The Write Word with Wareeze

The Write Word with Wareeze—Flawed Heroes

Hello writers and readers. Thanks for sharing some of your precious time with me. Once again, we are in pursuit of writing excellence. Oh, if only we could reach that lofty goal. Reading about writing is often tedious. I hope you will find this SMP blog interesting and informative.

Today, I want to question the flawed hero. My first published work Conduct Unbecoming of a Gentleman has just such a hero—much hated as referenced by several of the reviewer’s disparaging comments. From the start, I understood a hero should exhibit flaws, but he must grow and change by the end of the book. He must come to understand he is wrong and pursue the means to improve and win the day.

Perhaps the era had something to do with my character failing to gain sympathy with the reader. True, Lord Adron is a jerk most of the time, but, however mistaken his view, he fights for what he thinks is the correct thing to do to protect his ward. Depicting the era where men rule and women must fight in subtle ways to win had many readers objecting. He can’t grow from a jerk to a hero, however hard he tries.

I’ve come to understand, a hero must be a hero from the first moment he appears on the page. He can be mistaken, only slightly, and wrong-headed, but not flawed.

Example: My first hero had the best of intentions—the sorry jerk.

Final Conduct Unbecoming of a Gentleman #b copy

James Adron Gladrey, Earl of Kendlewood rode off at a furious pace, the young boy in his arms. He cursed himself anew and gritted his teeth. The driver said the wheel hit a deep washout and started to tip but if he hadn’t chased the coach, perhaps the horses wouldn’t have bolted when the vehicle began to sway. Adron would never have forgiven himself if either his ward or the widow had been killed or crippled, but thankfully both mother and child were fine. Relaxing for the first time that day, he took a deep breath. The incident had ended well, better than he’d expected when his cousin, Rhonda, alerted him to the widow’s intention to flee with his ward.

The child’s sobs pulled his attention away from his thoughts. He wrapped the boy more securely in his cloak to protect him from the elements and attempted to sooth his frantic cries.

“Hush now. You’re safe with me,” he said in a steady tone.

Jamie calmed to a whimper. Adron’s stomach churned and he glanced over his shoulder. Torn between his actions and concern for the widow, he gritted his teeth and rode forward. He wouldn’t fail Robert again—not as he had in battle. Jamie was his to protect now and he would do so in spite of his sympathy for the heartless widow. If she followed her son, he’d reconsider his opinion, but he judged that to be highly unlikely.

He urged his horse to a faster clip and his mount stepped out slinging mud from his hooves. For his ward’s sake, Adron wanted to be out of the weather as soon as possible. The hazardous condition of the road and the constant need to deal with a frightened child tightened his nerves. Adron had never been more relieved to enter the warmth of his house, bringing the smell of the rain-soaked earth with him. Occasionally, the boy still whimpered and snubbed against his shoulder. Adron pulled his cloak away from his ward and rubbed his back. “We’re home now.”

This was a drastic action, however well-meaning. He grew. He saw the error of his ways, fell in love with the widowed mother, and freed her to follow her heart, or so he thought.

 

Adron tried for a reasonable tone but he couldn’t keep the hard edge out of his voice. “He threatened to kill her if she didn’t hand over the jewel. She didn’t even know the pendant existed until then and thankfully, Horace interrupted before the rogue did too much damage. Oather escaped out the window and down the side of the house before Horace could catch him.”

“But he’s been apprehended once. A reasonable man would make good on his escape with the stolen treasure he has, not try to gain more.”

“Your point is well taken but who’s to say he’s reasonable. Laurel considers him insane.”

George shrugged. “There’s no saying. By the way, why did you send Laurel to Landings in the first place?”

Adron hesitated. He hated to inform George of his good fortune but he’d allowed Laurel her freedom for this very reason. The least he could do was to follow through. “I restored her to her rightful position. She’s free to marry you now.”

“Free to marry me. Are you mad? I offered but she turned me down.”

Adron swallowed heavily. “That was before I allowed her to take Jamie when she marries. I decided to step out of her way. Offer again and she won’t turn you down.”

George threw up his hands in complete frustration. “Nonsense. It’s you she loves. If she couldn’t marry you, she preferred to remain a widow.”

Adron rolled his eyes. He tried to do the right thing and of all people, George kept standing in his way. He’d never thought of George as dull-witted before but his conclusions were preposterous.

“You’re saying she loves me?” Adron questioned and laughed in disbelief. “You have windmills in your head, my friend. She couldn’t possibly love me after the way I’ve treated her.”

