Of Sense and Substance

Let's get started with a few quotes. "The boy's name was Santiago." Paolo Coelho - The Alchemist

"He was an old man who fished alone in a skiff in the Gulf Stream and he had gone eighty-four day now without taking a fish." Ernest Hemingway - The Old Man And The Sea

"When he woke in the woods in the dark and the cold of the night he'd reach out and touch the child sleeping beside him." Cormac McCarthy - The Road

What do these first lines from arguably very different books have in common?

It's simple. They get right to the point. They don't mess around with flowery description. They don't set the stage by telling you everything you need to know about their environment. They don't tell you the writer's opinion of the characters. They just drop you right into the action or emotion of the story. Coelho begins The Alchemist with a simple telling of fact and we are immediately attached to Santiago. This statement is evocative chiefly because it plays on the reader's ingrained sympathy for the young and the sparse language clues us in on the type of environment in which he lives. It's beautiful in its efficiency. Likewise, Hemingway effectively sets up the conflict that drives The Old Man And The Sea with one bare sentence. It conjures image of an old man at sea in a small boat and his desperation at not catching a fish for so long. We don't know Hemingway's opinion of fisherman. He doesn't tell us how we're supposed to feel about it, but the old man's desperation still comes through with the accounting of many days he's gone without a fish. McCarthy is a bit more descriptive in the opening line of The Road, but that description comes to us through the character. We don't know what he looks like, or what the woods look like, or that he's hungry. We don't even know what he's feeling aside from the physical sensation of cold, but we are gripped by the heart-wrenching image of a man in the rough caring for a child.

No, this is not a discussion of the importance of great first lines, though they are important. I'm more concerned with the very first of Strunk and White's "Reminders" from Chapter 5 of The Elements of Style. That is to "Place yourself in the background." I have no doubt that this was positioned at the top of the list because of its importance and because it makes the best starting point for developing your own style. They write:

"Write in a way that draws the reader's attention to the sense and substance of the writing rather than the mood and temper of the author...to achieve style, begin by affecting none--that is, place yourself in the background. A careful and honest writer does not need to worry about style."

The key take away from this when writing fiction is to let your characters tell the story. The story is the "sense and substance" to which they are referring.  A "careful and honest" writer is one for whom the story and not the style is paramount. By contrast a careless and/or dishonest writer is one who may become so enamored of a certain style that their story becomes overshadowed by the writing. This is a particular pitfall of genres like historical fiction, science fiction or fantasy. Where the story is set in a world not familiar to the everyday reader, writers may find themselves too caught up in creating the setting. Some writers become so concerned with the environment that they are writing in that the reader loses interest in the story. For example, I recently read  a piece of historical fiction (that I will not name) in which the writer was so interested in mimicking a circuitous 18th century mode of speech that her sentences were sometimes rendered incomprehensible. Compounded by the fact that the novel was set in the late 19th century, the story was buried under the writer's affected style. This is precisely what Strunk and White are exhorting us to avoid.

As a test, try writing your story as a newspaper article, not a feature article like you might find in your local paper, but pure wire service type news. Just the facts. This can help you separate the "sense and substance" from the "mood and temper". It can also give you a point to start from if you decide to rewrite something.

But, you may be asking, how am I supposed to distinguish myself as a writer without affecting a style? We read on:

"As you become proficient in the use of language, your style will emerge, and when this happens you will find it increasingly easy to break through the barriers that separate you from other minds, other hearts..."

In essence, focus on your story and trust yourself. YOU will emerge through the telling of your story. If you are honest and write naturally without affectation, your style WILL come out. You are unique, and no one but you is going to write with your voice.  In Finding Your Voice: How to Put Personality in Your Writing, Les Edgerton uses an interesting exercise to illustrate this very point. In the exercise you take a favorite passage from a classic book. Strip it down to the actions only, and then rewrite the passage in a way that is natural to you. Don't over think it, just write and trust yourself. When I tried this, I used a passage from Jane Eyre which I had read countless times. Despite the many times that I had read and reread and analyzed Charlotte Bronte's words, when I rewrote the passage in my own voice the "sense and substance" were the same but "mood and temper" were entirely mine. I highly suggest trying this exercise, it can be a real eye opener.

So, take a step behind the curtain and let your characters strut and fret upon the stage.

Would you try performing a concerto without learning to read music?

