. There's literally no one to talk to but themselves.
I don't know where I first ran into this technique, but I have seen it in James Patterson's work or co-writings. And done very well.
And, of course, this gives one the ability to include scenes where the main character isn't present. This can add dimension to the plot. And provide important back story or side story without having to create a way for the protagonist to be in two places at once. In my latest book, working title "Badass Sons a Bitches", the antagonist has a lot of chapters, which take some intent screwing (cutting and pasting) around with to keep things timely. So that we aren't jumping back and forth in time (pun intended). Just to make for an easier flow in our minds.
I like the feel of that, since the book is present tense, it seems to me to be a good way to build the tension as I read. Plus, the antagonist's motives can be revealed along the way. After all, antagonists need love, too. A driven, seething protagonist can make a good story great.
Also, with every character, I have backstory ongoing; because everyone has history which affects their present actions. It's where three-dimensional characters are born.
Anyhow, give it a try. Have Ben take a walk. And Sally talk behind his back to Shirley while he's gone. Or whatever. Go fucking crazy!
My favorite POV, though, is the antagonists. I use tiny slices. Simple peeks into their progress throughout a book, to add suspense. And to make them more three dimensional, usually through thought, because, in the last couple of books the bad guys (if that's what they are, my good guys aren't white knights either) work alone. And most of the time are out in the wilderness tracking my horseback Apache main characters. There's literally no one to talk to but themselves.
I don't know where I first ran into this technique, but I have seen it in James Patterson's work or co-writings. And done very well.
And, of course, this gives one the ability to include scenes where the main character isn't present. This can add dimension to the plot. And provide important back story or side story without having to create a way for the protagonist to be in two places at once. In my latest book, working title "Badass Sons a Bitches", the antagonist has a lot of chapters, which take some intent screwing (cutting and pasting) around with to keep things timely. So that we aren't jumping back and forth in time (pun intended). Just to make for an easier flow in our minds.
I like the feel of that, since the book is present tense, it seems to me to be a good way to build the tension as I read. Plus, the antagonist's motives can be revealed along the way. After all, antagonists need love, too. A driven, seething protagonist can make a good story great.
Also, with every character, I have backstory ongoing; because everyone has history which affects their present actions. It's where three-dimensional characters are born.
Anyhow, give it a try. Have Ben take a walk. And Sally talk behind his back to Shirley while he's gone. Or whatever. Go fucking crazy!
February 12, 2017
There's more than one way to skin a cat
I read a lot of writing advice. Have been reading it for years. My opinion is take it all with a grain of salt. The latest round of up-to-the-minute writers fashion seems to be dialogue tags and character action.
They say to never use anything but said (or says, in present tense). Not even ask/asked. Because, you can say a question, too. True, Robert B. Parker would say a question, even leaving off the question mark. By his own admission, he wrote fast and scrappy; leaving the editing to his publisher's editing crew. So, intentional? (Pardon the question mark).
Another writer, Paul Loh, published a list of said/says alternatives on FB recently. There are tons. He uses them. Someone commented that he shouldn't. It's out of fashion, apparently.
There it is: dogma. If we all follow all the 'rules' because the fictional reader, who we all love to stereotype, hasn't the brains to read: 'she grumbled, chanted, implied or abjured' without being drawn out of the book. Only use any unusual tags twice in your book. Like fuck. Only use it twice. Well, fuck that.
Just how stupid is 'fictional reader'? To hell with that. Challenge my reading ass. Stretch my brain muscle.
I usually do use say/said. It's easy, but there is ambiguous language, sometimes, I'm not sure if the speaker is serious or ironic. Tags help. The other thing is after tags. As in: "Wait," she said, reaching for a cookie. "Let's think this over.
In addition to only 'said/says' as a dialogue tag, now we can't have our characters do anything while talking. Our characters have to give up cookies!
My examples here are Craig Johnson (of Longmire fame) and, once again Robert B Parker and the heir to Parker's Spenser series, Ace Atkins. Their character's fix meals in dialogue tags. Okay, exaggeration, but the movements they perform, often explained in some detail; set the scene. These are not random. They display each character's social standing, self worth, political beliefs, whatever. Their soul.
They, and smartass dialogue, are the key to the books. The guts that suck us in and keep us coming back for more. The mystery is an aside. A book without character is a book with no readers. My last bit of advice? Be a rebel. Ignore my advice. Do your own thing. Fuck 'em all.
They say to never use anything but said (or says, in present tense). Not even ask/asked. Because, you can say a question, too. True, Robert B. Parker would say a question, even leaving off the question mark. By his own admission, he wrote fast and scrappy; leaving the editing to his publisher's editing crew. So, intentional? (Pardon the question mark).
Another writer, Paul Loh, published a list of said/says alternatives on FB recently. There are tons. He uses them. Someone commented that he shouldn't. It's out of fashion, apparently.
