The Word Cloud

I find that I write scenes from my book which I don't intend to include in it. These are usualy back story, which I need to explore but wont necessarily end up as being more than a one line reference in the finished book, if that. I just find it helps to develop the motivation of my characters.

Below is one I wrote today, which happens in the boyhood of one my secondary main character. As the book is told from the POV of my female MC, who wasn't born when this took place, I don't think I can use it in my book - although I am tempted to have it as a kind of after thought at the end, as it lays out the fundemntal reason why the character reacts as he does in later life. Anyway, here it is - would be interested to hear what you do for your book, which remains unseen.



 

The ice cart guy comes round the corner of the street. It’s hot, and the lull in the afternoon has been waiting for him. Heads pop up from their refuges in the shade, and there is a flurry of activity as kids run in to beg for quarters. Those with enough foresight to be prepared, clutched coins in hot fists and start to gather on the sidewalk.

            ‘Lemon ice,’ the shout goes up. ‘Lemon ice, cherry lemon ice, I got lemon ice.’

On another day, Gregory might have done the same. He looks up and watches the man make his entrance into the street, but he’s not getting up today. The arrives of the iceman, makes him stiffen and tense on his stoop. Next to him, his friend Petrov stiffens also, giving himself away as his foot jiggles nervously on the step.

            Gregory is too old to show his desire for ice so freely, but it’s not just that which makes him grit his teeth, rather than run down. Two days ago, he fought Michael Savo for the right to walk Mary O’Toole home from school, and he’d won. The Italian boys all loved her, because she was Catholic but fair, with her cascade of red curls and the freckles across the bridge of her nose. Gregory wasn’t a Catholic; his mother was Jewish and his father drank, but that didn’t stop him wanting to walk Mary home and carry her books. When he did, had been king for a day.

            Michael had older brothers, as did Gregory, but Michaels older brothers were going to be told of the insult. Michael and his older brothers, Paul and Andrew, could now be seen, entering the street behind the lemon iceman.

            Petrov wasn’t going to be much help. He was younger than Gregory, he only tolerated him because he was another Russian boy in the block; and his older brothers were off on their own concerns. He looked grimly down at Petrvo, thinner, lighter and fair as an alter boy. Petrov tried to give him a reassuring grimace in return, but his face was bleached with fear.

            ‘Yo’, you there?’ Paul Savo shouted as they passed the ice seller and came closer to Gregory’s stoop. ‘Yo’, red, you up there?’ Gregory looked at Petrov again, and, clasping his firsts to his sides, stoop up to face them.

Gregory had begun to grow at an alarming rate since the start of the year, his mother was always telling him how shocked she was at his increasing height. He was taller than Michael Savo, and looking down on the three of them, he tried to imagine that he was as tall as his oldest brother, Demitre, who was not there.

            ‘You – you knocked my kid brother down.’ Paul stated; his thin, adolescent arms crossed across his chest, in the manner of a man much older. He was wearing a red shirt, with the sleeves rolled up, and his thick, black hair was collar length at the back.

            ‘So?’ Gregory said, hoping that his monosyllabic response would indicate confidence, not the fear he felt inside.

            ‘He’s just a little kid, what, you some kind of animal, you commie bastard?’ Gregory was momentarily impressed to hear Paul use such an adult word. Bizzarely, he drew strength from it.

            ‘So what? I knock you down too.’ Paul’s voice was lyrically Italian, in comparison; Gregory thought his voice sounded stilting and guttural. He could speak English pretty well, better than his parents, but still he couldn’t understand most of what was said by his teachers at school. Still, he sat at the back, and looked out of the window, unless Mary was reading to the class.

            ‘You come down here and say that!’ Paul demanded. Drawn by the noise, some of the neighbourhood kids were starting to wander over, some with ices in hand. Gregory folded his arms now, to mimic Paul, and stated as boldly as he could.

            ‘I hit you, wop.’ He uses the word his father had used, and he could see Paul and his brother’s flinch at it. He expects them to rush him now, drag him from the stoop and start to beat him. He braces himself  - but their upturned faces go from outrage, to submission.

            In the same second that Paul un-crossed his arms and, flapping the air with is hand, turned away from Gregory; in the same second Gregory felt a rush of exhilaration at his assumed victory; a great hand closes on his shoulder.

            Petrov jumps up, and half trips himself down the stoop with the scramble to get away, and Gregory turns to see his father behind him.

