And I don’t have much to say at the moment. I’m just going to leave this here:
Hello, little monster. Looking forward to meeting you!
And I don’t have much to say at the moment. I’m just going to leave this here:
Hello, little monster. Looking forward to meeting you!
My partner and I don’t do anything for Valentines Day, so I forced a couple of my characters into a room to write to their significant other. Harry was not allowed to take part in this exercise. It would have only descended into dick pics…
I don’t know why I’m doing this. I don’t see what this will achieve. I’m no good at letters. This must be fifteenth version and the others are all crumpled up at my feet, a pile paper and frustration. It’s probably best Belle’s not here or she’d be playing with them.
I’m only any good at stealing things. And that’s no good if I can’t find them. I…I miss you. I hope wherever you are that they’re treating you well. I hope you miss me, too.
Or maybe it would be better if you didn’t. I’m trouble, we all know it. I’m a scruffy little thief with a lax sense of personal morality. I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to run far away.
I hope you don’t. I really hope you don’t. When I go to sleep at night I see your eyes, they way they glow like flaming brandy. I remember the line of the muscles on your arms, and that time we fell in the fishpond. I really miss your laugh. It sounds strange but I felt safe when you laughed.
I’ll get you back. I’m going to steal you one more time. And then we can go dancing as long as you like. Promise.
I feel that I am forever saying sorry to you. Sorry you were hurt because of me; sorry I did not have time for you; sorry I cannot stand on the top of the tower and shout to the kingdom about how much I love you.
I’m not even certain that I’ve told you that. I hope you know, even if I do not speak the words. I think I struggle because those three words are so very small. I worry that they cannot possibly carry all the meaning they need. How can they express the way my skin tingles at your touch? Or the way my heart beats when you so much as look at me? How you make me feel safe, and yet at the same time so alive.
I love you seems too shallow to express my feelings for the man who changed my life. Who has done so much and asked so little. I would give you everything in my kingdom, but it would not be adequate. So instead, I give you my heart and these three, tiny words.
I love you.
For all eternity,
I did this on twitter for my current project. Now that’s over, I thought I’d collate responses to the same questions for Happily Ever After. The event was created by the lovely@simmeringmind
1 – Hmm, I don’t have a good answer for this.
2- Why do I love Lavie? She’s a broken hero, and I adore that archetype. She’s spent the last three years of her life fighting for what she believes is right. And now the fight has stopped, she gets to find out just how the experience has damaged her. She’s also a wonderfully, viscerally angry young woman, which was great fun to write.
3- Harry. Everyone loves Harry. He’s a born optimist, whose ideal evening would involve good food, plenty of drink, and then going home and snuggling with the man he loves. He’s also very fond of innuendo, which I noticed affecting me when I was writing. Not that I haven’t always found the word knob funny…
4- The Usurper has the best dialogue, I think. He’s cruel and manipulative, but he only ever speaks the truth, something that makes his jibes even harder for Lavie to deal with.
5- That it made them laugh and cry and if I ever meet the author I’m going to hug and punch her. (If you’re going to provoke emotions in people, you might as well go the whole hog!)
6-I’d definitely be friends with Harry. Everyone needs that friend who always knows how to pick them up when they’re down.
7-The first idea or inspiration came from watching the film, Mama. I was left at the end of it wondering how on earth the characters were ever going to go back to their lives. And then I got to thinking you never find out what happens in fantasy epics after the big bad has been defeated.
8-“Harry would wear a title like I wear a dress,” I tell him with a grin. “Grudgingly, and with the intention of spoiling it at the first possible opportunity.
9- The short, scrubby vegetation around us clings for life while occasional larger rocks push through like breaching whales.
10-I enjoy most of the interchanges between Lavie and Harry, but this one is probably one of my favourites:
A blush spreads across his cheek like sunrise. “I am sweet, aren’t I?”
“You’re a hopeless romantic, Harry. You’re also still half-drunk and smell like a midden heap.”
