Showing posts with label Celia. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Celia. Show all posts

Monday, November 25, 2013

On Seeds of Ideas and Outlines

This weekend, I was asked, "When you started writing LitD, did you do any prewriting or note taking or any system for organizing your ideas first? Or did you just jump write in and start writing? I only ask because...I started getting little seeds for a novel...trying to figure out a way to develop turning those seeds into a basic plot line is sort of tough right now. So I just wondered how you started out initially in the planning/writing process."

This is actually something I talked to the hubby about recently. Those of you who follow me on twitter and Facebook know I've been working on another novel, which I have tentatively titled WINTER ON BRIMSTONE HILL. It's a **very** fictionalized version of my life growing up on the farm. I was telling  my hubby that I'm having a harder time plotting it than I did LitD. His response was, "Well, LitD was inspired, right? This one is more...work." And it's true. LitD was the story I had to tell because it wouldn't leave me alone until I told it. I did minimal plotting. My characters introduced themselves to me and--it sounds cliche--they made everything in my novel happen.

That's not to say there wasn't any pre-writing. It took me a wicked long time to learn my MC Celia. Unlike the other characters, she had to spend much more time explaining herself. It look me somewhere between 3,000 to 5,000 words (which eventually all got cut) so I could get to get to know her. You know, this. I already wrote about it here.

The funny thing is I hadn't a plot in mind when I started writing LitD. I had a setting. I knew I wanted Celia in the Woods, but that was it. To me, the Woods would be where Celia came of age. So at first there was this big empty gap from the first fifteen pages until she got to the Woods. It wasn't until she spent some time in the Woods that I finally figured out a way for her to get there.

I tend to be organized. I like lists. Except, none of those propensities came out when I wrote LitD. I never once thought I'd be a "pantser" when it came to writing a book. Even by the time I got to the final chapters of LitD, I hadn't known exactly how it would end. When I wrote the last page, I was in disbelief. Could LitD possibly be over?

Now that I'm working on WINTER ON BRIMSTONE HILL, I'm finding that each time I attempt to plot, it gets lost, and the writing doesn't come as naturally. I've got about 20,000 words written, but right now their basic sketches of the characters instead of plot. My working outline has changed a lot since I originally started it. It's still very much taking shape.

WINTER was similar to what the person who asked me this question posed. It started with two sentences; I started to explore them. That's how I discovered Sarah (although, I might change her name). I took the two lines--"She rolled over to check if the milk was frozen. It was."--and played with the scene the two lines offered me. After I had about 3 pages typed, I changed it to first person and saw what happened. I liked it better. I had to alter some things, but it felt more genuine. Then I wrote some more, and as I kept writing, I kept slipping into first person present. So I went back and changed it to that. 

Each time I did this, I'd get this little nubbin of an idea of who Sarah is and what her world entails. I keep getting a better sense of plot. My current manuscript has all those pieces scattered between paragraphs and chapters and added to the end. Sometimes they're just lines that I've since elaborated upon, and sometimes they're tiny bits of plot. 

I wrote this way with LitD, but with LitD it felt more organized, less fragmented. I'm definitely not organized with WINTER, and it's certainly fragmented. I only have a couple scenes that have transitions into other scenes. I'm still learning about Sarah's life. I've got a good idea what I want to have happen to her, but I haven't made it "fit" yet.

I guess the whole thing I've learned so far is that I'm a pantser. I can't seem to stick to an outline; I prefer to let my characters decide what's going to happen. When I do that, the writing feels more natural. And hey, if it feels that way, it's gotta come across that way in my writing, right?

Monday, July 15, 2013

I Wrote the Wrong Book

I overthink everything.  Nothing new there.  So when someone says something to me, I usually mull it over for a really long time, and then I replay the conversation in my head until I've satisfyingly rewritten it into something much better than what it was.  In my replay, I'm wittier, I'm well-spoken, and I come up with a response that is so profound the Greek philosophers wish they were the ones who thought it.  Okay, maybe not the last one, but a girl can wish, right?

So my most recent Overthink began nearly a month ago (yes, I'm still thinking about it).  Because it pertains to my writing career--and current lack of one--I decided to share it here.

The initial comment:  "I'm telling you.  You wrote the wrong book."

