Blog Chain: Tell me where it hurts (so I can make it hurt more)

Shannon brought up this blog chain topic:

Imagine this: when you are gone, readers will remember your writing most for just one of these things: your characters, your plots, your settings, or your style. Which (only one!) would you prefer over the rest? Why?

Fascinating question.

I've spent a lot of time thinking about it. I've gone so far as to examine my favorite aspects of the authors I believe I will remember most when they are gone.

But I hit a dead end because I like different authors for different reasons, and I don't read and write for the same reasons.

So I started thinking about why I started writing in the first place.

I accomplished the initial goal I'd set for my writing -- to have my words touch someone so deeply they'd cry -- by creating a character whose emotional pain was so great readers felt it in their gut.

I got a kick out of having that control over people's emotions. (Yeah. Go ahead. Call me a bully.)

So I figure if I can't get out of life alive it would be cool if my characters could stick around in people's heads for awhile after I'm gone to do my bidding. (Insert evil laugh here.)

What would you choose and why?

Find out what Michelle said yesterday. Tune in at Christine's place tomorrow to see if her plan is as diabolical as mine.

Writerly Wednesday: That thing they do

It started with Jodi Picoult’s “The Pact.”

It ended when I acquired an old copy of Terri Blackstock’s “Emerald Windows.”

No, wait, I can’t say it ended. I’m sure I’ll encounter more books that have a hero/heroine who is either an art student or professional artist. It feels like -- in the past several months -- I’ve already read a ton.

That’s not a bad thing. Not by any means. All but two – which will remain nameless – held my interest.

But it left me scratching my head and asking, “What’s the deal with all of the artists?”

It also left me wondering how writers go about choosing their characters’ occupations and interests.

Sometimes -- like in the book I just finished -- details of the MC’s occupation are so irrelevant that I forget what he/she does for a living.

Other times those details have a direct impact on the plot.

So tell me: What do your characters do? Do their jobs/hobbies play heavily into the plot of your story? Do you choose your characters’ professions? Or do your stories dictate what your characters do?

And now a word from my 'other' sponsor

Penny: Eight thousand, right?

Me: What?

Penny: Eight thousand. That's about how many words you have left to write before you reach the NaNo goal?

Me: Oh, yeah. But when NaNo is over I have to start on the other narrative.

Penny: Think you'll make it?

Me: Probably.

Penny: How does it end?

Me: How does what end?

Penny: My narrative.

Me: *smiles* You should know. It's your story.

Penny: Yeah, but you've added a lot of stuff I didn't think you'd add.

Me: You told me a lot of things I never knew.

Penny: Such as?

Me: I don't think I can talk about that without offending some of the readers.

Penny: That's not all my fault.

Heather: You know, Penny, the first step toward recovery is admitting you have a problem.

Penny: You stay out of this, Heather. Go back to your own book.

Me: Ladies, please. Heather, I'll get back to your story in a little while. Right now I need to finish working on this one.

Heather: *takes a seat, muttering under breath* Man. She is never going to send a query for me. *yells* NYT's best-seller list is waiting for my story, Kat.

Me: Don't be such a prima donna, Heather. Have some patience.

Penny: *sighs* Now that that unpleasantness is behind us.

Heather: *sticks out her tongue*
Penny: You still have a character to name yet, huh?

Me: A couple of them.

Penny: I'm talking about my son.

Me: Your son?

Penny: That's what I said. My son.

Me: He already has a name.

Penny: No, no, no. His name can't stay like that. People will know.

Me: Know what?

Penny: You know.

Me: No, Penny, I don't know. I haven't written it yet.

Penny: You know, that thing I did that kicked this whole story into motion.

Me: Oh, you mean the kid...

Penny: Shhhhhhhhh!

Me: You know what you did was wrong, right?

Penny: That guy wronged me first. Twice, actually.

Me: Three wrongs don't make a right.

Penny: I did what I had to do. I helped more people than I hurt. Besides, the ones who got hurt were bad, and I couldn't get justice any other way.

Me: So, you're a vigilante?

Penny: Can we get back to the point? What are you naming my son?

Me: I don't know.

Penny: Maybe you should ask your blog readers for ideas. They're creative folks.

Me: Indeed. That sounds like a good idea.

I'm fresh out of spark for names right now. Would anyone care to suggest a name Penny's son?

Here's a little bit about him: He was born in the mid-1990s, love skateboarding, plays bass guitar and loves heavy metal music.