“She admitted such when I offered for her.”

“She ran a rig on you, George but I’m not such a slow-top.” He spring into action. “That aside, I must go after her. I only hope I’m not too late.”

“I’ll ride along. You might need my help.”

 

I admit Lord Adron was very flawed. Family and duty meant everything to him. He changed, but I can see how he would have been much improved without so many flaws and harsh actions. You live and learn. From here forward, my heroes will exhibit heroic traits from the first page—I hope.

Below is an excerpt from my work in progress. I hope I’ve reached my goal with this hero.

The locomotive puffed into the station at Bittersweep, Texas belching ash from the smokestack. Elizabeth Campbell, her neck and shoulder muscles bunched with tension, folded the newspaper dated August 10, 1897 and positioned it under her arm. Curling her fingers around the handle of her carpetbag, she stepped out of the passenger car onto the wooden platform and drew a deep breath. The warm mid-day sun of late summer washed the scene in heat and vivid light, but did nothing to lessen the dark apprehension or the pain in her heart. Perhaps, I’ve made the biggest mistake of my life. I didn’t want to return, but I’m back. I need this teaching position desperately.

She followed her shadow into the shade afforded by the overhang of the roof to the train station’s ticket office. At least I may have a chance to discover what really happened fifteen years ago. Will my mother’s box still be there?

Allowing her gaze to survey the little settlement nestled deep in the piney woods of East Texas, she found much had changed. The sleepy community had grown into a small township. The once familiar dry dust kicked up by horses’ hooves, the creak of saddle leather, the rumble of wagon wheels rolling past, and boots tramping along the boardwalk remained relatively the same, only more so—more of everything—noise, people, and shops. Faint odors of roasting meat floated out from the inn dining room across the street and pummeled her with memories. Memories she couldn’t shake. Memories were one of the reasons she’d been afraid to return to Bittersweep. Still, now that she’d returned, she must find answers.

Tormenting glimpses from fifteen years ago flashed inside her head. The sounds of crackling, consuming fire, the acrid smell of smoke rising above the trees from where her home once stood, and the rattle of wheels beneath the wagon carrying her away from Bittersweep rose up to drag her back into the past. Her stomach knotted and she fought down the need to heave up the few bites of apple she’d eaten on the train. She swallowed forcing herself to relax.

She stepped off the platform and stared at the distant trees. For a brief moment, the noise faded, smells ceased to exist for her, and even the heat failed to penetrate. Tremors of pounding hooves vibrated through her feet coming closer and harder until the rattling of wagon wheels jerked her out of her reverie with a start, but in that confused instant she couldn’t move. The hammering of her heart obliterated all sounds again and the air swished from her lungs when she saw the out-of-control team bearing down on her. She tried to move out-of-the-way, but she remained paralyzed with fright.

Gloved hands grasped her shoulders jerking her back against a hard, lean body as the crazed horses stampeded past. Weak with relief and trembling from head to toe, she gradually gained control enough to realize she rested against a muscled male chest. The pounding of his heart echoed in her ears and against her back matching the rapid beat of her own. She glanced over her shoulder and looked up—way up into his hazel eyes, grim, hard and sparking with cold anger.

His gaze seemed to see everything, delving into her darkest secrets. Hostile, even repelled by the thread of tension he’d created, she still couldn’t break free. Her skin prickled with irritation and awareness where his fingers gripped her shoulders. She flinched, wanting to brush his touch away, to move out of his embrace, but she couldn’t break the contact, couldn’t find her voice, or prevent the heat of annoyance from covering her face.

“Lady, are you aiming to die?” he thundered. “You came mighty close to it.” He twisted her around to face him, his hands gripping her upper arms.

His sharp words brought her out of the trance. She blinked up at him, silent, stunned with reaction to her close call. When she failed to answer, the pressure of his hands on her shoulders increased, and she winced. “You’re hurting me.”

He dropped his hands, dipped his head with a little shake and exhaled heavily before gazing directly into her eyes again. “I don’t know how this came about—me apologizing to you. But I do beg pardon for the rough handling.”

FullSizeRender

Until next time, keep well, live long, and prosper.

Wareeze Woodson

for more information about my writing visit http://www.wareezewoodson.com

Posted in Soul Mate Publishing | Leave a comment

The Write Word with Wareeze

The Write Word with Wareeze—Flawed Heroes

Hello writers and readers. Thanks for sharing some of your precious time with me. Once again, we are in pursuit of writing excellence. Oh, if only we could reach that lofty goal. Reading about writing is often tedious. I hope you will find this SMP blog interesting and informative.

