Chekhov's Gun or "Why I'm Not Writing Elves" (Worldbuilding Part 2)

"If you say in the first chapter that there is a rifle hanging on the wall, in the second or third chapter it absolutely must go off. If it's not going to be fired, it shouldn't be hanging there." 
   - Anton Chekhov

Sometimes called the Law of Conservation of Detail, the rule of Chekhov's Gun in writing makes a lot of sense.  If you're going to write about something, write about something that actually matters to the story.  Otherwise, why include that detail at all?

I could write a whole lot more about Chekov's Gun, but what I really want to write about is how it applies to world building--specifically in the use of sentient non-humans.  Don't get me wrong, I love stories with elves, aliens, dwarves, robots, etc. (just look at my bookshelves).  I'm just not inspired to write a story that has the human/other race conflict as one of the central themes of the story.  

"But you could write a story with non-human characters and make some other conflict the central theme!"

Actually, I couldn't.  Because of Chekhov's Gun.  Remember, the principle of Chekhov's Gun is if you include something in your story, it should be important.  And a whole other species of sentient beings is a lot bigger than a rifle hanging on the wall.  Humans are easy.  We're all human, and human interaction is our default setting.  But non-humans are different, for precisely that reason.  They aren't human.  If you're just writing humans with pointy ears and calling them elves (or Vulcans), why do you need the pointy ears?  There has to be something different enough about them to justify creating a whole other species--otherwise you might as well just write other humans.  Once you've figured that out, you have to show how they are different than humans, and how they're the same.  And if you've invested that much time and effort into explaining how your species is different from humans, those differences should be important to your story.

"But there are lots of stories with non-humans where the human/non-human interface isn't critical to the story!"

Possibly, but I can't think of very many, whereas I can think of any number of prominent sources that do:

Lord of the Rings:  the differences between Men and Elves (namely immortality) is the entire motivating force behind the creation of the nine rings of Men.  It's why the Elves managed to keep their rings of power.  Oh, and it's the central premise behind the Aragorn/Arwen love story.

Dragonlance:  Tanis Half-elven, the primary hero of the original trilogy, has--as his primary internal conflict--an inability to balance the human and elven sides of his lineage.

Discworld:  this is an exception to the rule, sort of.  While all of the Discworld novels have multiple species, not all of them feature inter-species relationships as a central theme--but a lot of them do.

X-Men:  human/mutant relations is the central theme of well, everyone.

I could go on, but you get the idea.  

World Building, Part 1

I have no new story, so I suppose it must be confession time.  Well, sort of.  I have been writing, I just haven't finished anything.  I'm still working on the next bit for Violetta.  I made some major revisions to the Fairy Tale (actually, I'm in the process of expanding the whole opening scene.  But it's already longer than all of the original non-story bits put together, and I haven't even gotten to the fairy tale itself).

Really, though, most of what I've been working on is world building.

When most people think of world building, they're thinking of establishing the setting for a speculative fiction world (also known as science fiction or fantasy, but I like the term speculative fiction better, for reasons that I'll save for some other post).  But actually, every writer engages in some degree of world building--even if they're writing about the real world.  After all, if you're writing a story set in New York City, you have to describe the setting at least a little bit, or assume that your entire audience is as familiar with NYC as you are (and the closest I've ever been to NYC is watching the ball drop on New Year's Eve, so I don't have the slightest idea what it's like living there on a daily basis).  So world building is important for everyone.

But there are real published authors whose work I admire that have written much better posts on world building than me, so instead of attempting to duplicate their work I'll just send you to one of their blogs:

http://pcwrede.com/blog/building-a-world/

Actually, Patricia Wrede's blog is a far better writing resource than mine, so you should just go there.

To this point, all of the story bits that I've posted have been set in the same Victorian Era fantasy Europe.  Why?  In part, because I like fantasy but I'm attempting to avoid the stereotypical medieval fantasy tropes--armored knights, woodsy elves, dwarven smiths, etc.  Not because I don't like the medieval fantasy setting, but because it is (in my opinion) better suited for adventure stories that I'm not writing.  Stories like the Chronicles of Narnia by C.S. Lewis, Lord of the Rings by J.R.R. Tolkien, or Harry Potter by J.K. Rowling, which are about how the characters affect the world around them.  In those stories, the setting is a living, breathing character all its own.  Narnia, Middle Earth, and Hogwarts are characters whose history and destiny we care about as much as (or more than) we care about Jane or Faramir or Ginny. Consider the town of Meryton in Pride and Prejudice, the setting for nearly the entire novel, yet we know nearly nothing about it, save that it is in Hertforshire and near London.  Contrast that with the tower of Orthanc, which appears only a few times in the Lord of the Rings, and has nearly a page of text devoted to its description, to say nothing of the history of its construction, the battles fought around it, or its various occupants and owners.  Don't get me wrong, I love to read those kinds of stories.  But they aren't the stories that I'm inspired to write.

