Whistlecreig Fun

Well, it's two o'clock and I'm clocking in today with 4,096 new words in Anon, Sir, Anon. I am not exactly certain whether I will manage to get more in or not. This is already four times my usual daily dose and the plot is moving along at a rate that encourages me to think I will accomplish my goal. I got up early and managed to workout, have quiet time, and write over 2,000 words by shortly after 9 AM. Pretty good. We have some gardening work to do because the weather turned warm, so I may not try to fit any more words into the day and save my willingness to write for tomorrow.

Overview:

Highlights of my writing binge so far have been:

• Getting to the part in the story where the title makes an appearance.
• Re-installing Allen as Farnham's confidante-caretaker, loyal servant.
• Sending Vivi out in the company of two murder suspects; a complication which no one thought to disapprove of before it happened.
• Writing a fencing scene.
• Writing a scene involving toast. The little things.

I added 4,096 words which takes the total to 48,875 words, and likely to add at least another ten-thousand before things are finished to my approval.

I have consumed some chocolate (Ghirardelli Seas-Salt Seranade) so far, and not enough real food. Also, I've drunk an entire quart of ice-water which doesn't seem like much till you realize how many times you need to get up to use the bathroom. Golly. I am still feeling game for the fight, so I suppose that is a good sign. Also, I got a magenta trench-coat today which will certainly make an appearance in a fashion post on my other blog. And magenta trench coats are always a happy happy thing. I put it right on over-top my jeans and t-shirt but I was so excited, I cared little whether I looked ridiculous or not. I love you, mail-man. I also got to spend some time perusing a list of fencing terms and trying to comprehend them so I could fit them together into a feasible fight sequence. I think I managed it rather well:

“That was bang neat of you,” Farnham said. “I didn’t know you could move so fast.”

As for the characters, I've reached a certain level of complexity of which I am rather proud. I've purposely kept all of them from being much like me at all, which means I get to fathom their depths (or try, anyway) and write what I see. It's a good exercise and I'm looking forward to seeing what's what in editing rounds. I should also say that I'm going to up my four-person beta-reading team to five people, because I realized I need a British Contact to correct all my Britishness in this book. Looking forward to sending the manuscript through her and getting her take and on this particular aspect of the story. I feel blessed to have been brought in contact with someone who lives roughly near the general area of England in which Whistlecreig is thought to lay! (More or less. Probably less, but it's nearer than if she lived in Yorkshire.)

In other news, I never did find the map I made, which bothers me. Where on God's green earth could it have gone? It disappeared. It is probably a very good map which someone stole, thinking it led to treasure. I will nod sagely over that possibility and try to forget that I actually will need to redraw one. And on that note, since I am intending to include a map in the front of the book upon publication, how much does it cost to get someone to do it for you? Well, Regency Buck and lunch (which I haven't had yet--it's 2:40 PM and I've only had scrambled eggs and chocolate all day) are calling my name, and I've still got to put the baby to bed so I'm off. Thanks to all you lovely people who have supported me in the March Madcapness so far! I look forward to updating you tomorrow!

His butler’s offer of service disarmed Farnham. That any man would voluntarily cross swords with a furious Heir of Whistlecreig showed a sort of fealty he must commend. With a low grumble that was neither denial, nor assent, he turned his backsword basket-first to Allen and chose another for himself.

Skeletons, Blog Design, and A British Holiday

(By the time some of you read this post, you will be looking at a new blog design. I thought you might like to know. It's pretty fabulous, isn't it? I think so. And now there's a button you can take! Hrar-hrar.)

Once upon a time, I was a young and naive writer and my brain was full of stories. By stories, I mean little, episodic pieces of stories that I was fond of mincing up and packing together into an odd sort of SPAM that I was also fond of calling a novel. Then I began to learn about plotting and how you can't exactly write episodic hash and call it literature.

I used to pride myself on not having to edit so terribly much between versions of a given book. Let that sink in for a moment. I'm not exactly certain what sort of book I thought I had written, or what sort of genius I considered myself. Probably a cross between a child protege and Mark Twain. Suffice it to say, most versions of my books (plot-wise) looked exactly the same from one to the next, and I was quite happy with that. Perhaps I was dealing with such simple plots that they didn't need much work. Or maybe I just had that joyful assurance born of never having experience writer's block.

