Surviving the Monsters

The world is full of monsters. We know this. We don’t like it necessarily, but we acknowledge it. In fact, monsters are fodder for a vast amount of our literature—writers from Bram Stoker to Poe to King and on and on have used up boatloads of ink telling us about monsters. Monsters intrigue and beguile us every bit as much as they frighten.

Monsters, however, are often adept at concealing themselves from ordinary folk. They don’t all have a pair of fangs or 12-inch talons or laser-breath capable of melting an aircraft carrier into a pile of sludge. The worst monsters, in fact, are those whom we instinctively trust, those we even rely upon for our very lives…until they strike.

Award-winning author Elizabeth Rowan Keith has just published a short ebook about such a monster, or, rather, a pair of them. It’s about a young girl’s surviving this malevolent duo and, by doing so, becoming stronger than both of them. With a little help from some extraordinary people and a mantra taken from a nursery rhyme, she survives the abuse and grows into adulthood a strong woman.

I don’t want to spoil the book any more than I must, so I’ll just say that Ashes, Ashes, Don’t Fall Down is a must read for everyone who has made it through childhood and for those who are still struggling. Dr. Keith has a knack for engaging and holding onto the reader until that very last period and Ashes won’t disappoint you.

You can find a link to her newest offering as well as her earlier works at www.novemberfirstpublications.weebly.com

Chekhov's Gun

If you introduce a cannon into the first chapter, you better have fired the thing by the end of the book.

That principle, known as Chekhov’s Gun, is an element that too many beginning writers either do not know or, worse, do not care about. The concept was named after the Russian playwright Anton Chekhov.

I want to talk about Chekhov’s Gun, though, rather than the man himself. What does it mean? Why is it important? Is it graven in stone?

First, exactly what is it? To quote the ubiquitous Wikipedia, "Chekhov's gun is a metaphor for a dramatic principle concerning simplicity and foreshadowing."  It sets the reader up for some sort of dramatic surprise and causes himer to anticipate it. It also forces the writer to consider if what hesh is introducing is really necessary.

 

So what? Why does it matter? Quite simply, if you introduce a major plot point into your book but don't use it, you will only leave your reader confused and disappointed, and mark yourself as an amateur.

Think about it. You’re writing a book about, say, the FBI and you talk about this nifty new technology they’re just bringing online, say a transporter beam to move agents here and there almost instantaneously. So many newbie writers will make a grand introduction of its existence…and then hardly ever mention it again, if ever. They’ll just leave us readers hanging.

Makes you wonder what was the point So the Feebs have this marvelous new toy. So what? Do they actually use it? If so, how did it work—or, for that matter, did it work at all? Against whom did they use it and why? What happened next?

See my point? The author titillates us with this technology but then seems to forget about it. And that, in my opinion, is just plain rude and unconcerned about the reader. It’s also the mark of a rookie.

So, if you introduce some big plot element, use it ere reaching “The End.” It’s only the polite thing to do.

With that said, is the principle inviolate or is there some wiggle-room? Well, like most things, of course there are times when violating the rules are not only appropriate but enhance the story even more. It can make a wonderful red herring. Let’s go back to that transporter beam. Our illustrious author may introduce it to send the hapless reader off on a wild goose chase while the real story continues on apace.

The Feebs are investigating the criminal shenanigans of Monster Corporation and are naturally keeping it as hush-hush as they can. Makes sense, right? But the CEO and lawyers of the corporation are canny and quite suspicious, even paranoid, thus placing the investigation (and the investigators) in peril. So, the Feebs make a huge, boasting announcement of this wonderful new transporter beam…but it’s all just a ruse. There is no beam. It’s intended only to throw Monster Corporation off the scent.

We readers, being caught up in the story, are dragged into the ruse, as well. We are looking forward to seeing the thing in action and we forget about the real purpose of the story: the investigation into Monster Corporation. We’re hoodwinked just like the corporate bad-guys.

And we love it. It adds a delicious taste of spice to the story. The author broke the rule, but, in doing so, wrote a story worth the read.

Understand, though, that the writer absolutely must use that cannon in some way by the end of the story, even if just a few words at the end explaining it was all a con. That’s the important part.

