Laundry, My Writing Inspiration

Posted on 29. Jan, 2010 by Kate in Musings, Writing

Early Tuesday morning the power went out here for about an hour. My computer never regained consciousness. My miracle-working husband took it apart and reconnected it to his computer and recovered most of my files, but none of the children’s. Like my son’s iMovie History Fair project that was ready to be burned to a DVD for his presentation on Thursday. Did I mention I was due to go out of town to a conference with my husband on Wednesday morning?

It was a little crazy around here Tuesday night as my son and husband worked to reconsruct a project in a few hours that took two weeks to build. It helped that my son had scanned all his pictures onto my husband’s laptop and done the original voice recording of his narrative paper on the laptop as well. So he only had to search the web for all the remaining photos.

I had even had my son type his process paper on my account because I was too lazy to log out one night and told him just to hurry and type it. Sometimes my laziness pays off. Rarely, but sometimes.

So that, coupled with accompanying my husband to his conference, is why I’ve ignored my blog this week. I promise to do better next week.

But here’s the really great news! I started work on a new book while I was away. Talk about exciting. And I made a discovery. I am a romance writer who likes a dash of suspense to keep things interesting. There. I’ve said it. I was trying so hard to write a different genre this time around and I was frozen at the keyboard. I’ve brainstormed lists of story ideas that I couldn’t flesh out for a whole book until now. It came to me one day while hauling laundry downstairs. My favorite story idea needed some romance to get me going. And now I’m going. Yea!

81 Responses to “Laundry, My Writing Inspiration”

Kate

04. Feb, 2010

Much of my ID fell into your explanation category, killing the voice. The rest was like throwing raisins into a muffin mix as you say. I never had paragraph after paragraph just a confusing smattering of ID.

I’ve always been envious of authors who can pull off a long paragraph of ID like you did with Sariah without pulling the reader out of the story. I’ve been afraid to try that much. Afraid I would bore the reader. Not an unfounded fear with my current skills. I am learning. Thank you. You’ve already spent an immense amount of time tutoring me and I am very grateful.

Your edits brought more clarity to your first chapter. I especially liked:

“I know nothing of the sea.” Mima folded her arms. “And I keep none of the Captain’s prizes.”

“That’s not what the Capn’s prize tells me.” He worked the oars through the cresting waves. “Talks of you like his own flesh and blood, he does. Capn’ had me keep an eye on you all these years, he did. Says his prize wanted it that way.”

Reading the rest of your chapter now I know I’ve got to get to work on removing my speaker attributions. I have far too many. I thought paring them down to saids would be enough. It’s not. I need to strengthen the dialogue.
Moving forward

05. Feb, 2010

I’m not sure what you want out of the next SCENE WITHIN THE SCENE, but we are not about to enter a dialogue scene in your opening. Risky. Why? Because we don’t know very much about these characters. We don’t really care about them too much. It takes some seriously creative dialogue to engage a reader in, well, pure dialogue scenes in any opening. The only romantic dialouge in recent memory that worked in an opening was in Meet Joe Black, the morning cafe scene, right before poor Joe gets hit by a car. That was fun. Entertaining. And well done. But it also wasn’t THE OPENING. It was near the opening. By the time we got to the cafe, we’d already had the love interest’s father, the bazillionaire, have pain in his chest and hear voices about the possibility of him dying. So we’re drawn in. And then we end up at the cafe.

That said, let’s have a look at this dialogue scene. I’m not sure how much malice you want to create between these characters. Usually the undoing of a relationship is done so they can patch things up, OR so that the reader will begin to dislike HIM and cheer the woman on to another man. Something like that, so I’m asking forgiveness if I make any comments about your dialouge scene that is NOT IN SYNC with your plot, your story, or where you want these characters to go at the onset.

Dialouge scenes allow a deep view of the motiations, souls, morality, likeableness, of your characters. That’s another risk you take. Do you want to dump all that onto your reader before they even know these people?

Sorry, I’m digressing. Again. I’ve decided, without knowing, that the point of your dialogue is to build some tension between the actors, to show us that the relationship is headed for troubled waters. We assume they love each other, but now things are going badly and we, the readers, meet this pair as the storm is unfolding. Am I right here. Anyway, notice that the dialogue keeps portraying HIM as calloused, and her as disblieving. Is this really the man she wants to marry? She doesn’t say it, but the reader is going to be thinking it. And if you create that tension, BINGO, you don’t have to use any GUT WRENCHING lines to get that across. We’re already cheering for her to dump him, or at least reconsider his marriage proposal. Right? Here we go:

Please note that ALL THE INFORMATION you tried to dump into the dialouge about:

Where they live

Where they are employed

Where they used to live

What they’ll be doing this summer

Is all GONE. That’s right. Later, in another chapter you can do something like this.

Sean P. Seamore, Ph.D. candidate extroidaniare wasn’t nearly as humble about his studies as he was about his cooking. He reminded me many times that he was the only Boise High graduate to be named to the Governor’s list. He graduated top of his Harvard class, with honors he always added, and he was going to found the first geophysics to reach beneath the crust of the earth or die trying.

That’s called exposition. And you can get away with it later on in a chapter or two or three. But not in your opening. We don’t need to know everything about these people. In fact, we need to KNOW VERY LITTLE about their backstory. What we want in a good, strong opening, is what is going on right now. Then you can reveal some of the other stuff later IF, and ONLY IF, you decide it is important to the story. Otherwise you can just place Sean in his graduate studies or in a University Lab or even a lab coat, and Eva in her third grade class (or whatever it is) and let the reader discover that stuff out through the normal settings you select. YOU DON’T EVER HAVE TO EXPLAIN THAT SHE IS A TEACHER. If she’s teaching a class of third graders, then your readers will get it and that’s all they need to know. BUT IF TEACHING THE THIRD GRADE IS VERY< VERY< VERY important to your story, then you may need to throw in some exposition. But only if it is critical to your story.

“You went alone?” I stared at my fiancé. Why would he buy the China without me?

"It's perfect, Eva." Sean hung my new engagement-picture dress on the travel hook and slammed the tailgate. "You'll see."

The only thing I could see was a thirty-something bacelor living in an apartment waiting for Better Homes and Garden's to find it. He owned a Martha Stewart dining set, Rachael Ray cookware that matched his granite countertops and where did he get the idea for the kitchen color? What does a Ph.D. student in Physics need with Spanish Rose walls, back-lit glass cabinetry, a Roech bread mixer and a special order, double bowl, under mount sink? Buying new China without her was simply over-the-top.

"It would have been nice to help pick it out."

Sean jumped behind the wheel of his Escalade. "Are you coming?"

*Editor's note. Notice that I got rid of A LOT OF THE DIALOGUE. Mostly because it didn't serve your purpose, which, I'm assuming , is to build some awkwardness, if not down right regret, into this budding relationship. When Sean DOES NOT ANSWER HER QUESTION, it means he's ignoring her and DOES NOT WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT. And that, my dear, is the number one pet peve of woman about men. So if you want all your female readers out there to think THIS GUY IS A JERK, you simply show him moving on, without even broaching her question. Got it?

We drove out of the subdivision and onto I-15, headed for Idaho. “The speed limit's 45 through here."

Sean stepped on the gas.

"Honey?"

"You were late."

"Faculty meeting got out five minutes early."

Sean darted around a mini-van and veered back into the right lane without signalling.

"You nearly–"

"Did you confirm our reservations?"

* Editor's NOTE: Again: she's voicing her dislike of his China purchase, by questioning his driving. MEN HATE THAT. THEY DON'T LIKE TO ASK FOR DIRECTIONS and they REALLY DON'T LIKE HAVING A WOMAN QUESTION THEIR DRIVING DECISIONS. ANY OF THEM. And Sean is responding to her obvious annoyance be blaming HIS speeding on her PUNCTUALITY. Again, we're playing on some already established stereo types. Men detest being told how to drive. Women are always late and they're supposed to take care of the details of EVERYTHING.

“We can't afford this."

"I won't get a ticket."

"The China. We can't afford new China."

Sean glanced at me.

"The semi." I reached for the passenger grip rail as Sean skirted into the middle lane without slowing.

"You could at least look at it under a decent light before you go off."

I folded my arms.

"You're the one who's supposed to spend money. "You're a–

"I'm a saver. I know that."

"You're a woman."

Our weekend weeding-picture get-away to my parent's cabin wasn't going well. I held both hands in front of me as I spoke. "You're the doctor who likes to–"

"I'm a Ph.D. student."

"And I teach third graders. What does that have to do with buying China?"

"It's not blue." Sean reached for my hand. "I know you don't like blue."

"It isn't the blue I don't like." I dug into my purse for nothing in particular expect to keep both hands busy. "Its the blue patterns I don't like. It isn't a good color for patterns."

"Okay." Sean slowly nodded his head.

"We're going to have a wonderful time this weekend, right? You're going to do your research, I'll correct papers, and there will be plenty of time to talk about–

Sean's cell phone rang.

"Hello?"
error

05. Feb, 2010

In my first sentence of the post above I wrote:

I’m not sure what you want out of the next SCENE WITHIN THE SCENE, but we are NOT about to enter a dialogue scene in your opening.

The word NOT, should NOT have been in there. It should have read:

I’m not sure what you want out of the next SCENE WITHIN THE SCENE, but we are about to enter a dialogue scene in your opening.

Sorry about that NOT…
What happened?

05. Feb, 2010

Hey. All the posts have magically disappeared. I don’t see any of the fifty, except the most recent one. What happened? Am I lost in cyberspace. Ops.
never mind...

05. Feb, 2010

…I found the OLDER COMMENTS button. All is well in panicville.
And remember one important thing...

05. Feb, 2010

I really DO NOT know your story. You know it. If I knew your story like you know your story, I would be able to fashion the dialouge scene to create just the right tension, foreshadow the demise or repair of this relationship, and also introduce whatever important adventure or intrigue or storyline that SHOULD BE IN THIS DIALOGUE SCENE. But since I know NONE OF THAT, all I’ve done here is give you some ideas about how to use dialogue. Most of what I’ve done is show you:

How to use steretypes to good effect

How not to answer a question directly

How to answer a question with another question

How to ignore a comment or question

How to use actions to support your dialouge like speeding up, slowing down, sweerving around vehicles, that sort of thing.

What I haven’t done is:

Produce the proper tension between characters (because I don’t know what your aim is)

Foreshadow any of the important story elements.