Now, though, I've realized that the first draft is a skeleton. Dear mercy me, it's just a bag of bones. Halfway through writing Anon, Sir, Anon, I had a slight moment of panic as I realized that I would not ace this book on the first draft. I know for most of you, that's a silly admittance. Of course you can't win laurels on the first draft of the first novel you've written in a given genre. I've never written a mystery before and I could tell that there were gaps in the plot that will need to be filled in. Usually, this would cause me to panic and decide this story was terrible. But just about this halfway point, I began to look at my story like a skeleton and I knew it was perfectly normal to slightly freak out, and that I could go on:

The first draft is the frame of the thing. When you build a house, you begin with the footer and build up to the framing. Eventually you sheath the house, and at that point you've got a house, all right. It just doesn't look like much but a cardboard pop-up of a gingerbread cottage. The first draft of a story is just like a gingerbread cottage. In subsequent rounds, you'll need to add siding, and flashing, and shingles and porches to the outside. You'll have to run electricity and plumbing and then insulation and sheet-rock and then paint and put in all your appliances and cabinets and tile and carpet and wood-flooring and hang all your doors and put in all your windows and build a deck and cut vent holes and install all the lighting apparatuses. If you're really good, you'll even install hose-bibs, outdoor electricity, and landscaping. Do you know how many doorknobs there are to install in a house? Until you've built a house, you won't realize all that goes into it after it already looks like a house from the road.

In the first draft of any book, we've built that house on the road that looks finished. But as the author, we can give ourselves room to realize that there will be several more months of work to fix plumbing, install electricity, and make the place livable.

This the great joy of multiple drafts. I have given myself license to write a skeleton this time, rather than a full-fleshed novel. That being said, I'm nearing the end of the first draft of Anon, Sir, Anon. My goal for this week is going to be to finish that first draft. Starting Monday, I'll be doing a March Madness challenge to finish it up and count it "finished" (from the road). That may or may not leave room for much blogging, but it will certainly be fun for me! I will endeavor to keep you updated with my word-counts, snippets from scenes, and my progress. I am looking forward eagerly to the second draft in which I'll add more description, refine dialogue, expand characters, etc. This is a different method than that I've used before, but it feels like a good fit. Since I tend to be a "pantser" and not so much of a plotter, I can get panicked over not knowing what is next in my book. Writing a skeletal first draft means that I have the plot tacked down, the characters mostly developed, and I know a start, a middle, and an end. I'm eager to begin to deepen shadows, bring out highlights, and work this story till it's completely different than its skeleton. But first things first: I've got to see the first draft through to the end.

For those of you who have purchased/won and read Fly Away Home, I would love to hear what your favorite quotes/parts were. If you so desire, you can email your favorite parts to me at theinkpenauthoress@gmail.com, or add them to the Goodreads page! I love quotes and have always enjoyed hearing what lines/turns of phrase capture other people. Also, I wanted to tell you about a fabulous reader of mine, Ness Kingsley. Ness is a fairly new blogging friend, but she knows me well enough to know that I adore all things English. She is also aware of my mania for the Lake District. Well. Ness, being the clever, sweet thing that she is, knew she was headed to the Peaks District (not quite the Lakes, but still gorgeous) and decided to bring Fly Away Home along with her so that a part of me would have been to the place to which I feel such a deep connection. She photographed it with herself, some goats, and even on a lovely old stone wall:

I probably needn't even tell you how much this made my day. Ness, thanks a mil for your thoughtfulness, and for obliging my silly whims by carting a piece of me all through your lovely Isle. <3

Well. Le Brother is here for the weekend and I am supposed to be helping to organize a fundraiser for our Romanian Missions Trip (read more about it here) for tonight so ciao! I shall keep you updated on my Mad Marchishness later on in the fresh, new week!

Cry of Hope: a brand new novel from Emily Chapman

Hullo, everyone! Those who have been lurking around the blog for a while might have noticed that there's a vivacious, charming girl named Emily Chapman who comments and participates and generally makes life fun and interesting here at The Inkpen Authoress. Well, this young lady has been quizzing me for some time about independent publishing, watching the progress of Fly Away Home, and finally told me that she is just releasing her debut novel, Cry of Hope!

Beautimous cover. I love the hair.

When a voyage to the New World is thrust upon young, unwilling Hope Ellison, her carefully built ideals begin to slip from her grasp. Clinging to the tattered shards of her once contented life, she embarks on the perilous journey with her family, caring not for the reason they are taking such risks in the first place and fearing the fate for her future. Yet, even her fears are unprepared for the trials ahead, and soon she comes face to face with choices that will define her view of life entirely.

