Showing posts with label Cindy Holby. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Cindy Holby. Show all posts

Monday, April 19, 2010

Silly Season: Time for the BookLovers Convention

Yep, it's spring, so yep, it's time for the start of the silly season: the gi-normous Romantic Times BOOKlovers Convention, this year held in Columbus, OH. We're talking two or more thousand readers, writers, booksellers, librarians and other industry professionals, plus four hundred or more (I lose count at these things) published authors. Oh, and a handful of male cover models.

Do you now see why it's the silly season?

It's great fun, a super time for readers and authors to meet, a super time for authors to connect with other authors, a super time for librarians and booksellers...and I think the male cover models endure the best they can.

Here's my schedule for those so inclined:

PRE-CON Aspiring and Advanced Writer Workshops

Monday 4/26
10:15-12:00: FINDING MR. GOODWRITE: Linnea Sinclair and Stacey Kade
1:30-2:45: POINT of VIEW: Linnea Sinclair & Stacey Kade
4-5 PM RESEARCH: Linnea Sinclair & Stacey Kade

Tuesday 4/27
TUES 10 – 11AM: STAYING INSPIRED - : Linnea Sinclair & Stacey Kade
3:00-3:45: ASK US ANYTHING/Smith/Parmley/Sinclair/Groe/Lee/Kade

Yeah, Stacey and I do the dog & pony together a lot. We write from different philosophies but we end up at the same place. We're also crit partners, so it's fun for students to see how authors who don't agree on the philosophies of the craft still work together.

MAIN CONVENTION PROGRAMMING

Wednesday 4/28
2:30 PM - 3:30 PM
CRAFT: FROM REGENCY TO RIGEV V: WORLD BUILDING ACROSS THE GENRES
Panelists: Cathy Clamp aka Cat Adams, Lynne Connolly, Donna MacMeans, Karen Miller aka KE Mills, Linnea Sinclair


6:15 PM - 7:15 PM
READER: INTERGALACTIC BAR AND GRILLE PARTY (This is THE big party for this genre, kids!)
Hosted by: Catherine Asaro, Jess Granger, Cindy Holby aka Colby Hodge, Stacey Klemstein aka Stacey Kade, Isabo Kelly, Janet Miller aka Cricket Starr, Karin Shah and Linnea Sinclair


Friday 4/30
11:15 AM - 12:15 PM
CRAFT: PITCHES AND BLURBS AND TAG LINES, OH MY!
Panelists: Gwynne Forster, Stacey Klemstein aka Stacey Kade, Jackie Kessler, Linnea Sinclair


1:30 PM - 2:30 PM SPECIALTY: WRITING KICK-ASS FIGHT SCENES
Panelists: Leanna Renee Hieber, Isabo Kelly, Stacey Klemstein aka Stacey Kade, and Linnea Sinclair

2:45 PM - 3:45 PM
SPECIALTY: KICKING BUTT AND KISSING HEROS: BEING STRONG AND FEMININE AT THE SAME TIME IN FICTION
Panelists: Karen Miller aka KE Mills, Linnea Sinclair, Jeri Smith-Ready

Saturday 5/1
BOOKFAIR 11am-2pm OPEN TO THE PUBLIC! This is a phenomenal time--all your authors in one place.

Next year the con's in Los Angeles, CA. FYI.

Hope to see you all in OH for this one! ~Linnea


Linnea Sinclair
// Interstellar Adventure Infused with Romance//
Available Now from Bantam: Rebels and Lovers (Book 4)
http://www.linneasinclair.com/

Saturday, August 22, 2009

Zombies as heroes? I don't think so.



It seems that the publishers are jumping on the band wagon of a new genre trend. Zombies. My response is "Ewwww" I just really don't get it. Now while I wouldn't mind reading a story about a couple fighting Zombies ala Resident Evil I'm pretty sure I don't want to know anything about loving a Zombie, even if they originally were the love of my life. Yet some publishers are asking for stories involving humans and zombies. The following is an editor request that's been going around the writer loops
"is looking for "love amongst the undead, between zombies
and the living, and (we hope) many stories about the hot, alpha male and
female zombie killers." She's interested in short stories from 1500 to 5000
words and novellas, 20,000 to 30,000 words."


Meanwhile Zombies are now the subject of research. Scientists say "If zombies actually existed, an attack by them would lead to the collapse of civilisation unless dealt with quickly and aggressively." Even researchers are jumping on the trend. Publishers Weekly also mentioned a book deal featuring a Zombie professor who is now trying to find the meaning of life while fighting off humans that are trying to kill him. Well yeah, I'm pretty sure I would want to kill something that wants to eat my brains.
So what do you think? Is there a future with Zombies? Do you find them sexy? Would you lay down your money for a Zombie love story? Do you think Zombies will take over the shelves in the same way vampires have? I'd love to know what you think of this new trend in publishing. And no, I am not even considering writing a Zombie love story. As I said early, ewwww.

Saturday, August 01, 2009

More on when a story doesn't work

Getting back to my revamp of a proposal after traveling to the RWA national conference.

In Chapter two I introduce Merrit's paranormal abilities and set up the plot point of Von Swaim's desire to control Merrit's talent. When doing a proposal its important to suck the reader in but you don't want to reveal to much too soon.