Guest post: “Translating the Essence” by Anna Scott Graham

Sometime ago, I wrote about why I chose to walk this often-times difficult path as a writer.  Those were my reasons, but, like every human endeavor, one person’s reasons for doing something isn’t necessarily another’s—we are, after all, individuals. I thought it would be interesting to invite other writers to talk about why they chose to become scribblers and Anna Scott Graham was kind (or foolish) enough to answer my call. Thank you, Anna, for agreeing to be my guinea pig in this—with luck, yours will be only the first of many.

I’ve read some of Anna’s work. She’s very good and I am proud to invite her to this blog.

She describes herself as “[a] California native, [who] lived in Yorkshire, England for eleven years, where a love of writing took root, as well as an appreciation for hot tea. After her first novel was published by a small press in 2009, she independently published The War On Emily Dickinson in 2011. A poet, music lover, gardener, baseball fan, and chocolate connoisseur, she is married and a mother to several.”

Translating the Essence

by Anna Scott Graham

Since I started writing with more than half an idea of what I was doing, I was fully aware of being led to the story and subsequent words by a muse; sometimes it’s music, sometimes it’s a current event. Sometimes it’s no more than a glance from a beloved, poking at something within my heart that comes alive, via a writer’s mind. I can’t help that, I was born with it. It’s like a musician or painter driven to sketch a sky or play a melody. It’s the way I breathe, through language, expressing emotion and plot via paragraphs and scenes and chapters.

Now, anyone can write words in correct order to make some sort of sense. Writing fiction is feeling a story within my veins, as a sculptor might ache to display a body or item through clay. It’s explaining what stirs my heart and soul, and takes up a considerable amount of gray matter; translating the essence, I coin it. But it’s not just revealing that story, it’s accepting that for as perfect as I want the tale to be told, I’m just a human being, imperfect, flawed. If I waited to release what is pounding within my arteries, I wouldn’t spin a single yarn.

Several drafts exist between crafting an initial idea and publishing a finished piece, be it an epic novel or short story. Yet with each round of revisions, the truer product emerges, as if being chiseled from stone. But a fine line wafts through the creative process, as if too much simmering spoils the broth. I am not a writer who labors intensely over every single word; I trust the muse, regardless of its form, to guide me correctly, and to protect me during every stage of the process.

 

Artists are special folk; we are susceptible to lags in spark, to criticism, to misunderstanding. The true artist longs to speak their mind, hoping to catch a few appreciative ears, but acknowledging not all will be open to our vision. And that vision has to remain fluid, for it changes, sometimes within the first draft, sometimes later on.

 

Sometimes that initial speck of story mutates into a completely altered tale, and that’s all right; it was meant to be something other than what was initially envisioned. The essence might be hidden under many layers of time, experiences, and skill. Stories I wrote years ago might have no other purpose except to enhance further tales, which could be simply to bolster my talent so X amount of years later I’m sitting once again, typing moods and settings and dialogue.

I’ve been at this long enough, with several drafts under my belt, to know not every story is meant for public consumption. But that doesn’t undermine its purpose; a writer’s essence is explored with every sentence completed. That takes bravery, to write for perhaps no discernible reason other than to write. An authentic writer knows that sense of needing to spill words onto paper, virtual or made from trees. Something aches to be said, a topic requires attention, or just a fleeting sense of this is who I am, right now.

 

Translating the essence can be as personal as a haiku. Or it can be as lengthy as a five-novel series. But it can be done in either, what should never be forgotten. Ideas should never be discounted, for upon one blooms another, spreading to further notions, which bleed into a plethora of thoughts, feelings, truths.

Even if they are rooted in fiction.

 

My biggest writing truth is that I am but the hands of a greater goal. What pours from my sometimes weary fingers isn’t to be silenced. It should be read over, scrutinized, altered. But to halt writing for fear of ridicule would be criminal, for I have something to say, explore, understand.

What I write today might only lie as the foundation of some other plot. But the human condition requires compassion, which in this somewhat civilized world carries a greater need than ever before. Art tempers the bubbling rage, explains the tragedies.

