Can a writer create a hero that isn't good in the sack?
I was just thinking about all the flaws a character can have to make them more accessible, but could our FBI agent who always gets the girl have erectile dysfunction and still win over the reader? Can the hard-boiled detective be a "quick draw" and still inspire passion?
Certainly James Bond could never be written like that, but his entire persona could be considered unrealistic in terms of his accomplishments. Some people like to read about the gratuitous sex between a book's main characters while others prefer to hint at it and let the imagination run wild. I'm willing to bet that imagination never includes clumsy sex with no foreplay.
I would love to see an amazing character that has the world on a platter, can solve every mystery and be handsome, witty and charming and then fail in the bedroom and then have the couple deal with like any normal people would; whether is be by ignoring it, talking about it, or trying again until they get it right. Would the plot come to a screeching halt? Would one spy tell the other, "its alright, it happens to a lot of guys"? Would that ultimately take the reader out of the fantasy?
Women are always sexy and sensual, too. What if you didn't get off that easy (no pun intended) in a book? What if the heroine couldn't dance and their bedroom moves were awkward or they slip off the bed or just do something REAL. I can't speak for the female reader, but I would assume a guy reader wouldn't care as much about how it went in bed as long as they ended up there.
So, can we be left with two extraordinary characters that live in a world of intense intrigue, action, and conflict, who fall in love on the beaches of Frances, meeting by circumstance, each working for separate faction, trying to topple governments and have them fall short of bedroom fireworks? Could Jason Bourne mix up a cyanide pill with a Viagra?
Um, I don't think so.
Showing posts with label novels. Show all posts
Showing posts with label novels. Show all posts
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
Sunday, September 18, 2011
Feeling a little inferior?
Those of us that are aspiring writers have probably read someone else's work and sat in awe, wondering if we could ever write that well. I'd say most people have felt that way about something in their lives, whether it's acting, music, art, etc.
It would be natural to try to emulate the people who inspire you, but I don't know if that's a good idea. Do you really want to be the "next" somebody? Do you really want fans to say you could never be the "next" somebody?
Thrillers come in all shapes and sizes. Too much description, too little description. Not enough action or too much time between the action. There are words you don't know and don't feel like stopping to look up (unless you have an ereader), making you either feel...less educated...or make you feel like you're really missing out on a good read. Plot driven, character driven. Believable or even plausible. Boring, stiff, fluid, fast, suspensful, interesting and best of all...thrilling.
I don't know all the big words and I'm not much on the smaller details that many like and some don't. When I write, I wonder how I'm going to fill up a 80,000 word novel with the story I've created. It's difficult and takes a lot of time and I can see how others do it. They detail the hell out of things, which I do enjoy reading. I've read pages on characters that really don't affect the story. However, it really sets the scene and environment. And for a while that made me feel inferior. My vocabulary might not be conducive to the details. I feel like I'm boring the reader because I don't know the words that make people go to the dictionary.
But, as people have read my manuscripts, I've learned they liked my style. They like blazing through a story that doesn't let up. I've heard many times how it was hard to put down and they were 100 pages in before they knew it.
Aspiring writers should stick with their style and not try to "copy" someone else's. Sure, they can influence and there can be comparisons, but let it happen naturally. It took some time to accept that, but I can see how my style might one day be one of those styles that another author might aspire to.
That would be awesome.
It would be natural to try to emulate the people who inspire you, but I don't know if that's a good idea. Do you really want to be the "next" somebody? Do you really want fans to say you could never be the "next" somebody?
Thrillers come in all shapes and sizes. Too much description, too little description. Not enough action or too much time between the action. There are words you don't know and don't feel like stopping to look up (unless you have an ereader), making you either feel...less educated...or make you feel like you're really missing out on a good read. Plot driven, character driven. Believable or even plausible. Boring, stiff, fluid, fast, suspensful, interesting and best of all...thrilling.
I don't know all the big words and I'm not much on the smaller details that many like and some don't. When I write, I wonder how I'm going to fill up a 80,000 word novel with the story I've created. It's difficult and takes a lot of time and I can see how others do it. They detail the hell out of things, which I do enjoy reading. I've read pages on characters that really don't affect the story. However, it really sets the scene and environment. And for a while that made me feel inferior. My vocabulary might not be conducive to the details. I feel like I'm boring the reader because I don't know the words that make people go to the dictionary.
But, as people have read my manuscripts, I've learned they liked my style. They like blazing through a story that doesn't let up. I've heard many times how it was hard to put down and they were 100 pages in before they knew it.
Aspiring writers should stick with their style and not try to "copy" someone else's. Sure, they can influence and there can be comparisons, but let it happen naturally. It took some time to accept that, but I can see how my style might one day be one of those styles that another author might aspire to.
That would be awesome.
Sunday, August 7, 2011
Seven things I've learned so far.
I'm taking this idea from a blog by Chuck Sambuchino, an editor who posts other blogs by agents and writers, which have been very useful and inspiring to me as a writer. I'm trying not to use the obvious lessons, because its all been said over and over. Hopefully, I have a couple of useful tidbits here.
1) You're always improving...Unless you're one of the lucky few whose English and grammar skills are beyond reproach. The editing process will only be finished once it has been published. Don't just re-read and think it sounds good. Examine each sentence, the tense, the point of view, word conservation, eliminate cliches, don't repeat, show don't tell, don't repeat words...oh, so many tweaks to be had.
2)Don't write when you're not feeling it. Some advice would be to write on a schedule or write when you're having a block and that might work for some, but for me, I find it counterproductive. Find ways to be inspired to write. For me, it usually happens when I finish reading a good novel. That pumps me up to sit a pound out a story.
3)There is no instant success. This is a long process; at least for fiction. Even if you write a story in two months and get a publisher a month after that (good luck). It's going to be at least another year before your book comes out. For most of us, it takes years just to get to this point...if ever.
4)You friends and family don't know what it takes to get an agent or published. It might be nice to hear praise from those around you, but that is not going to advance your knowledge of the industry. You need a real editor or other writers to critique your work, which is usually a sobering experience. Once you're over the shock of your writing being torn apart, then you'll be that much better the next time around. Find writing groups or workshops put your thick-skin on.