            ‘Get in here boy!’ His father snarls, and, knowing that it’s too late to run, Gregory gives the stoop, the street and the watching chorus of kids a final glance, before submitting to his fate.

            His father drags him from the asphalt heat, into the dim, stuffy hallway, which smells of wood polish and paint. He can’t see much in the gloom, his eyes have been sun washed half blind by the stand off; but as he stumbles up the stairs, his vision returns.

            His father is wearing check pants and a white vest, and Gregory knows he has been drinking. He always drinks, what matters now is how much. It’s three o’clock, so things were either going to be good, or they weren’t. Any later in the day, and he would have been doomed, but there is still hope.

            His father shoves him into their apartment, and Gregory sees his mother’s pale, concerned face for an instant, before he’s in the lounge.

            ‘Have you been doing it again?’ His Father demands, speaking in Russian as he always does.

            ‘Doing what, papa?’

            ‘That old Irish bitch upstairs, she said that Russian boys have been knocking at her door again. Russian boys she said, like we were niggers!’

            ‘No papa.’

            ‘No?’ His father jabs his finger in Gregory’s face.

            ‘Sasha, Sasha he’s said.’ Gregory’s mother puts her hand on her husbands arm. She’s wearing a blue dress with a white collar and she looks tired. ‘He said it was not him.’

            ‘Who was it boy? Was it your brothers?’

            ‘Yes papa, it was them.’ Gregory knows it was them. They should be too old for such childish stunts, but they had done it anyway. His father starts unbuckling his belt. All the bravado of the stoop leaves Greogory, his face is like Petrovs.

            ‘No papa, please, it was them, it was!’ He cries.

            ‘Sasha please!’ His mother tried again, but his father pulls away from her and shouts,

            ‘That old Irish bitch thinks we are no better than niggers; she thinks I have no control in my house.’ Now he’s pointing at himself, ‘I come here, to be called a Polack and a nigger by these peasants?’

            ‘But it wasn’t him!’ His mother says again.

            ‘No,’ his father pushes her, so she staggers back a few steps, ‘but he is here.’

            ‘Don’t you lay hand to me!’ his mother pushes her husband back, though the impact hardly moves him.

            ‘Go to the shop!’ Sasha retorts, ‘and let me be man in my house!’

His mother looks at Greogory, and then she fetches her purse from the side table, and leaves. The apartment door slams shut behind her. Turning back to his son, Sasha lowers his voice and says.

            ‘Listen to me, boy. You never forget, we are Russian. We never betray our brothers, and we never run from a beating.’ He takes his belt out of his trousers, and wraps the buckle end round his fist. ‘In this country, we are guilty.’ He says, ‘but if you are a man and take a beating, then the blows will always be less, than the ones your brothers give you, for betraying them.’

            Gregory turns his back on his father, and balls his fists to his sides again. He bites down as hard, as the belt sings through the air and cuts across his back.

            ‘Remember boy,’ his father’s effort makes the words catch in his chest. ‘The informer,’ Slap, ‘always,’ Slap, ‘gets whipped,’ Slap, ‘first.’

 

            After it’s over, his father gets him a soda from the icebox, and gives him a quarter to get a lemon ice. But the iceman has gone, when he gets back to the stoop.

 

It is strange how a chracter forms a voice of his own, in your mind, where it was created. I find myself debating on their personality every now and then, but I did not forsee them coming to reality. Now, they argue with me in their own voice, a with completely independent identity of their own! Here's what happened last night. A funny thing, but true! Please have a read and tell me I am not going mad!! http://smriti-solanki.blogspot.com/2011/04/arguing-with-my-character-well-i.html xxx

Last night, or more honestly very very early this morning, I finished reading the fourth Jane Austen novel of my collection, Persuasion. While it may have been around 1.30 - 2.00 am, my mind didn't want to sleep once my light was out and I found myself thinking about Captain Wentworth, the hero for those that have not read the book. I really liked his character and, I'll be honest, pretty much swooned when he professed his love for Anne in that letter :)

This led me to think about what I would say if I could bring him out of the book. Then I thought, yeah, Captain Wentworth is nice, but three books ago I gave my heart away to Mr Darcy - who wouldn't? - and figured if I had to chose I would vote Darcy over Wentworth.

But, the very early morning day-dreaming did not end there. Why limit myself to Austen charcaters? So, to round up my point, what I would like to ask the Cloudies is this: 'If you could, which character would you most like to meet in person and why?' It can be from absolutely any book, regardless of genre or era. The only limitation is, it can't be from your own novels or stories. We all must have at least one of our own characters we'd love to meet but that isn't allowed here!