You can purchase Cry of Hope on Amazon by following this link. But not only is this an announcement of a beautiful new book by a fabulous new author, Emily has come with a guest post and a blog "scavanger hunt"! (there is a code and the link to the next blog at the bottom). Also, there is a change to win Without further ado:

BANANAS AND WHY YOU MUST EAT THEM

By Emily Chapman

When a person is hungry, one naturally heads for a bag of chips or a cookie. Unless you are a vegetarian. Then you would eat bacon. Anyhow, if you were hungry, you would probably eat some potato chips or something else to satisfy your cravings. I know I would. It seems most logical, doesn't it? Well, I am here to inform you otherwise. My friends, I introduce . . . the banana.

The banana is no ordinary fruit. It is yellow on the outside and creamy-gold on the inside. It is shaped like a crescent moon, which is always appealing to the many dreamers in the world. It works as a telephone, as anyone with a childhood knows, and it is great to hold when you want to hold something. All in all, it is a fantastically shaped fruit.

However, we are not speaking entirely of its shape. We are also speaking of its nutritional aspects, which tends to be of importance to most formerly or currently homeschooled beings who grew up in a family that generally crawls with children ranging from nineteen to zero and eats gluten-free food religiously. It's nutritional aspects are . . . well, they are astounding, to be quite honest. I was astonished—shocked, really—to discover that bananas are healthy. Through the most unlikely turn of events, it turns out that bananas contain high levels of tryptophan, which is converted into seratonin. Obviously. It is high in potassium and low in salt, which actually protects against heart attacks and strokes, and it lowers blood pressure. Now because these facts may or may not convince you to eat bananas, I shall tell you that bananas also assist your digestion, chelate toxins from your body, prevent kidney cancer, make you smarter, protect you from chronic diseases, lower body temperature, improve your mood, conteract calcium loss, remove warts, and can actually fly you to the moon.

The thing to keep in mind, however, is that you must be intensely cautious when selecting the banana of your choice. A bunch of bananas may certainly look tempting, but after much observation, you may discover they are . . . well, they may be green. This may mean nothing to your funny little brains, but in truth, that small detail can have dire consequences. What I mean to say is that the banana may not be ripe, which further indicates that it is unripe. However, with a simple eye of understanding, you should have little trouble choosing a golden-yellow banana . . . a healthful snack to brighten your day.

Which now proves my entire point. If you are plagued with Writer's Block, write about bananas or other nonsensical notions. You should leave quite satisfied with your work, prepared to take on even darker challenges.

Emily Chapman is a homeschooled student living with her parents and four siblings in the southeastern United States. With a thirst for stories and creativity, she not only writes, but enjoys exercising her imagination through dance and photography. She believes in running through sprinklers in the summertime, watching the Andy Griffith show, listening to country music, and traversing to Narnia. But above all, she is saved through faith by the Son of the Creator and is adopted into God's family of beautiful souls.

Code: I would always rather be happy than dignified.

Next blog: Emily Ann

Don't forget to enter the tour-wide giveaway below and show some support for this up-and-coming authoress!

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21 Ways to Identify A Fellow Writer

I originally wrote this post for Every Good Word back in February, but as most of you probably didn't see it then, I've reposted it here for your enjoyment. I give you, 21 Ways to Identify A Fellow Writer:

We have been called many things in our day, we writers. As kids we’re called “geek” and “nerd” and “book-worm” and “weird” and as teenagers we’re called “ambitious” and “creative” and if we survive all this, we’re left to adulthood where we’re sometimes written off and labeled “eccentric” or “artsy” and left to our own devices in a coffee-shop while the rest of the world goes to Barnes & Noble to read the fruit of the labors of the people they’ve misunderstood since elementary school.

And for all this, we just smile and tuck into our work with a satisfaction not everybody finds in their chosen field. But sometimes we like to know there are people like us out there so I’ve compiled a list of twenty-one ways to identify a fellow writer:

1.) He will brush the spine of a book with one finger before taking it off the shelf. He’s probably admiring the cover designer’s job and calculating the number of days left till his own proof-copy arrives. Also, he just likes the feel of a book in his hands.

2.) She will freeze up momentarily, then order something with a simple name at Starbucks. Chances are, she’s rehearsed some complicated order for days and then it all flew out the window when she saw the barista with the scar behind the counter and started wondering...

3.) She will correct her posture often. Long days spent at her desk will have taught her the pain of hunching forward.

4.) She will pick up pennies and dimes other people have dropped. This is a person who not only notices details, but is also saving change - probably for a “Buying Books Fund”.

5.) Listen to him tell you about the latest film he saw.  Mentions of the character development or plot arc will outweigh mentions of soundtrack, action sequences, or actors’ performances.

