Goals and Punishment for April

I'm sorry for not posting last week, but things have been heating up around here both literally and figuratively, and it's been difficult to fit everything in. I may, however, have something interesting for you guys in a few days.

In lieu of some sort of discovery analysis, today I want to outline my goals for the month of April.

1. Finish the bulk rewrites for the new segments of "The Mark of Flight"

        -2 scenes, + continuity pass

2. Revise Query letter

3. Do at least the first lesson of Holly Lisle's "How to Revise Your Novel" on HELLHOUND.

And if I FAIL to complete these tasks, my punishment is as follows:

I must watch the second Twilight film from start to finish with the following rules:

• I cannot mute the sound
• I must give the movie my full attention
• I must film myself watching, and produce a video of the results, to be uploaded and displayed on the Word-Accountable Blog.

Now, I read the first Twilight book and watched the first Twilight movie. I have neither read nor seen anything further, though I've heard quite a bit of what happens. I don't think just watching me grimace at the screen would be very entertaining, so I've decided that--if I have to do this punishment--it's going to be a drinking game.

Due to the things I decided to choose as my drinking-cues, Raven has warned me to drink nothing more alcoholic than Smirnoff.

I MUST DRINK

1. Each time Taylor Lautner is shirtless
2. Each time I don't believe Robert Pattinson's American accent.
3. Each time Bella's creeper radar appears to be broken beyond repair.
4. Each time there's a Vampire/Werewolf fight.

Leave suggestions for further drinking rules in the comments, and wish me luck in completing my tasks.

Flash Friday #2 - Werewolves of Wilson

Picture by Halans

            If one could trudge across the Atlantic, that’s how I might have described my progress back from London, where the streets were cool, the men were well-dressed, and when they weren’t,  they at least had the decency to give a polite, “morning!” before darting nakedly down an alleyway in search of a Lycanthrope Emergency Box. The muggy North Carolina summer seemed to suck out not only my energy, but every ounce of expectation I’d had for a good break between semesters.
            A buffalo-sized man in little more than a greasy apron and an orange hunting cap shunted me out of line in Target. I watched in horror as his gray-sprouted backside rippled away from me and noticed that he was also wearing pristine timberlands with the price tags still attached.
           He slammed a tent-sized pair of sweatpants in front of the clerk. Her thin ponytail quivered as she scanned the barcode.
            “F-five-twenty-”
            “Y’all think I walk around like this for fun?” he barked. “You happen to look at the sky while you was on your back last night, hun? This is what my tax-dollars pay for!”
            “The town is really growing up!” my mom said, taking my attention away from the train-wreck of Lycanthrope-Human relations occurring a few feet away. She gestured out the window. “We have a Starbucks now, too.”

I, who had become quite accustomed to cozy British tea shops, stared glumly across the steaming parking lot at the green sign, which had sprung from the earth like a tiny stalk of civilization in 200,000 acres of “y’all”. But desperation was making mom’s smile twitch, and I felt guilt deflate my mood even further. She knew Wilson couldn’t hold an unlit match next to London, but she didn’t want me to hate it. It was like hating Wilson meant hating her, which wasn’t true. I mean, really, if I had been able to love my mother despite her answering “sí!” to the Indian cab driver in Oxford Circus, I could love her despite anything.

“Great!” I said, hoping the forced tone didn’t sound sarcastic.

“I thought you’d like it. But make sure you get the sugar free vanilla syrup, or you’ll mess up our diet.”

Luckily, the galumphing exit of the Were-Behemoth saved me from answering. According to mom, I’d had a few too many cream teas this past year, and we were going to “shape up” before I ended up looking like the Queen Herself. I didn’t have the heart to dash mom’s well-meant plans just yet, but I had no intention of depriving myself of bread for the next three months, especially when I would probably sweat out all the weight just walking to the car.

I watched a woman jerk her toddler aside as the disgruntled werewolf tugged on his sweatpants just outside the automatic doors. Life could be worse.

I could have that guy’s figure.

-----------------------------


I hope you all enjoyed this! It's intended to be the start of a longer piece, but I thought it stood well enough on its own four paws. Let me know in the comments if you'd like to see more of this story.

Character Flaws - Make them Matter

Character flaws: those deficiencies and limitations we're supposed to give our characters to make them more human and accessible. We know we need them to avoid writing the dreaded Mary Sue, whose only flaw isn't really a flaw, because it never gets her in trouble or changes the course of her story. Seriously, y'all: how am I supposed to believe that clumsiness is negative when its only consequence is tipping her in the arms of Edward Cullen her love-interest?


A few weeks ago, I wrote a post on interpreting conflicting advice in which I discussed a story I had written and how I used a beta-reader's suggestion to root out the real problem in the story. That problem wasn't that the main character didn't have flaws, but that the flaw didn't matter enough to the story for the reader to feel satisfied. It was only really in writing that post that I understood what I had done. Lest I accidentally claim to having more genius than I actually possess, let me assure you that I didn't "get" the connection of flaw to textual evidence of it until I wrote it down. 