Sound good. Just wanted you to know that I am ignorant. I’m not trying to re-write your story. Just instruct on dialogue. Maybe, in the some future life, I will know your story well enough to comment. Right now, I’m clueless.
Takin it to the bones...

05. Feb, 2010

I know that taking out SO MUCH WRITING can hurt. Paring things down to the bones is like giving away one of your children. But when you do this you:

1. Find the really good dialouge that was hidden among all the less-well written stuff.

2. Get rid of told emotions, backstory, and other junk that isn’t essential.

3. You begins to see where you can place important foreshadowing and story elements back into the scene.

Look at this as a remodel. You take down all the pictures, the accents, remove the furniture, the tables, the chairs, the flowers. Everything. You paint. You redo the carpets. You fix the electrical wiring. Add some new lights. And THEN:

You bring back each painting and accent and piece of furniture one by one, judging wither you should keep it or toss it. You essentially redecorate, but don’t bring back that picture with the terrible cool color in it that conflicts with the warm colors in your carpets. And you don’t bring back all twenty fake plants. That’s just too much repetition. One fake plant in the corner is fine, and maybe more leafy greens in the accent over the mantle is just right.

Know what I mean?
Another point...

05. Feb, 2010

…about getting rid of all that unnecessary backstory in your dialouge scene. The more you try to put in, the more your water down the really interesting exchange between these actors. Keep yourself focused on what is interesting in their exchange and don’t get caught up in all the backstory.

That’s what you helped me do with my opening chapter. See, I paired it way back, then brought essentials and foreshadowing back into the chapter. But there was a little confusion. And you helped me find one little piece that was essential. Why was it essential? Because though you want your dialogue scene focused, you also DO NOT WANT TO CONFUSE your readers. I missed that little bit of confusion. So I put it back when you sent up the red flag.

Remember this:

“And I never kept any of the Captain’s prizes.”

That lets the reader know that she’s disavowing any association with a man she does not know. It also makes the PRIZE a person, possibly, rather than a thing. The reader isn’t certain, so they read on to find out exactly what is this prize he’s talking about.

See how that works?
And still more commentary...

05. Feb, 2010

And you will remember that this reworking of your dialogue scene was first triggered by the idea of getting rid of TOLD EMOTIONS. You know, all that goofy gut wrenching, stomach churning. Actually, all of that made your scene into a caricature. When you’re having a little dispute with a loved one, you might get a little aggitated, but not gut wrenching agitated. Save that for when the earth is going to be bombarded by asteroids, or you see a baby falling from a fifth story apartment window. But buying China is gut wrenching? Proably not.

But I digress. My real point isn’t about caricatures. Its about told emotions. Notice that the tension is taken over by the speeding, the semi truck, the swerving around and gripping the grip rail. These are things that nearly ever reader will have experienced. So they will bring their own GUT WRENCHING to this scene and you’ve heightened the tension, not by what you’ve written, but by what your readers brings to the scene from their own experience. Its a lot more economical writing for you and it keeps your dialouge focused and sharp.

The other point you should be aware of is that this dialogue scene is building in emotion. Before, you had multiple possible boiling points. But you can’t do that. You have to have ONE DRAMATIC point. The tension is building and just when you think they make up and move on the phone rings. Another sure fire tension builder. What woman do you know enjoys being cut off in the middle of an important conversation…especially by a cell phone. We’re getting close to that boiling point now!
Kate

05. Feb, 2010

You wrote: Dialouge scenes allow a deep view of the motiations, souls, morality, likeableness, of your characters. That’s another risk you take. Do you want to dump all that onto your reader before they even know these people?

I never thought of it that way before. I’ll have to think on that.

You wrote: We assume they love each other, but now things are going badly and we, the readers, meet this pair as the storm is unfolding. Am I right here?

Right on.

Wow. Your rendering of my scene really brought all the tension to the surface. I like how you used the driving to focus the conflict. Or as you wrote: How to use actions to support your dialouge like speeding up, slowing down, swerving around vehicles, that sort of thing.

You wrote: She doesn’t say it, but the reader is going to be thinking it. And if you create that tension, BINGO, you don’t have to use any GUT WRENCHING lines to get that across. We’re already cheering for her to dump him, or at least reconsider his marriage proposal. Right?

That’s what I was going for. Previously I tried to incorporate three of your suggestions:

How not to answer a question directly
How to answer a question with another question
How to ignore a comment or question

Remember that editor? He/she was really annoyed by this. Granted I did it badly and there was an info dump instead of dialogue in one case, but I took out the oblique answers and put in more gut wrenching, ack! My work looks like hack writing and your scene gets the emotion across far better than I could have which is why I started writing in the first place. I wanted to learn how to make a reader feel a story because that’s what I love about reading a book. If I’d only known to correct my dialogue and action.

You wrote: the other point you should be aware of is that this dialogue scene is building in emotion. Before, you had multiple possible boiling points. But you can’t do that. You have to have ONE DRAMATIC point.

That’s a problem consistent throughout my entire manuscript. I’ve really got to work on one dramatic point per scene.

You wrote: Look at this as a remodel.

I actually enjoy remodeling. It’s always fun to see how you can use the frame in a different way and enhance it with some new accessories. Your suggestions and examples will help me get there. I don’t know how I had the good fortune to have you take pity on me, but I’m grateful all the same. Thank you, thank you.
Forget this comment...

05. Feb, 2010

Dialouge scenes allow a deep view of the motiations, souls, morality, likeableness, of your characters. That’s another risk you take. Do you want to dump all that onto your reader before they even know these people?

I forgot, we’re not writing a mystery (which requires some mystery up front) and we’re not writing an adventure (which requires some adventure up front), we’re writing a romance (which requires a relationship up front or at least one that is unwinding).

Just remember that when you’re writing dialogue the logic has to flow, even when they don’t answer the question. We could go into a big lecture about the logic of dialouge and what flows and what doesn’t. The best way to figure it out?

Let it sit for a while, long enough that you’ve pretty much forgotten the details of what was said. You know the jist of things, that these two are having a spat and the relationship is going south, but you’ve forgotten who said what and WHY they said it. That’s when you can go back in and read through it. Believe me. You’ll see very quickly where there are gaps in your logic of FLOW of the dialogue and your developing EAR FOR DIALOGUE will help you fix things. Trust me, your ear will get better and better at this and pretty soon you’ll be teaching me a few things about sprucing up the dialgue scenes.

Okay. Now I’m going to unload my first attempt at writing BOY mets GIRL romance. Actually, the chapter has three BOY MEETS GIRLS scenes back to back. Should I share them with you or not? These are my first attempts, so NO FAIR making fun. If you have any suggestions, let me know.
Now its my turn at this boy meets girl stuff...

06. Feb, 2010

Here are the first three of FOUR SCENES in this chapter. They’re all “first meetings”. This is NOT A ROMANCE NOVEL, but this is certainly a Romance Chapter with a lot of foreshadowing of the major plot lines and story included to keep that OTHER story alive and well for the reader. If you’d like the fourth scene let me know. Is there anything in this that is helpful to you? And…is there anything YOU notice that could help me?

Chapter Three

“For you.” The perfume pulled the cork on an alabaster bottle and held it under Hannah’s nose. “The most perfect sent for the bath of the eldest daughter of the wealthy vineyard master.”

Lemon oil. What terrible luck. Hannah pushed the ornately carved silver bottle aside. Must the perfume merchant insist on filling his finest bottles with the most expensive aromas? “I’m the second daughter.”

“All the more reason to add this to your collection.”

“My father hears you say that and he’ll not allow another purchase. Ever. I don’t collect perfumes. What I buy here I put to good use.”

“Of course you do, my lovely. Every bottle.”

“A few are for show, but mostly what I buy is for the scent.”

“Certainly, my dear spring rose. Enough scents for seven baths a day.”

“One very well-scented bath.”

“Ishmael’s youngest should be pampered most.”

“I’m not the youngest of the four sisters.”

“Think of the perfumes I could sell.”

“They’re not like me.”

“Every woman enjoys a fine perfume.” The merchant daubed a drop of lemon oil on her wrist. “And the most beautiful is worthy of the finest.”

Hannah worked the scent into her skin. She could afford the lemon oil, but Father was certain to frown on her spending anymore of his money on an expensive fragrance when a cheaper scent would do. Before leaving Beit Zayit this morning Ishmael reminded her, not less than three times, of Solomon’s prudence—what use was wealth in the hand of a fool? The proverb haunted her shopping. In all of the ancient king’s wisdom, was there no room for an aromatic extravagance? Just one more?

“You buy now, yes?” The perfume merchant waved the bottle in front of her.

“I was thinking of something slightly less fragrant today.”

“This you will thank me for when it mixes with the steams of a warm bath.” He moved to the shelf stocked with round brass containers polished to a bright luster. The scent wasn’t remotely inexpensive.

Hannah shook her head. “Something new.”

“A shipment of jasmine comes from Arabia any day. I hold a bottle for you, yes?”

“Something light.”

“I haven’t any empty bottles.”

“Something like rose petal water.”

“Something cheap you want?”

“Reasonable.”

Must he look at her in such an unforgiving way? There was no disgrace in wearing rose petal water from time to time. Not on a feast day, and certainly not to entertain guest. A daily daub on the wrist wouldn’t overpower Papa’s practical sensibilities. Surely the perfume merchant had rose petal water. This may be Jerusalem’s finest perfumery, but certainly he stocked more reasonably priced aromas of a local pedigree among the many perfumes of a distant trade.

“You deserve better.” The perfume merchant reached onto the center shelf for the bottle bearing the image of a hand-painted frankincense blossom with its fragrant amber fruit decorating the trim. The spirited aromatic mixed with mint and a high grade of olive oil would make an elegant addition to her perfumes, but what would Papa say?
“This is very light and very fresh.”

“And very expensive.”

Hannah found a plain clay bottle of rose petal water on the bottom shelf behind a stack of incense bowls and walked it over to the smelling table. Two chairs sat at opposite ends and Hannah chose the one facing the shop entrance. She fitted herself into the angle of the backrest as the door opened and an Egyptian entered the shop with a blue traveler’s robe pulled taut across his wide shoulders. He was a curious customer in a shop frequented by women, but he possessed a comfortable fascination for the jewels in this house of aromatic gems, walking the aisles and selecting, at the perfume merchant’s suggestion, the very frankincense and olive oil perfume Hannah had denied herself.

