In Memory of Rose

Just short of her 101st birthday, my grandmother passed away.  I went to her funeral on Friday.  She was the kind of woman who deserves a blog post in her honor.  At the least.

Rose was born the same year (my husband tells me) that Robert Browning created his best gun to date, the 1911.  Also the same year the town of Price, Utah was founded.  That’s significant because she lived in Price for more than 75 years.

She married her husband, Gerald, and together they built a house during the great Depression with old bricks from demolished buildings.  She lived in that house until the day she died.  Her husband Gerald died more than 53 years ago, and she never remarried.  She raised her two youngest children without him.

Growing up, we’d drive through the canyon on Sunday afternoons and visit her.  She’d always feed us.  The family joke is that we’re not sure what exactly was in the food, or how old it was, so it was probably her that gave us all such iron stomachs.  Once, while spending the night there with my cousin, Grandma made us sandwiches to eat outside under her huge weeping willow.  First off, the sandwiches were made from vegetables she’d run through the meat grinder.  Second, ants kept falling from the tree onto our food.  When we pointed this out to her, she said, “Eat em.  They have meat on their bones.”

She never, ever threw things away.  Her basement was every child’s wonderland with relics left over from the 1920’s and 30’s. (It was also kinda creepy.)  

According to her journals, she did three things everyday:  prayer, exercise, scriptures.  Those words were at the beginning of each entry.  Her service to her family and friends attested to her devotion to her faith.  While, well into her nineties, she still did sit ups.  She also stood on a chair, then got off, then stood on it again, just to make sure she could.  She is famous for whitewashing her house, shoveling snow off her roof, and driving other old ladies around (all of whom were younger than she was), when most others her age would be content watching TV in a comfy chair.

Her determination and independent spirit were legendary.  To give you an idea of what she was like:  A couple of years ago, she fell in her driveway and broke her hip.  Instead of crying for help, she lay there until she felt the pain was bearable (about two hours), then crawled to her house.  She didn’t tell anyone about it for two days.  When her son who lived next door to her found out about it, he took her to the doctor, under protestation.  The doctor told her she would either have to have surgery, or spend the rest of her life in bed.  You can imagine the idea of spending her life in bed didn’t appeal to her.  It was the only surgery she’d ever had.

Grandma Rose’s descendants number more than 250.  She instilled in all of us a drive to excel and an appreciation for hard work.  It is upon the backs of women like her that empires rise or fall and families are made or broken.  I may be overstating it a little, but I don’t think so.  

Even with all her funny quirks, she certainly built up my family and made us strong.  She will be missed.

Too, Too Many Sequels

I’ve been thinking a bit about how a person writes a sequel or trilogy or even a series.

My children and I have been reading the first three of the Harry Potter series together.  After having read all seven, going back to re-read the first ones has been an eye-opener.  There are so many little details in the beginning of the series that become big details later on, that my brain fries a little bit trying to fit all the pieces together.  How does a person decide that it will be important in the first book to introduce a rat that will be important in the third book and who in the third book will accrue a debt to someone that will be called in in the seventh book?  And do this all before the stories are written!

See?  Even the sentence is convoluted?  

And things like that happen through the series that serve to boggle my mind.  Perhaps to others, whose thought processes are less scattered than mine, it seems a simple thing to catalogue and maintain all those details.  But to me, it’s maddening.  It’s distracting.  It’s enough to make me crazy.

It’s enough to have stopped me from ever successfully having written a sequel.

I have two series planned out.  And now I’ve just gotten myself into a third.  I wrote the fatal sentence that condemned my latest book to having a sequel and I cringed.  I knew all along it was a possibility that I’d have more to tell in the story, but I sincerely hoped I could keep it to a single, perfect, book.  (Are you snorting in derision along with me?  Perfect book, indeed.)

After reading a novel by Robin McKinnley (Sunshine, for any of you who are interested in the title.) that I thought ended with a lead in to a second book -- A second book which Author-of-the-world McKinnley never intends to write -- Ms. McKinnley said something to the effect that she was at the mercy of her muses.  Her muse may or may not decide that a second book must be written and it must be written today.  Or, more likely, it will take her someplace completely different and her fans will just have to deal with the fact that they’ll never know what happens to Rae and Con.