Let's put aside the fact that it was said with genuine feeling and meant to bolster my opinion of myself.  That's aside.  It's gone.  I don't want to talk about that.  I get that.

Of course, no author wants to be told she wrote the wrong book.  I've put serious time into LitD.  I don't watch television anymore.  I lost fifteen pounds.  I haven't sewn a dress in ages.  My shelves of canned goods are bare, while the empty Ball jars in the basement are overflowing.  I put on fifteen pounds.  This is what LitD has done--is doing--to my life.  So when someone tells me I wrote the wrong book, I'm all like, "You wrote the wrong book.  So there!  Take that!"  Finger snap and everything.  Well, maybe not that. Okay, definitely not that.

Actually, I feel a little sad.  I *love* LitD, but now the seed of doubt is sown, and I can't stop thinking about how maybe all this time has been wasted energy.  You see, I'm the type of person who has to be perpetually busy.  I don't like lounging in bed after the alarm goes off because there's just too much to do.  And now that maybe I've written the wrong book, I can't stop thinking about how hours upon hours of work might amount to nothing more than someone else's really long marathon of the Bachelorette.

Want to know the other reason why I'm obsessing so much about this? Because a few days later, I got the same message in an email.  The person who sent it shall remain nameless, but here is a small piece of that email:

As I read LitD, I could not help but think that Celia was you. That you went into the darkness and came out a bonafide hero. How could that not be cool? So get the science fiction thing on the page (whether it's you or not). And then tell your own story. The strength of your character, the person you are inside is far more interesting and heroic. I am not shitting you now, either (just ask your husband. I'm sure he knows.). You are a remarkable young woman. The world deserves to see that.

And then, oh wait, I get another email from a different person about a week after that:

i got the sense...that you had an extraordinary childhood---like serious fear and trauma, and all kinds of stuff you didn't go into when you were talking about being a kid. i hope at some point that you write about it---as fiction, as memoir---whatever gets you into the material. because the great consolation in being a writer is that you begin to control your history, you use it and shape it and transform it. and you could make something really rich and deep out of growing up as april. sooner or later, when you're ready, that's the stuff....think about it, for after you're done with the current novel.

So maybe neither of these emails said I wrote the wrong book, but they say essentially the same thing: maybe I'm not meant to be a science fiction writer. Maybe I should focus on writing that other story, the one that I haven't penned.  There are many reasons why I haven't.  The biggest, though, is that I feel if I tell That Story, then there won't be any stories left in me to tell.  THAT would be...sad.

Now I think about it all the time.  Actually, I'm obsessing over it.  Like losing sleep obsessing.  Like getting sad and angry for no reason obsessing.  Ask my husband.  He'll tell you.  Or don't ask him, because that will be weird.  He'll have no clue who you are.  It's just that...I want to be so much better than I am.  I want everything.  I want it all.  And I don't want even a little bit less.

Here is part of my response to the second email:

I want to be fantastic for what I do, not for what was done to me. Think of Patrick Stewart.  Everyone knows him because he's such a fantastic actor.  His childhood wasn't great either, but people don't know him for that.  And he didn't become loved because of it.  People know it now, but really only after he made himself.  I want to make myself first, too.  

"They" say write what you like to read, and LitD is what I like to read, so that's where my energy has been this year.  Maybe it won't go anywhere, but maybe it will.  Maybe it will just be a stepping stone on to something better.  We shall see.

I haven't responded to the first email yet, because I just can't figure out what to say.  I guess I'll do that after this blog post.  It's only polite.

So--Is LitD the book I wasn't meant to write? I can't say yet. I *want* it to be the right book.  I wish beyond wish that it is the right book.  But to quote a fantastic novel--The world is not a wish granting factory.

This is where I get a pep talk from you, oh strangers of the internet world.

Wednesday, July 3, 2013

I've Come a Long Way

This post will likely bore you, but it's here for my own sake.  I make no secret of my hopes, doubts, fears, and excitement concerning LitD.  I spend countless hours each week on it, sometimes to the exclusion of all but my child and husband.  And every so often I start to feel like maybe, just maybe I'm wasting my time.  Then I feel a little better and I'm all let's-get-this-novel-published-yay again.  But between the depressive-and-you-think-you're-a-real-writer and the happy-jolly-sunshine-lollypops moments, I need to remind myself of how far LitD has come.