11-Bit more than I line, but this speech always gets me when I read it:
“Of course I love him. Do you have any idea what this is like for me, Lavinia? Do you have an idea what I am going through? I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. It feels like there is a hand around my heart, slowly crushing it. I must hurt the person I care for most in the world and I must pretend I don’t feel a thing.”
12-I love this scene, but it didn’t really fit in anywhere. Deleting was done with great sadness:
“Your Highness? Harry?” I call as I approach and there comes a sharp ‘shh’ in response. As I walk round, I can see Harry sat at the head of the chair, while Brendan is stretched out. The prince’s head rests on Harry’s shoulder and his hand clutches Harry’s shirt. His eyes are closed and his chest rises and falls in the steady rhythm of sleep.
“Pass my drink,” Harry says, gesturing to a tankard on the table. “I’m stuck.”
I grin and hand it to him. “Have you been trapped for long?”
“No, I can still feel my fingers. This is the first time he’s been able to stop all day.” He drinks deeply and then gives it back to me. “It’s been like this all week, and it’s not going to stop, is it?”
“I expect so. There’s a lot to be done before and after the coronation.”
He sighs. “As long as the days end like this.”
“What, with a dead arm and drool on your shirt?”
He glares at me, but cannot move to retaliate without waking Brendan and there’s nothing in reach to throw.
I think about the conversation with Lord Vayne, all his talk of marriage and duty. But how can I bring up with Harry the suggestion of my marrying the man he loves? Besides, this is not the right moment. Better to let them have their peace while it lasts. Deep down, Harry knows things won’t always be like this.
And a wedding won’t be needed immediately. Things like that take time, and negotiations. And who knows, maybe Brendan and whoever is chosen will end up like Stefan and I, putting on a face for court and then ignoring each other.
Brendan mutters something in his sleep, his lip twitching in a grimace. Harry runs his hand over the prince’s hair gently and kisses the top of his head.
“Long live the king,” he murmurs.
13-The feedback that makes me smile most is that addressed to the characters – “You tell him, Lavie,” or “I don’t think that’s the important thing, Harry.” I did laugh when I got a comment saying is this a sexual reference to a Harry saying he’s plenty good at bending the knee to the king (spoiler, yes, yes it is!)
14-I want them to bond with the characters. I want them to laugh, to cry, to ache, and to heal with them.
15- Has to be Buttercup, the only creature Lavie is scared of:
Harry’s horse is a monster, over seventeen hands with a coat of pale gold. It has the temperament of a hung-over dragon and I swear when it looks at me, it’s sizing me up. Harry, of course, dotes on it.
16-The main sight is Tallman’s Keep, the imposing castle situated on the edge of a cliff overlooking the sea.
17-If you follow Lavie around, you’ll hear insults (at Harry), cursing (at the Usurper), and frustrated outbursts (usually directed at Prince Brendan)
18-Down in the kitchens the smell of fresh bread, roasting meat. Brendan wears orange oil in his hair, and Lavie can never quite get the smell of blood out of her clothes.
19-Cinnamon, honey, apple, and walnut are popular ingredients used in the kitchen products.
20-The rough granite stone of the keep contrasts with the smooth silk of the ceremonial uniforms of the king’s personal guard.
21-I’d love it be a movie, and get to see how actors would interpret my characters.
22-Most epic thing was the size of it. It’s the longest thing I’ve written by a long way, even after editing cut it down by 20k.
23- Cut the filter words, draw back the introspection, change the start point to later, show more of the emotions
24- Start earlier and show the war. This isn’t what the story is about, so I didn’t want to draw out the events before the war is won.
25- Shout out to @Ianbarnes, @Leighstanfield, @MichaelMammay, @KamerheLane, and ml_keller for the CP support. There are lots of others who have been very supportive as well with beta reading and encouraging comments.
26- Fantasy is a way of exploring ideas and themes without being caught up in the how and why of the real world. It’s a way of testing with what if and applying it to the human aspect.
27- I don’t know where this image came from, but it definitely reminds me of Lavie.
28- Lavie and Harry. They have a completely platonic relationship, but each of them can read the other perfectly. They constantly insult each other, but know the other always has their back.