6.) She will always end up signing napkins at a restaurant. Don’t blame her. She’s not practicing autographs - her hand unconsciously wants to write and her name is the first thing that comes to mind.

7.) He will care to notice things most people overlook. Bonus points if he’s first to mention the stars or moon while walking across the driveway.

8.) She will already be watching the same people you noticed. Tried and true thing, here.

9.) He does not use the word “nice” in conversation. Any writer knows that “nice” is forbidden from civilised literature.

10.) Her written communication (email, text, facebook) will be devoid of exclamation points. Another habit learned from culling that particular punctuation mark in edit-rounds.

11.) She will not use text-speak in conversation. That is the chiefest of all sins to someone who values English.

12.) His face betrays him while perusing a book. Someone who really loves the written word can’t help but smile a little when they pick up a novel in a store and flip through the pages.

13.) She is an adult browsing the mid-grade and teen sections in a bookstore. Parents and guardians purchase books from Amazon. Chances are you are looking at an intense research session.

14.) He is proficient at typing but still hen-pecks over on the number-pad. This is a person who is familiar with all the letters of the alphabet and punctuation marks but doesn’t have much use for numbers. (Thank heaven.)

15.) You mention an unusual name and she asks you to repeat it. You know the drill. New characters are battering around in her brain looking for a christening.

16.) Her hair is always half-way tumbling down. She probably stuck a pen through her bun to keep it up and had need for the pen at some point during the day.

17.) He actually likes tea and has heard of P.G. Tips.  A guy who has gone the next level for tea has inevitably patterned his habits off C.S. Lewis. He is likely a writer/reader type.

18.) His handwriting is legible. Most guys don’t bother to take notes or scrawl phone-numbers neatly unless they are in the habit of needing to be able to read longer passages of what they have written.

19.) She is frequently neat and attractive but doesn’t look Pinterest-ready. This is the mark of a girl who finds personal appearance important but often has to skip straightening her hair because she wants to squeeze in another 300 words before breakfast.

20.) You say “Tom Hiddleston” and he mentions Henry V. Real Hiddleston fans love him for his Shakespearean performances and Kenneth Branagh will follow quickly thereafter.

21.) They give you an empty, college-ruled journal and smooth pens for a gift. To a writer, this is always an acceptable gift to give. They are handing you a bit of their soul when they spend money on paper and ink for you.

Reading and Metronomes

I am as guilty as the next party of pushing reading to a back-burner, feeling that if I take time to read in the middle of the day instead of at night AFTER I've finished the demands on my time as a writer, I'm a horrible author. The thing is, why do we write? So people can read. After several days of pushing hard at Anon, Sir, Anon, and finding nothing is budging, I am going to give myself the day to read, draw, write letters, whatever, and count it as a creativity-replenishment day. We can't always be pouring out without refilling. To take a comment from Jenny in one of her recent letters:

"I was feeling unmotivated to write, which was no doubt due to my lack of fiction in-take."

That is exactly how I feel. The only reading I've done recently has been crammed. Cram down the rest of Bonhoeffer so I can return it on Sunday; cram in Duty so I can review it. Cramming isn't good for the mental digestion. It gives one a stomach ache. I could sit here at the computer toiling out a thousand words that mean nothing to me, or I could read several thousand that will spark new ideas. In our music theory class, Dad was telling us how when he worked at Tanglewood for a summer, certain musicians would wear metronomes around their necks for eight to ten hours a day so they could better internalize sixty-time. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Reading is the metronome for writers. The more we read, the better we subconsciously internalize the talent and creativity that went into whatever book it is we read. That is why reading poorly written books is a waste of time. If we internalize and become what we read, it doesn't pay to fill ourselves with drivel. Nor does it pay to write drivel. If we're writing drivel, we have probably been away too long from our metronome. So today I'm not going to create my own fiction...I'm going to internalize someone else's, and enjoy words for their versatility and beauty. You don't always have to harness beautiful horses...sometimes it's better to let them run and watch from a distance. If we are the let words run today, I want to leave you with this amazing snatch of poetry by Edward Shillito in WWI:

If we have never sought, we seek Thee now;

Thine eyes burn through the dark, our only stars;

We must have sight of thorn-pricks on Thy brow,

We must have thee, O Jesus of the Scars.

The heavens frighten us; they are too calm;

In all the universe we have no place.

Our wounds are hurting us; where the balm?

Lord Jesus, by Thy Scars, we claim Thy grace.