The Egyptian merchant sat opposite Hannah. The hint of a beard followed the line of his straight jaw and when he removed his white silken turban, long, dark locks fell down over his brow and played at his shoulders like a good Jew. Silver threaded cuffs accented the gold ring on his finger bearing the letter M. She knew the monogram. It was for the House of Manti—the largest trading house in Egypt if not the entire world. Father supplied them with large shipments of olive oil, but the bartering was always conducted by an older merchant.

He nodded to her down the length of the table at the very moment she nodded to him. When she uncorked her rose petal water he popped the cork on his perfumed oils. Hannah sniffed the scent of her perfume as he sniffed his. She swirled her bottle and he swirled his, Hannah to the left and he to his right, before lifting them to the nose like wine merchants divining the worth of finely aged spirits. Hannah daubed her wrist and when she stole a glance across the table, the Egyptian was doing precisely the same thing with his perfume. Mercy. Did he catch her watching him? Or was he watching her? She daubed. He daubed. He rubbed. She rubbed. They sniffed at their wrists with an identical sniff so unnerving she returned her bottle to the table precisely together with his, the sound of their bottles striking the wood planks in a single audible tap.

The stranger said, “Would you like to sample my perfume?”

“I couldn’t.”

“I’m offering.” He reached across the table and daubed a single drop into her palm. His hands were strong, but not rough like the hands of Lemuel after he rode the trade route between Jerusalem and the Nile. Not that she was comparing. Not in the least. Lemuel was, well…

“Very nice.” Hannah quickly pulled her hands back from touching his to avoid the slightest public indiscretion. “The perfume is nice. That’s all I meant. Very nice.”

“You don’t approve.”

“It’s wonderful. Really, it is.”

“I know when a woman isn’t impressed.”

“It is a rather expensive scent.”

“You Jews have a proverb for that. What good is wealth in the hands of a–

“Not you too?”

“I read minds,” he said in answer to her quizzical stare and pressed the perfume bottle to his brow. “You’re wondering why an Egyptian would quote Solomon.”

“I was wondering why you quoted my father.”

“What you really want to know is why a man like me frequents a perfume shop.”

“It did cross my mind, yes.”

“Eve would have expected no less.”

“They didn’t have perfumes back then.”

“Wasn’t Eden the first perfumery? Fragrant blossoms? Scented fruits? Peppermint? Spearmint? Every pungent herb imaginable? Adam had everything he needed to mix fine perfumes for Eve.” He tipped the bottle towards her. “Something like this.”

Hannah smiled.

“You find me boring?”

She tried to hide her smile.

“Tedius? Overbearing? Perhaps ridiculous?”

“Amusing.”

“The amusing part is that your Hebrew prophets failed to record that Adam provided the finest perfumes for Eve.”

“I never pictured it that way.”

“It’s only reasonable.” He prodded the air with the lip of his perfume bottle. “If not for Eve there would be no marriage.” He lowered the bottle to the table with an authoritative tap. “And if not for marriage, there would be no perfumed oils.”

“None?”

“Not a single aromatic.” He shook his head. “A woman tolerates a man’s failings, loves him despite his flaws, and endures the pain of bearing his children.”

“And the perfume?”

“It’s the least a man could do for that kind of devotion.”

“I’ve never met an Egyptian so–”

“So outspoken?”

“Conversant in things of the Jews.”

“It was Adam’s rib that made all the difference.”

“Didn’t you say it was the perfume?”

“God took a rib from Adam’s side.” He leaned forward over the table. “And with it He created Eve.”

Hannah slowly nodded. She knew the story, but what did any of this have to do with perfume, or marriage, or her? She was promised to Lemuel, which, under the circumstances of his leaving, meant she had no promise. Twice he left her without warning while this handsome merchant sat across the table from her, the pleats of his blue robe playing over his powerful shoulders. Not once did Lemuel say a word of goodbye while this man offered her the extraordinary consideration of public conversation. Lemuel abandoned his wealth and fled the city while this Egyptian was busy claiming his place in the world.
“It’s a figure of speech,” he said in answer to Hannah squinting at him. “The rib. Husband and wife. Side by side. Neither one ahead of the other. Partners in raising their children.”

“You like children?”

“A quiver-full, if, of course, my wife agrees.” He planted his elbows on the table. “I’ve traveled the world and never found anything like your Hebrew teachings on marriage. How shall I describe it? Its, its…

“Divine?”

“A woman commits to support her husband and he commits to cherish her. Forever. Against whatever odds. No matter what the circumstances. What could be more divine?”

“Your wife’s a fortunate woman.”

“You mean this?” He swirled the perfume bottle and a grin spread across his lips as genuine as were his words touched with the hint of an Egyptian accent. “It’s for my sister. She hasn’t any friends in this part of the world and only the company of four brothers to provide her any sociality. It’s been a difficult transition.”

“You live in Jerusalem?”

“For a time.” He sealed the perfume bottle with a cork.
She was a fool not to introduce herself and tell him she enjoyed the pleasure of his company, but there was the matter of her promise to Lemuel. “I really must go.”

The merchant paid for the scented oil, escorted Hannah into the street and pushed the expensive perfume into her hand. “A gift for the pleasure of your company.”

“I should be the one thanking you.” And to confirm to herself more than to him that her only interest was in the gift she said, “For the perfumes.”

“Of course.” He forced a smile. “For the perfumes.”

Hannah turned down through the crowded market with the perfume pressed into the pleats of her robe. Who was this man from the Nile? He was educated beyond most merchants, wealthy beyond most royals, and handsome beyond words. She switched the perfume bottle to her other hand. Men did not fluster her, but the mere presence of this man managed to confusion her enough she forgot to ask the most important question. She turned back, but he was gone, lost among the throngs moving up Market Street and out of sight beyond the stone archway. Hannah was left with a gift of perfumed oils and a terrible mystery of her own making.

What was the Egyptian merchant’s name?

* * * * *

“Is anyone here?”

Abigail pulled back the tattered canvas hanging across the entrance to Jerusalem’s finest spice shop. The cracked brick walls and leaky clay roof set in a ramshackle neighborhood alley with the narrowest of walkways belied the treasures hidden within. There simply was not another shop that inspired Abigail’s cooking genius as did this broken down, worn out seasoning paradise.

A wooden lattice tied with white garlic bulbs hung from the stone archway overhead. Five varieties of oregano for transforming stewed tomatoes into enticing fare graced a small drying rack. In full display on a stone tabletop sat sesame seed with enough savor nestled within the tiny kernels to change flat bread into an irreverent indulgence. Bay leaves and dried onion for an array of sauces brimmed over the urns along the adjacent wall. So many flavors. So many possibilities. This tumbledown culinary retreat was a treasury of the finest tastes. It was like taking a deep breath of cooking heaven.

Abigail pushed aside drying bouquets of basil that hung from the ceiling like moss on a river tree and found mint in a jar next to the cloves. The scent mixed with the smell of freshly crushed red peppers sunning on the window sill and blended with the aromas of imported saffron and sage. Could that fragrant mixture flavor an unlikely cuisine to tantalize her father’s tongue? Or would carrots, cucumbers and celery seasoned with these sunned peppers be too searing for Ishmael’s mild sensibilities? The wise old shop keeper knew best, but where was he to answer her questions?

“Hello?”

Her inquiry died among the shadows in the back.

“Can you tell me how much of a bite have these dried peppers?”

There was no answer and she would have called again if not for the canvas over the front door lifting and two patrons, a man and woman, standing in the entryway.

“Moshe, is that what you really think?” The woman wore a white robe with a red oriental pashmina shawl around her neck and finely crafted looped-through-the-lobe Egyptian gold earrings.

“Dear, Cleo.” Moshe filled the doorframe with an expensive goat hair robe draped over his shoulders, nearly identical to the one Sam brought back from his last caravan trip to Egypt. She’d never seen him wear it. He fled the city before she ever had the chance.

Moshe took Cleo by the hand. “You know I adore you.”

“Tell me plainly. I’m a strong woman. I can bear it.”

The Egyptian pair spoke Hebrew, though their words were laced with an accent born in the land of Pharaoh. It was the sort of conversation not intended for public consumption and Abigail backed in behind the hanging bouquets of basil and leaned in next to a sack of dillweed. What an unfortunate hiding place. There was no better way to spoil good food, or first-rate eavesdropping, than with the pungent odor of dill.

“You have a gift.” Moshe lifted her chin and gazed into her eyes. It was an intimate exchange and Abigail should have turned her attention to other spices, but the affection of the moment silhouetted by the idyllic glow of afternoon sunlight that streamed through the doorway captivated her romantic curiosity and she peered through the dried basil without shame. “Your jewelry is the finest in all Egypt.”
He held Cleo’s hands. “You shouldn’t have any trouble selling your wares. The merchants are sure to be enamored by your artistry.”

The brightness of Cleo’s smile spread to Moshe’s eyes and there was little doubt of the man’s sincerity. It was the same optimism that imbued Sam’s charm, but the third son of Lehi was gone and he may never return to Beit Zayit to chase away Abigail’s doubts with the same certainty as Moshe did for Cleo. It was simply the most touching moment she’d witnessed. Ever.

“Go on, then.” Moshe held back the canvas covering the entrance. “I’ll meet you by the horses at mid day.”

“You’ll need basil for the fish.”

“Three branches should do, yes?”

Cleo nodded. “And cinnamon for the bread pudding. Ground. No sticks.”

“Who does the cooking in this family?” Moshe lifted the canopy higher and invited her into the street. “Now off you go and sell every piece of jewelry in your collection.”

Moshe a cook? Sam was the only other man she knew who ventured into the kitchen. Abigail’s brothers, Seth and Nathan, hadn’t the least idea how to prepare a meal, and her father Ishmael couldn’t strain a fly from water, but Sam was different than his brothers. Whenever he ventured across the world with his father’s olive oil caravans, he always returned home with spices to turn turned the simplest of grains into a culinary masterpiece and stories of culinary encounters in the kitchens of Egyptian royals.

Cleo said, “And don’t forget your favorite.”

“Dillweed?”

“Can’t you smell it?”

Who couldn’t? Abigail was suffocating next to an entire bag.

Moshe let Cleo into the street before crossing to the basil hanging in front of Abigail. Must he begin his shopping where she did her hiding? He cut down the largest bouquet of basil with such swiftness all she could do was smile at him over the sack of dillweed. She straightened the pleats in her robe, cupped her hands in front of her and offered a polite nod, but when his only response was to stare back at her with the basil sprouting from his fist, she said, “Can I help you?”