Aspiring writers hear all the time that their characters need to have flaws. What we don't hear so often - which is perhaps more the point - is that those flaws have to matter. What's the point of giving your main character a lightning-bolt scar if it doesn't get him recognized when he doesn't want to be, or twinge and burn when he's taking OWLs? So, how do we make the flaws we give our characters matter?


We give them consequences.


The flash-bulbs are going off in my head like two starlets are cat-fighting on my brain's red-carpet. I knew this about flaws already...sort of. All the components were floating around in my head, waiting for me to connect them. (Raven could probably wax awesome here and make a metaphor about molecules and covalent bonds in reference to this kind of discovery, but I'd have to wiki that sucker, and then she'd sneeze on my science-metaphor and knock it off its unstable little legs.)


Epiphany-moment: I can't just give characters flaws for the sake of having them; I have to make their flaws have consequences! The realization found me scrambling through my manuscripts to make sure there was evidence of the flaws I knew my characters had. And, holey-plots, Batman - there are some places I will need to make repercussions, which opens up a lot of new exciting story possibilities. 


The best part about this connection was the realization that I could follow it backwards, rooting through the text for consequences to flaws I hadn't realized were there. 


I knew that Bay was a recalcitrant busybody, but I never realized his itinerant ways stemmed from their own insecurities, from the grudge he holds against the town he grew up in, and the teacher who left him behind. Who knew Arianna was so impulsive, so rebellious, and that her resistance to taking suggestions from anyone she considers beneath her would land her in so much trouble? And Helena - the Magic-weilding Hellhound - I couldn't believe how fast her self confidence vanished when she wasn't kicking bounty-hunter butt. Boy, does that kick her legs right out from under her in regard to her relationship with her roommates. Then there's Procne - deluding herself about her brother's death because she secretly fears being alone.


Srsly. I could be here a while.


Another bonus about flaws with consequences is that they help me with another topic I really struggle with: theme. I rarely start out writing with a theme in mind, and if one manages to emerge from the text, it's watery and unfocused. But if I consider my characters' flaws...


Mark of Flight: Wisdom is not defined by class or appearance.
Hellhound: Overcoming insecurities to find one's humanity.
Beggar's Twin: Acting out of the fear of loneliness ultimately hurts more people.


I can change these into sentences that reflect major themes in my work! "A princess discovers that wisdom is not defined by class or appearance"; "a non-human girl overcomes finds confidence in her own humanity"; "a young woman defeats her fear of loneliness and puts her brother's soul to rest."

Wow. So, apparently my issues in finding the theme of my story had to do with that un-established connection between a flaw, and how it matters to the story.


*cue hard rock hallelujah*


Giving your characters flaws is not enough - they have to somehow impede your character from reaching his or her goal. Even if it's not part of the main plot, it's got to matter enough to the story that the reader can sympathize with overcoming their own drawbacks, even if they're not the same. Because people sympathize best with characters who have accessible flaws, it's important to showcase them by giving consequences to that flaw.


 Does your character have a scar? Have it cause insecurity, and have that insecurity make her angry. Have that anger make her use excessive force to dispatch an iddybiddy-bad-guy and draw the big bad closer. Sometimes it's useful to look at the plot, and tease out a flaw that might already be there, like an archaeologist unearths the skeletons-in-the-closet of ancient kings. Considering last week's post on character journeys, you can probably tell that I really like this "going backwards" method.


Your characters' flaws have to matter, and to matter, they have to have consequences that affect a plot or sub-plot of the story by hampering your character. Whether it's feeling unworthy of the love-interest, or having a fear of heights that keeps him from becoming a dragon-rider, these flaws have to mean something to the story.


What kinds of flaws have you given your characters and how do they show up in your story? Do you think of flaws before you start, or do they rise from the text as you write? How have your own flaws held you back or gotten in your way?


Image by Jeremy Brooks

Sunday Sample #3 - The Mark of Flight

Last week, I shared the opening of my contemporary fantasy, Hellhound. This week, I would like to share the prologue of "The Mark of Flight", book one of The Markmasters Trilogy.

They had known him once, that woman in the teetering headdress, that courtier smoothing his brocade doublet, and that young man in the stained smock. Once, Alukale would have inspired more than a measuring glance or fluttered fan; his face alone would have been enough introduction to any keep from these castle gates to the Centoreinian border. Now it was his name that was known, but not his face. A pity, but at least he didn’t have to cover it. The early summer sun bearing down on his shoulders made the prospect of donning a hood a matter to avoid at all costs, and none of the ceremony-goers in the packed courtyard were even looking.

Their attention was trained on the girl descending the stairs, her arms spread slightly for balance as four gray-clad handmaidens helped her step-after-step. She probably wouldn’t have needed the help if not for the ridiculous headdress that towered well over her head. Its spires glittered in the sun, concealing the hair that would be revealed to all the court in just a few moments. Alukale shook his head in pity—despite the smile on her heavily-powdered face, her magenta aura pulsed like the heart of a hummingbird. To this day, he still did not understand why a girl couldn’t be the first to see her own hair, and he had watched them stuff it into coifs and wraps and caps for five-hundred years.