As I've said before, I like stodgy old books from the 18th and 19th century--whether it's Jane Austen or Wilkie Collins or Rafael Sabatini--and I enjoy writing stories set in that time period.  In those stories, the setting is mostly flavor.  But more than that, that setting is full of strong female characters.  And I like writing strong female characters--whether they're snarky, like Elizabeth Bennet, practical mistresses of their fate, like Jane Eyre, or passionate and liberated, like Marianne Dashwood.  But I also want to write stories where women can be the witty, sword wielding protagonists, where the damsel can rescue herself, and where the heroine doesn't have to marry the first rich, arrogant aristocrat that comes along.  

I could do that in a medieval fantasy setting, but that's not the world I've built.

[Draft] the Perks of Being a Courtesan, pt. 2

Durante Androsciani was irritated.  He hated attending events hosted by Emilio Mazini.  The man was an insufferable prig who only invited Adrosciani when he wanted to brag over his latest acquisition--whether it was a new horse, or a rare piece of fine artwork, or a fresh faced courtesan.  And now he was wandering Mazini's overdone halls looking for Theus knew what.  At least when Androsciani invited people over to show off, always put his newest toy out in the open for everyone to see.  None of this scavenger hunt bullshit.

He didn't even know what he was looking for.  A statue, a painting, a woman, it could even be a book for all he knew.  Though it probably wasn't a book, he wasn't sure Mazini knew how to read, let alone know the value of old texts (Androsciani didn't either, but he had people working for him who did).  And it wasn't a woman.  Mazini had a new one, gorgeous, sensual, sultry.  Lust personified, wrapped up in an obscene amount of red.  But she wasn't for sharing--Mazini had made that quite clear by the way that he kept her close and watched her like a hawk whenever she was anymore than three steps away.  He was probably enjoying her right now, the bastard.  He'd probably set up this whole wild goose chase just to get his guests out of the way.

Androsciani ducked into Mazini's study.  It was, he reasoned, one of the last places anyone would think to look.  Who would think that Mazini would display anything in this place, full of dry, dusty books no one read, and chairs that no one sat in, in a room that hardly anyone...

He stopped at the door of the study, his search forgotten.  Because there she was.  Mazini's vision of desire.  She was facing away from the door, examining the books.  He watched her fingers run lightly along the rows of books, and he couldn't help but imagine those nimble fingers running along his skin.  He could see bare flesh, from the nape of her neck where her dress tied in back, all the way down to just above the curve of her buttocks, where the train of her gown cascaded nearly to the floor.  If he closed his eyes, he could see the clinging, shimering confection of lace and silk concealing her body from her neck, over the swell of her breasts, descending from her hips to her feet.  It was covering enough to be modest and yet suggestive enough for him to imagine the fabric sliding silently to the floor.

She was looking him, he realized.  Watching him over her shoulder, that damned teasing smile on her face. 

"I think I came to the wrong room," he ground out through clenched teeth.  He wanted to go over there and wipe that smirk off her face.  To show her what a real man, not that poseur Mazini, was like.

"I think you know you didn't," she smiled, turning around and stretching her arms above her head.  Androsciani swallowed as he watched her back arch, pressing her ripe curves against the taut fabric of the dress.  And then she was sauntering towards him, with that mesmerizing sway of her hips--each step revealing a silky smooth length of leg, from her ankle to her calf, up her thigh...

"...what?" He asked, taking a step back.  She was saying something and he had missed it.  Reluctantly, he dragged his eyes away from the bare flesh of her leg, up across the expanse of taut fabric clinging to her skin, up to those perfect lips.  They were upturned, smiling wickedly, with just a hint of smug condescension.  He swallowed, feeling the solid oak of the wall against his back.  He wondered if she looked at Mazini with that same smile when she let him have her--the man certainly wasn't forceful enough to take a woman like this.

"Well, I was asking if you liked my dress," she purred, running the tip of her tongue along her lips as if in anticipation while her eyes traced his body, "but I can see that you do."

He coughed, a blush rising to his cheecks.  This is silly, he thought.  Here he was, pinned up against a wall by a woman half his size while she made him blush like a girl with her first crush.  He bet Mazini put her up to this, looking for a way to embarrass him.  Well, I'll show him, he sneered mentally as he groped for the door, I'm nobody's fool.

Still, he was unable to tear his eyes away from her sensuously approaching form. 

"Emilio didn't want me to wear this tonight," she pouted, so close now that he could reach out and touch her--almost did reach out and touch her, "something about being too much for his guests to handle.  I'm not too much for you, am I?"