My friend, the college lit professor frequently bemoans what passes for writing education in American public schools. Having taught adults myself in the corporate world and read lots of independent books, I would add that it isn't just a matter of schools today. Maybe it's the internet, maybe TV , maybe people are just getting lazier in the ways they communicate as the world around us moves faster, but it seems to me that the standard of writing (and reading) is going downhill. Writing as a skill just isn't valued much anymore. Now that self-publishing is as easy as it is, any "classically trained samurai" with spell check thinks he or she can produce the great American novel without the benefit of editing or proofreading. Just sit down at the keyboard and bang it out. If you're talented it'll just come to you. Everyone's got one novel in them, right? The trouble is getting that novel out, and that takes skill not just simply banging it out and expecting it all to work. Like any skill, it takes practice to build. No one becomes a virtuoso pianist without knowing what the keys and pedals do and how it works. No one just sits down and bangs out a concerto without knowing about notes and tempo. Writing is the same way. It takes learning and practice. Sure MOST of us can put words together into complete sentences, but that doesn't mean that MOST of us can hold a reader's attention for more than a page or two. Just because you can play a scale on a piano doesn't make you the next Chopin. It's also a skill that like music or dance or any other skill needs constant practice no matter how long you've been doing it.

I'm not saying by any means that I'm a virtuoso, but I at least know that this is a skill I'm building and not one that I'm just going to sit at a keyboard and have or not have. I work hard outlining, writing, editing, rewriting and proofreading (not just spell check). To that end, I also keep handy a very important little book. It's been marked up with pens and highlighters. The spine is white at the edges and the pages are nearly falling out. This is my Bible. Even when I was writing training manuals and product demos for a living this little book was my best friend, and one that is sadly forgotten in a lot of schools today. Some Christians read 1 Corinthians for comfort. I read this little gem. That's no joke. It never fails to make me feel better (cause I'm a total nerd). I'm speaking of course of William Strunk and E. B. White's The Elements of Style.

Those of you who are also writers are likely doing one of two things now. You're either nodding your head and thinking of some of your favorite quotes from this book or you're rolling your eyes and cursing me for adhering to something as silly as rules when it comes to writing. You're saying, "The electronic medium is a new frontier and we're pioneers making our own rules!" or "Rules Shmules! I'm an artist and I'll tell my story the way that I want." You can go right ahead thinking that way. I'm sure I won't change your mind. But to go back to my pianist analogy. You can't just call a B flat into and F sharp because you're a maverick and that's the way you do things. Sure you can sit down at a piano with no training and bang away, but that doesn't mean that other people are going to call it music.

The truth is, if you want to make music that appeals to listeners, you have to follow certain rules of rhythm and chord progressions. The same goes for writing. If you want to write something that appeals to readers you have to make it clear and engaging. It will be far more accessible and reach far more readers if it follows certain rules of grammar and style. It takes a very rare talent to turn those rules on their head and most of us even some the best of us are not that kind of writer.

With this said, I'd like to announce a blog series taking a closer look at what Strunk and White have to say about style. Even if you skip the rest of the book (Though you really shouldn't. It's less than 100 pages.) Chapter 5 An Approach to Style contains 21 "Reminders" about writing style that should be an invaluable guide to writers pf both fiction and non-fiction. This series will look at each of these reminders and why they are important. I'll even talk about stretching or even forgetting some of them and why and when I choose to do that. I'm hoping to get some other writers to contribute on their favorite reminders too. So if you have a favorite tip from Chapter 5 and would like to contribute, just let me know. If you don't have a copy of the book, I highly recommend that you get one.

I'll leave you with one of my favorite quotes from the book.

Writing is, for most, laborious and slow. The mind travels faster than the pen; consequently, writing becomes a question of learning to make occasional wing shots, bringing down the bird of thought as it flashes by.

An interview with John B. Campbell

I recently had a chance to pick the brain of fellow author, John B. Campbell. John's book Walk To Paradise Garden is a heartwarming story full of wonderful characters. I highly recommend it. It's available on Amazon and Smashwords, also in paperback. MS: What got you started as a writer?

JC: In the late ‘90s, I ran into an author drought where I couldn’t find anything that really captivated me, so I started to fill that void by writing. I’ve since found a number of authors that I now enjoy, but I continue to write.

MS: What inspired you to write Walk to Paradise Garden?

JC: A basic concept began when I was reading the biography of Arturo Toscanini. I marveled at the breadth of his life span. He was around to interact with Verdi, to have conducted orchestras in the presence of the last Czar and his family; he lived through world wars and up to the birth of rock and roll, including Elvis Presley’s televised gyrations. That last bit probably did him in.

I knew I wanted my main characters to somehow foster benevolence, so I made John and Evelyne Armitage philanthropists. Specifically, they work at equipping unfortunate children for life. You can imagine how this opened up opportunities for plot direction.