He shaded his eyes with one hand, the other perched on his sword-heavy hip, and gazed up at the gray battlements, at the royal family’s red and white standard snapping from the bastions. Then the dreaded specter of memory rose, a sickly dream adorning the modern castle in the raiment of his time.

Alukale had left this very courtyard five-hundred years ago, sick with grief, with rage, and ready to tear apart the world itself with his hands, or with his Magic if he could, if only it would stop the war. If only it would bring back what he had lost. But a handful of lifetimes had passed, and he had accomplished neither. Now, the sight of the castle rekindled feelings he had never wanted to face again, scenes he had never wanted to relive. Despite the changes wrought by time and foolishness, it was too familiar.

In the place of steel-latticed oak doors stood a gate of slender pikes, glistening with a web of silver ivy. Such a confection wouldn’t even stop a breeze, let alone an invading army. The keep was no longer a bastion for the people if the enemy were to breach the city’s walls. A few decades of peace and the people of Rizellen thought the war was over.

Alukale snorted. He had felt this ignorant excitement once, and the people of Rizellen would soon discover how wrong they were. Peace had made his country soft, and they would suffer for that weakness. He resisted the urge to leap onto the stairs and call this country that had once been his back to arms and take command of the future once again.

But he could not. She had forbidden interference, and Alukale was discovering that it was the hardest thing she had ever asked of him, and she had asked many things. He had taught, protected, even killed for her; he had shown the ruthlessness she could not, and had been the strength she lacked. And now she wanted him to stand aside.

The crowd hushed, and the piercing keen of a bell silvered the air, hanging across the crowd like ice. The time had come.

The four handmaidens reached for the headdress, and the princess’s hands clenched in her skirts. She didn’t look fourteen, sprite-like as she was, but Alukale knew better than anyone about the discrepancy of age and appearance. It took all four gray-clad women to lift, arms straining, the confection of silver and gems from the girl’s head. A heavy rush of ebony tumbled down the girl’s thin shoulders, and Alukale felt a small flicker of pride tugging his lips as his brother’s descendant shook out a glorious fall of black hair, waist-length and lustrous.

She would be the first Princess of Rizellen to have black hair; her foreign father had given her his coloring, and that was no shame, for a princess needed to be unique.

A groan nearby drew his attention, and Alukale glanced at the girl who had made the noise—unremarkable face, dressed in drab clothing let out at the seams. Her short-cropped hair told him that this girl had not possessed a set of handmaidens to care for her tresses before she turned fourteen. She spotted him looking and flushed, and he hoped she felt some shame in having wished for the princess’s bad luck.

Alukale looked back to the dais, jaw clenched. Princess Arianna would have bad luck enough without having the noblewoman’s curse of bad hair as well. At least the Sisters had blessed her with that much.

“You, boy!” A Warsman in heavy chainmail shoved through the crowd towards Alukale, his blue tabard bright among the peasants’ dull ensembles. “No swords in the bailey!”

“I was just taking my leave,” Alukale said, slipping between the men and women like water. He turned his back to the ceremony, clenching his teeth against the thought that he could do something—right now—to change the course of the future, and he was walking away. But no, he was lucky Lenis had let him come at all, for he knew she had seen a future where he had not controlled himself.

There would be a day when he gave in to that temptation, but it was not today. Today, he had other matters to attend.

Flash Friday #1 - Goodbye Girl

original image by rachel a. k.

There’s no hug like the one just before one walks to death. For many it’s a lover, or a friend, or a family member. For everyone else, there is me. I am that girl that stands at the bottom of the stairs and waits. When those selected to ascend have no one to hold their shaking hands, to hear their un-accomplished dreams, to blot their tears, and assure them that: no, it doesn’t hurt. No, they can’t come back.

So many ask those same questions, despite the fact that they know what death means. I suppose they want to know if all the symptoms apply.

They ask me with a thin veil of resolve, and I feel better when their bravado crumbles, and their expressions break, and they tell me, “I don’t want to die.”

I wrap them in my arms and let them hang about my neck, heads heavy and hot with tears as they wail and panic. I feel better when they cry for themselves, because that is how I know that they truly understand what is behind that bucking, banging door at the top of the stairs.

I have held girls my age, listened as they described their dreams of marriage, their goals of someday becoming something—a mother, a lawyer, a nurse—as though my sympathy could revoke their sentence and send them back into the arms of their loved ones.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“It isn’t fair,” she responds.

Then I hug her. I stroke her hair and cradle her trembling body as she pours out the last of herself to me. I cannot say more. I can only say one word after the hug.

“Goodbye,” I whisper, and watch the sacrifice climb the stairs on unsteady legs and cling to the railing. I watch their hands shake as they drink the tonic on the landing, and imagine the coldness of the knob as they turn it, opening the door beyond.

“Goodbye.”

Then he came. The lottery drew a name, but I didn’t remember it. I spoke it when he walked in, but he was nothing to me yet. I didn’t remember.

“Well,” he said, facing me. “Goodbye.”