"N-no," he stammered, as she reached out a finger and ran it along his jawline.  If this wasn't part of Mazini's plan, then he was in big trouble.  The man might be an ass, but he could have Androsciani killed without too much trouble.  There!  He'd found the door knob!  Still the thought of tasting this bit of forbidden fruit sent a thrill down his spine.

"Hmmm, then why are you reaching for the door?" she breathed, so close that he could smell the heady scent of her perfume.  He tugged once at the door, but it didn't move. 

He glanced down and discovered that perfect leg, left bare by the slit along the side of the dress, ending is a delicate slipper holding the door shut.

"You didn't answer my question," she said as her hand left his face and traveled down his arm, "why are you reaching for the door," she asked, taking his hand and guiding it to her bare flesh, "instead of for me?"

Androsciani swallowed, trying to think of what would happen if Mazini ever found out...but it was impossible with her pressed up against him, her silky soft skin under his hand...

She leaned her head in closer.  Part of him tried to shy away, but there was no more room to retreat.  He thought she was going to kiss him, but instead she moved her lips to his ear, and ever so softly whispered, "This will be our little secret..."

It was too much.  Androsciani growled, sliding his hand up her leg to pull her tight against him.  His free hand tangled in her hair, pulling her head to one side as he buried his face in her neck.  Her body shuddered as he held her and she let out a quiet moan.  "Hmmmm, where have you been?" she sighed excitedly. 

He was about to turn, to pin her against the wall, like he'd been pinned, trapped by his own desire.  But the sound of someone just on the otherside of the wall, yelling, "Eureka!  I found it!" made him freeze for just a second.

And far faster than she had entered into his embrace, she broke free of Androsciani's grasp and leapt clear of his fumbling grasp.

"Time's up, " she chirped, though he thought he could detect a lingering trace of huskiness.

"I think not," he growled, unwilling to let this little tease get away without showing her exactly what she had awakened.

"Oh, I think it is," she laughed, skipping back further out of reach.  Androsciani lunged for her, but came up short.  Looking back, he saw that his doublet had been pinned to the wall by an exquisite hairpin.

"Perhaps you will be better prepared next time," she laughed as she slipped out a side door in a swirl of red silk and pale skin.

With a grunt of effort Androsciani, freed himself.  Next time, he swore, she wouldn't get off so easily.

[Draft] The Perks of Being a Courtesan

"What in the unholy name of Legion were you thinking?!" Francesco Belini shouted as he burst into Violetta's bedchamber, surprising her and the footman, Sergio, to full wakefulness.  Sergio, clearly not used to such antics first thing in the morning, stuttered an apology to his employer as he gathered up his scattered clothes and shuffled out the door while Violetta looked on in disgust.  Well, at least he had a good reason to be spineless.

Violetta Silvestri, illegitimate child and courtesan of the Belini, on the other hand, was used to angry men bursting into her bedchambers.  It was why she had several sets of hairpins scattered on every available flat surface--not just because she couldn't be bothered to pick up after the men who tore them out of her hair in the throes of passion.  Still, she supposed it would be bad form to pin the man who had adopted her and paid for her education to the wall of his own home.  But it was a close thing.

"Here dear, let me speak to her," Giulia Belini said, placing a calming hand on her husband's shoulder, “you should go have a drink to calm your nerves."

Still sputtering, Francesco followed his wife's advice and left before Violetta threw any hairpins at him.  The danger gone, Allegra flopped back onto the bed, fully intending to go back to sleep.  She'd been getting a little tired of Sergio anyway.  Perhaps that nice valet Luigi would be interested, now that his messenger lady was getting married.  Or there was the new maid Vanessa, she'd definitely had a look in her eye.

"...but really dear, what were you thinking?"

Oh, Giulia was still there.  And still talking.  Violetta sighed as she opened her eyes and sat up.  There wasn't really any point in trying to sleep.  Giulia wasn't quite as excitable as Francesco, but she was implacable.

"You mean with Sergio?" Violetta asked, swinging her legs out of bed, "he was just a bit of fun."

Maybe Giulia would help her with her hair.  Not that Violetta needed any help, but Giulia's updos were always just a little bit crisper--and she managed to fit in two or three more hairpins than Violetta could manage by herself.

"You know what I mean," Giulia said as Violetta flounced over to her closet, "I know it runs in the family, but you're too concerned about fun.  Do you know how difficult it was getting an invitation to Durante Androsciani's showing without giving away that it was our family that arranged it?"

"No, but you didn't ask me either," Violetta sighed, flipping through the gowns in her closet.  Not that one, too full, she wanted something she could move in.  Or that one, too skimpy, she didn't want to look desperate.  "I would have told you not to bother."