There it is: dogma. If we all follow all the 'rules' because the fictional reader, who we all love to stereotype, hasn't the brains to read: 'she grumbled, chanted, implied or abjured' without being drawn out of the book. Only use any unusual tags twice in your book. Like fuck. Only use it twice. Well, fuck that.
Just how stupid is 'fictional reader'? To hell with that. Challenge my reading ass. Stretch my brain muscle.
I usually do use say/said. It's easy, but there is ambiguous language, sometimes, I'm not sure if the speaker is serious or ironic. Tags help. The other thing is after tags. As in: "Wait," she said, reaching for a cookie. "Let's think this over.
In addition to only 'said/says' as a dialogue tag, now we can't have our characters do anything while talking. Our characters have to give up cookies!
My examples here are Craig Johnson (of Longmire fame) and, once again Robert B Parker and the heir to Parker's Spenser series, Ace Atkins. Their character's fix meals in dialogue tags. Okay, exaggeration, but the movements they perform, often explained in some detail; set the scene. These are not random. They display each character's social standing, self worth, political beliefs, whatever. Their soul.
They, and smartass dialogue, are the key to the books. The guts that suck us in and keep us coming back for more. The mystery is an aside. A book without character is a book with no readers. My last bit of advice? Be a rebel. Ignore my advice. Do your own thing. Fuck 'em all.
January 28, 2017
Sequel coming soon
Hell to Pay comes out February 9th on Amazon and Smashwords
Tomahawk Trail: A Journey to Apacheria in 1885 by Barbara Neville
My rating: 5 of 5 stars
The exciting first book of the Cha'a Many Horses series.
View all my reviews
Tomahawk Trail: A Journey to Apacheria in 1885 by Barbara NevilleMy rating: 5 of 5 stars
The exciting first book of the Cha'a Many Horses series.
View all my reviews
January 25, 2017
The Muddy Middle
I've been hearing alot about half finished books, abandoned, withering away on a shelf. Or, in a hard drive.
MIddles are hard. They are where we lose faith. The manuscript, virtual or not, is getting long enough that it's hard to hold all it's elements in your mind. While, at the same time, creating the rest of the flow.
For me, I get characters introduced early. Plot moulders. Setting, the details: sights, sounds, feelings. Touch, and that other sense. They are waiting in the wings. But, I lose heart. Will they come onstage? Or will they die of stage fright? Will I throw in a sentence that gives the whole plot away? Or should I be doing just that?
My writer's strength came early. Just about three books in I realized that I could do it. Not sure how, but I could. Not I myself, but the inner me, my subconscious mind. Which works while I sleep, while I drive, while I watch TV and read books. It only works when I'm otherwise occupied You see, it's my subconscious mind that writes books. My conscious mind has to step aside and let it run with the flag. My inner writer works almost any time I'm away from the keyboard. I have to make notes in One Note, on scraps of paper, old envelopes. Anything that comes to hand. And I have to be sure I say enough that I know where the thought was going. I wrote a pretty large catalog of dead end note before I realized that.
But all that aside the middle is the time to have faith. Like the little engine that could. I know I can. I know It might be unbelievably slow, but I know I can. I may have to struggle in fits and starts through 30,000 words, But, I can. I just have to relax and never stare at a blank screen. Read a book, take a walk, pet the dog. Have faith in yourself. Write 200 words a day, it;'s okay.
And suddenly, one day 55,000 or so words in, I'm working away, started at 5 am. I'm thinking it must be about 9 am. I check the clock and realize that I missed lunch! I And, he gets a break, too. Most of the Injins and all of the pursuing soldiers seem to be headed north.
He grabs his horse. Steadying him and securing the binoculars in their case, he jumps aboard as the horse catches the scent of general panic and bolts, almost getting away from him.
He grabs the horn, pulls himself up into the center of the saddle and they run.
He’s hoping to work his way around out of sight. So he can head south, and catch up to them before Angus is killed.
He has to work his way around slowly, if he comes upon any people, so no one thinks he’s a part of the fray.
When he finally he gets south of the prison, he lucks into their tracks, then loses them. He works his way back and forth searching for the sign. Why do all hoofprints look alike?
As dark approaches, he comes upon the shod hoof prints of the hangman’s horse among all the barefoot Injin ponies. The one Angus was tied to.
But, as the darkness deepens into night, he loses them again. All he can do is soldier on. I was sucked totally, unconsciously into writer's bliss. The muse has returned!
Keep the faith. I know you can, too.
MIddles are hard. They are where we lose faith. The manuscript, virtual or not, is getting long enough that it's hard to hold all it's elements in your mind. While, at the same time, creating the rest of the flow.
For me, I get characters introduced early. Plot moulders. Setting, the details: sights, sounds, feelings. Touch, and that other sense. They are waiting in the wings. But, I lose heart. Will they come onstage? Or will they die of stage fright? Will I throw in a sentence that gives the whole plot away? Or should I be doing just that?