I nodded, waiting. If I said “goodbye”, he would have to walk up those stairs, and it was too early. I watched him, waiting for words, but none came. He looked down at me, and I don’t know the color of his eyes, but his hair was short and inky black.

                I could tell he was waiting for something, but couldn’t divine what it was. After a moment, he nodded to me, and turned to the stairs. He gazed up, eyes fixing on the shuddering door-frame. Without another word, he put a heavy, booted foot on the stairs and began the ascent.

Photo by adamjonfuller

                He would not be the first to ascend with a bitterness I couldn’t resolve. I watched his back, watched as he reached the landing and turned, half-silhouetted to my eyes.

                Black hair in my hands, thick and cool...

                A memory! I had hugged him. Not at the bottom of the stairs, but years ago. Not for the need to retrieve his last moments, but for a different reason.

                I looked up, trying to brush aside the shadows and see his face. I knew that face, those hands that reached for the tonic, hands that had once felt rough in mine.

                “Wait,” I rasped. My heart beat in my throat. I needed to know—who was he? Who were we? I wanted to call after him, but my heart had filled every cavity in my chest, and my lungs had no room for breath.. The guards were prepared to catch a man coming down the stairs, not a girl going up. I rushed past and felt their fingers catch the ends of my hair.

I stopped just before the landing and stared at the man I almost didn’t remember. The tonic glittered in the vial as he drank, showing me the strong pulse in his neck.

                “I know you,” I breathed.

                He let the words hang for a moment, then lowered the vial. “Do you remember?”

                “Yes,” I said, though I remembered only that I had promised him his last hug. If his name was chosen as the sacrifice, I would be there to hold him. Now he stared down at me, eyes accusatory and afraid.

                “You’ve forgotten me,” he said. “They say our faces become the same to you Goodbye Girls. I didn’t believe it of you.”

                “Only for a moment,” I insisted. I opened my arms, imploring him to believe me. He watched me a moment longer, still wary, but stepped into my embrace. His body warmed me. His arms were strong and I remembered their safety, but now he trembled and bent his head. His tears soaked my collarbone, as I gripped his back and stroked his cool black hair. His breathing slowed, and I could feel his heartbeat slowing against mine. The tonic was taking effect, turning his veins to ice.

Was it possible, that he couldn’t feel his last hug?

The guilt of my forgotten promise crashed over me. I reached for the glass behind him and tipped the last crystal drops over his shoulder and into my mouth. The glass shattered to the floor, and he gripped my face tight in his hands and kissed me. No, it was too rough for his kiss. He was trying to drink the poison from me. I locked my arms around his neck, but he leaned away.

                “I don’t want you to die!” he slurred, his hands clenching hard in my hair. He staggered. His weight sagged around my shoulders and slammed me back against the door. I heard the moans of those who demanded death echoing behind us and knew a brief moment of fear. Would it hurt? I caught him under the arms, the warmth of his body fading as frost spread from my fingertips.

                “I’m not really alive,” I whispered, pressing my face against his ear. His breath fluttered over my collarbone. “I’ve said goodbye a million times. I won’t say it to you.”

I reached behind me and turned the knob. His arms tightened, his head pressed against my chest, and together we fell back through the opening door, into the unfeeling arms of the hungry.

I was his last embrace, and he was mine, and we would not come back.

Tomorrow, there would be a new Goodbye Girl.

***

I don't normally come up with ideas for short fiction, but this was the product of a dream, and I felt like any further building would destroy the feeling of it. You can hear an audio version of this read on Episode Six of Pendragon Variety Podcast. :)

Character Starting Points - Going Back

Photo by kevindooly

Sometimes I start writing with a great idea of who my character is, sometimes I start with just a name and a purpose. One of the most valuable things the writing process has taught me is that characters don't have to be perfect the first time around. I've talked a bit about my two books, The Mark of Flight and Hellhound, and as I mentioned in my post last week on characters that cry, I had totally different experiences writing Helena and Arianna.

I created Arianna when I was fifteen, and role-played her with my friends Adryn and Merilee in what I suppose you could consider a very early version of the first book's plot--kidnapped princess who gets help from a slave and a mage, and who risks her own life to save the slave when he is recaptured. I think there were dragons, demonic wolves, and lots of convenient way-houses/caves in some of those early RPs. I'm relieved no longer to have the files.

We moved on to other worlds and characters, but something of Arianna's essence stuck with me, her stubbornness and pride, her kindness and idealism, brewing in my head with her sweet, stuttering ex-slave of a love-interest, who inadvertently learns to use Magic. One day in my senior year of High School (when I was eager to write anything that wasn't a college application essay), I started The Mark of Flight. By then, I had a pretty good idea who Arianna was.

Helena, on the other hand, was little more than a name and a goal. I didn't know what she looked like, I didn't know who her family was or her background, and I knew nothing about her personality. I wrote a version of the opening scene as a writing prompt for one of Holly Lisle's mini workshops, and couldn't get it out of my head. The day before NaNoWriMo, I wrote an outline--at that time I was unemployed and feeling a little worse than useless, so I figured if I was going to be a jobless moocher, I might as well be a jobless moocher with a word-count.