“A shop-keeper hiding among the herbs?”

Abigail rearranged the stalks of dillweed inside the sack. “What a mess this makes.”

“I’ve never known an herb to require house-keeping.”

“I’d hire a host of maid servants if I thought it would improve the taste.”

“You need the touch of a master cook’s hand.”

Abigail handed Moshe a stalk of dillweed. “Touch this.”

Moshe returned the dillweed. “How is it that a woman is the spice merchant of such a fine shop?”

Abigail turned past him to a tall urn filled with oregano. Did he really think she owned this shop? “Who better than a woman to advise on the culinary arts?”
“
So many spices from every corner of the world.”

“My father and brothers are merchants.”

“The spice trade?”

“Olive oil.”

“And you choose the more violent trade.”

“There’s nothing violent in a well-seasoned pot of soup.”

“Some of the greatest wars were fought over this weed.” Moshe ran his fingertips through the oregano urn. “I would have expected such a variety of exotic spices in the shop of a much older, more seasoned merchant with a bald head, a missing front tooth from chewing dried peppercorns, and breath laden with the heavy scent of garlic from eating whole cloves.” He slowly moved down the aisle and inspected the contents of each urn. “Where do you keep your cinnamon?”

“I recommend a dash of lemon.”

“With the dillweed?”

“With your fish.”

Moshe’s head came up from the urns. “You were eavesdropping.”

“It’s a rather small shop.” Abigail moved to the dried fruits. “She’s a beautiful woman.”

“Cleo?” Moshe followed her, rubbing the back of his head as he walked slowly behind her. The more he rubbed the wider grew the grin pulling at his lips, spreading across his cheeks and rising up into a glint in his eyes. It was the same enthralling smile that captured Abigail’s imagination when she first saw Moshe in the doorway with—

“My sister?”

“Cleo’s your sister?” Abigail lowered her gaze into a jar of coarse black pepper. Of all the things to say, why that?

Moshe checked for the cinnamon in three more urns. “You’re the shop keeper.”

There was no inflection in his voice, no intonation to tell her if he was asking for her help or questioning her honesty. Was he reminding her of her obligation to help him find the cinnamon or was he questioning her ownership of the spice shop?

Abigail pointed to the tallest urn in the next aisle. “Over there.”

That was the truth. Abigail untied the sash on her robe, then retied it. The cinnamon was in the last urn on the next aisle over, but she was left with a lingering suspicion that she’d lied.

Moshe scooped an entire handful of the expensive ground cinnamon into a leather pouch. “Do I make you uncomfortable?”

“I don’t usually see men in here.”

“You’re lying.”

Abigail cleaned her hands on the skirts of her robe. She never claimed to be the shop keeper and it wasn’t a lie to impersonate one.

Moshe removed a gold ring from his finger and placed it in her palm. “I’ll wager there are more young men who frequent your shop than any other in the city.”

That was exactly what Sam would do if he were here—offer a wager to make his point. Moshe was handsome like Sam was handsome. They were men of nearly identically middle stature, both affable, but masculine and keenly aware of her sensibilities. Sam’s most memorable wager was for the cost of a new plow bit. He bet Nephi could beat the blacksmith’s son, Daniel, in a wrestling match. The irony of Moshe’s wager overwhelmed her. It was as if he appeared out of nowhere to replace Sam and if he did happen to return, how long would it be before he abandoned her a third time? Sam could very well be gone for good, but if by chance he reappeared would he expect her to resume the same fondness she’d all but forgotten in the years during his absence?

Abigail worked the ring between her fingers. “I wouldn’t know how many men frequent the spice shops in the city.”

“They don’t come for the herbs.” Moshe left her a piece of silver—a hundred fold the actual cost of the basil, dillweed and cinnamon—and before disappearing beyond the canvass covering the doorway, he said, “I hope to see you again.”

Abigail followed him into the street. “Your ring.”

“Keep it for now.” Moshe started down the narrow alleyway leading away from the spice shop. “Until the wager is settled.”

* * * * *

Mary stood in the shadows near the top steps of the first temple gate. She removed her hood and let the recitations flow over her. It didn’t matter who read the prophets—a learned wise man, a fastidious scribe, or a lowly beggar—she was drawn here by the promise of a few moments of peace from lyrical psalms or the gracefulness of visionary chiasmus. There was nothing more enchanting than an allegorical description, a well-placed poetic run in the middle of more practical wisdom, or the careful structure of a prophetic message eddied into the ebb and flow of sacred expression. It filled her with the comfort of prophetic insight written into her soul with a stylus inked of the spirit. An hour spent under the voice of wisdom from centuries past gave her hope in the present and faith in a future that desperately required the services of both.

The scribe’s voice echoed against the temple walls and Mary followed along, quietly whispering the passage from the ancient king David without missing a word. The Lord was, indeed, her shepherd, and she would not want. The reading was a perfect balm for her troubled soul and she lowered herself onto the stone steps to follow along with the scribe’s soothing rendition, forgetting the throngs that passed in the square below and enjoying the promise that the Lord would make her to lie down in green pastures and lead her beside the still waters.

It wasn’t until the scribe read the next line, reminding her of a walk through the valley of the shadow of death, did she lean against the mammoth stones in the outer temple wall and consider her loss. Only death could prevent Nephi from keeping his word and when he didn’t return to Beit Zayit she expected the worst. News of Captain Laban’s death and the theft of his relics only added to her certainty that Nephi and his brothers suffered a similar fate. With every passing day the possibility grew more possible. Despite Nephi’s promise to come for her, the sons of Lehi would likely never return.

Mary pulled the hood of her robe close against her lips to hide her quiet recitation of the passage that the Lord would somehow restore her soul and lead her in new paths of righteousness for his name’s sake, though she was resigned to the likelihood that her name sake would not be the House of Nephi. She, like her sisters, was reconciled to the loss.

Mary adjusted her place on the uncomfortable stone steps and recited the last of the passage—that God would prepare a table before her. But exactly what meal was to be served? Was she to chart a new course without knowing the destination? She was in need of some peace, some solace, but how was her soul to be restored to its former cheer in the midst of so much solitude? Was there anyone who could lead her in the paths of—?

“You’re very good, you know.”

“Excuse me?” Mary pulled the hood of her robe back and squinted up at the man standing on the step above her, his form half-hidden in the glare of afternoon sunlight that edged over the temple wall. He wore a silver threaded turban and colorful striped robe like the one Father purchased in Egypt.

“Manti, son of Manti?” The stranger introduced himself with a question, as if he expected her to know him. “The youngest of father’s four brothers?”

Mary slowly shook her head.

“Egypt’s largest trading house?”

His stout constitution and inquisitive gaze had a familiarity, but from where? How did she know him?

“You have a gift for words.”

“I was a fortunate child.” Mary pulled her shawl tight around her shoulders. “My father hired good teachers. I know a few passages.”

“Only a few?” Manti came down onto Mary’s step. “Love the Lord thy God.”

“That would be Moses, from the law.”

“And this…” Manti set his hand inside his coat like a scribe about to begin an oration. “Thy people shall be my people.”

Mary sat up straight against the temple wall. The obscure verse was one of her favorites. “A more difficult test from the writings of Ruth.”

“The mountain of the house of the Lord shall be established in the top of the mountains, and—

“Micha.” Mary tried not to smile, but this was the same game she used to play with—

No. She wasn’t going to compare this Egyptian to Nephi. How could she? Nephi was a friend since childhood. Manti was a stranger. They were men of comparable stature—broad shoulders, and taller than most—and they did share the same affinity for words, but she didn’t care to compare their playful attitude for games of memory. She pulled the shawl tighter. “Micha was the only prophet to name Bethlehem the birthplace of the Anointed One. He also foretold the destruction of…”

What was she doing, going off like a school girl? “You have an impressive mastery of the Hebrew prophets.”

“My father insisted on it. He views their wisdom as greater than Pharaoh.”

“There’s no wisdom greater than Isaiah.”

“Sing O heavens. Do you know that?”

Of course she did. It was Nephi’s favorite. “Sing O heavens, and be joyful O earth.”

Manti helped her to her feet. “Break forth into singing O mountains.”

“For the Lord hath comforted his people.”

“Behold I have graven thee upon the palms of my hand, thy walls are continually before me.” Manti led her slowly down the steps. “You’re very good Mary.”

“Have we met?”

“You’re wondering how an Egyptian would know your name.”

“I’m wondering if I should call for the temple guards to save me from a stranger who knows far more about me than I would ever willingly concede.”

“I was ten years old, a rather awkward boy, with a shaved head back then. I joined my father on a trading expedition. I haven’t been to Beit Zayit since, but when my father turned his merchant trade in this part of the world over to my brothers and me, I hoped to meet again the youngest daughter of Ishmael.” Manti adjusted the silk shawl draped over his shoulders. “The daughter I remember didn’t have such a grasp of letters.”

“Should my father expect a visit?”

“Only if he allows a recitation of the prophets among the bartering.”

“Ishmael never mixes business with Isaiah.”

“Not so.” Manti raised his voice. “Words are softer than oil.”

“That would be Psalms.” Mary tucked her hair back behind her ear.

“Her lips are smoother than oil.”

“Proverbs.”

“Oil for light, spices for anointing and oil to pour upon his head and anoint him.”

“Moses.”

“Impressive.”

“I know my oil.” Mary laughed. “What did you expect from the daughter of a vineyard master?”

Manti helped her down the steps and they started through the sea of brown robes. He asked her about the weather, her shopping, and the olive harvest before turning their course toward the Citadel Building on the far upper reaches of the government quarter across the expanse of the square from the temple.

Mary said, “Do you know Isaiah’s pastures?”

“How does it start?”

Mary clapped her hands. “Something you don’t know?”

“Does it begin: He shall feed him in his ways?”

She slowly nodded.

“They shall not hunger or thirst.” Manti raised his head to the afternoon sun. “For he that hath mercy on them shall lead them. For the Lord hath comforted his people and he will have mercy upon his afflicted.”

Manti recited the passage with the experience of an educated man, pausing at all the proper places and raising his voice at the inflection points with the polish of a skilled orator versed in the wistful allegories of Isaiah.

“You recite it like a Hebrew scribe seasoned in the prophets.”