I find the events surrounding 1914 to be fascinating—such dramatic changes ensued. And the era generally carries a good degree of romance. So, I began the life journey of this couple right in the thick of the war. To be consistent with their ideals, I made John a stretcher-bearer and Eveylne a nurse. This provides a unique view of the Front. I enjoyed taking the tale through 1930s Paris and its underground organizations. I also wove in a Gosford-Park-like whodunit in Sussex, not just for fun but also for foreshadowing. This particular section might remind some of Downton Abbey, as well.

I had to introduce conflict, of course, and this drove the story to completion.

I should add here that I don’t plot out my stories ahead of time. I wish I could, but I can’t generate a convincing plot that way. So, I have to simply place my fingers on the keyboard and let it flow.

Finally, there is an intermezzo by British Composer Frederick Delius. Its title has the same name as my novel . . . well, the intermezzo is actually: The Walk to the Paradise Garden. I was not guided by its purpose in the opera where it is found but by the bucolic flavor of the music and its Britishness.

MS: How do you build your characters?

JC: Initially, I see them as they appear in my imagination. This, like a first impression, comes quickly and fairly clearly. I then ponder, research and work out backgrounds and such. I enjoy working with minor characters. Usually, my aim is to make them charming to others, and I try to stop short of making them kitsch.

MS: Tell us, please about the editing process and how the work changes after revisions.

JC: I am fortunate to have a friend, an Auntie Mame type of friend, who comes to my office for read-aloud editing. This process is very effective. And I simply need to ladle her with coffee and treats to keep her coming back—and the coffee lubricates her throat for reading. ( I have to interject that I'm super jealous of this method of working. I want someone like her.)

My time on Authonomy.com was helpful for feedback but not as much as I’d hoped.

As to changes in plot, my experience thus far hasn’t resulted in rerouting rivers so to speak. The plot has remained pretty steadfast throughout. But there were areas where I was telling more than showing and the effect of revising those bits improved the work.

MS: Tell us how you decide what to leave in and leave out.

JC: Even with authors that I enjoy, I have found myself feeling impatient when they drag things out with little effect or are too repetitious. Those feelings guide me in my writing. And I try to apply the sage advice to those long ago vaudeville entertainers: leave them wanting more.

Of course, after the first couple of drafts, and with the helpful input of those offering feedback in mind, I end up having to eliminate things that I like but which are getting in the way of the story. With Walk to Paradise Garden, I have eliminated close to 5,000 words over its production.

As Yet Untitled

I'm going to cheat again by giving you another excerpt. This one is from the novel that I'm working away on. I have yet to make up my mind on a title for this book, but I can tell you that it's the first of my Once and Future Series.  The only other thing I'll say about this is that I only speak a little Scots Gaelic and writing this really stretched by skills and vocabulary. If you happen to be a Gaelic speaker (Scots not Irish) then please feel free to correct the Gaelic parts.  

early March 1976

Kettle Hollow, North Carolina

It had been a long winter and full of darkness. Màili filled her lungs with what felt like her first deep breath in months. It burned her nostrils and was sharp with the tang of damp rotting leaves. Brittle twigs snapped and crunched beneath her feet as she stepped surely through the forest keeping her eyes on the ground until she found what she was looking for.

"A' Mhòrag, a mise. Tha cròch a'bhos."  She shouted for her daughter keeping her eyes on the little patch of small yellow crocus that peeked through the carpet of winter compost their sharp leaves sticking straight up like spikes. The little girl came crashing up behind her with the careless enthusiasm of the very young, and Màili put out a hand to stop her before she trampled the blooms.

"Tha iad sgèimheach." the girl breathed kneeling in the damp leaves to look at them, and Màili thought she was right. They were beautiful. They stood small but proud giving the first color of the year to the great gray forest. Màili decided these blooms with their smooth rounded petals as bright as the sun itself were a balm for the rough places on her heart.

Her throat tightened and her eyes stung as she watched the wonder on her daughter's face. At six, Mórag was still young enough that the whole world was new and she bent her small head closer for a better look. In the practical way of all mothers, Màili thought the child's head must be cold, but her riot of thick golden curls defied all attempts to be contained by a hat. Màili laid a hand ever so lightly on the girl's head feeling the down-soft hair slip through her fingers. She could sense the shape of the skull beneath her hand, a shape she knew well. She had been cupping her hand around it since before Mórag was born. Then it had been a round lump in her belly pressing out against her hand, and later the soft sweet fuzz covered head of her baby girl as she fed, and now that she was a girl it was a rare treat only allowed when the child was tired or distracted. It was a mother's caress. Flesh of my flesh.

"A' bheil tuilleadh idir?"  Are there more? the girl asked. Màili took the child's hand and began to look about for more clusters of flowers. Just over a slight rise she found them. A large round patch of crocus at the base of a great oak spread out before them in a mad profusion of yellow, white, blue and violet. Màili was so enchanted by the sight, she couldn't help but grin. She felt little Mórag bouncing beside her in excitement.