Picture by mrhayata

While writing Arianna, I found there was a disconnect between the girl in my head and the girl on the page. It wans't until I was half-way though the book that I figured out why--Arianna was reacting to the plot, not driving it. I had no outline for the story, and I was still too immature as a writer to think about each scene, and how my character could work in it. I hadn't yet learned that scenes should be a collection of character choices given circumstances, not character reactions to circumstances. That shift in perspective happened only when it had to--when I needed Arianna to make the choice of whether to continue home, or to save the boy who had risked his life for her. After that, she drove each scene and started to become the stubborn, proud, kind, strong girl in my head.

Helena was a more active character to write from the beginning, and easier in many ways because she was modern, and had clear priorities. The problem was, I didn't know her. She was gray matter, condensing into something more concrete as my idea for the story expanded, evolved, and delineated specific requirements. By the time I'd gotten to the end...ohh, boy. All the characters were different, but Helena more than anyone. That spiraling mass of gray matter had finally condensed into a star, but her side-winding trail through the first draft of my story left a detritus of obsolete character actions and scenes.

Arianna, on the other hand, had come into her story almost as wise as she left it--definitely not what you want from a fourteen-year-old princess out in the wilds of her own country for the first time.

For both of these characters, I first had to find their ending-points before I could really decide their beginnings. When I was in school, I always wrote my essays straight through, and then pasted my conclusion into the beginning, so that it looked like my meandering path to the point was intentional. Sometimes, I'd even go back and fix the rest of the essay to more concisely reflect that. Thankfully, I'm a more diligent writer than I was a student.

What I discovered for my characters was that, once I knew who they were when they exited the story, I could use that essence of character and take them backwards a few steps, logically, based on what happens in the story. I could decide for them a stage from which to grow, and change, and develop into that character I had finally come to know by the end. In short, I messed with the starting-point of their character-journey to make the road to their destination more poignant and noticeable.

What kind of things do you learn about your characters in a first-draft? How do your characters' personal journeys evolve and change as you write, and from draft-to-draft? Would you/have you made changes to a story because of a character's need to be dynamic?

Characters that Cry

An Artist in Excruciating Pain

(Wisdom of the day: NEVER Tweet the word iPad. You will get spammed into next week, even if you delete the tweets.)

Writing characters that cry is a tricky process. Every time a character of mine starts to get choked up, I ask myself not whether I would cry in that situation (If I wouldn't, there's something wrong), but whether I would want to read about a character who would. Secondary characters can get a lot more leeway than main characters in this regard--just look at how often Hermione bursts into tears, as opposed to Harry, whose life is unquestionably more difficult (ignore the part where he's a boy and therefore biologically not as prone to tears). I know it's really important for a main character to retain the respect of the reader by showing what they're made of.

So why do my characters cry so much in rough drafts?

In The Mark of Flight (MoF), my main character Arianna is a fourteen-year-old princess, who struggles to get home before her kidnapping incites a war. In Hellhound (HH), my MC is Helena--a shape-shifter, who grew up enslaved in a gang-like style of living until she freed herself with magic and started working to stop her ex-master. These two characters have very little in common, even their worlds: Arianna's world is High Fantasy, while Helena is from a contemporary alternate version of the US. If there was one thing I discovered through writing both of them, it was that they sniffled their way to the finish-line.

Pampered Princess or Badass Shapeshifter--it doesn't matter. They both wibbled at every moment of intense feeling. By the time I got to the end of the first drafts, I knew the faucets were leaking enough to daunt even the Mario brothers. 

I thought I knew Arianna pretty well when I started MoF, but no matter how well you know your MC before you start, you always know them much better once you finish. At first I thought it was okay for her to cry, since she was a spoiled princess, but when I finished MoF, I went back and removed almost all of Arianna's tears. I had learned so much about her character that I decided her pride and determination wouldn't let her cry until one key point--when she discovers she has fleas in her hair. Trivial, yes, but it's that triviality in the midst of the seriousness that finally gives her an outlet. It serves at least two other purposes, as well.

Writing Helena was a totally different experience.

As some of my older readers will recall, I came up with HH the day before NaNoWriMo started, based on a scene I did as a writing exercise. I had a strong outline, which I wrote in a day using Holly Lisle's note-carding method, but learning about Helena was "pantsing" all the way. There wasn't time to get to know her before I started writing--I had to get to 50,000 words by December 1st. I knew she was running, she had a secret, and she had a goal. I knew she was out of place, but not why, or how she felt about any of it. As the story progressed, I filled in her background, I learned her reactions. I think I got her right in the last two or three chapters, but she had about 20 breaking points scattered throughout the story.

I've chosen which one I think is the most important, and I'm trashing the rest. For the character I had established by the end of the story, her level of vulnerability at the beginning and middle of the story was way too high. That's what I love about writing, though. I can fix my mistakes, and only my beta-readers will ever know.

And everyone who reads this blog. Dammit.