“Isaiah had kind words for Gentiles.”

“You’re not exactly a gentile.” Mary removed the hood of her robe and her long black hair fell down about her shoulders. “You’re…

“Half gentile?”

“There’s no such thing. You’re either Jew or Gentile.”

Manti stopped in the middle of the crowded square. “Do you come here often?”

“Whenever I can.” Mary followed him through a crowd of priests. “I don’t remember my father saying anything about the sons of Manti coming to Beit Zayit.”

“And I don’t remember my father saying anything about the beauty of Ishmael’s youngest daughter.”

“He never should have sent you to barter for olive oil.” Mary pulled her hood back on over her head. “Ishmael will require a more subtle negotiator.”

“I can be prudent.”

“And I’ll be stoned before I’ll allow flattery to win you a better price for my father’s oil.”

“Was I that obvious?”

“Terribly.”

Manti stopped at the steps to the Citadel Building and waited for a troop of scribes to pass on their way inside. “Your father charges the highest prices.”

“He has the finest oils.” Mary glanced up the steps Citadel Building. “Are you buying oil from the Elders of the Jews as well?”

“My brother has business with the chief elder.”

“Zadock?”

“He’s one of the negotiators.”

“I didn’t know the Chief Elder dealt in olive oil.”

“I’m sorry. I have to go, now.” Manti answered quickly and she was left with the distinct impression that she shouldn’t inquire further after the nature of his brother’s dealings with Zadock. “There’s a verse about this.” He snapped his fingers. “Intreat me not to leave thee.”

It was another passage from Ruth.

“Or to return from following after thee.” Manti came around in front of Mary, moving both hands to the rhythm of his words. “For wither thou goest, I will go. And wither thou lodgest, I will lodge. Thy people shall be my people and my God, thy God.”

Manti’s eyes were deep green, the same color as Nephi’s,
and his square nose, dimpled smile and whiskerless chin was like looking into the past and seeing her loss. His command of the prophets was impressive. She’d never met another who could recite so many writings from memory, except, of course, Nephi. Manti offered a quick goodbye and started up the Citadel Building steps, but turned back before going so far he couldn’t be heard above the din of the throng. “May goodness and mercy follow you all the days of your life.”

It was the closing verse she was about to recite when Manti first startled her on the temple steps. She smiled up at him, then turned back through the crowded plaza and whispered the final line of the psalm to herself.

“And I shall dwell in the house of the Lord, forever.”
Jenni K. H.

06. Feb, 2010

Perhaps I’m infringing on a private exchange between you two — but as a newbie I find it oh, so fascinating. Thank you for sharing.

Mystery writer, I have a question about this paragraph you wrote:

The only thing I could see was a thirty-something bacelor living in an apartment waiting for Better Homes and Garden’s to find it. He owned a Martha Stewart dining set, Rachael Ray cookware that matched his granite countertops and where did he get the idea for the kitchen color? What does a Ph.D. student in Physics need with Spanish Rose walls, back-lit glass cabinetry, a Roech bread mixer and a special order, double bowl, under mount sink? Buying new China without her was simply over-the-top.

I noticed the paragraph opened in the first person and ended in the third. (The use of “her” instead of “me.”) Was this deliberate? Because, if so, it seemed to subtly cast a much broader, more authoritative judgment against Sean than Eva’s opinion alone — as if all readers were in agreement. And so my question is, can such a shift in POV be an effective tool?
Hi Jennie K.

06. Feb, 2010

The use of HER is still in first person. Surprise. You’re right. It was done as the ROYAL HER. Its self talk. She giving herself a pep talk, telling herself that she’s up to this confrontation, that Sean is wrong to do what he did and it acts as a springboard into the conflict of this exchange. USING me doesn’t work here. Using her includes the reader in her most intimate interior dialogue. That’s my opinion. What’s yours?
When actions become a metaphor...

06. Feb, 2010

You wrote:

Wow. Your rendering of my scene really brought all the tension to the surface. I like how you used the driving to focus the conflict. Or as you wrote: How to use actions to support your dialouge like speeding up, slowing down, swerving around vehicles, that sort of thing.

Acutally, if your aim is to use actions to support the dialouge you are aiming WAY TOO LOW. You should look for some activity within your setting that can act as a metaphor for the emotions you’re trying so hard to put across. If you’re writing a relationship scene, as you do often in a romance novel, find a setting that will allow you to choose an activity that will become a metaphor.

In you opening scene I noticed that you were going to go somehwere. But sadly, you staged much of your dialogue in the driveway, when the metaphorical STEP ON THE GAS conflict metaphor (the ESCALADE) was sitting their idling in front of the house. So what did I do? I got them in the car onto the freeway IN ONE LINE of narration and then we had the metaphor ready. The stepping on the gas. The swering. The near miss of a semi. It was all a METAPHOR for the increasing argumentativeness between the two actors. I also used readers’ stereotypes about men and women, as I explained earlier, to add to the metaphor, essentially allowing me to write very bare bones descriptions and let the reader fill in the blanks. Notice that I didn’t even have to describe the semi truck they were about to run into. It was enough that she complained about him taking his eyes off the road to set up the snippet of dialogue where she says something like:

“The semi!”

And the reader is as surprised as the driver. Isn’t that how it happens on the road in real life? You look down at something on the passenger seat, like your new dress, or your new CD, or you look at your engagement ring and when you look up its:

“The semi!”

Anyway, the point of this post is to mention that a lot, and dare I say ALL or nearly ALL published authors in the LDS market, are happy with find some actions within the scene to support their dialogue, essentially using them as dialouge tags. That’s fine. But they are missing out on SO MUCH MORE. If you want to take your writing UP A HUNDRED NOTCHES, one thing you should do is find a metaphor and use it to good effect.

I once wrote a scene about a mother finding out about the death of her son. So I placed a lamp in the window and gave it the symbolism of being placed there to light the way home for her children. Then, at the end of the scene, when she finds out her son is dead, its her tears streaming down her cheeks that put out flame. He’s dead. If you’d like me to post that scene here for you to get the full impact of what I’m talking about, I’d be happy to do that.

But the real importance of the lamp-going-out ditty is that you should begin to see how the pros use actions as metaphorical ways to get across emtotion SO THEY DON’T HAVE TO TELL THE EMOTION. They can let the METAPHORICAL ACTIONS do it all. Remember, in order to achieve that you need to:

Select a setting where there is an action which could act as a Metaphor. Notice that in the Scene I shared with MARY, the woman promised to Nephi, I placed her at the steps of the temple where the scribes and priests recite scriptures, which then allowed her to use metaphorical recitations that act as a metaphor for the banter between boy meets girl. This is A DOUBLE METAPHOR, since the actions of reciting are a metaphor, but the words themselves are ACTIONS in a sence, and they act as a metaphor for the dialogue between the two actors.

Pretty cool stuff, eh? And you’ll never hear this stuff ANYWHERE at a conference of from a paid editor? Why? Partly because they haven’t honed their own craft. Partly because they are just a wee bit arrogant (when they get a little power or authoring they think they are wise) and because these writing professors are teaching and not out there in the thick of the profession, writing, doing what they NEED TO DO to be close to these PLUMB-THE-DEPTHS-OF-THEIR-WRITING techinques.

Sometimes that ticks me off. Just a little.

I have yet to find ANY, or nearly any, LDS authors who really get into the stuff with ernest. I wish more would!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
And a follow up...

06. Feb, 2010

Notice also the settings in my example of the three women. Hannah is a little ditzy, but I never said she was ditzy. The fact that her MAJOR concern in life is perfumes, pushes her a little closer to the ditz cliff where she will ultimately fall off in a future chapter. The settings allows her to use perfumes and scents and her over-exagerated feminineness to characterize her as just a wee-bit out of touch with normaless. Just a little for now. When she’s on scene with her sisters that can now come out even more.

Notice that Abigail is in a more practical place. The spice shop. Everyone has to eat. And she does have a passion for spices. And the spices, once again, act as a metaphor for covering up tastes, etc. which is precisely what she does, she hides her identity from this Egyptian just a wee bit. At least that is the inner conflict she has during the scene.

We’ve already talked about Mary.

Done.
And even more...

06. Feb, 2010

Jennie:

Just a short comment about using HER in the middle of ID in first person. Remember that weirdo guy named Shakespear. He did that all the time. I remember one line in particular in much ado about nothing:

The World must be peopled.

Granted, he wasn’t using the pronoun, but it was a self talk moment, and Shakespear did that all the time. Its loads of fun. And using the ROYAL HER AND HIM in place of the me, is perfectly fine. You’re not changing point of view. You’re talking to yourself, about yourself in a sort of third person way which ends up falling into the Shakesperean self-talk sililoquoy sort of moment. Know what I mean?
Kate

08. Feb, 2010

Hannah’s scene first. I liked how he mimicked her actions, a gentle tease that shows his interest. You say Hannah’s major concern in life is perfumes. That didn’t quite come across to me. It felt like she wanted to try the other perfumes, but wouldn’t because of her father. Perhaps if she’d actually allowed herself to sample or smell one or two expensive scents I would have understood her internal struggle better. The subtle reminder of Lemuel in the other plot line was handled nicely–just a hint, not too heavy.

Mary’s scene. This was quite intriguing and revealing at the same time. The careful banter of scripture revealed not one, but three personalities. The foreshadowing with Zadock comes in quietly and you end the scene with Mary’s certainty of her place. I liked this scene quite a bit because it shows Mary’s uncompromising character. The couple of lines about oil bartering further reinforce this without leaving the scriptural banter behind. All I can think is that this passage took an immense amount of research, planning, and finessing–and it shows.

Abigail’s scene. I thought the entering couple was husband and wife. I think this is the case because I’m observing/hearing the exchange from Abigail’s point of view. An instance where I’m learning what’s on her mind and how she perceives things around her because she’s missing Sam. Right? I like her hiding behind the herbs and Manti thinking she is the shopkeeper and Abigail not wanting to lie but not wanting to reveal that she was eavesdropping as a customer. That exchange of dialogue where she doesn’t lie, but every answer convinces him more–how long did it take you to write that?

Metaphors-I loved your lamp metaphor with the death of a son. Your examples with both your work and my first chapter have shown me what a powerful tool this can be for a scene. None of those one line descriptive metaphors to improve description, but something that sets the tone for an entire scene. My, I have a lot of work to do. But it’s pretty exciting. Thank you for yet another eye-opening lesson.
A counter metaphor...