Chapter Two
“Cheeky sort wasn’t he,” the Earl said.
“Indeed!” the Countess exclaimed. “I always heard the Americans were rather forward.” Merritt folded her hands primly and kept her eyes upon her lap, as she well knew her mother’s mood.
“Accosting young girls on the street.”
“I hardly think he was accosting me.” Merritt boldly spoke out. “I consider it more as being polite.”
“Obviously they have no idea of propriety,” the Countess continued.
“Now Evelyn,” her father interrupted. “The young man was just trying to drum up business for the show is all. I’m sure any insult you imagined was entirely unintentional.”
“Imagined?” her mother gasped.
Merritt turned her head toward the window as her father winked at her. He had cleverly taken her mother’s mind off the cowboy and onto herself. It was no wonder he was such a success. He knew how to handle people. He knew what they were thinking and how to get them to come to his way of thinking. It was a gift that served him well, especially in Parliament. However when it came to his daughter the gift was useless. If only they would not worry so. If only they would just leave her alone. She had never hurt anyone and she certainly had never injured herself. If only she could just be what she was meant to be instead of what her parents and all of proper English society expected her to be. It just wasn’t fair. Not fair at all.
Harry moved the carriage along at a quick pace to make up for the delay. Merritt watched the streets as they passed. The snow from earlier in the day was nearly melted but a few patches remained on the shaded side of the street. What was left had turned into muddy brown water that trickled down the curbs and into the sewers below and eventually dumped into the Thames.
The streets were busy. The population of London had grown rapidly in the past few years, especially on the east side, which had become the haven for the poor. On the west side, where her family resided, people went about the everyday business of life. Tradesmen and solicitors, bankers and lawyers, governesses with their charges, all picked their way through the puddles on the street, rode their horses or were driven in a wide assortment of vehicles. Heavy wagons filled to the top with kegs and casks, boxes and bags stopped along the way to fill orders for the merchants. All in all a normal day in London, except for the fact that a herd of buffalo accompanied by cowboys and Indians had just passed by.
Another normal day for the normal people. What would it be like to be perfectly normal? Merritt could not even begin to imagine.
The carriage came to a stop. “We’re here sir,” Harry called down.
Merritt looked up at the tall building with the same feeling of dread that had been her constant companion since her parents informed her of their decision. A small sign hung over the door. Institute of Paranormal Research. Dr. Edmond Von Swaim.
They exited the carriage. Merritt gathered her skirts and reluctantly followed her parents up the steps with Rose and Jerry close on her heels. Did they think she would actually dash off down the street?
If only I could…But she could not. Any normal person would. But any normal person would not be here in the first place. She was not normal. She was paranormal. Or so her parents thought. They had latched onto the word as soon as they understood its meaning. They felt it explained her spells perfectly yet they wanted to be sure. They needed a diagnosis because with a diagnosis there could be a cure. It all made so much sense when they explained it to her. But now…that the time was nigh…it made no sense at all.
The door swung open before the Earl could lift his hand to knock. Her mother hesitated on the step before her as if she were suddenly afraid.
Imagine how I feel…Merritt knew they wanted to help her. They wanted what was best for her. They also wanted to protect the family from the whispering that went on when someone in their circle had experiences that were considered…objectionable. It would solve all their problems if Merritt had an illness that they could put a name too.
If only they would listen…if only they would ask…if only she were braver and stronger. If only she had been the one to die instead of her brother Christopher. If only…
The Earl took the Countess’s arm and led her inside. Merritt, always the dutiful daughter, had no choice but to follow. A butler, who stood a full head taller than her father, held the door open. His face was impassive, but Merritt could feel his eyes upon her. She marched straight ahead as her father looked upward and around, his eyes calculating the wealth of the Institute as one might inventory the jewels upon the neck of a dowager countess.
The foyer was a full three stories high. Before them was a grand staircase with a hall beside it that led back to a closed door. To the left was a closed door and to the right a sitting room. The fire was not lit, nor the lamps, and the heavy velvet drapes were drawn closed against the light of day. It all seemed very desolate and lonely even though the wood was well polished and the furnishings rich with ornate carvings and plush fabrics.
The sound of a clock ticking was overpowering in the sudden quiet when the door was closed behind them. To Merritt the sound was frighteningly omnipotent. She could not help but look upward to the source and saw a huge pendulum swinging directly over the door. The clockworks were above, on the third story behind a walkway that crossed from one side to the other. She could not see them clearly in the dim light but they seemed immense and complicated. Why would anyone need or want a clock that big?
A middle-aged woman dressed in a simple gray dress and white apron and wearing a white cap came down the impressive staircase and dropped a curtsey to her father.
“Dr. Von Swaim awaits you in the upper parlor,” she said. She spoke with a heavy accent, possibly German since it was known that Von Swaim was of German descent. “Your servants may await you in there.”
Her father started to protest then thought better of it. Merritt wondered if the overbearing presence of the butler had anything to do with his hesitancy. He motioned Rose and Jerry into the parlor. Jerry made it clear by his stance that he was not happy about the situation. Rose simply sat down on a sofa and let out a long suffering sigh.
“For privacy sir,” the woman said when they were settled. “Doctor Von Swaim has also canceled all of his appointments for this afternoon so you need not worry about anyone disturbing you during your visit.”
“Very well,” her father said. “Lead on.”
Merritt took a firm grasp on the railing as she followed her parents up the grand staircase. As she watched her feet climb the stairs her insides felt as if she were descending into a deep dark pit. Her parents had insisted on enough doctors in her lifetime to dread any thought of any type of an exam, especially one that was as mysterious to her as this. What exactly did a paranormal exam involve?
For once her mother kept her chatter to a minimum. She always used it as a mask but in this situation there was no place for it. There was no hiding the fear or intimidation that any of them felt.
The light was brighter on the second floor. Gas lamps lit the hallways and the curtains were open on the opposite ends of the building to let in the light of day. The woman led them across the landing from the staircase and opened a set of double doors.
Bookcases, two stories high, filled the walls on either side. French doors covered the back wall and opened invitingly to a balcony that overlooked a courtyard. Merritt could hear water bubbling below and imagined it must contain a fountain of some sort. Deep burgundy curtains hung beside the windows that flanked the French doors. An ornate birdcage made of brass stood upon a stand next to the window and a bright yellow canary piped a few notes when they were shown into the room. A large sofa also covered in burgundy sat along the wall on the right with wing chairs on either side. End tables flanked the sofa and were covered with an assortment of gewgaws made of brass and glass. Some seemed to be spinning; it would take closer examination to be certain.
The left side of the room contained a huge desk with two small chairs before it. The desk held a smaller collection of gewgaws and a large crystal prism that seemed to Merritt to be as long as her arm. There was a door built into the wall directly behind the desk and she could not help but wonder where it led. Into the bowels of hell?
“The Doctor will be with you presently,” the woman said and closed the double doors behind her as she bowed her way from the room.
“You think they would have offered tea,” her mother said as she sat down in one of the wing chairs.
“We are not here for a social visit,” the Earl reminded her.
“Well, yes, I realize that,” the Countess replied. “Still it would be the hospitable thing to do, considering.”
Merritt let mother’s words pass over her without a response. Her father turned his back on both of them and perused the collection of books that filled the shelf behind the chair. Merritt walked to the balcony to see if there really was a fountain beyond.
A large telescope sat on the balcony aimed upwards at the sky. A stool was beside it with a sextant lying upon it. The instrument of the sea seemed strangely out of place in such an enclosed area. The courtyard was enclosed on the sides with a high brick wall and another building stood behind it. Dr. Von Swaim must have use of both buildings as a door from it opened into the courtyard also. The back of it was plain and tall with small windows that were covered with iron grates and shuttered from the inside. A chill went down her spine as she looked it over. What was the purpose of closing off the lovely courtyard from view? And why the grates? Were they meant to keep people in or people out?
The courtyard was, as she first surmised before her inspection of the building beyond, quite lovely. A large fountain with a replica of the earth done in metals was the centerpiece and water spurted from the top and coated the sides before falling into the stone basin beneath. Japanese maples with tightly budded leaves graced the centers of four uniform triangles that formed the corners of the gardens and neat boxwoods hedged the sides with benches placed before them. A brick walk surrounded the fountain and freshly tilled earth between the two begged for plantings of colorful flowers. It was a heady contradiction to the heavy and overpowering massiveness of everything she had seen inside the institute.
She heard her father’s harrumph of impatience and turned to see what caused it. The canary peeped inquisitively as she stepped inside so she paused beside its cage.
“I imagine you wish you could fly away,” she said softly to the bird. It hopped from its perch high in the cage to another that was closer to her face. Its dark eyes blinked several times as it examined her.
“Such a pretty cage,” Merritt said. “But it is still a cage, no matter how pretty it is.” She turned her head and looked at the building behind the courtyard.
Still a cage…