5)Step back from your work. Yes, once your finish, you want to get your queries out there, dreaming of your first royalty check. No. Put down the manuscript for a few months, then come back and program yourself to read it as if you didn't write it. This will allow you to see where the flow is awkward or the sentences are redundant or the point of view is wrong. Its a shitty feeling to know you sent something out that will turn an agent off.
6)Networking. This won't happen overnight, either. In my years of putting myself out there and attending conferences and querying and contacting other writers, I've met many in the industry and find that I can return to these contacts for advice or support. Slowly, but surely, names start to become familair. Plus, building these relationships lets people know you are serious about your craft.
7)Research your options. Oh, man. There are so many ways to get your book out. Do you get an agent? A traditional publisher? An ebook publisher? POD? Do I self-publish? Small press? Independant press? Publish through Amazon? Barnes and Noble? Kinkos? How can I market my novel without help? It might be very enticing to get your book out by any means available, but choose wisely grasshopper. You might regret letting your best-selling first novel fall into the depths of obscurity because word just isn't getting out. THERE IS NO RIGHT WAY. What works for some will not work for others. If there is a number 8 here, its to develop your filter; use the advice you can and discard the rest.
There are so many more things I've learned, but I've already named the piece, so we're stuck with seven.
1) You're always improving...Unless you're one of the lucky few whose English and grammar skills are beyond reproach. The editing process will only be finished once it has been published. Don't just re-read and think it sounds good. Examine each sentence, the tense, the point of view, word conservation, eliminate cliches, don't repeat, show don't tell, don't repeat words...oh, so many tweaks to be had.
2)Don't write when you're not feeling it. Some advice would be to write on a schedule or write when you're having a block and that might work for some, but for me, I find it counterproductive. Find ways to be inspired to write. For me, it usually happens when I finish reading a good novel. That pumps me up to sit a pound out a story.
3)There is no instant success. This is a long process; at least for fiction. Even if you write a story in two months and get a publisher a month after that (good luck). It's going to be at least another year before your book comes out. For most of us, it takes years just to get to this point...if ever.
4)You friends and family don't know what it takes to get an agent or published. It might be nice to hear praise from those around you, but that is not going to advance your knowledge of the industry. You need a real editor or other writers to critique your work, which is usually a sobering experience. Once you're over the shock of your writing being torn apart, then you'll be that much better the next time around. Find writing groups or workshops put your thick-skin on.
5)Step back from your work. Yes, once your finish, you want to get your queries out there, dreaming of your first royalty check. No. Put down the manuscript for a few months, then come back and program yourself to read it as if you didn't write it. This will allow you to see where the flow is awkward or the sentences are redundant or the point of view is wrong. Its a shitty feeling to know you sent something out that will turn an agent off.
6)Networking. This won't happen overnight, either. In my years of putting myself out there and attending conferences and querying and contacting other writers, I've met many in the industry and find that I can return to these contacts for advice or support. Slowly, but surely, names start to become familair. Plus, building these relationships lets people know you are serious about your craft.
7)Research your options. Oh, man. There are so many ways to get your book out. Do you get an agent? A traditional publisher? An ebook publisher? POD? Do I self-publish? Small press? Independant press? Publish through Amazon? Barnes and Noble? Kinkos? How can I market my novel without help? It might be very enticing to get your book out by any means available, but choose wisely grasshopper. You might regret letting your best-selling first novel fall into the depths of obscurity because word just isn't getting out. THERE IS NO RIGHT WAY. What works for some will not work for others. If there is a number 8 here, its to develop your filter; use the advice you can and discard the rest.
There are so many more things I've learned, but I've already named the piece, so we're stuck with seven.
Sunday, July 24, 2011
How I got my agent
I guess it's okay to put this out there with no risk of a jinx (I shiver as I write this).
I have finally, after years of searching, signed with agents Al Longden and Cynthia Manson, who will share in my representation. It was a long, angst-ridden path, as many aspiring writers are aware.
It started when I saw the profile of an author on the International Thriller Writers website. He listed Cynthia Manson as his agent, so I did quite a bit research to find her email because she does not have a website or advertise. She responded to my email favorably, but was interested in how I found her. I hadn't run across an agent like this before, one that didn't have a big internet presence, which I thought was fantastic.
My contacting her must have been a timing issue. As luck would have it, she was interested in the full manuscript. I waited patiently until she sent an email regretfully turning down the project, but actually wanted to talk about it over the phone! This in itself was an amazing opportunity. We spoke for twenty minutes about why she didn't want to take on the manuscript even though she liked it. Through this we collaborated on a story that would take place during Hurricane Katrina.
Against the advice of others, I took on this task and within six months had a manuscript prepared; not just because I had an agent's attention, but because this novel was labor of love. It was amazing to write and I enjoyed every minute of it. I eagerly sent it off to Ms. Manson, who then unexpectedly rejected it (insert dissappointing cartoon music). But, I couldn't blame her if I didn't write the book she was looking for.
I knew this novel was going to be the one. I felt it in my bones. She graciously suggested that I sent it to her collegue Al Longden, which I did. She suggested if he liked it, they could possibly share the duties in representation.
Mr. Longden loved it.
I spoke to each of them again in that highly coveted call regarding representation; glad that they couldn't see my happy dance - the type seen after one scores a touchdown. Now, the leg of my journey begins...
I have finally, after years of searching, signed with agents Al Longden and Cynthia Manson, who will share in my representation. It was a long, angst-ridden path, as many aspiring writers are aware.
It started when I saw the profile of an author on the International Thriller Writers website. He listed Cynthia Manson as his agent, so I did quite a bit research to find her email because she does not have a website or advertise. She responded to my email favorably, but was interested in how I found her. I hadn't run across an agent like this before, one that didn't have a big internet presence, which I thought was fantastic.
My contacting her must have been a timing issue. As luck would have it, she was interested in the full manuscript. I waited patiently until she sent an email regretfully turning down the project, but actually wanted to talk about it over the phone! This in itself was an amazing opportunity. We spoke for twenty minutes about why she didn't want to take on the manuscript even though she liked it. Through this we collaborated on a story that would take place during Hurricane Katrina.