"Am faigh mi trus flúraichean a'Mhami?" May I pick the flowers, Mommy? the child asked hopping from one foot to the other.

"Tha." Yes. Màili certainly intended to pick some, and felt a little ashamed when the girl stopped bouncing, raised her hands palm up, elbows at her side and asked for pardon for picking the pretty flowers. Màili was never one to stand on religion, even at Mórag's age she had questioned everything she was taught. But Mórag didn't need teaching. She seemed to know instinctively everything that Màili had always questioned. For Mórag, every tree, hill, wind and stream had a name, some that Màili didn't even remember. She felt a shudder run through her as she wondered how the girl knew so many things that she herself had forgotten.

"Tha mi a'càraich an crun agad!" I'm going to make you a crown! Mórag exclaimed wading into the patch of flowers and beginning to select the prettiest of them.

When they had picked enough, they settled on a fallen tree. Mórag had gathered her supplies and set about twisting some vines into a circlet. As Màili tucked flowers into her daughter's hair, the little girl began to sing. Her high clear voice picked out a jaunty puirt a beul about a boy and his boat. The rhythm was contagious and before she was aware of it Màili was singing along foot tapping. Her richer woman's voice blended with the girl's in a fast-paced round. Màili couldn't remember when she'd been happier.

By the time they were finished, Mórag had a crocus stuck in every curl as if each gold spiral were a bud vase. She had indeed made a crown of twisted vines with crocus stems anchored between them. They were accented with birch twigs and some brown leaves she had found that were still intact.

Mo`rag climbed up to stand on the log and placed the crown on top of Màili's head before dropping into a curtsy. "Tha mi gad shamhlachadh ri bànrigh sitheag." You look like a fairy queen.

Màili lifted a hand and touched the crown self-consciously. With a self-deprecating chuckle she said, "An bana-bhuidseach, móran nas coltaiche." A witch, more likely.

Uncomfortable, she grasped the crown carefully to remove it, but the girl stopped her with a firm hand on her arm. Her green eyes were bright, determined. "Chan eil. Fuirich." No. Stay.

'It's not mine,' she thought, 'And I hope it's not yours either.' She shrugged to hide the shiver that coursed down her spine, but left the crown in place and quickly changed the subject.

"Tha sinn a'thoir flúraichean gu seanmhair." Let's give some flowers to Granny.

They went about picking an armful of crocus for Màili's mother who had stayed at home claiming sore knees from the damp. Màili had never seen her mother anything but spry and thought the excuse was more out of a desire to avoid another argument with her. A winter stuck together in their small farmhouse was enough to make even the most sympathetic adults cantankerous, but Màili and her mother were rarely on the same page. Their main source of discord was the thing most precious to both of them, Mórag.

***

Maighread's hands were elbow deep in a sink full of dishes when she caught sight of them coming out of the forest. They were dancing, and the beauty of it made her throat close tight and tears prick her eyes. She'd had little more than cross words and rolled eyes from her daughter for months. Màili was forever wanting more than their life on the mountain could offer and Maighread knew that were it not for Mórag, her daughter would have left years ago.

But there they were, mother and child dancing across the yard leaving a trail of flowers in their wake. The little one's curls were mixed with blooms and bounced like springs as she tripped along the dirt path her feet beating out a bright tattoo. But nothing could compare to the sight of her daughter with her arms full of flowers and a fairy crown on her dark head. Her feet seemed to glide inches above the ground, only coming down to touch on the appropriate beats.

Maighread had never seen a better dancer than Màili. Since she was Mórag's age, Màili had danced through everything in life. Every trial of growing up, every lost pet, every argument with a friend, every teenage rebellion had been smoothed over by dancing.  But somewhere along the road, that part of Màili had been knocked down one too many times, and the dancing had stopped. It hurt Maighread's heart to think that she had been the agent of her daughter's disappointment.

She didn't realize she was crying until she heard their feet on the back steps. She went to wipe her cheeks only to find her hands dripping with dishwater. She grabbed a towel and managed to give her cheeks a quick swipe before the door burst open and Màili and Mórag half walked half danced into the kitchen. They were still giggling when Màili deposited the flowers on the old worn kitchen table. She looked up at her mother and started to speak, but stopped noting her mother's red cheeks and too bright eyes. Maighread too pulled up short her eyes going to the crown of crocus, birch and oak resting on her daughter's head. Màili's lips firmed into a grim line and she turned stepping into the pantry to get a vase for the flowers.

"Lorg sinn na ceudan móre de flúraichean an sin." We found hundreds of flowers over there. Wee Mórag piped in pointing to the forest in the direction they had come from.