After much delilberation, I personally settled on Frederick Garland from The Sally Lockhart Quartet. I reasoned that if I brought him here before book number 2 then he wouldn't be killed in that fire and my heart would not be broken.

So, feel free to post up your own character choice, or, if you don't share my slightly loopy thoughts, feel free to judge - Frederick and I won't mind :)

Sebastian Faulks is presenting a series on the novel, Saturday nights, and is taking the interesting approach of concentrating on characters rather than novelists. So far so good. He tends to start well in each programme, saying lots of sensible things about Robinson Crusoe, for instance, or Tom Jones. It’s when he gets close to the present that his mind seems to blur.

For instance, he ended the first programme – on The Hero – by considering the protagonist of Martin Amis’s novel, Money, John Self. (Geddit? He’s all Self.) Actually he isn’t even that. He’s just a tube along which pass drugs, alcohol and fast food in one direction, and semen, vomit etc in the other. What makes him heroic in the Faulks view? The vigour of his language – an idea which would have its merits, except John Self is too much of a moron to be capable of it. So whose language is it then? The author’s (hang on, I thought we weren’t considering them). In which case, who is the hero – Martin Amis or his moist and sprawling protagonist?

Don’t worry about the question too much, though, because Sebastian Faulks assures us at the end of the programme that heroes may have decamped to crime or children’s novels, “but for literary novels it’s over, the hero is dead, end of story.” How does he arrive at this clever but vacuous assertion? I think we may sniff the scent of historiography in this. He wants to sketch a story over time: decline and fall of the hero. He wants a ‘narrative arc’ stretching from admirable beginning to contemptible ending. He wants to arrive at the standard ‘nowadays-is-shit’ mantra.

However, that’s his problem, not ours. I would say the scope for heroes (male and female) is greater than ever now. Why? Because widespread education and tolerant attitudes allow us to learn far more about people than we might have done in the past. We can glimpse great triumphs in cramped spaces, noble struggles in impossible situations, uplifting compassion in the midst of oppression.

We can, of course, see plenty of unheroic things too. However, as my mum kept quoting at me: ‘Two look out from prison bars; one sees mud and the other sees stars.’ It’s up to us what we wish to focus on, but to say the hero is dead is to give the victory to mud. 

Have a look at this. It’s the final of the 1972 Olympic 800 metres race, and the guy in the golf cap at the back is a total no-hoper, not even in the same race as the rest. But keep watching. Who’s the hero by the end?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cwGxLfWSnEM

That, for me, is an image to bear in mind as I look about me at life’s no-hopers. The hero can take many forms, some of them highly unpromising.

            When one has a story to tell, it almost always involves people, or characters who make up the tale. A notable exception is Jack London’s The Call of the Wild where the main character is an animal. I have found that for my stories, the plot occurs first, then the people involved slowly reveal themselves. In some other cases, however, I have had an encounter with the character first, then they reveal the story to me. Either way, the people involved are always paramount. The question arises, however, whether the character should be completely fictitious or based loosely on an actual person?

            I see no cut and dry answer for this, as I have done both. Some actors in the works are completely original and exist in the story alone. I have had some, however, who have been shaped and modeled on people I have known. One of my favorite people of all time, my character Robert Latour, is based on a dear old man in John Knox Village. Another of mine, Richard Cacciare, is constructed from the actor William B. Davis, the infamous Cigarette Smoking Man from the series The X Files. I have used models for some of the women in my works as well. The girl at the end of Bleodsian is taken from two actual students I know at the university. Using character-models can be advantageous, so long as you do not lift that person from reality and drop them in your story. You cannot simple write about someone else’s life; merely let the person be a loose guide for you. You can certainly mimic their attire and persona, even copy some of their wardrobe habits, but do not take John Smith as he is and put him in your story. Think lawsuit on this one, especially if John Smith happens to act as my characters usually do!

            Others of my characters are derived from the inner layers of my mind. I admit I have a pretty basic stockpile of characters I use when writing. Most of my women tend towards this stockpiled model, relishing in their raven hair and ethereal appearance. My women usually are black haired, although Caroline Asher started out as a blond. For these women, think Sarah Brightman or especially, Tarja Tururen, from the band Nightwish. I default to these types, what more can I say. The men are typically older, perhaps middle-aged. I understand the need to diversify this collection, and I am working towards that goal with the introduction of new and younger individuals. I just completed An Unbinding Tie where the main individual is a young man, so I am making progress in that direction.  