The canary jumped from the bar with a loud chirp as the pressure of the room changed with the opening of the door. Merritt felt a cold breeze swirl over her face and the few tendrils of her hair that had escaped the careful attentions of her maid tickled her cheek when she looked into the room.
She recognized Dr. Edmond Von Swaim. (Describe here) How could she not? He currently was the darling of the social circuit and was often mentioned in the gossip columns of the newspaper. Merritt had been present at a few of the functions he attended, as he was a must-have on any guest list. He usually performed feats of hypnotism or other sorts of trickery at the parties that were expounded on at great length in the columns the next day. He had impressed her parents enough that after a few discreet inquiries, they had decided to take Dr. Von Swaim into their confidence regarding Merritt and her “spells.”
His answer? She must be examined immediately before her spells worsened or she did harm to herself. They were exactly the words her mother most feared, since she had been dreading the prospect for these many years.
Maybe he will have an answer…or even a cure…It was too much to hope for. Merritt watched as her father shook hands with Dr. Von Swaim, and her mother greeted him warmly.
Why do I feel such a sense of dread?
Usually she had a vision or warning sign if something bad was about to happen. In this instance there had been no warning yet she still had the feeling that something was horribly wrong. Perhaps the canary had the same concerns. It piped mightily, as if in warning, as Dr. Von Swaim approached her with his arms open wide. Did he actually mean to embrace her?
“My dear Merritt,” he said with a welcoming smile on his broad and ruddy face. His voice held just the slightest accent of his German origins.
Merritt held out her gloved hand so that he might take it, but also to keep him from encroaching upon her. He took her hand, clasped it between his two palms and gave it a firm squeeze. It seemed on the surface to be comforting but then again something about it disturbed her. Perhaps it was in the way he evaluated her. She looked into the deep-set blue eyes beneath the heavy blonde brows. There was no mistaking it. His demeanor was kind and friendly but he was calculating her worth, just as her father had when they arrived at the institute.
“Your parents have expressed their deep concern over your condition,” he said as Merritt carefully pulled her hand free.
“They trouble themselves over nothing,” Merritt said. “I have strange dreams, nothing more.”
“Nonsense,” the Countess said. “Who has dreams in the middle of the day? When they are often wide awake?”
“Come my dear,” Von Swaim said. “Sit and tell me of your dreams.” He stepped back and extended his arm, just stopping short of touching her back as if he would propel her forward.
Merritt suppressed a heavy sigh as she made her way to the sofa. There were no other options and there certainly was no escape. The only thing to do was get it over with as quickly as possible. She sat down and Von Swaim joined her. Her parents took position in the wing chairs on either side. Von Swaim sat forward, placing his body between Merritt and her father. It also placed his body between Merritt and the door.
“It would help me to know more of what you experience,” Von Swaim said. “Tell me of your dreams.”
It seemed too personal…too revealing…however he was a doctor. It was his intent to help her or so she hoped. If he could make the dreams, the visions, the spells, go away…Merritt looked at him hopefully.
“They are more like visions than dreams,” she explained. “I simply see things.”
“What type of things?”
She thought carefully of what she should say. It was all so confusing. Should she tell this man her deepest darkest secrets? Or would the basics be enough? It certainly would not hurt to share the things she told her parents. It wasn’t as if they had not already told him what they knew about her spells.
“Sometimes I see Papa at work talking with his friends…”
“About subjects that she should have no knowledge of,” the Earl interjected.
“Do you mean policy discussions? Von Swaim asked.
“Yes.”
“Do you bring home notes or letters that she would have access too?”
“No.”
“I wouldn’t do that,” Merritt said. “I would never look at Papa’s personal papers.”
“You do read the daily,” her mother said. “That’s enough to feed anyone’s imagination.”
“She speaks of things during her spells that she has no way of knowing. How someone will vote, or who will side with whom. It is almost as if she knows the outcome before it happens.”
Indeed,” Von Swaim said. “Very curious. Is she usually right about the things she sees?”
“Almost always,” her father said.
If only they knew…
“Any other instances? Anything besides parliament?” Von Swaim studied her intently, his eyes moving over her face and down enough to make her feel uncomfortable.
Merritt shifted her body so that he was not so close, and not so oppressive. She shrugged. “There have been a few other things.”
“She saw poor Mrs. Poole drop dead,” her mother said. “Our butler’s mother,” she went on to explain.
“No, I did not see her drop dead,” Merritt interjected. “I simply saw her lying on the floor. Then I asked Poole if he had seen her lately.”
“And when he did she was dead.”
“Yes. She was.”
“Quite dead,” her father volunteered. As if anyone could be any deader than dead.
“Fascinating!” Von Swaim jumped up from the sofa and strode across the room as if he could not contain himself.
Merritt looked at the man in disbelief. Poor Poole had lost his mother and Dr. Von Swaim was looking at her as if she had just given him a fortune in jewels.
“Is there anything else?”
Merritt twisted her hands in her lap. She knew what was coming before her mother even said it.
“We have noticed things moving about sometimes,” the Countess said timidly. Merritt could not blame her for being timid. It would be difficult to believe unless one had actually witnessed it. Small objects did have a habit of falling off of surfaces or in one instance flying across a room when she was in the midst of one of her more troublesome spells.”
“Excellent,” Von Swaim exclaimed. He came back to the sofa and knelt in front of Merritt before grasping her hands. “You must allow me to hypnotize you.”
Run…
She felt trapped once again. Pinned against the sofa with no chance of escape. She did manage to free her hands from his grasp yet he remained on the floor before her, practically kneeling on her skirts.
“Do you think it would help, Dr. Von Swaim?” her father asked.
“The subconscious mind holds much danger for those not familiar with its workings,” Von Swaim said as he finally rose to his feet. “Imagine Merritt’s mind as a battlefield with her subconscious at war with her consciousness. It seems to me that at the present time her subconscious is winning the battle. If I do not find out the cause I am afraid that Merritt’s consciousness may eventually be lost to you forever.”
“Oh my!” Her mother gasped. “Merritt lost?”
“The sanitariums are full of such cases.”
“That is unacceptable.” The Earl jumped to his feet while her mother held her handkerchief to her face to hide her distress.
Merritt was skeptical about his comments. There was no war going on in her mind. She just had dreams. Very vivid, very real dreams. She always knew whom she was and where she was when she awakened. It seemed as if Dr. Von Swaim had made a more accurate diagnosis of her parent’s fears and was using it to achieve his own ends.
“If you believe hypnotism will help, then by all means proceed,” her father said.
“Are you certain you will be able to hypnotize me?” She had seen performances of such things before but always felt as if there was collusion involved on the part of all parties.
“I have found that the stronger paranormal activity lends itself to susceptibility in these cases,” Von Swaim replied. He held a hand out to help her rise from the sofa and she had no choice but to take it. “Come my dear,” he said and led her to a gilt chair placed before his desk. “Please stay where you are so there will be no distractions,” he instructed her parents who had begun to follow.
They sat down together on the couch and smiled encouragement to Merritt. She smiled reassuringly in their direction and was pleased to see her father take her mother’s hand into his. There was nothing to fear. Her father would not let any harm come to her.
Merritt sat down with her back to the window while Von Swaim opened a desk drawer and removed an object. The light caught it as he carried it around the desk. It was a crystal, cut in the shape of a large diamond and suspended from a chain.
He sat down opposite her and dangled the crystal from the chain in front of her. “I want you to concentrate,” he said. “Concentrate on the crystal. Concentrate on the light. Watch it carefully.”
The crystal twisted back and forth, slowly winding then unwinding on the chain. Merritt watched the light from the lamps and the sun dance through the different angles of the cuts, each one casting a different color around it as if it was alive with its own aura. She heard the canary chirp once, heard the fountain cascading behind her, and heard the soft breathing of her parents. As watched the crystal spin up and down the chain she felt as if the walls of the room were falling away. The fountain became distant and then she heard the giant clock with the pendulum swinging back and forth.
Tick…tock…tick…tock…
The noise moved inside her head and became an echo of her heartbeat. Tick…thump….tock…thump-thump.
She was no longer in the room inside the institute. She was no longer with Dr. Von Swaim and her parents. She was standing in the middle of a circle. The ground beneath her was hard packed earth that was scarred with the imprint of many types of hoof prints. A light shone directly on her, blinding her. She lifted a hand to shield her eyes from it and the light faded.
Someone was with her. “Trust me,” a voice said. “You’ve got to trust me.” The voice seemed vaguely familiar and she searched the area inside the light until she saw a silhouette. Her forehead furrowed as she tried to put a name to the face that was hidden beneath the shadow of a wide-brimmed hat.
“Don’t move,” the voice said. “Trust me. I will never hurt you.” Then he raised a gun in his hand and shot her.
Merritt screamed. She felt her body spinning and then she landed beside the desk. Her hands gripped the sides of the chair as if she were on a boat in huge swells that threatened to break over her head.
As she caught her breath she looked at Dr. Von Swaim for an answer to what she had said or done while under the effects of his hypnosis. But Von Swaim was not looking at her. He looked beyond her. Merritt turned in her seat and saw the birdcage. It was no longer beautiful. It was twisted and ruined with the bars broken and pulled apart.
The canary sat upon the rail of the balcony with its beak wide open as it sang a sweet song to the clear blue sky above. It turned and looked directly at Merritt before it extended its wings and flew away.
“My word!” her father said.
Her mother simply cried.