The essence asks only for my compliance. The results are far beyond my talents. I write, then trust. Then move on to the next fascinating topic that captures my attention.

Why I *don't* read your ebooks

I love to read. I’ve been doing so, to paraphrase my Drill Sergeant from Basic Training, “since Custer was a corporal.” Well, maybe not that long, but ever since I was a small boy. I consider myself an expert in the field and have read most genres.

Most of the ebooks I download are so poorly written that I can survive only a few pages before my eyes start bleeding and my brain threatens to severely hurt me if I don’t stop. In short, I just wind up tossing the thing into the recycle bin unread.

And that’s really too bad because some of them have a great deal of promise. Their failing is that they are too convoluted or the grammar and spelling and punctuation are simply repulsive. Either way, I toss ‘em.

With that said, understand that I can, and do, tolerate minor gaffes (we all suffer the plague of the occasional typo, even the masters). Minor mistakes escape even the most eagle-eyed proofreader. The problem is when those minor errors become too numerous or too egregious.

Life is just far too short to waste any of it trying to figure out what some uncaring or ignorant semiliterate is trying to say. There are just too many well-written books to be discovered and reveled in.

This leads me to ask a question: why do you write? What do you want to achieve with all that arduous and sometimes agonizing work? I’m not looking for the common reasons such as “to make money” (yeah, as if indie authors are all rich snobs) or “to become famous” (same rationale), but why, at the core of it, do you write?

I do so for a number of reasons. I write because putting words on paper fulfills something within me. I write to explore emotions or human existence or simply to entertain. Most of us do. But even that’s not the underlying purpose. We write to communicate something to others. That’s the crux, the foundation for putting all that ink onto paper. Minus that, we wouldn't bother.

And readers read because they want to see our message, whatever it is. That’s the way of it. Whether that something is an exposé of the latest political shenanigans or how to succeed in whatever or simply to be entertained by the antics of the latest crop of zombies, vampires, and other beasties that go bump in the night, people read our work to “hear” our message.

We have an obligation, then, to our readers to present our case to them in such a way that they can understand us. That means we must—we absolutely must—adhere to the established norms of grammar, punctuation, and spelling (actual or contextual). If we don’t do that rigorously, if we simply rely on spell-check (that and grammar-check are surely the work of the devil and the very worst things ever foisted off on us), if we don’t bother re-reading and checking our writing for ourselves (or at least hiring a competent editor to do it for us), then we have failed in our goal to communicate. Just that.

We have failed ourselves as communicators and we have failed our readers who really do want to see what we have to say—they did just buy our book, after all. Readers will remember that and will simply not bother spending their money on us. Gods know there are plenty other authors out there to sample.

If we write fiction, poorly written books also fail our characters. They have stories to tell and if people won’t read those stories, then those characters might as well have never bothered telling them in the first place.

Now, if you’re writing in dialect (such as my recent book Tales of the Painted Door II: Wallace), that’s different, but even dialect has rules and if those rules are violated, then we have again failed miserably.

If you don’t know the proper use of a word or when to put a comma, that’s what competent editors are for. Even more important, you can learn these things. There are any number of texts and resource materials covering all aspects of spelling, grammar, and punctuation, some of them even online. All you need to do is take the time and find the gumption to get them, read them, and learn them. It’s not that difficult.

I’m sure there are those who will call me a grammar-nazi. First, that is a silly term, coined by those who have absolutely no idea what a real Nazi was. Second, if my demanding that writers follow simple rules so as to make their message clear (regardless of the message they deliver), then I will gladly ‘fess up to being one. It saddens me to see so many who apparently don’t care enough about their readers—some of these people even brag about never using punctuation because “it’s boring”—and they foist their illiterate garbage off onto us and expect us to actually pay money for the privilege.

So, if you are thinking I am angry, you're right. I am angry…and disappointed that so many otherwise compelling and worthy stories wind up in the trash just because the writer didn't take the time to learn the how of writing before publishing.

Slainte.

A Muse By Any Other Name

Let’s talk about writer’s block and muses. First, writer’s block, as a phenomenon afflicting writers of all types, has been done pretty much to death, but I don’t think anyone has examined it from the muse viewpoint. Maybe it should be in light of the close relationship between writers and muses.