            When choosing a person for a story, let your mind roam and allow the spirit of the story to work. You need not stalk people. Actually, please don’t. I will not bail you out of jail. Just let each encounter you have speak for itself. The character will say, when the time is right, “that is me.” Then you have a face to put with the idea. Again, no stalking or hunting. Do not take pictures or harass the person. If you know the person, ask them if it is alright if they “model” for you and allow you to probe their personality. Winston Groom, the author of Forest Gump had a close friend who embodied Gump for him, and it was from that friend that Groom got his idea for the ping-pong playing, shrimp boat steering character.

            Lastly, and most importantly, be certain that you limit your connection to the actual person. By this I mean, if you are writing a story which involves a person you know, make the character distanced from the actual person. The living model would not like being accused of something derogatory. Take the image and make it your own. Lawsuits can come out of an issue such as this, and you can be accused of libel. Watch yourself.

            As always, good luck writing!

             

You have a choice in front of you. Up to now you have found it easy to enjoy your fantasies of running away to sea, having adventures and finding your unicorn, so indulging them was harmless play, although irritating to others. Now that you are offered the real chance of escape and you are on the edge of a cliff, looking into a huge abyss, dare you jump? You're not a modern girl; you were born over three hundred years ago- your choices are limited!

Hang on, I am forgetting- you were in fact born not much more than a year ago, but I have come to know you, and for me, you are at least as real as any person that I see on screen. I should have complete power over you Tabitha, and can make you do whatever I like, but it doesn't seem that way. My freedom to make you do certain things is limited by the way I have already created you:- the more I write, the fewer choices I have. Just like you. Why then, is it so difficult for me to see how it ends. I left you sobbing, and asking “What shall I do, what shall I do?” Ok, I’m not sobbing, but I am asking the same question.

Speak to me Tabitha. Please. And soon.

This piece in the G-G-G-Guardian harps on about a pet peeve of mine: the ridiculous notion that characters have to be likeable in order for a writer to write a compelling novel.

The notion has two sources, I reckon. The first is book group chatter. People feel they don't like a book, can't quite locate the source of that feeling, so blame the characters as not being nice enough to share a dinner with.

The second is agents. They have a habit of saying things like: "Thanks for sending me your MS. I admired your writing, but I just didn't love the book - I felt I couldn't quite empathise with your protagonist."

In both cases, I think it's nonsense. It's easy to think of amazing fiction with orrible protagonists.

• Othello - bad guy, nice wife.
• Macbeth - bad guy, nasty wife.
• Hamlet - bad guy, bad mum.
• Lear - bad, mad guy.
• And in today's era the same thing: American Psycho, for example. ('Sorry, Mr Ellis, but I felt your portrayal of a typical Wall Street banker wasn't quite empathetic enough. Was it really necessary to have him saw up women with a chainsaw? Mightn't it be better to have him show an interest in home baking and charity work?')

All this is nonsense. Only one thing matters and that's the creation of an amazingly compelling story. A dash of nastiness somewhere in the story (either the hero or villain) is pretty much essential, as it happens. In 99% of cases when agents blame an insufficiently empathetic character, there's actually a solvable editorial deficiency in the writing, which the editor hasn't correctly identified. (Cos they're not a writer, and in most but not all cases, not a natural editor either).

Anyway. Rant over. Your turn. Rant away. Rant against my rant, or in favour. But toot your horn and have a say.

Selling your soul for a story?

I must say I feel right stupid at the moment.  I posted my first blog on WC this morning, then on coming back, I found it gone!!!! So, I have taken a little time to muster up courage to rewrite it.  I hope I get it right this time.

 

I read ‘Eat Pray Love’ last year after watching an Oprah interview with author Elizabeth Gilbert.  I generally like books from Oprah’s book club and so didn’t hesitate to climb into another one and I thoroughly enjoyed it, along with just about every other woman in the universe.

So, I have purchased ‘Committed’ with similar enthusiasm and finally found a gap to start it last night. It is quirky and personal and I like it.

But waking this morning, a small guilty voice suggested to rather leave it unfinished.  I felt a bit like I had stolen a glimpse of the intimate thoughts in a teenage diary, secreted away in the underwear draw, along with cigarettes and condoms! 

So, I pose the question: is it OK to sell your soul for a story? Or at least, how far is permissible?

