My Samwise Gamgee :)

I have been working a great deal on Fly Away Home. Remember that novel? I suddenly got my inspiration back for it, so I've decided that I'll work on both FAH and Scuppernong simultaneously. When I get tired of writing for grown-ups I'll switch over the Scuppernong, and vice-versa. For now I wanted to introduce you to one of the characters in FAH that is more of a side-character, but whom I have fallen in love with. Meet Jerry Atwood, the lobby-man at Callie Harper's apartment building. Okay. So I admit, his character is much like Samwise Gamgee's, but honestly I had no thought of choosing Sean Astin to represent him until I had already written his first scene. :) Now it fits perfectly:

Awww...I love Jerry. :) He has rahther a large infatuation with Callie and would do anything in the world for her. He's genuine, loyal, sweet, and entirely unappreciated. Poor fellow. She sees him rather as an annoyance, but I have a suspicion Jerry is one of those heart-people who one can't forget. Ever.
Here are a few of his shining moments so far:

       I slipped past the reception desk, hoping that Jerry would not be on duty—he always managed to address me in a way that it would be absolutely blatantly cruel of me to ignore. Plus, he had the sweetest little British accent which made it seem even crueler to ignore him. Blast manners—I wonder what Emily Post would think of me if I told her I plotted my schedule—my comings and goings—around who was on duty.

-Fly Away Home

 

        “Miss Harper! How was work?” His round, jovial face beamed at me. Dear Jerry. I had to share my good news with someone and because Nickleby—even if he was a darling cat—did not exactly count as someone, my manner toward Jerry softened.

-Fly Away Home

     “Good morning, Miss Harper!”
      I wiggled my fingers in an obscure reply to Jerry’s white-gloved salute.
     “Going forth to charm the world, are we?” he asked.  “Be yourself, Miss Harper. They’ll love you for it.”
       Something in his words stopped me in my retreat through the lobby. Jerry’s round, boyish face lit up as I came over to the desk. “I don’t know, Jer,” I said.  I drummed my fingers on the desktop and bit my lip. “The world wants glamour and glitz. I want glamour and glitz. “
     “Glamour and glitz?”
      “Yes, yes. You know, dinner parties and glittering gowns, and awards and the opera. Gold cigarette cases and mink stoles, dozens of men sending flowers—all that. New York City will know Callie Harper as a dangerous, elegant woman.” My heart beat faster at this verbalizing of all my hopes and dreams.
      Jerry looked doubtful, but he was too polite to say anything contradicting my words. Instead he smiled again and put his gloved hand on top of mine, squeezing my fingers. “You now, Miss Harper; you’ll be whatever it is you make yourself into. Just take care you make yourself into something you’ll want to live with the rest of your life. And don’t forget me—us. The apartment and me…and the pigeons.” His face turned three shades of red and he began polishing his bell with embarrassed vigor.
      Pigeons. Honestly? I turned my back to him, vexed with myself for feeling unsettled, and lifted my chin high. “How could I fail to recall the shabby life I’ve lead till now?” I tossed the words over my left shoulder. “The trouble will be forgetting it.”

-Fly Away Home

Wisps of violet in between.

I keep scraps of paper stuffed everywhere with my writing all over them. Incidentals I've captured on paper, folded up, (half ashamed of some of them) and forgotten about. Honestly, some authors have a writing notebook in which they neatly file every little sentence they write. (Or such is my impression) I could call myself artistic, but I suspicion I am merely a tidge scatter-brained.
All the same, I do have to admit to feeling rather brilliant when I open a book and a scrap of paper tumbles out into my lap. Or onto my head. Or at my feet. Whichever way the cookie crumbles.

What's this?