29- I want people to get to know the characters. When you’ve spent that long in people’s heads, they become real and you want people to meet them. I also think it’s important to have more representation in fantasy of other sexualities and also mental illness.
30- Lavie shares a lot of my frustrations and flaws. Her feeling of trying to turn back tides of pettiness, and trying to protect people she cares about against snowballing situations are ones I understand. Also having suffered depression myself, having characters who experience the same symptoms is important to me.
31-I’ve learned about the effectiveness of armor against projectile weapons, about palfreys, and a number of techniques for improving my writing.
I can’t draw. I’m trying to teach myself, but frankly I suck. I’d love to be able to draw my characters, but that’s a long way off happening. Some people cast their words from real life, but I often struggle to find the right person to fit the image in my head. So, I’ve come to the next best thing. An RPG character creator. I’ve tried a few from playing various games over the years, but Black Desert creator is the best I’ve found so far. And even better, you can download the creator for free and not have to worry about the game itself! (It is seven gig, though, just be aware.) You can get it from here:
So, below are the six major players from Happily Ever After. Of them, I think Lavie looks least like she does in my head, and Harry and Squeak probably look most like themselves. They’re only head shots because the clothing options weren’t great.
Thomas, the Usurper:
For Laura Heffernan. Hope you’re feeling better!
6.00: I awaken. New. Fresh. Warm. Steaming slightly as the baker busies herself at the sink. Her name is Janice, I know instructively. Six others of my kind sit in a line beside me, and there are more on another counter: sponge, fruit, coffee and walnut, and one quite ugly lemon drizzle.
7:00: Janice smothers my surfaces with a mixture of cream-cheese and icing sugar. Pride spreads through me as I catch a glimpse of myself in her metal bowl. I’m perfect. She finishes off the others, doing what she can for the lemon drizzle, then packs us into boxes.
8:00: The door bell rings almost immediately, signalling the start of morning rush. It doesn’t take long for the cozy shop to fill with calls of ‘Morning and ‘How are you?’ punctuated by the sharp ding of the till. Janice sells two sponges, but most people are after bread. It’s not my time yet.
9:00: The rush dies away. Janice sweeps the floor, humming to herself. She’s flat, but it doesn’t matter. You don’t have to be in tune when you’re happy; a smile carries the melody just fine. I’ll make someone happy today.
11:00: A trio of mothers come in and buy a selection of cakes for their coffee morning. One of them casts her eye over me, but her friend shakes her head.
“It’ll go straight to your thighs,” she warns. “The icing must be an inch thick.”
I can’t explain how little this matters and they walk out without me.
12:00: Lunchtime. I’m hopeful again. The queue stretches out the door for most of the hour. A policeman orders a ham sandwich with extra mayonnaise and looks at me hungrily, but holds up his hands when Janice offers me to him.
“I can’t. I need to watch my weight,” he says, patting his stomach with a grin.
15:00 Most of this morning’s batch are gone now. It’s just me, one of the coffee and walnuts, and the ugly lemon drizzle. Five minutes later, the coffee and walnut leaves, headed to cheer up an old man in hospital after a fall. What’s wrong with me? All I want is to bring happiness to someone. Why won’t anyone see that?
16:00 The bell rings. I try not to get my hopes up, but they soar when the diminutive old woman tells Janice she wants a celebration cake.
“Of course. Red velvet or lemon?” she asks.
“Oh, lemon please. I’m not fond of overly sweet things.” She goes on to tell Janice that she’s a great-grandmother now, and her whole family will be coming round. I imagine them, cooing at the new baby, reminiscing about when the older ones were young. Together. Smiling. Happy.
17:00: I’ve failed. Janice wipes down the counter and heads over to flip the sign. Perhaps she’ll take me home. Perhaps it’s Janice who I’ll make happy. Then I remember her talking to one of her customers about her husband’s diabetes and realise it’s unlikely.
The bell jangles as the door flies open, making Janice slide-step out the way. A woman stumbles in, breathing quickly.
