I wrote a chapter that needed our group to fend off bad guys in order to facilitate a rescue. I thought it would need lots of blood and violence in order to create tension and urgency. I failed miserably. I am not a guns and knives person and neither are my characters. I took myself, and them, completely out of our comfort zone. It wasn't me and it wasn't them and that was obvious.
Our shtick is funny, a bit bumbling, but not ridiculous. That was what I was afraid of, I didn't want my characters to be ridiculous, cartoonish,or I Love Lucy'ish. I didn't want it to be predictable. I wanted the reader to feel like one of the good guys may not make it out alive.
I got tons of great feedback from my writer's group. It never ceases to amaze me how much talent there is in those groups. They take great interest in helping me to be better, to make my book better. Everyone shows up with the intention of getting help, and giving help, in equal measure. I take their advice quite seriously. They agreed, to the last person, that I did not stay true to my characters nor did I make the struggle believable.
To make it all work then, I've decided to create new bad guys. My characters could not overcome the previous bad guys without getting themselves killed, so I'm giving them more manageable bad guys. Is that cheating? Perhaps, but then, I'm guessing that other authors create their bad guys to suit their protagonists too. After all, how brave James Bond is, is in direct proportion to how crazed the megalomaniacs he faces are. Without Lex Luthor, Superman would be merely, Kindofcoolman. Pit those villains against Nancy Drew, however, and she would not have lived long enough to need a bra.
I'll be spending a few hours visualizing bad guys that are not very good at their job.
Should they be too old? Too fat? Too stupid? Too unmotivated? All, or none, of the above? This is going to be much more fun.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
The mechanics of creativity
I haven't written on here in donkey's years because I'm pretty sure no one reads them, but since I need to say this somewhere, I'm saying it here.
I broke my left hand a couple of weeks ago and have to type with my eyes on the keyboard, pecking away with two fingers. I cannot write my book this way.
The part of my brain that is looking for the keys is like a Suma wrestler, sitting on the part of my brain that wants me to be clever and witty. Poor little creative quadrant is squished against my skull, kicking its legs and gasping for breath, while giant, hunt and peck quadrant, is grunting and sweating his way across the keyboard, his indecently covered backside flatulating on my prose.
Remember, those of you who were alive when Kennedy was shot, taking typing class in high school? We learned to put our fingers on ASDF and JKL;, and, with eyes on our books, type out now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their party? Little did I know then that those lessons would ingrain themselves into my involuntary brain and become as natural as finding my mouth with a french fry.
I played the flute in Junior High and High School but it would take a great deal of effort for me to name the notes on a scale, concentrating on, All Good Boys Deserve Fudge, and quarter note, half note, etc. However, if I pick up a flute, I can look at a sheet of music, and my fingers, and tongue, will produce Greensleves with uncanny precision.
I've started writing now with pen and paper, and am able to produce some pretty good stuff, if only I could read it back to myself the next day. Apparently, my fingers are playing a game of, Nice to have you back. What do you think of your fancy schmantz typing now, miss, I'm too good for pens?
Four more weeks of that and I shall have to go back to typing about the quick brown fox and lazy dog, eyes forward on the screen, waiting for the bell to ring.
I broke my left hand a couple of weeks ago and have to type with my eyes on the keyboard, pecking away with two fingers. I cannot write my book this way.
The part of my brain that is looking for the keys is like a Suma wrestler, sitting on the part of my brain that wants me to be clever and witty. Poor little creative quadrant is squished against my skull, kicking its legs and gasping for breath, while giant, hunt and peck quadrant, is grunting and sweating his way across the keyboard, his indecently covered backside flatulating on my prose.
Remember, those of you who were alive when Kennedy was shot, taking typing class in high school? We learned to put our fingers on ASDF and JKL;, and, with eyes on our books, type out now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their party? Little did I know then that those lessons would ingrain themselves into my involuntary brain and become as natural as finding my mouth with a french fry.
I played the flute in Junior High and High School but it would take a great deal of effort for me to name the notes on a scale, concentrating on, All Good Boys Deserve Fudge, and quarter note, half note, etc. However, if I pick up a flute, I can look at a sheet of music, and my fingers, and tongue, will produce Greensleves with uncanny precision.
I've started writing now with pen and paper, and am able to produce some pretty good stuff, if only I could read it back to myself the next day. Apparently, my fingers are playing a game of, Nice to have you back. What do you think of your fancy schmantz typing now, miss, I'm too good for pens?
Four more weeks of that and I shall have to go back to typing about the quick brown fox and lazy dog, eyes forward on the screen, waiting for the bell to ring.
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