Well, here are the first six drafts of my opening.  (Note: I say I am only on the fifth draft of LitD, which is true, but there are little drafts within the big drafts.  If I had to count all the little drafts, I'm probably on the twentieth to two-hundredth draft.)  These drafts remind me that, yes, LitD has come a long way.  That, in itself, is worthwhile.  This is worthwhile.

Anything in bold is new, and anything striked out is, well, striked out from the previous version.

DRAFT #1
My name is Celia Mayflower, and I was an A student.   Not just any A student, but the A Student. I was what would have been called in the Older Days the class Valedictorian.  Not quite yet, as I hadn't graduated, but I was getting very close to graduation, and everyone--all my teachers, parents, leaders--all said that I was the A Student.  I wasn't an entirely creative student, but I don't think that really matters, at least not as a part of Town.  What matters is being able to be a working member of Society.

DRAFT #2
My name is Celia Anne Mayflower, Society Personal Identification Number KSGU4973764H.  I live at 49 Parakeet Circle, Town #7.  I attend School #37, off Subway Station #64.  I am seventeen years old.  I have nearly completed Education Course A as a mathematics major, and I am set to graduate this coming July on the same day I become eighteen years. 
I discovered that my Society PIN matches my personal information when I was about six years old.  When I was eleven, I wrote a computer program that would perform a search of all PINs and personal information in Town #7 to determine how many other people in Town had matching PINs and information in the same order as my own.  I then visited the Public Records Office—all of our Society PINs and other personal information being public knowledge—and used the program to collect the information I wanted.  Having done so, I can assure you that there is not another person in Town #7 in which all aspects of personal information and PIN match.  I became dissatisfied with this knowledge when I was about thirteen years old, so I headed off to the Public Records Office again, ran my computer program again (with some updated code, having found a small mistake I had previously overlooked).  Still finding that I was the only person in Town #7 to whom this occurred, I expanded my search to seven randomly selected Towns in my Providence. Again, I saw that this phenomenon occurred to only me.  Disturbed with the results, I then rewrote my program to check that any given fields would match in any order, and I expanded my search to include additional information, such as birthdates and precincts.  Here, I was able to find exactly two people for which this occurred.  Chagrinned, I calculated and discovered, to my everlasting annoyance, that the probability personal information would match with PIN is so low that what I had originally accounted to be pure chance is too low to actually be pure chance.  Of course, there are only two potential reasons that I can think of that would make this happen.  The first, is that when someone was creating my entry in the Registry, they determined for some unaccountable reason to make my information match.  The second, is that it is pure chance and I’m just crazily obsessed.  Actually, I don’t feel as if I’m “crazily obsessed,” but I can fully understand that the general population would believe me to be so; after all, only psychotic people are obsessed with numbers and probabilities and conspiracies and such, right?


DRAFT #3
I am finishing a short series of vampire love novels when Mother walks into my room.  Shortly after we determined I would survive my illness, we discontinued the quarantine that had prevented her from being in the same room with me.  When the researchers stopped wearing white body suits, we determined Mother was no longer at risk for death, so we too stopped worrying.
“What are you reading now?” Mother asks me.

DRAFT #4
My name is Celia Anne Mayflower, Society Personal Identification Number KSGU4973764H.  I live at 49 Parakeet Circle 7, Town 3.  I attend School 76, off Subway Station 4.  I am seventeen years old.  In July, on the same day I become eighteen years, I will complete Education Course A as a Mathematics Major.  I currently rank as the A Student for my class, an accomplishment of which I am extremely proud. 
When I was six years, I discovered my Society PIN matches my personal information.  When I was eleven years, I wrote a computer program to search all PINs and personal information in the database to determine the number of people whose information matches.  Having done so, I can assure you this phenomenon occurs only to me.  I calculated and discovered, to my everlasting annoyance, the probability that personal information matches PIN is so low that what I had originally accounted to be pure chance is too low to actually be pure chance.  Of course, There are only two potential reasons that would make this happen.  The first is that when someone was creating my entry in the Registry, they determined, for some unaccountable reason, to make my information match.  The second is that it is pure chance and I’m crazily obsessed.  Actually, I don’t feel as if I’m “crazily obsessed,” but I can fully understand that the general population would believe me to be so; after all, only psychotic people are obsessed with numbers and probabilities and conspiracies and such, right?
Anything worth learning is worth learning well.
I am finishing a short series of vampire love novels when Mother walks into my room.  Shortly after we determined I would survive my illness, we discontinued the quarantine that had prevented her from being in the same room with me.  When the researchers stopped wearing white body suits, we determined Mother was no longer at risk for death, so we too stopped worrying.
“What are you reading now?” Mother asks me.

