In Bed With the Devil--or Almost

Hi, all, I thought I'd share this quote from Steve Martin: 
"I think I did pretty well, considering I started out with nothing but a bunch of blank paper."

Steve Martin

Let me take you back in time. It was 1983, I was a struggling writer and was working on something I called "Vampire Legacy". It might have been called something else at one time, but this would be the working title ... for the next umpteen years. I was looking for some way to get published. It was my dream. Has been all my adult life.

I was in contact with a writer who said he had a writing circle he taught. We'll call him John. This was in Dubuque, Iowa, and a 3 hour drive from where I lived. I was a novice. Green as can be, trying to "break" into published author. I had been writing to him (back then, we didn't have the Internet, and you wrote letters or called) (on a land-line phone). You with me so far? Good.

I told him I couldn't be expected to drive out to Dubuque every day (3 times a week) to attend this writer's circle, but I did want to attend. I knew rubbing elbows with other writers/authors would be the only way to learn anything. So, John arranged it for me to stay in his house--it was an old house, of the Victorian age, or there about. Painted charcoal gray with white trim. It had a gable on one side which reminded me a little of the "Amityville" house. There was a number of stained glass, too. The house itself was situated on a hill, and let me tell you it might have been a few rooms short of a mansion (which requires 33 rooms), but it was pretty damned big. 2 and 1/2 baths, a small kitchen, with John's office situated in behind this and a laundry room.

I did pay rent to him. Come to find out John had a wife and 3 grown children still living there--his son was still in high school, his two daughters had jobs. The wife worked in an insurance place. I understood that John once was an agent of said office at one time, but chose to become a professional writer. And he had a New York agent. He did get a horror book published, and it was what I would call a more-or-less rip off of The Exorcist.

I had told him what I was working on dealt with vampires, and this intrigued him.

Anyway, I sat in on not one, not two, but three different writing circles. Each one one echelon higher than the next. In the highest degree, the third group, had those who were either better writers, or had books published. One had just gotten her romance book picked up by Zebra. Yeah. I was excited to be included in this bunch of authors. We'll call her Deb. She came into our circle one night in a rabbit fir coat, new glasses, and smoked these little black cigarettes. Her advance must have been pretty good.

I said I was green, in more ways than one. First of all, I'd been divorced for about 8 years, at this point. To say I was hopeful in getting something larger than a mere article published  (I'd been published in ByLine) a few times, no big deal. But at this point in time I wasn't so desperate I'd sell my soul. Or anything else.

John had read my first chapter and told me "Pretty good, some of the mechanics need help, but that's something to worry about down the line." Or something to that effect.

I had a room upstairs adjacent to the room his two daughters shared. Funny story, there was one of those "secret" doors that you could go through my closet to their room (visa versa). One night the girls had been out late. And there I was in a hard single bed hearing her come through that secret door and proceeded to lay down beside me. I had the feeling this might have been her room, or something, at one point.

Her sister went and got her mother, mother quietly urged daughter #2 out of my bed and bedroom, and I lay pretending to sleep through the whole thing.

Anyway, we all laughed it off in the morning. Ha-ha.

Everyone would be gone during the day to their jobs, and that left me and John in this big house. We sometimes did "brain storming" where we'd talk about what I was working on. I had some problems in plotting. To begin with, I really didn't know what I was doing. And, instead of any real help in this, he tells me to change the name of one of my characters.

It wasn't long before I was tired of being there. Sure, at first the family was nice, and his wife sweet, and could cook, but after a while, even as bad as I wanted to be away from home, I was homesick. I did go home every weekend, and returned for three days to Dubuque.

It was February. I was fighting off a cold. I got up and went downstairs for something to eat. John asked to join me. Sure, I say, although I was really sick of his smoking either a cigar or cigarette. He talks about himself a lot, and sometimes his thoughts about life, marriage and sex. This morning was no different. He was telling me that sex and love wasn't the same thing. I said I agreed with that, but in the back of my mind I had had this growing sense of unease about him putting the moves on me. There I was, alone with him while his wife was away at work, and he was talking about sex. Not only that I'd been getting these little hints that Deb and John have been having, or are having an affair. Call it woman's intuition. I just had a feeling there might have been some sort of agreement, since they were both married, and she was always bringing up the fact (in our writer's meetings) she wanted to get her husband out of the meat packing plant soon. She was working on the second book in her romance series. I'll add that she was an excellent writer, and I did envy her writing abilities.

So, today he talked about affairs, and he actually told me about a woman whom he worked with he'd had an affair with. He kept on saying "It didn't mean anything. It was just sex."

Of course, he was setting the stage, maybe hinting at the fact that we could have a fling. Sex. Means nothing to him. Here I was dealing with a relationship that was going nowhere and I'd been divorced (because my first husband had slept around).

And then, when I didn't expect it, he'd cornered me and kissed me. Nothing passionate, just a peck on the lips.

At this point he asks me to join him "upstairs". I told him I didn't do such things, for one.
He asked me later on if I was mad at him. I said no. This was the first time anything like this had happened to me. In these situations I never know what to do, what to say--at least then. Now I'd tell them to go take a flying leap.
He tried to kiss me again and I said no and hurried up to my room.

I think he was a bit nervous about my saying something. Crap. I should have blackmailed him, but it would have been my word against his. And in reviewing this, and the other events surrounding my stay at John's house, I could only wonder if I had gone to bed with him, would I have wound up with an agent, and maybe eventually a publishing contract like Deb? I sort of doubt it, but who's to say?

Ah, well. Life goes on. I'm sure John, and probably Deb are long gone (dead) by now. I was in my twenties, they were much older than myself.

At least I never gave up on my writing. This manuscript has gone through a multitude of rewrites. And my frustration with what happened in Dubuque (there's a lot more to the story, but I'm saving that back), had me quit writing for a while, as I didn't know if I should have trusted someone who kept saying Stephen King couldn't write.

As of this writing, "Vampire Legacy" has a new title, and new life. It won't be ready until next year, some time, but I'm excited about it. I WILL finally see this book published!

What do you think? One I borrowed from a JB Fletcher novel title--which are all fictitious, of course.

"The Crypt of Death" 

or

"Crypt of the Dead"

I'm playing with it. I'd rewritten this puppy in 1999-2000. Tried to sell it to an agent, and at the time it was 800 pages long. It really needed to be chopped in half, and I did so for one agent who had seemed somewhat interested. Long story short, no one picked it up. Boohoo.