Against the advice of others, I took on this task and within six months had a manuscript prepared; not just because I had an agent's attention, but because this novel was labor of love. It was amazing to write and I enjoyed every minute of it. I eagerly sent it off to Ms. Manson, who then unexpectedly rejected it (insert dissappointing cartoon music). But, I couldn't blame her if I didn't write the book she was looking for.
I knew this novel was going to be the one. I felt it in my bones. She graciously suggested that I sent it to her collegue Al Longden, which I did. She suggested if he liked it, they could possibly share the duties in representation.
Mr. Longden loved it.
I spoke to each of them again in that highly coveted call regarding representation; glad that they couldn't see my happy dance - the type seen after one scores a touchdown. Now, the leg of my journey begins...
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
Writing is certainly the fun part.
Once your novel is about to be published, there is so much more you need to do.; especially if its your first. Social networking is obviously the big thing. I just got on Twitter. I just need followers.
I had business cards made up to pass out to anyone interested. I’ll be setting up GoogleAds and pay per click ads on Facebook. Medallion will be fronting some money for ad space on a few websites, so that’s good.
I got my website and this here blog, which I don’t post as much as I should. It seems useless at times, seeing as I don’t have a fan base, but if one happens to show up at my doorstep, I’ll have this online presence, otherwise it would be difficult to put one together at a moments notice.
The one thing I romanticized about isn’t going to happen. I’m being published as an ebook, so there won’t be any book signings. Maybe if UNHINGED sells enough, they might want to print it, but otherwise, I’ll have to wait for my second book to come out.
So, no one’s knocking down my door for an interview and I’m not making any bookstore appearances. In the middle of all this self-promotion, real job, and balancing my personal life, I need to find time to write because that’s the enjoyable part of the entire process.
I have to admit, the marketing portion has been a great experience so far; fun in a way. I have to hope for a favorable response and word of mouth. That’s what its all about, isn’t it? A good product will be recommended to friends.
So, fellow aspiring novelists, prepare thyselves for uncharted territory. Your job has yet to begin.
I had business cards made up to pass out to anyone interested. I’ll be setting up GoogleAds and pay per click ads on Facebook. Medallion will be fronting some money for ad space on a few websites, so that’s good.
I got my website and this here blog, which I don’t post as much as I should. It seems useless at times, seeing as I don’t have a fan base, but if one happens to show up at my doorstep, I’ll have this online presence, otherwise it would be difficult to put one together at a moments notice.
The one thing I romanticized about isn’t going to happen. I’m being published as an ebook, so there won’t be any book signings. Maybe if UNHINGED sells enough, they might want to print it, but otherwise, I’ll have to wait for my second book to come out.
So, no one’s knocking down my door for an interview and I’m not making any bookstore appearances. In the middle of all this self-promotion, real job, and balancing my personal life, I need to find time to write because that’s the enjoyable part of the entire process.
I have to admit, the marketing portion has been a great experience so far; fun in a way. I have to hope for a favorable response and word of mouth. That’s what its all about, isn’t it? A good product will be recommended to friends.
So, fellow aspiring novelists, prepare thyselves for uncharted territory. Your job has yet to begin.
Sunday, May 22, 2011
My First Review
I will not use this forum to advertise my reviews (at least not individually), but I recently got my first on UNHINGED from www.singletitles.com. I figured reviews to be part of the normal publishing process and expected to get them at some point, but it's more exciting that I imagined (because it was a great review, obviously).
The person who gave me 4.5 stars out of 5 is named Candy and that's all I know about her. Someone who wasn't my friend or family or part of Medallion Publishing actually read it and liked it. It's affirmation that I really didn't think I needed, but appreciate nonetheless. I can proudly point it out to everyone on Facebook and send the link to my family. This website I've never heard of before has made this real for me, almost like a slap to my face.
Sure, this "first" will be one of many in the process. There will be my first interview, my first reading, the first novel purchased, etc. If this is any indication of things to come, I know I'll value every aspect of the journey. That's the reason I'm keeping this blog after all. One day I might have fans, some aspiring writers, that find this blog and think its cool to look back to the beginnings when I was struggling to have my work read. As insignificant as all this is in relationship to well-established, proven authors, the first good review they ever got probably brings a smile to their faces also.
If interested, check it out. Again, www.singletitles.com and search for Unhinged.
The person who gave me 4.5 stars out of 5 is named Candy and that's all I know about her. Someone who wasn't my friend or family or part of Medallion Publishing actually read it and liked it. It's affirmation that I really didn't think I needed, but appreciate nonetheless. I can proudly point it out to everyone on Facebook and send the link to my family. This website I've never heard of before has made this real for me, almost like a slap to my face.
Sure, this "first" will be one of many in the process. There will be my first interview, my first reading, the first novel purchased, etc. If this is any indication of things to come, I know I'll value every aspect of the journey. That's the reason I'm keeping this blog after all. One day I might have fans, some aspiring writers, that find this blog and think its cool to look back to the beginnings when I was struggling to have my work read. As insignificant as all this is in relationship to well-established, proven authors, the first good review they ever got probably brings a smile to their faces also.
If interested, check it out. Again, www.singletitles.com and search for Unhinged.
Saturday, May 7, 2011
Fish or cut bait?
I just received a very flattering rejection from an agent that had been exclusively looking at a new manuscript. I was sure she would take me on. Of course, I was disappointed, but also energized, as now I have an awesome manuscript to shop around, while I go back to edit previous novels.
I'm sure many writers are at a point where they have to consider the timing of things. How long do you let that finished novel sit, waiting for an agent or publisher to pick it up. Die hard writers, like myself, are probably thinking each book is like a bullet in thier gun. If the fourth or fifth book gets published, then they can fire off the others.
But, having success with one book might not convince an publisher that the previous books will be saluable. So, as a writer, do I decide to publish it myself as an ebook? Maybe there's a chance I could build up a following if I do all the marketing and advertising myself. If I don't, then my books may never see the light of day. Oye!
The ebook craze is still in its early stages. Things are in flux. Agents are scrambling. Publishers are leary. Non-fiction is exclipsing fiction. What the hell?
Settle down. Breathe.
For any inspiring writers that read this, if your writing is at a point where other writers (not readers) are complimenting your work, then stick with trying to go the traditional route. If your writing is not there yet and you are being (honestly if not roughly) critiqued by your writing peers, then you need to listen to them and not be stubborn or hurt, but understand the why.
