My God/Goddess Complex

I watched the Disney movie, Hercules, yesterday. I enjoy the movie; in fact, I enjoy most Disney movies. But, too often my enjoyment is lessened by my annoyance at how much they differ from their originals. So, characteristically, my movie watching was peppered with much harrumphing over how far Disney diverged from mythology in order to pacify our monogamy loving society. (Of course, the only company I had in my movie watching was my one year old and he was, predictably, unmoved by my rant.)

It was frustrating, though. Zeus professed his love for Hercules repeatedly and was shown cuddling Hera to him as if they were a happy married couple. Apparently philandering, jealousy, and pettiness are a little more than the Disney movie, rated-G audience could tolerate. I’d imagine most parents wouldn’t wish to deal with the resultant questions from the real myths - “Mama, did Zeus really pretend to be Alcmene’s husband in order to have sex with her so she could have his son, Hercules?”

I find all this so upsetting because there is value to the morals (or lack thereof) and themes in mythology. One of the things I like most about the Greek myths is that the majority of the gods have complete disregard for the struggles of the humans their actions affect. For example, as referenced above, Zeus visits Alcmene, Hercules’ mortal mother, while her husband is away disguised as her husband. Upon discovering that Zeus got this chick pregnant, his wife, Hera, in a jealous fit, decides to make Hercules’ birth difficult by delaying his delivery and making the poor girl suffer through a long, life-threatening ordeal.

Why wasn’t she pissed at Zeus, I ask? Why weren’t his clothes, bowling trophies, and electronic equipment strewn along the side of Mt. Olympus? Instead of taking her anger out on the real cause, she goes off and harasses Alcmene who was just as much deceived in the whole mess as Hera was.

Well, because like so many myths, this story teaches us wee mortals that sometimes life isn’t fair and we just have to power through and suck it up. In myths, it is usually the character who continues to struggle and persevere in the face of great odds that is rewarded by the gods.

Now, you ask, what does this horrible flashback to high school English have to do with romance writing?

Well, we as the writers are the gods.

Oh, I’m not propagating philandering, jealousy, or other such pettiness and wrong-doing. I’m saying we have to have complete disregard for our characters feelings. We have to make their lives miserable and drag them through ordeal after ordeal. Because at the end, if they keep struggling against all the obstacles we horribly put in front of them, they will be deserving of the happily ever after we have planned.

I’m about to write the first of a few big black moments in my WIP. It’s where my hero discovers that my heroine has been hiding the fact that she’s a witch. Not so bad, except that he finds out because she uses magic to save them from a fire that begins while they are occupied in a rather compromising situation, after which they are discovered in a state of dishabille. So, now he’s going to be forced to marry a girl who’s lied to him for weeks, who is different from everyone else, and who has made no effort to hide her need for a wealthy husband. And, well, she loves

him and now he has a bunch of reasons to distrust her.

In a nod to my more “let’s all just get along” tendencies, I’m balking. It’s going to be sad and heart-wrenching and I’m probably going to cry. And, I’ll feel stupid, I think, because they are just fake people.

But, I have to be their god and make them earn their HEA.

I’m hardening my heart, people… and preparing to rip theirs out.

Have you written any of these black moment scenes? If so, what advice do you have in the execution of character torture? Any ways to make it less painful? Or, if that doesn’t strike your fancy, how about Disney movies. What are your favorites and am I the only one who rages against misrepresentation of original stories?

Game of Pick Up

When I was a child there were endless games to be played. I spent the majority of my time at the church yard, sitting on the grass hill beside the old school bus in Rowland’s driveway watching the older boys play basketball with an old, netless goal. Days turned into months, years turned into years. I was a scrawny thing as a kid. My feet were too big. My arms too long. My legs too spindly. I could barely get the ball up to the hoop. And finally, one summer day the ball came my way and I picked it up. The boy with his dark brown eyes looked down at me, grin as wide as his face.

“You’re holding that ball like you can play.”

I pursed my lips, enjoying the feel of the warn leather and sleek rubber against my fingertips. By this time, I was almost ten. Every night, I’d sneak up to the church and practice on my own. I’d watched the boys enough that I knew what to do. I could shoot the ball. I could dribble. I cocked my hip out and pitched him back the ball. “If you let me play, I’ll show you.”

The boy smiled and motioned me over. He ruffled my hair as we walked over to the group of boys standing in the middle of the makeshift concrete court. “Check it out. She wants to play.”

All of them groaned, except the boy standing at my side. He pushed me forward and I thought my knees would start knocking. I pulled my ponytail tighter and set my shoulders. I could play. I wouldn’t let them talk me out of it.

“I want to play.” I said, smacking the ball from the boy standing beside me. I dribbled it while I let them debate and finally the boy who had drawn me over said he would sit out. My heart beat nervously, thumping hard against my ribs as we took our places. I stood at the point and the other boy with freckles, the one who was in my class and sat behind me in last year pulling my hair, telling people I had lice, that my mother was really my sister, stood in front of me. He sneered as he bounced the ball hard and it smacked my hands with a sharp sting. I bit my tongue and shoved it back at him. He stood there for the longest time, staring me down before he tossed the ball to his right and ran to his left, shoving my shoulder as he went by. He made me work hard to cover him, running me around in circles until I was blue in the face.

The game went on forever. The sun was hot on my shoulders, baking me like a chocolate chip cookie. Grandma had laid out a red tank top for me and a pair of matching shorts. It was a boy shirt from the Goodwill. The freckled boy had on one that was blue and I felt my heart sink. I saw the look in his eye when he realized we were wearing the same shirt and he opened his mouth to lay into me. “Mama too poor to buy you girl clothes? You want me to just give you this shirt so you don’t have to pay a dime for it?” I turned on my heels and started to walk away. Grandpa had warned me earlier in the summer to stop fighting. Grandma was giving him a headache telling him the devil was alive in me. Grandpa just wanted me to get it all out before I was a teen. Whatever that meant.

“I know why you don’t have any friends.” I paused. I knew this was coming. “You’re not a boy or a girl. You’re a freak!”

And before I knew it, I wheeled back around and walked back to him with one goal in mind. Beating him senseless. “Take it back!” I shouted. “Take that back!”

And he grinned. “Whadya gonna do? Hit me with your little freak hands?"

I balled my little hand into a fist and punched him square in the nose. The boys were silent. The freckled boy howled. He pushed me hard and I fell backwards onto the concrete. My hand was covered in his blood and his nose was a waterfall. We stared at each other for the longest time and I got up and launched myself on him. We rolled and punched and kicked and screamed. We fought like that until I could barely lift my arms anymore and the boy who had started this all by bringing me over plucked me off of him by the back of my shorts. “Alright, pip squeak, I think you’ve had enough.” He tossed a look to the freckled kid, “Time for you to go home.”

The boy gave me the stare down until he rounded the corner of the church and the rest of the boys reluctantly took off too. Dusk was approaching; supper would be starting soon for most of them. It was only the boy and me. He regarded me with an amused look for a long time, while I stared at my little bloody hands. I’d glance up at him waiting for him to laugh and say “told you so”. But he didn’t. He walked over to the forgotten basketball and used his foot to kick it up to his hands. “I’ve seen you up here late at night.” He said and I glanced up at him. “I’ve watched you shoot the ball. You’re really getting pretty good.” I blushed. Thank god for blood stains and sunburn because I was already shy and embarrassed to all end.

“I didn’t see you shoot the ball.” He said, handing me the ball. “Why?”

I shrugged a shoulder and lobbed the ball up to the hoop. It went in with a little rattle and bounced back down to me. I bounced it around a little bit and I watched the dust bounce up each time it hit the concrete.

“You didn’t want them to make fun of you, did you?”

I shot a look up at him and shook my hand. I handed him back the ball, ready for this day to be over with. “Thanks.” I told him. “I’m sorry I caused problems.”

He grinned, a boyish lock of blonde hair fell over his eyes. “See you next time.”

But I knew that there wouldn’t be one. Too much trouble. That is until I became a teenager. Then I whooped those boys ass into the dirt with my basketball skills. Except for that boy. He helped me get there.


Just like everything else in my life, there’s always something I wish I would’ve kept up with. Always something left behind in the pursuit of another dream. I loved basketball. I played every waking moment until I fell in “love” with a boy. Then I fell in love with boys in general. Then I fell in love with writing poetry. Then I fell in love with basketball again. Then singing. You get the point.