Writers and other artistic folk—well, a goodly number of them, at any rate—firmly believe in muses. Now, they may pay homage to one of the classical muses (who is, more or less, associated with the particular artist’s medium) or they may have a muse of their own devising. I don’t think that matters, really. I think the muses, like the gods, understand human individuality and plain orneriness. So, whichever muse has been ascribed classically to one's art doesn’t really care whether we call her Terpsichore, Calliope, Erato, Melpomene, or any of their sisters, or not. We could just as easily call them Fred or Wilma or Catfish if we wished and they’d understand…and still treat us as tools they could haul out at their whim.

The particular name doesn’t matter. It’s the attending them when they whisper to us that is the crux of the matter. In an email to a writer friend, I said my own muse is a butterfly, and so she seems to be. She flits around from writer to writer, settling down for an eyeblink and whispering lightly into the writer’s ear, seducing himer with her song.

If that hapless writer fails to hear or doesn’t write her song down, she just flutters off to the next ear. If, however, the writer’s ears perk up and hesh stumbles half-blindedly to the nearest computer, notebook, or piece of scrap paper and begins to put the muse’s words to paper (electronic or wood-pulp being completely irrelevant), that muse may decide to tarry awhile and tell more, sometimes the whole story.

I fear that, usually, that mischievous lady will tell just enough to cause the writer to fully involve himerself in the story, then to drop himer like a no-longer-wanted lover and flit off to a new set of ears and hands.

This leaves our jilted writer in mid-stroke, as it were. The words just stop coming; sometimes the entire thrust of the story is lost. The writer can, of course, try to soldier on and bang something out, to salvage what hesh can of it, or can simply put it aside until—and if—that fickle lady muse visits himer again.

The writer finds himerself effectively blocked and utterly unable to proceed until inspiration in the form of hiser muse visits again. Sure, some writers can—or say they can—stimulate their thoughts and crank out the story in any number of ways, but I think all the writer in those instances are doing is finding ways to entice hiser muse to come back and whisper a bit more. Too many of us, though, can’t summon our muse (or inspiration, if that’s what you choose to call it) on demand. It’s all but impossible to herd butterflies, y’see.

So it is with me. Even now, with this blog entry. I had a rush of words and ideas, but was unable to capture nearly enough of them to make any sort of sense with this. True, I have an excuse: it’s extremely difficult to retain the focus needed to write when alarms are going off almost constantly and my job is to investigate each one and take appropriate action (which is, usually, to just turn the bloody things off). Maybe having to do this annoyed my muse enough that she took off to find a more attentive host. I feel the loss.

So, that butterfly nature of the muses may very well explain why we writers sometimes stumble and lose the thread of what we’re trying to say and we either push something through (because of publisher’s deadlines, perhaps, or pride or ego) or we set the piece aside with some excuse such as we need to do more research or the light’s wrong or it’s too cold or hot or there are too many distractions.

Oh, we solemnly promise ourselves we’ll get back to it just as soon as inspiration slams us upside the head again, and some of us actually do. Sometimes the muse will strike in a dream that fully explains what we are trying to say and then we feverishly attack our word processors to get those precious words down. Sometimes, lady muse will visit us again whilst we’re doing some mindless activity such as watching television or simply meditating.

And sometimes that won’t happen until months or years later. For instance, I began my story Alysse several years ago. The opening scenes presented themselves almost orgasmically, so powerful, complete, and seemingly unending. Then they just stopped. No more, not even a glimmer.

I tried over the years to revisit the story, but my mind was a total blank…until one day that ol’ muse sat herself down on my left shoulder and began to whisper to me, or maybe it was Alysse herself. It doesn’t matter, the lady’s identity. And the story that came out was absolutely nothing like I’d envisioned it all those years ago. This new Alysse revealed her utter and total humanity, and she made sure I heard her real story.

That happened again just recently, with my new addition to my Tales from the Painted Door series. This one, Wallace, began just like Alysse did: with an outburst of words and a smattering of ideas, but with no visible conclusion. There was—or would be—conflict aplenty, although I had no idea at the time just what that would be, but the resolution of that conflict was completely hidden.

