Science Fiction

One Writer’s Writing Secret 11: How to get to THE END.

M G Kizzia 2 Comments

            The one time I met Kurt Vonnegut, he was having a bad hair day.  To make matters worse, he just finished addressing an auditorium full of people and he confided to me that he thought he was invited to address a small class and if he had known he was going to have to give a lecture, he wouldn’t have come.  (I think I got that bit of confidence because I was Mount Everest to his Hillary:  I was there).  But it was a double-whammy.  A bad hair day and a bad mood!  Still, I was determined to mine this mind because I had a drawer full of started stories, started novels, started plays even, and nothing finished.  My great ideas always seemed to rise to the level of inefficiency and petered out (The Peter Principle)?

            I asked him.  “How do you finish?”  He stared at me with those droopy eyes and almost smiled while I frantically tried to rephrase the question so he would understand what I was really asking.  Fortunately, he smiled and spoke first.

            “I never think about finishing.”  He said.  When I was clearly stunned, he explained:

            Whenever he got a good idea, he would climb up into the attic room in his brownstone and lock the door.  People knew enough to stay away from him at those times.  He would stay up in that room for a long time, working.  Once, it was almost six months.  He said he spent all that time working on the first sentence.  (I translated that as the opening of the story), but he said, once he got the first sentence right, the rest just poured out of him.

            I nodded.  “So while you are working on that first sentence, your subconscious in the back of your mind is busy plotting out the story, characters and all.” 

            He frowned before admitting, “Probably, but I try not to analyze it too much.”

            I thought this was great advice at the time, and I soon added page after page of great opening sentences to my drawer of the unfinished.  Then I read Camus’ “The Plague,” and recognized the character who spent his whole life trying to write the perfect opening sentence, and he died, the plague of course, without having written a thing.

            It was not long after that I read an article about how a writer should always have an ending in mind before they ever start.  I thought that made sense.  Years later, I understand J. K. Rowling had the gist of the end in mind before she penned the first “Harry Potter.”  It is not a bad way to go, and given my imagination, I came up with all kinds of great endings.  The trouble was for some, I couldn’t find the beginning.  For others, the trail veered off and no matter what I did, it was determined to go nowhere near the end.  For still others, I could see the end on the horizon, shining like the proverbial city on the hill, but I was stuck in the swamp (bogged down) and could not find the path at all.

            Grrr!

            So someone told me I needed to outline the whole thing before I wrote a word.  We even worked with storyboards so the outline turned out to be 15 pages for a 10 page short story.  I finished it!  But it read like it was encased in a straight jacket.

            Grrr, again!

            After several variations on the theme, I finally ended up with what I call the skeleton.  One paragraph (no more) describing the whole piece – a good thing to have later for promotional purposes & book covers.  Characters are often noted with just names, sometimes age or other important characteristic is given and a word or too summarizing temperament or personality is jotted down, but that is it.  Then a sentence or two, perhaps just phrases but no more than a paragraph describing what needs to happen in each story scene or novel chapter.  Such an outline might be 6-8 pages maximum for a 300 page novel.  I have found that this works for me.  I keep on track, I look forward to the next scene or chapter rather than the blank page, and I can breathe and move freely right to THE END.

            This works for me.  What works for you?

 

Writing Tip 11:

I feel there may be as many ways to THE END as there are writers; but there are four things to consider here:  1)  Don’t let the unfinished works steal your time, attention or energy.  2)  Don’t worry about what so-and-so recommends because it might work for you, but it might not.          3)  Don’t assume that all roads lead to Rome.  Some will peter out, some may leave you in the swamp, and some may leave you so exhausted at the end you can hardly breathe.  4)  Don’t give up.  Keep looking until you find YOUR path and then head for home.

 

One Writer’s Writing Secret 10: Write what you know, sort of.

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            My Dad used to tell this story about a frumpy, old woman that came into his office one day.  He was editor of “Railway Age Magazine” at the time and the woman apparently had some railroad questions.  Now, he was a kind soul, but he had work to do so he said he would be with her in a while if she cared to wait.  She did not mind. 

            Dad described the woman as five-foot nothing, rather round, not anything to look at, and she wore a crumpled dress and an apron that made her look like what he called a “Woolworth’s Lady.”  He watched her for a while.  She sat quietly, occasionally scribbling a note or two in a little notebook, but otherwise she appeared to be a happy wallflower.

            At last, he made the time and invited her into his office.  She was grateful and as she waddled in and sat, he noticed the small suitcase for the first time and wondered if she needed a few dollars.  The woman pulled out her notebook and began to ask her questions.  Dad answered as well as he could, pointing out one historical point where she was mistaken.  That was when she looked terribly frustrated and shook her head in despair.

            “What is it?’  Dad asked, kind soul that he was.

            “Well, I was wondering if you would read my manuscript.  I am afraid I may have made terrible mistakes and I really want to get it right.”

            Dad was an editor, you know.  He said later that he imagined the manuscript was some historical article on railroads, and while his magazine did not publish those sorts of things, he said, “Sure.”