My writer's strength came early. Just about three books in I realized that I could do it. Not sure how, but I could. Not I myself, but the inner me, my subconscious mind. Which works while I sleep, while I drive, while I watch TV and read books. It only works when I'm otherwise occupied You see, it's my subconscious mind that writes books. My conscious mind has to step aside and let it run with the flag. My inner writer works almost any time I'm away from the keyboard. I have to make notes in One Note, on scraps of paper, old envelopes. Anything that comes to hand. And I have to be sure I say enough that I know where the thought was going. I wrote a pretty large catalog of dead end note before I realized that.
But all that aside the middle is the time to have faith. Like the little engine that could. I know I can. I know It might be unbelievably slow, but I know I can. I may have to struggle in fits and starts through 30,000 words, But, I can. I just have to relax and never stare at a blank screen. Read a book, take a walk, pet the dog. Have faith in yourself. Write 200 words a day, it;'s okay.
And suddenly, one day 55,000 or so words in, I'm working away, started at 5 am. I'm thinking it must be about 9 am. I check the clock and realize that I missed lunch! I And, he gets a break, too. Most of the Injins and all of the pursuing soldiers seem to be headed north.
He grabs his horse. Steadying him and securing the binoculars in their case, he jumps aboard as the horse catches the scent of general panic and bolts, almost getting away from him.
He grabs the horn, pulls himself up into the center of the saddle and they run.
He’s hoping to work his way around out of sight. So he can head south, and catch up to them before Angus is killed.
He has to work his way around slowly, if he comes upon any people, so no one thinks he’s a part of the fray.
When he finally he gets south of the prison, he lucks into their tracks, then loses them. He works his way back and forth searching for the sign. Why do all hoofprints look alike?
As dark approaches, he comes upon the shod hoof prints of the hangman’s horse among all the barefoot Injin ponies. The one Angus was tied to.
But, as the darkness deepens into night, he loses them again. All he can do is soldier on. I was sucked totally, unconsciously into writer's bliss. The muse has returned!
Keep the faith. I know you can, too.
January 21, 2017
The shotgun method
I'm not a linear writer. I'm a pantser. As in seat of the pants. No outline. I have a scrap of dialogue, maybe one line or two. A state of weather, like a gunmetal sky. A character personality exposition, maybe four or five lines. I make each of these a chapter. I fully expect to shake and stir. The timeline is nebulous, it ebbs and flows as the work goes on.
The characters run my plots. As I write their dialogue and actions, they constantly surprise me.
Instead of saying, wait I wanted you to end up at 'x'. I say, 'Fuck it." and let them lead me to 'y'.
I start with no perceivable idea of plot, other than the thin thread of genre, and even that isn't set in stone. My characters play in two genres now. Western Sci fi and historical western fiction. The two series are separate if you don't think that the mix of western and science fiction is a possibility, but they flow together if you do. I mean, aren't cowboys smart enough to pilot a spaceship? Or perceive of the future?
Okay, I'm off on a tangent. But, my books get out there too.
I have a preorder (Hell to Pay) on Amazon that goes live Feb 9th. Hopefully. The plot is unfinished, unmiddled, too. But it is evolving. Ideally, I need another 16,000 words, too. Or it can be shorter, if the ending works out okay. Preferably better than okay. This novel is my NaNoWriMo work from November, but, the 50,000 plus words I wrote, crossed genres about 50/50, so I decided to split them into two books. My historical western fiction, which I thought would be covered in a chapter, took up almost half of the 50,000+ words. So, two books, one 80% done and due Feb, 5 for the Feb 9 launch. The other about half done. Wish me luck.
The characters run my plots. As I write their dialogue and actions, they constantly surprise me.
Instead of saying, wait I wanted you to end up at 'x'. I say, 'Fuck it." and let them lead me to 'y'.
I start with no perceivable idea of plot, other than the thin thread of genre, and even that isn't set in stone. My characters play in two genres now. Western Sci fi and historical western fiction. The two series are separate if you don't think that the mix of western and science fiction is a possibility, but they flow together if you do. I mean, aren't cowboys smart enough to pilot a spaceship? Or perceive of the future?
Okay, I'm off on a tangent. But, my books get out there too.
I have a preorder (Hell to Pay) on Amazon that goes live Feb 9th. Hopefully. The plot is unfinished, unmiddled, too. But it is evolving. Ideally, I need another 16,000 words, too. Or it can be shorter, if the ending works out okay. Preferably better than okay. This novel is my NaNoWriMo work from November, but, the 50,000 plus words I wrote, crossed genres about 50/50, so I decided to split them into two books. My historical western fiction, which I thought would be covered in a chapter, took up almost half of the 50,000+ words. So, two books, one 80% done and due Feb, 5 for the Feb 9 launch. The other about half done. Wish me luck.