Today, I want to question the flawed hero. My first published work Conduct Unbecoming of a Gentleman has just such a hero—much hated as referenced by several of the reviewer’s disparaging comments. From the start, I understood a hero should exhibit flaws, but he must grow and change by the end of the book. He must come to understand he is wrong and pursue the means to improve and win the day.

I’ve come to understand, a hero must be a hero from the first moment he appears on the page. He can be mistaken, only slightly, and wrong-headed, but not flawed.

Example: My first hero had the best of intentions—the sorry jerk.

Final Conduct Unbecoming of a Gentleman #b copy

James Adron Gladrey, Earl of Kentwood rode off at a furious pace, the young boy in his arms. He cursed himself anew and gritted his teeth. The driver said the wheel hit a deep washout and started to tip but if he hadn’t chased the coach, perhaps the horses wouldn’t have bolted when the vehicle began to sway. Adron would never have forgiven himself if either his ward or the widow had been killed or crippled, but thankfully both mother and child were fine. Relaxing for the first time that day, he took a deep breath. The incident had ended well, better than he’d expected when his cousin, Rhonda, alerted him to the widow’s intention to flee with his ward.

The child’s sobs pulled his attention away from his thoughts. He wrapped the boy more securely in his cloak to protect him from the elements and attempted to sooth his frantic cries.

“Hush now. You’re safe with me,” he said in a steady tone.

Jamie calmed to a whimper. Adron’s stomach churned and he glanced over his shoulder. Torn between his actions and concern for the widow, he gritted his teeth and rode forward. He wouldn’t fail Robert again—not as he had in battle. Jamie was his to protect now and he would do so in spite of his sympathy for the heartless widow. If she followed her son, he’d reconsider his opinion, but he judged that to be highly unlikely.

He urged his horse to a faster clip and his mount stepped out slinging mud from his hooves. For his ward’s sake, Adron wanted to be out of the weather as soon as possible. The hazardous condition of the road and the constant need to deal with a frightened child tightened his nerves. Adron had never been more relieved to enter the warmth of his house, bringing the smell of the rain-soaked earth with him. Occasionally, the boy still whimpered and snubbed against his shoulder. Adron pulled his cloak away from his ward and rubbed his back. “We’re home now.”

This was a drastic action, however well-meaning. He grew throughout the book. He saw the error of his ways, fell in love with the widowed mother, and freed her to follow her heart, or so he thought.

Example of his change of heart:

Adron tried for a reasonable tone but he couldn’t keep the hard edge out of his voice. “He threatened to kill her if she didn’t hand over the jewel. She didn’t even know the pendant existed until then and thankfully, Horace interrupted before the rogue did too much damage. Oather escaped out the window and down the side of the house before Horace could catch him.”

“But he’s been apprehended once. A reasonable man would make good on his escape with the stolen treasure he has, not try to gain more.”

“Your point is well taken but who’s to say he’s reasonable. Laurel considers him insane.”

George shrugged. “There’s no saying. By the way, why did you send Laurel to Landings in the first place?”

Adron hesitated. He hated to inform George of his good fortune but he’d allowed Laurel her freedom for this very reason. The least he could do was to follow through. “I restored her to her rightful position. She’s free to marry you now.”

“Free to marry me. Are you mad? I offered but she turned me down.”

Adron swallowed heavily. “That was before I allowed her to take Jamie when she marries. I decided to step out of her way. Offer again and she won’t turn you down.”

George threw up his hands in complete frustration. “Nonsense. It’s you she loves. If she couldn’t marry you, she preferred to remain a widow.”

Adron rolled his eyes. He tried to do the right thing and of all people, George kept standing in his way. He’d never thought of George as dull-witted before but his conclusions were preposterous.

“You’re saying she loves me?” Adron questioned and laughed in disbelief. “You have windmills in your head, my friend. She couldn’t possibly love me after the way I’ve treated her.”

“She admitted such when I offered for her.”

“She ran a rig on you, George but I’m not such a slow-top.” He spring into action. “That aside, I must go after her. I only hope I’m not too late.”

“I’ll ride along. You might need my help.”

 

I admit Lord Adron was very flawed. Family and duty meant everything to him. He changed, but I can see how he would have been much improved without so many flaws and harsh actions. You live and learn. From here forward, my heroes will exhibit heroic traits from the first page—I hope.