"Not that one dear, it makes you look like a cucumber," Giulia commented before returning to the subject at hand, "would you care to explain why you just decided to throw away months of work just to go to yet another party?  And not even one that Androsciani is going to be attending?"

"Because it doesn't matter how well you think you've covered your tracks," Violetta explained.  Not that one, the lace made her itch in unfortunate places.  "There will always be someone who remembers something he shouldn't.  You taught me that.  My way can't be traced back to you because there's nothing to trace.  How about this one?"

"Not that one, you can't get out of it without looking awkward," Giulia answered, "and what, pray tell, is your way?  Mazini doesn't belong to the Borsato.  He and Androsciani don't even like each other.  Oh, not that one either, it still hasn't been mended since that wedding where you got frisky with the groomsman."

"It was him or the bride," Violetta shrugged, "and I didn't want cousin Arturo mad at me because his new spouse tried to corner me in changing rooms."  Actually, it had been the groomsman and the bride--Marienne had caught Violetta exiting the changing rooms, and it was her day.  Why shouldn't the bride be allowed to have a little harmless fun too?  Besides, what Giulia didn't know, wouldn't get Violetta in trouble.

"They may not like each other, but they're always inviting the other over to show off their latest acquisition," Violetta explained.  No, not that one either, it needed accessories and she didn't want to be carrying anything except for her hairpins.  "They're rivals.  That's the point.  Durante Androsciani didn't become governor by being stupid.  He knows that any woman offered to him must be working for somebody."

"But if he takes someone from his rival, then she is a conquest," Giulia said admiringly.  Violetta knew she'd get the point while Francesco was still sputtering over their overturned plans.

"Whyyyyyy do I have nothing to wear!"

Revisions and Moving On

I've discovered that I don't like doing revisions.  I'm not talking about editing as I'm writing--those changes to the text that come to you when you're in the writing groove.  I like those, to me it's a sign that I'm doing something right.  No, I'm talking about going back and fixing all the things that didn't work in the first draft or the second draft or even the third draft.

It's not that I think that every word that I write is golden (actually, I'd say that most of what I write should never be seen by anyone else).  It's that sometimes I don't even know where to go with what I need to change.  That's actually the problem with all the snippets that I've posted on this blog so far.  I know, for example, that the Claire Epistolary needs a lot of work to make it more readable (though some of that is the character's style, so I'm not entirely certain how much will actually change).  Also, the Fairy Tale is a complete mess--it needs a longer introduction and somewhere in the middle it bogs down into incoherency.  To be honest, there's so much work that needs to be done on it, I don't even know where to begin.

That being said, sometimes you have to move on.  I know that the vignette I posted last week wasn't perfect, but sometimes you have to accept that something is as good as it's going to get so that you can move on to the next project.

Hopefully, the next time I post, I'll have a revision or maybe just a new bit of writing.

National Novel Writing Month! and [Draft] Untitled

In honor of National Novel Writing Month I'm restarting my blog!  I have been writing, but I haven't actually finished very many things.  So my new resolution, in honor of NaNoWriMo, is to try to post at least once per week.

Also, here's a little vignette that I actually managed to finish.  ^_^

She sits and stares at the paper.  It is empty, blank, devoid of feeling.  Like her, the man who claims her as his wife would say.  He is wrong.  She knows this, or thinks she knows this.  But sometimes she wonders if he is not.  The quill is in her hand, poised, as if prepared to write.  But she does not know how.  She does not know what she would say even if she did--perhaps he is right (That is a lie, her heart is so full of things to say that she does not know where to begin.).

Her world is this:  this one room, with its uncomfortable chairs, overdone tables, and shelves and shelves of books that she cannot read.  The man whose wife she is says that she is mistaken.  That she has rooms of riches and servants and dresses.  That everything that is his is hers.  But it is not true.  Nothing here is truly hers.  Not the endless rows of black dresses.  Not the rooms in which she sleeps and he comes to break her in slow degrees (that is not how he sees the imposition of his conjugal rights, but it is the truth).  Even this room is not, though it is more hers than anything else (because she had been here before.  She wonders if he remembers.  Either one.).

She used to wonder if this is like other rooms with books that she (they, her heart demands, but there are some things that cannot be said, even in her thoughts, without weeping and she dares not start because she does not know if she could stop) had explored--with books filled with blank pages, empty spaces where the words should be--but the man who says that he is her husband is too pretentious to accept hollow imitations of books that he does not have the native intelligence to comprehend.  She is unsure if this is a virtue that she should admire or simply another indication of his lack of understanding.

She has stared too long and the ink drips from her quill like blood from a blade.  She turns away from that thought.  (She remembers the blood, the sword, the hand that holds it.)  She avoids memories when she can.  Not because they are painful or frightening (though sometimes they are), but because they lead, inevitably, to this moment when she is hurting and alone.  She is always hurting and alone, but sometimes she fails to notice.  It is like bathing in too cold water.  Eventually, you stop feeling anything at all.