            That was when the woman opened her suitcase and pulled out a massive number of pages which she plunked, ker-thump on Dad’s desk.  “Thank you.”  She said.  “I will be forever grateful.  Should I call back in a month?”  Dad could only nod, grimly while the woman left.

            The woman was not known at that time.  She became very well known.  It was Ayn Rand, and the “little” manuscript was Atlas Shrugged.  I say she became very well known, but I doubt anyone would have picked this frumpy wallflower out of any lineup and say, “Surely this is the person who wrote that rich and powerful tome.”

            On the surface I might say don’t worry about what you look like.  Your readers don’t know and likely don’t care if your self-esteem is high or low.  I have never gotten with this author picture on the book jacket business.  I would rather not know what the author looks like because if it is a really good story, I am probably inclined to imagine the author as richer, more successful, more beautiful and wiser than they really are, and that is how I would like to be seen.

            But let’s not stop there.

            One layer under we come to the question of “Write what you know.”  (Surely you have heard that before).

            On a mico-level, “Write what you know” makes great sense.  By drawing on your own experiences and the information stored in your brain you can turn characters into people, make potentially stilted dialogue flow with realism, and transform your scene and scenery from cardboard to real, living trees.  Like Pinocchio, you can make real boys even as J. K. Rowling, welfare mom did when she wrote about a real boy in a special school fighting an evil wizard.  But wait, J. K. Rowling never experienced being a boy, and while she may have imagined all that other stuff in her head, she certainly did not “know” it.

            Well, you see, that is because on the macro-level, as far as the overall story itself goes, “Write what you know” takes on a whole different meaning.  The little frumpy old lady in my father’s office certainly never experienced the life of a rich and powerful industrial giant.  So can it be said that she wrote what she knew?

            Yes.

            Very simply, this level of knowing has nothing overtly to do with experience (that is micro-instructive), and it has nothing to do with what is in your head (you can always find some hapless magazine editor to check your facts) it has everything to do with what is in your heart.  In that sense, rather than saying “Write what you know,” we might say, instead, “Write what you believe.” Or as I have said many times, “Write what you know in your heart.”  Ayn Rand did, and I am sure J. K. Rowling did, too.

Writing Tip 10:

What do you believe?  What is important – vitally important?  What are you passionate about?  Write what your heart knows, because passion is the essence of a good story – the best stories.  When you write out of your passions, the reader will get it and you know, they just might become passionate about your story in return, and they might even believe you are richer, more successful, more beautiful and wiser than you really are.

Halloween Questions just for you…

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Halloween Story is complete and under the tab: The Other Earth. 

Ghosts, under the tab Strange Tales, is also a good read for the season.  Enjoy.

Meanwhile, I have some Halloween thoughts and questions:

Natural selection:  If this is a fact, why is there still road kill?  Shouldn’t all the stupid squirrels be dead by now?  (What?  This is just gross thinking?  Well, hasn’t Halloween become just gross)?

What are parents thinking when they encourage their children to dress as the most grotesque and evil costumes they can find?  OK, maybe some parents think Halloween is only a time for spooky, scary stuff, but really:  what are they promoting in the minds of the children?

You know, kids used to dress their dreams at Halloween: princess, knight, fairy, clown, angel, superhero, and the ever popular  “what I want to be when I grow up.”  Some still do, I suppose.  Then again, maybe some kids don’t dream anymore.  Maybe all they have are nightmares.

So, is Frankenstein’s monster a kind of zombie, or what?  And whoever decided the job of the undead was to eat the living – Romero?

 So, is your neighborhood safe to let your children trick-or-treat.  No?  Do you know your neighbors?  What can you do to make it safe?

So, is the Wizard of Oz still a Halloween treat at your house?  And when was the last time anyone bobbed for apples?  How about reading Washington Irving (Sleepy Hallow)?  What are your special Halloween traditions?

So, do you remember Samhaine, Halloween, or All Hallows Eve?  Will you take time on the following morning to remember the good on “All Saints Day” as the world moves from darkness to light?

One Writer’s Writing Secret 9: Deeper Characters

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            What is your character’s worldview?  What is yours?  Do you know?  Do you know what a worldview is?  Basically, a worldview is the lens through which we see the world, and often, like fish in water, we are unaware that our perceptions of reality are being colored (rose colored glasses) or even distorted.  It is essentialy an unconscious thing having to do with the way we were raised, things we were taught when we were very young, and the pervasive view of the word as exemplified in the culture around us.

            Right now in America we are transitioning between two competing worldviews.  Most people over, say, 40 are moderns.  The key to understanding modern thinking is to think of the word “progress.”  Modernists see the world as progressing on all fronts, particularly in science and technology, but not exclusively so.  Religious thinkers of the past 400 or so years of modern thinking have talked of moral progress, for example.  Evolution is a very modern idea.  Karl Marx imagined society and politics as progressing in a certain order; but so did Thomas Jefferson.  I have always thought of the modern worldview in relation to Isaac Newton.  He discovered the laws of gravity and motion and invented calculus to prove his theories.  Thus the world advanced.  How very Newtonian of him.

            If you are under 30 though, you are likely to be what they are calling a post-modern thinker.  Here, I think of Einstein, because one of the key words of post-modernism is “Relative.”  Everything in the post-modern mind is at least potentially relative.  Cultures?  Relative.  Western Civilization is no “better” than any other.  For the modernists, a tribe of hunter-gatherers in the jungle were “primitives” (not progressed), but for a post-modernist they are simply different without regard to such terms as better or worse.  Cultures, civilization, morality, truth, it is all relative, opinion, preference, subjective.  Even science and the very laws of the universe are not spared.  Nothing is considered absolutely true.  According to Einstein, the very fabric of time and space are relative.

            Why does this matter?  Well, because you don’t want your characters behaving in a way that doesn’t make sense.  An old person is not going to be a radical post-modernist unless they are trying to be young and cool.  A young person who believes in absolutes and the universal nature of things (generally) and in making appropriate and reasonable judgments between better and worse as opposed to simply having preferences, is probably going to need some explaining.  Behavior, and in particular dialogue is going to be determined to a large extent by the character’s worldview.  That is where they are coming from.  That is their point of view.

            You know, the last time there was this kind of clash of worldviews, one fellow took a long hard look at the medieval view (the medieval ideals) of chivalry, damsels in distress, love conquering all, nobility and the whole social structure.  He wrote a book called “Don Quixote” which made a mockery of that whole old way of seeing the universe!  It bores almost as many people today as Moby Dick, but in its time Don Quixote was a radical, mind boggling commentary of life, the universe and everything.

            This is important, now, in our place and time, but also if you write historical fact or fiction.  It is important. as far as possible. to see things through their eyes – through the eyes of history.  If you write science fiction, well, how will the human race view the universe and our place in it 400 years from now?  Then again, our whole worldview might change in only a hundred years given the way we are progressing.  (Oops!  I’m showing my age).

Writing Tip 9:

What is your character’s worldview?  It is the point of view that will motivate and drive behavior and color dialogue.  And I didn’t even mention the religious worldview – the joker in the deck – where millions of people (sincerely) try to view life, the universe and everything through God’s eyes.

Series: Tales of the Other Earth Story: Halloween Story Part 20/END M/F Story

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Epilogue 

            Lydia Parker, the little devil girl, wrote everything down in her diary.  She knew why Cleopatra and the pimp had such big hickies, and why Tom and Rachel were sick with a stomach virus for three days after the dance.  She was not surprised to hear Ginger growl and threaten to scratch Jessica’s eyes out if Jessica started picking on her the way she used to pick on Brittany, and she was also not surprised to see Peter, short as he was, and Jennifer, tall as she was, go out on more than one date.  Lydia understood a lot of things that the other kids did not understand, but she never told a soul, except the school librarian with whom she became very close.

            Callista visited on a fairly regular basis, which was about as much as she and Arosa could stand.  She was convinced that this world was not the worst possible choice after Lila took her to the mall.  She took up reading trashy romances, naturally preferring the historical ones, especially the ones with pirates if you can believe it, and she and Grandpa Carter became cordial friends after a fashion, which is to say, she let him get as close to her as anyone could get.

            David and Arosa continued to date, but after a time it was more like friends than potential lovers.  By the time the summer came, they had yet to speak of anything approaching engagement.

            That summer would have been a terrible time for Lila if things had gone differently.  It was agreed that Lila should go to Truscas every summer until she came of age, which was twenty-one, not eighteen like in America.  She had to learn to be a Princess before she could be a Queen.  There was even talk of a proper arranged marriage, but that would be in the future and not something to presently worry about.  For her, that first summer would have been rough, though, if Arosa had not relented.  Lila’s special friends, her crew from the dance were all let in on the secret and allowed to visit with her at the castle.

            “Prince Gergor and Princess Tanis have returned to the West from their Other World, most likely this one.”  Callista had explained.  “The back of the Empire has been broken, and there is even a rumor that Kzurga himself is dead.  All things considered, it seemed a safe time to let Lila come home.”

            Arosa understood, and she set Callista’s mind at ease when she proclaimed that she had no desire to return to Truscas or Nova, and she had no intention of asserting her right to the regency.  “I like it here just fine.”  She said.  “And I’m happy.”  She added, hoping Callista could understand the word.

            So, Arosa made sure that all of the children, apart from Lila and Lydia, and eventually her special friends, and all of the adults concerned apart from Dave and Wendel, but certainly including the fire department and the faculty had no memory of anything amiss or imagined that anything strange might have occurred on Halloween night.  The Truscan soldiers under Barten-Cur’s watchful eye had the place spotless in time for school the next day.  And then the soldiers went home, leaving only Callista, the wizard, and Count Severas who had to see a real dentist; and I am not sure about Opas and Miraz.  They might be guarding that west door between the school and the playground to this very day.

Series: Tales of the Other Earth Tale: Halloween Story part 19 M/F Story

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            Arosa slammed the gym door against the wall, her wings fluttering with agitation, but she did not have the energy to keep them still as all her energy was eaten up with anger and upset.

            “My lady, please.”  Barten-Cur was on her heels.  “They will all be restored at nine o’clock, but any that you change before then will remember.”

            Arosa let out one stream of white light and the music stopped suddenly and completely.  “But if we wait until nine, they will forget?”  Arosa wanted to be sure.  Barten-Cur nodded.

            “Dad?”  A firefighter with a big ax came up to Chief Brown.  The Chief was staring, but he did not know what to say.

            “Ergh!”  Arosa swallowed the words that had formed in her mouth while something like lightening emanated from her hands and hair.

            “Is there anything I can do?”  David asked.  Arosa shook her head.  People were coming in from the hall and cafeteria to find out why the music stopped.

            “Mommy, mommy, mommy, mommy!  Lila zoomed up to her mother and hugged her mother from ear to nose, which was about as far as she could reach.  “Mommy,mommy,mommy,mommy!”  Arosa grabbed the fairy around the legs and hips with one hand and extracted the little one from her face.

            “Lila?”  That was all she had to say, and it was in her explain yourself voice.

            “I was so scardy!  The soldiers came to get you and me, but Grandpa-Scardy-crow helped us and we got most of the soldier men captured.”

            “Where is your Grandfather?”  Arosa said.

            “Here.”  The Scarecrow came up, and Arosa put Lila in his straw hands.  Then she covered them with white light, and they were themselves once again, like nothing had ever happened.

            “But Mommy.  I was having fun.”  Lila said, and her hand shot to her mouth as she wondered why she was speaking like a three-year-old.

            “Superintendant?”  Chief Brown came up.  “I suppose there is an explanation.”

            “I suppose there is, Bob.”  Wendel said.  “But it will have to wait.  Arosa, we need your help.”  He took her by the hand and brought her to the cafeteria.  As they arrived, though, there was a sudden flash of light that made everyone squint and more than a few saw spots.  Red Rayder sat up.

            “Ashanti!”  He almost scolded her.  “I still have two lives left, you know.”

            Wendel Carter breathed, but Chef Brian was beckoning from the kitchen.  They found Queen Jessica there in a pot, which was almost ready to boil.  Arosa stopped it, set the Queen and her ladies free with a wave of her hand and scolded the witches, suggesting that it would be worse for them if they tried such a thing again.  Still, hardly expecting the witches not to try, she escorted Queen Jessica and her ladies back to the gym.  Once there, she had a surprise.  The other Queen and her remaining troops had invaded.

            “Arosa.”  The Queen started to speak, but Arosa’s anger brought down a stroke of lightning at the Queen’s feet and almost singed her dress.  The Queen became rightly respectful, but she still had anger of her own.

            “It is not a crime to want to see my Granddaughter!”  The Queen yelled.

            “But Kidnapping is a crime!”  Arosa yelled right back.  She knew what the woman wanted.

            “Captain Tor.”  The Queen said and pointed, but Tor was on one knee before Arosa.

            “Majesty.  Forgive us.”  He said.

            “Rebellion!”  The Queen yelled at him and considered kicking him, but the other soldiers around the room, especially those who were embarrassed at being caught having a good time, also went to one knee before Arosa.

            “Callista.  Mother.”  Arosa made an effort to calm down.  “Of course you may see your Granddaughter.” 

            “Mama?”  Lila wondered as Arosa took her by the hand and pulled her forward.

            “Lila.”  Arosa said.  “This is your Grandmother.  Your father’s mother.”

            Callista tried a smile, but it was clear she never smiled very much.  She wasn’t very good at it.  She held out her arms, and Lila slowly accepted a hug.

            “Grandmother?”  Lila said, somewhat unsure.

            “Yes, child.  And you are thirteen now.  It is time you came home to begin preparing for your rule.”

            “Rule?”  Lila said.

            “Of course, dear.  Has your mother told you nothing?  You will be Queen, by right and by blood.  I am merely a regent, and that is all your mother can be as well.”

            “Mama?”  Lila looked to her mother.  Queen Callista had a firm grasp on Lila’s shoulder and she did not look like she was going to let go.

            “No, mother.”  Arosa said firmly.  “She finishes her education here, first.  And that includes college, and Graduate school if she is so inclined.”

            “Here?”  Callista argued.  “What can she possibly learn here?”

            “They have these books.”  The wizard stepped forward, still holding tight to a volume from the Scientific Encyclopedia.

            “Oh, my books!”  Arosa suddenly put her thoughts together.  “Who set off the sprinklers.  Oh, I imagine they are ruined.”

            “Your books?”  Queen Callista questioned.

            “Well, they are the schools, but I am the Librarian.  I know there aren’t many.  The budget doesn’t allow for much, but the High School has a good library and there is always the public library.”

            “Not much?”  The Queen was dumbfounded.

            “Why, those are more books than I have ever seen in one place.”  The wizard said what they were thinking out loud.  “And you say there are more nearby?”

            Arosa got a playful look.  “Wait until you try the internet.”  She told the wizard.

            There was a bang then on the door behind.  “Count Severas!”  Arosa recognized him despite the fact that he had his hand half covering his face.

            “Princess, er, Majesty.”  Count Severas acknowledged Arosa and fell to his knees before Callista.  “My tooth.”  That was all he could say as he opened his mouth and pointed.

            Then the front door opened, and Cleopatra walked in holding pimp Kyle’s hand.  People looked astonished for a moment.  There was something wrong with that picture.  Then both Cleopatra and the pimp raised their hands like claws and showed their teeth.  People screamed, but Callista kept her head.  She swished her own green-light magic, and the vampires Cleopatra and pimp Kyle froze in place.  Arosa was wary.  There was still screaming, and she caught Tommy and Rachel trying to make off with the boys, Scream and the demon.  Her own white magic froze them, and then she froze the rest of the children as well.  She would have to come up with something to make them forget the night’s events.  Unfortunately, she missed the devil girl who had run to hide behind the couch as the vampires had approached.

            “My Lady.”  Barten-Cur was at her feet.  “I tried to get all the undesirables and kept them in room 204.  I do not know how they escaped.”

            Wendel Carter stepped up, and Lila finally broke free of her Grandmother for the more familiar arms of her Grandfather.  “Barton is as dear to me as anyone.”  He said.  “But he is not the sharpest knife in the drawer.”

            Queen Callista begged to differ.  “He is not even the sharpest spoon in the drawer.”

            “Dad.”  Arosa had started to speak kindly and reached to touch his arm.  He was such a good man.  “Callista!”  She reacted to what Callista said.

            “Maybe we need some music.”  David whispered in Arosa’s ear.

            Arosa nodded.  “Mother.  You will stay with us, of course.”

            “Dad?”  Callista was not sure she had heard correctly.

            “All legal, I assure you.”  Wendel said, squeezing Lila.

            “Adopted.”  Arosa said.  “It is no secret.  But you must stay with us and learn something about this world.  Then we can talk reasonably about Lila.”

            “Agreed.”  Callista said.

            Then Arosa turned to the soldiers, still kneeling around the room.  “Up.”  She ordered.  “This is America and we don’t have Queens or Kings here.  Everybody up, and lets have the music.  It is only eight-thirty and we have a half hour left to dance.”

            “Mama.”  Lila looked thoughtful.  “I really am a Princess then, aren’t I?”

            “Yes, dear.”  Arosa responded before accepting a dance with David.

            Callista and Wendel Carter were making peace, and Chief Brown was dancing with his daughter. 

            “Better not tell Jessica.”  Lila said.  “What do you think, Ginger?”  The jaguar just growled, but Lila imagined she was laughing at the idea.

            At five of nine, everyone was gathered in the gym, like it or not.  The Truscan soldiers all hid out on the football field.  When nine o’clock came, everyone reverted to children in costumes, and Baby Barlow, the principal, made the announcement.

            “Nine o’clock.”  He said.  “I imagine some of your parents are already waiting in the parking lot.”

            “Nooo.”  Most of the children protested.  They had a really good time.

                                                            ————

            “So, Opas.  Now that Queen Arosa has arrived, how much longer do you think we will have to guard this door?”  Miraz asked.

            “Until the Captain comes to get us.  All night if need be.”  Opas answered with a sly grin.  He nudged Miraz against the wall.  “Race you to the top of the climbing bars.”  He said, and took off running.

One Writer’s Writing Secrets 8: Deep Characters

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            I have read a lot about developing characters for stories and I consider most of what I have read junk:  Junk du jour.  (I’m practicing my Franglish). 

            Observation is about the best idea I have read and absolutely everyone suggests it.  (Tout le world).  Observation is great if you want to have your mailman on page 67 twirl her waxed moustache, but observation alone will never give you the kind of depth or richness of character necessary for the main persons you are writing about; and make no mistake, every story is ultimately about a person or persons.

            Instead of observing the world to develop your characters, my suggestion is to first observe yourself.  Know Thyself, the Philosopher said.  (I don’t think it was a French philosopher).

            I am no great fan of Meyers-Briggs or any of those personality-type surveys any more than I am a fan of astrological charts or palm reading; but then I am no fan of contemplating navels either.  Still, there are tools out there that can help a writer answer some basic character questions which ought to be asked first about themselves.  Am I introverted, extroverted, sensing, feeling, thoughtful, and what do these words really mean?  Why do I behave this way under these conditions or why do I act like that in those circumstances or what am I thinking when I respond to that question (what was I thinking!)?  Do you see?

            There are plenty of writers in this world, but few people who know themselves enough to say, like Madeline L’Engle “My characters are all smarter than I am.”  How did she know?  How did she imagine that?  Very simply, the better we know ourselves, the better we will be able to construct characters unlike ourselves.  What kind of person would I be if I was more extroverted, if this happened in my childhood instead of that, if I married that other person?  The better foundation you have, the better you will be able to construct variations on the theme.

            Objections?  No, you are not boring, and yes, you need to look in that dark corner where you don’t want to look.  You just might find it a life changing experience.    

            Ultimately, you will know your character like you know yourself.  When the monster slithers out of the dark, you might scream, but your character might have the fortitude to spit in the monster’s eye, or maybe the presence of mind to look for a way of escape, or they might shrivel up and be eaten.  I don’t know; but you should know your character that well to know without hesitation how they will respond; and you will see that most clearly by having some idea of how you would likely respond in the same circumstances.

            Now, your characters may be younger, stronger, prettier, more outgoing, and they might even be smarter than you, but if you are living an unexamined (relatively shallow) life it is hard to imagine how the person you are writing about will have any depth in their character.

 

Writing Tip 8:

The first key in developing deep characters is to know thyself and then moo-ve vous (take it) from there.

Series: Tales of the Other Earth Tale: Halloween Story part 18 M/F Story

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            The Queen and her soldiers ended up in the library, as it was the nearest room in which they could take refuge.  Some of the books were wet, but fortunately the sprinklers had not been on for very long.  The first thing the Queen did was marvel, and the Wizard marveled right along with her.

            “There are not this many books in all of Truscas.”  The Queen admitted.

            “Perhaps in all the world.”  The wizard mused.  Several of the soldiers who had picked up the language well enough to grasp reading began to riffle through books.  The Queen and wizard did this as well.

            “History.”  The wizard announced.

            “Mine appears to have something to do with cooking.”  The Queen said, quickly putting the book down.  She looked around, trying to grasp the wealth that room represented.

            “Printed works.”  The wizard announced.

            “Mine’s about some cat that walks around in a funny hat, but I don’t understand some of the words.”  One soldier admitted.

            “Mine’s about castles.”  Another said, and they all looked at him because he was one of those soldiers with plenty of brawn but not much brain.  “OK.”  He said, defensively.  “I can look at the pictures.”  He held it out and the Queen gasped.

            “That is the finest looking etching I have ever seen.  Wizard, look at this detail.”

            “Majesty.”  Captain Tor spoke up with his head turned ninety degrees to look at a shelf.  “This appears to be a whole collection of information, from A to Z, and beside it is another encyclopedia, whatever that is, but it is a scientific encyclopedia.”

            “Oh, I must see that.”  The wizard came right over.

            “What is this place?”  The Queen shouted to the ceiling, not expecting an answer.

            “The sign out front said something Middle School.”  Captain Tor responded.

            “No, surely it cannot be a school for children.”  The Queen protested, wondering why anyone in their right mind would let children within a mile of such treasures.

                                                            ————

            Red Rayder died.  Princess Ashanti began to cry.  “I’m so sorry.”  Doctor George comforted her while Nurse Shirley hugged her.  “I did my best without any medication or anesthesia.  The arrow was not deep, but it penetrated the heart.  There was nothing I could do.  Those few who still had their wits about them shuddered to think what the boy’s parents would say.  Even the Truscan soldier who had the bullet removed from his leg said he was sorry, too.  Everyone felt awful, except the mad Dentist Ethan, who had taken advantage of the moment to work on the still semi-conscious Count Severas.

            “There’s the bugger.”  Ethan said with a grin, and he put his knee on the Count’s chest and pulled with the pliers he had found in the Janitor’s closet.

            “Oooowww!”  The Count screamed and became suddenly wide-awake, but the tooth came out with a few yanks.

            “Now let’s see what else we can find.”  Ethan said.  “But maybe you better spit first.  That one was kind of bloody.”

            “Get off!  Get Off me!”  

            Several hands grabbed Ethan and dragged him off the poor man.  The Count put his hand to his mouth.

            “The tooth was going to abscess any day.”  Ethan said in his own defense.

            The Count looked like he wanted to cry.

            Meanwhile, in the kitchen, with Chef Brian so distracted by the Red Rayder incident, and the gunshot Truscan, and the dentist running amok, Witch Brittany got Queen Jessica and her three ladies in waiting safely into the corner where the big pot was filled with fresh water.

            “A nice hot bath for her majesty is just the thing.”  Brittany said, and Nichole and Molly, her fellow witches, snickered.

            “Yes.”  Queen Jessica said.  “Hot bath.”  She was not very coherent.  Clearly she was drugged, as were her ladies.  About all that any of them could do was walk where they were guided and stare blankly, without recognition.  Queen Jessica got right in the water.  She did not take her clothes off and did not sit in the so-called tub.  She did not have the presence of mind for such a thing, but that did not bother the witches.  They began to dance around the cauldron, chanting, and tossing in bits of who knew what.  The water slowly began to heat.

                                                            ————

            Out front there were red lights and sirens.  David and Arosa pulled up right behind the fire engine.  Police Chief Jefferson was immediately behind them, and they all paused a moment to look.  There was no smoke and no sign of any fire.

            “Probably one of the kids just set off the sprinklers.”  Fire Chief Brown guessed.  “Happens about every three years at one of these dances.”

            “Thank goodness for that.”  Arosa said, and her wings relaxed, but only David really noticed.

            “I just hope it wasn’t my daughter, Tania.”  He told the librarian in confidence.  “Came dressed as a firefighter like her old man.”

            Arosa nodded and smiled.  “Mines a fairy, but I think she just likes the idea of magic.”

            Chief Brown nodded.  It did not seem he thought much of magic.  David smiled a knowing smile and Arosa caught it and joined him.  Then she saw two figures by the side door which caused her to pause and almost panic.

            “What are we saluting for?”  Opas asked.

            “Cause she is the real Queen, you know.  Wife of poor King Dunovan who died in the war, may he rest.  Ours is just regent these past ten years.”

            “Oh, I see.”  Opas said, straightening his salute a little.  “I was wondering about that.” 

            Arosa pushed to the front and almost literally flew down the hall.  She found Barten-Cur pacing in front of the gym door.  She saw a Spaceman go to one knee and bow before her angelic form and beside him was a professional cheerleader, looking a bit confused.

            “Barten-Cur!”  Arosa spoke.  “What have you done?”

Series: Tales of the Other Earth Story: Halloween Story part 17 M/F Story

M G Kizzia Leave a comment

            Opas and Miraz barely got back to the door before the young boy arrived. 

            “Wonder what’s in the bag?”   Opas asked.

            “Straighten up, Opas.”  Miraz said.  “Cute, though, him being dressed.  I guess everyone in this world walks around in costumes.”

            “Trick or treat.”  The little boy said, holding out his open bag in anticipation.

            “Go on, boy.  You don’t belong here.  Go home, it’s late.”  Opas tried.

            “So what are you?”  Miraz was squinting, trying to figure out the costume.

            “I’m a ghost.”  The boy said.  “Trick or treat.”  He repeated, optimistically.

            “What’s a trick or treat?”  Opas asked out loud.  That made the boy pause to think a minute before he answered.

            “My dad says you are supposed to give me a treat or I will play a trick on you.”

            “Ah-ha.”  Miraz said as he and Opas exchanged knowing, smiling glances.  “Wouldn’t want to have a trick played on us.”  Miraz pretended to be scared by the idea.

            “So what kind of treats you got in there?”  Opas asked.

            “Candy.”  The little boy said, holding his bag a little more open and a little higher.  When the soldiers did not respond right away, he added a sour note.  “’course Mrs. Douman gave me an apple.  Shouldn’t do that on Halloween.  That was not nice.”

            “Eh, Opas.”  Miraz nudged his fellow.  “Give the boy a copper, eh?”

            “What.  Me?”

            “Go on.  You can afford it.  You always got a copper or two on you.  I know you.”  Opas turned away from his friend to hide his actions while he reached into his pocket.  He pulled out a couple of coins.  “Give him one for me, too.”  Miraz said.  Opas put one copper in the boy’s bag and stared at Miraz with a hard and cruel expression on his face.  Then he looked at the little boy and softened, and tossed another copper into the bag.  The boy looked in his bag for a moment.  He was not sure pennies were worth much.

            “Dennis!”  A woman was calling from the street.  The boy turned.

            “Happy Halloween.”  The boy shouted as he ran toward the woman.  Opas and Miraz waved good-bye.

                                                            ————

            “I can’t believe it.”  The couch potato spoke.  “It rained inside the building.  I’m gonna get moldy.”

            “Me, too.”  Raggedy Ann agreed.  “Lucky Barbie!  She’s plastic.”

            Lucky my non-existent behind.”  Barbie disagreed.  “Then again, it did put a damper on Super Model Kylie.”

            “Hurrah!”  Raggedy Ann cheered.

            “Next year Hells Angels.”  The Couch said, followed quickly by, “Help!”  A Truscan soldier came over to sit down.

            “Watch it!”  The dolls shouted together.

            “And get off me, you moose!”  The couch yelled at him.  The Soldier decided to retreat to the cafeteria.

                                                            ————        

            Max Man and Maxamillian had the biggest sandwiches Chef Bob would let them make.  They had already eaten all of the pizza which had been prepared for the next day’s school lunches.

            “Yummy for my tummy!”  Max Man howled.

            “Undoubtedly delectable!”  Maxamillian echoed. 

            The sandwiches took two bites each and a fair amount of finger licking.

            “Hey!”  Someone yelled at them for the sucking sounds.  “Shhh!”  The nun was in the next chair letting her friends feel the baby kick.  Snow White was there, with the stewardess and the farm girl whose chief expression seemed to be, “Golly-ee.”  Babette, the upstairs maid, also came to feel the baby, though no one understood a word she said since it was all in French.

            “Seen Kyle?”  The Sheriff walked up to the group.  “The pimp.”  He explained.

            “No.”  The stewardess answered for the group.

            “Thank the Lord.”  Sister Elizabeth said.  She was wearing her rosary down to the string.

            “Cleopatra?”

            “No.”  Snow White answered that time and the Sheriff walked off leaving them to wonder what was up.

                                                            ————-       

            It was then that the kids from room 204 came down the stairs.  The first thing they heard was a police whistle.  A police woman, that none of them recognized, was standing at the crossroads of the hallways, shouting at someone on rollerblades.

            “No rollerblading in the school building!”  The officer sounded mad.  They followed her since it was on the way to the gym, and they saw where someone had moved some big cardboard boxes into the hall.  The officer took out her club and tapped the boxes on the outside.  “Close it up.  I have all they sympathy in the world for the homeless, but you can’t set up housekeeping in the school in the middle of a dance.”  A man with a harmonica and a woman with a guitar, both looking like they had not taken a bath in a month, got out and began to argue a little.  The kids from 204 walked on to the gym door.

            “That was weird.”  The Grim Reaper commented.

            Both ghosts and the devil girl nodded, and then stopped short when they saw what was inside the gym.  The music was far louder than Mister Deal would have ever permitted, though they already knew that; but then, the room was full of adults, and if they were in costume, they were the most realistic costumes ever seen.  The children hardly knew what to think, and it really got strange when the devil girl and the skeleton began to point out some of the dancers.  They both thought the flapper looked like Gerry, and the Bride looked like Cathy.  They were divided on whether or not the ballerina was Felicia, but they were certain that the racecar driver looked like Jeff Barnes – and Jeff had come dressed as a racecar driver.

            “I can’t handle this.”  Scream muttered beneath his mask.

            “I’m going to sit down on that couch over there.”  One of the ghosts said, and like a group attached, they moved en mass.  Lucky for the couch, a girl of about eighteen or twenty with long blond hair and a flower painted on her cheek intercepted the group.

            “Welcome children.”  She said.  That made them feel better, until the devil girl spoke up.

            “Mrs. Finster?”

One Writer’s Writing Secret 7: What is a Story?

M G Kizzia Leave a comment

            Thus far I have tried to confine my tips to tips not readily available in the open market.  I have tried to write about writing in a way that can’t be read in every issue of Writer’s Digest or in every book on the subject at Barnes and Noble.  But here, I have to talk about something more concrete, and I blame my loving wife.  You see, she does not like conflict.  She won’t read or watch all of that science fiction and fantasy stuff because it is all full of monsters and blood and evil, awful things and, she says I have ruined the boys. 

            “Especially that Doctor Who with those Exterminate things.”

            I smile (friendly-like).  “But if all you have are fluffy bunnies bouncing around in the land of happy-happy, I would say you haven’t got a story.  Stories, even the weird ones I read, are about real life in the sense that a person’s character is not proved by how they behave in the good times, but rather by how they confront troubles and the difficulties that are common to us all.  People can relate to such things, even if it’s on other worlds.”

            “I thought you were talking about stories, not characters.”

            “Quite right.  Character belongs in another blog.  But what I mean is a story only happens when a person finds themselves or is taken out of their comfort zone.  The story is about how the person deals with that, whether they go home again, find a new comfortable place, or fail utterly along the way, it depends on how the storyteller tries to resolve things.”

            “So, story is about getting out of your comfort zone.  Do you mean like on Dancing with the Stars or the Apprentice or the Bachelor?”

            I keep smiling.  (And she thinks my shows are full of strange, alien creatures)!  “Not the examples I would have chosen, but fine.  I suppose there is some discomfort there, but I was thinking more like big troubles to which we can all relate, like the death of a parent or things that we dare not imagine, like the death of a child.  There are big things like wars or natural disasters or plagues, and middle things like murder or theft or little Timmy falling down a well.  “Go get help, Lassie!” and little things like the loss of a horseshoe nail.  What was it in Its a wonderful life?  Oh, yes, “Shame and bankruptcy and scandal!” My wife’s nose is beginning to turn up, so I have to think fast.  “Or Romance.  It doesn’t have to be a bad trouble, just something to shake the status quo.  Boy meets girl and they either fall into a relationship or at least first consider a relationship; but without some attraction when boy meets girl to shake the comfort zones, there isn’t a story.”

            “So a story has to be stressful?”

            “No, not exactly; though we do feel stress when our world is shaken, and so that could work.  Plenty of stories have been penned on stress, like going to a new school, starting a new job or moving to a new home.”

            “So, you moving us 12 times in 20 years was just grist for your writing?”

            “No.”

            “Forget it.  I don’t like stress any more than conflict.”  And there I was!  I was thinking how clever and proud I was not to have used the word conflict!

            “How about a story about a person winning the lottery?”  I suggest.  “Lots of Rich Uncle stories need to be recycled.  You know, the Count of Monte Christo digs again!”

            “You could have won the lottery once in those 20 years, you know.”

            I shake my head.  “No good.  They make you buy a ticket.”

            “What’s the matter, protecting your comfort zone?”  I nod.  “Me too.  I’m going to see if Wipeout is on.  Anything but those disgusting looking alien things you like.”

            Mud covered Daleks at the punching wall?  It was just a passing thought.

 

Writing Tip 7:

At the core of any (every) story, something has shaken things up and the people or, as the case may be, the fluffy bunnies have to figure out and decide what to do about it.  The story is in the deciding and doing which invariably leads to the resolve:  win or lose, right or wrong, live or die.