08. Feb, 2010

Acutally, your setting or the activity your POV character is performing can act as a counter-metaphor for events or drama in the scene. The candel acts as a counter-metaphor for life and the loss of life. A man chopping wood can act as a counter-metaphor for recieving news of a lost job. I once wrote a scene where the father was going to see a man who he thought responsible for his sons death. I used the setting of burned out olive orchard, that, just happened to have been burned down by another son. The charred stumps. The desolate ground. All if it acted as a wonderful metaphor for the preumption of death. Pretty cool. Eh?

It isn’t as difficult as it may seem. Try a little of it and you’ll find that it actually makes your writing much easier. It flows better. There are hundreds of actions, and descriptions that will support the drama in your scene and improve your point of view (your voice). Good luck with this one. I’ll include that scene below if I get a chance.
The easiest way...

08. Feb, 2010

One of the easiest ways to use your setting as a metaphor for the major dramatic point in your scene is to find a setting that works and then find some activity that actually becomes the metaphor for the character’s responses. Then keep asking yourself how can I get the character into that activity as soon as possible. Don’t force things. But you may end up, like I have ended up doing, beginning most of my scenes right in the middle of that activity.

The other cool thing is that you can begin and end your scenes, often, with a dramatic tie-in to your metaphor. Here, I’ll share my CANDEL scene with you so you get a feeling for what I’m talking about. Ops. It wasn’t a candle. It was an oil lamp. Wrong time period. They didn’t have those way back then. A lamp. What was I thinking? Its a lamp metaphor. I’ll see if I can go ressurect that old thing. I’m afraid that it won’t be nearly as good as I remember it, but hey, that’s life. You just keep getting better at what you do. We hope.

Okay, so I looked at this scene below and there are a number of things I would change if I could, but this is water under the bridge. Its a number of years old. If I were writing this scene today I would:

1. Use Ruth not Elizabeth as the POV character. That would be much more impactful.

2. I would spedn MUCH MUCH MUCH less time have the POV character examine the emotions of each character and find some activity OR event to bring out those emotions better. It would also keep me from getting periolously close to violating POV. You know you’re on the edge when you find your POV character exploring the POSSIBLE emotions of other characters or explaining the actions of other characters. I do that a little here. And its not bad. But it is a HUGE red flag telling any author who will listen to FIND ANOTHER WAY to do this.

4. If I would have listened (or known) some of these things when I wrote the following scene the emotional tension would have tripled or better. So, as it stands, its okay. But if could write this now, it would be stellar. I’m sure of it.

Sad. Very sad. Here we go:

Elizabeth reached for the lamp left overnight on the windowsill. The early morning drizzle didn’t douse the light, but there was no reason to keep the flame lit with sunrise breaking through the gray mist. She grasped the lamp between her hands, the rough clay sides warm from the flickering flame that burned in the window for going on a month. Mama kept it alive, but she was fooling herself if she thought keeping this small lamp lit would lure Aaron home. She was frittering away expensive oils on a brother who didn’t deserve anything better than a good kick across the backside. Aaron knew the way home and as soon as he came to his senses he’d return without any help from this lamp.

The lamp’s holding vessel was full to the brim and there was no doubt Mama trimmed it during the night. Poor woman. She’d been up pacing as she had every night since Aaron went missing nearly two months before—running to the front door and leaning out the moment she heard a stir about the house. Elizabeth told her a hundred times it was the wind, or a passing mule cart, or the creaking of the roof beams, but Mama would not listen to her logic. It was not Elizabeth’s son who had gone missing and Mama would not surrender the constant trimming of the lamp for other rituals, no matter that it was time they ended their wondering about Aaron and got on with life without him.

Elizabeth tightened her hold around the clay vessel. Foolish brother of hers! Did he not understand what pain his secret Exodus caused them? He could not have fled on a more hurtful night, leaving on the Feast of Passover without confiding in anyone. Beyond Papa, Aaron was their last blacksmith, the only other able body left to run the shop and he never should have disappeared like this. Elizabeth stared at the flame dancing between her hands. No, Aaron didn’t disappear, he stole away in the middle of the night and he took a part of Elizabeth’s heart with him. Of all her siblings it was with Aaron she confided most and he could have at least had the good graces to say goodbye. Elizabeth pressed her palms tight against the lamp, her hands trembling against its coarseness. Aaron was selfish, and cruel, and petty, and he’d done an awful thing to them running off like he did. Elizabeth leaned over to blow out the—

“Not the lamp, dear.” Ruth reached around Elizabeth and covered the flame with her hand. “You know why I keep it lit.”

Elizabeth raised her lips away from the flame. Of course she knew, but must they keep lit this reminder that Aaron didn’t love them any longer? “Why did he leave us, Mama?”

“I don’t know what lure keeps him from home.” Ruth lowered her head. Her dark black hair was tied up behind her head, but she’d done the ribbon in such a hurry the strands fell down around her neck and hedged about her cheeks. She slowly nodded. “We keep a flame lit for him in our souls.” Her lower lip began to quiver and she quickly daubed back a tear. “He has to know we want him home with us.”

“It’s my doing.” Jonathan sat at the kitchen table. His thick black hair fell down into his eyes as he spoke, but he didn’t bother to push it back off his brow. “I drove the boy away.”

“That isn’t so, Papa.”

“I’ve always been suspicious of his faith.” Jonathan held an empty cup between his hands, but he didn’t tap it on the table to tell Ruth he wanted another round of warm goat’s milk. It wasn’t like Papa to show any patience early in the morning, but there he sat, his stare wandering across the table until it rested on Joshua. The boy’s light brown hair was wet and combed back behind his ears. He was dressed in the thickest tunic Mama could find and she told him not less than three times he was to stay away from the ovens, not lift anything that would strain him and he was only to help gather tools for Papa, nothing else, no forging and certainly no tending the ovens. Mama didn’t want another of her sons scarred by the heat of blacksmithing or crippled by the dangers of working too close to the fires—especially a son as inexperienced and untrained as her little Joshua. Sarah sat next to him. She was a full hand taller than Joshua and her long, red hair fell down over her shoulders and brushed across Joshua’s face, tempting him to give a tug, but he didn’t bother, not this morning. Joshua sat stiff against the back of his chair, his bowl of pottage untouched and his eyes filled with a certain apprehension. He nodded to Papa and mumbled he was ready to go to the shop before lowering his stare into the bowl of pottage and stirring it with a spoon. Joshua was a good many months away from his eighth birthday and three years too young to spend his days at the shop lifting a forging hammer or stoking the ovens, but Papa needed an assistant and with Aaron gone, Joshua was to be Papa’s last hope to pass on the secrets of his blacksmithing.

Jonathan tapped the side of his cup. “I thought I’d mended my differences with Aaron until now.”

Elizabeth said, “What happened?”

“What does it matter?” Jonathan lowered his head. “The boy’s gone.”

“Not forever, Papa.” Elizabeth came down along the kitchen table careful not to let the lamp go out. She placed her free hand on Papa’s shoulder, his body tensing against her soft touch. “He’ll come—

“He’s never coming home.” Daniel stepped into the kitchen from the main room. He’d slipped in the front door without making a sound, all the time listening to them. He was dressed in his lieutenant’s tunic, his sword holstered at his hip and a small cape hanging from his thick arm. He adjusted the black patch over his bad eye—the one he said he injured at the military grounds during a training exercise. It was a shame he’d lost the use of his left eye, but it didn’t seem to bother him, except when Elizabeth asked him to tell the details of a story he said didn’t have any details. He hurt his eye in archer training and that was more than enough detail for the family. Daniel nodded to Ruth and said, “I’m sorry Mama.”

“Sorry for what, son?”

“I should have told you sooner.” Daniel’s powerful body stiffened and he worked the sole of his boot into the stone floor. “I wanted to be sure.”

Elizabeth said, “Sure of what?”

“Captain Laban sent me with a report.”

“You’re not leaving on another assignment are you, son?” Jonathan leaned back in his chair. “I may need some assistance for a time until Joshua learns to be of help.”

Ruth reached for Daniel’s shoulder, but she pulled back before touching him and held her hand to her mouth.

Daniel said, “I’ll only be gone to Jericho for a few weeks, nothing more Mama.”

Ruth sighed. “You’ll be careful. I couldn’t bare it if anything happened to any of my sons.”

Jonathan said, “Go on, tell us what you came to tell us.”

Daniel cleared his throat before saying, “Captain Laban informed me that Aaron is—

“They found him?” Ruth took Daniel by the arm. “Is he well? Where is he?” She tugged on the sleeve of his tunic. “My prayers have been answered.”

Daniel pulled free of Ruth’s grasp and backed into the archway between the kitchen and main room, his face hidden from the glow of the lamp. His lone brown eye was difficult to read and Elizabeth raised the lamp until she could see he was without the mischievousness that once filled his gaze. It could be that his unflinching stare was part of his military training, but there was a certain longing in his look, his single-eyed gaze slowly turning about the kitchen to Joshua and Sarah, then past her to Papa and finally resting on Mama. Daniel would never return to be the playful taunt she knew before he left home to live at Captain Laban’s estate, back when he wasn’t beholden to the military commander—the man who had forever removed the light of Daniel’s soul from his eye.

Elizabeth said, “What are you keeping from us?”

“Nothing.” Daniel wrapped the small cloak over his shoulders and pulled the collar up around his neck. “Captain Laban thought it was time I informed you.”

“Informed us?” Jonathan turned in his chair and pushed the hair out of his eyes. “We’re your family, son. You don’t inform of us things.” He motioned for Daniel to come back to the table. “You tell us whatever’s on your mind.”

Daniel didn’t come back into the kitchen. He said, “There was a struggle at Beit Zayit the night of Uriah’s trial last month.”

Jonathan said, “What does this have to do with Aaron?”

“He tried to stop Captain Laban from interrogating Lehi.” Daniel slowly backed toward the front door, the heel of his boots clipping the stone.

Jonathan said, “Go on.”

“Aaron stepped in the way of Captain Laban’s arrow and—

“No, it isn’t so!” Ruth shook her head hard enough her hair came lose from its ribbon and the long strands fell over her cheeks and covered the tears welling up in her eyes. “Aaron’s gone for a season, but he’s coming back. I’ve prayed him home and God will grant me at least that.” Her voice faltered, but before her words were lost in a deep sigh she managed to say, “I will see him again in this life.” She bent over, her arms wrapped around herself.