I'd love your input.

WiP: Build a Girl

Well, chute.

That's what that is in the photo -- a chute. They're used to round up cattle and load them into a truck. (Just in case you didn't know.)

Obviously, this one is no longer in service. (Note the tree growing through the middle of it.)

My grandparents used to have one on their farm. It was a fascinating thing. In the summertime -- since there was never any livestock nearby -- my cousins and I would spend hours upon hours scaling the wooden fences, running up and down the corridor leading to the end of the chute. We'd then jump off into the loose soft sand of the lane.

I don't ever remember complaining about the gawd-awful heat. Although, I do remember assisting in the depletion of grandma's seemingly endless supply of Strawberry Shasta Cola.

In the wintertime, we'd bundle up and trek out to the western woods (okay, okay, it was thick grove of trees on the west side of my grandma's house) where we had converted a pile of rusting clunkers into thieves' paradise. I tricked out my clunker -- the shell of an old Chevy -- with some carpet remnants I'd found in my grandma's garage and dubbed it "The Bratmobile."

(I think I even have pictures somewhere.)

I don't remember complaining about the bitter cold. Although, I do remember being quarantined to the bedroom with my cousin, Lisa, while our pants and socks dried in the dryer. I also remember that there were many, many doors in her house, and we oftentimes sneaked upstairs to try on old clothes and hats that had to have been left from another era.

So, you ask, why is any of this important? Well, besides being the mortar in the foundation of my life, these memories -- and others like them -- started flooding back as I began working on my new WiP Whisper.

I'm kind of stuck, and I was hoping I could get some help firing up the old brain storm.

The story is told from the perspective of a young girl in the early 1970s, and much of it is set in rural Nebraska. (Hey, I'm just writing what I know.) As a girl who was born and raised in small-town Nebraska, I know what kinds of things she will do to keep her "off the streets of Hadar" (as one of my co-workers would say).

The problem is she has been plucked from her home in the big city and placed in this rural setting. I need to give this girl some mortar.

So, I need to know about the "mortar ingredients" for city-kid foundations. I'm hoping to get some of you to share some of your favorite childhood moments, so I can get the ball of creativity rolling inside my head.

Take me to your leading lady

Random stupid fact about Kat: I know the lines from the first three Star Wars movies by heart.

Now, when I say first three, I mean movies 4, 5 and 6 -- A New Hope; The Empire Strikes Back and Return of the Jedi.

I know of very few who grew up in the 70s and 80s that hadn't seen those flicks at least once. I mean, they're such a staple in our culture, it's difficult to imagine life without them.

So, here's a bit of trivia that rocked my world when I heard it.

Robert Englund -- the guy who played Freddy Krueger in A Nightmare on Elm Street -- talked Mark Hamill into auditioning for the role of Luke Skywalker. Englund, himself, had auditioned for the role and was turned down.

Not only that, but it's been said that actors Nick Nolte, Al Pacino, Christopher Walken and Burt Reynolds were all considered for the role of Han Solo.

Can you imagine?

Thank goodness they discovered Harrison Ford or the Millenium Falcon may have been adorned with a black and gold bird on its hood, huh?

Other actors have turned down or been turned down for famous roles in other movies as well.

For instance, Will Smith was considered for The Matrix's Neo.

John Cusack was considered to play Johnny Bender in The Breakfast Club.

Darryl Hannah as Vivian in Pretty Woman?

Sean Connery as Gandalf?

I don't know about you, but the very thought of replacing the actors who were cast in any of those roles just blows my mind.

Then I started thinking about my ultimate dream. One day, I'd love to see one of my stories make its way to the big screen.

But who, oh, who would play my leading roles?

Although, JK Rowling demanded that the principal cast of Harry Potter be British and pretty much got her way, I doubt authors have much say in it. But that's okay because I haven't found anyone yet that would suit those roles.

That being said, Isla Fisher (whose mother, coincidentally is a novelist) might make a decent Heather.

Other than that, I'm at a loss. Nevertheless, it's a fun thing to think about.

What about you? Have you ever lost yourself in a reverie about who would play your leading roles on the big screen?

* * *

Courtesy Photos

Tell me 'bout the good ol' days

I'm doing a beta read for a fellow writer.

It's a historical romance. I'm not sure if I told her when I agreed to read it, but historical romance was probably my least favorite genre.

The operative word there is WAS.

A little more than halfway through, I started to develop a new respect for writers of historical fiction.

