Works in the Wings

 

 Do you know what I love?
   I love the luxury of flipping through my writing journal (after copying into it 7 1/2 pages of quotes from P.D. James Talking About Detective Fiction) and seeing all the starts to stories, scrawls of inspiration, and newspaper clippings from everywhere.
  I love sorting through a binder and coming across a detailed, chapter-by-chapter outline of Au Contraire, waiting for me if I am ever in need of an ambitious plot.
   I love remembering that story I began, Find Her, and going back to read the two chapter-scenes I had typed out and realizing that, gosh, this is a really good story. A really good one. And I might be about ready to dive into it, head-first.
   I love writing down new story ideas (Murder, Miss Snubbins), and finding title-ideas for sequels to Fly Away Home that I don't even expect to write (The Lobbyman's Belle and Maralie We Roll Along), but have pegged down just in case.
   I love reading the scraps of description and dialog I spread throughout the pages of the much-abused writing journal and remembering where I was and what I was doing when they came to me.
   I love looking at my old writing and admiring certain turns of phrase, certain word-choices that I am allowed to admire without fear of vanity because so much water has gone under the proverbial bridge since I first wrote them.
   I love listing all the ideas currently in the wings (including stories I don't really intend to write and realizing there is enough material here to keep me busy for years and years:

Driftfire (for the 5 Glass Slippers contest)

Au Contraire (historical fiction)

Murder, Miss Snubbins (romantic thriller)

Find Her (mystery/thriller)

The Green Branding (historical fiction)

Curvy Girls (contemporary fiction)

Jacq of All Trades (contemporary fiction)

Grey Goose Downs (historical fiction-ish)

No Mere Mortals (contemporary fiction)

Sentiment, Durrant (dystopian and thus, probably will never be written by me)

The Glass Half-Full {and a lemon-wedge} (inspirational fiction)

The Scar-Girl (allegorical fantasy)

Hearing, I See (undetermined)

Rockingham Shambles (mystery/thriller)

The Sirens of Baker Street (contemporary fiction)

The Traveler (humorous fiction)

Banbury Cross (historical fiction)

Madeleine (romance)

Butter-Boats (contemporary fiction)

The Lobbyman's Belle (inspirational romance)

Maralie We Roll Along (inspirational romance)

Gloamingswood (fantasy)

The Treasure of Riverly Manor (historical mystery/thriller)

  Twenty-Two titles, so that I might not appear so uneducated as to compared to Jane Fairfax. ;) Some of these starts I absolutely love and intend to write someday, like Find Her, No Mere Mortals (which already has 20k words?), Murder, Miss Snubbins, and Rockingham Shambles. The others are entirely up for grabs for the days when I am out of plot ideas. You'll notice that on this list I have quite a few mysteries; something I swore I'd never attempt again after Riverly Manor (at the age of 13) fizzled out. Well. I shall be more careful, but I don't see how I can avoid writing one at some time; mysteries have always fascinated me. Especially when Find Her is looking so terribly attractive alongside Murder, Miss Snubbins. Oh well. Nothing doing till The Baby is finished!

Yes. This is what I love: discovering I'm not anywhere close to running out of ideas, even though I might sometimes feel a bit disenchanted with current projects. And see, too, what a good thing it is to give your plot bunnies attention? If I chased after every story on this list (you'll notice I didn't mention The Baby because it is my current and ONLY project right now. pleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasebehave) I might give a teeny bit of attention to the grooming and shaping up of something else, but I intend to finish The Baby, no matter what of a devil it is being. (In fact, soon as this post is done, I'm off to write) What are your works-in-the-wings? I'd love to hear about them!

In which we go hunting plot bunnies

In the realm of writing, plot bunnies are a frowned-upon species of creation. They can be red-herrings and distract from the current work in progress. They are insistent creatures and bound in upon your senses when you least expect them, and are least able to deal with them. They are beautiful, shimmering, tempting little things that promise Perfection...but when you chase them they sometimes disappear in a puff of smoke. And yet they won't go away no matter how much you want them to. There is always a plot bunny sitting on your fingers as you try to type out the next thousand words in the story you know you need to be writing. Inspiration? No. I'm inclined to feel that a plot bunny is distraction. Yet...