It can't be productive to write this way, but I wonder if this isn't part of my learning process--to write characters weaker in the first draft, so I can decide their limits, and then go back and revise. Maybe in the next book or five, I'll learn to be a little more conservative with the waterworks, so my main characters don't start reading like Cho Chang.

Are you bothered by characters who cry a lot? Do your characters cry too much in rough drafts, or not enough? What other kinds of rough-draft tendencies do you have?

Sunday Sample - The Markmasters Trilogy

I can't remember the artist for this...

An excerpt from "The Mark of Flight", book one of The Markmasters Trilogy.

Tashda had betrayed her.

 It was like being lifted from a drug-induced gaiety and suddenly dropped back into consciousness. The ethereal brightness of the world faded into simple moonlight, life became less beautiful, and Arianna was suddenly, rudely aware of her mistake. Her terrible, irresponsible, thoughtless mistake. These were no queen’s hands, she thought, opening her fists and staring at them in horror. These were the hands of a fool.

Bay grabbed her shoulders, wrenching her away from the door. “Come, my lady. There is no time. Tashda will have noticed this spell break, and I’m not sure how much time I can give you. Shiro!”

Arianna looked up, remembering for the first time the black-haired young man who had come in with Bay. The Mage thrust her towards him, and she recoiled from his obvious filth. No, she couldn’t think like that. She was worse than him now. She was a war-starter, for her mistake would surely be the catalyst for a fresh wave of fighting.

“Shiro, take her and get out. Take the Grays.”

“What about you?” Arianna asked, head snapping over to look at him. “You don’t expect me to get home with just-”

“There’s no choice, princess!” Bay snapped, turning to the casement and shoving it open.  “Go now!” he yelled, swinging his arm toward the window. The young man flinched, as if bracing himself for Bay to hit him. Arianna, leaned her head out the window. There was a single story drop to the ground, but in the evening darkness, she could see nothing soft to fall on. The sound of footsteps in the big hallway made up her mind.

“Let’s go!” she said. “We’ll have to jump.”

“Shiro, now!” Bay said, grabbing Arianna’s arm. The young man stooped so she could fling her arm around his shoulders, and she heaved her legs over the sill. Arianna’s back scraped against the casement as the two men lowered her out, and she was glad for the years and years of daring herself to look straight down over the castle Rizell’s curtain wall. Her arms slid through their hands, and they caught her wrists with a jolt. Her feet dangled a meter above the ground, and they let go. 

She gave a truncated cry and crumpled under her own weight, but it took only a second for the fighting blood to kick in, and she scrambled out of the way. Her feet stung, but she tore off toward the stable ahead, wet grass lashing her ankles. A thump behind her signaled the young man’s landing. He passed her on his long legs, flung the stable doors wide, and darted inside, Arianna right behind him.

To her shock, the horses stood outfitted and ready. The young man—Shiro—laced his fingers and Arianna stepped into them and tossed herself across the saddle. She struggled with her skirts for a moment before she was able to get her legs situated properly.

He handed her the reins and stepped back, turning his head from side to side. Through his nest of pitch black hair, she couldn’t see his eyes.

“Hurry up, get on the other horse,” she said, words pierced with sharp gasps. Her throat and chest burned from the run.

“I d-don’t know how to ride,” he breathed. “You have to go now. They don’t know I’m w-with you and you’ll be faster w-without me!”

Arianna stared at him. She imagined herself tearing through the wilderness, unable to discern direction, with a whole company of Markmasters in pursuit.

“Nonsense,” she hissed. “I can’t do this myself,” she loathed her next sentence, though it rang truly inside her own ears as she spoke. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Though he grimaced and rubbed the back of his neck with one big, filthy hand, he nodded.

She nudged Star toward him. “You’ll have to ride behind me.”

The young man’s posture stiffened, but Arianna wasn’t about to give him a second to protest. They had wasted enough time as it was. They’d have to leave her mother’s horse and hope that either that Bay man made it out alive, or that they could outwit or outride a single Markmaster.

“Come, we haven’t got time to argue!” Her voice trembled, but he jumped at the order as if she had shouted it, vaulting nimbly up behind the saddle. Arianna was, for once, glad of her slight weight, for though the young man was little more than skin and sinew, he was quite tall. She wondered what region he was from, to have such long bones and such strange coloring. Star didn’t like the extra weight, and let Arianna know with laid back ears and a rueful glare, but Arianna spat out a few commands in Danaian and they erupted from the stable.

It became obvious almost immediately that Shiro’s claims about his equestrian abilities were not the product of modesty. Arianna’s legs strained as she pressed her feet hard into the stirrups, struggling to keep balance for two as Shiro slung about uncontrollably behind her. Star—confused by the accidental leg signals—snorted and jerked at the reins.

Finally, Arianna managed to get the mare following the reins alone, and wheeled her around toward the road. They hurtled down the little path, turned, and burst into the open darkness of the road.