Why?

Well, not only do writers of historical fiction have to do an incredible amount of research about the period and have a vivid imagination to twist their plots (like all writers), they also have to put themselves in a completely different frame of mind.

Our present-day society works nothing like that of old.

For instance, two days ago, I tried to explain to my daughter why it was inappropriate for her to have a boy in her room.

Molly: "Mom, you and dad were watching TV in the living room. We wanted to listen to music."

Me: "That's fine, dear, but not in your bedroom. And certainly NOT with the door closed."

Molly: "Why? I don't even like (boy) in that way. We're not going to do anything. Eeew." *shudders*

Me: "It's just not appropriate."

Molly: "But Mom..."

Me: "Someday when you have a daughter, you'll understand."

Now, compare this scene to 100 to 150 years ago, when social mores practically prohibited girls and boys Molly's age from so much as looking at each other without parental permission.

A century ago, a kiss constituted a lustful thought. Now, well. . .it's pretty sad when "Girls Gone Wild" commercials merely spur an eye roll or change of channel.

Sometimes I wonder what must go through my 96-year-old grandmother's mind when she watches television. Having watched Days of Our Lives religiously since its first episode, she's seen the decay of those old ways.

I used to think living back then would have been much simpler. I don't know about that, but it would certainly be a shock to the system.

Anyway, historical fiction has a new fan. Well, at least the author of the novel I'm reading has a new loyal fan.

Now, if someone could just pack a few more hours into the day.

A word from my sponsor

And now, a glimpse into my dementia.

Heather: So, you wrapped up "Long Road" last night, huh?

Kat: Yeah. I'm all done...for now.

Heather: Did you remember to put in the part about the....

Kat: Yeah.

Heather: And what about that part where Dave...

Kat: Yeah.

Heather: Tell me you remembered to put in what I thought about my brother's...

Kat: Heather. I got it. Quit worrying.

Heather: Geez, Kat. Calm down. I just wanted to make sure you got it all down and got it right.

Kat: I'm a professional. I know what I'm doing.

Heather: Ha! Professional. You're a professional reporter. That's a lot different than writing someone's life story.

Kat: Oh, yeah? How so, Rock Star?

Heather: Hey...watch it. You know how I feel about that label.

Kat: (Raises eyebrow. Crosses arms. Taps foot.)

Heather: Stop looking at me like that. You knew what I meant. You've said it before; writing a news story is different because you give out all of the info up front, and writing fiction you have to drizzle a little here and there. I just hope you did it right this time.

Kat: I think you better go back to Dr. Saxton and see if he can do something about your passive-aggressive behavior.

Heather: (Smiles.) You should be glad it's passive.

Kat: Is that a threat?

Heather: (Still smiling.) Take it for what it is, Kat. (Sighs.) Now what about the soundtrack? How's that coming?

Kat: I thought you were the musician.

Heather: Girl, I'm fictional. If you leave the singing up to me, that soundtrack will be nothing but track after track of Simon and Garfunkel.

Kat: Huh?

Heather: You know, "The Sound of Silence?"

Kat: Oh, thanks. Now I'll have that stuck in my head all day.

Heather: Don't mention it. Now, about the soundtrack...

Kat: I'm workin' on it. I'm workin' on it. It would be nice if I could find a drummer that wasn't fictional.

Heather: Heh heh. Hey, Kat...

Kat: What?

Heather: What do you call a drummer without a girlfriend?

Kat: I've heard this one before. You call him homeless. I thought that might hit a little too close to home for you. I mean, considering...

Heather: Not really. I'm over that. Now about the soundtrack...

Kat: Dana and I are working on it. We're waiting for drum tracks on "Long Road Home" and we're working on the title track. While I'm waiting for my crit group's response, I'll have time to work on it some more, too.

Heather: Hmm. Crit group, huh? Are you nervous? Who's reading it? Anyone I should know about?

Kat: A few different people, but if someone else wanted to take a gander I wouldn't mind.

Heather: Oh, OK. (laughs again) Hey, Kat, how do you get a drummer off your front porch?

Kat: I don't know. How?

Heather: Pay him for the pizza. (laughs)

Kat: Oh, Heather. That's terrible. And Nick's Italian, too. That's really bad.

Heather: Aw, lighten up. He thought it was hilarious.

Self-portrait

"You're quite the character."

That's what my mom said whenever I'd play a practical joke or pop off an anecdote that was too risque for my young age.