Saturday, July 04, 2009

Celebrate Independence Day with a book

A very non alien post for the 4th of July.


Two of my stories feature our country's fight for independence. Fallen has the Battle of Guilford Courthouse in NC and is told from the perspective of an English soldier. Rising Wind is about a colonial scout and features the Battle of Point Pleasant in WV. I grew up on the Point Pleasant battle field so always felt this was the book I had to write.

Happy 4th of July everyone. We are blessed with many freedoms in this country. May we never take them for granted.

Saturday, June 20, 2009

When a story doesn't work, part five

For the past few weeks I've posted the synopsis and first three chapters of my post apocotlypic romance that I shopped around to some different houses the end of 2008. One editor called it a MadMax/Matrix mix. I liked that reference. Still no one bit. No one even came close. They just could not identify with the characters.

So what was I to do? I had a concept that I thought was a good one. The greatest power is the mind. My overall story arc was pretty much typical. Guy meets girl, guy falls for girl, bad guy wants girl, bad guy takes girl, guy rescues girl and they live happily ever after. My world, as I envisioned it was complex and would need at least three books to tell, maybe four. Most important, I had two characters and names that I loved. Dax and Merritt.

I think one thing that went against me was the time of year. I sent out a dark, desperate and depressing world at Christmas time. That really should not influence it but deep down I think it did. Christmas is a happy time as it should be. But mostly I think the market was to blame. sci/fi romance is a very narrow niche and its hard to take a risk on something that does not have the potential for making a lot of $$$.

Publishers had taken a hit along with everyone else in 2008. A major book distributor went under. Returns were up, book stores were not buying as many titles as before but buying more of sure things. It was a hard time to sell period.

I took a long hard look at the market. I needed to come up with something new and fresh. Something that did not have vampires since I feel the fur and fangs market is way over done. I also felt as if urban fantasy might be overdone as well. Something well written in a new market sells, it becomes popular and suddenly every publisher in the world wants the same thing. They buy it up in hopes that they can cash in on the sudden craze and the reader gets tired of it. I am a firm believer that the reader wants a well written book in any genre instead of mediocre books in their favorite genre.

So thinking, new and different. Something that I could do well. Something in my writers wheelhouse. Somthing with strong characters, and great world buildling. I'm known for writing historicals and scifi. What blends those two genre's together?

Steampunk.

It wasn't as if I had a lightbulb moment. I'd read a few articles, thought about it, watched some movies with some elements of it, then a friend called me up and said. "I think you should try writing Steampunk. Its' perfect for you."

But I still had this proposal with elements that I liked and characters that I adored. Could I turn it into a steampunk story?

Here's the synopsis. You tell me.

Prism by Cindy Holby
A Steampunk Romance

Cindy Holby, award-winning author of historical and scifi romance, blends both genres together with Prism, a steampunk romance featuring a cowboy, a psychic heroine and a diabolical plot to take over the world using imaginative technology in Victorian England. What’s a proper British lady to do when a mad scientist is after her brain and an American cowboy is after her heart?


London, England 1887

David Alexander Conrad, AKA Dax, is a cowboy. But he's not just any ordinary cowboy—he's one of the famed performers with the Buffalo Bill Wild West Show who, in the summer of 1887, travels to England in order to give those stuffy Victorians a jolt of good old American showmanship. He is a renowned sharp shooter and trick rider with skills honed when he worked as a scout for the US Cavalry in the American Southwest during the Apache Wars with Geronimo. At twenty-seven, he’s the youngest star of the show and something of a celebrity in a London unaccustomed to his type. It is while Dax is on the party circuit that he meets a woman unlike any he has ever known.

Merritt Elizabeth Chadwyke is the daughter of Member of Parliament, Lord Pemberton She lives in a society bubble because she is subject to spells and needs the constant monitoring of a nurse. During her “spells” Merritt has been known to make outlandish comments about things of which she should have no knowledge. There is also evidence that during these spells, objects appear to move on their own. Merritt’s parents are very protective of her since they have already lost a son to a tragic accident. What her parents do not know is that at ten years of age, Merritt had a vision of her brother’s death but was afraid to say anything because of her parents reactions to her visions. She did try to warn her brother, who was fourteen when he died, but he ignored her. He realized he should have paid attention to her and said so as he died in his father’s arms. At their wits’ end over her strange illness, her parents send her to the Paranormal Research Institute run by Baron Edmond Von Swaim, who has become a society darling himself by using his powers of hypnotism to charm the upper crust. As Von Swaim performs test upon test on Merritt, he comes to the conclusion that she is something so unique and rare, he wasn't even certain it existed. Merritt is a Prism. And more importantly, she is exactly what he needs to complete his plot to overthrow the British Monarchy and take what he feels is his claim to the throne.


Von Swaim does everything to encourage Merritt’s family to turn her over to his care to cure her “spells.” His research into the study of the human mind has led him to believe that it is the greatest power upon earth. Through the use of his brilliant inventions and the enhancement of crystal prisms he plans to harness Merritt’s mind. Merritt, true to the nature of her spells, has a bad feeling about Von Swaim and refuses to go with him, despite her parents’ belief that it is the perfect solution to her strange illness. It is also during this time that Dax and Merritt have met each other and find that they are unable to stop thinking about each other. He finds it’s a bit more difficult to track a young woman through Victorian London than it is to fight Indians in the American west. Still he manages to find her, at parties, at the park, even in an exclusive tea shop. The feelings they share grow stronger with each passing moment and they go to great lengths to spend time together when they realize there is something special between them. As they pursue their romance Dax finds Merritt’s strange sense of things more of a gift than an illness and Merritt knows that Dax truly loves her for who she is, not what society or her parents expect her to be.

Frustrated with the constraints her family and society have put upon her, and unable to escape from Von Swaim’s constant presence, Merritt sneaks out to see a final performance of the Wild West show. Dax is happy to see her in the crowd and pulls her out to do some trick shooting. Meanwhile, Von Swaim, who has had Merritt watched ever since he’s treated her, is told of her escape from her home. Von Swaim sees this as the perfect opportunity to take her and sends his men, who wear armor and carry weapons that shoot lasers and electrical currents after her. Dax and Merritt manage to escape and spend a romantic night together in hiding. The following morning Von Swaim’s army finds their hiding place and chase Dax and Merritt through the streets of London. Dax is well armed but his trick shooting has no effect upon the special armor Von Swaim’s soldiers wear. Dax and Merritt are finally captured when Von Swaim uses a zeppelin to run them down in Hyde Park. He takes both of them prisoner, Merritt to be his weapon, and Dax, who is wounded in the leg to be brain washed and become a soldier in his army. They are taken by zeppelin to Von Swaim’s hidden castle in the Swiss Alps.

Dax finds there is no torture or brainwashing powerful enough to erase Merritt and his feelings for her from his memory. He manages to befriend a doctor in Von Swaim’s employ who has repaired Dax’s wound using Von Swaim’s invention of brass fittings and joints. After some time in which his injury heals and with the doctor’s help Dax manages to escape, only to find himself alone in a country where he knows no one and does not speak the language. To makes matters worse, Merritt is now under Von Swaim’s control and he has taken her to away for “treatment” with her parents’ permission. Fortunately for Dax, the Wild West Show is now touring Europe and he is able to find his friends who welcome him back with open arms. Dax is desperate to find Merritt but has no idea where to look.

Merritt, who is under Von Swaim’s control, cannot forget Dax either. Even though her memories of him are supposedly erased by Von Swaim’s hypnotism, her Prism abilities guide her back to Dax at one of the performances of the Wild West Show. Dax knows that he may never have this chance with Merritt again. With the help of his friends from the Wild West Show he is ready to use Von Swaim’s weapons against him. Dax and Von Swaim enter into a battle for her mind, but Von Swaim does not realize that Dax is also fighting for Merritt’s heart and soul. Dax will stop at nothing to free her from Von Swaim so that Merritt may make her own choices for her own life. Dax can only hope that once he frees her from Von Swaim that Merritt will choose him because he loves her just the way she is. Neither technology nor mind control, no matter how powerful, are any match for the strength of their love.

Friday, May 02, 2008

The care and feeding of your deadline slammed author


I was trying to explain to a friend the other day about deadline hell. What happens to writers when we have to slide into that dreaded place that consumes every bit of our time, imagination and energy. I realized that until you really live it, that most people do not really understand what it is. So hopefully this will explain it a bit and give you some hints on what you can do to help your favorite writer get through it.

Deadline hell is what occurs when you don’t hit your carefully planned out page count for each day that you have until your book is due. Best laid plans and all that, but quite frankly, life happens and it does get in our way. For me lately it’s been my dad’s cancer, which is now in remission, thank you. So said book that was due March 1 is now due June 1 and has to be turned in or else it will not make it to production on time for its February release. This also means that since I missed the first deadline I will not have a Cindy Holby release this year (only Colby Hodge’s Twist) andI SUCK AS A WRITER AND MY CAREER IS OVER.

Since I now have two extra months to write I can do it. Woohoo! WRONG. During April Dad is in hospital twice with complications, I am preparing for RT, I go to RT for eight days and it takes me a week to recover, catch up from RT. Two of those days were spent sleeping as I got no sleep at RT. So now its May 1, book is due June 1 and I’m about 4,000 words away from halfway. Which means I have to write around 250 pages in a month. Which is around ten pages a day if I write everyday which I won’t be able to do because life gets in the way. Can I do it? I better because if I don’t I SUCK AS A WRITER AND MY CAREER IS OVER.


