Can you feel it?  Somewhere deep inside, you have a novel yet to be written? A plot line refusing to vanish even though you're hip-deep in edits on another story? Or maybe there's a character begging to come to life?

Well then, pull up a chair and flex those typing fingers. Because it's NaNo time.

For the unitiated (that's a word. Look it up in Sue's dictionary), NaNoWrimo stands for "National Novel Writing Month." For thirty days, a writer does what they do best and writes, madly banging out 50,000 words. Maybe they've pre-plotted, created character wheels and scene breakdowns. Maybe they haven't.

Just thinking about it makes me excited!

There's nothing like the flash of inspiration. The joyful free-for-all that lasts for a short thirty days. The willful lack of editing that goes on during a Wrimo session.

Call it madness. I call it sheer inspiration.

So while my fantasy Fairless is in the capable hands of an editor, I think I'll take a break from editing and free up some creative brain cells. I have the next story plotted. It's time to NaNo-up and write that bad boy.

Interested in being a buddy? You can find me under "Letters to Rosa." Hope to see you there!

Sue

image credit: pixabay.com

I was at a writing workshop recently and had submitted the first chapter of my YA contemporary Drift.  This is a story about a young woman, True Spencer, who, with her mother, lives on the run from an abusive father. 

One of the comments sparked an interesting debate: was True an unreliable narrator? I listened, took it all in, and quickly realized I had no idea what they were talking about.

An unreliable what, now?

They felt the mother was the evil one, in part because True was an unreliable narrator, since True only knows what she knows about her father from what her mother told her. Got that?

Whew.

Let's break it apart.

True has been fleeing from her father since infancy, so the only information she has is that which her mother feeds her. She doesn't have memories to base an opinion. Thus, her information has the potential to be faulty.

When I wrote this first chapter, I didn't know about unreliable narrators. It's interesting that each time this chapter has been critiqued, they all say the same thing: not so sure about the mother's motives. 

Here is a snippet from chapter one. I'd love to hear your feedback, thoughts, ideas about this topic!

                                                                     ******

     I hate hating my life.
     I flip open my track phone and read three-thirteen am. Something woke me—maybe it’s just thunder from a storm brewing off the Atlantic. More likely, it’s a well-honed instinct I’m about to relive one of my worst nightmares.
     I shove my soaked blanket aside and stare out the open window at orange trees swaying beneath the onslaught of a warm, stormy breeze. Lightning flickers in the distance. I count to five before the next roll of thunder. And I know, I could find freedom in that grove. I could run from this hell and never stop, and no one will ever find me.
     But I can't. The shadows can hide a man.
     My momentary illusion of freedom disappears. He could be out there. Any one of those hulking forms could be the flesh and bones of a predator who, in an alternate existence, I would call Dad.
        Mom's Cadillac backs into the driveway. The car door slams. Her keys jingle as she unlocks the deadbolt of the front door and thunder drowns out her words. Now I know its instinct that’s kicked me awake. She’s come home early from her night shift at the hospital which can only mean one thing. I roll onto my back, dreading what’s coming.
        “True?” She raps on my door. “True, get up.”
        I press my eyes with the palms of my sweaty hands. How many times have I been awakened by her this way? I’m seventeen. We’ve been on the run since I was an infant, moving every year or two, so that would make fourteen. I wish I could forget that number and all the memories that go along with it.
       Mom charges into my room. Bright splotches dot her cheeks. Her hair's disheveled. She’s been running her hands through it—something she does when on high alert. 
        “What have I told you about open windows?” She slams it closed, locks the bolt and tugs the drapes together. “Do you want him to find you?”
      “It’s too muggy.”
      “Get dressed. Get packed.”
       I sit up and wrap my arms around my knees. I’ve had this argument before and I always lose. Tonight, I’m prepared to win.
      “I don’t want to leave.” I make my voice firm and commanding.
      “You know we have no choice.”
      “We always have a choice.”
      She sits on the edge of my bed like she’s prepared to be reasonable, but her leg is jigging. I know her. I know her mind is racing with all the things she has to do before we can skip town.
       “You go,” I say. “I’m seventeen, I can take care of myself.”
      “True—“
       “No, really. I’m not going. I have my job at McMurdocks and my gymnastics team’s this close to States. Regionals are coming up and I refuse to blow it again.”
       “Where will you live? Apartments are expensive.”
        Her leg shakes the bed. She’s not taking me seriously.
       “You can’t make me leave,” I say the words quietly. Now she knows I’m angry. Some yell when they’re pissed. I go real quiet.
       “Make you? Like I’m the monster?” Her eyes narrow. This is her game—turning it back on me and driving the guilt deep. “You know what I give up to keep us safe. How many opportunities have I abandoned? No friends, no dates in all these years. How could you say that?”
      I blink back tears. They won’t help, but damn it, they start coursing down my cheeks anyway. I swipe them with the heels of my hands.
      “I like this place,” I say. “This cruddy, run-down house and this stupid town. My teammates treat me like an equal. I have a real chance of making all-round this year.”
      Mom understands my dream. Scholarships, college, a future without fear. Gymnastics is my ticket.
      “It can’t be helped, baby.” She dries my cheeks. Her voice has the timbre of sadness, of resolve, and resignation. I have to try one last time.
      “Please, let me stay.”
       “I’m sorry.” She rises from my bed. “Pack and be quick, we head out in five minutes.”
       She leaves the room in a whirl of smelly antiseptic.