I worked on major, MAJOR rewrites in 2013. But other works had me busy at this point, so, I went on and concentrated on those. Once again, this book got stored away again.

Now, I'm working through this manuscript. Seeing where it fails, what I should do with it, and keep the word "vampire" out of the title. I'm thinking it would make a horror/suspense novel, if I worked out the kinks. And I've already made some changes and pulled a chapter out of the beginning. Not wanting the vampires to be shown in this too soon. I want readers to learn along with my detective, and another character what's going on in this town.

Well, that's my story of what happened in Dubuque, and my manuscript "Vampire Legacy" so long ago. I guess you could say this book has a story behind it all its own. I still wonder what would have happened had I went to bed with John. Just so you know, I was NOT attracted to him at all. At one time I thought about writing about it in some version and selling it to a rag (changing names, of course). I think I'll just keep it as a memoir project at some point down the line.

Have a good week, fellow writers!

The Kick-Ass First Chapter?

I'm sitting writing this after having done all my chores (I was a good girl today, even got in my yoga and made the beds--power to me!), including vacuuming. Drinking Vita ICE, Cucumber-lime. Not bad. Takes a bit of a getting used to the cuquie taste, but not bad and refreshing.

I was looking through my bookmarked pages, trying to get rid of some--I'm a hoarder, what can I say?

I came across this one, and I really don't remember it but the title caught me and I had to go and investigate. It was called "25 Things To Know About Writing the First Chapter Of Your Novel". This is author, screenwriter, and game designer, Chuck Wendig's blog, Terribleminds. He is one of those Writer's Digest authors. Has a number of novels out, has an impressive background, including an Emmy nomination, so his practical advice on his blog (and several ebooks published by Writers Digest), had me digging in. I think it's his voice that caught me, but advice is, like those at Writers Digest, as sound as a bongo beat.

I wanted to explore with you a couple of the points in correlation with my first chapter.

From Wendig's 25 Things To Know...

1. EVERY BOOK A HOOK (AND THE FIRST CHAPTER’S THE BAIT)

A reader walks into a bookstore. Spies an interesting book. What does she do? Picks it up. Flips to the first chapter before anything else. At least, that’s what I do. (Then I smell the book and rub it on my bare stomach in a circular motion and make mmmmmm noises.) Or, if I can find the first chapter online somewhere — Amazon, the author’s or publisher’s site, your Mom’s Myspace page — I’ll read it there. One way or another, I want to see that first chapter. Because that’s where you grab me by the balls or where you push me out the door. The first chapter is where you use me or lose me.

I wouldn't recommend any how-to writing articles unless it grabs me by the throat, like this one did. Admittedly, Wendig gets silly at times, but also uses the vulgar language that simply gravitates me to his words, for some reason. Plus, it was timely for me to find it because I am sort of wrestling with a first chapter of the fifth book in the Sabrina Strong Series.

For the past couple of weeks now, I've gone weeding through my novel-in-whatever-draft, and found that the first chapter really needed to be tweaked. I've worked on it, but I'm still combing it for not just mistakes, but the need to fine-tune.


I know there's tension in my firsts chapter, and I do believe in his advice that the "first chapter is the beginning of the book but it's not the beginning of the whole story". Which was why I opened not with Sabrina, but with a different character, Leif Sufferden, the vampire, and in 3rd person. Instead of opening up the book in Sabrina's head, I'm in Leif's head. Here is the first paragraph. But as written I've found my error. Do you see it?

Chapter 1

én garde

The man with shoulder-length, dark blond hair and edgy smile sat motionless in in the shadows, in a wooden bar chair, waiting. No one had really noticed him, but then he had made sure that they would not. Wearing a black suit and silk shirt, his white silk tie almost glowed. He was a tad over dressed for the rough-neck bar in Batavia where several fist fights broke out on a nightly bases, stabbings were not unheard of, either. The police had had the place shut down for various violations in the past. Only in the past week someone had been stabbed to death, right here. There had been shootings, too. But, tonight, “Side Winders” happened to be open, and its customers couldn't be happier, unless they were high on something other than liquor and weed.

Here, I'm going for a seedy bar. I don't want to over do it. I get it across to the reader what it's like there. (I have been in this bar, just for argument sake, about 30 years ago, and it was bad then. At least one fight broke out and the police did come to break it up.) (I drank one beer and won a pinball game with the guy I was with--go me!)

Okay, here it is, the mistake: I should have put Lief's name in the first sentence. I found in my last reading that throughout these first several pages I didn't identify either him or the blonde that comes into the bar. I left out their names until a couple of pages in and saw that was a bad idea. If you don't identify your characters, your readers won't know who they are, and they may not give a flying crap and put down the book.
But watch what happens when I slap the name down, and the reader is a follower of the series there should be recondition.
Thus, it sounds like this...

The man with shoulder-length, dark blond hair and edgy smile sat motionless in in the shadows, in a wooden bar chair, waiting. No one had really noticed him, but then he had made sure that they would not. Wearing a black suit and silk shirt, his white silk tie almost glowed. Leif Sufferden knew was a tad over dressed for the rough-neck bar in Batavia where several fist fights broke out on a nightly bases, stabbings were not unheard of, either. The police had had the place shut down for various violations in the past. Only in the past week someone had been stabbed to death, right here. There had been shootings, too, of course. But, tonight, “Side Winders” happened to be open, and its customers couldn't be happier, unless they were high on something other than liquor and weed.

Now that we know Leif is here in this seedy bar, one must wonder why, since he's all dressed up. The second paragraph gives a little clue:

A smile crimped Leif's lips while he watched the blond woman strut in from the street on four-inch heals into the dank bar. They were blue to match her eyes, not that anyone would notice this little detail, but he did. Their eyes met. He slid his eyes in the direction of the pool table closest to him. She gave him a small nod. Her smile broadened to reveal white teeth. Her fangs hadn't come out as yet. She always did have great control over this one thing. It was one of the things Leif admired about Darla. Her control.

When Darla is introduced, the clue she's a vampire is the line "Her fangs hadn't come out as yet."

Okay. If the reader hadn't known Darla was a vampire, it's clear now. This is where the reader is saying, "Okay, what's she up to?" and wants to read on. There is only slight tension, here. 

But that's when I do this...