Below is an excerpt from my work in progress. I hope I’ve reached my goal with this hero.

The locomotive puffed into the station at Bittersweep, Texas belching ash from the smokestack. Elizabeth Campbell, her neck and shoulder muscles bunched with tension, folded the newspaper dated August 10, 1897 and positioned it under her arm. Curling her fingers around the handle of her carpetbag, she stepped out of the passenger car onto the wooden platform and drew a deep breath. The warm mid-day sun of late summer washed the scene in heat and vivid light, but did nothing to lessen the dark apprehension or the pain in her heart. Perhaps, I’ve made the biggest mistake of my life. I didn’t want to return, but I’m back. I need this teaching position desperately.

She followed her shadow into the shade afforded by the overhang of the roof to the train station’s ticket office. At least I may have a chance to discover what really happened fifteen years ago. Will my mother’s box still be there?

Allowing her gaze to survey the little settlement nestled deep in the piney woods of East Texas, she found much had changed. The sleepy community had grown into a small township. The once familiar dry dust kicked up by horses’ hooves, the creak of saddle leather, the rumble of wagon wheels rolling past, and boots tramping along the boardwalk remained relatively the same, only more so—more of everything—noise, people, and shops. Faint odors of roasting meat floated out from the inn dining room across the street and pummeled her with memories. Memories she couldn’t shake. Memories were one of the reasons she’d been afraid to return to Bittersweep. Still, now that she’d returned, she must find answers.

Tormenting glimpses from fifteen years ago flashed inside her head. The sounds of crackling, consuming fire, the acrid smell of smoke rising above the trees from where her home once stood, and the rattle of wheels beneath the wagon carrying her away from Bittersweep rose up to drag her back into the past. Her stomach knotted and she fought down the need to heave up the few bites of apple she’d eaten on the train. She swallowed forcing herself to relax.

She stepped off the platform and stared at the distant trees. For a brief moment, the noise faded, smells ceased to exist for her, and even the heat failed to penetrate. Tremors of pounding hooves vibrated through her feet coming closer and harder until the rattling of wagon wheels jerked her out of her reverie with a start, but in that confused instant she couldn’t move. The hammering of her heart obliterated all sounds again and the air swooped from her lungs when she saw the out-of-control team bearing down on her. She tried to move out-of-the-way, but she remained paralyzed with fright.

Gloved hands grasped her shoulders jerking her back against a hard, lean body as the crazed horses stampeded past. Weak with relief and trembling from head to toe, she gradually gained control enough to realize she rested against a muscled male chest. The pounding of his heart echoed in her ears and against her back matching the rapid beat of her own. She glanced over her shoulder and looked up—way up into his hazel eyes, grim, hard and sparking with cold anger.

His gaze seemed to see everything, delving into her darkest secrets. Hostile, even repelled by the thread of tension he’d created, she still couldn’t break free. Her skin prickled with irritation and awareness where his fingers gripped her shoulders. She flinched, wanting to brush his touch away, to move out of his embrace, but she couldn’t break the contact, couldn’t find her voice, or prevent the heat of annoyance from covering her face.

“Lady, are you aiming to die?” he thundered. “You came mighty close to it.” He twisted her around to face him, his hands gripping her upper arms.

His sharp words brought her out of the trance. She blinked up at him, silent, stunned with reaction to her close call. When she failed to answer, the pressure of his hands on her shoulders increased, and she winced. “You’re hurting me.”

He dropped his hands, dipped his head with a little shake and exhaled heavily before gazing directly into her eyes again. “I don’t know how this came about—me apologizing to you. But I do beg pardon for the rough handling.”

FullSizeRender

Until we meet again, stay well, live long, and prosper.

Wareeze Woodson

For more information about my writing visit http://www.wareezewoodson.com

 

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Remembering Mom by Susan Hanniford Crowley

wedding photo

(Photo of John and Sultana Hanniford and me and my husband of 38 years now.)

Mother’s Day is coming up. My mom passed away in 2001. In her time, she saw me married and have little girls but missed much of what my present day life is like. When she was alive, she was a mother, wife and the maritime artist Sultana Hanniford.

My dad was in the Navy, so while he was out at sea, she painted on a little easel on the kitchen table. She painted in oils with a tiny palette knife and sometimes little splatters of paint went flying when she worked.