In a way, that willingness to let those characters die or live in the minds of their readers, unfinished... it’s liberating.  It allows each reader to finish the story the way they want.  It allows the authoress to move on to something else that interests her.  

Sometimes, the open ended non-ending works beautifully.  Take, for instance, Lowis Lowry’s The Giver.  The reader is left in suspense of exactly what happens.  Do they die?  Do they arrive at their destination?  Do they win?  Do they lose?  But that suspense is part of what makes the book so compelling and so well written. (I’m tactfully not saying that Ms. Lowry went one to write sequels to The Giver to preserve my train of thought, so don’t ask about them.)

In another way, leaving the adventures undescribed irritates the jakers out of me because I want more!  I want to know what happens!  I want a tidy ending!  I NEED CLOSURE!

Does anyone else have opinions about this they’d like to share?  Does it matter to the populace in general when an author leaves the readers hanging?

I ask because I’m thinking of doing the same thing... of just writing about how the adventures started, and then not taking it further.  I know what many of their adventures are, but does that necessarily mean I must divulge what I know?  Aren’t some hints better than a lengthy reprisal?  Sometimes?

Untitled

I have a problem.

Titles.

How does a person come up with a really great title? One that tells the reader exactly what they need to know about the story in a creative way?  So they’ll be interested in the novels that interest them?  All in a couple of words?

As you can see I have more questions than answers.

For each of the novels I’ve written I’ve had issues with the titles.  I come up with a working one at the beginning, before I’ve even gotten into the meat of the story, and usually stick with the working one up until the end.  By that time, I’ve gotten attached to that title, and have trouble thinking of the manuscript under other names.

For example:  “Uneasy Fortunes”  began its life as “Stuttering” and when people ask me the title of my book, I have to mentally dodge “Stuttering” before grasping “Uneasy Fortunes”.  (And if I’m being honest, I still like “Stuttering” better.)

I bring up the issue of titles because I’m trying to come up with a really good title for the story I’m working on.  This has been difficult, to say the least.  I have switched working titles three times already, unheard of for me.  I have jotted little lists of potential titles on anything that comes to hand when I get notional.  I just read a list of my favorites to my husband and he seemed unimpressed.  Frankly, so am I.  I just haven’t found one that zings.  

So, I think it’s back to the drawing board.  Again.

One of these days I may be inspired with something I’m crazy about.

Character vs Story: a Dialogue

According to the delectable Shannon Hale, there are a couple different approaches to writing fiction: Character driven, and Story driven.  Although it seems self-explanatory, I’m going to explain, or perhaps just illustrate.  Or both.

In a character driven story, it’s all about the growth of the individual.  The story is something that happens to them.  Usually the characters feel like a real person and their development means something.  In a story driven tale, the characters are there as part of a larger picture.  They are the means by which the story happens.

Case in point:  “Anne of Green Gables”

Which do you think it is?

I’m just going to tell you, since I can’t hear your answers.  Everything written by L.M. Montgomery is character driven.  She is a master at making paper people come to life.  Every person in those stories has a history, personality, quirks, mannerisms, dreams, vexations, talents, the works.  It’s fascinating to think that all these people are the product of some lady’s imagination.  I swear I know Mrs. Rachel Lind.  In fact, Ms. Montgomery wrote an entire book, “A Tangled Web” that I’m pretty sure started out as an exercise in character writing, because that’s what it is.  A professor could teach a semester-long class on that book alone and how Montgomery manages to keep each person in that extensive family distinct.  This approach to writing takes a little more effort to keep a reader’s attention, perhaps, but it is well worth it.

Anything written by Charles Dickens, “The Secret Life of Bees” and the original “Winnie the Pooh” books are character driven.  In any setting in any country, Carles Darnay would still love Lucie Manette, and despair of ever improving himself.  Mrs. Havisham would still be creepy.  Pooh Bear would share adventures with Christopher Robin. 

I was going to make a long list of character stories, but I find I can’t think of many.  Most novels, are story driven.  At least, I think so.  That may be because I am a story driven person, so even when it’s about characters, I see story.  Sad, really, but there it is.

[And it is sad.  I just looked over my bookshelves to prove to myself that most novels are story driven, and I realized my bias has tainted everything.  There are a lot of character driven novels.  A lot.  Probably a good half.]

