An Observation of Character

I've been cranking out the words lately, and I realized something about the characters that I create. Most of them are female, young, and don't like to follow the rules that society has set for them. They say that you put yourself in your writing, but I wonder if there might be an element of wishful thinking. They all do something that involves an element of bravery (or stupidity, depending on your perspective).

First there is my pride and joy, Melody. She isn't the best fighter, and probably not the smartest person to ever walk the earth, but she's got spunk. She wants nothing more than to be accepted for who she is regardless of gender or position, yet has a habit of inserting herself into other people's business. She's the main character of my novel Hands of Ash.

Then there is Tao. She's not the most pleasant person on the planet. Her cynical attitude and issues with the religious institution she's stuck working for make her difficult to deal with. She smokes like a chimney and will say a whole slew of unseemly things about your personality. She's rude and unseemly, yet is quickly turning into a fan favorite. Read her story here: Principium. She's also a character in my novel Hands of Ash.

The newest female protagonist to join my growing list is Scarlet the bandit. She came around as I was writing a story for a contest. The theme was to write a story from a villain's perspective. I decided to pick a female and go satirical. What I got can be read here: Why I Ain't No Hero. She's lewd and manipulative. Scarlet is perhaps the most masculine of my first two characters, and that's saying something.

In my current work I have a young woman named Mariann. Mariann is perhaps the meekest and most effeminate of my ladies. She keeps her head down and goes with the flow, but she wants out of the life she's been stuck with. Unlike Melody, Tao, and Scarlet, she's subtle. This was surprisingly easy to write for me even though my previous ladies usually have an element of loudness to them. Of course, this story is intended to be a tragedy, a sobering genre to begin with. I'll post a link for "Papers to Paradise" when I get it finished.

Not all my protagonists are female. There is Adamar. I have written one story about him, and have a second one in progress. (I actually didn't like the second one I wrote, so I'm rewriting it.) Unlike my ladies, he's quite and perhaps more mature. He also is more cerebral than the girls, but not  the scholarly type. To say he's a worrier is not an overstatement. He spends most of his time trying to figure out what it means to be a Warrior, and what is the purpose of war. Yeah, he's a tad on the deep side. His first story is here: Red Autumn.

I had started a story for Cyn Fang, yet it has gone nowhere beyond a couple hundred words. Like Adamar, he's on the quiet side. He's also calculating. I don't know what this says about my view of women and men, but for all those who like to psychoanalyze everything, there it is.

I think I've said enough about my characters. I'll let you be the judge.

Note: I don't know if the site I've linked the stories from will let nonmembers read more than one if linked to it like I have. Let m know if you have problems for those who are interested.

The Love I Give To Chapter 9

Ah, Chapter 9. You are the biggest headache of my life right now.


I know my overly dramatic statement might seem like hyperbole, but in all honesty, I think my finances are easier at this point. I have a couple longer chapters to revise, yet none are quite so depressing as 9. There is death, weeping, and all the horrible sentences I wrote when I was putting converting it to a digital medium. You see, 9 is the chapter where I learned my lesson that you should never be bored with what you write, or bored while you write. Then, when you go back and revise you get this...

I know. Isn't it such a lovely mess, but it doesn't end there. I have plenty more where that came from.

Yes, those are post-it notes. I had to come up with something to put entire chapter rewrites on since I print double sided. (Although, the first copy I made of the revision I flubbed and printed single side. 25 pages wasted when I could have cut that in half. Sorry, trees.)

I know that some of you reading this are saying that is how they should look after a good, hard editing session. A writer should cut out the sentences and words that are unneeded. Dialogue and descriptions that aren't up to par should be rewritten or chucked in the garbage can to be taken away with the refuse, but here is the thing that shouldn't happen. An editing session on a chapter shouldn't take two weeks. Yes, folks. Two whole weeks, maybe even longer.

You see, when writing this initially, I was bored out of my mind. I wanted to get it done so bad that I wrote a ton of whitewash boring sentences. There was no flavor, no spice, no love to them. Then I had to fix them. The reason it took so long, is that when I found myself feeling tired, I put it aside. I did not want 9 to have no flavor like it did before. I wanted it to be engaging. I wanted it to be filled with the love of the craft. 

I don't know if I have succeeded at this point. I still have one more revision to do on it before I repost it up at my sources. Then it will be allowed to join the pile.

Above is the pile of folders for the Prologue through chapter 8. They wait patiently for me to put 9 through 14 with them, maybe even 15 since I'm almost done. I guess I will just have to take up the NaNoWriMo call and finish my novel before the end of November. (Thanks for making me feel guilty, Typewriter Mike.) Whether I get there or not depends on how persistent I am...

... and how good Skyrim is.

If you know me, text me, email me, Facebook me, or kick me and tell me to get my ass going. I know my husband isn't going to be the one to light the fire under my ass.

Editing Blows

Every writer will have to endure the pain caused by the red pen. Yes, the metaphorical red pen used to strike out every unnecessary word in each sentence. The pen responsible for the destruction of complicated phrases with a simple line. The pen that will add the addition of a forgotten comma. Does this scenario sound familiar? If you have written anything that has seen review, then you have experienced the art of editing.


Editing is important. It is what cleans up a work and makes it presentable for other's eyes and ears. It is a necessary, but difficult process. I have lately been engaging in this tortuous activity. Everyday I sit and reread things that I have read a hundred times before, a pencil in my hand. I have learned that you do not always catch every flaw on the first pass. You must go over the script again and again to find what you have missed.


The first time I began to take editing seriously was when I took my first creative writing class in college. My professor was a stickler for clean manuscripts. Even though we didn't workshop, he could tell if you didn't run over it a few times just by reading it once. As it turns out, he used to teach a grammar course on top of teaching for over forty years. He would look over the edge of your story as he handed it back to you, accusation in his eyes. "You didn't edit," he would say. After that, I always revised more than once.


Working on my first novel has taught me that not everything is perfect even after  you believe it is. I have been over the first chapters numerous times, and still find faults. Sometimes I have to stop myself from changing a sentence just because I don't like it. I have to stop myself from over-editing, yet I still look. I look for that errant comma, or the sentence that can be broken up into two. I look for a missing capital letter, or a an improper word usage. I do everything to make sure that others can read it without cringing in horror.


As important as editing is, it is tedious and time consuming. Editing blows.

The Noises I Hear

I live on a military base in a house up against an elementary school. Every day I hear the children playing in the school yard now that the new school year is started. I can hear the bell that rings every morning at eight thirty calling them to class. I can here the teacher's whistles as they line up their wards during physical education. I hear when the school day ends, but that is not all I hear.

My environment has changed. The only things I heard through the walls of the house I lived in growing up was the wail of sirens from police cars and ambulances, or the tuned motor of a car or motorcycle. There was the occasional sound of a plane flying over. Maybe a person making a U-turn in the front yard since we had no sidewalk, only gravel.

Now there is the whining of cargo plane engines. My husband sits next to me and tells me their names. He tells me why he knows which ones they are. It is because of a whine they make, high pitched and piercing. Its different from engine to engine. I lie in bed and hear them taking off and landing. The line is nowhere near my house, yet they are still loud enough to hear. They are loud enough for him to know.

There is the clack clack clack of a train over tracks that run through the base. I hear it at night mingling with the whine of the engines.

There is the Big Voice being tested. The bell that rings from the towers that run down the streets break through the walls as if it is joining me in the living room or bed room. The ringing ends and a voice crackles from the speakers. To hear this I must stick my head out the door and strain my senses, otherwise it is only static. When the towers ring I dream of worlds thought up in science fiction stories where an unnamed person speaks to the masses to make them hear. I hear, but I can't understand what they are saying.

These are the noises I hear.

Sifting Through Old Stuff

My husband and I bought a 3-hole puncher this weekend. He needed it to organize some of his paperwork into binders, so we took a trip to Office Max. This purchase ended up being beneficial for me as well because I could finally put new drafts of my novel into my binder. In a paper-wasting act of organization, I proceeded to print out all 12 revised chapters to replace the ones that still remained in the black binder that sat on the corner of my desk. I can certainly say that it was gratifying, but what about the old copies?


I went through all the folders and holders I possessed to gather up the old drafts that I had lying around. It has been 8 years since I started my novel, and some of the drafts are years old. Over those years I have become a better writer and have repaired flaws that needed to be repaired. Naturally these old drafts were just plain bad. Yes, bad. I was shocked that I ever wrote that way and am glad that I improved. I couldn't help but think of my friends in high school who would nag me for my spiral bound notebooks so that they could read the new words I had scribbled down as my teachers lectured. I had never dreamed such a project would get carried away.


For years I just had fun with it. There are characters that are more caricature, now cut out and forgotten. My main characters' actions have become more refined and realistic as I have gotten to know them better, and as I have gotten older. I became better read, so my writing style has evolved to become my own and less adolescent. My word count has shot up due to the cry for more detail and explanation from those who have read what I have written. I have introduced new characters that make the plot more complex. Old ideas have grown to become their own monsters. My work, my world has evolved.


Now its a serious project that I am constantly working on. Sadly I am a bit of a procrastinator, and have issues with staying consistent. One moment I am doing the much needed rewrite for chapter 1, and the next I am working on chapter 13. (That doesn't include the two short works I'm currently writing.) I have to prevent myself from going through all that I have just printed out and doing more revising. The perfectionist in my tries so very hard to deter me, but I am making progress. I have a goal to write more every day so that I can get all of Part 1 (now Book 1 due to length) finished so I can really grind at it. Yes, I have a dream about getting it published some day. Whether it will have to be self published or not is yet to be seen. I will continue to write, because now with the division of the parts, I have two books written and a third started. I can say I'm pleased with myself, and I have enough ideas for a dozen books.


I need a filing cabinet.


Now it is time for me to admit that this blog is being used as a procrastination tool. I must get back to that chapter 1 rewrite.


If you want a little taste of my work go to BookCountry, but I should warn you that there is a word count limit for nonmembers. My book is under Hands of Ash, and my short stories are "Principium" and "Red Autumn."