All male eyes in the room were zeroed in on Darla like lasers on drones. Who could blame them? Wearing a halter top and the shortest possible micro-mini, her heavily made-up eyes darted across the faces of four men who were playing pool. Conversation around the pool table had come to a halt. She had suddenly become the one and only highlight in their uneventful evening. She boldly eyed them right back. They noted she was by herself. A lone woman who walks into a bar—especially one of this ilk—was just asking for trouble. On top of it, she looked like a hooker. No matter what, it looked like their luck had changed quickly as she twitched her way toward them, her movements more pronounced. Looking hungry, her eyes became more cat-like as she licked her lips, like she might take a big hunk out of one of them.

She stepped around their stilled bulks, wiggled her small ass with exaggeration, smiling and making eye contact with each one as she strutted by, sliding the fingers of one hand across the bumper of the table. Pausing next to the biggest one, she looked him up and down. He had the usual biker tats—a lot of skulls and spiders—and a skull logo displayed on his clothing. His hang-over beer-gut gave the impression he did more drinking than anything else. An ugly scar down the left cheek that interrupted the two-week old beard sprouting around his chin and jawline told the story of a guy who had seen a bar fight up close and personal.

“Hullo,” she purred, licking her lips. “How's the game?”

“Oh, fine,” the large man said and the others pumped their heads and chimed in agreement. “In fact, I think it just got better.” He and the others rumbled with agreeing chuckles.

“Mind if I join you?” she asked, her hand sliding up his sausage sized fingers.

“Not at all,” the large one said, motioning toward the table. “Here, you can use my cue stick.” He held it out to her, showing his more gentlemanly side, a wide grin to sell it.

“Thank you.” She took the cue stick from him, holding his gaze for a long ten seconds. She fingered the tip with a red lacquered nail and returned his gaze. “I know just what to do with it, too.”

The men all chuckled as though they were in on the joke.

She propped her ass onto the bumper portion of the pool table, and settled the larger end of the cue stick between her parted legs. The men leered and chuckled at her act.

“Hey! No sitting on the pool table!” the owner cried from the back of the bar.

“Aw, shut the fuck up, Hank. We're just havin' a little fun here!” shouted the large man. He looked down at the blonde, almost expectantly.

She wiggled a finger in the universal “come closer” signal. He did.

“What's your name?” she asked.

“Stan,” he said. “Stan Baker.”

“Hello, Stan Baker,” she said. “Let's get to know one another.” Putting the cue stick down, she spread her legs further apart.

“Okay, pretty little girl,” he said, moving in front of her, but not yet touching her, while the others looked on, making groaning noises, wishing they were in his spot.

“You want me?” she asked.

Stan let out a bark of laughter. “Does a bear shit in the woods?” The men laughed. By now some of the men at the bar had turned around to watch the scene.

“Come here. Kiss me,” she said, leaning forward. She puckered up her rubied lips.

“Alright.” The other men made sounds of encouragement as their large companion placed his hips between her knees. His large hands went around her small waist as he nudged himself between her thighs. Her legs wrapped around his large girth while her hands went up his chest. Her fingers twined behind his neck. She didn't flinch from his bad breath, or his over-powering body odor, but allowed him to bring her in for a kiss. His buddies made noises again, nudging one another. They didn't notice Leif had risen from his chair in the far corner. Arms folded, he watched with passive interest while the man pressed Darla onto the pool table. The kiss lasted for more than ten seconds.

The tension has gone up a notch or two here. Who's in trouble here? Darla? Or the biker guy? Who do you think? Also note I used words that sort of make for the scene, like ass, leer, tip, I have Darla put the cue stick between her legs--yeah. No mercy here, I'm pulling in the reader. What do you think is going to happen next?

When we read the next paragraph, consider this first line:

Three vampires stepped into the bar, and scanned the room until their eyes met Leif's.

Now, maybe another writer would think that should be the opening line of this book. No. It shouldn't. Even if I went and put that in and then place everything else afterward, it would sound too trite, too much like one of those bad jokes--a rabbi walked into a bar.

Timing is everything when you put down the words to your first chapter. Here is Wendig's words: 

2. FASHIONABLY LATE TO THE PARTY

Bring the reader to the story as late you possibly can — we’re talking just before the flight leaves, just before the doors to the club are about to close, just before the shit’s gonna go down. Tension. Escalation. Right to the edge of understanding — no time to think, no time to worry, no time to ponder whether she wants to ride this ride or get off and go get a smoothie because too late, you’re mentally buckled in, motherfucker. The first chapter is the beginning of the book but it’s not the beginning of the whole story. (This is why origin stories are often the weakest iterations of the superhero tale.)

You don't want your readers to get bored, but you don't want them scratching their heads asking what the fuck? While you do want to lead with a mystery, don't make it so mysterious, or so frustrating to understand that the reader puts it down and goes to the next book on the shelf. In these first few paragraphs, and maybe the first page, I've given the reader enough information to go by. The where, what, who, and eventually the why.

Also, I'm not one to do too much backstory and I don't like books that start out that way. That gets boring. It's why, with my series, I gave the story of how Sabrina came to be the sibyl, in the first book Ascension. I didn't want do it in backstory just so that I can plop the reader down into some big exciting moment, or have her in the middle of trying to get out of a scrape. Some books can do this, and get a way with it, but not in the very first book. Sabrina does get into a bad scrape, and it gets worse before it gets better, but it doesn't come before we learn who she is, why she's there and who she's meeting. I do as he suggested: "Give us a reason to care about that stuff before you start droning on and on about it."

I'm going to skip ahead to number 16:

16. A FINE BALANCE BETWEEN CONFUSION, MYSTERY, AND ILLUMINATION

It’s a tightrope walk, that first chapter. You want the reader drawn in by mystery but not eaten by the grue of confusion, and so you illuminate a little bit as you go — a flashlight beam on the wall or along the ground, just enough to keep them walking forward and not impaling themselves on a stalagmite.

Oh, what a line--"just enough to keep them walking forward and not impaling themselves on a stalagmite".

Now to continue...