“Are you closed? I…I need a-”
Her last word is cut off as the door opens again with a clang.
“I need a cake,” says a man. His words come out in a rush, mixed together like batter. He notices Janice and the woman for the first time and adds a muffled, “please.”
“I’m sorry,” the woman says. She’s short, a little dumpy, with curls of brown hair around her face. I’m sure I could make her happy. She doesn’t look the sort who worries about her thighs or dislikes overly sweet things. “I was here first and I need that cake.”
I can barely believe what I hear. Overlooked all day, and now there are two people who want me. The man frowns. “Seriously? There’s only one?”
“We’re closing,” Janice apologies. “If you would like to come back tomorrow, you can have your pick.”
“I’d prefer it today,” the woman says, wrapping her arms around herself. Despite the warm shop, she shivers. “Please.”
“Lady, it’s my birthday. It’s been a long day in a string of long, shitty days, and I want a birthday cake.” His voice rises as he speaks, like the high-pitched whine of something about to break. “I’m going to eat it, get drunk, and find a train to throw myself in front of.”
Her hand flies to her mouth and the man’s face turns red.
“I.. I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to… I… I’m sorry.”
They’re quiet. None of them moves; they don’t even look at each other. Then the woman looks at me.
“Perhaps,” she says. “Perhaps we could share it.”
“I’d like that,” the man replies.
Janice closes the lid on my box
17:30 The woman sets me down on a sideboard, over-looking a faded blue velveteen sofa. There’s a photograph of a young boy on a tricycle next to me. He smiles at the camera, the grin affecting every inch of his round face.
“I’m Kate,” the woman says, holding out her hand.
“Jacob.” He takes it cautiously, as afraid she might slap him, or he might hurt her.
“Take a seat.” Kate points to the couch. “Do you want tea or coffee?”
He doesn’t move. “Maybe I should go.”
“Nonsense. No one should be alone on their birthday.” She pauses in the doorway. “Did you mean that, about killing yourself?”
“I don’t know,” he says to his shoes. “I don’t think so. But sometimes I wonder what’s the point, you know? I’m thirty-seven. I have no friends, a job I hate, and my mother loves my ex-wife more than she ever loved me. So what’s the point?”
“I don’t think there is a point,” Kate says. Her voice is muffled by the sound of the kettle boiling. “Not to life. We just are, that’s all.”
“Maybe.” Jacob looks at the front door, then the kitchen door. He sighs and sits down on the sofa, his hands clasped together. A few moments later, Kate comes back with two cups of tea on a tray. She sets them down and sits on the other end of the couch. Jacob picks up a cup and stares into it. There are no knives and plates, I notice with disappointment.
“I don’t know how it got to this,” he says suddenly. “Threatening suicide and drinking tea in a stranger’s house. I know I haven’t been happy since Rebecca, though.”
Kate takes a sip of tea.
“Rebecca was my wife,” Jacob continues. “I don’t think I ever loved her. Loved the idea of her, maybe. Lusted after her, definitely. She did her best to make me miserable, make me doubt myself. She was a cold-hearted manipulative bitch, but I didn’t see it until we were married.”
“How did you get out?”
He blushes, colour creeping up his neck and settling in his ears. “I fell in love with a man. For a while, it was great. Sneaking around was exciting. Then we got careless and we got caught. Turns out he was more in love with the thrill than he was with me. Rebecca dragged me through divorce court. Took me for everything I had. I never had many friends and those who were mutual all took her side. So did my mother.” He sniffs and Kate hands him a pack of tissues from her handbag. “Mum’s the sort of person who thinks gay is something you catch from dirty public bathrooms, and I’ve never even bothered to try and explain bi to her. I might as well have leprosy.”
“I’m sorry,” Kate says. It’s a small phrase, but Jacob sits up straight, as if a weight has been lifted.
“No, thank you. You never told me why you wanted that cake so badly,” he says, looking over at me.
“It’s my son’s birthday, too,” she says, and her voice trembles slightly.
Jacob blushes harder. “Oh, shit, sorry. I didn’t realise I was taking cake away from a kid.”