She crumples the ink-stained sheet and casts it aside as she begins to weep.  She did not know what she was thinking, pretending that she could write.  Believing that she would know what to say, even if she did.  It is ruined now, marked, worthless.  Like her.

The servants enter, their faces carefully blank.  She is never quite sure, in moments like these, whether they pity her or are relieved that it is not them.  Perhaps it is a little of both.  She had thought that she had given orders that she was not to be disturbed, but the servants do not always hear her orders (it is a matter of survival.  She understands, though it is difficult not to resent them).  She remembers that there is to be a party, and the servants are there to clean the rooms for the guests.

One of the servants reaches for the crumpled wad of ruined paper and she cries out, snatching it from the ground before he can touch it.  She sits there on the floor for a while, a small sobbing puddle of black silk and lace, clutching the paper as if it is all that remains of her hopes and dreams.  The servants shuffle out, closing the door behind them, leaving her alone to compose herself (they will pay for forgetting to clean the room or she will pay for their oversight or both, but for now she only feels gratitude that they are gone).

Slowly, carefully, she stands and smooths the crumpled sheet of paper out as best she can.  Ruined, damaged, useless for its original purpose, she will not just see it cast aside.  So instead she folds it and slides it into her sleeve.  It is a reminder that not all things that are ruined should be thrown away.

Finding the Medium for your Muse

Sometimes you look at the blank screen and it just stays blank.  There's nothing.  No inspiration.  No ideas.  No words.  You know you're supposed to be writing something, anything, and nothing is coming.  You've turned off the television, turned down the music, and walked away from all of the distractions, but there's nothing to fill the void.

Sometimes I despair and turn on the television, because if I'm not going to write anyway, I might as well be entertained while doing nothing.  But sometimes there is another option.  Sometimes there is a way to tease the muse out of the recesses of my unconscious.  Sometimes I pull out a cheap composition book, turn to a page I've started writing something on, and...write.  

What?  What happened to not being able to write anything?  What happened to that writer's block?  Sometimes the blank screen is too big, too overwhelming, too...blank to write anything.  It's just too much emptiness to fill.  But an inexpensive notebook?  I feel more free to make mistakes and the words flow more easily.  This is probably because it takes few of them to fill a line and fewer of them to fill a page, so I feel like I'm making more progress (even though it's just an illusion of font size).

Now, don't get me wrong, I'm totally a type to the screen kind of person.  Sometimes I type faster than I talk.  When I'm in the writing groove, my fingers fly, and the words flow like water through a sieve.  And when I'm stuck, I'm really stuck, and putting the words down is a torturous exercise in futility.  But something about putting pen (or pencil) to paper is different.  I really do feel more free to make mistakes and cross them out and then go back to them again (something that you can't really do with the delete key on your computer).  Sometimes, when nothing is appearing on the screen, it's just easier to write it down the old fashioned way.  And once the creative juices get flowing, transferring it from paper to screen is a simple enough task and continuing from wherever I left off on the page seems effortless.

Now, of course, you should use whatever medium inspires you.  If you like to type to screen (like me), turn on your computer, warm up your fingers, and get to typing.  If you like putting pen to paper, buy a bunch of pens and some notebooks and get to writing.  If you like to write using a typewriter, get out your typewriter and some paper and get to typing.  Heck, if you like to write with your thumbs on your mobile device, do that!  But when you get stuck with whatever you're writing, consider switching mediums to see if that helps you approach the problem differently.

"Why Epistolaries?"

A friend of mine recently asked:  "why epistolaries?  they remind me of stodgy old books from the 1700's." He wasn't criticizing my choice of story telling devices because he's mean or dismissive, epistolary stories just aren't what he prefers to read (he likes grand, sweeping, world changing epics which tend to be told in the third person point of view).  I, on the other hand, like "stodgy old books" though I prefer the ones from the 1800's and I also really enjoy epistolary novels, so the idea of writing an epistolary set in an imagined version of the 1800's appeals to me.

To be fair to my friend, most books aren't written in the epistolary style, probably because most stories don't lend themselves to being told that way.  I mean, you could tell the story in The Wheel of Time by Robert Jordan or Game of Thrones by George R. R. Martin as a series of letters and journal entries, but they would be much longer and significantly more cumbersome--and any story that's already more than 1000 pages before it's half way done doesn't need to be any longer or more cumbersome.  Also, consider the stories in the Dragonriders of Pern books by Anne McCaffery which simply could not have been told in an epistolary style without completely changing the stories into something entirely different.  Given that the entire culture of Pern relies on oral histories and literacy is rare rather than universal, to change those underlying facts would alter the setting in unpredictable ways.

