Here lie the mortal remains of....

Au Contraire

{At least temporarily}

Sometimes you will have a beautiful plot for a story--a plot that is actually worthwhile, well thought out, and over-the-average exciting. You have well-rounded characters and a great setting. You have readers excited about the idea of this new book, and are all ready to write it. And when you sit down....the passion is lacking.

Teen auther Rachel Coker recently posted on Go Teen Writers about when to give up on a story. The whole topic scares the pididdle out of me, personally, because I hate thinking of giving up on a story. After all, I love my stories, I pour a lot of time and thought into them, and saying "never mind" seems like a sign of great weakness. It's even harder when you still love the story but it just isn't working out.

Is it okay to lay it aside for a time?

Or forever?

These are questions I've been mulling over since last writing about Au Contraire on this blog. Many of you are excited about Au Contraire and cannot wait to hear more about it. Perhaps it is my fault for writing too soon of a new project that I had hardly begun. But the truth is, after reading a beautiful historical romance (The Sound of Diamonds) written by my good friend, Rachelle Rea, I realized that sweeping, historical dramas/romance is not my territory. I got so excited over The Scarlet-Gypsy Song and Fly Away Home. I never tired of talking about them, writing them, and blogging about them. They were stories that captured me.
When people bring up Au Contraire, my stomach clenches and I put on my "I just met you and I hope you like me anyway" smile and explain what the plot is and why its great and what I love about it, and the whole time I know I'm trying to convince myself as much as them. This is why I say that I think I need to give it a sabbatical.

I don't want you to take this the wrong way. I think Au Contraire is a book with a killer plot, awesome characters, and great potential. But it is not my voice. I have worked hard to find my natural writing voice and have carved somewhat of a niche out of this corner of the world with my own distinctive style. I have written in several genres and there is a coherent thread running through all of them: my voice.

I knew I'd found my voice when I realized that my children's historical fiction, my mid-grade fantasy, and my adult inspirational romance all have a similar flavor. They are for completely different audiences, yet there is a certain something about them that marks them with Rachel's Goods. This is so exciting--it's a huge step in being a writer. Knowing your voice. It's like discovering that you have remarkably blue eyes or a gorgeous nose. (What? Noses are important to me! I don't care for mine.) The whole idea of Au Contraire balances on a careful point of drama, precision, emotion, and wit. I've got the wit, a bit of emotion, and a fair amount of precision, but I am not a drama-writer. This is what was getting to me. I would write a bit of Au Contraire, look at it and think, "This is good. But it's not me." You've no idea how vexing that is--realizing an idea doesn't fit, and having to bury it for a while.
For a while.
I'm not saying that I'll be through with it forever. I'm not even saying that I won't work on it at all. It's just that I don't think it's right to spend all my energy, time, and thought on a project that isn't fitting at this time. It wouldn't be honest to myself, as dramatic as that sounds. To put it quite plainly, it would be ridiculous. Think about it: a project I don't have a passion for, taking up every spare moment of my time, and every square inch of my brain? Is it wise? As sappy as it sounds, if my heart isn't in it, should I be wasting my time?

This is where I have to add a caveat: I feel better about laying this novel aside for the time being because I have ruled out three of what I call the "dangers of quitting."

1. This isn't my first novel. I'm not ten pages into my maiden attempt at authoring and thinking, "I can't do this." I've completed five novels total--three very presentable ones, and have other pieces in various stages of being. I would caution first-time authors about abandoning ship. You have to have a certain level of maturity and stick-to-tive-ness to be able to make this decision.

2. This wasn't inspired by another plot bunny hammering at the door. Although I do have several ideas and one "beginning" I was already considering what to do about Au Contraire. Remember, I've already laid it aside once on trial, then came back. No cigar.

3. I have thought about it and looked at it from all angles. I've thought about it from a professional point of view, (i.e. "What am I doing writing a book that isn't even my style?") I've thought about it from a personal angle, (i.e. "Am I trying to write like someone else?") I've thought about it from a creative angle, (i.e. "Could I write it in my own voice and make it work?") and all the answers point back to this: I need to lay it aside.

So. That being said, I am very sorry for having talked so much about a thing before seeing if it was a good fit for me. That's terribly unprofessional, and if I ever am going to be a published author, I can't be making pie-crust promises. Will you forgive me that?

Let me reiterate:

Au Contraire is not dead for good. At least not yet.