The Muse flitted off.

I set Wallace aside for another day…and that day arrived less than a week ago in the form of a dream, or at least those almost subconscious thoughts that come to us as we are drifting off to sleep or just departing into wakefulness. Wallace’s story finished itself.

All I did was write the words. That’s all we writers do, really: just write down the words our muse whispers to us.

Wallace is now available for you to read. You’ll find him on our website, www.novemberfirstpublications.weebly.com. The book’s complete title is Tales from The Painted Door II: Wallace.

And I think the muse stuck with me with this blog post, too. I am grateful to her for that.

Slainte.

Price Reduction

We all know that a good book is often just the perfect gift for someone. We also like to save money when we can. Retailers know this, which is why they have big sales after major holidays. The problem is that those sales happen after the holiday, which means we're able to buy gifts for next year, but we're stuck this year.

Once we buy these sale items, we must then store them away until the holiday rolls around again, which risks the gift's getting damaged or lost in the meantime. Nice for the seller as hesh can get rid of excess stock easily and still realize a profit. Not so nice for us, the buyer, when you consider the risks.

How about a sale before the holiday? How about helping customers save a bit of money this year as a token of your appreciation for their business? Well, that's what I've done with my books: put 'em on sale now, before the holiday. To show my appreciation to those who have purchased my books, I've reduced the prices on most of those books by as much as 50%. Not all of them, but some.

I'm sure business experts are shaking their heads at my ignorance of common business practices. That's okay. They are free to shake their heads as much as they like. This isn't for them or "accepted business wisdom." This is for you, my readers. This is my way of thanking you.

This isn't just another time- or quantity-limited gimmick, either, nor do you need some coupon to realize the savings. The prices won't automatically go up after some arbitrarily decided date. You can realize these savings now or anytime in the future, and they apply to everyone.

Please visit November First Publications, where you can easily link to either Smashwords or Amazon for the Kindle.

Thank you for your purchases this year and may all of you have a wonderful and joyous winter holiday.

Saorsa,
Dave Keith

Three more from November First Publications

In my last post, I introduced Elizabeth Rowan Keith's Blood Moon, which was sort of a halloween story, as well as the first in a series of planned short stories based upon the wheel of her spiritual year. In time for winter's cruelty, cold, and isolation, Dr. Keith has written a follow-up, again featuring the point of view of the protagonist in Moon. Titled Yule at My Feet, her new book continues the story of the Woman Tree (the title's mine, by the way) as the forest deepens into winter.

I don't want to spoil her story, but the reader will find it every bit as poignant and compelling, and enlightening, as Blood Moon. Dr. Keith didn't stop with just one story for the season, though. Nope. Never one to rest on her laurels, she and her muse went on to craft a fascinating remake of a cherished tale from childhood.

Fools Rush Inn is absolutely a must read for those who are astute and appreciate subtlety. It's a fascinating tale in its own right, but Dr. Keith also leaves tantalizing clues as to the story's antique progenitor. Somewhere along the trail, the discerning reader will experience that delicious "Aha!" moment as the lights come on and they realize just exactly what they've been reading. When I read it the first time, I was captivated utterly and knew here was a tale for the ages. I think you will agree.

Finally, in this season of solitude, I offer my own tiny yarn. Mine is one of sadness and loss - as so many of my stories are, it seems - but also of hope reborn and purpose rediscovered. It's called The Road to Tucson. I hope you come away from it with the realization that, despite the "slings and arrows of bitter fortune," the Universe does sometimes give us a second chance.

To purchase any of these books, click the links at the November First Publications website, then select either the "Books" page or one of our personal pages. As always, we both ask you to then take a few minutes after reading the books to write a short review of them. We really do appreciate knowing what our readers think of our work. If you're a writer, you know all too well how helpful to our future works that can be.

Finally, I wish to remind you that you can sign up for email notification of new posts to this blog. Just type your email address into the box and click the "Submit" button. It's really quite painless. I should remind you that I will never share your email address with anyone without your express consent. That's just not the way I operate and I find the practice of selling email addresses to marketers repugnant. And, of course, it costs you nothing but a tiny bit of time.

Saorsa,
David H. Keith