Three vampires stepped into the bar, and scanned the room until their eyes met Leif's. He nodded at them, and slid his gaze to where Darla was in a romantic tryst with the large man. The only female in the group cast her light brown eyes to the biker and Darla, then back to Leif. Her name was Kadu Litore, a Jamaican-American. Leif thought she had been one of his better turns. She definitely enjoyed the hunt, now that they were free to hunt humans. She smiled brilliantly, and already her fangs were out. She licked her lush lips in anticipation. Her slightly dusky chocolate skin looked as though it were oiled. Her bare arms and legs didn't agree with the cold weather outside. One would think it was a ninety degree day, but it was only in the twenties with a bitter north wind. That alone should have tipped anyone off what was going on here. But it didn't. Every human was into the game on the telly, their drink, or looking at the scene at the pool table, unaware that they had been invaded by vampires.

Leif watched Kadu, the only other female vampire, approach the bar. The other two, males, waited for a signal from Leif. Licking their lips as they sized up the rest of the crowd. Their eyes had slid to the bar where the only other women sat drinking.

Four more vampires strode in. They each acknowledged Leif with a slight bow. His hand out, Leif gestured with a finger for them to mingle with the crowd in the bar, to choose their warm meals. A crowded bar was something like a smörgåsbord for a vampire. Human's warm blood scent on the air made them lick their lips in anticipation.

Smiling, Leif turned back to check the progress of Darla with the large biker. Suddenly, the biker jerked back from her. Hand going to his face the biker said, “You bit me?” He looked at his hand. There was blood on his face where he'd smeared it.

She chuckled and nodded.

The men around them jeered.

“Oh, so you like it rough, do you?” he said more gruffly.

“Yes. And you had better like it, too,” she said with a little playful snarl, her delicate nose crinkling.

“Oh, I do, darlin'. I do,” he said. His hand went back as if to strike her. It swung down toward her face. In a lightning move, Darla caught his large fist and held it. His eyes became big with surprise that the petite blond could hold him off so easily. Startled, the other men around them shifted, exchanging looks with one another.

In a lightning move, she grabbed his hair and yanked his face toward her, smashing his lips against hers. The biker braced himself against the table with both massive hands from the sudden move, but relaxed into it. His sounds of delight suddenly turned to screams. Dark blood rivered from their lips while Darla held the biker's mouth against hers, both hands behind his head, with a grip like a python's. His hands clawed and grasped her hair and pulled, doing everything to disentangle himself from her. He lifted his and her body off the table, trying to free himself, trying to get the scream past their locked lips. She didn't budge, she didn't give an inch.

Leif felt his smile widen and a chuckle bubble up. “Kitten,” he said quietly to himself. “You are so bad.”

The three companions moved in, about to intervene. Seeing this, Leif shot across the room so fast, he seemed to disappear and reappeared in front of the three with a cue stick braced across his hands pushing them back.

“Tut-tut, gentlemen. The lady is busy at the moment. You can wait your turn,” Leif said with a British accent and cocky smile creasing his handsome face.

The man with long greasy hair, lunged toward him. Lief threw a punch to his face, knocking him back where he fell to the floor. He didn't move again.

“Like I said, wait your turn,” Lief said, with more warning in his voice. He held the other two men in his thrall. They now had no desire to move or do anything. Over his shoulder he said, “C'mon, Darla, luv. We need to party. Let the poor bloke go.”

His muzzle freed, the biker's screams filled the room. People turned to see what the commotion was all about. Suddenly the blond woman, Darla, pushed the man off her with a force that sent him blundering back, arms cartwheeling. Blood bubbling out of his mouth, he bounced off the wall, and fell to the floor, sobbing and uttering incoherently as though he had no tongue.

The woman sat up, and spat a large red piece of meat out of her bloody mouth. She licked her lips, then took a finger and wiped around her mouth to swipe at the blood. She stuck her finger into her mouth and sucked the blood from it. Flopping onto her side she looked down at the biker and said, “What's the matter? Vampire got your tongue?”

Now, at this point I've managed to ick you out a little, but the trouble has definitely begun. Have I gotten your attention? Are you wondering what happens next?

 “Everyone,” Leif called out, “feed!”

Kadu turned to the man at the pin ball table, grabbed him by the collar, and yanked him backward. Fangs extended, she sunk them into his neck from behind. His surprised scream became one of submission. His knees buckled, and he sank to the floor where she followed him.

The two male vampires at the bar had already put thralls on the women, and now began to feed.

Leif shoved one of the two men left standing toward Darla. She grabbed him and hauled him down on the pool table, arching his back until his throat was exposed. She burried her fangs in his throat.

Leif growled at the last man near by, he grabbed his arm and drew it up to his mouth. Fangs sank into warm flesh. Crimson ichor pooled into his open mouth, and only now he realized how hungry he was.

The man's arm was suddenly yanked away from his mouth. Leif jerked back and found himself looking up at a tall Native American wearing jeans and a blue jean shirt with a southwest design embroidered into it.

“I don't think you asked if you could take his blood and I'm pretty sure he would have said no,” the Indian said.

“You? You're—”

“Dead? Try Undead.” Dante grabbed a cue stick from the table and twirled it like a propeller before Leif could make his move.

~*~

At this point I end the third person POV. I don't like mixing up the POV in the same chapter, unless I've put a small pause. I was thinking of going with a new chapter. I may still. I haven't decided if a full break would get people to turn the page, or if a soft stop here is better.

If I've time I might work a few more of Wendig's 25 Things To Know. But I'm thinking of going ahead and end the first chapter right there. I think the cliffhanger works to bring the reader to want to read on.
If you have an opinion, I'd love to hear it--on anything here.

The Voice

"Well, when are you going to put this down?" he asked.
"I'm trying to sleep, damn it! Go away," I said.
"But this is brilliant stuff! Listen! I've got a '57 Mustang, and I was turned into a vampire in 1974--or you can change it within a few years. I'm working on who my neighbor is... get this, my neighbor lady is a psychic! She's hounding me, and doesn't know I'm a vampire, yet, but she'll learn it sooner or later and that will eff everything up for me--"

"WAIT A MINUTE!" I shout to this voice. "I don't have a pen or paper on me... I want to get some sleep here."

"...and then she comes to my door pretending to 'borrow' something. Or maybe she has a piece of my mail that somehow got into her box... something like that. You have to throw us together. It will be great!"

Okay. It's me again--without the voice. You go through this as a writer. A new character, a new idea a new whole story comes to you in the middle of the night--in the middle of EVERYTHING you're doing and interrupts the flow. Damn it! GO AWAY!

I'm in the middle of final go-through of the 4th book, and have another book--the only other one I plan on writing this year, and here we go again....