Yet

You never know when real inspiration will strike. Sometimes plot bunnies are not all mischief, mockery, and fluff. Sometimes there is a valid idea contained in those sporadic plot bunnies. So how do you keep from falling in love with one of these capricious creatures, yet giving inspiration a chance to strike? Here are the ways I deal with them:

Give them their own Word Document- I do not shy from opening a new document, writing the scene that has been bothering me, and saving it for a later date.

Give them their own blog post- This can be a way to successfully fool Those Bunnies. You see, they are vain creatures and they like to be Noticed if you know what I mean. If you write about the plot bunny or include bits of it in your Snippets of Story post, or otherwise give it attention, you might find it begins to leave you alone for a while.

Give then the dignity of a name- Again, make up an intriguing name for this plot bunny and attach it to their word document. This will appease them more than anything.

Give them a later date- After all of this work, if the plot bunny will not go away, set yourself a particular time you will pay attention to your warren of plot bunnies. This works well because the elusive ones that wouldn't have been worth anything anyway are scared of commitment, and then the ones that are worth something will be ready and waiting for you at a particular time, dictated by Your Pen. :)

Three strangers for you. :)

There is always that moment in the birth of a new story when you realize you've got something on your hands and you haven't an idea what to do with it. I myself am in the process of getting a new plot going. I've got several Scribblings rambling around my head and I think I'll work on them all a little bit. You see, I have found I can write in several strains: Humorous, Children, and Other. Thus, I've got at least one project in each category going right now and I only have to decide what mood I'm in to determine which book I'll work on at the present moment.
But I'm angling for a story right now and I found something that might become my Trout. I will introduce you to several of the characters I have so far:

Bretton Keeptryst:

“By my troth thou art a stiff-necked beast!”  It was a man’s voice spoke the words through the greenwood—a voice laced with humor and luxury. 

-Gloaming's Tryst

Lord Peregrine Rouncewell:

“And what is it that so captures you about the lady Merewald?” Lord Peregrine tossed the question as careless as he threw bone and gristle to the hounds beneath his table, but his whole being leaned forward to catch his companion’s answer.

-Gloaming's Tryst

...and the Lady Merewald Goldehelm

“She runs too much to eyes for my taste,” he said. He pulled his black leather gloves off his hands and tested the tip of his lance. “Stares a man out of countenance with those soul-pools.”

-Gloaming's Tryst

I only know these three right now, and what's even more fun is that I'm not telling you anymore about them yet. You will have to guess. :D

A Promising 3 Sentences. ;)

Why oh why do titles always come to me before plots? Why? Argh. I am not as cross as I could be, as I am openly welcoming plot bunnies to start me off on my next Project. Of course I always have numerous projects that I work on now and again,  but I like a Main Course, if you will...I am feeling that something may be happening with a certain name...which certain name? Well, I shouldn't tell you, but I will.

 Banbury Cross.

That name sends all sorts of ideas darting through my brain...I have written all of about three sentences, but I'm already intrigued. It my go nowhere. It may go somewhere. I shall have to see....

She could have been carved of the white cliffs of Dover as she stood in the middle of the moon-washed road. White was her skin—marble fair. White was her gown, stitched here and there with blue shadow-kisses. White was her horse and it too stood still as a mirror as if bewitched. -Banbury Cross

A Feeling in my Bones

Naturally, as The Scarlet-Gypsy Song nears an end I begin to think of my Next Project. The Traveler will not be it. That book is a fanciful, whimsical book--it shall not succumb to being pinned down as a W.I.P. It wants to be worked on in spurts and darts and dashes and so it shall. Madeleine is not thrashed out, nor is Rockingham Shambles. I am not done with research for my French Revolution novel. So what's next? What will jump forth from my pen in the months to come?

I am not certain yet.

I am not certain, and yet I have a sort of Feeling in my Bones. This feeling has nothing to do with children, strangely enough. It has everything to do with this:

And this:

And this:

And this:

And this scribble I did up last Fall.