Elizabeth hurried over and held Mama with her free hand and balanced the still-burning lamp with the other. She pulled Mama against her to keep her from collapsing and when Daniel softly said that Aaron was dead she could feel Mama gasp for breath. A river of tears flooded her checks, the drops falling from the end of her chin and landing on the lamp in Elizabeth’s hand.

The flame went out.
Moving forward

09. Feb, 2010

Let’s have another look at your dialogue:

I’m not suggesting that you KEEP any of this dialogue. And I’m not suggesting you throw it out. I’m assuming this is to build some sort of raport between the characters, but if you aim is to tear down raport, this dialouge about chickens works against your dramatic aim.

That aside, let’s just look at how to improve it, rather than IF you should use it. Like I said, raport building is NOT SOMETHING YOU WANT TO DO when you’re trying to get these two to break up. It leaves the reader with a certain uncomfortable tension. Am I supposed to hate Sean? Or like him?

When you’re playing with the sound of words, you need to take the reader OUT of their reading mind-set and INTO their verbal/hearing/verbalizing mind set. You have to get them to think how the word would sound if it were to be voiced or even have them voice the word aloud when they’re reading it.

Also notice in my re-write of your dialogue I could either go fun and light and have this be a funny moment between the two OR it could only serve to drive them further apart. And isn’t that they way it is in real life. We can choose to admire and enjoy and love the little goofy things others, especially family, do or say. OR we can ridicule, mock and belittle those very same goofy things. It really isn’t the GOOFY things we’re admiring or ridiculing. Not really. It is the people doing them that we’re loving or loathing. In this example below I choose loathing over loving. Sorry. But that’s what you’re trying for here, right? Notice that last JAB Sean throws about Eva spending more time with adults. Ouch!

So you do something like this:

“Are there two ovens at that the Bock-Bock?”

“The what-what?”

“Bock-bock. The chicken place.”

“We’re going to an environmental education center. You know, a national park. Little men dressed in green with brown, pointy, smokey bear hats. They give tours.”

“Right. Bock-bock. My third graders agree its the best way to say the park name. It sounds like chickens clucking.”

“Bock-bock?”

“Say the “b” with more of a soft “p” sound. Press your lips together like this. Bock-bock.”

“Its G-BEEC, the governmental board for economic and environmental cooperation. It doesn’t even sound remotely like a chicken.”

“Have you ever listened to a–?

“I don’t have time to listen to chickens.”

“That explains why your “p” isn’t nearly strong enough.”

“Third graders.” Sean shook his head. “Do they ever let you out at recess to spend time with adults?”

NOW FOR ANOTHER ONE LINER:

This line of ID coupled with the dialogue should scream out to PUT THE ID in spoken dialouge. How do you know when its screaming? When your ID actually explains your dialougue rather than being an instrospection you end up with a PROBLEM OF REPEITION. Its very subtle. You usually don’t notice it, but when you ID is pretty much a camflouged repeition of your actual dialogue, you should start looking for a way to do away with the ID and put that ID, which more often than not is better than your originial dialogue, into dialogue. your emotion:

“A hot springs retreat. I can hardly wait. What’s the schedule?”

“Clearing snow, cleaning a couple of cabins.”

Snow? “It’s forty seven degress.”

NOW FOR SOME STILTED DIALOUGE POINTERS. There are some words that people DO NOT USE IN NORMAL DIALOGUE unless they are extreme intellectuals with a stuffy persona and are essentially unapproachable. You’ve been using dialogue ligo that characterizes your characters like that, when they aren’t that way at all. The result? An uncomfortable tension between WHO THESE ACTORS REALLY are versus HOW YOU PORTRAY THEIR LANGUAGE. Words like elevation instead of high, appetite instead of hungry, arrive instead of GET THERE, agenda instead of “what’s going on”. When you write narration you can use those words, but when you write dialouge you have to throw out the much more elegant single-word pros for phrases and words people use. One clue is that people usually use phrases like “What’s everyone doing tonight, or what’s going on tonight, or what are we doing tonight? instead of the word AGENDA. Its not nearly as efficient, but its the way people talk. And it DOES CHARACTERIZE YOUR ACTORS.

SO:

“GBEEC’s at such a high elevation it’s shut down and snowed-in for the winter and spring.”

SHOULD PROBABLY BE SOMETHING LIKE:

“GBEEC’s is super high up. It’s pretty much snowed-in all winter.”

AND:

“We’ll have quite an appetite by the time you arrive.”

SHOULD PROBABLY HAVE BEEN RENDERED SOMETHING LIKE:

“You’re gonna be starved by the time we get there.”

AND:

“What’s on the agenda the first night?”

MAY BE BETTER WRITTEN AS:

“Any plans for tonight?”
Kate

10. Feb, 2010

You wrote: I’m assuming this is to build some sort of rapport between the characters, but if your aim is to tear down rapport, this dialouge about chickens works against your dramatic aim.

That’s what I was trying to do, but I think you’re right. I’m confusing the reader. I really need to work towards one dramatic point. That got me thinking. I’ve started my novel in the wrong place. I have three chapters of essentially building relationships and backstory. This is ironic considering how much I thought I’d deleted out already. You’ve shown me that I left far too much in.

Once, several months ago, I rewrote the beginning starting further into my manuscript and moving these beginning scenes around. I thought it didn’t work because It didn’t give the reader a sense of Eva’s and Sean’s relationship before the tension. But the true catalyst for the undoing doesn’t occur until much later.

You weren’t afraid of making Sean’s dialogue sharper. I was, because then I would have nowhere to go later. I went back to my rewrite (the one that starts later) and was surprised by how much background is in it. Just enough. Not too much. I think this shopping scene would work better later in my story as a metaphor for the changing relationship.

This line of dialogue that you wrote:

“Do they ever let you out at recess to spend time with adults?”

is write on the mark for Sean’s personality and feelings later in the book. I was trying to show too much at the beginning when Eva and Sean are both clueless to any relationship problems. I didn’t want it to seem their troubles came out of the blue when in actuality, to the characters, they do. Only an outside observer would see otherwise and I’m not writing from the omniscient POV.

I’ve learned so much already. When I looked over my beginning rewrite from several months ago, numerous mistakes screamed out at me. So that’s good. And overwhelming. I’m working on reordering and rewriting my scenes. But this time I’m going to spend a little time planning my dramatic points and metaphors once I decide the new order of scenes and the ones to cut. Oh, and most of that backstory, nearly all of it, won’t make it into the revision.

Do you plan a dramatic point for a chapter or a scene?

I’ll have to answer your farm questions over on the other post later. I’ve spent too much time on the computer this morning. It’s time to be a mom.
Hey mom...

10. Feb, 2010

I don’t plan my dramatic points. I discover them. While I’m writing. And then I go back and make sure they are written properly, since when I was first writing the scene I wasn’t sure of the dramatic point. I usually stew over WHO SHOULD BE THE POV character. And often I get it wrong. That’s how you discover the dramatic point. By determining the POV character. You try to figure out WHO IS BEST SUITED TO VIEW THE SCENE. And in order to make that determination you have to figure out what is it they are going to be viewing. So you muddle through, you figure out what it is, really, they are vieiwing. In other words you figure out the PURPOSE OF THE SCENE. Then you have them view it. Then you decide if they are the best choice as the POV character. And if not, you go back in a rewrite another character into the POV character.

There are other considerations like who can’t and can know something which will add to the difficulty of selecting your POV character.

If Sean is a major character, then you may need to start earlier in the story-line. If he is a major/minor charcter who will be discarded later in the book, start there, at the discarding.

And finally, if you want to know where to start your story, figure out how it is going to end. Once you know your ending, it will be a simple matter to figure out how it will begin.

So, how does your story end?
And another thing...

11. Feb, 2010

So, you have three chapters of relationship building? At the opening of a novel? Any novel?

Ouch! Not wise, my dear. Not wise at all.

Those are the kinds of things that happen in the middle of your novel. Not at the beginning and not at the end. The beginning should open with a splash. A flair. A big moment. Like Sean proposing marriage. And she’s all giddy. And everyone who loves Romance will bring their own experiences of the engagement to your novel and they will fill in ALL the holes for you and it will be wonderful and joy will reign everywhere and life will be beautiful and God will sit in his heaven, and families across the world will rejoice, and bells will toll, birds will sing, and your chapter will be a symphony choired by angels….

until, of course, Eva discovers that Sean is not only NOT PERFECT, he’s a psycho and she’s got to get out and your novel is about GETTING OUT. And while trying to get OUT she enlists the help of her REAL TRUE LOVE, which she finds out that he is her ONE TRUE LOVE through the course of him helping her get out.

OR

You open with the break up. Everyone knows that boy and girl together represents some sort of relationship building that happened at some time prior to the opening of the novel. They get that. Just by putting them together in the same car, having some dialogue that suggests a longer terms relationship fills in ALL OF THE STUFF YOU THOUGHT YOU HAD TO ACTUALLY WRITE. Sure it happened. And sure, you may learn a lot about the characterization of the two, but save yourself the time, my dear. Just spend ten minutes thinking about Sean’s character (instead of writing three chapters about him) and the same for EVA. Let your mind do all the character research for both of them BUT DO NOT BORE US BY WRITING IT. Put them in the car, suggest the relationship has been ongoing for a time, then break them up. And the bells will stop tolling, there will be gnashing of teeth, the world will mourn, the birds will stop singing, the angel choirs will end their performance and the symphony will move on to another venue. And your first chapter will leave EVA sad, heartbroken, and seraching for meaning in a bleak and cold world. And your new love interest will be someone she rejects out of hand because she knew him in High School and your book is about EVA overcoming her own shortsightedness and finding out that true love is right under her nose.

OR

They break up and EVA begins her search for true love and they keep missing each other, at the mall, the train station, the whatever (you know, like the RED ROSE novel sort of story about love that almost happened, but finally does after years of seraching or months or whatever)

OR

Your novel is about….you get the idea. So what is your novel about. You have to figure that out. How will it end? Then you can tell me how it will begin…

Do it.

Right now.