I unfold it. Written sloppily on the paper I generally find a few sentences describing an interaction, a moment, some elusive emotion, a humorous or witty exchange of banter... And you know what? They are generally not too bad at all. Much better than I might have hoped. I wonder if perhaps these obscure scribbles gain genius from their close embrace with the pages of finer books...?
I think I have a condition. I think I have OWD. (Obsessive writer's disorder.) I am constantly having a conversation within myself that goes something like this:

Normal Rachel: "I wish you could take everything that woman tells you as truth, but you know she has alzheimers and is making most of it up."
Inner Rachel: "Who cares? It's hilarious."
Writing Rachel: "Not to mention the fact that this whole conversation would fit perfectly in a book about a writer. Totally gotta capture this moment on paper. Who knows when I might use it in the future?"
Normal Rachel: "Guys...guys..we're taking this too far."
Writing Rachel: "Excuse me? Where's a pencil? Where's paper? Let me through!"
Inner Rachel: "Yeah! What time is it? We need to get home so she can write."
Normal Rachel: "Really? You are so pitifully entranced by words. Go away."

Ahem. What? Why are you looking at me out of the corners of your eyes like that? You mean to say you don't hold lengthy conversations with yourself? You don't know what you're missing.

All the same, I do think it's a good idea to write anything and everything down. If it occurs to you to capture the moment in words, do so. Please. You never know when you might need to lighten a scene of your plot-heavy novel with a good laugh. You never know if that gorgeous sunset you saw yesterday evening will figure significantly in a book you've yet to write. I think it's this that drives me to hoard away little caches of writing. And actually, I have used several scraps in my novels. Because sometimes you just need that boost of antiqued, burnished inspiration. Stuff that has sat around cheek-to-cheek with the plot of Oliver Twist on your bookshelf might just give your current project a certain eclat.

So keep on with your obscure twists of paper and index cards and backs of receipts and anything else you vent your word-obsession on. I promise you'll thank yourself one day!

In which I get my first real taste of romance...

Yes! :) I'm living a romance vicariously through my bestest older brother and one of my all-time, most beautiful, most bestest of all best friends.

Yes, there is officially a courtship going on between my older brother, Daniel, and Abigail Taylor...and I'm so happy. After all, when there's quite a possibility of your best friend becoming a sister, there's an awful lot to write about! :) *happy sigh*

Too difficult for adults.

*This is why I write children's fiction*:

"You have to write the book that wants to be written. If the book will be too difficult for grown-ups, you write it for children." -Madeleine L'Engle

And so dissolves Clan Afton

I am linking up with Lightening Flashes at the Anne-Girl's blog! This is a new, monthly blog series in which the Anne-girl gives us a picture and we write a piece of flash fiction. The picture was sweet...my flash fiction was...intimidating. Here it is! I hope you enjoy it in some measure.

The Inspiration:

What came of it:

     "Forget about her, lad. Put her from your wee mind." The young knight's voice came soothing, hushing, close to Eanon's ear.
     Eanon relaxed in the man's arms. He felt same with the low, masculine voice murmuring in his ear and the coarse prickling of the knight's beard pressing through his linen tunic. He might be young, but Eanon felt a glimmer of curiosity mingling with the red-hued fear as the gilded hill rose higher, step by step as the knight carried Eanon down the boulder-pocked slope. What would happen to Aunt Eileen--beautiful, cruel, crazed. She was lying there, crumpled near the fire was Eanon had seen her last before the Red Fury swept through. Another of her drunken passions, Eanon knew, but they never ceased to frighten him. Then the Red-Fury had come with their gruff voices and flashing armor. Stern, they stood beside the table and conferred among themselves.
     Eanon huddled in the corner of the croft behind the stack of peats. They made a pungent-odored fortress shielding him from Eileen and the Red Fury alike.
     "She's dead--the witch," one soldier said.
     "Nay, not dead. She's likely enchanted herself as she has so many others--Bah!" the second speaker spat over Eileen's still form. His spittle popped in the fire.
     "She is a poor, addle-pated woman. Do not disrespect her so." This last voice was measured, gentle, and strong.
     Eanon raised himself, curiosity to see the soldiers, pulling him to his feet. Was Eileen--cruel Aunt Eileen--dead at last from her reckless passions? But a moment later he saw her chapped, cracked lips move. Then she raised herself, her tangled black curls making a web across her tortured face. The soldiers took a step back and Eanon shrank from the bold, reckless gleam in her eyes. It was such a gleam gave him these welts if he stood too near her.
     "I am not dead, vermin!" her voice was weary and shaking. "But I, Eileen McAfton, will never stir from my father's croft though all the wights of the dusk pulled me away. You seek to destroy the clans of the Glen. But never--never while I live, and the brave chief Eanon. I am keeping him--training him to be a man of war and he shall slay every last one of you!"
     Her wide, soulless eyes sought him and Eanon felt no mere peat-stack could cover the scalding burn he felt as her intense gaze scorched him. She held her arms out to him and Eanon wavered for a moment with the eyes of the wild woman and the soldiers upon him. Should he got to comfort her? Aunt Eileen...so bitter....so desperate. But the fitful fire sparked in her eyes again and Eanon's blood rushed to his bruises and made them throb. She laughed and swayed to her feet; beautiful, wild, she stood a queen.
     "You are here to take me--to do me a harm. Never, while I live!"
     Eanon scarcely recognized the glimmering object in Eileen's hand as the Ophthel dagger, but so it was and Eileen rushed upon the men, slicing at them with precise, measured strokes. An unearthly song flowed from her lips. Eanon knew it--Clan Afton's war-hue--and his stomach knotted. The Red-Fury drew their weapons and surrounded Aunt Eileen. A few more strikes with the Ophthel dagger and the woman fell to her knees sobbing and choking.
     Her despair frightened Eanon. He cried too and fled from the dark, low croft. Swift foot-steps pursued him and the youngest knight's arms lifted Eanon in a mail-clad, yet gentle embrace.
     "There, there, lad. We shan't harm you, be you chieftain or shepherd. Lie still now and forget her. Lie still..."
     Eanon watched the hill now as the red rays of sun burnished croft and slope alike. "And so," he thought, a cold weariness creeping through his short, childish frame, "And so dissolves Clan Afton."

Beautiful People: Growlbeard; Lord of the Night.

So this month's Beautiful People appears to be about villains. Aha aha. Well, I never did tell you much about Growlbeard, Lord of the Night from The Scarlet-Gypsy Song. I am afraid you won't understand much about this panther-chap unless I tell you. 

1. What is their motive?

Motive? Must the Lord of the Night have a motive to do what he wants? I suppose his motive in jumping Darby and Peter Quickenhelm was to gain their information for himself before they reached Fitz-Hughes with it.

2. What are they prepared to do to get what they want? 

Absolutely anything. Though, like any cat, Growlbeard tends to want to play with his capture before killing it.

3. Are they evil to the core, or simply misunderstood? 

Manipulative would be a better word. He is a loner and gets what he wants when he wants it. Usually it is through evil means, but Growlbeard can put on the purring charm if he wants to.

4. What was their past like? What about their childhood? Was there one defining moment that made them embrace their evil ways?

Ever since his kitten-hood (and that being a thousand years ago) Growlbeard has known nothing but what the Scarlet Gypsy taught him. It was she who taught him voice-changing so that he can sing like a bird or speak like a man. Now that she has been dead for so long he still walks in the paths she taught him. In that way he is tied to her.

5. Now that they’re evil, have they turned their back on everyone, or is there still someone in their life that they care for? (Brother? Daughter? Love interest? Mother? Someone who is just as evil as they are?)

Growlbeard is only attached to the memory of the Scarlet Gypsy, and to himself. He's rather narcissistic.

6. Do they like hugs?
Come again? I can't imagine Growlbeard getting a hug from anyone, even the Scarlet Gypsy herself.

7. Are they plagued by something? (Nightmares, terrible thoughts?)

Nothing concerns Growlbeard except the worry that someone else will eclipse him in spying on both sides and relaying information.