As I write this, I'm thinking blah, blah, blah. What am I saying? Boiling it down, if you do this for pleasure, then ebook, by all means. If you want a career as an author; get an agent.
I'm sure many writers are at a point where they have to consider the timing of things. How long do you let that finished novel sit, waiting for an agent or publisher to pick it up. Die hard writers, like myself, are probably thinking each book is like a bullet in thier gun. If the fourth or fifth book gets published, then they can fire off the others.
But, having success with one book might not convince an publisher that the previous books will be saluable. So, as a writer, do I decide to publish it myself as an ebook? Maybe there's a chance I could build up a following if I do all the marketing and advertising myself. If I don't, then my books may never see the light of day. Oye!
The ebook craze is still in its early stages. Things are in flux. Agents are scrambling. Publishers are leary. Non-fiction is exclipsing fiction. What the hell?
Settle down. Breathe.
For any inspiring writers that read this, if your writing is at a point where other writers (not readers) are complimenting your work, then stick with trying to go the traditional route. If your writing is not there yet and you are being (honestly if not roughly) critiqued by your writing peers, then you need to listen to them and not be stubborn or hurt, but understand the why.
As I write this, I'm thinking blah, blah, blah. What am I saying? Boiling it down, if you do this for pleasure, then ebook, by all means. If you want a career as an author; get an agent.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Email Correspondence with Anne Rice
One of my all-time favorite books is Anne Rice’s The Witching Hour. When I read it, I wasn’t a big into books, reading maybe one every few months. But this book grabbed me and pulled me in enough to where I read Taltos and Lasher, the two follow-ups to The Witching Hour. I didn’t feel they were as good, but sometimes you just need closure.
I have never read Interview with a Vampire, but I saw the movie. I am not a big vampire or religious fan, so I never continued to buy her books.
I love that Anne Rice is about New Orleans. I’m not up to date on her present status, but last I heard she was living in Metairie, which is basically a suburb of New Orleans. Since I have a book coming out, I was naive enough to think that she might want to throw a quote at me, being that we were both from New Orleans. You don't know if you don't ask, right?
I emailed her, wondering what assistant would read it and then get back with me months later. I was surprised to see a response the same day, graciously declining the quote, of course, but very kindly. I emailed back thanking her, but joking ‘if it really was her’ writing me back.
Big mistake.
Anne Rice practically yelled at me through the email that she answers all of her email personally and goes to great lengths to be available to her readers. I was very embarrassed. I wrote back telling her it was a joke and that I believed it was her and was telling my wife and friends that I had corresponded with Anne Rice. It was a misunderstanding.
She calmed down and apologized for getting worked up and we had a little laugh over that. After a few more emails back and forth, I signed off telling her that I would be seeing her in similar circles and that we’d laugh again about it.
I can’t wait for that day, but let me tell you; you do not want to make an enemy of Anne Rice.
I have never read Interview with a Vampire, but I saw the movie. I am not a big vampire or religious fan, so I never continued to buy her books.
I love that Anne Rice is about New Orleans. I’m not up to date on her present status, but last I heard she was living in Metairie, which is basically a suburb of New Orleans. Since I have a book coming out, I was naive enough to think that she might want to throw a quote at me, being that we were both from New Orleans. You don't know if you don't ask, right?
I emailed her, wondering what assistant would read it and then get back with me months later. I was surprised to see a response the same day, graciously declining the quote, of course, but very kindly. I emailed back thanking her, but joking ‘if it really was her’ writing me back.
Big mistake.
Anne Rice practically yelled at me through the email that she answers all of her email personally and goes to great lengths to be available to her readers. I was very embarrassed. I wrote back telling her it was a joke and that I believed it was her and was telling my wife and friends that I had corresponded with Anne Rice. It was a misunderstanding.
She calmed down and apologized for getting worked up and we had a little laugh over that. After a few more emails back and forth, I signed off telling her that I would be seeing her in similar circles and that we’d laugh again about it.
I can’t wait for that day, but let me tell you; you do not want to make an enemy of Anne Rice.
Monday, January 3, 2011
Crawfish in a Hurricane
This is the first chapter in a book that I don't believe will ever be published. BUT! If after reading this chapter, anyone posts that they would like to see more, then I will continue to add chapter after chapter until the entire book is posted. Just one reader...
Chapter 1
The cremation casket was a Shaker. It was plain, ash brown with an ivory crepe interior and the least expensive Milt could find before taking his last breath. Carol Benoit could not deny her dying husband’s last cheapskate wish. Milt refused to pay over a grand for something they were going to incinerate. None of the mourners would ever see the inside anyway because Milt had requested that his coffin remained closed until they burned him into ash and his bones crushed to dust. Only his immediate family could take a morbid peek if they so chose. He had expressed that his granddaughter Phoenix just might.
There would be no tomb above ground as the more affluent New Orleans deceased were usually laid to rest. Being buried in this city wasn’t an option, either, as seeing loved ones eventually rise from the saturated ground wasn’t very appealing. To Milt, there was no closure in remaining above the ground. Katrina had been a testament to that as he saw dead bodies floating away from their tombs on the news.
His son Jason had chosen a suitable picture from Milt’s youth to blow up and display on an easel. It was hard to uncover a snapshot where he actually wore a smile, but Jason settled on a photo taken when Milt was 55 years old and had made a hole in one on a par-three at City Park. He still had hair, thin as it was, and blonde as the day he was born. No one had noticed the transition to baldness, or at least they never spoke of it.
Jason and Beth had four children; Vail was the oldest at twenty-five, London was twenty-three, their only daughter Phoenix was eighteen and Rome was sixteen. Each of them could not be more different.
Phoenix had isolated herself, sitting on a metal foldout chair, away from consolers. The cool steel felt good against her calves. Her idea of dressing appropriately fell into the realm of less Goth make-up and a paisley sundress that she hated having to buy for the occasion. She felt uncomfortable and a bit sexy at the same time.
