Category: writing

My Character & Me

It’s apparently spring in my novel, because I’m experiencing a revolt. No blood has yet spread across anything. I don’t think it will. We’re pretty civilized here. Civilized people don’t kill one another to get their way, except in fiction…right…?

The main character and I are wresting with what’s going on in the novel. He’s moving into this new direction. Heavily dependent on technology, he insists on exploring how the loss of personal technology influences his behavior. He has become mentally, physically, and emotionally weaker. Although he’s staying fit and slender, he’s aging, and his energy level is drooping. He does not have the level of control with which he’s accustomed to living.

But he’s not seeing that in his people. Without technology, individuality is sprouting. His people see and hear better than him. Many have higher energy levels. Some are becoming bullies. While bullying had been psychologically and socially influenced over the course of time from now until the future, and diminished through socializing, technology in their recent history, those safeguards and safeties were removed when their nanotechnologies were removed.

Other emerging trends among his force are disturbing him. Binge drinking is becoming a problem. Without their sexes and free of their technology, people are becoming sexually active. Promiscuity is flowering. That’s causing jealousies and attachments that can affect discipline, good order, and the chain of command.

These changes, and how this unit copes with it, is the story, he insists. That’s what he believes should be written. I disagree; I sought more of an adventure story. I add elements of adventure, threats, and conflicts to increase that sense of adventure, but he keeps dragging me into psycho-analysis.

I dreamed about this problem last night. In the dream I was a military member on shift again. I’d been lazy and hadn’t completed the shift checklist. Hell, I didn’t know where to find it. I hadn’t inventoried the COMSEC materials, read the log, closed out the last log for the Zulu day, nor started another one, and shift change was coming on fast.

Anxiety suffused me; WTF was I going to do? 

Well, I started scrambling to make it right. But I was quickly sidetracked with my environment. It was disorganized, and poorly planned. I was appalled. Although I knew I was running out of time, organizing that place developed into my primary priority. Of course, once I did that, I developed a focus. Having a focus revitalized my energy level and determination, and wiped out my anxiety.

Pondering the dream this morning, I developed understanding that it wasn’t about my life, but the novel in progress. That bifurcation I experienced was causing anxiety because I didn’t know what the character was coming up with next. And, I’d developed him as a strong individual. I didn’t like seeing him losing his way.

Ah, hah, I understood, oh, there we go. This is about writing the novel in progress. My conflict with my character  —

Let’s put this more correctly. The change of direction in the novel from my original intention bothers me. With that, I’ve lost focus and energy. Thinking about this – because I write to help me think – I think my character is correct.

I know from reading others that many writers wrestle with characters taking over. Some dismiss it; they’re the writer, they’re in control, and they decree what gets onto the pages. I live and work through my characters on the pages. We’re partners more than master and puppet. Perhaps it’s due to my organic writing style, which, on reflection, can look as complicated as layers of spider and cobwebs. And it’s not like I haven’t been down this path before. I often begin with an idea that grows into something else.

Although it makes me uncomfortable, I’ll probably write what the character wants. Then I’ll edit it down to find a compromise we can live with.

Characters; they can be the worse.

Time to write like crazy, at least one more time.

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Wrote That Scene

Wrote one of those scenes. You know what they’re like. You’re casting for something inside yourself and discover something hidden, so you drag it out and use it.

In this instance, I used a memory from when I was young. I’d seen a creepy movie that burned anxiety into me just in time for bed. Despite that, sleep managed to find me.

Awakening, though, I kept completely still in an all-embracing darkness. Even now, remembering, my blood pressure rises and my pulse thumps faster. In that darkness, I’d heard a noise while I was asleep —

Or did I?

Was it real or imagined? I listened and listened without daring to move, barely breathing to help me hear and minimize my presence. Just when I’d begun to accept the hypothesis I’d imagined it, I heard another sound. It sounded like slithering….

Snake, I thought.

A snake is in the room.

I couldn’t move. If I left the bed, I might step on the snake. It might be coiled on the floor, waiting to strike.

But I couldn’t remain in bed, because the snake might crawl up into the bed. Which was worse, waiting in bed, or stepping down and getting bitten?

It was a rush of words to write, but it fit the novel like a found puzzle piece. As for the young boy who feared what might be in the dark, he carefully stood up in bed. Balancing himself and profusely sweating, he leaped across the yawning gulf where the snake might be waiting, and threw on the lights.

Time to go write like crazy, at least one more time.

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Novel Feedback

I’ve enjoyed some of the feedback received regarding “Life Lessons with Savanna,” and the next one in the series, “Road Lessons with Savanna.” Three main points have been mentioned several times.

“The Thanksgiving scene was just like my house.” That surprised me. There are a few minor elements of my experience in it, of course, but it’s mostly just imagined based on the characters’ behavior and background. For the record, my childhood Thanksgivings were generally pretty damn good, and not at all like the novel.

“I know someone who had a spider in their ear.” I had read about someone having a spider in their ear, and how it felt. After reading it, I mentioned it to others, and a friend volunteered a story about a relative who had a spider in their ear. For some reason, it became part of one of the characters. I believe the part about her having it in a glass vial after it’s removed and carrying it around was all fiction on my part, though.

Several specifically mentioned that they liked the end to “Road Lessons with Savanna.” They called it clever, which is awesome to read from them. The ending was one of those things I was thinking about as I was walking and finishing up, and suddenly, bang, it came upon me. Writing the end was then like the purest form of writing like crazy that I’ve had.