In contrast, there are stories that simply could not be told in any other way.  Well, I suppose The Gurnsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society by Mary Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrows could have been told in a non-epistolary style, but it would have lost a certain degree of intimacy and charm that made it engaging.  Of course, there's also Sorcery and Cecelia or the Enchanted Chocolate Pot by Patricia C. Wrede and Carolyn Stevermer, which wasn't originally a novel so much as a game between friends.  That book really could not have been written in any way besides the epistolary style.

None of which actually explains why I'm writing in the epistolary style.  To be honest, when I first considered telling this story it had very little resemblance to what it is now.  Originally, it was set in the modern day, Claire and Adele didn't exist, and the whole thing was just a bit of a side character's background that may or may not have ever come up.  At first, I thought that it would be sufficient that I knew the character's story and if it came up in conversation or flash back as part of someone else's story then that would be enough.  The more I thought about it though, the more I felt like this character's story really needed to be told.  But the more I tried to write it, the more that I felt like it didn't quite feel right.  So I put it aside for a while and let it stew in the back of my consciousness.  Which is probably where it would have stayed until the end of my days, except that a friend of mine got me involved in an epistolary game set in an alternate fantasy Europe and something clicked in my head.  It involved an entire revision of what I had previously considered to be firmly established conditions and the creation of new characters who could serve as a supporting cast.  Thinking about it now, while I could tell the story in some other style, I don't think it would be as effective.

Besides, then I would have to give up Adele and Claire, and I've grown sort of attached to them too.

Strike While the Iron is Hot but Stay In the Moment

Have you ever come up with a well crafted sentence, clever wording, or even just the grain of an idea, and said, "I've got to write that down later!"  Then, when later comes, you sit down in front of a blank screen and...nothing.  You can't even remember the shape of what you wanted to write?  That happens to me all the time!  And I really wish it wouldn't.  I cannot tell you the number of times that I've thought to myself, "How did I say that before?  It sounded really awesome in my head!" but been unable to remember the exact wording or even what the topic was.

So what is the solution?  Obviously the answer is to write it down.  Carry a notebook with you, install a notepad on your mobile device, jot it down on your hand, so that when you craft an interesting turn of phrase in your head you can record it before it gets lost in the ether of the daily grind.  Okay, well that's not too hard.  Of course, there will be times when you really can't just stop and write down what you've come up with.  Maybe you're at the grocery store and there's ice cream in your cart, or you sit down and realize that your baby desperately needs changing, or you're in the middle of a long drive to SoCal.  Obviously, those are times when you can't just put everything aside for a few minutes to jot something down.  Which brings me to my next point...

Stay in the moment.  Ironically (since this is a blog about writing) I don't actually mean the moment that you're in the writing groove.  I mean all of the other times when you're at the grocery store or taking care of your baby or driving on the freeway.  If you really can't stop and write something down, don't think about the things you're going to write about.  Trust that the inspiration will be there when you do have a moment and focus on what you're doing.  Because otherwise, if inspiration comes at an inopportune time, you're going to be kicking yourself later and asking, "Why didn't I write that down when I thought of it?"  To be honest, that's the wrong question.  The real question should be:  "Why was I thinking about writing when I knew I wouldn't be able to follow the inspiration?"  Sometimes inspiration just finds us, but most of the time we find it because we're looking for it (or at least that's how it works for me).  So it seems somewhat foolish to go looking for inspiration when you can't follow where it leads.

[Epistolary] A Letter from Adele Rosette de la Reines to Claire Satine du Paroisse

My Dearest Cousin Claire,

Whatever were you thinking?  Ardent Rose?  Clever Silk?  Whatever inspired you to invent such dramatic pseudonyms?  Now, you know that I enjoy a sapphic adventure as much as the next woman, but I do believe that our respective mothers might find such an exchange of affections between we two rather objectionable.  Frankly, given the degree to which your stature overshadows my own, it is doubtful that anyone would believe that our affections are anything more than familial, but you know how our mothers are.  Also, in the future, if you intend to use aliases to protect the guilty, might I suggest that you provide everyone with one?  Armand, I suspect, would be quite put out that you would give me a nom de guerre and not extend him the same courtesy, seeing as how I was not involved and he managed to get impaled through the arm as a result of this particular misadventure.

Speaking of Armand, he is not nearly as upset with you as one might imagine.  Though, of course, that might just be the hashish speaking.  We will see how he feels once his recovery is far enough along for him to return to the public eye.  Considering grandpapa's problem with the milk of the poppy, I must say I am relieved that his vices trend in a different direction.  Though why he believes his hashish is any better, I cannot say.  Given, however, that he is your brother, you are more likely far more familiar with his predispositions and the reasons for them than I.  As for Chauvelin, that pompous, self-righteous ass, you should have told him to go back to his pamphlets and leave the satire to those with the wit to appreciate it.  Considering the number of impressionable married young women my brother has attempted to debauch just in the last month, I doubt that he would know a binding promise if it challenged him to a duel before the palace gates--which seems more and more likely every day.