Every moment between Phoenix’s thoughts came a staggering, slow motion encore of the pillow she had placed over Milt’s face as he lay dying of prostate cancer in the hospital room. Her muscles tensed as if she was still pushing it, applying the pressure, taking Milt’s last breath in payment for all he took from her. The veins in his hands had bulged with struggle within the bed’s restraining straps. She let herself breathe and relaxed on the chilly metal chair, wondering who was watching her. Someone was always watching her.
The room itself made Phoenix uneasy. It appeared as if it had been decorated for a movie set. Cheap oil paintings of old men hung between windows with curtains of questionable flowered patterns. Pedestals of Wal-Mart vases held plastic flowers with linen petals. Standing in small huddles were a few mourners with suits or nice dresses and she knew they were the relatives with the good jobs. For the most part, for funerals and weddings, their people wore collared shirts, jeans and their dressy gym shoes, or at best slacks and button down dress shirts.
She tried to follow London with her eyes, as he looked to be avoiding everyone. Perhaps if he could stay on the move, he wouldn’t have to speak. She knew the interaction was killing him. She was reminded of London’s hidden handsomeness, as he was dressed in a pressed Polo shirt with his favorite blue silk tie.
London’s new cop-chick attempted to hang on his arm from time to time. “Jesus, let him go. You’re not on a date,” she whispered. She was pretty, though, but all wrong. No one was ever right for him, but isolation was his choice. London seemed to want to drive them away, one by one. Phoenix knew that her brother’s problem stemmed from witnessing his first girlfriend Nicole’s mysterious and blood-riddled death when he was thirteen years old. It had destroyed his teen years and now in turn, was spilling into his adulthood. No one ever got close to London again during those years; no one except Phoenix.
Eve the cop was a strong woman, it seemed to Phoenix. Eve looked like she knew what she wanted and London would let her be in command for a little while, but it would end the same. For one, she was too old. London was twenty-three and she had to be thirty, at least. Eve clung to him unnaturally, sizing people up as they approached as if she was a bouncer. Could they have had sex already? No, she would have sensed the change.
There was something odd about Eve and Phoenix knew odd. She was married to odd. Phoenix watched Eve and London whisper in each other’s ear and then they agreed to something. After that, the cop-chick left the premises. She must have realized that he couldn’t give her his undivided attention.
Over the next ten minutes, London had glanced at Phoenix once and a while, as if he was going to eventually come over to keep her company, but for some reason he kept circling. She thought he looked guilty, apologizing to the distant relatives who stopped to give him a quick hug or handshake. And her disdain deepened for those relatives not spending much time with her, although she couldn't condemn them, as she had always been the scariest freak in the bloodline.
You make your own environment, then bitch when you have to live in it, right?
The youngest sibling, Rome, wasn’t in attendance. He was sixteen and mildly retarded, yet had movie star good looks. Most teenage girls found themselves attracted to him at first – until they spoke to him. There had been a discussion with Elaine, Rome’s therapist and teacher on whether he could handle his Paw Paw’s funeral. Phoenix guessed they had decided not. She pictured Rome sitting next to pint-sized Elaine on the new two thousand dollar sectional couch as she tried to explain death with her Ken doll.
Poor Rome, Phoenix thought, amazed she was entertaining the foreign concept of sympathy. At least he would be able to say hi to his relatives as they woofed down food back at the house after the service. The long-lost aunts, uncles and cousins will be able to see how a family can remain stagnant their whole lives even while their surroundings constantly changed. They’ll get to see how old, used furniture bought after Katrina can look next to brand new luxurious purchases because Mommy can’t handle money. Oh, but Daddy could replace his boat at the Lakefront Marina, complete with wheelchair accommodations.
Still bored, Phoenix picked Mom and Dad out of the crowd. Beth and Jason Benoit have been married for twenty-seven years and they couldn’t look more like strangers. Her Dad was the picture perfect mourner; sad and attentive, giving his I’ll be okay smile when appropriate. Being paralyzed and wheelchair bound since Katrina, he spent most of his moments with his close friend Detective Shanahan or his mother, Carol, just like a good son should.
Phoenix made slits with her eyes, peering though her lashes as if they were bushes in a jungle and she was stalking her prey. She began a little game of predicting her mother’s movements around the room. Beth fixed her hair when Phoenix thought she would. She showed off her only pair of diamond earrings to some blue-hairs that should be shopping for coffins themselves - another true physic prediction. Okay, Phoenix thought, lift up your bra when no one’s looking, then go chat with the gross funeral director Mr. Nolan, who had been giving her special attention all day. Done and done.
A commotion caught Phoenix’s attention from across the way as a group near the entrance suddenly parted. Like Venus in a clamshell, Christine Peralta, Milt’s nurse of the past three months, had just made an appearance, wearing her dress scrubs no less, and making a direct path to her father, Jason.
She was a striking woman, having a face that could appear in a Noxzema commercial. How does anyone get skin so perfect? Phoenix could see most of the males trying to get a discreet peek past their wives at Miss Voluptuous and once again, she felt for Rome not being here to see the woman with whom breasts he had fallen in love.
But, why would she show up? Maybe she went to all her patient’s funerals. She could be the grim reaper in disguise. Death might be that beautiful. Instead of wearing a dark robe with a sickle in hand, it’s a set of scrubs and surgical gloves, gliding in as if on a conveyor belt to take her place behind the coffin.
Still, it was nice of her to hug her Dad. She just may be a terribly compassionate person. The kind of woman her dad wished his daughter was. Phoenix hated her, wanted to be her and wanted to kiss her all at the same time. She closed her eyes. Stop, she thought. Just stop it. You got what you wanted, didn’t you?
Phoenix scanned for London once again, but spotted the oldest brother, Vail, instead. His perspiration was thick as he crept up to her. “How are you doing, ‘Nix? You’re not going to be sick?” Vail questioned. The buttons on his dark striped shirt looked as though they were going to pop off under the strain of his fat. It was time for him to add another “X” onto the size of his wardrobe.
“I’m alright.” She didn’t believe big brother was actually concerned. The last time they had any meaningful exchange was when he had asked Phoenix to convince her best friend Angie to be in his homemade porno. Ever since he had strong-armed himself into owning an adult bookstore, his next logical step was to create a movie company and become a porn star. She had ranted about what a pervert he was and then stopped speaking to him altogether other than random small talk in front of her family.