"Chì mi. Tha iad àlainn." I see that. They're lovely.

"They were under that great oak over the rise from the still." said Màili as she filled the vase. Her English jarred Maighread's ears. Her heart had broken a thousand times over when she had had to leave her home in Scotland. Keeping her native language in her home had helped to ease some of that pain, but Màili never spoke Gàidhlig anymore. She had said that it was to make sure the child learned both languages. Maighread didn't protest because she hadn't wanted Mórag to start school without having the English. But now her English was good and school gave her plenty of practice. Still Màili only spoke English, and each word was like a jab in her mother's ear. Maighread wondered if she would ever again hear the language of her heart from her daughter's lips.

"A'bheil sibh leis an acras? 'S furasta dhomh deisealach an biadh-nóin." Are you hungry? I can easily fix lunch. Maighread fussed to hide her hurt.

"Tha an t'acras gam tholladh!" I'm starving! the child answered.

"That sounds good, Mama." Her girls spoke at the same time. Màili giving her an unexpected smile that was genuine.

Maighread beamed back at them. Her girls. For all that they battled over wee Mórag and her education, it was all done out of love. She and Màili would do well to remember that.

"'S math sin. Ach an toiseach, mo nighean, thusa gabh abar." Good. But first, my girl, you take a bath. She said looking pointedly at the smudges on Mórag's face.

“She’s right. You’re so dirty there are things growing in your hair.” Màili joked, pulling an errant flower from the little one's curls. “Come on, into the bath with you.”

She swung the child into her arms and proceeded to tickle her senseless while carrying her upstairs only releasing her at the top and chasing her into the bathroom.

 ***

“Alright. Get those clothes off.” Màili ordered while running the bath.

Mórag threw her arms around her mother’s thighs and squeezed. “I wish every day could be this good.”

She stroked the girl’s hair. “We all do, baby.”

“Will you and Granny stop fighting, now?” Mórag asked hopefully, releasing her mother and starting to peel off her clothes.

“We’ll see. I hope so.” Molly tried to sound reassuring. She helped Mórag into the great clawfooted tub and handed her the soap before turning to get towel from the rack by the door.

As she turned she caught her reflection in the mirror. She had forgotten about the crown and now was struck by how out of place it seemed on her head. It's lively flowers a stark contrast to her pale angular features. She had bloomed like them once; beautiful and vibrant with the enthusiasm of youth. Now she felt worn down to a husk. Her skin was winter pale. Her cheekbones jutted out almost white between tired eyes and sunken cheeks and her dark hair hung lifeless. All under the circlet brimming with life. It seemed a cruel joke.

“Mommy? When I go away from here, will you come with me?” Mórag's question broke her revery and she turned back to the tub.

“Are you going somewhere?” Màili was puzzled as she pulled another flower from the girl's hair and dropped it into the water. The subtle fragrance of the crocus drifted up from the warm bath.

“I had a dream about going far away. “I was going to meet the king."

"The king of what?" Please let it be a fancy, she thought as she looked at her little girl. Mórag bit her lip, uncertain.

 ***

Peals of laughter rained down the stairs like rays of sunlight cascading through the tree tops. Maighread hummed to herself as she put together a lunch of biscuits and stew that she'd set simmering on the old wood burning stove earlier that morning. She knew she probably should have put in an electric cooker years ago, but just couldn't let go of some old habits. She still cooked the way she had learned as a child, by keeping a pot of something simmering all the time adding to it whatever ingredients came to hand.  Even after all her years in America, she still half expected her cousins to drop in wanting to be fed just as they had when she was a girl.

She had just finished warming the biscuits when she realized that the laughter from upstairs had stopped. She cocked her head and held her breath to hear what she could. No longer the careless cackle of the girls she had sent upstairs, now there was a soft splashing and a muttering sound.

“How long?” she asked herself as she bounded up the stairs. How long had her thoughts been clouding her hearing? How long had it been since the laughter had stopped?

“They can’t have you.” Her daughter was mumbling over and over as Margaret burst through the door. “They can’t have you, not you.”

Molly’s arms were stiff as planks. Her hands gripped the child’s shoulders like talons holding her under the water. Flowers had fallen from the crown she still wore and floated on the surface above the terror stricken face of the little girl.

“They can’t have you. I won’t let them.” Màili cooed reassurance to her daughter. “I won’t let them.”

Maighread tried to pull her away by her shoulders, but her mad will was stronger than the old woman’s hands. Màili didn’t even see her, she was so focused on the child.

“They’re not going to get their hooks in you.”