She smiles, but her eyes are wet. “It’s okay. He won’t be needing any. He died, when he was two. Every year, I buy a cake, light two candles, and go through my photographs.”
He reaches for her hand. “I’d like to see them.”
18:00 The photograph albums lie discarded on the table, by the now cold cups of tea. Kate has finished crying, those loud, painful, yet cathartic sobs. They’ve moved from opposite ends of the couch to the centre, and Jacob has his arms around her.
“I’m sorry,” she says, and blows her nose.
“Don’t be. I feel like I’ve done something good for the first time in years.”
She smiles and it reaches her eyes this time. “I’m glad you wanted to buy that cake. I’ve missed human contact so much. It’s funny, how you never notice something missing until you find it again.”
They continue talking, about unimportant things now. Things on TV, the weather, their favourite foods. They don’t go back to opposite ends of the couch.
21:00 I’ve been forgotten again, left on the sideboard by the photograph of the smiling toddler. But I don’t mind this time. Kate cooked dinner. Jacob did the washing up. Now they’re sitting in the middle of the couch together, not watching some nature documentary. Kate’s fingers entwine with Jacob’s, her head against his shoulder. Things might be different in another hour, another day, another year. But at this moment in time, thanks to me, they’re happy.
Nominated by the lovely @madeleine_deste (give her a follow or check out her blog: https://madeleinedeste.wordpress.com/) this time. I’ve already done this for my current WIP, so here are seven lines from page seven of Happily Ever After.
The Usurper stands, King Reynald’s crown perched on his head at a disrespectfully jaunty angle. My hatred seethes like boiling oil. I signal for the others with me to stop. This is my moment. This is what I have been waiting for. His jet-black armour clanks and creaks as he steps down towards me, and I examine it, looking for weaknesses.
He sweeps me a low bow.
“Welcome. I have been waiting for you,” he says in a soft voice that carries through the carnage of the throne room.
Someone once told me I was very good at torturing my characters. I take this as a compliment. (My characters are currently hiding behind the couch, quivering and wondering what fresh hell I have planned for them.) It’s important to worry about characters. If things come too easily for them, then we stop caring as much. It’s a dark kind of fun, at times, too.
But there’s a time and a place.
I’ve never read Harry Potter. It wasn’t the plot, or the writing that put me off picking it up. It was the room under the stairs. It was too much, too soon. How could I care about the suffering of a character I know nothing about? It felt like instead of presenting me with a rounded character, I was being offered a series of escalating bad events in place that was supposed to endear me.
It didn’t work.
Harry Potter isn’t the only example, by a long way. And maybe other people feel differently. But for me, I’m much more likely to want to follow a character if I see something positive first. Captain Mal Reynolds won my heart through the way he handled a hostage situation in the first episode of Firefly. (The fact he’s played by Nathan Fillion didn’t hurt, though.)
I think this was one of the issues with the opening of Happily Ever After. While I didn’t pile on Lavie’s backstory, there wasn’t much of a chance to see her as a person, either. So I’ve returned to an earlier scene that was cut, giving a moment before the heat of battle and a chance for the reader to get acquainted with the three protagonists before things go to hell. There’s the entire rest of the book for that.
What are your views? Do you suck up protagonists who have lost both parents, been kidnapped by monsters, and had their puppy killed before the story gets going, or do prefer to get to know the character before the author starts beating on your feelings?
At the beginning of the year, I set myself a word count of 150,000 new words to be written over the year. Editing didn’t count; they had to be part of a first draft. I did it the year before – not easily, perhaps – so I thought I’d do it again this year. I’ve not managed to write half that yet, and it’s December.
There have been a few external pressures that have contributed to high stress levels this year. That hasn’t helped. And I have done huge amounts of editing. So it’s not like I haven’t been busy writing, querying, editing and so on. I don’t feel too bad for the most part.