As a writer, there’s always something needing your attention. But sometimes there is something; waiting in the wings, under a pile of half read books with bookmarks you’ve been looking for months now. Killer dust bunnies have assumed watch over it with tiny pollen infested assault riffles. Each night as you walk by, you slide a longing gaze over it, the feeling of dread settles in the pit of your stomach at the thought of annihilating the killer dust bunnies and picking it up for the first time in forever. It calls to you in the middle of the night. Not really saying much at all, other than reminding you it’s still there. Waiting anxiously for you to take another chance at it.

And then one day, you sigh. You can’t stand it anymore. It’s driving you literally insane. You pick it up; blow the killer dust bunnies away and flip open the pages. You see faded handwriting, places where the ink has blotted into a big blob. Torn pages where you’ve taken a piece for a quick phone number cuts off an important sentence that you no longer remember what it was leading up to… What I’m talking about is that dreaded partial manuscript. You know, that one you were passionate about for all of a month before you got bored with it and sat it down without another thought. The concept was good. You had passion for what you were writing about, but like all puppy loves, it came in with a fury and went out like a lamb. But all it takes is a little spark to get it going again. Just a thought. A glance. A conversation over dinner. A mood that strikes late at night. So you take out the pen and start writing again, feeling that joy that you once felt for the story line, the characters, the overall feeling of the work. You take joy in your quiet time, alone with your work. And it produces BIG numbers in the word count game. You’re happy. For now. But what keeps you happy? Is it the fact of starting something fresh in your mind? Or is it the joy that you found the first time when writing it? And what keeps you from ditching it again? For me it’s all about progress and staying positive while writing. So if it makes me happy, I do it. And if it doesn’t, well sometimes I just grit my teeth and bear it.

Have you ever ditched a manuscript and came back to it days, weeks, months, years later? Did you ever finish it? What gives you the most joy about reading and/or writing?

Fear Factor: What's Scarier Than Being Thrown Into a Pit of Snakes?

Here’s a list of a few of the things I’d rather do right now than complete this stupid synopsis:

Be tied to a stake and burned to death (you die of the smoke inhalation first anyway)

Fish tomatoes out of a tank of snakes with just my mouth (I saw this on a reality show. They used pissed off garden snakes. I’d rethink this if they were actually using cobras or something.)

Substitute teach (yeah, you heard me) a group of high-schoolers about Henry David Thoreau, even though I’ve never read him and never got why he was a big deal since his writing was as engaging as watching paint dry.

House work.

Folders.

Yep. It’s bad.

But I went to the trusty web and pulled off some articles about synopsis writing; and then I headed off to lunch to pick the best one to follow. Of the four articles, three scared me right off. They babbled about hooks and using your writer’s voice; I nearly went into a coma several times just trying to get through the articles. But the fourth, “The Top Ten Questions For A Successful Synopsis” by Victoria Ardito, was engaging and easy to follow. Plus she used a Disney story to prove her point. How could I resist?

So let’s jump right in, shall we?

Who is the heroine and what does she want?

Well, that should be relatively easy, right? Okay: Livie Foster is a single (is this redundant? Hmm) 28-year-old secretary who sews costumes in her spare time and dreams of dating a guy who isn’t searching for a love like the Titanic. She longs for adventure, but mostly she longs for acceptance. I’m going to have to use a different identifier for her. That secretary bit is boring, but what else can she do? Shark-hunter? Argh.

Who is the hero and what does he want?

I’m not looking forward to this. Livie should have been the easy one! Okay: Ben Tucker is a spoiled brat who was turned into a beast…maybe not…32-year-old married charmer, who is the brother-in-law to Livie’s best friend. He wishes for someone to see the real him, not the philanderer everyone assumes him to be. But the woman who seems to understand him most—isn’t his wife—and longing for her gives credit to all the rumors.

What brings the hero and heroine together?

Livie and Ben meet at a New Year’s Eve party; and later, they have to work together as they are both in her best friend’s wedding.

What problem do they encounter at their first meeting or shortly thereafter?

Livie finds out he’s married and the “rat bastard” no one else can stand.

How do they overcome the initial problem and achieve some measure of success?