Maighread had to think fast. Her heart felt ready to burst and blood sang in her ears. She backed up searching for a weapon, something to hit Màili with. She knew it would have to knock her out. She wouldn’t get a second chance. The toilet lid! Maighread grabbed with both hands and swung the lid low and to the side. Then with all her strength she heaved up and the porcelain block flew hard through the air. She felt a sickening jolt as it hit the back of her daughter’s head. Màili fell face first into the water the crown slipping off her head to land in the bath.

Margaret grabbed Molly’s shoulders and pulled hard.  Her daughter flew back sending a spray of water and flowers onto the walls and ceiling. Then the old woman was reaching into the water, lifting her granddaughter’s limp body. The child’s lips were beginning to turn blue. Margaret laid her on the floor next to the sprawled form of her mother.

She couldn’t be dead. She pumped the girl’s chest, lifted her up and pounded her back. She couldn’t be. The little body jerked. Then there was a cough and a splattering of water as it spilled from her lungs. A gasp rocked Mórag and the child breathed again. She threw her arms around her grandmother. Maighread rocked back and forth as the child stared bewildered at her mother limp and wet on the floor.

A Fond Kiss

What with colds and stomach viruses, I haven't had much time to get work done in the last week or so. So, I will ply you today with a teaser from my upcoming novelette, A Fond Kiss. The ebook should be available soon. A Fond Kiss

“Mr. French, will you be able to visit your family before beginning your clerkship?” Mrs. Manney, as was her habit, made polite conversation while Minerva, bustled around the table serving dinner. This was the regular way of things at meals in the Manney household. Despite her northern roots, or perhaps because of them, Maria Manney was forever striving to outdo her southern neighbors in hospitality and elegance. Each day at the dinner table she set about providing her daughters with an ideal example of womanly behavior. She kept up a steady stream of pleasant if vapid conversation, diffused potential conflicts, and demonstrated impeccable manners for her children. The result of her hard work being that her children all had manners so fine that she never realized that they found her efforts at conversation to be a somewhat of a nuisance.

Charles cleared his throat. “I’m afraid not, ma’am. I will be starting in Philadelphia almost as soon as I arrive. I am told that the attorney I’ll be working with is a stern taskmaster. I doubt that I will have time to visit them before I become an attorney myself.”

“You should try to find the time, young man.” Dr. Manney’s gruff voice cut in from the head of the table.  Where Mrs. Manney ensured that meals were pleasant for everyone, Dr. James Manney ruled like a stone-faced monarch caring little for the opinions of the others. Although he never missed meals, Charles had always had the impression that his mind was frequently elsewhere, likely on his next business venture. Rarely did he allow himself to be drawn into the conversation, save the rare occasion when something caught his attention. “Family is important. You’ve been separated from yours for too long.”

“I have, sir, and I do miss them. However, my mother and I correspond frequently. She keeps me abreast of the news at home, and living with a family as generous as yours has prevented me from getting homesick.” He smiled around the table being careful not to let his gaze linger on Nancy too long.

The doctor merely grunted and returned to his beef. When the main course was removed and Minerva brought the dessert, the doctor picked up the subject. “I suppose a young man in your situation has to be willing to leave family behind in pursuit of professional success.”

Charles wasn’t sure how to respond to that. What had the doctor meant by ‘your situation’? He was rescued by Nancy who asked in seeming innocence, “You mean the way that you did when you moved here from New York, Papa?”

All eyes turned to the doctor to guage his reaction to this question. He eyed his eldest daughter for a moment one eyebrow cocked high.  “Hmph, indeed.”

“I do believe this pudding has been burnt!” Mrs. Manney burst in from the foot of the table. “Minerva. I have told you that I cannot abide an overcooked pudding.”

“Yes’m. Can I get you some of that cantaloupe?” the house slave deftly lifted the pudding from in front of the doctor’s wife and placed it on the tray of dishes to be returned to the kitchen behind the house.

“No, I believe I have had enough. Nancy, when you are finished I would like for you and Francis to walk with me down to the mercantile. I want your help picking some ribbon for the new bonnets.”

“Yes, Mama.” Nancy cast Charles a look as she lowered her head appearing suddenly very interested in her pudding.

***

At the sound of her footstep in the hallway, Charles stepped from his room and silently followed Nancy into hers easing the door shut. “I’m going to talk to him while you’re out.”  He whispered.

She took a nervous breath. “Should I try to delay us returning?”

“I hope there will be no need for that.” He took her hand in his. “I will give him the final progress reports on James and Julia, and that should conclude any work that I have left to do. Once I’m no longer working in the house, I don’t see how he can object.”

“I wish I had your confidence. I just don’t know how he’s going to take this.” She stepped away from him to her wardrobe to retrieve her bonnet and lace gloves from a top drawer. Charles was suddenly struck by the novelty of being in her room, of knowing in which drawer her gloves were kept. Had he not been so nervous he would have savored this small intimacy. “You’ve seen all the young men he’s introduced me to over the last couple of years.”

“I have," He refocused his eyes on her face. "And in a few years once I’m practicing law I’ll outshine them all. He saw enough promise in me to bring me here, surely he can believe in my future success.”

A sound in the hallway silenced them and they held their breath for a moment afraid of being discovered. It wouldn’t do to find the family tutor in Nancy’s room. They had managed to keep their romance a secret for over a year.

When she was satisfied that they had not been overheard, Nancy began fumbling with the tiny crocheted buttons at the wrist of one of her gloves. She made a guttural sound of impatience. “My hands are shaking. This blasted button loop is twisted!”

He took her hand and attempted the button himself, but his blunt fingers weren’t of much more use on the tiny buttons and the twisted loops that were supposed to fit around them. “How do you ever wear these things!”

“Charles, what if he says no?” Her voice sounded impossibly small. He looked up to find her watching him, in her eyes a blend of uncertainty, hope and fear.

“He won’t.”  He turned back to the button and finally managed to push the button through the tiny loop. He held her wrist up to show her. “See? It will work out.”

Her eyes began to get misty and she merely nodded and began fervently examining her bonnet.

He titled her chin up with his other hand and tried to sound more sure than he felt. “No matter what he says, we will be together. We were going to wait anyway until I am set up. If I can’t convince him now, then I will convince him then. I would rather leave here knowing that I have his blessing to return, but even without it I will be back for you. As long as I know that you believe in me, I can bring your father around eventually. You do believe in me, don’t you?”

“Of course, I do.”

“Then that is all I need.” He lifted her gloved hand and placed a kiss just where the glove ended at her wrist feeling her pulse jump. “I love you. No matter where I go or how long it takes me to return you have to know that.”

She swayed toward him and leaned her cheek against his lapel. It was the most contact they had allowed themselves in their long but secret courtship. Charles fought against the urge to wrap his arms around her and simply hold her there until all else fell away. He had to satisfy himself with bending to his head to kiss the top of hers taking a moment to mark the lemony scent of her hair.

“Nancy!” Her mother’s sharp voice barked from the bottom of the stairs. They both leapt apart.

They said nothing more but sought courage in each other’s eyes for a few more heartbeats before Nancy opened the door just enough to slip outside. Charles stood listening to the silence in the hallway and staring at the door she had just closed. He muttered a quiet prayer to himself before slipping into the hall.

One of the best storytellers I know

I was driving home today wondering what I would blog about and lo and behold in my Facebook feed was a video posted by the local museum in my Mom's hometown. It's a video of my grandmother being interviewed by an elementary school student about her life growing up in the mill village. It took me back to when I was a little girl listening to the same stories. My granny loves to tell them, and though you only see a little of it here, she's a pro at building dramatic suspense. She also give us some clues why she loves to tell stories. She didn't grow up with TV or even the radio. She says herself that they used to read and tell stories. Story telling is an art that a few people carry on today, but it's easy to forget in the age of abundant content that most people of her generation had to make their own. I am inordinately lucky to have grown up with her perspective and her skill. Someday I will write a book about her but for now, I'll let you see for yourself. I'm off to call Granny.

You should also note the wallpaper in this video. It's a little faded, but so intricate and stunning. It was there when my Grandparents bought the house 50 years ago.

Also of note there's a picture of me from way back on the table beside the couch.

To outline or not to outline

I can't count the number of writers that I've heard in various forums saying that they just sit down and write and "let the story take me where it will" or something like that. These people often say that they don't know how a story will end when they start writing. Now, I'm not one to cast aspersions on anyone's process. I say do what works for you, as long as it's actually WORKING.  I however, have never been one to just sit and write with no end in mind, at least not for anything longer than a blog post. That method might work for poetry, flash fiction or even short stories, but anything longer than a few printed pages and I better have an outline. This could be the fault of my high school English teacher, Rita Mullins. Aside from Mrs. Mullins many gems of literary wisdom, one of the things that she taught us that I have used the most, is how to create and work from an outline.  I don't want to brag (Yes, I do.) but as a corporate trainer, I never missed a deadline for writing training material. That was entirely due to this habit of working from an outline. Where other trainers who weren't natural writers would sit and stare at blank screens trying to come up with a plan, I would schedule a plan allowing a specific amount of time for researching, brainstorming, outlining, writing and editing and I would work that plan. Voila! Training class on time with minimal stress.

Here are some of the key things that an outline provides for me:

1) Direction: Novel writing isn't a simple as writing training manuals. Sometimes I just feel a scene and it's better to write that when I'm feeling it or it might lose its emotional punch. But if I don't want to lose my way writing from point A to point Z then an outline is a necessity. There is always room for switching items around, changing order and scrapping scenes altogether. That's why I tend to do my outline on index cards, and nerdily color code them according to plot or sub-plot. For a large project like a novel, it's a way to get a bird's eye view of the whole story. Plus it's reminder of what needs to be written next. That doesn't mean that I write scenes in order. If I'm feeling one scene I might work on that. Likewise, if I'm not feeling one, then I can check what else needs to be written and try one of those.

2) Plot Check: Working without an outline is a bit like driving on back country roads with no map or GPS. It might be a lot of fun, in fact that's one of my favorite pastimes, but unless I have some set destination in mind, I'm likely to meander about with no direction take forever to get where I'm going. A book is not like that. If you meander about too much you risk losing the reader's interest. Lengthy passages about the beauty of barns on the back roads of central Virginia might be fun  for me to write, but they're not going to turn pages. Every scene should move the plot forward, and using an outline helps me make sure of that. I can ask myself if an item in my outline moves the plot forward and if it doesn't, I can chuck it. Likewise, I can ask myself if anything is missing. Do the events in my outline motivate my characters to do what they are supposed to do? If not, what else do I need?

3)Accomplishment: There's a reason why I don't knit blankets or sweaters. It's not that I don't like them, I just don't like big projects like that. I get impatient and want to move on to the next thing. I actually get a little depressed if I don't have that sense of accomplishment that comes with finishing something every now and then. So, a big writing project like a novel or (gasp!) a series of novels can be a daunting task. Working from an outline helps me break that down to smaller more manageable tasks. I  go act by act, scene by scene and check them off as I finish drafting each one. I even go so far as to print them out and put them into a notebook in the order of my outline right behind the relevant index card or cards for that scene. This way I can look at the manuscript and feel like I'm moving forward.

As I said before, I'm not disparaging anyone's process or lack thereof. I'm just saying that the old adage "Fail to plan, plan to fail" is famous for a reason. It takes a remarkably rare talent to just sit down and write a book without knowing the direction or having the end in mind. So if you're a writer, you might ask yourself. Am I that rare creative genius that can do that, or am I a classically trained samurai?

Don't Fear the Rewrite

About ten years ago (yes really, that long ago) I got the idea for the novel that I'm currently working on. It came in the form of a prologue. I know prologues are out of vogue, but I've checked and rechecked my reasons for having one, and I'm definitely sure it's the way to go. I wrote the prologue and was pretty happy with it. In the intervening years, I have outlined and written about half the book, other short stories, researched, had a career in corporate training, had two children, bought a house, sold a house, and generally lived a life. All of those things have contributed to my maturing as a writer. So, last year when I picked the novel up again after a hiatus, I read the prologue and was thoroughly unhappy. It meandered through the heads of the characters involved without direction. The descriptions were overblown and some of the dialog was down right syrupy. In the years since I wrote the original prologue, the characters have become clearer in my mind. I have even outlined a whole series of books with these characters. Two of them in particular aren't alive, during the main story line, so the prologue is the first of just a few places that the reader will be able to get their perspectives. The prologue should focus on them, and its original edition did not.

My years of writing training materials as a corporate trainer have conditioned me to write to an outline. It also got me used to working to a deadline, which I always managed to by keeping to an "always moving forward" way of working. If I get stuck on something, I move to something else until my mental block clears itself, or I find the information I need to finish. That's also why I always have multiple projects going. I'm always moving forward on one of them. So with that in mind, I was loath to spend valuable time going back and completely rewriting something that I had checked off my novel writing to do list. I told myself that I just had to get the rest out before I could go back and rewrite the prologue.

The trouble is, I floundered somewhere around chapter 9. As I was writing the rest of the story, the characters and events included in the prologue solidified in my mind more and more. I seemed to lose my way with the rest of the plot. I couldn't stop thinking about that prologue and how important is was to tell that story well before I could get the rest of it right. I finally had to bite the bullet and rewrite the darned thing. That's just what I've spent my few hours of true writing time for the last week or so doing, and I couldn't be more pleased.

What was unfocused and immature, is now true to the characters whose stories need to be told there. It has depth and subtext and foreshadowing that suggests where the overall series in addition to that novel will go. It doesn't reveal too much, but gives the right amount of characterization and a tantalizing glimpse of the heroine's back story. And best of all the writing doesn't make me want to hurl my iPad across the room as the original version did. It also has the added benefit of making me feel so much more focused about moving forward. I know some things in my outline need to be changed, what needs to be added and taken out. Rewriting took extra time that I could used to advance the plot, but it's also helped me refocus. Now, when I advance the plot I know I'll be moving in the right direction.