Vail nodded, then looked around and spied Christine by their Dad. “Okay, let me know if I can do anything for you. Say hi to Angie for me, okay? Say hi to Angie.”
She parted the bangs away from her eyes with her middle finger as Vail waddled into the mix. What was it about death that made people marshmallows? Under any other circumstances, Vail the smut peddler wouldn’t have even said hi. Was it the fact that she had witnessed death? Did that make her more interesting or popular? Maybe Vail knew what she had done. Her stomach rumbled, not having eaten all day, but that was a constant. She knew there was a big difference in being a thin rebel and a fat rebel. The latter was just pathetic.
“Hey, ‘Nix.” London rubbed her shoulder and finally sat down beside her. “You okay?”
Her face didn’t flinch, but inside she was ecstatic that London had showed. “I’m anticipating nightmares that I’ll wake up screaming from every night for the rest of my life.”
He let that statement settle as he looked around at the milling waistbands, plump and skinny, shuffling back and forth, sitting and standing, trying to keep busy until they could get to the food buffet at their house.
“Eve wanted to come by the house later, but I convinced her that I was going to be busy with family.”
“Eve’s hanging in there, eh?”
“It’s hard to say no to her.”
“How does she like the periods of long silence?”
“Oh, she does most of the talking, which is perfect. I just have to say yes now and then.”
“It’ll be harder to say yes when you’re resenting her for it.”
“Get out of my head.”
“I wish I could get out of mine.”
“At least you fought the urge to kill him,” London proclaimed seriously. “I’m sorry you had to be the only one in the room when he died, but, honestly, we all know he was evil.”
“I guess.” Phoenix was close to tears and that pissed her off.
“You look good. I’m glad you didn’t wear your black lipstick although here, it might be appropriate.”
Phoenix giggled, then sniffed when she felt a drop coming from her nostril. She quickly wiped it away, “I want to know you’re okay, London. This isn’t anything like that day at the canal with Nicole. I don’t want this to bring back those feelings you had at her funeral. You know what I mean.”
“This funeral is a breeze compared to confusion I went through with Nicole’s. I dream about her sometimes. Everything’s always washed in her blood and I can’t make out who killed her…if I killed her.”
“I know it drives you crazy that you can’t remember that fucked up week, but I don’t know if you should remember. What if it’s that knowledge that sends you over the edge?”
“All I know is one day we’re riding our bikes and the next day, I’m at her funeral. I have a dream where Nicole’s alive and we’re playing in the lot. Then she rides off alone and I’m stuck in a ditch so I can’t follow her and she leaves with saying goodbye. Then, I turn into a crawfish and there’s crawfish all around my feet, except y'all are the crawfish.”
“Even Vail?”
“Yeah, he’s a fat crawfish. And y'all are shooting into your little crawfish holes because you know a hurricane’s coming. Then a hurricane does come and I’m immobile. I want to curl my crawfish tail and shoot into the mud hole with you guys, but I can’t. I don’t know what to make of it.”
“Weird. Now I'm hungry for crawfish." She smiled with sincerity. "Look, something horrible happened to Nicole. People do terrible things and your brain is wired to protect itself. The electrical impulses up there are being rerouted around the memory of Nicole’s death. You’re not ready to remember that evil. We see other evils every day. Take Vail, well, he’s just sinister. Paw Paw was practically the devil. And seeing Paw Paw actually die, I’m going to be having my own bad dreams for a while.”
“I know Dad wants you to talk to Elaine about that, but even though I don’t have your genius IQ, you can talk to me about it - anytime.”
She put her hand in his as she leaned on his shoulder. She didn’t want to talk anymore, but she didn’t want him to leave, either.
Please post a comment if you like.
Chapter 1
The cremation casket was a Shaker. It was plain, ash brown with an ivory crepe interior and the least expensive Milt could find before taking his last breath. Carol Benoit could not deny her dying husband’s last cheapskate wish. Milt refused to pay over a grand for something they were going to incinerate. None of the mourners would ever see the inside anyway because Milt had requested that his coffin remained closed until they burned him into ash and his bones crushed to dust. Only his immediate family could take a morbid peek if they so chose. He had expressed that his granddaughter Phoenix just might.
There would be no tomb above ground as the more affluent New Orleans deceased were usually laid to rest. Being buried in this city wasn’t an option, either, as seeing loved ones eventually rise from the saturated ground wasn’t very appealing. To Milt, there was no closure in remaining above the ground. Katrina had been a testament to that as he saw dead bodies floating away from their tombs on the news.
His son Jason had chosen a suitable picture from Milt’s youth to blow up and display on an easel. It was hard to uncover a snapshot where he actually wore a smile, but Jason settled on a photo taken when Milt was 55 years old and had made a hole in one on a par-three at City Park. He still had hair, thin as it was, and blonde as the day he was born. No one had noticed the transition to baldness, or at least they never spoke of it.
Jason and Beth had four children; Vail was the oldest at twenty-five, London was twenty-three, their only daughter Phoenix was eighteen and Rome was sixteen. Each of them could not be more different.
Phoenix had isolated herself, sitting on a metal foldout chair, away from consolers. The cool steel felt good against her calves. Her idea of dressing appropriately fell into the realm of less Goth make-up and a paisley sundress that she hated having to buy for the occasion. She felt uncomfortable and a bit sexy at the same time.
Every moment between Phoenix’s thoughts came a staggering, slow motion encore of the pillow she had placed over Milt’s face as he lay dying of prostate cancer in the hospital room. Her muscles tensed as if she was still pushing it, applying the pressure, taking Milt’s last breath in payment for all he took from her. The veins in his hands had bulged with struggle within the bed’s restraining straps. She let herself breathe and relaxed on the chilly metal chair, wondering who was watching her. Someone was always watching her.
The room itself made Phoenix uneasy. It appeared as if it had been decorated for a movie set. Cheap oil paintings of old men hung between windows with curtains of questionable flowered patterns. Pedestals of Wal-Mart vases held plastic flowers with linen petals. Standing in small huddles were a few mourners with suits or nice dresses and she knew they were the relatives with the good jobs. For the most part, for funerals and weddings, their people wore collared shirts, jeans and their dressy gym shoes, or at best slacks and button down dress shirts.