                                        *******

Happy writing!
​Sue

image credit: pixabay.com

(a message to writers from a reader)

Dear writer,

I adore reading. Give me a cup of tea, a quiet place and a good book and you'll find me in a heaven (okay, and add a fresh baked chocolate chip cookie to really send my spirit soaring).

Oh, those stories that sweep me off, capture and hold my imagination, inviting me into a world unknown. Oh, those characters that leap from the page and become my new best friends, or my most beloved worse enemies!

Truly, I want to love reading your story. The one you've spent years developing, tweaking and fine tuning. The one, I hope, will become my favorite.

I can forgive a few missteps. A couple of typos here or there aren't going to make me stop reading. You have no idea how hard I'll fight for you. How many pages I'll endure before finally rendering my verdict.

There are but two things that will make me, sadly, give up and close your book, so please pay attention here, because I want you to succeed!

1) Please don't bore me.
You've dedicated  time developing that all important back-story and character arc. You've filled in charts, fleshed out details, created a brave, new world. Hooray! You understand all the nuances of your story.

But do you need to share all of it? Really? I can't figure some of this stuff out on my own?

Let's do some reader/writer psychotherapy here. Listen carefully, now.

Trust me. 

That's right. If you trust my intelligence and willingness to jump into your story, you won't need to add flashbacks, or large information dumps. You won't bog pacing down with endless clutter or description. Just give me enough to understand the framework. I'm happy to learn as the story unfolds. 

The comedy standard can apply here: Always leave them wanting more.

2) Please don't frustrate me
I'll forgive typos, but I won't forgive inconsistencies.

Weather, season, personality quirks, all have to be consistent to remain invisible. Nothing jumps me from a story faster than when it's warm and summery on one page and snowing on another. Think that can't happen?

I just finished a novel written by a best-seller who shall remain nameless. The seasons jumped around like crazy, leaving me scratching my head. Imagine, a snowstorm fierce enough to pile drifts on one page, and the main character outside lying on the green grass on the next?

Did they think I wouldn't notice? 

I gave it a good shot. But when the sloppy writing continued well into the mid section of the book, I closed the pages for the last time. 

Which leads me to another psychology session:

Honor me.

Make the effort to edit your story. Dedicate time to your craft. Study, learn and grow so you can offer your best. There's no need to rush your book to print for me. Have beta readers give you feedback. Put your ego away and listen. Become the best invisible  narrator possible.

And when you're done, I'll be here, waiting to dive into your wonderful book. 

Sincerely,
A reader.

Heroes and heroines. Main character and protagonists. They all mean the same thing. The story is about them. But what's the difference between sympathetic and compelling?

I, as a reader, don't want to feel sorry for a character. I want to understand their struggle. I want to see them rise above their challenges and face their demons.

I heard a great quote from the tv show "Leverage." It said something to the effect of "Surviving a tragedy doesn't make you a hero."

And it stuck, those words. They batted around in my head until I could finally grasp the truth. 

Slam your character with a tragedy. Write a Young Adult story and kill the parents. Write a romance and rip a loved one away. Those events alone won't make a hero (aka a read-worthy protagonist). 

No, it's not what happens to the character, but what they do with it.

In the show, the protagonist, Nate, lost his son to cancer. The insurance company he worked for refused to pay for the experimental treatment, so he quit and drank to dull the pain.

Nate's a good guy who's suffered an incalculable loss. But it's not the tragedy that propels the story. It's what he does with it.

He gathers a group of misfits--a hacker, thief, grifter and thug and organizes them into a team. Then they pull cons on bad people to help good people.

Now he's compelling. Now's he's heroic. 

So, today's tip- look at your protagonist. Are they sympathetic or compelling? The answer lies not in the tragedy they face, but in the actions they take.

Happy writing!
Sue

It's been a long road for this book. Two years of drafting, another year for editing, and finally, I've sent it off to an editor at a publishing house. I was confident as I hit "send", and then the doubts crept in.

Did I give it enough time? Did I work through enough plot points? Are my characters fleshed out, compelling and dynamic?

Last summer, three dear and wonderful writer friends helped me workshop this book. Over the course of four gatherings, they cut apart, dug in and gave me insights I never would've imagined.

Who knew my protagonist was static? They did. And they gave me specific examples of where she could grow and missed vital opportunities to change.

Who knew my ending fell flat and needed a complete re-write? They did. And they helped brainstorm a stronger finish.

I will be forever grateful to these writers. Because of their feedback, Fairless is  complete. Because of their belief in me as a writer, Fairless is now in the capable hands of an editor. 

Thank you, Meredith, Wendy and Barb.

Hooray for you!

Sue

 

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