Louis L’Amour books are all story driven, and possibly even setting driven.   He writes about things that could only happen during a certain time in a certain place. (Not every book he wrote was set in the Cowboy West, I realize, but every one was written about a PLACE, and things that could only happen there.)  The men and women in his stories are products of their time and place and rise up to face the challenges in their surroundings.  (Okay, so he may just create another category.)

Story Driven books are everywhere.  Take a look at anything written by Robin McKinley, Sharon Shinn, J.K. Rowling, J.R.R. Tolkien, Victoria Holt, etc.  Their characters are well written, but they are there to make events happen.  To tell a story.  Could the one ring have been carried or disposed of by any character other than a Frodo Baggins?  Voldemort would never have been vanquished by anything other than a Harry Potter.  The stories are what define the characters, not the other way around.

Now that I’ve analyzed this a bit more, I will think of it more often as I read.  Perhaps it will make me a more character driven writer.  Perhaps it will make my stories a bit better.

One can only hope.


This just in:  Danica Page's review of "Uneasy Fortunes" can be read on her blog.  And it's a doosy.  Thanks so much to her for such a great review.

Contemplation with Eggs Over Easy

Genre fiction is like oatmeal.

Now, just hear me out. 

Many people have studied the bases of stories.  I think it was Socrates who said there were only five original story plots. (Don’t ask me what they are.)  So, sticking with the number five, we’ll say the oats themselves are genres, or different classifications for stories.  We’ll name the genres as follows: Romance, Adventure, Western, Mystery, Fantasy. 

Obviously there are many ways to mix and match these genres, and endless combinations of how much of each to add in.  Fantasy and Mystery.  Romance and Adventure.  Western and anything else.  There’s rarely a book written without romance of some sort, and even fewer written in which there isn’t emphasis on some sort of relationship, be it familial, friendship, enemy, or... or what else is there?  

So, in oatmeal it’s the same, right?  I don’t know anyone ANYONE who likes oatmeal plain, without anything in it.  At least sweeten it a little.

That’s where romance comes in.  Romance is the sugar.  Or I guess honey, or artificial sweetener, or molasses, or agave, or whatever your preference is.  But as I explained before, romance is perhaps ill-named because it can include all types of relationships.  But I put it as romance because that’s what it is at it’s most extreme.  It can be taken in smaller doses, depending on your preference when sweetening.  Perhaps the different types of sweetener could be the different types of relationships.  But that might be taking this metaphor just a little too far.  

Adventure is the spice of a story.  Without it, what kind of journey would the hero take?  What would keep us reading into the wee hours of the morning?  What would get us to take that next bite?  A hint of cinnamon?  Maple?  Nutmeg?

Westerns are the nuts.  Some people love nuts in their oatmeal (some people like me).  Add a little pecan or walnut and I’m in heaven.  Other people can’t eat them, either because of allergies or because they just don’t like them.  And some are indifferent; take them or leave them.  It’s the same with Westerns.

Mystery is the milk.  If you add enough milk everything in that bowl of oatmeal becomes a mystery.  You take a bite and think, “Wait, was that an oat?  A bit of blueberry?”  But it doesn’t matter because it all satisfies, even when you have to work harder with a spoon.  If you add just a little milk, it blends everything together with that perfect smoothness that takes away the sticky and makes it palatable.

Fantasy is the fruit.  There are those that cannot stand fruit in their oatmeal.  I don’t understand it, but there you have it.  Fruit adds texture, flavor, variety, and color.  What would life be without those?  What would a story be?

And in case you’re wondering what I had for breakfast:  Oatmeal, with a teaspoon of artificial sweetener, half a handful of pecans, a sliced banana, a hint of cinnamon, and a splash of milk.  

It was delicious, just like a story would be.

Conan "The Writer"

I clearly neglected someone in my list of last week’s authors who write what they know.  A little unknown.  A nobody, really.

A man we like to refer to as Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

A.K.A. Sherlock Holmes.

A.K.A. Dr. John Watson.

First off, who wouldn’t like a man with the name Conan?  It almost begs for “the Barbarian” as epitaph, doesn’t it?

I picked up a doorstop of a book by this unrecognizable author from the library last week called The Complete Sherlock Holmes, Volume II.  To be honest, I love Sherlock Holmes, in all his reincarnations, but this book is intimidating.  It’s the kind of thing that has someone’s dissertation just inside the front cover, exclaiming over the ins and outs of the characters, or the writing, or this edition, or how many other adaptations have been made from it over the years.  My personal favorites are the academics who try to argue how much influence their favorite authors or books have had on society.  