This character's name has been haunting me ever since I saw it somewhere: Peter Warlock. I don't know if I'll keep the first name. If it's someone famous, I don't know where I saw it. But over the past 3 or 4 months I was wondering what sort of character/person he was. Was he a magical person? Did his name fit him? Or was I going to go with something else? Then, a few weeks ago, The Voice came to me out of the blue. He began yammering his whole deal--and it was worse than that. It was the story in his voice. Did I get it down? I don't know if I did it justice, but I tried. Mr. Warlock isn't a warlock at all. Well, here, in his own words is how he puts it....
From Peter Warlock, Private Eye

My name is Peter Warlock, PI. I investigate anything. I've even investigated paranormal happenings when things were slow. Once did a ghost invasion, and that was pretty wild. It was a poltergeist. Nasty fucker, but you know, I got him to leave. You never know what sort of strange situations I get into.

Same thing with my name. With a last name like mine, you'd think I was a wizard, or at least dabbled in the art of witchcraft, or wicca. Nope. But I like how it keeps people guessing, and helps keep them from inferring that I'm really a vampire. No one else, except a few close friends know what I am. That's because they're vampires too. The rest of the humans have no clue. By the way, I get my blood from the hospital. Got friends in low places, if you get my meaning. He's a vampire too, which makes things really easy for me to get information when something comes in and I need to check it out. Like a rogue vampire out of control, and one of his vics come in on a gurney, that sort of thing. It's up to me to find the stupid fuck and either put him straight or take him out. One way or the other I always do my job.

Why is it that vampires portrayed on TV or in the movies have cool, ultra modern digs? Me, I've got a small one bedroom, utilities included and I'm a bit behind on my rent. I keep ducking my landlady because I'm perpetually a bit behind on rent, and have to wait until I get a client—and they pay me. Yeah, I'm not one of those rich bastard vampires who've been around a few hundred years who manage to somehow accumulate wealth (most likely steal it from those they've attacked). I'm an honest vampire, trying to make a living—and not get caught at it.

Anyway, I've changed my locks on my door so that my landlady doesn't barge in here demanding pay, or try and evict me. I really don't want her to storm in on me while I'm sleeping—during the day. Yeah, that would pretty much freak her out if she catches me in bed because I sleep in the raw, no blankets or sheets, either. I don't think she'd want to see that. Well, maybe she would, but I'm nothing to write home about. I'm medium build and height, brown hair and eyes, and I could pass for good-looking, but I wouldn't go as far as saying I'm handsome.

Wait. That's my phone. I'd better see who it is... it might be important.

Okay, that's about all I've got so far. At this juncture, I know things will change. As to when I get to write about Mr. Warlock, I have no idea. Got my fingers busy at the moment.

How many times does this, or has this happened to you? New character/ a voice comes to you and you haven't got time to write about it?

No Inert Writing, Please

Last week I read a few of the Insecure Writers posts and one blogger asked the question: "How do you know what good writing is?" (paraphrasing, probably, so forgive)

My answer was quite simply I write what I like to read. Or, rather: I write what I would like to read. There aren't that many authors out there that please me. I do not like boring books. Well, who does. But what I mean is, I don't like boring plots. I have to be fooled at the end, even if I think I know what's going on, or who done it, you'd better by golly pull the wool over my eyes in some way, shape or form.

My other mainstay is: Have fun while writing. 
Yes. Otherwise what is the point of it all? If I'm not having fun, if my characters are boring me to death--I chuck it. If my characters don't pop off the page--same thing. Something is wrong. Each one of your characters have to not only look different, they should talk different. They shouldn't always get along with everyone, either. Maybe some little thing they do bothers the other character (a partner), so, you need to mention that. It doesn't have to go into great detail. A line here or there will do.

Case in point, in my current WIP, Dhampir Legacy, My detectives are different as bananas and oranges. Vince Tobin isn't absolutely straight lace, but deep down he's a cop. His hero is John Wayne. He has quit smoking, and yet holds on to his Zippo lighter and he likes to snap it open and shut every now and then. Another nervous habit is snapping his fingers.

Meet Detective Jan Vladislav. Romanian/Gypsy. The serious end of the spectrum. He doesn't smile a lot. Doesn't joke around much, he's hard to get to know, and even harder to understand. He is Tobin's partner, but they get along because Jan has uncanny ways of knowing where a crook is and what he is doing. He does have sixth sense and it spooks most people, but his abilities have saved Tobin more times than not. So, they get along.

Now, for the more crazier side of the spectrum of characters there's Phil Green and Dr. Herb Rubin. Phil has left his hometown to get away from his past, he was dumped by his former girlfriend at the time, but more importantly, he was attacked in his church by a vampire who killed a deacon right in front of his eyes. But he returns to Lockwood because things are happening again. People are being abducted, his church was burned down, and he knows, or suspects, who is behind it. He wants to know the identity of the master vampire, and go after him, and his minions. Now that he's become wise in the ways of dispatching vampires over the last 20 years.

Dr. Herb Rubin, retired from vampire slaying, has taught Phil everything he knows about vampire slaying, and knows a lot more about the lore than you can poke a stick at. Phil has called him to Lockwood to help him out.

Here is a scene between these two who get along somewhat like an old married couple. It's a humorous addition to a book that would get overly serious if I didn't add something to lighten it up. Phil and Herb do just that.

Herb has been called and he knocks on Phil's hotel room door:

It was after six when the knock came to his hotel room door. A square of pizza balanced on thick fingers, Phil got up from the bed, and went to the door. He peered out the peek hole. The grizzled bearded man standing there looked out of sorts and impatient.

Phil opened the door to Dr. Herb Ruben.

“Hi, you just get in?” Phil asked, taking two strides back to allow him room to come in. The short, portly man limped in, a cane in one hand and a large carrying case in the other.

“Yes. Someone helped me get my luggage to my room. I'm downstairs.” He gave Phil an up and down look. “I see you've dressed down in my honor?”

Phil stood in a T-shirt and black silk briefs.

“Oh, yeah.” Phil shut the door, gripped the pizza wedge by the teeth, and grabbed his jeans off the chair. He hopped around, putting them on. “I didn't know when to expect you,” he said, after taking a bite out of the pizza.

“And do you usually open the door in your underwear?” Rubin asked, the sound of the football game surged, nearly drowning out his words. “Does that have to be on?” Herb shouted, pointing at the TV.