Ahead, she saw the festival pole, silhouetted against the boiling, cloudy sky, and a pair of figures running straight towards them, blond heads bright. She gasped, gaze shifting, and saw their smooth auras swelling with energy, spells sparkling at the ends of their outstretched hands. She pulled Star’s reins hard, and Shiro fetched up against her back, chin cracking against the back of her head. She grunted, but ignored the pain, wheeling the mare and digging in her heels. They catapulted up the faded road towards the ruined castle in a wild four-beat sprint. Shiro’s arms crushed her ribs, and if she had been inclined to breathe at all, it wouldn’t have been possible.

They pounded up towards the ruins, and a plume of flame snapped out on their left, flaring hot. Arianna screamed, and Star bolted right, heading straight for the steep edge of the motte. Ropes of blue, translucent Magic ribboned out at the edge of her vision, chasing them.

They couldn’t stop—they would have to go over the edge of the motte.

“Hold on!” she screamed, and drove Star with her heels over the edge. Blue Magic arched over their heads.

Everything slammed forward, and the pommel dug into Arianna’s gut. Shiro was heavy against her back, threatening to push her over Star’s low-bent neck as they slid down the steep hillside. The skirt of the motte flared below them, muddy, rocky, without purchase. Star wasn’t running, she was skidding down. Just when Arianna’s hands slipped on the mare’s withers and she pitched forward, Shiro’s arm tightened about her waist and he reversed direction, pulling her back. He had a bit more stability behind the saddle, and he had somehow managed to get his feet in the stirrups with hers.

            They lurched, Star leapt the last few lengths of the motte, and Arianna barely righted herself before the mare crashed into the ocean of tall, golden wheat.

            “The road!” she yelled, and Shiro pointed, but his feet jerked from the stirrups and he quickly had his wiry arms around her waist again, head bent down into her shoulder. They tore a wide path through the field, galloping for the hulking, broken structures concealing the road.

            Another tail of flame arced over them and splattered like burning grease in the wheat ahead. Star reared, and this time Arianna’s fingers tangled in the horse’s mane. Shiro somehow managed to stay on, and as soon as the mare’s hooves touched down, she took off, skirting the spreading flame and churning a path through the pale wheat.

            There was a roar of thunder from above, and a great rush of wind blasted their backs, bringing a spatter of sparks from the quick spreading flame. Star moved in great leaps, and Arianna realized with a sick trill of fear that the flame was being pushed up around them by Magic. Desperate, she dug at Star, leaning forward, though she knew the mare could go no faster.

Then the sky opened up. First a few drops, then a torrent pelted down over them like shattering glass, battling with the flame. They leapt between buildings and Star pivoted, slinging her riders sideways as she found the road, and hurtled into the tunnel of trees. In the sheet of sudden rain, the gray horse and riders became invisible.

When Tomorrow Comes

Song my friend Dai and I wrote, while I was in Japan.

You can donate to Japan's disaster relief at the following websites: http://ow.ly/4ddkE, http://ow.ly/4ddkF,http://ow.ly/4ddkG, http://ow.ly/4ddkH

When Tomorrow Comes
By SAKURAN
Lyrics,Vocals,Piano: L. Scribe Harris 
Guitar,Music,Backing Vocals: Daisuke Sakurai

waiting for morning, and the shadows in my room
are concealing all the memories
I reach out my hand, groping for comprehension
of the solid hole where there used to be dreams

there are no more chances, just this unfurling life
and I gave too much just to give up tonight

When tomorrow comes, It'll be okay
When tomorrow comes, I won't worry anymore
When tomorrow comes, I won't be alone
When tomorrow comes--just another day

My thoughts are all uncensored and the voices in my head
are telling me who I'll never be
Is it okay to pretend until I can make it for real
Or is it just one more useless lie to believe

These doubts have paralysed me and I ask myself, "Why?
Am I so scared of falling, I've forgotten how to fly?"

When tomorrow comes, It'll be okay
When tomorrow comes, I won't worry anymore
When tomorrow comes, I won't be alone
When tomorrow comes...

I open my eyes, look into the light
let it illuminate every corner of my life
scattered everywhere, regrets too shameful to bear
but I am standing here now because I've been there

When tomorrow comes
When tomorrow comes
When tomorrow comes
When tomorrow comes...

Just another day, after day, after day, after day

Just another day...

Just another day.

Interpreting Conflicting Advice: Part I

Confused Writer (patriziasoliani)

I've been reading a lot of blogs and author/agent interviews recently, and there is so much information out there that it seems impossible to internalize it all at once. As writers, we must: have an open mind, but stick to our guns; persevere, but give up easily; be passionate about our work, but have distance. We must also have thick skin, but be sensitive; have a brand, but be ourselves.

HOW AM I SUPPOSSED TO DO IT ALL AT ONCE? /capslock!Harry.

Then I realized something: we probably don't.

Today I want to talk about one set of  conflicting advice, and at what stage of the process I think that bit of advice is best implemented. I make these suggestions because they work for me, so if you have alternative suggestions and uses, please use them in the comments!

Have an Open Mind vs. Stick to Your Guns

It seems obvious that revising a manuscript means changing it, but you'd be surprised how many writers I know (including me, a few years ago) make the mistake of believing a revision is little more than line editing and "cutting fat".