And now that the necessary familial reports are complete, it is my sad duty, as your self-appointed manager of dramatics, to inform you that your assessment of your journey to Lombardi as exile is needlessly melodramatic.  Uncle Frederic merely wishes someone to accompany Aunt Nicolette while he is occupied with the current court session.  Moreover, how can you begrudge your mother a little bit of company on her travels...no, do not answer that, I perfectly comprehend your feelings.  How could I not, when Aunt Nicolette is so very...her.  But perhaps, while you are with her, you will uncover the truth regarding this sudden desire to visit to Lombardi and the mysterious...what was that name again?  Isabella?  Was that not the name of Cousin David's bride?  Though perhaps my supposition is wrong, after all, she did remarry shortly after his unfortunate demise.  Not to speak ill of the dead, but he always was too quick to take offense over inconsequential matters.  Regardless, you will most certainly be back here in time to attend Mme. Renette's musicale (for which I am eternally grateful, as your presence may be the only entertaining piece of the entire evening) so do not fall too deeply into despair, my dear cousin, for we will be reunited soon.

Yours,
Adele

Follow The Inspiration, But Don't Get Distracted

So four days and not very much writing (or at least not very much writing that didn't make me frustrated, but more on that further on) later, I've learned two things:  1) follow the inspiration, 2) don't get distracted.

Okay, so Follow The Inspiration.  That's simple enough, write what you're inspired to write.  If you've got to work on something that you can't seem to get started, work on something else.  Hopefully, something that you're inspired to write.  That actually worked really well for me, because once I got on a writing roll, I was able to seamlessly transition from what I started writing to what I needed to write.  So that's the good news.  The bad news is that it took me four days.  Why did it take me four days instead of one?  That brings me to:

Don't Get Distracted.  Now, when I say, "don't get distracted," I don't mean by the television or youtube or whatever (though that's pretty distracting, I covered that one in The Sound of Silence).  I mean by writing.  What?  How can you get distracted by writing when you're writing?  Isn't that an oxymoron?  Yes, and like an oxymoron, it works.  Okay, so a little bit of background:  I read news online.  Sometimes I read about politics online.  That's a mistake.  Don't read about politics online, it'll just make you mad.  And, occasionally, when I'm mad, I read the comments.  That's also a mistake.  Never read the comments.  They'll just make you furious.  On the plus side, when I'm furious, I'm inspired to write.  On the down side, I'm inspired to write comments on political news articles (yes, I become one of those people).  And that doesn't help me to write anything else.  In fact, it does the opposite.  It inspires me to continue writing comments and I have trouble calming down enough to write other stuff.  It doesn't help that the people who I'm commenting to are equally furious and respond back to whatever point I've made, which I feel obliged to respond to, and so on.  It really is a vicious circle.  And four days later, you stop checking your inbox for responses and finally get around to writing what you should have been writing four days ago before you got distracted by political news articles.

So really, you can't always follow your inspiration.  Because sometimes it just takes you in a furious circle, like a dog chasing it's tail.  The important part is knowing when your inspiration is going to take you in a horrible mobius strip of rage and when it's going to lead you to where you want to go.

The Value of Distraction

Okay, so after posting yesterday about how the television and music and other aural/visual distractions have to go off, what did I do today?  I watched a lot of Doctor Who (I'm not going to say how much, but it was not an insignificant number of hours) and scrolled through Pinterest looking at hairstyles and evening gowns instead of writing.  Why did I do that?  Was I stuck?  Did I not have anything to write about?  Was I having trouble getting started?  Well, I wish I could lie and say yes, but really the answer is no.  I'm not stuck, I've got plenty to write about, and I've already started.  So what was the problem?

The problem was that I never sat down and resolved to write anything.  I procrastinated and said, "After this one episode." and "Ooh, look at this, _______ would totally wear this." and "Well, I might as well finish..."  The end result being that nothing got written.  So now I'm writing this blog post instead of what I had intended to write.

All right, that was my confession, but what did I learn from this (aside from what I already knew, which was that I cannot be trusted to write and watch Doctor Who at the same time)?  Quite a bit actually, though I probably could have learned it without quite so much procrastination.

Characters don't live in a vacuum.  

