Subdued Intrinsic

You may think, "Wait, what? Traffic guards, as in those people who stand at four-ways and crosswalks directing cars and kids just before and after school hours?"

Yes. Them.  We have two at my sons' elementary school.

First off, on the corner before one gets to the actual entrance of the school, there is a Grumpy Old Man. He is such a very clearly Grumpy Old Man he deserves caps to express his grumpy old man-ness. He's new this year. I don't like him. I want our scrawny, ball-cap-wearing, three-packs-a-day-smoking guy from last year back. He understood my blasting "We Will Rock You" from my windows as I drove by on Fridays was a sacred thing between myself and sons, and he realized it is totally cool to enjoy a rousing play of "Low Rider" in  a minivan that seats seven. Also, he knew what the hell he was doing.

Not the case with Grumpy Old Man. GrOM, for lack of a more sensitive way of saying it, is not only grumpy, but he is wibbly-wobbly without the timey-wimey fun. Now, to be fair, I suspect judging solely on his physique he's recently gone through a necessary and rapidly successful gastric bypass surgery. In other words, I think he's lost quite a lot of weight in a short amount of time, and much of his skin just hasn't enough wibbly-wobbly to catch up, yet. Meanwhile, he cannot direct traffic. Not because of his body, but because he can't seem to get the concept of, "You point in the direction you WANT the cars TO GO." Instead he does a sort of hoppy, skippy, jig step, points in three directions, whistles out his lungs, and tries to glare the oncoming cars and their drivers into submission. We're never sure where he's going with this, and I think we're all just profusely hoping the damage will be minimal when we all pile up because of him.

If GrOM where telling a story, he'd tell it in stops and sprints, all out of order, and with a bullying tendency to beat the reader over the head with plot points. I wouldn't like that story much, would you?

Meanwhile, our other traffic guard is a spry-if-plump older lady who looks like she could eat the Big Bad Wolf for breakfast, until she smiles and then you realize she's just a granny and cookies appear out of nowhere. She stands right in the point of a T where the lines meet, regulating cars coming from the street in front of the school onto the road that winds up into the Car Line (where you drop off and pick up your kids, FYI), and back onto the front street from the Car Line. It takes a bit of finessing the pace. How many cars to let in before you stop them so other cars can get out? What if a car comes from, or needs to go in a different direction? Don't you worry, she's got it. Her movements are precise, distinct, clear. Let in X# of cars, raise hand to indicate stop. Pause to step back two steps, motion for current number of cars in Car Line to exit. Repeat as necessary. Make calculated adjustments for cars coming from the left-hand side of the road (almost all of us come from the right), and for cars wishing to exit right from the Car Line. If the cars were scenes, excepting the "adjustments" cars, which we'll consider plots twists, Spry Granny controls the pace with grace. Scenes flow by smoothly, twists are not slammed into the traffic, but gently, stealthily maneuvered in, and all of it with a stony expression that becomes a sincerely warm smile in the flick of a reflective-striped wrist.

I don't know about you, but I'd much rather be a Spry Granny writer than GrOM.

Personal Note: My cat is named Fable. He thinks he is a dog, or maybe an owlet, and despite his feline anatomy, he loves baths. He seriously tries to sneak into the tub while the boys bathe, and when I take off his collar he KNOWS he's about to get a bath, so he starts mewing at me excitedly.

Well, probably not, but it makes for a catchy title regarding at least one subject in this post, specifically, the one about my husband suggesting I blog book reviews full time.

It's difficult for me to explain to him why the idea of book blogging being a responsibility. There's the time thing, but that's not really that important. I could handle the commitment to the clock. It's that whole thing with taking something you love and making it an obligation. Voluntarily. It's bad enough getting my editorial lobe to shut up (now I've learned so much about writing) while reading without throwing in purposely dissecting a book so I can take it apart later, publicly. I hate the thought of that.

But of course, my husband thinks, "Hey, she loves reading, she's great at it, she likes telling people about books, it's the perfect thing for her to do for some side cash," (thinking more of advertising, here). Um, no. His heart is totally in the right place, completely, but still no.

Turns out watching  the whole nineteen episodes of My So-Called Life over about three days will totally help you if you're in a slump regarding introspective characters. Also with remembering the best flammables to fuel teen angst. So, like, thanks, or whatever, Angela and Jordan.

Personal Note: I hold completely useless grudges against people I don't even know. Or maybe it's better to say I lose respect for them, and after that I can't see them the same way ever again.  Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt, the way they handled the commencement of their relationship was just crude and callous. And speaking (indirectly) of Claire Danes, she and Billy Cruddup got together while Cruddup's girlfriend of many year was still pregnant with his baby. I used to love Claire Danes, and I'm fond of what little work I've seen of Cruddup's, but just knowing the man didn't keep to his obligations (as I consider them--we won't be getting into the "He can still be a great father," arguments--I know that), and Danes's complicity therein, it's like there's the cloud, this pall over all the professional stuff they do.  These people (yes, I realize I'm a bit particularly tetchy about cheating) have lost honor in my eyes, and that makes a difference to me.

Some other writer friends and I recently took on the topic of number of main characters in books, whether multiple main characters were a good idea in general, or if that was the kind of thing someone really had to have a gift for in or to pull it off.  Here's what I wrote about it.


As for viewpoints, I'm with Phi* and this reader person, if for no other reason, as a reader I am extremely loyal to the first character I identify with. If there are two potential (good guy) heroes, I root for the first one, and I invest myself in him wholly, resenting any intrusion on my hopes for him. I'm like this with pretty much all story-related things; books, movies, actors portraying characters.

As for WRITING viewpoints, multiple or otherwise, it's weird, but I look at it like a video game. A good game doesn't just have the game-play itself (the fighting, strategizing, reaching a goal, etc), or just one storyline. A really pleasurable game has one main storyline or plot and several (sometimes optional, sometimes not) "side quests". Now, the idea of a secondary storyline, or side story, isn't new, but done well, with connective tissue with the main storyline, it works brilliantly for the making of a full-bodied, wholly immersive** tale, which is something you want, either as a player or a reader.

I enjoy writing this way. I enjoy large casts whose stories--either as the main impetus or a sideline--carry over through multiple books. Not everyone in the 'cast' will have a huge amount of screen-time, but their every interaction should do one of two things: make something happen, or make more sense of something that has already happened.

Writing in first person, it's very clear who the 'main" character is, who her love interest is, and the tier-style of importance of each supporting character. Joss isn't only the main character of the Dionadir books, but she is also the filter through whom we understand the books' world and populace.


And that's pretty much how I feel about structure regarding emphasis on characters and viewpoint. It's kind of a shading system; You have your darkest lines, your main character, but you need entire gradients to create an accurate perception of someone or something.

* Phillipa Fioretti, author of The Book of Love, out now, and the upcoming  The Fragment of Dreams.

** Apparently, I've made up my own word, here. Please take note and add it to your dictionaries, digital, mental, and paperback Webster's, if you've got one. *grin*

(With apologies to Shakespeare's Fates)

Personal Note: It's almost inevitable I'll "steal" st least one article of my husband's clothing during the day. He's not thrilled with it, but as long as I stay away from his most beloved sweatshirts or whatever he doesn't complain too loudly*. I usually keep it to a tee shirt or his socks, but I sometimes steal his belt (YAY! for "wiry" men!), and I pretty much steal his old Vaan's EVERY DAY because I don't want to dig out my ballet slipper Skechers to pick up the boys from school.

He hates that most of all. Hee.

Some people call it 'planning'. Evil people and book people (not a mutally exclusive or inclusive couple of species) call it plotting. Either way, it means thinking ahead. Two things have brought these things to the forefront of my thoughts (besides, you know, writing a novel).

First, the amazingly upbeat, gracious, and intuitive Jodi Meadows has written a post about the need for authors to challenge characters. If you're writing a book, or think you might one day want to take a crack at writing one, I HIGHLY advise you get over there and bookmark that post. Jodi tackles the 'lesson' in such a way that both visual and practical thinkers alike will be able to take away something valuable from it. I'd describe the post in more detail, but it's better if you just go over there and see for yourself.

Secondly, this morning I was a little off my game getting boys to school, and my brain was assimilating info in weird orders. For one thing, I have my young nephew A. today, and it's been a while since I've had a four-year-old. He falls into that gap between my own three boys, so I was kind of at a loss about what to do with him for a while. I knew the novelty of A's presence would make the boys scatterbrained, too. So, I was rushing around, trying to think ahead.

Turns out I didn't need to try so hard. After A, Ben, and I got back from taking older boys to school, I grabbed my glasses, a bowl of cereal, and pair of socks, and planned to put them all to good use. I reached to put on my glasses, thinking clearly to myself, "I am putting on my glasses, now", but I didn't put on my glasses. some back part of my brain somewhere informed the voluntary action part of my brain, "Hey, wait a minute. We need control of the girl for just a second for maintenance reasons" and that back part instructed my hand to rub my eyes and my nose, and wipe my face. My brain was already thinking ahead. Instead of putting on my glasses only to have to take them back off again, my brain knew the better order was "Rub, rub, wipe, THEN put on glasses". My brain 'overrode' me.

What does this mean about plotting? Is it a cautionary tale against trying too hard? Do we instinctively know all the who's, what's, what's, when's, and why's of storytelling, but we're so focused on 'getting it perfect' we forget we know them. I think sometimes we need to put all our 'parts' in front of ourselves and just take a deep breath. The big picture might come into better focus.

*Also, I think it helps I explained a big part of this clothing theft involves me feeling closer to him while he's at work . . . except the shoes, of course. That's just pure laziness on my part. *wink*

Personal Note: I like broccoli better than any other veggie. I know, I know, I'm a radical. Also, people seem to either really love my hair or absolutely hate it, and it's kind of surprising, who's on which side of the fence.

Top of the list, give blood. You have to weigh at least one-hundred-and-ten pounds. I've never weighed that outside of being pregnant.

But just after that? Take grown up medications for anything, especially anything of the cold/allergy/sinus variety. Why? Because they make me super-loopy. If you've been one of those extremely kind of helpful people to read past drafts of the first Dionadir novel you likely know there's a scene in which Joss gets the flu hardcore, and you'll remember her mentioning something about looking for the Meaning of Life chillin' in the fridge, a side-effect of her cold medicine high. That detail is based in fact, my own life around the time I was sixteen, actually*. I'd contracted Mono (as had our entire marching band--we'd all shared the same water fountain at practices and our drum major had spread the love around, so to speak) and was having a lot of trouble sleeping because I felt so awful. The doctor I saw put me on ten milligrams of Benedryl before bed every night. Yeah . . . that was an interesting two weeks. I might as well have been dropping acid every night (something I've not actually done, but I'm guessing here) for all the psychedelic shenanigans my brain ran me through. I even remembered to write down some of my thoughts. I think my letters to my boyfriend-at-the-time, Michael, and my friends were probably hilarious and riddled with hidden meanings only a drugged version of me could interpret now.

But you want to know something even sillier? In between bouts of insanely hard sleeping (I go out like you would not believe, or maybe I just don't believe it because normally I'm the lightest of sleepers) I get this . . . I don't know, giggly burst of productive energy (hence this blog post, you know?) and STUFF GETS DONE, BUCKO!

Earlier today I finally sat myself down--after having index carded every scene in the book last night--and physically put them in a really good, sense-making, tension-holding, heart-tugging order. And now I just have to surgery those suckers into a book worth NOT putting down, because my cold-medicined brain is shooting in fourteen different directions and all of them are made of PURE WIN . . .

At least until I pass out again, dead to the world as far as everything else is concerned.

But first! I must conquer a kitchen!

*Though I still maintain my best friend describing her behavior on Robitussin and/or sleep deprivation is the funniest thing I've ever heard. Patrick Swayze and a space so thin a piece of paper wouldn't fit in it were mentioned.

Personal Note: My husband’s pretty freakin’ awesome.  Just sayin’. Also, I finally got around to organizing all my playlists by the character(s) each song applies to. I had all my very favorites kind of grouped together for a little while, and now they’re in different lists. I told N. it was like sending off my babies to different foster homes. He laughed at me and called me weird. Because he knows he’s cute enough to get away with it.

I’ve decided my writing style is a lot like my hair; there’s a lot of it, but it’s very long and thin, and it takes many, many steps to get it anywhere near manageable. Now, with my hair, this means anywhere from two to four hours (are we coloring it, because if we are . . . well, you know). With a book, my experience is that it takes closer to two years.  I’m not sure this will always be the case; I dealt with quite a learning curve for the first one.  The point is:

Step One: Grow it. Either several inches or several thousand words, this part takes a large chunk of your time. For some people it’s not the step with the longest span, but it can be. I can’t get my hair to grow quickly to save my life, but I can pound out 135K words in two and a half months.

Step Two: Wash it. Get all the yuck out of it. Scrub it for hairspray, over-used phrases, conditioner build-up, adverbs, oils, and typos.

Step Three: Rinse and repeat. Once, for you Michael Kelso fans.

Step Four: if you’re not coloring, Condition. Put a good timed repair creme on there and wait. Put your manuscript in a safe, child-proof, moisture-proof, plagiarism-proof drawer and wait. You’ll gain softness. You’ll gain subtlety.

Step Four B. If you are coloring (*ahem* picture books), do that first, and then move on to Step Four.

Step Five: Cut. Everyone needs at least a little trim to kill split ends, or perhaps split infinitives. Besides, whatever you had before Step Four, probably a good quarter (inch?) of it looks ripe for the shearing.  Be bold.  You could find just the right look, the right book, for you under there somewhere.

Step Six: Apply heat. Curling iron, flattening wand, crimper, or just a blow-out, you still need to go back and smooth out all those rough edges. Also, this is your chance to really make your style, the verve that’s uniquely you, shine through. Take it to the max!

Step Seven: The Consult. Call up your most honest, most loyal friend (critique group), and have them come over and check out the results. They will tell you if you have lost your ever-loving mind. Listen to them; they love you, and want what’s best for you(r book), just like you do.

Step Eight*: Assuming you’ve gotten the thumbs-up from your pals, add in whatever styling products you need to keep that hot mess in its hot messiness. You want to SAVE, SAVE, SAVE the end result. Sometimes this takes more than one gel, spray, mouse, act of nuclear illegality. For me, it takes a minimum of four (2 Hard drives, one flash drive, and an email record—Or mousse, spray, prayer, and a local de-humidifier).

And that’s why writing a book is like messing with my hair.

*Step Eight should actually be broken up into many fragments over the course of the entire proposition. As in, EVERY FIVE SECONDS.

I'm not sure I could ever be perky as either Lorelai or Rory Gilmore, even though I adore them to bits. I realize this morning (as I was waking up, so possibly fear) I'm more of a Lane Kim. I am totally cool with that.

As a little girl I was truly, madly, deeply in love with sugar. I even remember one occasion when three of my cousins and I stayed up till after all the adults had crashed, then all four of us snuck down to the kitchen and had ourselves a brown sugar extravaganza. I was probably around six or seven. Just imagine it, dozens of miniature Barbie teacups and containers, carefully packed with a very tanned version of sugarcane, and spirited away to be consumed amongst shushed giggles.

I also didn't consider something "dessert" unless it had 80 percent of its calories from something over-refined and under-recommended. People tried to tell me fruit and nuts were sweet, but I was pretty sure those people were herbally influenced, and therefore didn't know what they were talking about.

It's still true as an official grown-up I'm the the junk food junkie/sugar-toothed one between my husband and myself. It's one of the ways I know I'm actually thirty, not 20, like the mirror might have me believe. But, I've learned the subtlety of sweetness. I can put one of the hard-won pecans* from the tree in our back yard and distinguish all the flavors, including sweet, as my tongue runs through them.

I have also learned (though in no way mastered) the sweetness of subtlety. See what I did there, with the word swapping? I'm realizing presentation is at least half of what makes a good story worth hearing. It's not enough just to take all your nifty facts and figures out there, with a neon sign blinking, "This is a PLOT POINT! Revel in the genius/tragedy/sneakiness of it!" It's not enough to know your story, or novel, or whatever. You have to know it well enough to know just how to tell it. Or sell it, as the case may be.

It's a fine line, one I need a lot more practice at. My writing is a lot like my cooking, I think; anybody'll tell you the food I put in front of them is usually pretty nom-worthy (I have a tendency to ignore or eye ball measurements, so sometimes my experiments fail, another way my writing and cooking are alike), but there's been some Devine intervention involved if the food doesn't look like something that came out the waste end of a nuclear reactor. Hey, I'm keeping it real here, people.

So, kiddos, question for today: Where do you consider the line between subtlety and confusion to lie (lay? Hey, Authoress, gimme a hand here)?

*If you need some pecans for a pie or something, come on over. Our tree went insane this year and they're really good.

Personal Note: When I was about four years old my mother put out a dish of milk for our cat, Cherry Kitty (ironically a straight black and white mix), during a very hot summer. Afraid the milk would spoil and make Cherry sick, I put the dish in the fridge . . . but then Cherry couldn't get to it, so what to do?

Four hours later I remember I'd left the cat in the fridge as well. Because I'd put her in to be close to the milk. That I didn't want spoiling.

The cat turned out fine and in a grand example of Nature stumping me once again, after that I was just about the ONLY person she wouldn't bite or scratch.

So kids, just proof we all do stupid, crazy crap and it can always turn out okay. Don't let it get you down.

Hi, my name is Amethyst and I am writing my first novel series, collectively (tentatively?)known as The Guardian Trilogy. If you've been following along you know I am on the final 'hand it off to smarter people than me' polish of Silver, the first novel, and have just begun the first draft of book two (so far I think I'm following all the advice).

But! While I'm not a linear thinker (at all) I am a linear plotter, which just means I can't plan these things out of order. I can't do as some people do and write the last bits first or write the last book second or whatever. I write the first book. I edit the first book. I write the second book, etc. And I plot that way. When I wrote the first book I wasn't entirely sure what would happen in the second book and even less in the third. I mean, I had some ideas, I wasn't going blind, but nothing so organized as a proper outline or anything. Even my concept of 'outline' is a fuzzy, blotchy, sometimes-bulleted page of factoids, and that works for me, but it isn't particularly mainstream.

So! How excited was I this past week when first I woke up just knowing (in a very un-Nick Cage kind of way) who was doing what and whyfore in book two (commonly known as Golden), and then yesterday characters in book three (Bronze) kept whispering conclusions in my ear, tying up loose ends and basically blowing my mind (let me tell you, one of them is a real hag, too!) as Nathanael and I drove to see Transformers: Rise of the Fallen? I actually had to sit down and write a Fact Sheet/Things We Know about Bronze today to make sure I didn't lose any of it.

It's really wild just how much . . . firmer everything feels now. It's like the little plot bunnies I knew about hooked up and birthed enough other plot-bunnies to fill in all the gaps and now I know what all's going to happen, it is on like DONKEY KONG, BABY!!