I do have a replacement idea. Several, actually.

And I will keep you updated.

Pax? All right. So now it's your turn to speak. Have you ever had to lay a project aside? What caused you to do it? Was it quitting, or making a thought-out decision? What would you change?

It tastes Parisian.

Since I am bound by other duties to leave you until next Wednesday, I thought I'd occupy your fancy with a piece from the opening of Au Contraire. Yes, I know I'm generous. (According to that queer give-and-take that happens when we authors share our bits and get as much pleasure giving them out as you do receiving them.) Have a lovely week, all of you. (And for heaven's sake, if you're old enough to vote, please do.)

***

Fourth of Brumaire,

 Year One of the French Republic

“It is hardly an unknown fact that you are a coquin,—a rogue—Desquette.” The young speaker tossed back her long curls with an impatient hand and smiled at Desquette. “There is no need to pretend you are virtuous.” A general murmur of laughter warmed through the crowd gathered around the young lady as she stood at the mantel, one hand poised on the shelf, toying with a miniature of some long-guillotined aristocrat.

“If we haven’t virtue, have we anything?” This question from a woman of mature countenance sitting somewhat to the side—her eyes obscured by shadow, her mouth a thread of scarlet.

“La, Citoyenne—virtue is outdated. A whim of the aristos. Pray, do not speak of virtue here.” The young lady’s lips curved in a haughty smile and her cheek dimpled. “Desquette wants nothing to do with virtue—‘twould spoil all his fun, and he’s vowed to live for nothing else. We cannot afford to have him die just yet.”

Another general laugh, and the coquin, Desquette, rose from the red chaise-lounge and came to the girl’s side. In his hand he held a slender glass filled with pilfered wine; this he raised and commanded the room’s attention. “Are we to allow Citoyenne Corinne Garnier the pleasure of handing out all the bon mots?” The young man gestured to the girl and winked. “I think not. Some of us still have able enough tongues in our heads. Corinne, my love, your regime is up—sit you down and let another guillotine our wit.”

“Gladly would I lay my office aside if I was sure another could perform it as well as I,” Corinne said with a curtsy. “But there are precious few executioners the job could be trusted to. You are so stiff-necked.” She curtsied again, her dove-colored gown brushing the floor, took the glass of wine from Desquette’s hand, and wandered to the back of the long room.

“I suppose you know you are clever, Corinne?” The smooth voice at her elbow no more startled than displeased her.

She turned with a smile and put her hand into that of the tall, slender fellow who lounged against a pillar. “Renaud!—you are late again.”

“I arrive at precisely the right time.”

“By whose reckoning?”

“My own.”

Corinne removed her hand and fingered the silk rose at her waist. “That is where you make a grave miscalculation—everyone at Les Salon Des Patriotes knows I am queen and my word is law.” She pressed her lips together and watched the quick play of thunder in Renaud Tremaine’s eyes. And what if she had misspoken and called herself a queen? Sure and she was vexed at the slip, but worse things had happened and Renaud could never accuse her of sympathy with the aristos. “Renaud, for heaven’s sake. Would you send me to the guillotine for a remark like that? Bah. What a fool you are.” She shrugged and the air in the parlor—away as they were from the fireside—wrapped clammy fingers around her bare shoulders. From the velvet-swaddled windows came the sound of a small hard rain. It scratched with the nails of a hundred tiny rodents, and Corinne was glad of a sudden for the warm, cloistered salon on the Rue de Faubourg Saint-Honoré. A fine apartment it was, she admitted, though it had belonged to some of the bloody aristos they hated so well. Renaud had once held scruples against living in the same rooms and breathing the same air as a traitor. But even he now appeared perfectly comfortable as he leaned against the pillar, eyes closed and arms crossed. He always had been exacting in the extent of his patriotic tastes. Corinne sighed. “Would you be better pleased if I told you I was the Robespierre of this parlor?” If she had meant the question as sarcasm, her dart missed its mark and dropped, harmless, on the marble floor.

“Of course I would rather have you a Robespierre than a Capet.” Renaud’s eyes flickered to hers in a quick, keen question then fell smoldering beneath his lids again.

“Do you doubt my faith?” Corinne asked, and this time poured derision in her tone.