She tried to follow London with her eyes, as he looked to be avoiding everyone. Perhaps if he could stay on the move, he wouldn’t have to speak. She knew the interaction was killing him. She was reminded of London’s hidden handsomeness, as he was dressed in a pressed Polo shirt with his favorite blue silk tie.
London’s new cop-chick attempted to hang on his arm from time to time. “Jesus, let him go. You’re not on a date,” she whispered. She was pretty, though, but all wrong. No one was ever right for him, but isolation was his choice. London seemed to want to drive them away, one by one. Phoenix knew that her brother’s problem stemmed from witnessing his first girlfriend Nicole’s mysterious and blood-riddled death when he was thirteen years old. It had destroyed his teen years and now in turn, was spilling into his adulthood. No one ever got close to London again during those years; no one except Phoenix.
Eve the cop was a strong woman, it seemed to Phoenix. Eve looked like she knew what she wanted and London would let her be in command for a little while, but it would end the same. For one, she was too old. London was twenty-three and she had to be thirty, at least. Eve clung to him unnaturally, sizing people up as they approached as if she was a bouncer. Could they have had sex already? No, she would have sensed the change.
There was something odd about Eve and Phoenix knew odd. She was married to odd. Phoenix watched Eve and London whisper in each other’s ear and then they agreed to something. After that, the cop-chick left the premises. She must have realized that he couldn’t give her his undivided attention.
Over the next ten minutes, London had glanced at Phoenix once and a while, as if he was going to eventually come over to keep her company, but for some reason he kept circling. She thought he looked guilty, apologizing to the distant relatives who stopped to give him a quick hug or handshake. And her disdain deepened for those relatives not spending much time with her, although she couldn't condemn them, as she had always been the scariest freak in the bloodline.
You make your own environment, then bitch when you have to live in it, right?
The youngest sibling, Rome, wasn’t in attendance. He was sixteen and mildly retarded, yet had movie star good looks. Most teenage girls found themselves attracted to him at first – until they spoke to him. There had been a discussion with Elaine, Rome’s therapist and teacher on whether he could handle his Paw Paw’s funeral. Phoenix guessed they had decided not. She pictured Rome sitting next to pint-sized Elaine on the new two thousand dollar sectional couch as she tried to explain death with her Ken doll.
Poor Rome, Phoenix thought, amazed she was entertaining the foreign concept of sympathy. At least he would be able to say hi to his relatives as they woofed down food back at the house after the service. The long-lost aunts, uncles and cousins will be able to see how a family can remain stagnant their whole lives even while their surroundings constantly changed. They’ll get to see how old, used furniture bought after Katrina can look next to brand new luxurious purchases because Mommy can’t handle money. Oh, but Daddy could replace his boat at the Lakefront Marina, complete with wheelchair accommodations.
Still bored, Phoenix picked Mom and Dad out of the crowd. Beth and Jason Benoit have been married for twenty-seven years and they couldn’t look more like strangers. Her Dad was the picture perfect mourner; sad and attentive, giving his I’ll be okay smile when appropriate. Being paralyzed and wheelchair bound since Katrina, he spent most of his moments with his close friend Detective Shanahan or his mother, Carol, just like a good son should.
Phoenix made slits with her eyes, peering though her lashes as if they were bushes in a jungle and she was stalking her prey. She began a little game of predicting her mother’s movements around the room. Beth fixed her hair when Phoenix thought she would. She showed off her only pair of diamond earrings to some blue-hairs that should be shopping for coffins themselves - another true physic prediction. Okay, Phoenix thought, lift up your bra when no one’s looking, then go chat with the gross funeral director Mr. Nolan, who had been giving her special attention all day. Done and done.
A commotion caught Phoenix’s attention from across the way as a group near the entrance suddenly parted. Like Venus in a clamshell, Christine Peralta, Milt’s nurse of the past three months, had just made an appearance, wearing her dress scrubs no less, and making a direct path to her father, Jason.
She was a striking woman, having a face that could appear in a Noxzema commercial. How does anyone get skin so perfect? Phoenix could see most of the males trying to get a discreet peek past their wives at Miss Voluptuous and once again, she felt for Rome not being here to see the woman with whom breasts he had fallen in love.
But, why would she show up? Maybe she went to all her patient’s funerals. She could be the grim reaper in disguise. Death might be that beautiful. Instead of wearing a dark robe with a sickle in hand, it’s a set of scrubs and surgical gloves, gliding in as if on a conveyor belt to take her place behind the coffin.
Still, it was nice of her to hug her Dad. She just may be a terribly compassionate person. The kind of woman her dad wished his daughter was. Phoenix hated her, wanted to be her and wanted to kiss her all at the same time. She closed her eyes. Stop, she thought. Just stop it. You got what you wanted, didn’t you?
Phoenix scanned for London once again, but spotted the oldest brother, Vail, instead. His perspiration was thick as he crept up to her. “How are you doing, ‘Nix? You’re not going to be sick?” Vail questioned. The buttons on his dark striped shirt looked as though they were going to pop off under the strain of his fat. It was time for him to add another “X” onto the size of his wardrobe.
“I’m alright.” She didn’t believe big brother was actually concerned. The last time they had any meaningful exchange was when he had asked Phoenix to convince her best friend Angie to be in his homemade porno. Ever since he had strong-armed himself into owning an adult bookstore, his next logical step was to create a movie company and become a porn star. She had ranted about what a pervert he was and then stopped speaking to him altogether other than random small talk in front of her family.
Vail nodded, then looked around and spied Christine by their Dad. “Okay, let me know if I can do anything for you. Say hi to Angie for me, okay? Say hi to Angie.”
She parted the bangs away from her eyes with her middle finger as Vail waddled into the mix. What was it about death that made people marshmallows? Under any other circumstances, Vail the smut peddler wouldn’t have even said hi. Was it the fact that she had witnessed death? Did that make her more interesting or popular? Maybe Vail knew what she had done. Her stomach rumbled, not having eaten all day, but that was a constant. She knew there was a big difference in being a thin rebel and a fat rebel. The latter was just pathetic.
“Hey, ‘Nix.” London rubbed her shoulder and finally sat down beside her. “You okay?”