As a teen, my sister and I were my mom’s crew for setting up her displays at outdoor art shows. I still remember how proud she was selling her first painting for $35 and hanging an envelope with the money inside on the wall for my dad to see when he arrived home. After a while, she was invited to gallery shows. Then she had patrons. Near the end of her career, her paintings sold for a lot and she helped me pay for college.

Then one day, my dad called me up because he was afraid something was wrong with her. She was in the kitchen painting as usual. I walked in and she asked me to look at the painting because the rigging on the schooner was off. Maybe I could advise her. There was no ship only a canvas painted in solid blue.

A doctor’s diagnosis said Alzheimer’s and slowly she faded from life until she passed away in 2001.

Besides being a loving mother, she taught me to never give up. Being an artist was hard. There were times when it seemed nothing went well, but she persevered. She wouldn’t give up. Mom taught me that. If you have a passion in life, don’t give it up!

I know she would be proud that my newest novel Vampire Princess of New York is scheduled to come out in print on July 4th.  Thank you, Soul Mate Publishing, and thank you, Mom!

-Susan
Susan Hanniford Crowley, Amazon Kindle Bestselling Author of Vampire Romance
www.susanhannifordcrowley.com
Where love burns eternal and whispers in the dark!

NEW: Vampire Princess of New York, Arnhem Knights of New York, Book 2 available in Kindle! Anticipated Print Release on July 4th! YAY!

vampireprincessofnewyork1  top10novelr
Vampire King of New York, Arnhem Knights of New York, Book 1 available in Kindle and Print and  Barnes and Noble Print

vampyrekingofnewyork_600from-blog  2014-Nominee

 

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SCHOOL FIELD TRIPS

Good morning everyone! I should have had this post up before now but life has been pretty crazy for me lately. My family and I are moving into a new house in less than 2 weeks, school is out in 8 days, and field trips are out of control! 🙂

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Speaking of field trips, I went on one yesterday and I have one today.

Yesterday my family went to Silver Dollar City with our youngest two kids. Talk about crazy!! Imagine 7 hrs of 5 groups of 5th graders taking off in different directions getting soaking wet, riding terrifying roller coasters, and eating gooey, sticky foods….Yay, you get the idea. 🙂

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Today I’m riding a school bus with my oldest to the Pea Ridge National Battlefield Park. It to s a great place to learn about the “olden days”. We get to visit actual homesteads from the 1800’s and see how people lived and survived back then. Plus, we get to watch a reenactment of a great civil war battle. Pretty cool right?

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Field trips are noisy, hetic, and nerve racking. But they are fun. I highly recommend you go on as many field trips as possible if you don’t already.

Think about it. You get to do fun things with your kids and see new things, have great experiences. I wouldn’t miss them for the world. Your kids are only little once and then you blink your eyes and then they are adults. I dont like that at all. But I love field trips with my kids!

I apologize if this post is shorter than most but even as I’m typing this, I’m on a school bus. I have not been on a school bus since I was in school and that’s been…well, let’s just say its been several years. 😉

I hope you enjoyed this post and please make sure to make the most of the crazy, fun field trips at school. They don’t last forever! 🙂

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Use Themes to Enrich Your Novels

My super organized, left-brained engineering husband often points out themes in movies, which is surprising since he isn’t exactly artsy. He’ll say, “Notice this movie has a lot of water.” Or he’ll mention, “That film uses the color red throughout.” Once he said, “Have you noticed all the circles in this movie?” Nope. I hadn’t. At least I hadn’t until he drilled this phenomenon into my head EVERY TIME we watched a movie.

I was impressed with his observational skills and learned he took a film studies class in college. Now, it all makes sense. Studying directors, producers, and mainly the films themselves was not a requirement for his mechanical engineering degree, but this elective class has stuck with him for decades–and it inspired me. The more he talked about this concept, the more I started noticing recurring themes in movies. Now, I try to beat him to the punch so I can determine the recurring thread before he does.

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I wondered how I could use this concept in my writing. When I came up with my newest contemporary romance, SLEEPING WITH ELVIS, I decided my hunky Elvis impersonator would hang out on fictional Key Lime Island between gigs. And so would his cursing parrot! (Hey, everyone needs a cursing parrot.)