Phil quickly grabbed the remote and turned the TV off. “It's off now.”

Herb turned away, shuffled toward the bed and set the cat case down.

“What's rattled your cage today?” Phil asked, bending down and looking into the cage. He poked his finger into the dark hole and was rewarded with a cat's claw slicing his fingers. He yanked his fingers out. Examining them, he found blood beading on his middle finger, and put it to his mouth. “I expected you earlier.”

“I got a speeding ticking, if you must know,” Ruben growled.

Phil chuckled and sat on the bed, ate the last of the pizza in his hands and sucked at the sauce on his fingers.

“Not funny, chum. That's why I'm late. One hundred bucks—you'd think these guys would have something better to do than prey on law abiding citizens,” he grumbled, his face still ruddy, and the contrast against his white hair and beard was startling. He looked like a disgruntled Santa at the moment. His normal color was returning gradually to a lighter pink.

“Uh, law abiding?” Phil flopped back on his bed and leaned back into a pile of pillows to prop up his back, and crossed one leg over the other—exactly where he had been before the knock. He grabbed another piece of pizza from the box and took a huge bite. “You were speeding, weren't you?” he said through a mouthful. “Pizza?” He gestured.

Herb grimaced. “No. Thanks.”

“Why didn't you call me from your room?” Phil asked.

“I thought it best to come directly to your room, since they put me on the first floor and you're on this floor.”

“And you brought your furry little friend with?” Phil glanced at the cat carry-all. The striped gray feline was twenty pounds of nasty cat. He could give “Grumpy Cat” a run for his money. They say that a person's pet matches him—this was proof positive.

“I ordered a pizza.” Phil said, pointing to the pizza box. The pizza was half gone all the corner pieces left, of course.

“Looks like you've enjoyed your two-thirds.” Herb grimaced. “I need to watch my cholesterol. Besides, this barely passes as food,” he added.

“This has every major food group!” Phil retaliated. “Look, you've got your bread—right? Cheese, which is your dairy. Then your vegetables, like onions, peppers, artichokes—”

“Artichokes? Who puts artichokes on pizza?” Herb argued.

“I do! They're great! And there's tomatoes in the sauce, of course.

“Tomatoes aren't a vegetable.”

“What? They aren't?”

“No. Tomatoes are a fruit. They grow on a vine.”

“Well, see? I've got fruit on my pizza too. Plus all kinds of protein from meat and cheese. Unless you've gone vegan on me, this is a great pizza!”

“What sort of meats?”

“Pepperoni—” Herb grimaced. “Ham, Italian sausage, bacon. And four cheeses, carefully blended.” Phil took a bite of the pizza. “Mmm! God! You've gotta try a piece.” He leaned over the pizza box. He pointed to a middle piece. “Here. Take that one. It's loaded. Take a bite.” He picked up a large middle piece.

“It has pepperoni. I don't like pepperoni. I'll have flatulence if I eat that.”

“Live dangerously for once. Whatever. Here.” Phil plucked the round of pepperoni off and then passed it to him. “Now you won't have flagulance, er whatever.”

“Flatulence. That's intestinal gas,” Herb said, taking the offered piece and bit into it. Chewed. His head bobbed a little, conceding that this might be good after all. Phil's smile deepened under the bushy mustache.

“Good, huh?” Phil said, smiling his goofy closed-lip grin.

“It's fine. What do you have to drink around here?” He looked around as if he'd find a bar in the corner.

“I've got pop.” He held up his can of soda. “You want one?”

“Gosh, no. I'm trying to quit.” He gave him an exasperated hiss, waddled to the chair and dropped into it with another gush. “So, you've found a nest of vampires, did you?” He took another bite of pizza and glared at him through his thick glasses.

Phil leaned over, still holding a wedge of pizza in one hand, and reached to the other side of the bed. He grabbed the folded up newspaper and flung it to Herb who caught it against his paunch. He unfolded it with one hand and began reading.

“St. John's Church burnt down, too,” Phil said.

“Shhh!” Herb said, waving him off while reading.

Phil turned his attention to the game. “Aw! C'mon, Cutler. You can do better than that!”

After five minutes Herb said, “You said something about last night you found one?”

“Yeah. History. Dusted.”

~*~
Well, you get the idea. These two seem to rub each other the wrong way, but they get along because they're on the same side. They are vampire slayers.

The whole idea about "good writing" isn't just the mechanics. Mechanics can be fixed. That's just one ingredient in your writing. In order to bring it all together the work has to bring in characters who shine, who sometimes disagree--in some cases like these two, but it's humorous. I don't like to read books that are so stiff I yawn and have to put it down. I just read a police procedural that nearly had me putting it down, except the author made me care about the characters. It was a long book and it was more of a "man writing for men" type of writing, but I weathered through it. Had a lot of police jargon I could note down for my own work, that was the one reason I read it.

So, if you are writing along and wonder "What can I do to make my characters more interesting?" you want to see if you have made them get along too well. If so make your characters disagree on things. Have them get into an argument here or there. Not always, because that gets a little much, too--unless they are enemies, of course. Don't miss the opportunity to give them an opinion that might not agree with others. Give them annoying habits--they chew their nails, bite their lip, twirl their hair--this gives them personality traits and also the reader can "see" this happening. It makes your character pop a little.

Okay, that's my wrap up for this Sunday. Hope you're all dealing with the winter well, where ever you are. I'm sick of it, myself.

WORDS & PHRASES, and WIP

Oh. It's Sunday already?

Time flies when your... uh... back to work.

Hey, everyone! I'm trying to get into a posting schedule here. I thought I would make Sunday the day to post here at the Journal. This is where I spew things about writing, and about my WIP. When I first started this it was merely an exercise in yammering about writing. And then people came and began to follow. I even get a comment or two, which is great, and I thank you so much for stopping by in your busy day.

Hey, do you do this? I often write down words, phrases (or a whole sentence) into a spiral notebook from books that I read. I might like the way the author phrased something. It might be something that helps me down the road when I come to some point in my writing where I need something that describes a feeling, or some physical act. I can't tell you how many notebooks I have on this. Some are rather small, and I have a ringed binder or two that I might pull out from time to time to help my tired (scatter-brained) mind to jostle it into working.

Last night, I think it was before I went to bed, I had a line come to me, and I wrote it down so that it wouldn't loop around in my brain all night, and keep me up.