Her face didn’t flinch, but inside she was ecstatic that London had showed. “I’m anticipating nightmares that I’ll wake up screaming from every night for the rest of my life.”
He let that statement settle as he looked around at the milling waistbands, plump and skinny, shuffling back and forth, sitting and standing, trying to keep busy until they could get to the food buffet at their house.
“Eve wanted to come by the house later, but I convinced her that I was going to be busy with family.”
“Eve’s hanging in there, eh?”
“It’s hard to say no to her.”
“How does she like the periods of long silence?”
“Oh, she does most of the talking, which is perfect. I just have to say yes now and then.”
“It’ll be harder to say yes when you’re resenting her for it.”
“Get out of my head.”
“I wish I could get out of mine.”
“At least you fought the urge to kill him,” London proclaimed seriously. “I’m sorry you had to be the only one in the room when he died, but, honestly, we all know he was evil.”
“I guess.” Phoenix was close to tears and that pissed her off.
“You look good. I’m glad you didn’t wear your black lipstick although here, it might be appropriate.”
Phoenix giggled, then sniffed when she felt a drop coming from her nostril. She quickly wiped it away, “I want to know you’re okay, London. This isn’t anything like that day at the canal with Nicole. I don’t want this to bring back those feelings you had at her funeral. You know what I mean.”
“This funeral is a breeze compared to confusion I went through with Nicole’s. I dream about her sometimes. Everything’s always washed in her blood and I can’t make out who killed her…if I killed her.”
“I know it drives you crazy that you can’t remember that fucked up week, but I don’t know if you should remember. What if it’s that knowledge that sends you over the edge?”
“All I know is one day we’re riding our bikes and the next day, I’m at her funeral. I have a dream where Nicole’s alive and we’re playing in the lot. Then she rides off alone and I’m stuck in a ditch so I can’t follow her and she leaves with saying goodbye. Then, I turn into a crawfish and there’s crawfish all around my feet, except y'all are the crawfish.”
“Even Vail?”
“Yeah, he’s a fat crawfish. And y'all are shooting into your little crawfish holes because you know a hurricane’s coming. Then a hurricane does come and I’m immobile. I want to curl my crawfish tail and shoot into the mud hole with you guys, but I can’t. I don’t know what to make of it.”
“Weird. Now I'm hungry for crawfish." She smiled with sincerity. "Look, something horrible happened to Nicole. People do terrible things and your brain is wired to protect itself. The electrical impulses up there are being rerouted around the memory of Nicole’s death. You’re not ready to remember that evil. We see other evils every day. Take Vail, well, he’s just sinister. Paw Paw was practically the devil. And seeing Paw Paw actually die, I’m going to be having my own bad dreams for a while.”
“I know Dad wants you to talk to Elaine about that, but even though I don’t have your genius IQ, you can talk to me about it - anytime.”
She put her hand in his as she leaned on his shoulder. She didn’t want to talk anymore, but she didn’t want him to leave, either.
Please post a comment if you like.
Saturday, July 3, 2010
The Creative Process
A lot of people have asked me how I find the ideas for my novels and the process that gets me to a full length book. It has to be different for every writer, but in my case, I take several factors into account.
First, know what you like and what excites you, because if you lose interest half way through, you're done. I like to think of an overall concept or the big picture and if I think it is interesting, then I break it down into an idea - a specific idea. Then, I need a beginning, middle and climax.
If I can get that far, then a main character has to be developed. Who is this going to happen to. He or she has to be likable and has to have flaws. They need a personal life and they need conflict. If a reader doesn't care about your character then they don't care what happens to them. I make a list, create some names and make some general points of personality and looks.
Create the outline. Like I said, you need the start, middle and end. From there, I interject moments, situations and plot specific points that need to happen to reach the conclusion. This is the hard part because you don't want any boring, non-related paragraphs that the reader will want to skim over. It might be fine to do for a fully developed story at first, but I tend to weed them out in the final editing.
Plus, the outline is usually trash half way into the book. Things change. My characters start making decisions for themselves and I can't help it. Once your characters are developed, they will write themselves and then your story will start taking a tangent, but its very important that if you slice, you curve back to the main thread of your story.
If you find you have a rough draft of your novel at the ready. Try this, go into the first few chapters and find a spot where you can start the novel and cut out the original beginning. Most times, my introductory beginnings can be assimilated into the following chapters and if I find a place where intrigue or action starts, then that's where you want to be in chapter one, line one.
Finally, edit - edit - edit. Every few months, go back and read it as if you had bought the book and edit. And finally, this was very unexpected; with every one of my novels, I've found that X-factor idea, that glue or uniting concept that had been missing long after I thought the book was finished. It's like a light goes on and then after incorporating that, I feel I've finally finished.
First, know what you like and what excites you, because if you lose interest half way through, you're done. I like to think of an overall concept or the big picture and if I think it is interesting, then I break it down into an idea - a specific idea. Then, I need a beginning, middle and climax.
If I can get that far, then a main character has to be developed. Who is this going to happen to. He or she has to be likable and has to have flaws. They need a personal life and they need conflict. If a reader doesn't care about your character then they don't care what happens to them. I make a list, create some names and make some general points of personality and looks.
Create the outline. Like I said, you need the start, middle and end. From there, I interject moments, situations and plot specific points that need to happen to reach the conclusion. This is the hard part because you don't want any boring, non-related paragraphs that the reader will want to skim over. It might be fine to do for a fully developed story at first, but I tend to weed them out in the final editing.
Plus, the outline is usually trash half way into the book. Things change. My characters start making decisions for themselves and I can't help it. Once your characters are developed, they will write themselves and then your story will start taking a tangent, but its very important that if you slice, you curve back to the main thread of your story.
If you find you have a rough draft of your novel at the ready. Try this, go into the first few chapters and find a spot where you can start the novel and cut out the original beginning. Most times, my introductory beginnings can be assimilated into the following chapters and if I find a place where intrigue or action starts, then that's where you want to be in chapter one, line one.
Finally, edit - edit - edit. Every few months, go back and read it as if you had bought the book and edit. And finally, this was very unexpected; with every one of my novels, I've found that X-factor idea, that glue or uniting concept that had been missing long after I thought the book was finished. It's like a light goes on and then after incorporating that, I feel I've finally finished.
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