So what happens then. I sit in front of my computer. I tell myself I will not play Freecell ever again for as long as I live. I play Freecell. I look at manuscript. I decide entire book is the great dedication to sucktitude. I put on writing inspired songs to get into the story. Since I am writing an angsty story I get depressed. I listen to them over and over again. I get all weepy. My bwff (best writing friend forever) tells me to quit listening to angsty songs and I reply with giant wail. “But I caaaaannnn’t. It’s the soundtrack to Atonement and I Lurve James MacAvoy and he diieeesss.” Btw dialog like this goes back and forth all day with my bwff posse. If you want to know who they are check out the dedications in my books. Finally I decide I am in right frame of mind to write.

But first I check my email. Why? Because writers are isolated. Email is our connection to our friends. What are our friends doing? Are they in writing hell too? Ohh, here’s a link to something. Maybe I should check that out. Finally I realize that I’ve wasted half a day on internet. Turn off internet and write. Go back to manuscript. Maybe it doesn’t suck. Hmmm, writing historical and I need to know what certain building on certain street looked like in eighteenth century. Sign back onto internet. Get distracted again by email, IM or something Brittany/Paris/TomKat has done. Oh, another email, someone I know has hit list/won award/got new multi comma contract and while I am happy for them it didn’t happen to me because I SUCK AS A WRITER AND MY CAREER IS OVER.

Why do writers obsess over things like that? Because we write in a vapor. Some writers have critique partners. I don’t. If the story takes a direction I’m not sure of I’ll send it out to a few of my friends for some feedback but for the most part it’s just us and the story.

So now its time to really get serious. What happens next in the story? Write write write. Hmmm, write some more. Shove kitten off desk. Try to ignore sad doggy eyes. Grab apple, yogurt, banana, hand full of chips for lunch. Grab some caffeine. Grab some more. Stay up late writing. Eyes cross, wrists aches, back and shoulders ache, butt hurts because this continues day after day after day. Husband pokes head in and asks about dinner. You look at him like he’s an idiot and wave him off. Husband carries in dinner, does laundry, vacuums, rubs back and tries to stay out of your way. (I am fortunate that my kids are grown and pretty much self sufficient and I also have an awesome husband) Week goes by, then another, then another and you realize story has come together and perhaps you aren’t the giant burrito of sucktitude (bwff term) that you once thought you were. But you are also very lonely, and you kind of look like crap since you have basically lived in front of your computer for a month. Since I am now working on my thirteenth book I’ve kind of been through this before so I know what to expect. You think that one day I would figure it out and stay out of deadline hell but I don’t because I SUCK AS A WRITER AND MY CAREER IS OVER.

So what can you, as a fan/friend of a deadline crazed writer do? I have my own little support group. I just got a text hug from one. Another is giving me rah rahs every night and I have realized how much I really appreciate it. I look forward to it. It keeps me inspired because I know these people believe in me and maybe I don’t SUCK AS A WRITER. So if you have a writer friend who is in deadline hell then drop them an email (believe me they will be checking) or a comment on their myspace page and say Yay, we believe in you and can’t wait for the next book. They will appreciate it more than you know. And it’s also great to know that you don’t really suck that you are just doing the best that you can.

Oh yeah, we procrastinate too. Why else would I be spending my time writing this instead of working on my story?

Tuesday, March 25, 2008

A Little Something Came Up PART I

Linnea did a great job tackling this subject, but let me go back to Cindy's original post on torturing characters.

Cindy Holby wrote in her Saturday March 22nd Post on torturing characters:
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Character is what rises to the top when put under extreme pressure. We all would like to think that we would react "heroically" when we are put into life or death situations. But until we actually experience it we do not know how we will act.
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Cindy's right. Pressure builds when old, internal issues come boiling to the top as things go wrong on the way to an important karmic appointment.

But this is one of those eternal truths writers have to learn the hard way.

Yes, we know we love books that torment the most lovable hero. Yes, we swoop along on that terrible ride pretending we could do as well or better in real life, gasping at the twists and turns, and squirming in our seats.

But now we're facing that dreaded blank white computer window, determined to write one of "those" stories -- and we don't know what to put.

Who is this guy? Where did he come from? Why is he scared blue-lipped? What would it take to make him pee his pants? And how can we ever think of it?

You can't just pick a few traits arbitrarily and expect them to go together to create the image of a great guy in readers' minds.

Human beings (or believable aliens) are made up of traits that "go together" -- that form a pattern, that have something to do with each other, that are not arbitrary or random. That underlying template, archetype, pattern is what we mean when we say "character" and what Cindy meant when she said "character rises to the top".

What "rises" -- what becomes visible -- is the "right stuff" inside the character, the guts, and other body parts we use to represent strength, judgement, moral fiber, kindness, motivation, values.

The character is recognized by the reader/viewer as "real" because the traits revealed fit together to form a recognizable pattern. This can be a pattern we've seen inside ourselves and know that nobody else sees -- or it can be a pattern we've seen in others -- yearning for such a person to discern our own secret pattern.

How do you figure out what collection of traits would make your reader's eyeballs glue to your pages, yearning for your character to recognize their internal "right stuff?"

That question is not a "craft" question. It can't be answered by craft.

It is an "art" question -- and believe it or not, it does indeed have an answer that can be learned and applied by anyone who can write a literate English sentence.

The "art" of story is a huge, deep question that spreads far and wide into the realm of philosophy, spirituality, and even politics.

How do you "become" a writer? How do you get to where the writers you admire so much are? Where do you go to learn to write?

You can find most community colleges and even universities offering some courses in writing, (some in business writing or journalism which actually pays better or steadier). But many of those courses are titled "Creative Writing" -- which is not (trust me) what you really want if you aspire to become a commercial writer of fiction.

For each field or genre of writing, there is a system of thinking that generates the words. Fiction is no exception, at least not commercial fiction.

I've written extensively about the art behind the craft of writing in my review column.

http://www.simegen.com/reviews/rereadablebooks/

Many writers do their "art" subconsciously and speak at length about how they just feel their way into a story, maybe write bits and pieces out of sequence, -- or it all just appears in mind, a character demands to have his story told. But not everyone who has that experience turns out a piece of truly commercial fiction.

What's the difference between what wells up from your subconscious and what wells up from Cindy Holby's subconscious?

It's not just craft -- though without craft even the best stuff won't make it on the commercial market. Today's readers are spoiled by a consistent level of craftsmanship in published books.

One reason e-book sales haven't grown faster is that initially many e-books had that inspiration and art behind them, but lacked craft. Readers weren't satisfied.

That's changing and the competition is getting tougher.

So where can a writer go to learn what other writers are born knowing?

Philosophy. Religion. Anthropology. Even TV News.

Since I have a mathematical bent of mind, I found astrology to be the quickest path to making sense out of Internal and External conflict and how it generates plot -- in an artistic way. But I read a lot of psychology textbooks before I hit on astrology. You can learn all of Astrology by reading biographies, psychology, sociology, history and anthropology. Or you can take the shortcut and learn astrology which combines all of that with Art.

See noeltyl.com for lessons.

Now what is "art" - in general and in specific.
You might say Art is a language -- a language of the soul, perhaps. Art is a method of depicting something intangible and literally un-know-able -- i.e. something that can't be accessed via the cognitive faculty which produces "knowledge."

A Seer, a Prophet, a Wise Woman, (or a writer) apprehends a pattern that subsumes all reality, a prototype of reality -- the template upon which our lives are based, and struggles mightily to convey that Vision to people who have no Eye to see it with.

That "struggle" is not a conscious struggle. It comes from the same place inside us that the need to talk comes from -- as a baby learns to say words, an artist learns to "say" characters, form, motion, color, dimension, beauty and ugliness contrasted, balanced or over-balanced.

What that Seer produces in her struggle is what we call Art. It is a language in which we discuss emotion, feelings, aspirations, dreams, and hope.

Think shamanistic storytelling.

Think Bard.

Like any language, it has grammar and syntax, vocabulary where "words" are related to each other in a systematic way.

In the world of Art, baby-talk doesn't sell books.

Erudite and facile use of the language of art, use that profiles and displays the art form itself as an end in itself, does indeed sell books.