And I'm sure my follow-up question -- "What kind of character am I?" -- proved her original assessment.

I figured my question was valid.

Even at eleven years old, I knew the variations found in characters. Practically an only child (my sisters are six, nine and ten years older than me), I surrounded myself with fictional characters from books, movies, cartoons and television shows.

Other people's fictional characters helped establish a foundation for building my own for stories I'd write later in life. Through those characters, I discovered a definition of the word I hoped my mom meant.

I wanted to be beautiful like Daisy Duke. I loved pretending to be the only Duke girl, helping my cousins solve problems that the law couldn't. (Although in my fantasy world, I didn't like Ennis. What on earth was that girl thinkin'? Seriously.)

I wanted to be tough like Princess Leia -- twin sister of the chosen one, Luke Skywalker. Who wouldn't want to be the girl who fights epic battles against Storm Troopers and an evil empire? How could a girl not want to tame a scoundrel like Han Solo? (But kissing my brother? Contrary to popular thought, we don't do that here in Nebraska either.)

I wanted to be mysterious like Jem, the cartoon pop star who led a double-life. I was older by the time Jem's popularity grew, but I fell in love with the idea of a tough rocker-chick heroine with identity issues. The deepest heroes/heroines have flaws to which everyone can relate. (But it really bugged me that she never minded her boyfriend's purple hair and the fact that he cheated on her with her other self. I mean, c'mon girlfriend. Have some R-E-S-P-E-C-T for yourself!)

Perhaps most of all, I wanted to possess the innocence of Anne Shirley. Remember Anne of Green Gables? She's my all-time favorite book character. I always likened Anne and her best friend-kindred spirit, Diana Barry to myself and my twin cousin Jill. (We're more like twin sisters than cousins.)

Over-the-top. Melodramatic. Hopeless romantics. Always getting into trouble. Sitting next to each other in punishment with smiles and whispering, "It was worth it."

I'd have a hard time creating a heroine for a story who didn't possess each of these traits in measured amounts. And I hope when my mom told me, "You're quite the character," she was talking about a little of each of these traits.

Maybe I'll go ask her again.

What about your favorite characters in childhood? How have they impacted your writing or life in your adult years?

Me, myself and Imogene Airy

Long story short: After discovering it was made up, publishers cancelled another holocaust memoir. The story prompted a discussion about Stephanie Meyer's books getting pulled from our local Wal-Mart shelves to make room for a new shipment of Spanish dictionaries. (And people wonder why the economy is in the toilet?)

The conversation initiated a visit to Meyer's website. Something Meyer said on her website prompted today's blog topic. (Just in case you're wondering where this topic came from.)

On her site, Meyer mentioned her love for Bella and Edward and the rest of her imaginary friends, and I started thinking about the truth (albeit embarrassing truth) about a fiction writer's relationship to characters.

Without a doubt, I believe many times that relationship can be classified as that of one with an imaginary friend.

Remember having imaginary friends as a child?

Growing up in the sticks, I had no children next door with whom to play, and my sisters never wanted the baby in the family tagging along with them. I developed imaginary friends.

I had two -- Danny and Tracy (No. I was never into The Partridge Family and my obsession with Michael Damian on The Young and the Restless came much, much later in life). When I was four-years-old, I ended up in the emergency room because Danny "tripped me" when we were playing tag in the house. I busted the glass on the door of the grandfather clock . . . still have the seven-stitch scar above my left eyebrow.

I still laugh about my imaginary friends with my cousin and her husband. She had two -- Pong and Ting, Her husband had one -- Grass. (Make of it what you will.) Our imaginary friends provided hours of entertainment, always agreed with us and were the only person our parents couldn't keep us from when we were sent to our rooms.

Think about it...a writer's characters are a lot like that. They talk to you. You talk to them (although in my case, it's rarely an outloud conversation). Their emotions project upon you. You laugh with them, cry with them, feel embarrassed with them, get them into trouble and blame things on them. (Heather and Nick have made me late for so many appointments, I now set my clock 45 minutes ahead just so I can get places on time.) You are the angel/devil sitting on their shoulder telling them what to do. They are the angel/devil sitting on your shoulder telling you what to write.

No one else can see them. No one else can hear them. More often than not, I believe writers are simply grown-up children who want others to introduce others to their imaginary friends.

So, tell me about your imaginary friends. Maybe we'll all get together and have a play date.

:-)