DRAFT #5
My name is Celia Anne Mayflower, Society Personal Identification Number KSGU4973764H.  I live at 49 Circle 7, Town 3.  I attend School 76, off Subway Station 4.  I am seventeen years old.  In July, on the same day I become eighteen years, I will complete Education Course A as a Mathematics Major.  I currently rank as the A Student for my class. an accomplishment of which I am extremely proud.
When I was six years, I discovered the numbers in my Society PIN correspond with my personal information.  When I was eleven years, I wrote a computer program to search all PINs and personal information in the database to determine the number of people whose information also matches.  Having done so, I can assure you this phenomenon occurs only to me.  I calculated and discovered, to my everlasting annoyance, the probability that personal information matches Personal Identification Number is low.  In fact, it is so low that what I had originally accounted to be pure chance is too low to actually be pure chance.  There are only two potential reasons that would make this happen.  The first is that whoever created my Registry entry determined, for some unaccountable reason, to make my information match.  The second is that it is pure chance and I am crazily obsessed. 
Anything worth learning is worth learning well.
I am finishing a short series of vampire love novels when Mother walks into my room.   Shortly after we determined I would survive my illness, we discontinued the quarantine preventing her from being in the same room with me.  When the researchers stopped wearing white body suits, we determined Mother was no longer at risk for death, so we too stopped worrying.
“What are you reading now?” Mother asks me.

DRAFT #6
My name is Celia Anne Mayflower, Society Personal Identification Number KSGU4973764H. I live at 49 Circle 7, Town 3. I attend School 76, off Subway Station 4. I am seventeen years old. In July, on the same day I become eighteen years, I will complete Education Course A as a Mathematics Major. I currently rank as the A Student for my class.
When I was six years, I discovered the numbers in my Society PIN correspond with my personal information. When I was eleven years, I wrote a computer program to search all PINs and personal information in the database to determine the number of people whose information also matches. Having done so, I can assure you this phenomenon occurs only to me. I calculated and discovered, to my everlasting annoyance, the probability that personal information matches Personal Identification Number is low. In fact, it is so low that what I had originally accounted to be pure chance is too low to actually be pure chance. There are only two potential reasons that would make this happen. The first is that whoever created my Registry entry determined, for some unaccountable reason, to make my information match. The second is that it is pure chance and I am obsessed.
Anything worth learning is worth learning well.
I am finishing a short series of love novels when Mother walks into my room. Shortly after we determined I would survive my illness, we discontinued the quarantine preventing her from being in the same room with me. When the researchers stopped wearing white body suits, we determined Mother would not die.  We stopped worrying.
“What are you reading now?” Mother asks me.


Sunday, March 31, 2013

A Writer at War

I woke up this morning with words in my head.  Since I wrote the final sentence of LitD, such beautiful words have not occurred to me.  I think part of the reason is because I've felt rather uncreative lately.  Since the end of February, my predominant focus has been pulling apart every single thought Celia has and every sentence the others speak.  Should Celia use a contraction here?  Would the young man answer this question in a monosyllable? Should I use the word grip or clasp to describe this action?   After hours upon hours of new sentences, these decisions all feel...anticlimactic.

Don't get me wrong.  Picking apart every last sentence and word is important.  There is nothing I like worse than reading a book and becoming too distracted by the poor word choice and unintentional sentence fragments to enjoy what might otherwise be an engaging plot.  I need to do it.  I need to do it so when you read LitD you can focus on Celia and not the spinach between her teeth.

So when new words began to play in my mind--exciting new words Celia would say and think if she were presented with an exciting new situation--I knew I had to make a decision.  I could give in to creative temptation and jot down the magnificent conversation Celia and the young man were having in my head, or I could focus on my deadline.  A writer at war.