Renaud pushed himself from the pillar and took her hand again. Corinne marked how pale those supple fingers were—how blond and bright and beautiful her cousin was in that terrible lightening-fire way he had. No wonder men gathered to him as moths to a lantern—Nature had marked him as a leader since birth and destined him for great things. This reckoning of Renaud Tremaine softened Corinne’s heart a bit. She raised his hand to her lips and kissed it, letting him fondle her hair with his free hand.

His mouth tipped. “Do I doubt you? Never I. You are too sensible, too enlightened—too like myself—to be anything apart from me and my beliefs. But take a care that you think before you speak. I never say a thing but I’ve thought it over ten minutes past and gone through it twice and again to be sure it is what I meant.”

Corinne kissed his hand again with her soft lips. “You are good to me, Renaud; so kind and patient when my very presence is irksome to you.” The tone was gentle and purring, the words humble, but Corinne laughed wickedly within. Renaud knew as well as she that he could no more exist without her than she without him.

He laughed aloud and teased audible laughter from her into the cool darkness of the parlor. “You thought I was angry with you, did you not?” he asked.

What had he wanted her to think? But Corinne only turned her back to Renaud and tossed a flutter of slender fingers over her left shoulder. “Angry? With me? By all the wrongs in the Cahiers, I don’t see why you should be. Don’t give yourself airs and think that your opinion of me matters a whit.” She paused, half in, half out of the lamplight, and looked at Renaud, wondering if he believed her—nay, if she believed herself.

“Where is our salonnière? Citoyenne Corinne—where have you gone to?”

“They call you, Citoyenne,” Renaud said. His restless fingers straightened his cravat as his dark eyes held Corinne’s in an understanding gaze.

“They can wait—have you anything more to say to me?”

Renaud smiled, and it seemed to Corinne like sunlight breaking from a thunderhead over the Champ de Mars. “If you are not going to drink the wine, may I have it?”

Corinne glanced down at the glass from Desquette and felt swift anger rise in her throat. Why she was angry she could not tell, only that she was. “Take it, with my pleasure,” pushing the goblet into Renaud’s hand, “I have no use for Capet-liquor.”

***

Well, how do you like my new child? I am predisposed to love him superfluously.

Chomping at the bit.

I may have been silent and-or insipid on this blog the past couple of weeks, but I have good excuse. I decided to role with Au Contraire and have been up to my elbows in research and plotting. Exciting thing is, I tried a new method of plotting because plot-strength is something I've made a goal of recently. The method? After I had the bare-bones idea of Au Contraire (The basic plot outline), I went through and named all the chapters, devoting a certain amount to each phase of the plot. From there I researched historical events along the time-line of the story and plugged them into the basic plot, then built further plot twists and arches along those historical under-pinnings. I'm really really excited about this, and feel more prepared than I have for most of my novels. I have 3 detailed pages of outline to my name which will definitely keep me on track when I feel uninspired. Of course there is wiggle-room for plot changes, new characters, etc, but I think this method is going to prove extremely helpful. Would you like a sneak-peek of this novel via the chapter-names?

Oui?

I had hoped so. I will tell you not to put too much stock in what the names mean--I purposely did not title them obviously. But do they pique your interest?

1. Parlor of Patriots

2. "A bas les aristos!"

3. The song of Marseilles

4. Flicker-by-night

5. Ring-around-the-Rosie

6. A Death of ideals

7. Guilt-gems

8. Visage of Offense

9. The Gulf Torn

10. Nor Hell a Fury

11. The Hound

12. Self-same Dust

13. Tete-tete

14. Ruse de Guerre

15. Belly to the Ground

16. Vive le Roi

17. Doubt Thou the Stars are Fire

18. Vogue la Galere

Nothing but parchment...

Abigail reminded me of the fact that there are such things as Character Letters in this life, and a much-needed thing they are, too. In fact, I believe it is safe to say that Character Letters are the perfect venue through which to familiarize yourself with your characters' voices when you get a tad out of touch with them. Or when you are wanting to get in touch with them, which is me in the case of Au Contraire. Thus I give to you a letter written by Corinne Garnier to her cousin, Renaud Tremaine. It has little bearing on the plot, and only serves to give you a feel for her character. She writes:

"My cousin,
       Perhaps you have scores of demimondaine who would address you as their "esteemed, beloved, magnificent Citoyen Tremaine", but though I might be an enfant terrible, you at least have the satisfaction of knowing I am entirely truthful. Of course a mistress would pamper and esteem you. But I do not esteem you any more than you esteem me. We have a perfect knowledge of our characters, you and I, and it seems to me that we are matched; en pantoufles. I do not call you noble or honorable. You do not call me a lady. We would be, both of us, en brochette-cooked on a skewer-if we were succumbed to the scrutiny of the aristocratic standard. Thank God that is not so and we've effectively silenced all such scrutiny--neither of us could survive the slight to our vanity it would be to be held to such a flame--we are nothing but parchment writ over with fierce, fiery script. Some a bit less ambitious than we would say our imaginings are nothing but folie a deux--a clinging to a delusional ideal. But, my dear cousin, here is the fun of it--they shall be the ones left pale and listless by and by while you and I swing higher on this glorious wave of Revolution.
      You will doubtless smile with your greatest condescension when we meet this afternoon. I feel in the highest of high spirits: viva la republique! and all that. I am lively enough to start a bread riot, only I am tired of bread. Perhaps a gateau riot would be more to the point. If we could demand an allay in cake-prices, what a glorious repartee that would be to that demimonde, Marie Antoinette's command to "let them eat cake." You have always been plagued by staircase-wit--store that one up for a later date and remember to thank me afterward.
     Sometimes, Renaud, I feel a queer idea in relation to you. I feel that we are so alike that I have but to look into your face and see my own soul--if we have souls yet, which many doubt in these wonderfully forward-thinking days. Do you have a soul, Renaud? Somehow I doubt it in your case as well as mine--and I am not sure whether to feel gaiety or terror over the idea. Come to me early this evening. I want to be mocked and taunted and mock and taunt in return and cease with everything soberminded. D'accord?
              Your chiton-fille,
                                Corinne Adele Garnier

"Let's see...who will be next?"

I believe I've heard of a species of writer that has their work so carefully plotted that when they are done with one book they immediately begin on another, complete the process again, and so on. This species is unrelated to me. I think I missed out on the Spartan gene somehow. My style is much more...organic. I usually have two or three projects going at once. I work on all of them for the space of a week or so and suddenly one will take off and pull me with it. For instance, where have Cottleston Pie and Scuppernong Days gone? Good question! They are still very much alive, but Fly Away Home took over and raced with me to the finish line. Now that I'm through with Fly Away Home and am in the editing process with it and The Scarlet-Gypsy Song,  I am nosing about for which project will fly away with me next.

There  are four on the table at present:

Scuppernong Days

Find Her

Cottleston Pie

Au Contraire

I am not certain which I'll devote my entire creative-power to just yet. Cottleston Pie is a for-fun book that may not every be pithy enough to have publishing allure so I am doubtful I'll push hard for that, though I love to work on it. Here are the other three with their "Sales Handles", genre, and a picture from each. Which would you like to hear more about?

-Scuppernong Days-

A vow to rescue his sister. A tumble into intrigue, piracy, and traitorous waters. A promise to come home. It is up to young Nicodemus Murdoch to tie the three together and emerge alive.

Genre: Mid-grade historical/action-adventure novel

-Find Her- 

He has staked his life on a promise to "Find Her"...it would help if he knew what to look for. Find Her follows Griff Durbin--a young American in the 1920's--on his world-wide chase to find out what he's looking for...and where it's got to.

Genre: YA action/adventure

-Au Contraire: a novel of the French Revolution-

 Spoiled, petted Corinne Garnier has spent her life in mockery and contempt for the aristos. When a sleight-of-hand trick exposes her aristocratic blood, her ambitious cousin vows to hunt her down and execute her at the guillotine like any other duchess of the Revolution. Will Corinne stoop to accepting mercy at the hands of the people she has vowed to hate?

Genre: YA historical fiction


I am off to camp for a week without internet or my computer so I'll be thinking about these stories a bit during the stay. It'll be interesting to see which snags me first. I am excited about all three and would--if I could--work on them all together. Unfortunately, I work best devoting my entire life to one at a time. Each has great potential.....

Scuppernong Days has characters you feel deep sympathy and connection with, and a deal of great derring-do. Every kid has wanted to run off to sea--admit it.

Find Her is just such an improbable plot and Griff is going to be such a cool guy...a master in a long line of espionage experts...

And then Au Contraire (which I've mentioned before, though you didn't have the title)...the strength of the plot excites me as well as the sweeping drama of the time and the horrible crux Corinne finds herself at...

Ah yes. No lack of inspiration with these three clamoring in my head for proper time and exposure!