Livie gives Ben the benefit of the doubt and becomes friends with him because she believes her friend’s assessment of Ben might be prejudiced without facts. The more she hangs out with him, the more she sees a caring nice guy rather than a villain. Plus he’s not cheating with her on his wife—and she’s not really sure how he’d have time to fit in another woman. (Tolerable, perhaps; though this runs into that philosophical question of: “when is it cheating? When they’re doing the deed? Or is being friends enough since that is a sort of ‘emotional’ cheating?” I’m beginning to really hate my hero. And even if he’s not married, only dating someone serious—this is still a moral question. Ah, well, life’s not perfect, hmm?)

What happens to spoil initial success?

Hard to narrow this one down. Is it the wedding reception scene or the crashed party later? At the wedding reception, his wife confronts Livie—and Livie is mortified and realizes how appearances are far more condemning than truth. Doesn’t want to be a ‘homewrecker’ figuratively or literally. She makes the choice that reflects this; and the crashed party is re-confirmation of this choice.

Where does this problem lead?

They don’t get together, and this leads to more unhappiness all around, though they try to move on with their respective lives. While on a group float trip, Ben and Livie get caught in a compromising situation, and Ben punches Livie’s boyfriend to defend her honor.

What risk do hero and heroine take to deal with new challenge?

Livie is given an ultimatum to choose between her friendship and Ben. She chooses neither and refuses to talk to anyone.

Ben separates from his wife and pursues Livie, after resettling in his own apartment.

What is their dark moment?

Ben is shot by a mystery woman, leading all to believe that he is a cheater—and that he’s cheating on Livie. (I know. This is where all of you are going: WTF? What mystery woman?!? The one who shot him in the opening hook, guys.)

How do they get their HEA?

Livie decides to trust Ben rather than believe what is circumstantial evidence. Ben lives. It is revealed that it is Ben’s brother who is cheating—and Ben has been covering (protecting) him. (Ha, I bet you guys didn’t see that coming. That’s okay. I didn’t either. Dee had to tell me that little tidbit. She was completely convinced that was my major twist, and how could I not agree?)

Now I have to go back and turn this into a present-tense bit of writing, but it’s possible to do so.

The other keys everyone kept harping about?

Don’t refer to the other secondary characters by name. This should be about the romantic arc between your hero and heroine, so your secondary characters should remain as secondary as possible by being nameless.

Have an opening hook. (This one gave me hives.) Basically something that’s on the back of the novel—the blurb. Show off your writing voice here, definitely. Ask the novel’s story question.

Be concise. Don’t tell everything that happens. Cover the main plot turning points.

Clearly even though I've answered the questions, the synopsis (and the book) still need a lot of work. And I'm sorry for those of you who didn't want to know the twist until it was published. (Honestly since there is a snowball's chance of this particular book being published, we'll consider this an exercise in how to write my next book...and synopsis.)

Anyone done a synopsis yet? Any tips to make it easier? Anything you’d rather be doing than writing it? Any tomato-divers out there? House work junkies?

A Fly on the Wall

I have this uncanny ability to wonder into bookstores at the most opportune moments. I never check local papers for authors appearing at local bookstores, but it appears I have a homing device that clues me in on such occurrences.

This past Saturday I wondered into a local bookstore and found a large crowd waiting in line for a book signing. The author was Homer Hickam. Mr. Hickam is a native of West Virginia who grew up in the coalfields. His book entitled Rocket Boys generated the 1999 movie October Sky. As a boy, Hickam launched a rocket from a coalfield, and later became a NASA rocket scientist. He has a new book release called Red Helmet. The book tells the story of a Sonya Hawkins, a wealthy and beautiful woman, who falls in love with a coal mine manager, and has a rude awakening when she reaches the coalfields from the streets of NYC. Sonya’s marriage gradually unravels, and a tragedy strikes causing Sonya to don the novice red miner’s helmet and go deep within the mine. Inside the mine, she learns more about herself than she ever imagined possible. While Hickam visited Huntington this weekend, he launched a scholarship program for Marshall University. You might recall the movie We Are Marshall starring Matthew McConaughey. It was about a fatal plane crash in 1970 that claimed the lives of the coaches and members of the Marshall Football team. This scholarship benefits the same University depicted in the movie.