I’m waiting.
Kate

11. Feb, 2010

I open with a car accident that kills Eva’s only family: her sister Rebecca and brother in-law Ryan. Eva accepts legal guardianship for her infant niece and that’s when Sean’s true familial attitudes are revealed. He gives Eva an ultimatum, him or the baby. Eva chooses baby Melody. Sean leaves then comes crawling back wanting to work things out, but Eva is now dating someone else. Someone who is gone long stretches of time for his consulting work. Sean finds out this new boyfriend hasn’t been telling Eva the truth about his work and long absences. He confronts Eva thinking she’ll come back to him, but she runs away instead. With baby Melody. Right into a covert operation with her new boyfriend at it’s heart where nothing is what it seems. Sean stumbles into the same trap and everyone must find a way to escape alive, sort out fact from fiction, and discover where their hearts truly lie. There’s another plotline running through here with Eva trying to find a new teaching job because hers is eliminated due to falling enrollment. And of course she is grieving for her sister and a couple of other internal conflicts.
Okay...

11. Feb, 2010

So, may I make some suggestions from the brief outline you’ve given me?
Okay, so unsolicited suggestions...

11. Feb, 2010

#1: Sean is evil. He can’t be salvaged, at least in a romance novel. He gave her an ultimatum because he is selfish, because he didn’t want to share Eva, because he didn’t want family. There are TOO many flaws in this flawed character. And if this novel were ABOUT Sean, then this would be terrific. But a romance novel is never about the guy, unless you’re writing in an alternative reality world where people walk on air, have wings, eat rocks and hang upside down when the sleep. Or is that in a vampire romance novel??? Ha.

So you can do the overt thing and have Sean give an ultimatum, which would FOREVER paint him as unredeemable, even in a soap opera. Or you could just have him become detached, less interested. As Eva accepts her new responsiblity (through a series of scenes, taking care of the child, adopting the child, etc.) Sean becomes less interested in the relationship and EVA notices. In fact, he comes around less and less. In order to pull of this distancing routine, the pair CAN NOT BE ENGAGED. If they’re engaged, then you’d have to show a BLOW UP, KNOCK DOWN, DRAG OUT, sort of coming to a head event. But if they’re just dating, then they are still in the GETTING TO KNOW YOU BETTER STAGE of things. Which means, that Sean can disappear TO SOME DEGREE. Add to that the appearance of a new GUY on the scene and you have even more reason for SEAN to bow out. What EVA doesn’t know is that Sean is going to start checking this guy out and ultimately at the 2/3′rds point of the novel rescue her from him. Or at least attempt to begin rescuing her.

During this time period Eva needs to come to some conclusion that Sean doesn’t really want a family, doesn’t like the responsibility, that he isn’t for her if he can’t find it in his heart to do something so noble. WHAT SHE DOESN”T KNOW IS THAT its the baby who is at the root of the other guy coming into her life. Which brings us to the next important point:

#2: You need to interconnect all these plot lines. The more they interconnect, the more interesting the story becomes, and the more easy it is to write the novel. Right now you have three stories, all of them mildly interesting if not just a little boring. And then you throw in some twisted adventure at the 2/3rds or half way point and tell us the NEW GUY isn’t what you appeared to be? That’s just a goofy ploy by the author to keep things somewhat interesting

UNLESS:

You make the baby and the adoption of the baby a previously unknown reason for this new guy to show so much interest in Eva. The baby is the heir to a fortune that EVA knows nothing about. The baby is the heir to a fortune of a crime family EVA knew nothing about. The baby is the heir to royal lineage of a small European country Lichstenstonia, you know right between Switzerland and Lichstenstien, and another relative wants to get in on the fortune by marrying EVA or killing the baby. Either one.

You figure it out. But if you can tie in this baby to the bad guy in the novel, that could really make things interesting.

#3 Mayby you don’t want to do go the ADVENTURE/MYSTERY route, but you still should explore tying the baby into the other guy/

#4: If you paint Sean as a dud, someone who gives up on EVA, but not a cad who doesn’t like family or kids or repsonsiblity, the reader will begin to dislike him, so that when he shows up and you’ve got some really cool plot twists showing that he went underground to figure out where this bad guy was, while all the time the reader believed he was just a DUD, then you’ve got another twsit in your plot that is satisfying AND your reader will be cheering. Sean. We liked Sean. But we thought he was a dud, until now.

You’re going to want to RETHINK Sean entirely. You want the readers to REALLY, REALLY, REALLY like him, but then begin to re-think they’re LIKING of him. And as he disappears, the reader will actually miss him, and wonder what they heck, the guy was nuts, he passed up on EVA and a wonderful relationship. They SHOULD NOT HATE HIM or loathe him, or dislike him. They should think he’s a dud, while still really liking his personality, his creativity, his smarts, his looks, his everything except the fact that he just fades away as the baby enters. What a goofball. What a dud. What a loser. Its a careful balance. He’s get to be well-liked by the reader while at the same time be considered a loser. Very careful balance.

Then when the reader finds out that he disappeared, not because of some character flaw or LOSER-NESS, but because he was in love with EVA and wanted to save her from this bad guy, the reader ends up loving him even more. In fact, the reader will say what you want every reader to say at the end of your novel:

I knew he was a good guy or I knew he was right for Eva or, even better, I knew it was going to end like that.

You see. The whole reason you foreshadow in the opening chapters is so that the reader, when the arrive at your conclusion, will say, I knew it was going to end up like that. When, actually, they really couldn’t tell you that at the beginning on in the middle, but something just whispered it to them and then when it happens that whisper comes back and they say, I knew it was going to end like that.

So, what do you think? Are these suggestions any help at all?
And the car accident...

11. Feb, 2010

What a perfect way to foreshadow some possible FOUL play. A car accident. With a living child. HOw many organized crime people do car accidents. Bad break lines. Tires. Power steering on a winding mountain pass.

My favorite is a bomb. That’s right. A terrible exposion. Everyone is killed except the baby who was left in a car seat in the shopping cart or something like that while mom puts some luggage into the back seat while Dad turns the engine over, and over, and over and then ka-boom. Mom and dad are dead and baby is left bawling in her car seat in the shopping cart or whever while the police show up. You don’t need to show the actual explosion if that doesn’t work from a POINT OF VIEW perspective. But I would have Eva be the babysitter for the infant that night. She comes over to her sisters mansion (they’re right, you know they’re in organized crime or make it a duplex as either a cover for their wealth or a cover for their royalty), Eva holds the kid, walks out to the driveway with her sister and brother-in-law, maybe have Sean come with her as sort of a baby-sitting/date night (that would be really cool to have him there with her when the bomb goes off), they’re standing together on the porch, waving goodbye with their babysitting charge, when the car blows up in the driveway.

That certainly would allow you to bring in an adventure THEME from the start.

The ensuing chapters could promote Sean as a good guy in the terrible aftermath, but as Eva considers adopting the child rather than any other option, and as a new guy, maybe someone posing as an adoption/government employee, who takes an love interest in Eva, then Sean begins to fade from the picture and EVA blames it on the baby and her adoption of the child.

You can see where this is going. And it aint gonna be good.

What would your title be?

Adopt a Nightmare

Adopt a Murder

Adopting the Godfather

Adopting Terror

Murder by Adoption

Nightmare by Adoption

Okay, enough brainstorming.

Does this help at all?
Kate

11. Feb, 2010

Your suggestions are always welcome.

#2: You need to interconnect all these plot lines. The more they interconnect, the more interesting the story becomes, and the more easy it is to write the novel.

They are very interconnected but not in an obvious way. The plotlines all collide at that 2/3 mark where the intensity goes up a few notches.

You wrote: If they’re engaged, then you’d have to show a BLOW UP, KNOCK DOWN, DRAG OUT, sort of coming to a head event.

Exactly. I’ve written that scene. Sean wants to leave the baby in the states while they live in Iceland for three months to finish up his dissertation research because no one else has to start a marriage with someone else’s child.

You also wrote: Then when the reader finds out that he disappeared, not because of some character flaw or LOSER-NESS, but because he was in love with EVA and wanted to save her from this bad guy, the reader ends up loving him even more. In fact, the reader will say what you want every reader to say at the end of your novel:
I knew he was a good guy or I knew he was right for Eva or, even better, I knew it was going to end like that.

You’ve just described the new guy, Peter. He’s an undercover cop so it looks like he’s involved in something really nasty, but its’ really Sean’s best friend from college who everyone should worry about, but no one notices. And yes, Peter has a connection to the baby, but nothing sinister like you’ve cooked up (although that could be quite interesting).

I’m struggling to bring in an adventure theme from the start. I’m indecisive. Do I have to do that? I know, I know, readers like to know what kind of book they’re reading from the start. I like surprises. The romance holds strong all the way through. Is it really so bad to throw in some suspense? I’m using foreshadowing and clues so when it all comes to a head the reader says, “Oh, right, that’s why … ”

I’m filing away some of your other suggestions for the other book I started a few weeks ago. I’m still considering the car accident tie in. That would be a superb way to foreshadow and bring the adventure theme in from the beginning. Hmmm … need to think.
Kate

11. Feb, 2010

Okay. Still thinking. Your suggestions up the intensity. I think I’m afraid to do that. But I want to. I need to. Yeah, I’ve got a lot to think about. I really like the ending scenes I’ve written because of the intensity, but it took six weeks of being frozen at the keyboard because I was afraid to write like that. But it was really fun.
Treat it as...

11. Feb, 2010

…an isolated event. Something awful happens, but its something aweful that could happen to anyone. Or is it. Let the awful event at the beginning be used to bring the characters together, and the event alone will be all the foreshadowing you may need. Its existence in your beginning will gnaw at the reader until you get to the unraveling of more an suddely the reader says, I knew that was going to be more relevant than just a random event. Sounds like you’re on your way nicely.

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What’s for Dinner?–Menu 3/08

MONDAY
Spaghetti
Green Salad
Steamed Cauliflower
Garlic Bread
FHE treats

TUESDAY
Vegetable Beef Stew (see recipe)
Green Salad
Cornbread Muffins

WEDNESDAY
Inpossible Quiche
Baked Potato
Winter Green Salad
Peas

THURSDAY
Chow Mein-n-Noodles
Oven-Baked Brown Rice (see recipe)
Muffins

FRIDAY
Taco Sundaes

SATURDAY
Poor Man's Steak
Hashbrown Casserole
Green Salad
Peas

SUNDAY is always:
All in the Slow Cooker:
Roasted Meat (chicken, pork, or beef)
Potatoes
Carrots
Frozen Beans (until they run out)
Also:
Green Salad
Jello Salad (if I remember)
Dessert is a must on Sunday

Kate Palmer