What’s bugging me is chapter eighteen. I’ve sat down to write this and every time I’ve barely managed to get a handful of words down. I think I might have pantsed myself into a corner with this one. Not in terms of plot, just in the sense that I don’t have a clear enough idea of what I want to happen. Once I get over this hump, I’ll probably be okay. But it is driving me nuts.
I love this story. It’s not particularly big or clever, but the characters are so much fun. I’ve got a nervous wizard with a weak stomach who wants to do the right thing, but is way over his head; an Amazonian side-kick who can roll men into little balls of broken limbs and turns into a kitten during the full moon; and Byran, who has a lax attitude to personal property, a wit drier than a Saharan summer, and unfortunate case of claustrophobia. I even have ideas for writing more with them once this one is done. And I never get serious about sequels.
I know where the story is going to end up, but that’s in the wrap-up, last chapter. I’m not sure about the climax, let alone how they’re going to get there. The only things I’m reasonably confident about are things I don’t want to reveal because I want to save them for later stories. I pantsed my way through Happily Ever After when it became clear early on that my original version wasn’t going to work (thanks, Squeak!), but that seemed to just flow. This one is being more of a pain.
I’ve just got to take it one line at a time. So if I seem to be hanging out on Twitter to much, give me a kick and tell me to go and write another one.
I haven’t posted in a while, apologies for that. I’ve been busy sending out queries for Happily Ever After. In the mean time, (because I love these things), have a wordle of my current work in progress. It’s still a first draft, so you’ll have to forgive the large just in there. I’ll cull those little buggers in the edits!
I’ve entered a few contests this year, starting with #Nestpitch in the spring and finishing with #pitchslam this week. Some I was selected for, some not. Some I got requests, others I did not.
Many contests run on a roughly similar format. A pre-selection period, where you hone the required materials, pitch, query, first 250 words etc. Then the section period where you wait and bite your nails, hoping to be selected. There may be a mentoring phase, where writers and editor help improve your selected materials, and this may be a couple of days or longer. Finally, an agent round, where your materials are displayed for agents to make requests. Throughout, there is generally a hashtag for the community to build up on Twitter.
I think every contest was worth my time. Here’s why:
Reason five: Agents. It can be daunting to know where to start when you begin querying. Having agents who you know are interested in your work gives you are starting place. You should always research agents before submitting, but it gives you a much smaller pool to start with, and then you can widen your search.
Reason four: An opportunity for feedback. For contests with mentoring, this will come from those who have already been through the querying process, or who are editors who help writers get there. They know their queries inside out, and can help you get that dreaded synopsis down to a page. Even if there’s no mentoring, it’s easy to get feedback from other competitors in the pre-selection phase. A show me yours and I’ll show you mine attitude gets fresh eyes on your work and fresh friends on your list.
Reason three: It can help identify if you’re ready. It’s almost impossible to know if you’re at the right point to be querying just on your own. Getting an opportunity to see how your work compares with others, and the feedback you will get, can help you place yourself. Maybe you’ll enter and find out you’re not in the right place to publish. #Nestpitch ultimately taught me that. Maybe you’re not ready to query yet. But if you learn that in a contest, you can revise and still go on to query agents you want to work with, whereas if you’d jumped into querying, you might have lost your chance with that manuscript.
Reason two: It teaches you how to deal with rejection. You won’t get picked for all contests. And you won’t get requests from all the ones you do. We’ve all got to deal with rejection, and this is a more comfortable way of doing it. There will be lots of others who didn’t get in, and you can commiserate and console each other, then work together to build yourselves back up. And you can enter the same contest when it runs next, whereas you can’t generally re-query a rejected project to an agent.
The number one reason I think you should enter contests is for the people you meet. Writing can be a lonely, stressful business. Non-writer friends can be supportive, but they don’t necessarily have the insight other writers do. Having people who know what you’re going through is wonderful. Then there’s the opportunity to meet people who can help build up your skills. Published writers and experienced editors. Your betas and your critique partners. As mentioned in #pitchslam, these are the people who will end up in your acknowledgements when your book is published. A good CP is worth their weight in gold and not easy to come across. Contests are a great way to meet them.
Convinced? Check out this list: