Commandments for Writers Series: #6

*a continuing series based on Ten Commandments for Writers, found in Stein On Writing, by Sol Stein

6 Thou shalt infect thy reader with anxiety, stress, and tension, for those conditions that he deplores in life he relishes in fiction.

Hunger Games, Catching Fire, Mocking Jay, Suzanne Collins.
One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, Ken Kesey.
Princess of the Midnight Ball, Jessica Day George.
The Last of the Mohicans, James Fenimore Cooper.
Jane Eyre, Charlotte Bronte.
It, Stephen King.

When I interview authors for this blog (Thursday Authorial, which will resume after my kids are back in lovely school) I always end with the same question:

If you could be a character in any book, who would you be?

Often, the person I'm interviewing hesitates, a few commenting that to put themselves in a book would mean exposing themselves to a whole lot of conflict. And yet, the favorite is chosen.

When I finished writing The Orchard, in the original ending, I left one of the characters, Elizabeth, standing on a dock, surrounded by family and strangers, utterly alone. Her character prodded and haunted my thoughts for days after and I realized I needed to give her a happy ending. I couldn't just leave her there on the dock.
So I scrawled out an outline for The Inn, punched out the story, and sighed. Then, I gave it to my writing group.

"Umm, where's the conflict? Good bones, but make me care."

Huh. Had I wanted Elizabeth's success so badly I handed it to her on a silver platter?
Practically. Which would also explain why the story was not only boring, but very short. However, short was a good thing.
Because I spent the next few weeks tearing her down, giving her choices, throwing doubt and fear and bears, yes, bears, in her path, adding another character to block her way and creating conflict and stress and tension. She had to fight for the ending I gave her, grasp for it, wrestle it from me.

It was better. I'm excited. Here's a teaser to The Inn:

The way back down was a little tricky, the trail wet in some places, clay hard in others. She was still taking in the view as she stepped, and stumbled, catching herself on Ryan’s back. He half turned and caught the rest of her with his arms.

“Sorry,” she mumbled, as she heard quiet laughter from the others. The laughter wasn’t at her fall, she knew, but at the way she and Ryan couldn’t seem to keep their hands off each other in a very accidental way. She’d never blushed so much in her life, and it was starting to irritate her.

He helped her steady herself. “It’s okay.” He placed his hands on her arms and looked up. “All right?” His eyes were steel marbles in this light.

She sucked in her lips and nodded. “Perfect.” She rolled her eyes as he turned away, bringing his hand up through his hair. They started walking again and from behind she saw him take a deep breath and blow it out. Ugh. Ugh.

Back in the inn's suburban, she listened to the hum of the engine and the quiet murmurs from the backseat. Everyone was both invigorated and tired. Ryan slowed the car and they stopped to watch a moose amble through the edge of the woods. It was some distance away, but the cameras clicked. A fox jumped and ran across the field, now empty of elk. Elizabeth looked behind her. Nancy had fallen asleep.

As the car sped up, Elizabeth’s arms pulled around her waist, and she remembered she still wore Ryan’s jacket. She leaned her head against the seat and watched the scenery fly past her window. Her eyes closed and she suppressed a smile, hearing him hum an unfamiliar tune. It faded.

She was falling, fast, and could hear voices laughing, mocking. Then Ryan caught her and she looked up, but it wasn’t Ryan and she cringed away, pulling back, only to lose her balance and start falling again. This time there was a ruckus below her and again, she felt arms grab her, pulling, then wrenching.

She woke up with a start.

“Elizabeth.” 

The voice soothed. She heard the sound of seatbelts unlatching. They were back at the inn. She furrowed her brow, stretching her shoulders. 

A bright-eyed Nancy met Elizabeth as she slid out the door. She linked her elbow through Elizabeth’s arm. “Have a good snooze?”

“I’m not sure.” It was the truth.

What are your feelings about reading or writing what you deplore in real life?

Commandments for Writers Series: #4

4 Thou shalt not saw the air with abstractions, for readers, like lovers, are attracted to particularity.

I have mentioned in a few posts how I need to remember that readers are intelligent, and I don't need to include everything but the kitchen sink for my readers to "get it", taking them by the hand and pointing out every symbol, unfolding every hidden meaning, or explaining the purpose of every move.
On the other hand, being too abstract landed me with a recent revision request, and I thought I could use the example here.
In The Inn, the main character, Elizabeth, has a past. I referred to it vaguely, only hints, leaving the reader to fill in the blanks. But this past is a major factor in Elizabeth's character, her reactions. Even I wasn't sure if there was a string of past events, or one single occurence, that affected her in such a way.
The feedback was this:

"The author has clearly shielded Elizabeth's past so that the reader does not know much about [her], but there's not enough back story about Elizabeth to give the reader a strong grasp of who she is."

While it's true I wanted Elizabeth's character to unfold, this critique also pointed out that instead of "unfolding", I just revealed her past at the end. Kind of a let down.
With the invaluable help of my author friend, Abel Keogh, I was able to insert bits and pieces of Elizabeth's past along the way, building tension and momentum, without giving it all up until absolutely necessary. But, more importantly to building a better foundation for Elizabeth's character, I created a singular specific event in her past to overcome, and created situations where it is brought up, and she either has to address it, or brush it away. The result surprised me (a lot of things do as I learn this craft). It was a good surprise.

And yes, I'm being abstract because I don't want to give any more away.

What do you think of abstractions vs. particularities, in writing OR reading?

Comes The Sunlight

 An excerpt, in memory of my daughter, born and died December 17, 1996:

And so it was, that we learned how to prepare for the worst, while hoping for the best.  We picked out a name: Kate Afton, after my great-grandmother, Katherine, and the serene mountain valley in Wyoming where Brandon’s parents had recently moved, and where we found perspective, peace, and wonder on our summer visit.

As I sat with my Primary class during singing time, the words of a song the children were learning, and I knew well, caught me off-guard.  My voice caught and my vision blurred.  

When He comes Again, by Mirla Greenwood Thayne, had always been a beautiful song to me, but hearing it now, it meant something much more profound.  It was no longer a song of a child wondering what season Jesus Christ would return in, or if he would be ready.  It was a song of hope; hope that we would be with Kate again, that she had a purpose to fulfill here, and our Savior would receive her with open arms. 

Overwhelmed, I couldn’t sing, but listened to the children’s voices pick up the words.  After singing time, the primary president approached me, and asked if I was all right. 

I explained with a tight voice, “We are losing this baby.” 

I spent my nights silently fighting the cry that forced its way from my heart, to my lungs, to my eyes, finally to leave my body in muffled gasps and tears that streamed.  I envisioned the baby, the little girl, the young woman I would not make memories with as I had done with my other children.  Only prayer would help me find sleep. 

Heavenly Father, please help everything be all right.  Please help Kate feel our love for her.  Please help us be strong, and turn to each other, and our Savior. 

The Primary song would return, and I would finally drift off.  Will herald angels sing…

A Search

I would hurl words into this darkness and wait for an echo, and if an echo sounded, no matter how faintly, I would send other words to tell, to march, to fight, to create a sense of hunger for life that gnaws in us all.  ~Richard Wright, American Hunger, 1977

I have half a dozen spiral-bound notebooks around the house. They are mine. There has never been a formal announcement, but everyone knows. I write down to-do lists, project needs, phone numbers, recipes. And I write down anything of note, any thought, any event, a dialogue for a novel, a point I want to make, figure out the words.
I was looking for something this morning and came across this entry. I had just spent the first week in a quiet house... my youngest had started all-day kindergarten, the house was clean, everything was (for the first time in years) checked off my to-do list. I had picked up my seldom read copy of works by William Wordsworth. Questions weighed heavily on my mind. What am I supposed to do... be? What do I do with my "talent"? Do I go to school? Do I go to work? Do I have more to do than my kids? If I did, I wanted to find it. Despite my gratitude for being able to be home all these years, I was very frustrated. Lost. I read this:

8/23/07

"If thou indeed derive thy light from Heaven,
Then, to the measure of that heaven-born light,
Shine, (Krista)! In thy place,
and be content..."

"These words struck like lightning, and my tears broke, startling me as I read them.
How am I to shine? I feel the light, but it is held within, without escape. Is it foolishness to pursue release... as if to swallow the moon whole, so that its light shines out my eyes and fingertips, like Jimmy describes in It's a Wonderful Life?
I wish to shine... and be content."

Only a few weeks later, I joined a new writer's club, and started my first book, Sudden Storms and Sunlight. It's a real story. Truth. Three rejection letters and five and a half fiction novels later, I am still working on Comes The Sunlight (the title has evolved) and it will probably be the most important thing I have ever written.
Am I content? No. And that is good.
But, I am content with the direction I have been given. Something more to do... to be.