I did something at this book signing that I have never done before. I stood in a corner and observed. I’ve attended book signings before, but I’ve always participated, this time I wanted to be an observer. I’ve found that in some situations you can learn so much more from observation and speculation. In this instance, I couldn’t have been more on target. I watched each individual’s face as they approached Hickam. As at most book signings, their expressions signified awe and gratitude for work well done. Hickam never wavered. He graciously signed each individual’s book, and spoke to them a few moments. He also did an interview with the local news. At certain points during the process, I saw fatigue in Hickam’s expression, but the smile never left his face and he remained the same gracious author. I was impressed, and couldn’t help but wonder what it feels like to attain that kind of success. How launching a rocket in a field as a boy led to the man sitting in front of me. I wondered how it felt to obtain success and then bring it home to where it all began.

I am struggling to write my first WIP. This man has six published books, is a former rocket scientist, and has a movie based on one of his books. What kind of determination does it take to obtain that level of success? If I gained nothing else from observing this man, I received a large dose of inspiration. I thought about how I have grumbled to myself in the last several weeks about the rigors of writing a book. I asked myself is it that difficult, or am I defeating the purpose before I ever begin? This man obviously has put forth a great deal of time and effort to obtain his place in the literary world, as well as use his extreme intelligence to improve space science. In observing Mr. Hickam, I was able to put my own goals in perspective. When God gives me skill, I shouldn’t grumble if it takes hard effort to produce a product of that skill. I need to thank him for it, and view it as a privilege to use it for achievement.

The most important denominating factors for achievement is determination and the belief in one‘s self. I view writing a book like losing weight; nobody can diet for me, just as no one can write my WIP. The desire comes from an ideal that you can do anything your heart desires as long as you want it badly enough.

I believe that the culmination of success is not reached just because you publish, for at that point, the real test begins. You must maintain your game. You have to prove to the world that you’re not a one-book wonder.

This weekend I observed an enormously successful man, and couldn’t help but think how it felt to be sitting on his side of the table. I can’t imagine walking into a bookstore and observing my book upon a shelf, or opening the newspaper and reading my name on the NYT bestseller list. I want to know what it feels like to become a full time writer. I want to be able to give part of my success back to my community. Overall, I want to achieve a dream.

I hope I get the chance to live that dream, and I hope that when I do, I handle it with the same gentle graciousness that I saw displayed in Homer Hickam.

What are your aspirations of success? When you become successful, do you plan to do more with that success than publishing more books? If you are already published, how did it feel to learn you succeeded, and do you feel a tremendous amount of pressure to maintain that success? Do you believe in the power of observance?

Conflicts in Conflict

The past months have seen big adjustments in my WIP. It’s changed from straight-up Regency to paranormal Regency with a bit of a whodunit thrown in for good measure.

When I undertook this endeavor, I assumed there would be some WIP backlash. It started immediately when I had to axe out 50 pages that just didn’t fit anymore. It’s better now, I think, but that did cause me some teeth gnashing and other such general pain.

The most recent snafu came up this week as I was getting a sliver together for the pirates to critique. I’ve stumbled across a conundrum. I find myself with so many plot threads that I hardly can keep them from twisting into an unrecognizable ball of literary goo.

“Writing is a journey,” I repeat to myself yogi/mantra style.

It just happens that this journey includes a mystery plot, my heroine’s internal and two external conflicts, my hero’s internal and external conflicts and the set up for another story, in case I choose to use it. Hardly JK Rowling-esque plot weaving required but it’s more than enough for me.

Before the revision, this was a lot easier because 1) my conflicts were mostly internal, 2) there were only two conflicts: his and hers. Now, with all these additional external shenanigans going on, it’s complicating my life. Or, more specifically, it’s complicating my characters’ lives in ways that is complicating my life.

I do think that these new external conflicts make my story better. And, on the bright side, they seem easier to progress than the internal ones, so that is something.

The only way I’ve figured out how to keep track of all of this is to list out my conflicts, pretty much as above with a little more detail, and then after I write a scene, read back through to make sure there’s growth in each specific conflict.

But, I’m not sure it’s working.

So, wenches, HELP! Which type of conflict do you think is easier to write? Which is more important to the story’s overall success? Any suggestions for how to keep multiple conflicts straight and moving forward? And, do you think external conflicts enhance your plot or not?

Show Me

There have been many times in my life when emotion has taken over. When I no longer have control over what my mouth is saying and everything that I’d held inside for so long came front and centered. There is nothing like those moments, vulnerable and exposed to the one who’s either caused you pain or you’ve loved like no one before them. It’s in those moments that we realize who we are inside.

For some of us emotion is not easily said aloud but easier shown in small gestures that are often overlooked. It’s easy to say the words, “I love you” if you don’t really mean it. Words are often regaled as the emotion behind the person but without these gestures behind the meaning, it truly isn’t worth the last turnip on the turnip truck.

I’ve often thought about those gestures behind my characters. What makes them act the way they do? What makes you engage the character? Visualization of the scene, gestures that seem real and not overbearing. You really have to analyze every day life and those around you in order to get an understanding of this. To me this is one of the most important jobs of a writer. I want you to feel like you are in that scene. Like you can feel the motivation behind my character’s actions. If you can’t physically feel that emotion draped between the words, sentences, paragraphs, then I’m obviously not conveying it the right way.

I can think of a few writers that do this and do this well. Janet Evanovich (Yes, I am obsessed) and Pamela Clare (Here is me on my knees worshiping the fiction ground they both walk on) just to name two of them. I adore dark heroes. The darker the better. But that’s what makes their redemption so much sweeter in the end. The dark heroes know how to do the gestures behind their actions. For them, it’s the only way they can truly express their feelings without feeling overpowered by the moment.

It’s the small gestures that, to the reader, tell you everything you need to know about the relationship between two characters. There is no telling of these emotions, there is no need. As a reader, you sense that connection between the hero and heroine. Without that connection, I wouldn’t be a reader of their fiction. Plain and simple. I don’t need to be told of the emotion. Seriously, any schmuck can say the words “I love you” and grin like an idiot and that still doesn’t mean, to me, that they actually care or genuinely love. They are saying the words. There can be all the basis in the world behind them, and they still might not mean anything without the gesture of love behind it.

What do I mean by gesture, you might ask? To me, the gesture of love and emotion is showing me you mean it. By not just saying it, you truly feel it. Nothing will separate us. Not obsessive or overbearing; but that one true deep emotion that happens once in a million years. To me, P. Clare and J. Evanovich do this in spades. P. Clare just has this wonderful way of writing the emotional gestures behind the action. My favorite example of P. Clare’s gestures is *spoiler for Hard Evidence* when Julian steps into the line of fire and takes several bullets in the back for Tessa. Yes, he’s a FBI agent, but it’s the moments afterwards. The way Julian reacts. The tenderness between them when Tessa cries for him that truly shows you the gestures behind the motivation and emotion. It’s complex. It’s raw. And it’s truly awe-inspiring.

Julian is a different breed of dark hero. A man who truly doesn’t know his worth because he was never taught. There was no trust in his heart. No love in his life. My heart pitter-patters at the thought of Julian, dark sunglasses, 5 o’clock shadow, lean hips swaggering towards me. You can just tell that Julian is all action, no talk.

Not to mention J. Evanovich’s character Ranger (R. Carlos Manoso). All of the words that come out of Ranger’s mouth contradict his actions. The way he unabashedly tells the truth no matter how painful it is to hear it. He tells it straight. He makes no apologies. He’s hard and unforgiving. And it takes a special sort of love to understand him. If you hear the words come out of Ranger’s mouth you can take it to heart. He thinks about what he says before he speaks. Every word is weighed carefully. Don’t say things you don’t mean. But there is a sneakiness about Ranger as well. Qualifiers. Contradictions. Keeping at arm’s length.

Looks that tell a different story. Actions that show exactly what he feels.

Take for an example: In Twelve Sharp *spoilers for Twelve Sharp* the book is about Ranger’s daughter with whom he has little contact with. When asked about it, he speaks of her clinically, without emotion, detached. But his actions tell a different story. He exudes his every resource to find her. Spends countless hours awake, searching, hunting, tracking down leads. He enlists Stephanie to help him. And when he sees his little girl’s smiling face on the TV and a picture of him, listed as armed and dangerous, you see his mask slip and the emotion becomes very raw and painful. And even then, Stephanie knows that his daughter is just not another expense in his budget, but a real emotion he keep close to his heart and never shows to anyone.

There are a thousand examples I could use of J. Evanovich’s Ranger character. She’s the perfect manipulator of the actions speak louder than words scene writer.

So, in your opinion, who is the master of these sorts of gestures? What sort of characters suck you in and never let you go? Has there ever been a scene that just stuck out for you and stayed with you long after you sat the book down?

And I know that I told Hellion that this was going to be Eric Bana week, but I got stuck on Julian and Ranger. I get sidetracked very easily.

PS. Eric Bana I adore you. You are so hot with your 5 o’clock shadow and wicked bedroom ways. I am the pirate wench of your dreams. Not to be confused with a siren who will cause your ship to steer off course and crash. As Quartermaster it is my duty to guide you with my ultra fabulous sense of direction, which may or may not include getting you out of your trousers and into my private quarters.
Sincerely, Q. Sin.

Plotting for Dummies

I subscribe to Urban Word of the Day, which if you don't subscribe, you should. It's damned hysterical. I subscribed upon learning the word: "mantastic", which is basically like the word "fantastic" with some testosterone to Bruce Willis it up a few notches. They always use the UWOTD in a sentence, so you're not looking stupid when you show off your new knowledge. "Following his fifth keg of beer, Kevin ripped the horn off of his pet narwhal, and then nailed his porn-star girlfriend for hours. Subsequently, he felt mantastic." I mean, it really makes you want to run out and use that word, doesn't it?

Last week's UWOTD Keeper-of-the-Week was: WSD.

I hadn't heard of this acronymic little gem yet, and was amused to learn it means: Write Shit Down.

Clearly genius.

Saturday, Sin and I held our RWR face-to-face critique meeting. Sin is, what you might call, a commitmentphobe. Or maybe she's is too committed. After all, if you put something in writing, she thinks it can't be changed again. (Therefore if she doesn't so much as revise as scraps the whole thing and starts again from scratch.)

Being I'm content to fix Sin's phobias rather than mine, I whipped out my newest writing obsession, my storyboard that I drew my precious straight lines all over, and forced her to give me plot points to the book she's supposedly going to submit to the Golden Heart. (I say supposedly because she mentions this one as her GH submission and writes on her paranormal instead.)

We filled in the blank storyboard, despite Sin's screaming refusal to do anything so tedious as put a story plot in storyboard/synopsis form. It was a success! It worked, much to Sin's chagrin. It's worked twice for me so far--though I'm going to have to recreate one and replot it some to make it better.

Why did it work? Because we WSD.

Now, the storyboard isn't really anything. It's twenty blocks (a 5x4 grid), assuming you're writing a 400 page book. 1st block: Hook; 2nd block: Inciting Incident; 4th block: Point of No Return; 5th block: Turning Point 1. (At least that's how I've set up my blocks at any rate; I'm combining this storyboarding with the 10 Essential Scenes from The Writer's Little Helper.) In the 4th row, I have a blank block, the CRISIS block, two CLIMAX blocks, and The End block.

5th block as we said is Turning Point 1; 10th block is Turning Point 2, which is a BIG EVENT block--the halfway point of your book and a big reveal of something; 15th block is Turning Point 3; and 20th block is The End.

Marnee is fond of the four-act structure--so basically everything that happens in row two is COMPLICATIONS and everything that happens in row three is CONSEQUENCES.

Then it gets more complicated with color-coding your post-its and such, but it's like a game! I never knew plotting could be a game! And you can glance at all you have and go: "Well, this is revealed here, so we probably need a hint somewhere around...here." And you scribble a note and plop it in a square where you think it will go. If you're not happy with it, you can move it around. It's more fun than a regular synopsis.

Even Sin could do it. Even though she didn't want to.

And yes, this is the same storyboarding that Manda at RV was talking about. It works. It really works! It's mantastic. So go get yourself some posterboard and post-its--and WSD.

So what is your favorite Urban Word of the Day? (Mine used to be "Sweet.") How do you feel about committing your plots to paper? Storyboarding or synopsises? Which is better?