So, thanks to those have bought and read the books, and wrote me about these things, along with the other things that I didn’t include here.

Cheers

 

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Fitbit Dip

Yeah, last week, I dipped. Fell to my third lowest miles total, forty.

I knew it would be a down week. Let me post the reasons:

  1. Cold and rainy, and I was being wimpy.
  2. Hurt my left ankle, and I was feeling gimpy.
  3. Was a little weary of the routine, it’d became a stale scene.
  4. And was looking for a change, and treating my life with disdain.

It’s all part of the funk of life, you know?

This week isn’t greatly better. I’m averaging a little over six miles a day, so I’ll be at least forty-two miles, maybe forty-three, but I’m not making a strong effort.

Flip this thing over, though, and the reduced effort to walk was put into writing. I like that. My life is a zero-sum game. Whenever effort is removed from one place, it’s put into another. Last night, I was thinking, I need to read more….

Time to adjust the balances anon.

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Conversing

While you’re writing your novel, do you ever have conversations with yourself – sometimes, aloud – about the novel and what’s going on, or needs changed?

Yeah, no, me, neither. That would be crazy.

Wouldn’t it?

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Weaving the Novel

I compared writing my novel to weaving a tapestry today. I was talking to myself as I walked and thought about the writing day ahead.

Then I laughed at myself.

Weaving as a way to describe novel writing can be apt, but it’s very limited. I don’t weave, so I’m not certain of its process. I always refer back to a meager elementary school introduction. Watching a weaving demonstration somewhere during a field trip, I recall shedding, picking, and battening, and the loom and the shuttle. I also remember being told about the warp and the weft.

(The Loom and the Shuttle could be a good pub name. I can imagine myself saying, “I’m going down to The Loom and the Shuttle for a pint. See you later.”)

(That also gives rise to the notion of drunken weaving.)

My vague youthful memories are not enough to go on. Thinking about weaving, I imagine the fates doing some spinning to create our existence and fates. I don’t know much about them, either. I’m seriously short of knowledge for this post.

Which is really the point. I claim, I’m weaving the tale because I go back and forth across the novel, adding, changing and deleting events, characters, and explanation. That’s what draws me to this comparison. Starting with small threads, I’m combining them into the fabric of a story.

These current chapters embrace that impression. “Bells,” “Destruction,” “Aftermath,” and “Change” are the chapters’ working titles. They might be the final titles. When I’m weaving new parts in the latest chapter, “Change,” I often go back to the three previous chapters and address details to maintain congruency. Although enjoyable, because it is fiction, which is terrific fun, it’s not my normal methodology. Normally, I pour some coffee into my mouth, address the keyboard, and start typing. I call this splash writing. It’s my favorite motif. I type like mad for a while, spinning out paragraph, scenes, dialogue, and chapters. Stopping, I go back and edit, refine, and polish the stuff.

BTW, when I address the keyboard, I’m like a rock star on a stage in an arena. “Are you ready to rock and write?” I shout at my keyboard. I do this in my head. I may be wrong, but I think that shouting that in the coffee shop may cause some untoward reactions. It’s a quiet place, the sort of silence you don’t want to interrupt with a fart, leave off a shout.

Having written all these words about weaving these chapters, I feel my inner earth trembling. A splash scene is building within. It’s ready to explode onto the pages. (This, unfortunately, reminds me of a tale my wife related to me about a juvenile male whale masturbating against the aquarium glass while elementary school children watched. I haven’t vetted the story, but that doesn’t stop it from being memorable.)

Okay, time to weave like crazy, write like made, splash on the page. Whatever.

Time to write.

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Monday’s Theme Music

Sometimes, when firmly entrenched in the writing zone, I look up and ask myself, “Holy crap, what happened to the day?” Morning has passed into lunch, and lunch is long gone. I’m hungry and need a restroom. My coffee cup is almost empty; what remains is icicle cold. Looks like I’ve come to the end. Regret drenches me as I think of the other things that must be done, instead of writing, like eating and peeing. Yeah, weird, right?

But sometimes, when I’m in the zone, theme music like The Cars, “Good Times Roll,” comes over me. “Let the good times roll. Let them knock you around.” Yeah.

Writing so often is a series of logic problems that I create that I must then solve. Why did this happen? How was it resolved? Writing is solving one big question, the story’s arc, through multiple arcs, stories, and anecdotes that twist perceptions, throws up confusion, advances the premise, reveals more of the story, and helps the characters develop.

Ah, well. Let the good times roll, when they happen. “If the illusion is real, let them give you a ride.” It’s days like these, when I’m writing, and trying to exercise intelligence, imagination, and creativity, that I’m at my happiest, because I’m enjoying what I’m writing, but I’m enjoying it as much as a reader, because I’m just so deeply into it.

Let the good times roll.

 

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Chapter Length

Serendipity is useful. I’d just been pondering a chapter’s length yesterday. At thirty-six hundred words, I felt it lengthy. No, the reader within thought it lengthy, and was suggesting breaking it up into three chapters.

“Why three?” I asked the reader.

“That chapter has a lot going on in it. Breaking it up let your readers breath.”

“But three?”

“The way I see it, you have three natural breaks in the action.”

The reader, having read a lot, typically offers some good insights, so I considered what he said. As I did, a Reedsy article about chapter length was discovered in my inbox.

The article, “Chapter Length Matters. Here’s Why,” and its comments, gave me more substance for my thinking, so I thought I’d pass it on to other writers.

What of you, writers? Is there an ideal chapter length, or do you have specific guidelines, rules, or suggestions to share?

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