It is not enough to say that a character is a female Scarlet Pimpernel or a courtesan on the run from her past.  Every character's actions is informed by her past, and that past informs her present actions.  Knowing the character's present isn't enough if you intend to write her believably for an extended period of time.  You have to know her past, maybe not every detail, but enough to know why she reacts in particular ways, what parts of her past impact her present.  Of course, that seems like a no-brainer if you think about it, but sometimes you can get too caught up with writing the present to consider the character's past.  Conversely, you shouldn't be afraid to allow your character to change as circumstances demand.  A character who has a history of feeling inadequate can still grow to be emotionally fulfilled, it will simply take time and careful plotting.  

Thus the lessons of Doctor Who as applied to writing.  Which could lead me into a whole discussion about the Doctors and his various companions and how...never mind.  This is a blog about writing and I'm only on my third entry, so I'll save the Doctor Who fandom for some other time.

Clothing tells you a lot about a person.  Well duh.  That's true in real life, why wouldn't it be true in fiction as well?  But between plotting the next major event, crafting dialogue, and introducing characters, sometimes fashion gets left by the wayside. Which is a shame, because what a character wears is part of what makes them who they are.  For example, wearing elbow length opera gloves to the ball isn't something worth remarking upon, but when the same character wears those same gloves down to breakfast and to the beach, then the reader knows there is something else going on.  But, it only works if you included those gloves in your original description at the ball.

Which brings us to Pinterest, that endless library of evening gowns and up-dos.  Just casually scrolling through my boards netted me a dozen hairstyles and outfits for nearly half a dozen characters.  Never will my characters be forced to wear the same dress twice because I'm simply not creative enough to come up with a new gown (if the plot demands it, then that's a different story).

Of course, that brings me back to the procrastination.  Could I have learned those lessons, found those images, and still gotten my writing done by spending a fraction of the time actually concentrating on what I was doing?  Yes.  So that's my resolution.  To stop procrastinating and disguising it as multitasking and actually get things written.

Tomorrow.

The Sound of Silence

"*Hiccup!*"
"In breaking news..."
"*Beep!  Beep!  Beep!*"
"Oh geez, look at the cat..."
"What are you a trick?  A trap?"
"*Maaaah!*"
"Today on..."

Five hours later...

"Oh geez!  All I've got is three sentences of CRAP!"

We've all been there.  We've all done that.  We've all thought:  "Oh, I'm great at multitasking!  I can write this scene, eat my lunch, find cool YouTube videos, listen to my music, and catch up on my Netflix all at the same time!"  At least that's what I think is going to happen.  But what really happens is that I end up with a couple of paragraphs of trash involving Romana II as Daenerys ordering the crew of the Enterprise D to harness the power of friendship to the soundtrack of Wicked and a cold bowel of instant noodles.  All of which adds up to two things:  1)  I'm involved in way too many geekdoms for my own good and 2)  I'm really terrible at multitasking.

It turns out I'm not alone in being awful at doing more than one thing at a time:
Why Multitasking Doesn't Work
People Who Multitask Are Often Bad At It

Now, some people will tell you that they need background noise in order to get things done.  They need the television to be going, or music to be playing, or something to fill the silence.  For all of those people, good for you!  Unfortunately, I'm not one of those people.  I used to think that I was, but I'm really not.  If the television is on, then I get caught up in whatever narrative is playing--whether it's the news or a movie or even reality television--instead of continuing my own.  I can't watch YouTube videos for the same reason.  As for music, it's really sort of hit or miss.  Sometimes music can help me keep the rhythm of my narrative, but most of the time it just makes me want to find more music.

So if I want to write anything substantive, I need it to be quiet.  Really quiet.  No Netflix.  No iTunes.  No YouTube.  Which actually makes sense, now that I think about it.  Nature abhors a vacuum.  And what greater vacuum of creativity is there than silence and a blank page.  And really, if my mind is filled with other voices, whether it's Jon Stewart or Matt Smith or Kristen Chenowith, how can I hear the voices of the characters in my head?

So now, it's time to mute the computer, turn off the television, and get to writing.

Writer's Block

Writer’s block.  We’ve all felt it.  That dreaded enemy of writers and students everywhere.  That unexpected wall that we crash into when we're riding the creativity train.  That great yawing chasm of terror we feel when confronted with a blank page.

I am not a writer...or at least I'm not what most people think of when they talk about writers.  I have never published anything (or really written anything that I've considered worth publishing), so I can't really say that I know what I'm talking about with regards to writing.  

Actually, what I have the most experience with is writer's block.  I have a lot of experience with writer's block.  I spend a lot of time staring at that blank page.

But the best piece of advice I've ever heard or read to fix writer's block is to write.  To write anything.  It doesn't have to be whatever it is that you want to be working on.  It doesn't have to be what you think you should be inspired to write.  It just has to be anything as long as it is writing.

And that's what this blog is about:  writing.  

Writing about anything.  Writing about writing.  Writing stories and snippets of stories.  Anything to get past that dreaded writer's block that always gets in our way.