A stab of recognition jarred him.

Okay, that was nice. But I looked at it this morning and began changing it.

A jolt of recognition jarred him.

Or:

Sudden recognition jolted him.

I like to play around with a line because the meaning can change with the words, like these verbs above. The first line is fine, but the word jolt really defines it and placement in that last sentence helps to show that whoever is doing the recognizing, it's really blind-sided them.

Descriptions of Characters

When it comes to description it's good to have something handy to put down. Since I'm working on my detective's character and description in this story, I needed some handy phrases to consider. Is he granet-jawed? Yeah. That's a good one to have. My detective, Jan Vladislav has Gypsy blood and so his eyes are a little different. I also have the color rather extraordinary, since he's a dhampire. I mean he has to be special, otherwise he'd be boring. So, his eyes are tilted at an exotic Slavic angle. And he wears brown-tinted contacts because the color of his eyes are like a lions--gold. That would definitely put people off seeing golden eyes, wouldn't it? And as background, I wrote that his eyes began changing from hazel to whiskey by age 15.

Yesterday I decided to write up something that happened when he was 15, since I'd barely wrote of it in my original manuscript--and it came way too far back in the book. I wrote the scene (a flash-back), when his uncle explained to him the events before he was born and what it means. Since the book's title is now Dhampire Legacy, I had to bring in somewhere in the first 1/4 of the book what the word means, and that Jan is the off-spring of his father who was turned into a vampire--which was something he didn't know, so this revelations is jarring to him. His father, who became a vampire, went to his mother and had carnal relations with her, and that was how Jan came to be born. The word dhampire is Romanian, and it basically means exactly that, the off-spring of a vampire. It also means vampire slayer. He is someone who would recognize a vampire when he sees one, and is the only human strong enough to fight a vampire. At this point in Jan's life, he doesn't believe in all of this, but he's been schooled in the idea that it is possible, and his belief system is about to get a little shock, since he abandoned the Gypsy beliefs of his family. Also, his uncle had given him a tattoo that night that will help thwart a vampire's thrall--it's the equivalent of an evil-eye to a vampire.

I have gone back to add a few things to the beginning. I couldn't continue with the climax until I got all this other stuff down in the manuscript. I don't know. It was like seeing a picture on the wall askew and I had to go and fix it. So, I'm working through the beginning to add some description to some of the main characters. Today I think I'll try and work on Vince Tobin, the senior detective. Decided he's a John Wayne fan, and wears cowboy boots. He also has the habit of snapping his fingers, but the sound is more like a popping noise because his fingers are large and blunt-ended. He also gives people nick-names. Jan's is "Vlad". Once I decided on that, I could see him in my mind. The original had him slightly different, but not strong enough of a character, and so I'm working on his description.

I'm sure that everyone is different when it comes time to describe your characters, how you decide what they should look like, their foibles (strange behavior, particular to an individual), and other traits. With this book, since I'd written it many years ago, it needed a boost in some of these characters, so, that's something I need to address when I feel ready.

What do you do to figure out what your major characters will look like, act like, belief systems, etc.

Writing Alchemy - Resurrection of a Manuscript

Now I know what Victor Frankenstein felt like when he created his monster. Well... sort of.

My manuscript created in 1999-2002 "Vampire Legacy", was in a large box within an even larger bin, filled with my writings. I recall that it went well beyond manageable length.

Well over 800 pages.

WHAT!!!!??????

Yeah. I had way too many threads, too many characters, and the plot went all over the place. And I had the gall to try and interest an agent with it. When she responded to me, asking me to cut it down (in half), I was excited and went to work on it, and in a month I sent it back. She said I still didn't do it right. In the end, she rejected it, saying "Didn't you learn anything from the books I recommended?" (In other words, REJECTED)

Oh, well. Back to the drawing board...

It was shelved. For a long time, obviously.

In the meantime, I guess I learned how to plot and a few other things with my writing. You see, you have to learn how to write before you can get this shit straight. Plotting is something you need to understand before you can proceed.

"No one can teach you how to write." 

Someone somewhere said that. I think a couple of teachers. Maybe Gandhi, too.

Somewhere along the line I have figured it out, apparently, or I wouldn't have gotten a publisher (as small as he was), and my many nice reviews for Vampire Ascending, and Vampire's Trill.

So, last weekend I took out all of this manuscript, which was in more drafts than I can count. I spread it all out over a couch, a couple of tables and a few boxes, the floor, and sorted through it all trying to discover the workable parts and the not-so workable parts. Those I put off to the side. They are like mini stories, basically. I never throw out anything, if I can help it.

When I was finished, my lower back ached for days, but I had found the latest draft (because of the type-font/printing). But I kept the draft(s) before that on hand for anything I might have missed.

So, I began the typing up of the mss. in my computer. I began Chapter One using the scenes in Chapter Three. Because the original beginning was too boring. Really. It was terrible. Nothing happened, too much back-story, too much information dump--all of the no-no's I'd learned since then not to do. (God, I hope so!)

I was going along, replacing one scene for another, and then I got to my character Izora Crunch. She's a librarian. I kept vacillating as to whether or not I needed her. In my original she comes in handy, but fills two rolls, and when I came to this one spot where my second main character (Phil Green), goes to her about something, I said, "Hold on. She doesn't need to be the person in this scene." But she needed to come in to help my detectives earlier than I had her (which was way-way at the end), and I needed them to learn something very important, yet so mind-blowing that neither detective really wants to believe it--because it spells V-A-M-P-I-R-E. But Jan Vladislav, who is part Gypsy and Romanian, knows about such things, and there are things about his birth even he doesn't know about (yet).

So, when I say this is like being the creator, but taking something that already exists and making it into something new, and breathing life into it--I'm not pulling your leg. This is work. But a work of love. I absolutely love this story. If I didn't, I would have tossed it a long time ago. I merely need to cut out things that I don't need, and stitch in sections elsewhere (like that monster Frankenstein made--only this will be better, and prettier).

At this juncture, I can see what is wrong with this mss.--big and little things--and can fix. I am moving things around. I'm taking out certain character's POV because it gives away too much. I want the reader to discover the vampires along with my hero, Detective Vladislav--who, by the way has amber eyes, which he disguises with brown or blue contact lenses (I haven't decided which color, but since he's dark, maybe I should have him use brown--but his daughter's eyes are like her mothers, which are blue. And I love the contrast. But I digress). He also has a cool tattoo. And I've seen this tattoo on someone who is Romanian, and I am going to get a picture of his arm if it's the last thing I do! It's a crucifix, and there's a story behind it, and it relates to Dracula--I do not lie!