As writers, we must be open to the idea that our worlds, our characters, and our plots might need to change. If a writer's magic system is causing problems, but he can't bear to revise it from his original idea (having the characters speak incantations in iambic pentameter kicks too much ass to take out), he's going to hit a wall. Then another wall. He will start sacrificing things that have the potential to really make his story stand out, just to rescue that one detail. Alas, the detail has to be revised (see what I did there?).

Critique partners might make suggestions that involve restructuring your plot, changing or removing characters, and they will probably point out a few things that you knew would be problems, but resisted changing just in case they worked. Good beta readers will see where you veered off track, and point it out. This is where you have to be open to changing what you've written.

Having an Open Mind is Hard

When I first started writing The Mark of Flight, I remember not wanting to change a detail about a character who only appeared once. "Her crows died" was what I had written, but I meant "She stopped squawking". I knew it read like she had a flock of crows that dropped dead like they just flew over Arkansas, but I didn't care. I had written that, and I wanted to keep it. I was at an early stage of "The Writer" then. I think we all have that stage. Some of you may still be there, and that's okay provided you gradually loosen your grip on your words and allow them room to change. (I think it's important to know what stage you're at before you ask for critiques, but that will be a different post.)

In contrast, last year I asked Raven to read the finished product of the Mark of Flight (already much revised since the "crow" incident). It only took her saying one phrase--"I think you can do better"--to prompt me to totally rewrite the book, which I had started as a less mature writer of 17-years-old.

So where does "sticking to your guns" come in? Beta readers can offer you invaluable outside perspectives, but not all critique partners are right; sometimes these suggestions would dramatically change your story in such a way that it no longer fits your vision of the tale you wanted to tell.

For example:

When I was in university, I was part of a writing workshop. My friend Justin had written a vampire-hunter story, and it had the expected first-draft-itis, but one of the inflated literary [redact]s in the class took it upon himself to suggest a way Justin might improve on his story: by changing the setting to a tractor pull, and making everyone talk like professional wrestlers. I expect the new cast would look something like this:

Needless to say, Justin wasn't going to be taking that advice. Wisely, however, Justin got some distance from his piece and started looking at exactly what about his story had made the inflated literary [redact] want to change it. He was able to remove the suggestion from the problem it was (poorly) attempting to address, and found his own way to fix the problem. This ultimately resulted in a story he's much happier with (in theory, since he's still working on re-writing it).

Okay, so most people won't suggest something that wildly different, so let me give you an example from my own writing, where the suggested revision would have taken my story in a direction I didn't want it to go.

Back in my freshman year of university, I was taking my first fiction workshop (not yet high-level enough to have many IL[R]s). The time was rolling around for me to submit my second short-story, and what I had finished was not so much a short story as it was a 30,000-word space-opera novella called Perfect Sphere. My professor suggested I attach a $5 bill to each copy of the manuscript, which was about six times longer than anything else we'd gotten in class.

Luckily, the story was received well, and I was please with the professor's suggestion that I research the diamond trade for more inspiration, because it might be the framework for something publishable. Then, someone else in the class suggested that I make the MC, Hunter, an alcoholic.

Hunter is a classic example of the "flawed" character. He's actually one of Adryn's characters, whom I hijacked to satisfy a deadline, and whom I really love, probably because he's so flawed. He's abrasive, pessimistic, temperamental, and huge. More importantly, he's got the equivalent of an acid scar splashed across one side of his face, his shoulder, and over both hands--relic of an accident. Because of it, Hunter finds himself not only ugly, but monstrous. He reacts by being reclusive, to stave off the judgement of others, and when he can't be reclusive, he's grumpy, expecting rejection before it comes.

In my head, I tried the "alcoholic" hat on Hunter, and while it didn't look entirely wrong, it changed him. He slid a little farther across that line from "flawed" hero to "antihero", and I felt my own sympathy for him slip. Not because I think alcoholics make poor characters, but because I realized that the only reason a man with the military discipline of Hunter would ever let himself become an alcoholic is depression. Losing his faith in the world and his station in it.

And I couldn't let Hunter go there. He deals with his own trauma in a way that shows weakness--he runs away from people, and his default personality is grumpier than I am in the morning (ouch)--but still aims himself toward a positive goal (ridding the universe of real monsters).

So I chucked that advice, but I asked myself what that reader had been trying to say. Probably, I thought, it was because Hunter's flaws were only visible at that time in his grumpiness. I hadn't done very much to show his weaknesses, and I thought that was probably what she wanted--weaknesses. So I found some places in the story to work in the weaknesses he already had, and I liked it a lot better. I felt like Hunter's character potential increased.

Moral of the story: don't let a beta-reader pull you away from the story you want to tell. At the same time, try to find out why the reader is suggesting you change that portion of the story. Find out what isn't working for them so you can address that problem--your way.

What conflicting advice have you heard recently? Have you ever had to fight to keep an open mind, or stick to your guns when faced with a suggestion from a beta-reader?