TO BE CONTINUED NEXT TUESDAY - if Rowena remembers to post Part II. I will be teaching at Ecumenicon Thursday March 27-30, back at my desk on April 2.
http://www.ecumenicon.org

Jacqueline Lichtenberg
http://www.simegen.com/jl/

Tuesday, March 11, 2008

Prologues and Spoilers

I dropped a comment on Cindy's very provocative Saturday post (see below) on Prologues and Epilogues, and another on Linnea's post for Monday, preceding this post.

I didn't mention that if you use a "prologue" you really should also need (because of the story structure) an "epilogue".

As a reviewer, I generally see "Prologue" and flip back to look for an "Epilogue" before deciding whether to read the prologue, and if there's an epilogue I read it first, then flip to the prologue to see if it matches correctly. If there is no epilogue, I don't read the prologue. Or if the epilogue is not a natural follow on from the prologue, I don't read the prologue.

When I come to a point in the story that needs the information in the prologue, I might consult the prologue -- or I might just set the book aside unfinished if it's too flawed to review.

You see, what generally goes into a prologue (especially one required by an editor who doesn't know how to "fix" your manuscript in time for publication) is what is usually labeled a "spoiler."

"Spoiler" is a term that cropped up at the beginnings of the Internet when fans began discussing books, film and TV across time zones. It turned out that a number of people feel it "spoils" a story to know what is going to happen.

Classic literature that uses the prologue/epilogue structure telegraphs to the reader that this character will or won't survive, that the events of the story are actually caused by or interfered with from someone else in some other place or time, or that sets up the reader to understand the characters before the story begins instead of unfolding their quirks one at a time during a smooth flowing narrative.

The prologue/ epilogue structure was invented because most people's story-enjoyment is enriched and enhanced by knowing what is going to happen before they've read the story.

If knowing the key shocker or twist event of a story "spoils" the effect of the story, then why do audiences flock to performances of Shakespeare's plays? Why do congregations read the same portions of the Bible over and over in a yearly cycle? Why did Star Trek and Star Wars fans fill movie theaters again and again, chanting the words with the characters?

Why do people, battered and bruised from a week's work, curl up with an old movie they've seen a dozen times? Why do people buy DVDs of films they've seen in the theater? Why do people buy the book before going to see the film? Why do theaters fill for classical ballet performances? Why does TV rerun series episodes? And why do people re-read novels?

Such human behavior telegraphs that repetition enriches the experience, that knowing before hand what is going to happen doesn't spoil it but actually increases the impact and thus the enjoyment.

Well-designed prologue/epilogue bookends tell you whether the writer knows what they're doing with the specific story-form, and thus whether the story between them is worth your precious time to read.

They tell you what that story is about, and what the major change is going to be. But they don't tell you how it happens or what it feels like to undergo that change. A good prologue/ epilogue pair sets the reader up to thoroughly enjoy the story and come back to read it again and again.

Finding a writer who can handle the prologue/epilogue pairing is like finding a great restaurant. The steak was great - let's have the stew next time. You come back again and again to the source, read the book over and over, savour that prologue and epilogue in depth and yearn for sequels.

People disparage the Romance field, the SF and Fantasy fields, and inexplicably the SFR or Alien Romance field as fluff, escapist, no-account waste of time garbage.

But the truth is, enduring classics in these fields, and most especially in SFR and Alien Romance, are not only possible, but currently hitting the market. This cross-genre field is building up to become a source of important classics for future generations to study.

The hallmark of a classic is that it is re-readable and speaks to the essentials of human nature even across generations. That even when you know exactly what's going to happen, you still get "in the mood" to reread that book, and you savour it more each time.

Now you can argue that the reason for this re-read - rerun phenomenon is that people want to relive that moment when they first hit the shocker of a twist without warning. And thus warning someone before hand "spoils" that moment, vitiates the impact, and therefore they will never re-read the work.

But if that were true, why would schools teach ABOUT King Lear before taking the class to see the play? Or examine the plot of SWAN LAKE before taking the class to see the ballet?

The only instance I can think of where knowing the twist or who dies or what the shocker moment is SPOILS the enjoyment of the film or book is when the film or book consists of nothing but the twist, shocker, or surprise ending.

A mystery is not spoiled by knowing who the killer is (you're supposed to figure it out before the detective does) -- unless that's ALL the enjoyment the story can deliver.

A mystery is about the psychological duel between perpetrator and detective, and it is the duel, the search for clues, and the personality of the detective (and perp) that makes it interesting.

An "open form" mystery like COLOMBO has a "prologue" where the murder takes place, then Colombo comes and solves it, but we don't usually see the "epilogue" of the court sentencing. We're supposed to imagine the epilogue to make room for commercials.

PERRY MASON showed the murder, then the solving, then the court battle (usually, not always in that order) because Mason was a defense lawyer, not the detective per se. It is the HOW the wrong person was charged, and how that person was exonerated that is interesting.

If the "how" was not the interesting part, why would reprints of Sherlock Holmes still be available? Why would that antiquated Detective Series be made into a TV series with Jeremy Brett starring as Sherlock Holmes? Why would "Murder She Wrote" reruns be on almost as much as "I Love Lucy?"

Lucy is funny even when you already know what the gag line will be at the end. How can that be if it's been "spoiled" by the fact that you know what will happen in advance.

Knowing the answer, the twist, the shocker, does not spoil the mystery, comedy, or drama -- and it does not spoil any story -- unless the story is essentially worthless to begin with.

To expect that if you know a plot twist your enjoyment will be spoiled is to reveal that you prefer to indulge in worthless literature, just as our detractors accuse us of doing when reading SFR or AR -- or SF or Fantasy.

A classic is never damaged by foreknowledge among the readers/viewers. That's the very definition of "classic" -- and in this day and age, there's no reason to spend your time reading anything that isn't of the classic caliber. There are more classics out there than you can read in a lifetime.

Thus the title of my review column is ReReadable Books -- I review books that have that "classic" profile, and that thus can not be "spoiled" by revealing the shocker, the twist, the who dies and who survives, elements of the plot.

So you will find "spoilers" in my column. If that distresses you, you can find the list of books to be reviewed in future months on the column's website and read the books before reading the reviews. In fact, the column is designed for people to get the most out of it by pre-reading the books I "re" view.

In my column, I discuss the invisible links between and among books, TV shows, films, and even non-fiction. The individual works discussed are not nearly as important as the light that each sheds upon the other. I generally don't discuss books in depth in my column if they weren't "classic" material that can't be "spoiled" by knowing some of the content before hand.

I do discuss a few proto-classics, books that are leading an entire field or sub-genre toward producing those treasured and timeless classics. These books, while not classics themselves, are of interest to writers who want to contribute to the shaping of a new classic field. And they aren't easy to "spoil" either.

I generally single out bits of content that might tell the reader whether they want to read that book, or not. And usually there's enough lead time between when the list of books to be discussed is posted online and when the column itself goes up that you can find the books at the library rather than buying them.

For me, the real enjoyment of fiction comes from savouring compositions formed of groups and lists of works. That's because I see the universe as a single unit, an indivisible whole, and I love finding the underlying unifying characteristics of what appear to be disparate, individual things.

If you like that, come look over my column (it's free).

http://www.simegen.com/reviews/rereadablebooks/2008/

Join the List from that page to be informed when new to-review lists are posted.

Use the left hand nav-bar to look back at columns to 1993. Just because the books are "old" doesn't necessarily mean they're "spoiled."

Jacqueline Lichtenberg
http://www.simegen.com/jl/

Saturday, March 08, 2008

To Prologue or not to Prologue

I like prologues. I think they are a useful tool in writing. When I develop a character in my mind they usually come complete with a history that makes them the person they are when the story takes place. In my first novel, Chase The Wind, I had a prologue that was the entire first half of the book because the story was really about Jenny, not Ian and Faith who died tragically and people cried about. Of course I had no clue then about the craft, I just wanted to tell the story.

I don't always use prologues, only when they are necessary to give some back story that would not come across well in the show/tell part. In Shooting Star I used a prolouge to explain Ruben's history. A story from when he was twelve that explained how he came to be a smuggler. In Star Shadows I did it to give some of the mythology of the planet Circe so the reader would realize the importance of Zander, even though the book was not about Zander but Elle and Boone.