This may seem a bit strange, especially considering that my WIP is also deeply personal about issues that are my reality: a women’s journey.  In my case, I have encapsulated my truths into a story very unlike my own.

I am in no way criticising Elizabeth Gilbert, she is very brave parading naked in every book store around the world, so why should her indiscretions concern me? OK, bad word, rather – why should her exposed vulnerability concern me?  Well, it does, maybe I’m projecting on myself, as I consider my own inner thoughts that may soon lay exposed, if not in being published, certainly to the queuing family and friends!

 I at am not completely dense,  each of us as writers, for all intent and purpose, write pieces of ourselves into our stories, if not directly definitely in spirit.  But I think this in itself strengthens the base of my question.

What do you think?

These past few weeks one of my characters has taught me something indispensable, (which I believe was painfully obvious all along) but at least I know it now.

I get very attached to my characters. My first ever major character that I stuck with for longer than a week, is named Willa. I have spent three years with her, staying up late scribbling down ideas, endless hours locked in my room and a whole load of arguments about whether it's worth it or not (not with her, obviously).

After 80,000 words, I decided to give it a rest so I could look at it with fresh eyes a few months later - which was a very hard decision. If I posted this anywhere else on the interweb than here, I fear no one would feel the same, but I know alot of people will. Reading Spangles' post about hugging her characters good luck before she sends them off into the world made me think about how much I miss her.

It has only been a few weeks, maybe not even that, but I really do miss all of my guys in my original manuscript.

However, in putting that to bed for a while, I have met someone new and her name is Darianne Swift. I realised that out of all of this, it really is okay to write another project and it doesn't mean you aren't still 100% committed to your original idea.

So, i'm going to spend some time with Dari and see what she has to say.

P.s, I plan to see Willa again when I come back from holiday in October. She'll be annoyed at me for keeping her quiet for that long, but we will have alot to catch up on :) x

It has been said that when it comes to sexual arousal, men act on what they can see and women on what they can feel. That is of course a huge sweeping statement and there may be exceptions for both sexes. However, when it comes to erotic writing, literature which is aimed at women is generally soft core which focuses on arousing the senses. Hard core erotica aimed at men often zooms in on the action with hardly any background, visual description, build of tension or attention to feelings. Women usually need the soft lighting, relaxing aromas and soft touches to build up arousal whereas men can go straight for the action. I suppose this is all biological, women are the child bearers and therefore need to be in touch with feelings, whereas the male is predominantly more interested in hunting and fire gazing! A predator with little use for roses and boxes of chocolates! We have established that the senses play a big part in arousing a woman. The literature should play on sights, sounds, smells and what she can hear, perhaps even taste in some cases. Bird song, a gurgling brook, lime blossom... These things create a whole world of feminine fantasy. Tension and back story are important in soft core erotica and I was made very aware of this recently when I read the work of another fellow eroticist. The story gave a good background into the character’s lives and their motives etc. It did not rush to the action but built up the tension slowly with vivid visual images of the characters and their gently unfolding passion for each other. It made me look at my own work and realise I wasn’t doing enough leg work. Reading back over some of my old stories I found that the ends came to abruptly leaving the reader feeling unsatisfied, whereas what I had read from another writer kept the tension going until the final crescendo. Characters need to be believable and not cardboard cut-outs! A woman reader may want to place herself in the shoes of your character and so the more you can say that she can relate to, the better. The reader looks for escapism and in my opinion erotica should be filled with glamour. The clothes should be expensive, elegant and sexy; the location should lend itself to sensuality, for example an Exotic Thai Spa retreat, Paris or Venice. All of these locations ooze romance and decadence. I’m not saying you should never write about the sweaty plumber in the damp London tenement, but good luck with it. I for one am not inspired to read on. My mind is already conjuring up the cockroaches and watching I don’t lie on the damp spot! So far I have looked at the requirements of different audiences. Another thing to be aware of in erotica is the terms used for body parts. I have discussed previously in my article The Mystery of Erotica, the use of the word c**t. I would definitely not expect, or want to see the word in soft porn though I know writers who do use it. In my opinion its use is bordering on degradation and has no place in erotic writing, mainly because it is a term of profanity. You won’t see dictionary technical terms for genitals in erotica! In soft porn more appropriate names vary from slang to metaphorical variants of what is being described. For example you might see the word pussy, slit, opening or innuendos such as lotus, snake, garden and so forth. Looking at the needs of the audience you are writing for is important with any genre and I hope that this has helped to highlight the ways men and women respond to erotic writing. www.blacknightjar.com