8. Who are they more similar to: Gollum or Maleficent?

Both. He's got Gollum's treachery and Maleficents...malice. :D

9. If your villain could have their choice of transportation what would it be?

His own four paws. They are more than adequate enough to take him all through the Stridings of Scarlettania.

10. If you met your villain in the street, how afraid would you be? Are they evil enough to kill their creator? 
I would be intrigued rather than afraid, I think. Growlbeard wouldn't kill me right off. He'd probably taunt me and tease me and then prick me with his frightening, moon-white claws. 

       "...my mistress loved me and I was greatest success--the most beautiful, gorrrgeous, and enchanted of all her creaturrres."        "You mean...there were more of you?" Darby whispered.

        "We were a legion." The hissed reply hung in the corners of the grotto and filled Darby's being with shadow-winged dread.                                                              -The Scarlet-Gypsy Song

What's to be the pill in all this jam?

When a random person chucked us a random magazine that had something to do with Creationism, the very last thing I expected to find inside was a very lucid article regarding the topic of How To Write Christian Fantasy. A very good article, by-the-by, and one I found most intriguing. The writer had several points I hadn't considered. But the one thing I found myself nodding along to was the mention he made of common pitfalls in writing Christian Fiction. As in any sort of writing, there are ways to do it and ways not to do it.
So how does one write Christian Fiction? I'll give you a few tips.

"Rule Number One: Obey All rules."

Now how did Barney Fife get into this post. Honestly. I believe the Crustimony Proseedcake in such cases is to over-moralize. The first thing is to be sure you don't over-moralize. There is nothing worse than a moral tacked onto the end of a book. Or the beginning of the book. Or all through the book. The thing is, morals don't have to be taken like pills. I shall revert to the Duchess of Wonderland's advice on this:

"'Tut, tut, child!" said the Duchess. 'Everything's got a moral if only you can find it.'"

That is the key to writing good Christian fiction. A moral or two jabbed on the plot at a jaunty angle does not make your book "Christian." A mention now and again of your characters saying grace before a meal makes for a weak testimony. The fact that they go to church and a scriptural allusion now and again is not much more helpful.
Inversely, books like C.S. Lewis' The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe never once out-right say they are "Christian" and yet one can't help but see the parable all through. That book is simply dripping with a rich understanding of Christ's kingdom. The morals in that book are quite obvious because they are distilled like a sweet fragrance all through the tale.
Honestly, who wants to be served a dish of morals on a silver platter? How would you like it if you came to read a story that chopped along something like this:

"He raised his sword and poised it at his enemy's throat--"You will die, villain, because you are prideful--Pride goeth before a fall...well....I'm your fall."

That is plain and simple awfulness. You don't need to be so obvious in your writing. You see, it all comes down to a simple question of world-view. If your mind has been exchanged from a callow, worldly mind to one focused on heavenly things and on glorifying Christ, His standards will flavor every word that comes out of your pen. You don't need to constantly try to plug in Bible verses in every other sentence because the whole of the book will reflect your world-view. If your world-view is flawed, so will be your morals. If it's a good, healthy, well-developed world-view than that will carry your standards into the plot. In fantasy this is particularly important, as you don't usually have the option of deeming your characters devout Protestants who always pray before every meal (even snacks) and quote Scripture at each other all the live-long day. ;) (Not that quoting Scripture is wrong. It has it's place, definitely, but I detest books where the dialog is entirely made up of try-to-fix-holes-in-the-plot quotations.)

To again reference the Duchess, "everything has a moral." Even things you don't think have morals. They are either good morals or bad morals. The key is to finding the moral and sprinkling it evenly through the plot, not building sandcastles with it at either end of the book. Do that, and people are likely to doubt your sincerity. After all, what sort of person forgets about their objective till the very end of a thing? Obviously they mustn't care too much about the point.

Just a thing or two to think about. :)