I added a prologue to Forgive The Wind where my hero loses his leg. He lost his leg in a previous book, Crosswinds but it was told from the heroine of that books POV. In Forgive The Wind I wrote the exact same scene but told it from Caleb's POV since Forgive The Wind was his story.

Rising Wind has the most awesome prologue ever. My editor said she would have bought the book on the prologue alone. It described the hero's birth, sat up his future internal conflict and introduced the heroine and antagonist, all on the battlefield of Culloden. I love it when I get it right!

In my current wip I didn't start with a prologue since my hero had been introduced in Rising Wind. Then I realized that the intro was just plain boring. Basically it was a guy looking in a mirror.

Original beginning

“Pride goeth before destruction, John Murray, and a haughty spirit before a fall.”
John Murray cast a blond eyebrow askance as his blue eyes switched from his own reflection in the small mirror hanging on the wall to that of his friend. “Quoting scripture again Rory?” he asked. “Did you ever think that perhaps you should have pursued a career in the church instead of the King’s army?”
“You forget, my friend, I have the misfortune of being a second son,” Rory replied, shouldering John aside from the mirror so he could arrange his own brown locks to his satisfaction. “Which means my life, alas, was predestined from the start.” Rory completed his hair and placed his hat at a jaunty angle atop his head. “And since I have no control over my destiny, I will be off to see what she has in store for me.” Rory threw up a mock salute and with his hand on his sheathed saber to keep it from catching on the door, left the narrow room that the two men shared.
“Destiny is what we make of it!” John shouted after him and returned to his perusal of his image. “Or so we tell ourselves,” he reminded his reflection quietly less someone walking by caught him talking to himself. That would not do at all.


It's okay. You find out the important information about John but it doesn't suck you into the story. So I added a prologue of something that happens later in the book. John's turning point and the reason he was such a jerk in Rising Wind. By adding this bit I also gave the reader something to think about. Why did this happen? How? When? Hmmm, maybe I should keep reading to find out.

Aberdeen. Scotland, 1773
A fine mist fell. John Murray could not help but shiver in his shirtsleeves as he stepped out into the damp gray gloom of early morning. A shudder moved down his spine as his eyes fell upon the post planted in the middle of the court yard at Castlehill. The ground around it was trampled, torn, and filled with the muck from the mix of rain and free flowing blood. Ewain Ferguson’s blood. No comfort for him there as his blood would soon join it.
Was she watching? His blue eyes scanned the ranks of his peers, all standing at attention in the despicable weather, all surely cursing his name because they were given orders to rise early this miserable morning and watch his punishment.
Where was she? Surely they would force her to watch since it was her fault he was here in the first place. Surely they made her watch her brother’s lashing as it was his fault that two men now lay dead.
There. He saw her. Standing straight and as tall as her petite frame would allow next to the General who was magnanimous in his show of mercy towards her. She was a woman after all, and nothing more than an instrument in the treachery of her clansmen.
Her hair was plastered down against her head instead of the mass of springy curls that framed her face like sunlight. This morning it seemed darker than its usual reddish blonde, whether from the rain, or the doom and gloom that hung over the courtyard, he could not tell. Her dress was stained dark with blood and the neckline gaped open, torn by him in his haste the night they were together. Of course she would have no way to mend it so it hung open, teasing him, tormenting him, just as she did the first time he met her. She had gotten into his head that day, damn her and all her clan before her. She had no choice but to live with the state of her dress since her hands were tied before her. Even though the distance between them was great he could feel her deep brown eyes upon him. That gave him a measure of satisfaction. A small measure at that but something to hang on to considering his dire straights.
If only they would lash her also. Did she not deserve it? Was not she as guilty as her brothers and her father in the planning and the plotting and the betrayal?
John’s stomach clenched in anger at the thought. No. It would not do to rip her pale, delicate skin. Knowing her as he did he knew that she would rather have the lashing herself than watch it. She would suffer more that way. She deserved to suffer for what she’d done.
“Best get on with it lad,” Sergeant Gordon said. “Dreading it only makes it worse.”
John ripped his eyes from his desperate examination of her face and looked at the grizzled Sergeant who served as his escort. “Aye, lad,” he said in his hoarse croak. “I’ve felt the lash. “Tis best not to think on it too much. The muscles bunch across your shoulders and it makes it much worse.”
John flexed his shoulders as he took the first step into the courtyard. “How can I not think on it?” He’d seen lashings. Plenty of them. General Kensington was generous in his discipline but he was fair. Twenty lashes was the usual sentence for dereliction of duty.
But he’d added another five because of the circumstance John caught himself in.
Let it be a lesson to all. Do not be swayed by a pretty face and the offer of favors. When John considered the loss of his reputation and the damage to his career, the lashes were nothing in comparison.
Still he knew they were coming and with them would come pain. John flexed his shoulders again. The mist had turned into a drumming rain and his shirt was soaked through. He felt goose bumps on his flesh. He hoped it was the cold that caused them, and not the fear.
“I know what you’re thinking lad,” Sergeant Gordon continued as they walked the innumerable steps to the post. “You’re thinking how will it feel? Will I be able to stand it? Will I cry out like a babe?” Gordon was right all on accounts. John felt a newfound respect for the man as they continued the gut wrenching walk across the yard.
Too soon they stood before the post and Gordon attached the hook to the bonds around his wrists. Gordon nodded to a corporal who jerked on a rope attached to a pulley and John’s arms were stretched above his head and he was pulled against the post. His boots sunk into the muck and the corporal pulled again so that he was stretched up onto his toes.
“Let him down a bit lad,” Gordon instructed. “Ye might find yerself in the same predicament some day.” The corporal relented and John was able to place his feet somewhat firmly on each side of the post.
Gordon looked beyond John to the burly man holding the lash. “He won’t be happy unless you cry out,” he said. “The man loves his job for some reason.” Gordon spat into the mud by John’s feet. “Sadistic bastard,” he added. He slipped a piece of wood in John’s mouth. “Bite down on it lad. Twill help.”
John nodded as he placed his cheek against the post. Gordon stepped behind him and ripped away his shirt. “Think on something else lad,” he added into his ear as the cold rain on his bare back let him know that Gordon had left him.
Think on something else…John blinked the rain off his eyelashes and looked towards General Kensington. He heard the sentence being read by Kensington’s aide, a nephew of the General’s with a squeaky voice and bad skin.
“Do you understand your sentence for the crimes you have committed?” the aide asked, his voice breaking on the last part.
John looked at the General and nodded. The General raised his hand. His face looked sad and John knew that the man was thinking about his father. They were friends. It was the reason Kensington had requested John be assigned to him. What would Kensington have to say to his father about all of this?
Think on something else…He knew the lash was coming. He could sense it coiling and gathering. He heard it whistle threw the air.
John looked at her. Isobel. Izzy. It was her fault. He trusted her with his life, with his soul, with his heart and she betrayed him.
He felt the sting of the lash. His back burned as he was slammed against the post.
“One,” the aide said.
Get on with it…
The next one came in the opposite direction. Marking his back with an X. A target. His eyes stayed on Izzy. How easy a target he’d been for her. He’d fallen like a rock into sea. Sunk right into her plotting. Captured by a winsome smile and deep brown eyes that seemed to hold the secrets of time.
“Two,”
The next one landed straight across, the splinted tail of the whip caressing his ribcage and tearing at the skin on his side as it hit against the bone.
John let out a hiss as he kept his eyes on Izzy. Her eyes seemed huge in her face. At one time he’d thought he could get lost in those eyes.
“Three.”
Damn her eyes. Three lashes and his back felt like it was on fire.
The next one struck straight down his spine. The man was thorough if nothing else. He seemed determined to flay every inch off his back in the strokes allowed. John pressed his wrists against each other as pain shot throughout every inch of his body. He pushed against the post, his body automatically seeking escape from the next blow.
“Four.”
Think on something else.
How could he not be tense when he knew it was coming? He heard the whistle of the lash once again. Felt his flesh tear. Felt the blood pour down his back. He groaned and clenched his teeth tighter into the wood.
“Five.”
Twenty to go. How could he stand it? He had too. Crying wouldn’t stop it. Begging wouldn’t stop it. Screaming his anger at the heavens would not stop it anymore than it would stop the rain that washed against his back and plastered his hair into his eyes.
Izzy. He stared at her, blinking against the rain. It was her fault. All her fault. Every bit of
it.