And as I went through this, and put Izora into this chapter with the detectives, I wondered where her description was. Oh... there it is, with Phil, my other vampire slayer.

This book's title was "Vampire Legacy", but since I've got a series with the word 'vampire' in the titles, I knew I needed to change this. This is where I asked myself: "What is the book was about?" Well, it's about a couple of vampire hunters--one by nature (he was born one), one by necessity.

Romanian belief is the background for the whole book. A dhampire  is someone who is born from a vampire-human mating. They have certain physical atributes that makes him stronger, more agile and more able to detect and fight a vampire. So, with this in mind, the new title is now Dhampire Legacy. It might be confusing to some people who have never seen this word, but believe me, once they get into the story, it will be explained.

So, I'm up to chapter seven or eight. I've found Mrs. Crunch's description and I'll be plopping that into the areas I need to, and re-writing this section of Phil Green's to include a priest, instead because he returns a large gold crucifix and tells his story of why he has it in the first place, and it belonged to a deacon whose neck was twisted horribly 20 years ago--and Phil actually saw the murder, but was too young and frightened to tell anyone about it.

Hmmm, since I'm not Catholic, anyone out there able to help me with a scene? Specifically with the confession scene? Let me know in the comments.

Who among you are doing this, or have gone back into an old manuscript and began to work on it?

Page 200

All writers have a goal to reach in their writing. They want to write X amount of words in a day--which would not work for me. Maybe just getting the first five chapters down is enough of a goal. And, of course there's the finished first draft.

For me it's in page numbers. I get to page 50--woohoo! Page 100 another chance to celebrate! Page 200--and with something like 69,215 words under my belt, that's another bit WOOHAA!

I follow a plot planner that shows me where the crisis point comes, and the "lull" (which doesn't mean lull in action, but it's sort of a time for the characters and reader to catch their breath and either figure things out or learn something they didn't know before, and more character developement, and maybe the dark moment could come here too. And possibly a sex scene thrown in for good measure. But I digress.

And then of course you begin the climb to the climax--not in the sex scene (that's a totally different matter entirely). This for me is usually at or around page 200. That's a signal for me to heat things up on my characters, make things happen, go wrong for no apparent reason and let the shit hit the fan.

When I've reached page 200 that tells me I've got to ratchet up the action, get people into their places on the stage. MY NOTES FOLLOW

SPOILER ALERT-! since this is #6 of the Sabrina Strong series:

My notes might look scrambled, but this is what I was fleshing out today:
Now I'm into chapter 24. A couple things need to happen.  First of all, or primarily I want to establish loss of a character. Sabrina knew Fritz, but not well. He was a nice guy (he had been injured on a vampire hunting jaunt, and in a coma for a few days). Why do nice people get killed? I don't know. It happens all the time. He/Fritz was going to college wanted to build/design cars. A very likeable person. But she has to feel Quist's loss--both as a human being, but as an empath as well, and it's tough on her.

But first this...
~A thought... what if Sabrina does see Bill (who is supposed to be dead-she saw him die)? Then what? If I keep him hidden the whole time up until the end, that's kind of stupid. I need a little friction. He doesn't want her to see him, but does, so what happens when she does?

It would create a moment of friction between the two:
Sabrina: shocked to see Bill alive and wonders why is he there at the towers?
Bill: horrified that she has seen him, and he can't hide his existence any more, because he's  supposed to be dead.

When I worked on these scenes I let each character work through their shock, think about it, but not too long before something else happens. For Sabrina she gets the call about Fritz having just died and she's going down to the hospital to console Quist, who was his best friend. I end the chapter right there.

Chapter 25
Bill has now reached a point where he's actually releived she's seen him. The questions she may have he is not able to answer even if she ever catches up to him, and so he tries to remain hidden, but he can't stay away from her because he is supposed to save her from some unknown horror predicted by the goddess Nemesis.

It's a good place for me to quit for the day. Let things tumble around in my head. I know what is to happen next because of other notes I've made, but this gives an idea of where I gauge when to begin working on the climb to climax.

And the ending to this one is going to be a real surprise and kicker. *smiling to myself* I'm so evil, and I know it.

When to Chuck it Out

I'm a Panster. And since I don't like outlining--to do so just wastes my time--the posibility that I will have to discard what I've written happens more than not on any WIP. You get so far and see where it's going and think Nah!

I was doing that in the 6th book WIP where I followed a scene till I realized I really didn't like it, or where it would wind up going. I could see I'd be following this secondary character way too much, and all I really wanted to do was to show his character since his "change".

As with any characters who have become part of Sabrina's story, I'm always trying to find some way of keeping it all fresh. Some characters who change either change for the good, or they've become evil/bad/dead. You need to kill a few of the evil ones off, but do so in a way that someone comes out the hero of the story, and the good ones, well, I need to bring them back because I think they could fulfil something in the plot that I need in a certain moment of drama--usually at the end.

So, when I got so far with this scene--which I thought was going well--I saw that it was going to involve that secondary character way too much, plus a tertiary character who was just introduced and I was beginning to not really like her, her life, and surroundings and knew I was never going to make her believable anyway...
So... delete,delete,delete.

But it's all good. If you get frustrated by the work you need to do, you need to ask yourself if you are up to the challenges of what it takes to actually make your WIP better. You may have to rip out whole chapters, and even characters from a WIP. You have to ask yourself the tough questions. I think I've been writing for so long, I know when that moment is, and without much thinking over it, I just get rid of it and start all over. They say you have to kill your darlings, and it's true. Sometimes they look somewhat like Frankenstein's monster when you're working on it. But when you get into the last drafts it should all come together as a whole and work--and no one sees the stitches!

So, I was wondering about this secondary character and how I wanted to make him different--not just another vampire--and where I wanted to go with him. It hit me this morning when I woke up. I knew what I had to do and got working on the concept. I had to do some research on Greek Mythology, and believe it or not found something that seemed as though it were made for what I needed. Since I'm so far ahead of my published work, I'm not going to say which character. I might start making people worry needlessly.

Until next time... keep on writing!