Anyway, the introduction was hefty and I had no intention of reading it, until a phrase caught my eye.  Then I was hooked.  

Because of the detail of the Dective’s investigations, people the world over believed the cases had actually taken place and that Sherlock Holmes really lived.  Street names, railway stations, details only Londoners would know.

Did you know the people who live at 221B Baker Street, London, still get mail addressed to Sherlock Holmes?  

Sherlock Holmes was the first fictional character awarded an Honorary Fellowship from the Royal Society in Chemistry in Britain.  This fictional character has earned a better real-world degree than many of us living in this real world.

In 1892, a series of articles appeared in a UK based paper, written by “Our Special Correspondent”, Sherlock Holmes.  The paper refused when called upon by the public to verify Holmes’ authenticity.  You see, people so believed in the character they kept wanting him to be a non-fictional character.  They wanted him to be real.  And the British Paper never claimed he wasn’t.  (Although, to be fair, they also never claimed he was.)

For all of Sherlock’s brilliance, Sir Conan Doyle was nothing like him, which in my mind, makes his “real-ness” more impressive.

So, to make up for my sad omission of last week, I dedicate this post to Sir Arthur Conan “the Barbarian” Doyle.  With Respect.

How Do You Solve A Problem Like Maria?

The beginning of my story writing began the winter of 2006-2007.  I only remember that because it was the few months before our family moved to New Zealand.  I had been reading a lot of cheesy romance novels and after reading several by an author who desperately needed a good editor, I thought, “I can write at least that well!”  So, I set off to try.

When I began typing, I had a vague notion of what I wanted the story to be, but mostly I was on the journey too.  This is the first paragraph of that story:

She looked around her without knowing where she was or how she got there.  She could remember a feeling of being warm and secure in a luxurious bed with a feather mattress, and then she woke up on a damp, dank forest floor.  She rolled on her back and stared hard at the treetops trying to think.  Her whole back itched from the dirt that had worked its way into her shirt after sleeping in a forest, for what she assumed, was all night.  Flashes of memory flicked through her mind like pictures illuminated by lightening.  She could see a woman, plainly dressed in brown hues, with a look of distain on her irregular features.   A man popped up next, with gentle eyes that looked as though they held a hidden source of delight.  He had dark brown hair that hung in reckless waves to his eyebrows in front and to the nape of his neck in back.  She saw a room full of sturdy furniture and decadent hangings.  Next came a view of a garden full of flowers from the inside of a large window.

I just looked it over this week, thinking that it had been long enough that perhaps I could read it without worrying. (I’m a professional worrier.  If worrying was an olympic sport, I’d definitely be in the running.)  What I got instead of worry was a good laugh.  Then I got a pen.

I mean, I knew before picking it up again that it would require a lot of re-working, I had just deluded myself as to how much.  It. needs. a. complete. gut-job.  I’m not sure I’m up to it.  I might just tuck it away into the darkest drawer I own and only pull it out to reassure myself that I have gotten better than I was in the beginning.  At least, I’d like to think I’ve gotten better.

At any rate, just for some fun, I thought I’d post the marks my pen put into the manuscript and if you feel so inclined, you can tell me if it makes it a better read.

Tulia looked around without knowing where she was or how she got there.  She remembered warmth and security, a luxurious bed with a feather mattress.  But she awoke on a damp forest floor.  She rolled to her back and stared at the treetops trying to think.  The pine needles swayed in a slight breeze, backlit by a flawless blue.  Her back itched; dirt had worked its way into her shirt.  What could she expect after sleeping in a forest, for what she assumed, was all night?

Flashes of memory flicked through her mind like paintings illuminated by lightening.  A woman, plainly dressed in brown, with a look of habitual distain on her irregular features.  A man next, with gentle eyes that held a hidden source of delight.  Dark brown hair hung in reckless waves to his eyebrows in front and to the nape of his neck in back.  Then, a room with sturdy furniture and elegant hangings.  Last came a view from a large window of a garden full of flowers.

Even as I read through the revised version, I cringe.  I love this story.  It’s my first full-length novel and I still think it has potential.  I just have a hard time thinking that potential will be worth digging through all the muck.

Sigh.  Back to grindstone.