When I get to this part in the linear story I will write it from Izzy's POV. So hopefully the prologue will draw the reader in and keep them reading until they find out why John got the lashes and what part Izzy played in it.

I've heard a lot of differing opinions on prologues. But if it works for the story then I say use it.

Friday, February 22, 2008

Craft/First Lines

A good opening line is an essential part of story telling. It's also something that I don't think I'm particulary good at. Occasionally I get it right but more as often or not I don't think I do. OF course there is the best first line of all time..."It was the best of times, it was the worst of times..." from Charles Dickens A TALE OF TWO CITIES. Most writers aspire to put down something that great.

I'm going to list some first lines that I think are pretty good and why I think so.

Alyssa Day/Atlantis Awakening
"These are my kind of odds," Ven said, drawing his sword with his right hand and one of seven daggers strapped to various parts of his body with his left.


Right away we know there's a fight going on. And I'm betting Ven is going to come out the winner.

Linnea Sinclair/Games of Command
"You might want to sit down,"....


There's more after that but I'm already hooked.

Liz Maverick/What A Girl Wants
In Hayley Jane Smith's defense, it should be noted that it was a record breaking week during the hottest summer in ten years of San Francisco meteorology history.


I love this line. In Hayly Jane Smith's defense. What did she do? What does the heat have to do with it? Why does she need defending? Must read on to find out.

Another Liz Maverick, This one from Adventures Of An Ice Princess
There are few things more humiliating in a woman's life than having an engagement party thrown in her honor when the man in question has not proposed.

You know that there's nothing but trouble coming up.

Here are a few of mine.

From Obsessing Orlando under the pen name Kassy Tayler
"I can't breathe!"
oh the drama of being a teen girl.

From Windfall
Something was different.

From Star Shadows and my favorite
It was one of those days that hurt to be alive.
When I wrote this line I wanted to show the desperation of youth. That burning, yearning, I got to do something or I'll explode feeling.

and from Twist
Would I make it
Pulls you right in doesn't it?

A good opening line should pull you right into the story and start your mind spinning with the basic questions. Who, what when, where and Why? And then I got to read this.

I'd love to see some other great opening lines. Anybody got any they want to share?

Tuesday, June 19, 2007

Aliens Who Give Rise to Vampire Legends

Folks:

Cindy Holby wrote Friday June 15th:
--------------
So after I had a morning meltdown we put our heads together. And what did we come up with?
Aliens. Aliens who are the reason there is a vampire legend. Actually it was pretty cool to come up with a new concept on an old tale. Plus we made up lots of slang and my heroine only lost a few of her really snarky lines.
------
And in the comments Linnea wrote:
Jacqueline Lichtenberg beat you to that, darling. Read her THOSE OF MY BLOOD if you want to learn about aliens and vampires and why they're on this planet. ;-) Then read her DREAM SPY which is awesome. ~Linnea
----------------

Whee! Thank you Linnea and thank you Margaret for mentioning THOSE OF MY BLOOD and DREAMSPY and noting all the decades of history behind the "vampires are aliens from outer space" tradition.

I first got the idea from, Black Destroyer the short story -- A. E. Van Vogt? I remember the story, but I have also heard it described by many people when doing panels and none of them read the story I read! They think it's horror, and I think it's Intimate Adventure.

I do however believe that Black Destroyer was the originator of this vast and fascinating SF/Fantasy cross-genre concept. That story is one of the (many) reasons I became an SF writer.

I'm sure that Cindy originated the idea, too. Just because it's been practically done to death (ahem) doesn't mean that someone can't create it originally.

It is a logical extension of both the vampire myths and SF lore.

Think about Stargate (the movie, and then the series) and Stargate: Atlantis. Stargate (the movie) just extended this 1940's traditional SF approach from some select myths to ALL the gods in Earth's mythologies, and tied them all together in a Ragnarok of the Stars.

So I wanted to point out to those reading my comments on screenwriting something that many beginning writers don't understand.

In Hollywood, this happens all the time -- that an established, working screenwriter faced with a deadline and a monkey wrench such as Cindy describes for us would reach out for a logical extension of a concept and latch onto something a new writer has CREATED ORIGINALLY out of their own imagination.

Perhaps that author has written and even submitted the script -- or just shopped the idea around, possibly on an internet site.

A few years later a TV episode or theatrical release appears based on this new writer's original concept and the writer is absolutely convinced the established pro stole the idea.

But the pro did not steal the idea any more than Cindy and her editor stole MY idea.

(OK not quite the same. Mine has been published and re-published and widely reviewed and discussed -- and I know I was writing in an established sub-genre with its own rules.)

So back to my hypothetical story of the new screenwriter: The pro re-originated the idea. He didn't have to steal it. He just had to be well read enough and artist enough to synthesize the ingredients.

This is why you can't copyright an idea.

But here's where the new writer who thinks his idea is original can get in trouble. And it's where Cindy could get in trouble if she's unfamiliar with this huge and seething sub-genre (one of the first cross-genre genres).

When I wrote THOSE OF MY BLOOD and DREAMSPY, I already knew this SF/Fantasy/Horror hybrid genre like the back of my hand. All of its bits and pieces are part of my Sime~Gen universe premise on the thematic level (in fact Black Destroyer is one of the foundation bits of Sime~Gen).

Before writing THOSE OF MY BLOOD. I also updated my state-of-the-art research into the hybrid genre (cross-genre didn't exist at that time, and it was impossible to sell cross-genre books. THOSE OF MY BLOOD got 22 rejections and finally was published as SF because there was no SF-Romance category at that time, though a few vampire-romances had begun to appear. Rewrites had to tone down the romance and bring the SF to the fore.)

I did the worldbuilding behind THOSE OF MY BLOOD and DREAMSPY to carefully enumerate, point by point, all the thematic statements and details used by other novels (see Margaret Carter's various publications on the Vampire genre -- she's SUCH a scholar!).

I was careful not to copy or infringe or take as my own anything that had been used before. Most writers don't do that. It's too much trouble, too time consuming. And trust me, it is NOT done in Hollywood. They don't care.

They don't care because they aren't legally bound to avoid using ideas others have pioneered.
And there's a very good reason that you can't copyright AN IDEA (vampire legends originate with aliens from outer-space is an IDEA; all the little gods people have worshipped through the ages were just Go'auld mining Earth for hosts is an IDEA (and not an original one).)

The most incredibly commercial ideas in Hollywood are commercial because they aren't original -- even if the scriptwriter originates the idea without direct exposure to the literature where it's been pioneered.

What makes a concept commercial in Hollywood is that the audience is already familiar with it.
After nearly thirty years of developing the "vampires can be accounted for as visiting aliens" concept, it became a Hollywood original in Stargate where "all gods were just aliens".

(note how Stargate stays away from Christian, Moslem and Jewish beliefs -- haven't done Buddha or any LIVING religion but just pick on "old superstitions.")

(also note Stargate is being cancelled, but Atlantis will continue a while.)

So if you set out to write a script that will make you a Name in Hollywood, and you come up with something truly original that's never been done before, or a twist such as the Vampire-Alien combo, don't think that you can copyright that idea. You can't even Register it with the Guild's script-registration service. They only take completed screenplays.

An IDEA somehow exists "out there" external to our minds, and when the time is right, that IDEA inserts itself into dozens and dozens of minds (maybe millions) at about the same time. It isn't a race between you and all other originators, either.

Remember Thomas Edison wasn't the first to invent the lightbulb. But he got the historical credit because he had the commercialization machinery behind him.

After an idea has come out a few times, and failed -- THEN the big commercial success happens. So let others go ahead of you -- but to maintain your artistic integrity, if you get a chance to write the book out of the screenplay, be sure to note their names in your acknowledgements and that you walk in their footsteps.

If you think someone has stolen YOUR idea -- just remember that you stole it from the same place they got it from.

It's not the idea that becomes successful -- it's the commercial machinery behind the idea that makes the idea successful.

So it's entirely possible that because of THOSE OF MY BLOOD and DREAMSPY winnowing the ground first, Cindy's book may become the hottest commercial success of this very old idea and she may get the credit for originating it just as Thomas Edison got credit for the lightbulb.


Jacqueline Lichtenberg
http://www.simegen.com/jl/