You see, even though the last scene is written, I'm not done with Celia yet.  She is too vibrantly clear in my head to let her go.  Maybe I'll have to break from grammar and sentence structure to get those scenes on paper.  Maybe if I do, she'll stop speaking to me long enough so I can finish LitD.

I can resist everything except temptation.
-Oscar Wilde

My question for you:
How do you resist temptation?

Tuesday, February 26, 2013

Setting and the Society

A century ago, a series of explosions in the Industrial Center plummeted the surrounding towns and cities into darkness.  Chemicals were released into the atmosphere and mass deaths were reported.  Out of the havoc, a new government was formed.  The Society's sole goal was to regulate the people in an attempt to prevent another series of explosions of such magnitude and devastation.  One hundred years later, the Society has succeeded.  Crime is abolished.  Sickness is rare.  There is no hunger, no poverty, no disease.  The industry, education, and individuality of the people are strictly monitored, and order is preserved.  The people are uniformed.  Ordinances and curfews are maintained.

Such is the world in which Celia lives.

In the beginning of the novel, Celia returns to school just in time for the students to give the Word of Honor.  I knew that the Society would require students to pledge themselves to its service.  After the Explosion, the Society certainly wouldn't want to do away with such formal traditions as the Pledge of Allegiance.  They would want to taper it, though.  They would want to form it to suit their own needs.  Our own Pledge is far too nice and leaves too much room for individuality for the Society.  I wanted to make the Word of Honor as realistic as I possibly could, but it also needed to reflect the type of government they established.

Therefore, I decided to do a little research.  I thought that other countries' pledges would inspire me to write something creative but realistic.  Using my trusty internet browser, I searched for other countries' pledges.  I was amazed when the only thing I could discover was from the Philippines.  Many countries have an oath people who want to become citizens must take, but as far as an every-day-before-school-we-recite-this?  I couldn't find anything.  That was my history lesson for the day.



Saturday, February 23, 2013

Writing Celia

LitD began as a vivid dream I had when I was very, albeit temporarily, sick.  Some of my own situation bled into the dream, which was where the initial ideas of the Society and (especially) the Woods occured.  I don't want to give the impression that LitD is  based on my dream; only that my dream was the inspiration for it.  If I had simply recorded my dream, LitD wouldn't be complete unless I included the iridescent truffle-smelling pigs.  I hate to disappoint, but there are no glow-in-the-dark neon swine in LitD.  Sorry.  Yeah, I'm a little disappointed about that, too.

Last night was the first time I revisited Chapter One after writing it in December.  LitD began as an idea, without character or depth, just a driving force.  When I started writing, I needed to develop Celia before I could propel her into this world I created.  Having completed my first draft of LitD, I now know exactly who Celia is.  She's no longer a vessel for the plot but her own person.  And that's good, because when I read for pleasure, I read for characters.  Don't get me wrong; I love a good plot (and LitD has one, even if I do say so myself).  But a good character - that's a beautiful thing!  This is why Jane Eyre is so fascinating.  Let's face it, the second third of Bronte's novel isn't exactly riveting but it's all Jane.  Tess?  Despite everything he does to push her over the edge, Hardy must be in love with her.  I loved Tess of the D'Urbervilles because of Tess.  I needed to love Celia, too.  

She grew on me as I wrote her and deleted her and wrote her and deleted her...again.  The fact that Celia took Art I as a senior in high school because she couldn't fit more core academics into her schedule?  Delete.  It's not important.  I mean, it is, because it's who Celia is and it's part of her past, but it's not because in the grand scheme of things, no one cares.  Twenty years down the road will anyone care if you took Art I in high school?  Probably not. (Just for the record, I admire the arts and all things art.)

So this was how I wrote Celia.  Because LitD started with a dream, I had merely vague impressions of who Celia would be.  I knew what needed to happen to her and  I knew what I wanted her to be, but I didn't know who she would be.  The very rough draft of my first chapter was more a list of all things Celia than an actual story.  It was *not* something that would impress agents or readers.  I stripped 3,000 words describing Celia from my first chapter.  3,000 words.  That's a lot of Celia.

Now, without me telling you boring details of how she lost her first kitten (that wasn't in there, by the way), the first chapter will allow Celia to stand out in her own right, as her own person.  I don't have to tell you about Celia's past and preferences.  She'll tell you herself.