Wine Like a Kiss, Part II
This wine is exquisite. A blended red from Washington, the wine not so much swirls in your mouth, but french kisses the tongue. A heady wine rich with flavor, it reminds you of a woman who neither is teasing nor coy before embracing you for a night of sensuous lovemaking. It is the wine’s purpose. That is all she does. And after she is gone, the fruity taste on the lips remain, beckoning for more.
The Wælcyries Murders
Chapter 1
Four Husbands and two Wives, yet I feel alone, a deep sense of sadness, and I am paralyzed with dark, circular thoughts.
It is, of course, my fault. Everyone is the same but I have changed drastically. I came out of the regen tank to fix my war-wounds for once and all, as a little teen sexpot. Not even a younger version of myself, I look like a little sister, if I had a little sister. Shorter. Lithe and svelte instead of curvy and athletic.
I am a pixie. All I need is wings.
I contemplate jumping off my mountaintop, falling unto the rocks below. Splat. No wings here. Just another broken vet offing herself, a grim post-war statistic: a little chit-mark in the right column instead of the left.
Suicide, while classic, would be dishonorable. I do not fear death but my honor is all I have left. I don’t have my body. I don’t have my wisdom. I don’t have my spouses. I gave my virtue to the Empress. All I have left is my damn honor, my warped sense of justice tied up with my duties as an Investigator.
I take a deep breath, and feel the cold rain on my face as I look down at the rain-soaked forest landscape and realize I am feeling sorry for myself.
Well I have a cure for that. If my spouses won’t tend to my needs, I will seek intimacy elsewhere. I sub-vocalize to my Investigator PDA.
—Arune?
A pause. I sigh. Pause is bad. Arune is my old warship. The only reason he would not respond instantly is if he was out of range.
—Sorry Lexus, I’m on the moon with Tiff and Britt. Back in ten days.
—Okay. I love you; call me when you get back.
Arune and Britt, two of my current lovers, while Tiff is a potential lover. Just like that, my list of lovers for the evening snipped short.
I am in desperation territory because the rocks at the bottom of Mt. Si are now calling to me.
—Empress, my love?
A pause.
—Lexus, my darling, my Concubine, my Princess. I have taken a trip to the moon. Be back soon.
The moon. What the fuck? Why would the military, and the Empress, go to the moon? Logically, it makes sense. Britt is a Military Police Lieutenant, Arune is a warship, and Tiff is his pilot. So yeah, the four have met before and I am sure they will meet again. But the moon? All that’s on the moon is some launchers and dusty old nano-factories that nobody wants to turn on, and some privately funded research bases.
I mentally shrug. I made the conscious decision to disengage myself from the Military. I don’t need to know, so nobody tells me what is going on. And when it comes down to it, I don’t want to know.
Now I am in trouble. My fellow Investigators, of course, would always tend to me, if I asked. Scott and I have never made love, but the unspoken opportunity is there. But Scott is in Portland on a sudden assignment.
Ivan is downstairs sleeping. He is exhausted from completing four insurance dictated autopsies. He didn’t even leave his office, crashing on the couch. Ivan is not a young man. To wake him up with my need to be touched and kissed would be very selfish.
And that leaves my boss, Bambi. My relationship with her is complicated. On one hand, she is like the daughter I never had, and my best friend in the entire world. On the other, I find her attractive.
Bambi is not into women. I could seduce her, but that would make me the Shit of the Century. I refuse to burn my friendship and my career to satisfy my lustful desires.
Look at me—I am all grown up. A giggle escapes from my lips.
I am at the end of my rope.
Well, when the going gets tough, the tough go on a snorf binge. My all-consuming need to be constantly touched, kissed, and possessed by a lover should subside to a manageable burn.
As long as I don’t die from an overdose.
An Imperial Thrust: Study of a Supporting Character
I found it odd, in a writing sort of way; a non-planned character suddenly played a significant role for my poor abused hero protagonist, completely outside my meager outline.
It was as if my fingers were possessed and I was writing about a real person instead of making her up in the moment.
Literally, I was going like this:
Lexus is in the doctor’s office, and this is not going to go easy for her. Poor woman can’t even have a normal doctor visit without grief. Hmmmm…
type type type type type
Who’s in the doctor’s office with her?
[redacted]
What the Hell? Where did that come from?
(no answer from the writing gods)
Okay, I am crazy. Well here goes nothing!
type type type type type
Kori, turned out to be an amazing character. I believe my mind, in its grasping way, realized Lexus, in Armageddon’s Princess, needed somebody more powerful than her. Here is Lexus, the most powerful soldier ever to walk the Earth. Yet in the below scene, Kori’s unique voicing leaves one with a distinct impression there is power, and then there is power.
Who is she?
You’ll have to read the book to find out!
***
I look at her. I wish my brain was working and I could place her. “I hope you have the appointment before me. Mine can go for quite a long time.”
“Ah, I don’t think so. His calling service called me and said a patient had an emergency. I had the choice of rescheduling for a different day, or waiting, and she warned it could be a long wait. I’m not worried; I brought a marvelous book, and the next two in the series.” She gives me a beaming smile. “I confess I’m somewhat hiding. No one would dare bother me here.”
“Oh, Kori-san. I’m so embarrassed. That patient is me.”
“Oh! What is wrong? You look fine!”
“I… I…”
Suddenly my eyes sting.
Oh no!
“What’s wrong?” She looks so concerned; it almost takes my breath away. Yet another outstanding young woman, made possible by people like me selling their souls.
I stand up.
“You take your appointment back. I can’t do this.”
I turn to leave, but she latches onto my arm.
“But the service said it was an emergency! If you’re unwell, you have to go.”
“I can’t!”
Please, Kori, my new friend, just let me be, please.
“Why? I don’t understand.”
The panic hits me like a fist. My ears roar and the room actually darkens, I see spots in front of my eyes. Suddenly I’m sitting back down, and realize she pulled me back to the couch.
“I can’t! I feel so ashamed! I don’t want to insult him, but I can’t have him touch me. It’s like I’m trapped! I’m trapped!”
“Ashamed? Why, surely you must have…”
She stops talking and actually grows pale.
“No! No! Tell me this isn’t so!”
Oh no, this is too familiar, too familiar. I’m in Hell. I’m in Hell.
“No! Not you! Not you! Anybody but you, anybody!”
I lower my head. I can’t look at her. She knows who I am and I’ve shattered her illusions.
She grabs me. Her voice takes on a commanding quality, a demanding tone.
“Who did this to you? Tell me, who!”
I wail. She’s now shaking me. Actually shaking me. Her strength is ferocious; she’s shaking me like a ragdoll.
“Who!? I must know! Tell me now!”
I lose it—really lose it. I latch onto her as if she’s the only thing keeping me afloat in a sea of despair. I sob into her fancy dress.
“Oh Lexus-san, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. Forgive me—forgive my awful temper. I’m sorry.” She strokes my back. “Shhhhh… shhhhh… you can tell me later. Yes, later. You’re safe with me. I will not let anybody harm you. Not anybody. You’re safe now. Yes, safe with me.”
Here I am crying, yet again, yet again shaming myself, this time in front of a stranger.
But she doesn’t sound like a stranger.
Who is she?
Kissing Week, Thursday: Stolen Kisses
Real kisses have power in today’s Western society.
I belong to a rare club:
- I am married for a number of years (15!)
- This is my only marriage
In other words, I am a never-divorced, married man. Believe me when I tell you I am the odd duck at parties. On one hand, I am happy to be in this club. On the other hand, I think it’s sad.
No offense if you are divorced. I’m sure you’re sad too, and I say that with empathy and not sarcasm. I’ve seen it all.
I sometimes get together with my male friends in the same NOT DIVORCED CLUB™ and we talk about the other male species. Sometimes we have to as a defensive mechanism. We have to, or we’ll just go crazy.
One time, we were discussing a particularly nasty divorce, and we got to talking about infidelity. Somehow, we got to talking about degrees of infidelity, the inherent dishonesty of it all. We wound up talking about kissing.
Minor diversion: Do women talk about this kind of stuff?
Anyway, we all agreed that kissing was the crossed line. All the other acts of carnal nature were, at their core, not nearly as intimate as a passionate kiss.
Why is that? I could prattle on and on about it, but my point is, kissing has power. Forget about why people cheat. It seemed to us, divorce, due to infidelity, centered on two related things: the dishonesty of sneaking around, and the intimate aspects of stolen kisses.
Of course, we could be way off the mark. But I don’t think so.
Kissing is an intimate currency. Kissing money. Like real money, it has the potential to cause conflict and settle conflict. A passionate kiss on the wrong lips starts a chain reaction, for good or bad.
As a writer, I am a manipulative bastard. I’ll be spending my kissing money knowledge to press buttons. It might not be this novel, but the next. I am giddy at the thought of kissing tension.
Heh. You might think of this as a dark post. It’s not. Where you might see a depressing look at the state of affairs, I see plot and characterization opportunity!
Okay, that is somewhat dark.
As a fellow reader, you might be thinking, “well duh,” and I rather agree. But just as I think writers boof kissing in a good way, I also feel they boof kissing in a bad way. Writers of the illicit all too often describe the dishonest as carnal intercourse. When, at the core, the dishonesty of it all is the stolen kiss.
Kissing Week, Wednesday: The Kissing Voice
I’ve written about the sexual voice here in Hack Writerville.
Let’s be honest. Some writers just will never get it. And that is okay. They can write books and I’ll read them.
But when a writer boofs (and boofs is a technical term) kissing, well that just irks me to no end.
A good kissing voice is totally necessary if your main character is, um, kissing. TOTALLY!
Let me explain.
We all have first kisses. There’s that first kiss with the first person to really kiss us, and then there is that first kiss with a specific person. The interest. The hottie. The lovah!
First kisses mean so much to almost every person. There is a certain kind of magic in that first kiss of your new paramour. Its more than just sex or affection, it’s the wonder and anticipation of something new and sensual. It’s magic and if it works, it’s magical if anything really was magical.
So why do writers boof the first kiss? I can’t tell you how many times I’ve read TELL first kisses rather than SHOW first kisses. I do not get it. Maybe I’m an incurable romantic. Here’s my theory:
1) The writer is a bad kisser
2) The writer has forgotten the magic
3) The writing is stilted. That is, the writer knows there is something wrong with the kissing scene but is not skilled enough, or brave enough, to fix it
4) Combination of the above
5) All of the above
Now, I’m not going to write off a good book with bad kissing. But I am going to wonder. I am going to wonder just how much better the novel could be if the writer was more honest.
I’m not saying you need to get porno with the first kiss. All I’m asking is bring back the magic.
Kissing, my friends, is where it’s at!
Masao and Bunny: their first kiss
“Thank you, oh, thank you. My family has waited a long time for someone, anyone to say that,” Masao whispered, “a long time.” His own tears fell into Bunny’s hair; his naked honesty a self-inflicted knife wound to his own heart.
Bunny looked up at his face, closed her eyes and parted her lips.
You are an old fool, Masao thought to himself, but kissed her anyway.
Her lips, tasting of wine, were soft and her tongue was comforting but sensuous, both generous and insistent in a slow, focused way. She smelled of flowers and the sea, and in his arms she felt of coiled passion but also pure softness—a feminine contradiction that declared her a woman as any woman he had ever held. Her arm came up to grasp the back of his shoulder and his hand ran down the smooth fabric of her tight dress to cup her bottom, pulling her closer. The other hand he ran through her hair and she relaxed into him.
Then the kiss really started.
An old fool who is on fire, then.
Work in Progress
I an in love with Your Little Sister. My poor main character, Lexus. She can’t even get a ride without CONFLICT.
I notice the car has pulled over to the side of the road in the emergency lane. Then it stops.
Thor is sitting there, just staring out the window. But his hands are gripping the wheel, and his knuckles are white.
The hazard lights come on automatically. They blink.
Blink, blink, blink.
“You have a problem with that, Thor? You going to lecture me too, claim that I don’t know what I am doing?”
Blink, blink, blink.
After a pause, he sighs and visibly relaxes. The car moves forward and he zips back into traffic.
“No ma’am.”
“You’re not going to tell me to be careful?”
“No ma’am. Careful is sometimes good, but you and I both know at the very center of your being, there is no careful. Careful is not a core option for you and I.”
I sit and look at the back of his head.
I want to ask him a million questions. But I have spent twenty years respecting his privacy, and he has always respected mine. Indeed, this is the most I have heard him say to me in one sitting beyond social niceties.
I sigh. In the end, I do not want to ask Thor any questions.
Because I am more than sure I do not want to know the answers. Not now.
Maybe not ever.
Here we find Lexus at near the end of the book, on her way to visit the Empress.
After her visit, she will never be the same. She will be forever changed, even more so than she is now. If you compare Lexus, at this snapshot, with Lexus, at the begining of the novel, she is a different person. Most of the difference is good. Some of the difference is so very bad. And now she will start the process of facing her inner demons at long last, even if the process unravels her sanity.
Even if it might kill her.
There are worse things than dying.
There are truths that should go unspoken.
There is resolution to conflict.
Can she catch the killer?
And if she pays the ulitmate price to do so, what happens to her afterwards?
What happens next?
Dex
Had an itch to write sci-fi separate from the YOUR LITTLE SISTER manuscript. So I decided to do some more world-building and see where it took me. Since I have been accused (by more than one person, I should add) of having a fascination with kissing, here’s a sci-fi kiss. We have the return of Major Hackett, and a new character, Dex. After writing this, Dex seems really fascinating. I don’t know why.
I’m digging the expanded Major Hackett though. Big time.
***
“Leftenant Landau, the Space Marshal wants to talk to you,” said the Major in a neutral, flat voice. The short, sharp-featured woman looked him up and down, as if was a fresh piece of meat. Considering he was just off an orbiter, he was. He could almost see her mentally smirking through the thin veneer of her professional blankness.
Dex froze in place. He had not been on Space Station Mitachi more than five minutes. It was his first time in space. It was his first time in uniform. Hell, he did not even know where the head is, and he had to pee.
But he wasn’t stupid. He saluted the woman, remembering his training.
Training he received only yesterday.
She saluted back, and then stuck out her hand. “Jill Hackett,” she said, her voice warming up. “I am the Marshal’s attaché and all-around gopher girl.”
Dex took her hand and instead of shaking it, she clasped his wrist and pulled him close. She actually stood on her toes and kissed him on each cheek. He hoped his surprise did not wash across his face.
His cheeks felt warm as if he was blushing, and he realized the warmth was not from embarrassment. She was a wælcyrie! He had heard of them, but never had met one until now. His brain raced with the cultural meaning of having one kiss him. It was a social greeting, but also more. They were marking you with nano riders carried on their lips. No one knew why, or if anyone did, they were not telling. Eventually, his internal nano regulator would neutralize the benign foreign nano tech.
Theoretically, at least. It was some small comfort that if the nano was malignant, his regulator would go into full neutralization mode.
He pushed this from his brain as he realized she was now smiling at him. “This way, Leftenant.”
He followed dutifully. He tried to memorize the route but gave up after five minutes. She was probably following a trail displayed in her contact lens HUD, avoiding crowds and construction in real-time, both of which seemed abundant.
Dex decided being shy was stupid. He may be still wet behind the ears, but he was a commissioned officer, newb status notwithstanding. He was being silly.
“Could we take a detour to the head, Major?”
“Of course. This way.”
Soon they were in a unisex bathroom. He made a beeline for a urinal while she disappeared into a stall.
As they were both peeing, she got chatty.
“I saw you have a combat record, Leftenant. Did you see a lot of action?”
“No ma’am. In the war, my family operated a Whisper Net Repeater in the Northern Territories. We got hit with a drop. That was the extent of my contact with the enemy.”
“I glanced at your file, personal details are sparse. You have sisters, yes?”
“Yes. Four. Three older ones and one younger one.”
She came out from the stall and they washed up next to each other.
“Four! Goodness, Landau, how did you survive? And I guess that’s why you’re not shy with having a conversation with a female while peeing.”
“I learned to hide really well,” he said grinning.
“I bet the younger one has you wrapped around her pinky.”
Dex felt the grin freeze on his face. His mother used to say to him “You be careful, Dex, that sister of yours has you wrapped around her pinky!”
Concern played across Hackett’s face. She reached across and moved his hands away from the faucet, and the water turned off. He had spaced out to the point he did not realize his hands were still under the running water.
Now Dex was embarrassed. He didn’t know much about space stations, but he knew wasting water was rude. It had to be re-filtered.
“I’m sorry, Dex. I did not mean to bring up bad memories.”
Dex sighed. “Not so much bad as—bittersweet. Is it that obvious?” Sometimes he felt he was wearing his grief from losing his parents in the war like a cloak. He dried his hands quickly, still embarrassed.
“No, no. The war has been over for only three years, you’ll spot it yourself here soon enough. We all have the odd thing that reminds us of those who are no longer with us.” Suddenly her eyes grew large and luminous. “Sometimes, the hurt just sneaks up on you and wham; it’s like a punch in the gut.”
A single tear slid down her face.
Dex felt a pang of sympathy so strong, it nearly made him shudder. Almost against his will, he reached down to her pixie-like face and brushed the tear away. Suddenly, arms were around his neck and she kissed him, a desperate kiss of mouth and tongue, and he kissed her back, just as desperately.
The door to the head opened and they suddenly looked at the entering man and woman, Corporals. The two stopped in their tracks and stared, the Major still had her arms around his neck and he realized he had a hand on her shapely butt.
The enlisted quickly recovered and snapped smart salutes. Dex just as quickly separated from Hackett and they returned the salutes.
“Major,” said the man.
“Corporal, at ease.” The Major smoothed out her uniform.
“Leftenant,” said the woman. She bit her lip and her eyes were dancing.
“Corporal,” Dex said. Suddenly he felt very foolish. He gave her a nod and left, quickly followed by the Major. As the door closed behind them, Dex did not hear laughter but he was positive that is what was going on.
“This way, Leftenant.” He could swear she was blushing.
As he followed the mysterious woman, no, the wælcyrie, Dex had to remind himself—he wondered what the Space Marshal wanted of him. In the span of three days, he advertised his availability for work, received a commission, took a 12-hour orientation corpse, was deep scanned and re-assigned to Orbital and Space because of his genetic predisposition to neural implant acclimation coupled with high scores in AI interfacing. In moments, he will be meeting with the Commander of Orbital and Space. Tomorrow he will undergo surgery and then tanked for regen therapy for a month to finish growing the cyber tech and then acclimate his body to the implants.
Somehow, in the midst of all of this, he kissed the Space Marshall’s intelligence officer—a genetically engineered soldier from the war times who, technically, was not human.
Dex had to admit to himself that his future, if the present was any indication, was a big unknown to him, very different from his carefully sister-arranged life. This both terrified and elated him. Whatever tomorrow holds, it would not be boring!
I Love My Minor Characters Too Much
Really, I do. Sometimes, I find myself writing and writing and writing about them and I suddenly I realize I have bloated my novel.
Let me give you an example. Here is the brief background: various peoples, ruled by a mono-gendered species called Tanvaias, populate the galaxy. This little bit is about two Jen’ari, a war like race found of humans, but not so found of “the tans”.
Doctor Kasarr was am imposing man, even by Jen’ari standards. He towered above most, and his voice was commanding and deep, full. He ran a private medical nano-tech lab, where he and his three assistants produced microelectronic prototypes for various medical conglomerates.
He was unhappy. His old commanding officer, Colonel Hershem, was at his door. Hershem and he departed ways; they used to rub each other the wrong way. Despite that, they were a good team. When they booth retired five years ago from military, the engineering regiment they left needed four people to replace them.
He keyed the door. “Colonel, this is a surprise.”
“Glad to see you still aren’t lying, Kasarr. I note the absence of the word ‘pleasant’.”
“Well, whatever your reason for skulking on my stoop, it can’t be good.”
“Yes and no. Congratulations, by the way, on finishing your medical degree. I can imagine it wasn’t easy. And I hear this lab is quite prestigious.”
“Hit me with the good news first.”
“You’ve just guaranteed your lab funding for life.”
“Then the bad must be really bad.”
“Maybe. We’ve both been drafted.”
Commander Kasarr groaned.
“Do you know a human called Mendal Cheverous?”
“Yes. He invented medical goo. Very smart.”
“Huh. Well, apparently he has a project we will be working on.”
“What? Last time I heard he was retired. The human should even be dead. Medi-goo has been around for decades.”
“This comes all the way from the top, my man, all the way from the top. Central Core. You’re on his team, and I am to lead the support staff and bludgeon anyone who gets in our way. I don’t know what we’re working on but anytime one of these things happens recently it’s usually War related.”
Kasarr looked at the Colonel as if he sprouted wings and turned pink.
“That sounds bad.”
“That’s not the worse part.”
“Oh? What could possibly be worse?”
“Our location. We’ll be working in the colonies.”
Kasarr groaned.
“In tannie space.”
Kasarr groaned even louder.
Suddenly transports of every size started landing everywhere.
“These yokels are here to pack up your lab. It’s coming with us. All of it.”
“Huh.”
“These MPs here are to escort your assistants home to pack their things. They are also coming with us.”
“And my things?
“Already on the ship.”
“You really hate me, don’t you Colonel?”
“For this? For your damn smarts and skills? Like the heat of a thousand burning suns.”
Kasarr grinned. “It’s good to see you again Colonel.”
The Colonel grinned back. “Shut up and let’s hit the liquor store while we can. The tannies have exceedingly bad taste in booze.”
Oh man, how could you not love these two? They are bit players in the novel they come from, but man, I could write about them for days.
Ever feel that way?
Characterization
Previously on Hack Writer TV: Setting
***
There was a knock at the door. Juliana looked at the clock. 5:45 PM. Terrance was early. She went to the door to let him in.
“Hello Juliana. I brought you flowers.”
Juliana once again found it difficult to be mad at the man. Frequently an ass and completely mercenary, he was still a rogue and a charmer. Wearing jeans and a simple buttoned blue shirt, rolled up at the sleeves, he held a vase of yellow roses, and, wonders of wonders, was not wearing that damn gun of his.
“Oh those are lovely, Terrance, thank you.” She took the card and read it.
Juliana,
May your expanded bookstore be everything you wanted it to be. Sorry if my mouth got me in trouble. Wouldn’t be the first time.
Love,
Terrance.
Juliana had to fight back tears. The cad. Brute. Meanie. Why were all men so exasperating? Damn it.
She put back the card. “Bunny is in the kitchen.”
Terrance winked at her.
I hate men, thought Juliana, but she smiled to herself, suddenly remembering Terrance from so long ago. Her face suddenly felt hot, and she was glad he was walking in front of her.
***
In the kitchen, Bunny stopped chopping as Terrance put the flowers on the counter. Juliana noticed Terrance giving her daughter an appreciative glance, but she could not fault him for looking. Bunny was wearing the gray sweater-dress again, all slinky and warm looking, hair pulled back into a ponytail, a wholesome look she realized Bunny recently perfected.
“Oh! Those are pretty, thank you!” said Bunny as she snatched at the card and read it before Terrance could say anything.
Juliana saw Bunny’s eyes go wide and she was frowning. Bunny looked at Terrance then back to her.
Whoops, thought Juliana.
Oh, shit, was the thought written all over Terrance.
Bunny slammed down her knife on the cutting board. “Oh, I see. You won’t fuck me but you’ll give my mom flowers!” She burst into tears and ran from the kitchen, stomping up the stairs. “I hate men!” she yelled and then slammed her bedroom door.
“Ah hell. I suck,” said Terrance.
“My daughter is seventeen,” said Juliana. She sighed. “Thank you for not fucking my daughter. But you have angered Teh Bunnahe.“
Terrance sat down without prompting. “I’m just a guy. I don’t have a lot of experience with women, or even women friends.” He stood up. “I should go apologize.”
Juliana placed a hand on his arm. “Wait.”
Sympathetic characters
The talented and lovely Lauren talks about sympathetic characters in her blog, Book in the Oven.
This is a post worthy of study to the writer.
Courtney Summers’ book, Cracked Up to Be also is a good study. Her main character, complete with appalling behavior, was sympathetic almost immediately. She did this is a sneaky fashion. Courtney, let it be known, is sneaky.
But I digress. Creating sympathetic characters is, I am convinced in a “hack writer” kind of way, a non-trivial literary accomplishment.
The Experts tell us the books people like to read need to be show and not tell. In doing so, it is easy to form a character in our minds that is almost as real as an actual person. So we place these literary people in our book, yet, in the guise of rushing to and fro for momentum and plot, it is easy to leave off the parts we know, as the writer, that the reader does not know.
Such as, why one should care about the character in the first place.
This is why having a beta reader or two is so important. It is not an easy thing to realize a character is unsympathetic, not because she actually is, but because of an unintentional error storytelling.
Check out Lauren’s post!
Grump
I took a page out of Kiersten’s recent run-ins with the delete key and deleted an entire chapter from Your Little Sister.
I cannot help but feel a little foolish. I was enamored of the writing, specifically of the characterization and setting, but I royally boofed the plotting. It made no sense and actually had a plot hole you could drive a SUV through.
<DELETE>
My first major cuts on Your Little Sister. This is better than I was doing on Bunny Trouble, so I should not complain too much. Its a learning process, but I wish I did not feel I wasted my time because deep down, I know I did not.
It is where the cerebral meets the practical. I spent time writing that deleted chapter, and now that I know how to put in a better one, I have to wait because right now I am too sleepy to function.
Weeeeeee!
Heeee
In Your Little Sister, I have two supporting characters, Corporal Tiffany and Sergeant Brittney.
Yeah, I am having way too much fun with that one. It ought to be a crime.
Oh man, Your Little Sister cracks me up.
Investigator Lexus Toulouse
“Your husband is an unmitigated pain in the ass,” Mitchell said as soon as I took the call.
I would have sighed and banged my head on my desk, repeatedly, except for the fact this was full video and that I was working on dissembled explosives. Separated, the stuff that goes boom was inert, but still, banging your head on decade old chemicals was usually a bad idea.
Mitchell is one of those men who have a long fuse to a big bang, so I give him the once over after turning down the magnification on my work glasses.
Scrunched shoulders. Frown. One hand tapping a stylus. Eyes that simultaneously said “kiss me now” and “you are pissing me off”.
Oh yeah, he was about to burst, and part—okay most—of it was my fault. The last time we were in bed together I was so exhausted from fieldwork that I actually fell asleep while he was, you know, well never mind.
“Sweetheart, which husband is that?”
“Bill. Can we divorce him, please?”
I actually laugh, and then feel bad because I am laughing while he is miffed. Mitch gives me a weak smile though. Divorcing Bill was a long running joke in the family—even Bill uses it.
Bill is the junior husband, and is very assertive. Which is why we all married him but still, he gets on the other three’s nerves and I am the ‘neutral’ party usually assigned to broker a deal, or prevent bloodshed.
“I’m sorry Husband One, but I am very fond of Husband Four. He’s, um, rich, and has this girth thing going for him.”
“God, you are so predictable. And why is it you always bring that up when we talk about him, anyway? Trying to make me jealous?”
Okay, this conversation is going somewhere, finally. I have Mitch pegged. He is lonely, which is my fault. And also the fault of Husband Two and Three. They took the two dogs while going fishing. I should have seen it coming but I have been busy with this stupid bomb, which may be part of a run off the same line. The same type of bomb used for a bit of industrial sabotage. The client was paying me many credits to nail who did it, so it has been work work work. Plus, someone using war shit for their own gain just pisses me off. It was personal.
Bill, being a pain in the ass, was still just a symptom.
“I always use intimate little details when talking about other husbands to put you all in your place.”
Mitch cocked an eyebrow. “Eh? What do you say about me?”
“I refer to you as ‘He who stole my virginity at a tender age’, which usually is very distracting to the others.”
Mitch is fighting the smile but it finally comes out. Then he chuckles.
“Ha. Anyway, Bill wants my next day on the calendar.”
“Well you told him no, didn’t you?” Bill should know better. I let them broker calendar dates amongst themselves, but everyone knows I botched my last day with Mitch.
“No, actually I was calling to tell you that I said yes.”
“What? But I miss you. I wanted to be with you!”
“Sorry. He had a convincing argument.”
Oh my God.
“This wasn’t a trade, was it? Please tell me he did not bribe you with credits.”
Now Mitchell was grinning ear-to-ear. “Yes, he did.”
“Mitchell Jameson Toulouse! And how much was I worth?”
“500.”
“Mitchell!”
Mitchell laughs. “Sorry, Honey, but it’s your own fault. There is only so much Lexus Pie to go around and I don’t like mine falling asleep.”
I sigh. “Fine.”
“Oh it’s the ‘fine’, is it now?” He crosses his arms.
“You’re mean. You know this case is important. You know how much war shit bugs me. And here I was going to offer to meet you in my office!”
His eyes go wide. “Really?”
“Well forget it.”
“No way. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“Forget it.”
“I’ll give you the 500 cred.”
“MITCHELL! I am not the family whore!”
“I’m coming over there. You will be naked by the time I get through the door. You will take the credits. Are we clear on this, Lieutenant?”
I snort. Mitchell was never in the military. I do not even think he knows what a Lieutenant grade actually is. “Or what?”
“Or I will call Bill back and tell him he can have the second day too. And for what he is planning, you’ll regret the four days of Bill Time.” Mitchell was grinning again, and this time it was all predatory.
“What?! What does he have planned?” This did not sound good, not good at all.
“Leaving now.” He stabbed a button and the video went off.
“Ahhhhhhhhh!” I actually scream. It does not make me feel better. Why why why, why did I get married at all, much less four times? I have no one to blame but myself.
Well, this bomb was not going to go anywhere. I carefully lock away all the parts, snap my sidearm to the side of my desk, take off my clothes and lie on top of the workbench, staring at the ceiling.
It only took him eight minutes to get to my office, which was impressive; as was the speed of which he peeled out of his own clothes. I start to giggle and he jumps on me, kissing me, putting his hands on me.
I do not fall asleep. If Mitch was annoyed with me, he sure does not show it. His passion consumes me and soon I am mindless.
And I wind up taking the credits when he points out I can use them to buy Bill something nice. Fine.
***
“You have a priority call on line three,” Bob, my office comp, tells me sweetly. It wakes me up instantly, but Mitch just grunts and snuggles closer.
“Privacy audio only, connect.” Mitch does not need to know work details. Line three was official Investigation business.
“LT, this is Scott.”
Uh. Scott. Scott is a Constitutional Enforcement Officer. This call will not end well.
“What up, Scott?”
“Kaliston.” Bob is listening, of course, and instantly puts up a map of Washington on the ceiling. Kaliston is in central Washington, in the middle of nowhere, not even close to I-90. Nothing but desert and wheat fields.
“Double homicide,” Scott adds. “A mother and her daughter.”
Now it was my turn to grunt. “Why me?” Anyone who knows anything about Investigators knows I do not advertise for homicide. I saw enough dead bodies in the war, and the Reaffirmation. And Scott knows everything. Maybe literally.
“You’re the best LT, and my field comp got a flag from your agency on this one.”
I can feel the blood running away from my face, the room grows cold.
“Were they found tied together, facing each other?”
“Yes.”
“I’m taking a hopper. I’ll be there soon.”
“Got it.” Scott disconnected. Only a CEO would be un-frazzled by an Investigator use of an orbital hopper. Actually, nothing usually bothers Scott; he has the emotions of a work bot, but I could hear it in his voice. This bothered him.
As it should.
I get up, pushing Mitch off. But I feel dizzy. Mitch says “Hey!” and stands up, grumpy that I interrupted his post-euphoric nap by pushing him off the workbench.
“Mitch, can you hand me that wastebasket?”
Mitch nods seriously and hands it to me. He really is a sweet guy, really he is.
I promptly throw up my lunch.
Cracked Up to Be by Courtney Summers
This book review is for writers, specifically novelists. For general book reviews on Courtney Summers’ debut novel Cracked Up to Be, seek ye to Google. This review is spoiler free; the actual book jacket says Parker, the main character, made a bad mistake. And yes she did.
Let me warn you right now, this review starts with a tangent.
Here we go!
There is an old maxim in advanced situational training; specifically training for self-defense, firearms, law enforcement training and what have you. This is training that deals with the totality of a situation, where the dynamic flow of multiple inputs meets the processor, your brain:
“If you’re not making any mistakes, you’re not learning anything.”
Sounds simple, does it not? Simplicity aside, this is an advanced training concept. Those who push the envelope and place themselves in situations where failure is not only likely but also expected, learn a great deal. This training sharpens the mind and teaches a person how to apply one lesson learned to other things, not just their particular area of study.
It is effective because it works. If you are not making any mistakes, you are not learning anything.
Summers’ book is a keen study in this area. The plot of her book is this: Parker was a perfectionist. She carefully built a world of her choosing. You know the type—wound so tight that they snap under their own drive or reality intrudes on these people and breaks them.
And Parker is so very broken. As the book relentlessly marches along, one comes to realize, even before the revelation of what caused Parker to snap, that the real world did not just come and bite her on the ass, but ripped out chunks of her heart.
I have a minor quibble with Cracked Up to Be, but nothing that deters my glowing recommendation of this book for any teen, adults, writers and certainly novelists going after the young adult audience. As I have stated before, if you want Fair and Balanced, go watch mainstream news. Here, I am going to gush. If I do not feel like gushing, I leave the book off my review list (which, by the way, has ten books in the queue).
I hate to say it, but I would not have picked up this novel at the bookstore. Why? Because it falls into the section of the bookstore that houses a lot of crap written for girls—novels specifically tailored to entice girls to buy them because girls are a great source of book buying dollars. What makes those books crap?
They are so dishonest. They are preachy, pretentious and filled with fake angst that makes me want to puke. Teens who have sex die, get an STD, pregnant or are cast out from society (or all four!). Boys written to be either shining examples of people who do not exist, or are passive-aggressive abusers. Stereotypes and stilted dialog. Someone dies just so the main character can feel what it is like to experience grief. I could go on and on, but you get the idea. All the consequences of every single action are there for the author to preach.
I certainly stopped buying those books, and now secretly wonder where the writers who grew up with Judy Blume went. There are exceptions, but I will assert these exceptions are not exceptional.
Until now. For Cracked Up to Be is awesomesauce.
The fact that Summers’ book is going to be smooshed in that prior mentioned section just pisses me off, but I have been on a Young Adult pissy rant for like ten years now, so that is just part of who I am. Cracked Up to Be is a book so honest its hurts. That is a primary reason I recommend this book for anyone writing for the young adult market. I felt vaguely uncomfortable reading it. Parker’s hidden pain was on the same level with her mistake, and with the first-person point-of-view narration you are sharing that understated pain. Despite the fact that Parker was a total bitch, who either needed to be slapped or fucked silly (I could not decide which), I held a deep sympathy for her because Summers wrote her so raw and honest—it was heartbreaking.
“If you’re not making any mistakes, you’re not learning anything.” Does Parker learn from her mistake? Ah such a good question, not to be address here! Go read the book.
More unapologetic gushing follows.
Oh oh, oh, the voicing! Summers writing voice through her minimalist prose is relentlessly good, relentless because that is what Cracked Up to Be is. The unrelenting pacing and tension built bit-by-bit was awesome. The voicing and the pacing alone is worthy of study.
The voicing played well in other areas. Summers took me back to high school. There were no over-done descriptions. She assumed the reader remembered (or, actually was in) high school and just went from there. The lack of over-done and forced setting descriptions was a breath of fresh air. You could say I am in love with her voicing.
Novelists should also take a meta look at Cracked Up to Be. I first heard about the novel via Janet Reid’s blog, which pointed to Courtney’s blog. Her whimsical, playful entries, sometimes even silly, cracked me up. Give me silly over pretentiousness any day! I became a regular reader. When she posted the first two chapters of Cracked Up to Be, man I was hooked. Doomed. I had to have the book. Thus, I arrived at Cracked Up to Be via word of mouth through the great and mighty Interwebs. Fascinating stuff.
That Cracked Up to Be is a debut novel is awe inspiring. Her agent should be doing a little dance right about now. I await her next novel with joyful anticipation. More please!
Finally, Cracked Up to Be is a morality tale, accomplished without preaching, forced circumstances, one-dimensional characters or through a false reality. How did Summers do that? Why, she simply told an entertaining tale with believable circumstances through the eyes of an all-too-real main character. She wrote the world as it is, not what she wished it to be. She told the truth.
Stick that in your Young Adult novel writing pipe and smoke it. Please.
Ramblings on the Bad Man
In The Baby Dancers, the current work in progress, there is a crucial battle scene where our heroes (Zeke and Josh), do battle with the forces of… what exactly?
To be honest, I do not know. Certainly I know all the motivations, and I have a clear ending for a the book. Indeed, unless I have the last chapter outlined in my head, I do not start working on a novel. I learned that one the hard way with Unfinished Book.
There are the protagonists, stuck in a bad situation, and all that remains is the journey to the end of the quest.
All in a good, fun story, of course. With no preaching!
There is nothing like a good old story about good vs. evil, but is that interesting in today’s world of complexity? Do young adult fantasy readers want more?
There is a price to be paid for wantonly attacking a group of martial artist who have sequestered themselves in the northern mountains of Idaho. They isolated themselves for a reason. They are the best of the best, and should be left alone. When all is done and the battlefield is covered in blood, the antagonist is clearly the bad guy. But is he evil?
His actions are evil, from the point of view of the protagonists, just as the Indian’s actions in The Searchers were evil to Ethan Edwards. The novel The Searchers was an extraordinary book, and the film even more so.
I wonder why I can’t remember any teen novels with the complexity of The Searchers. Do publishers feel that the subject matter is too complex? Is it? I do not think so. No, to this day I remember being fascinated by the story that held no clear winner.
The Searchers anchors around the theme of the family and personal honor, a point often overlooked. This theme runs through The Baby Dancers, but I believe I have found a certain clarity. The protagonist, Zeke, has a moral code and a divine directive. He will suffer no man’s evil. But, Zeke is a thinking young man.
When the antagonist is gray, when evil comes in bits and pieces and not wrapped in bow that is easily identifiable, the stakes are high. Once could say they can go no higher from our protagonist. For, like Ethan, when faced with the quest, the power he wields puts him on the razor’s edge. To fall the wrong way in the quest is to become the bad man.
The sword has but one purpose.
I’m not going to preach to my readers, Lord knows I have several writing friends who will kick my ass if I do.
But I am not going to make it easy. Sometimes the journey is not the the reward. Sometimes, the journey is a long, terrible path, fraught with peril and a stain on the mortal soul.
Writing Update
You know you are a writer when you feel wretched and write anyway. Yesterday, I deleted 1100 words from Bunny Trouble but only added 500 back—while sick. There was a section in the novel that was a lot of tell, because I could not figure out how to reveal the detail either in action or dialog. Normally I delete things like that, but I felt what I was trying to say was important to the story.
I figured it out yesterday morning, and made my edits. The cuts were good, it shortened up the chapter and I peppered other parts of the manuscript with the concept I was attempting to convey. I added a bit of foreshadowing here and there and bingo, the novel gets even tighter, and a tad bit punchier.
On The Baby Dancers front, I added an important chapter to the novel. The main character, a teen, is a fine young man. In this chapter, he has a very adult conversation about love, attraction and the dangers of being a warrior (and not dangers to life, but dangers to heart and soul). It was a fine bit of foreshadowing coming off the chapter filled with action goodness, and I am quite enamored with the whole thing. More than just a filler chapter, it is a turning point in this young man’s dealings with other adults, especially women. I spoke from the heart, as raw and visceral as I ever have been.
That was 1775 words. The rest of the novel stretches out before me, clear and bright.
Not too bad, not too bad for writing while I was FOOD POISONED!
The Wife Unit and I let the kids talk us into fast food on the way home Saturday. We are not fast food fans by any stretch, and usually avoid it. The kids however, were both hungry and eager to get home.
That was a mistake. Three out of four of us got sick, with me catching the worst of it. Bleh. It took me all day yesterday to recover. Next time we will pack food before getting on the ferry and hitting the road home.
That is interesting to me. I can feel physically bad and still write about love. I think, dear 8.3 readers, that makes me a hopeless romantic.
Great moments in TV Sci-Fi
Capt. Kirk: Matt, where’s your crew?
Matt Decker: On the third planet.
Capt. Kirk: There IS no third planet!
Matt Decker: DON’T YOU THINK I KNOW THAT? There was, but not anymore!
Oh man. Embrace the horror of one man’s personal Hell.
Does your Work in Progress have these?
1 – At the end of the day
2 – Fairly unique
3 – I personally
4 – At this moment in time
5 – With all due respect
6 – Absolutely
7 – It’s a nightmare
8 – Shouldn’t of
9 – 24/7
10 – It’s not rocket science
Mine does not. But if I make an annoying character, I might not be able to resist temptation!
FEEDBACK NOM NOM NOM NOM
Bunny Trouble rolls over another beta reader, drawing her into the story and putting her into my world. Caroline weighed in last night and I respect her opinion mightily. She has very engaging and honest prose even in her casual writing. When she gets going, it is a delight to read because it is personal and she strikes me as someone comfortable in her own skin.
She thoroughly enjoyed the novel.
Moreover, boy-howdy did I get a lot of feedback! Secretly, I was expecting her to deliver the verdict of “crap,” and that had less to do with a lack of self-confidence than my overtly analytical nature. The Hack Writer is, after all, an arrogant ass. The likelihood of a first-time novelist getting the “crap” verdict from an honest genre reader/writer is high.
I struggle and worry about prose, but life throws you a cure. Sure, I pop up a grammatical boo-boo and the wretched mangle of sentence structure and every time someone points it out, I am embarrassed.
The real feedback I am getting however, is not “your prose is the suck,” but rather matters pertaining to plot, style and characterization.
Things I absolutely cannot have in my novel:
- Subplots that make no sense
- Preachy-ness
- Gratuitousness without a reason
- A slow start
Caroline delivered a good amount of feedback in this area, and some of it mirrors what I heard from David #1. I need to hear from two others, but, my 8.3 readers, I believe we have a winner. There is a mile of difference between “your story is boring” and “your prose is bad” to “fix this, fix that, and when can I have the next book?”
Beta feedback is wonderful, as are my beta readers. The feedback thus far will let me spit out Draft 3 a month early. The feedback was that good.
I win critique!
Nom!
I love the smell of fresh criticism in the morning.
Had a lengthy chat with one of my beta readers, and he gave me wonderful feedback on Bunny Trouble.
He found the novel riveting in places, but had some specific suggestions:
There are two characters in the novel that more or less “stay hidden” until the end of the book. They on occasion pop up in the story at times to do certain things (of which I cannot tell you). He wanted either more of that or less of that.
He felt the story was too gratuitous in places.
The dialog between three teenage girls was described as stilted.
Finally, he said my voicing was off. One of my main characters was bleeding into the others.
The “less or more” commentary is telling. I made a conscious choice to do this, but I did not know how it would pan out. I will have to see what the other readers think. I am trying to convey a sense of the unknown, but I may have been too cute about it. Cute is bad.
The girly dialog and the gratuitousness of the manuscript is somewhat related. I set out to have a sexy story (for the premise of the novel is a dark draw) but not cross a line I had for myself. It is now obvious to me that I failed in that regard. Just to see how the novel would go, I cut two-thirds of the teens in question. This eliminated some unnecessary sex, made the manuscript tighter, and improved the plot. I am confident I will not receive feedback that says I should leave that where it is, so I believe I am good there. There are other places to cut, but I have to have the rest of the feedback first.
The voicing is a killer, because he is right. Essentially, that is an amateur mistake, and out of all the suggestions thus far, will be the most time consuming to correct. I am confident I can overcome that problem… now that I know about it.
Despite the pile (and I mean a pile) of improvement suggestions, I remain upbeat. When the first three beta readers come back and report that the novel was “riveting,” that to me is a big win. My fear was the entire thing was preachy and essentially a big snooze, and who wants to read that?
oppressive isolation
One of the best fantasy stories I had ever come across was not from a book. It was a video game.
Myst, in fact.
Myst was the very first fantasy experience that made me feel… alone. How could a video game capture or cause those feelings? You’re walking around, looking, looking and the isolation is oppressive, both visually, but more importantly, through the plot you have to pull up, bit-by-bit, puzzle-by-puzzle. It was magical and it was sinister. There were no monsters, there was a void. The crashing waves. The silence of non-talking. A library of books with more questions than answers.
I played Myst and vowed that I would capture the essence of that aloneness in a novel. Could I use oppressive isolation as conflict? Could I create a compelling protagonist that could grow out of the comforts of silence?
I am not talking about plot, mostly, I am referring to atmosphere and setting (no, not a “marooned on a island” story). I have a character in mind. Now all I need is a plot.
Motivate this!
Q: What motivates your minor characters?
A: Not getting shot.
I got your minor character motivation, Baby. I got it covered.
Sorry Megan
No sooner than I started my post-draft outline then I found over 2000 words to cut. Many of the plot points to a minor character, Megan, had to go.
As a reader, I love novels with multiple plot points that explode from a single point and radiate outward, connecting infrequently if not at all until the last portion of the book where they intersect and fall back to a single point like some literary singularity.
As a writer, I try to uphold to that plot style while remaining as tight as I can to the main story. Megan’s story, while very interesting to me, seemed like I was enamored of Megan and was more interested in exploring just the person she was instead of providing her with a motivation that the reader could relate with and sympathize. Her story exploded outwards and kept on going, never to circle back. That was not good.
Deleting 2000 words from Megan did not hurt her one bit. In fact, she became more… mysterious. Why does it not bother her that her B&B is seemingly haunted? How is it possible that she is able to make these huge intuitive leaps to a conclusion, while the main character has to use logic and analysis to arrive at the same place? Why is the Catholic Priest so very interested in what she has to say?
Ah, the details and answers I leave for another time. They are interesting, but not as interesting as the rest of the story.
There are cuts and then there are cuts
Writing must be a learning process. As a reflection of life, even of entertainment value, if there is no growth then there is stagnation. Writing, my creativity in particular (results may vary per package), needs both incremental improvements and proper reflection. What did I learn today?
I shared a conversation with Reader David on making cuts (from this topic) and I concluded the suggestion offered by Wheaton in putting cuts into a separate cut document is valid. I came to this as I encountered writing filled with characterization, a fun look at life and death. It was a good piece of writing but I realized it was not adding to the entertainment value of my story.
I will be damned before I delete that permanently. An enormous amount of research went into that theme, going so far as to buy used and new books (rather than use the library) on the topic to broaden my horizons. This type of research gets the juices flowing and as an unpublished novelist, I need all the juices I can get! Even if I was to delete it out of my novel without looking back, it did broaden my horizons.
That bit of writing is unto itself, research material. I could no more delete it as could throw away one of the books on the topic I bought with my hard earned money. It is writing I would not be able to recreate simply sitting down and typing.
I made a cuts.docx file and off it will go.
I bumped into my inner capacity to recall the main details of my cuts due to the complexity of the details involved. That tells me two things. One, I have never done a bit of writing as I have in Bunny Trouble. It is unique. How exciting!
Two, I excite easily.