I have an idea something precious might come out of it all. :)

Cherry Pitts: Just a bit of Nothingness :)

All right. So this has nothing to do with the blog party or contest. This is a bit of nothingness that I simply had to scribble down before it left me. I will not follow it as a plot bunny....yet. :P I hope you enjoy it! I rather like Pitt myself. :)

Cherry Pitts

By Rachel Heffington

I didn’t even know we had aunts. There were uncles by the dozen, but they all “bached” it in a dirty, smoky set of apartments in the city. Buggs, Sharpshin, and I loved visiting them—we always had such larks, for there was a desperate element of danger in their antics: Uncle Nelson had a habit of juggling all the sharpest steak-knives and throwing them at you so they cut a few hairs off the top of your head, but left your scalp. Uncle Jem drank brandy (for his bum leg, he said.) and smoked dime cigars at the same time. Uncle Welch always dared us to walk along the wrought iron rail of the great bridge in the Park. But the youngest, most perilous—and therefore beloved—uncle of all was Uncle Brodie. He would load one chamber of his six-shooter, (that had done service to a real live Indian once) then coolly point the pistol in your direction and shoot the five empty chambers so you prayed he was paying attention and counting right.

We adored Uncle Brodie for the very fact that you were never quite safe around him—he was like a jungle, an island, a cowboy, and a pirate-ship all boiled down and buttoned up in a crumpled, grey suit.

We never knew what to expect from Uncle Brodie. Maybe that’s why we weren’t as surprised as we might have been when the door of Sallimander’s Drug jangled open one afternoon as Buggs, Sharpshin, and I were drinking our twice-weekly cream-sodas.

Uncle Brodie slung his lanky frame onto the barstool beside Sharpshin. “Hey kids,” he said.

 I sipped my cream soda and licked my lips, savoring the sweet furze that clung to them.

“Hey Uncle Brodie,” Sharpshin said, without taking his eyes from his comic book. He wasn’t reading it—I knew my own brother well enough to know that—he studied the super-heroes because he planned to become an inventor and he was determined to find the formula for Kryptonite. Buggs and I thought him a genius.

Uncle Brodie cleared his throat and I looked at him. His face was splotchy, and he kept swallowing funny.

“Want my cherry?” I asked, running a grimy hand through my red hair till it stood on end.

“Sure kid,” he said. He never called me Lewis—which was my real name—or even Pitt, which was what the guys called me. All three of us—Buggs, Sharpshin, and myself—were just “kid” to Uncle Brodie, but I didn’t mind.

I pulled the cherry off the deflated pile of whipped cream and eyed it with a little reluctance—but nothing was too good for my idol. I passed it to him and he tossed it in his mouth, chewed once, and swallowed it, stem and all.

I suppose there was a measure of talent mixed up in such a feat, but I stared gape-mouthed. Buggs, Sharpshin, and I had a religious system when we ate a cherry; we pulled the stem off, licked the cherry clean, polished it on our shirt-sleeves, then ate it in mouse-bites till the last bit of sweet cherry-juice was only a memory on the tongue.

The cherry being disposed of, Uncle Brodie cleared his throat again and pulled an envelope from his pocket. It was sweaty and crumpled and looked as agitated as a june-bug with a string tied to his leg. In fact, it looked just like Uncle Brodie did.

“What’s ‘at?” Buggs asked. He pushed his patched cap to a jaunty angle on his head and reached for the envelope.

Uncle Brodie shoved his hand away. “Listen kiddos,” he said, “I’ve got somethin’ important to tell ya’.”

I froze in my folding of a napkin into a sailor-hat. Sharpshin pulled his eyes from his comic book. Buggs pushed his hat back in the other direction.

Uncle Brodie crumpled his weather-beaten fedora in his hands and gave us a sympathetic grimace. “I’m real sorry, kids. I really am.”

Buggs cracked his knuckles. “So?”

Uncle Brodie slid the envelope across the counter till it hit my elbow. “So, it’s the aunts, kiddos. They’re claiming you.”