With a name like Key Lime Island, the theme fell into place easily. I used key lime EVERYTHING, as well as the color lime green. Here are a few examples:

  • The cute-meet between my hero Ty, the Elvis impersonator, and Pepper, the heroine who is stranded on Key Lime Island, occurs during a key lime pie-eating contest! Who wouldn’t fall for a gorgeous guy with green fluff all over his face?
  • There’s a Key Lime B&B which sells key lime cookbooks in the lobby, has clear vases filled to the brim with limes, and of course, lime green comforters are in the guest rooms.
  • Ty and Pepper have an interesting scene at the Key Lime Ice Cream Shoppe with boasts orange, yellow, and of course, lime green chairs and a lime green awning.
  • There’s a Key Lime Marina and many beach houses use the island’s team color. You get the idea.

It’s fairly easy to incorporate a color, shape, or element such as water or fire in a novel. Just ask movie directors. They do it all the time. Why shouldn’t novelists? Have you used a recurring theme in your novel? If you haven’t incorporated this novel concept (pun intended), try it!

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Follow me on Amazon to read my award-winning novels and children’s picture books at http://www.amazon.com/authors/bethcarter

 

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The Allure of Vamps – Elle Hill

Why do we love vampires so much? I’m not gonna lie: I adore them with an undead vampire-caninespassion. With few exceptions, these fictional masters of the night embody, literally and symbolically, the epitome of coolness: super strong, super sexy, super rich, super sophisticated, super color coordinated. But with the hand of authorly godliness, I can make anyone all those things. What is it about vampires in particular that fascinates and rivets us?

Obviously, we love the idea that these creatures live forever. I mean, not to be a bummer, but at best, we puny mortals can expect to stick around a max of 100 or so years. This is but an eyeblink in an undead’s life! To folks, especially in Western, youth-worshipping, death-denying cultures, this can seem pretty sexy. And unlike zombies or ghosts, vampires remain not only corporeal but forever young. Heck, not only are they young, but they’re beautiful. This is never more apparent when Bella becomes a vampire in the Twilight Series. She not only remains an eternal 18-year-old, but she gets a vampire makeover that makes her achingly beautiful. Because apparently, becoming a vampire means rejecting mortality while embracing all its beauty ideals!

This can seem pretty alluring, given how terrified we Western citizens are of death. It’s no coincidence that the vampire emerged as a popular culture staple in the late 19th century, when the industrial era reached its height. In the 19th and 20th centuries, industrial Westerners moved away from farms and into the arms of cities and institutions – like hospitals, mortuaries, meat packing plants, and nursing homes — that increasingly removed reminders and realities of death from our everyday lives. As our life expectancies expanded thanks to medicine and hygiene and we learned to live cleaner, more hermetically sealed lives, death loomed more and more like a bogeyperson.

What better way to sort of face our fear of death while simultaneously soothing us that death could be beautiful, sexy, and most of all, UNdead?

All this is to say nothing about vampires and their oh-so-convenient wealth and nobility. Because becoming a vampire turns former humans into investing geniuses and, anachronistically but compellingly, also royalty? Oh, whatever. If being a vampire means sporting a bored, goth aesthetic for all eternity while reveling in my newfound brokering skills, sign me up.

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How (My) Writing is Like Sausage Making by Rebecca Heflin

Untitled design (1)Laws are like sausages, it is better not to see them being made. – Otto von Bismarck

Well, Chancellor von Bismarck, the same can be said of my writing. I’m smack-dab in the middle of my latest WIP, and it’s looking a whole lot like a bunch of ground up meat and spices ready to be stuffed into sausage casings.

I’ve got a bunch of scenes (in no particular order), no chapter breaks, and a bunch of notes with ideas for additional scenes. I’ve also got some very polished scenes, alongside notes for future research, some half-baked dialogue, and even a few scenes that will likely be throwaways. It ain’t pretty.

Every one of my WIPs has gone through this stage, and I never fail to wonder if it will ever come together and actually look like a sausage, er, a book.

First, I should point out that I am an, ahem, organic writer.  I start with a premise and then figure out where the story goes as I write it. It’s part of the fun. And the torture.

Sometimes I wish I was one of those writers who plotted everything out to the nth degree. The ones who outline every plot point, turning point, and black moment. But alas, I am not. Which is rather strange, since everything else in my life is organized down to the last detail.

But maybe that’s why my WIPs are so messy. My life is so structured that it’s the one place I get to doodle, daydream, dabble in my metaphorical finger paints, and otherwise let my imagination run wild. Even if it is a little messy. Like making sausage.

How do you write? Are you the linear, engineering type? Or do you lean toward the sausage-maker like me?

 

 

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