If, when the doors are shut, Thou drawest near,

Only reveal those hands, that side of Thine;

We know today what wounds are, have no fear,

Show us Thy Scars, we know the countersign.

The other gods were strong; Thou wast weak;

They rode, but Thou didst stumble to a throne;

But to our wounds only God's wounds can speak.

And not god has wound but Thou alone."

Thnippeths of Thtory

I am so glad that I held off on a February snippets post until March, because now I'm on time for Katie's Snippets of Story and didn't dart ahead. I got a fair amount of writing done in February, some of it good, some of it middling, and some I know will be operated on severely come rewrites. Nevertheless, I've collected snippets from all of it below, and I hope you enjoy the review. Also, you there are changes afoot regarding the face of this blog--the most excellent Bree Holloway is concocting a new face for The Inkpen Authoress. If you stop by and don't recognize your surroundings, don't freak out. We've simply had a makeover. Now for the real stuffs:

“That was entirely useless,” Farnham hissed between teeth clenched in a faux smile as he tied Belch’s lead to his handlebar. “Of course I expected nothing but nonsense from the man. All that ridiculousness about Miss Bertois speaking with him. He said she wore a silky dress ‘just like the picture’. It was wool, as you plainly recall. What a stupid man. I’m afraid he couldn’t testify at a sheep-shearing let alone in court.”

One of the men hailed Farnham. “Any idea where I might find the scoop on the scandal?”

Farnham’s stomach doubled up and bit him. “What scandal?”

“American Actress Meets Frightful Death.”

“Oh, that. Try the police station--that’s where one usually finds justice and horrors evenly mixed.”

“Right. Well,” Jimmy looked her straight in the eyes. “See you soon, then?”

“Soon.” Vivi smiled in reply to his question, feeling that it held at actual inquiry that wanted affirmation. Yes, she wanted to see Jimmy again. Yes, she wanted it soon. She pulled her bike up and Jimmy steadied it while she got on. She peddled off, thanking God under her breath that she was past the waggle-waddle stage of remembering how.  

The candle-flames bounced in an erratic dance with some unseen spectre of a draft. Two dried petals from the centerpiece of roses fell to the table with a tick like mouse claws, one right after another so it seemed that a ghost hand had drawn its nails over the wood. 

Vivi smiled and folded her hands against her skirt, small, polite, impeccably distant. “My uncle is not at home right now and I’m afraid our butler is away on business, but--”

Michael spread his hands with a free grin. “Butlers on business? What a modernist.”

She bent her head as if into a stiff wind and continued: “But if you would like to wait in the study I am certain he will not be long.”

 “If you’re my gaoler, I don’t mind being imprisoned in a room with a door that sticks.” 

Vivi watched candlelight gleam on the gold of Michael’s ring like a bit of truth caught in a brass lie.

For some reason she was upset and he thought it quite likely the fault of that young god-like creature in the chair. His chair. He stared at the fellow, unwilling to initiate an acquaintance with a man who could sit in another man’s wing-chair with a smile like that upon his face; Farnham felt he knew the discomfort of dispossessed lords when seeing Americans purchase and dwell in their family castles as if there weren’t years of blood spilled and blood shared connecting a man with his ancestral home. 

He prayed he wasn’t one of those tee-totallers who caused such trouble in the world when you wanted to get them out of the way by offering drinks all round.

They had come to the diningroom, so Farnham shook off her arm and set the candletree on the table. The flames gleamed in reflection on the glassy wood  like the whirring golden beetles one could sometimes find in the back garden in summertime.

“Look,” Farnham said before he could stop himself, “fairy-lamps.”

He felt the red rush  into his cheeks. He ground his jaw. He’d not anticipated how silly it would sound aloud.

 She arranged the wedges on a baking stone and slid them into the oven without speaking. Not that she wasn’t going to speak, Farnham thought, but she hadn’t quite decided what she was going to say. He liked that about Vivi: so many women rattled on as if words didn’t cost something; as if people actually had time to listen to three sentences where one coherent thought would have done the job.

“Fifteen for Lillian to arrive at Holly Triad. What would you give him...five minutes to kill her?” Vivi’s face turned red. “I mean, let us presume she was a bit late and he was already in an ill temper. She does or tells him something that sets him off. It mightn’t even take that long.”

“Three minutes, let us say,” Farnham agreed. “What next?”

“Ten minutes for carrying the body the half mile between Holly Triad and its final resting place, do you think?” Vivi asked.

“I’ve never lugged a dead body cross-country,” Farnham admitted.

 She was glad he had his hands in his pockets, for then she didn’t have to see his strong, supple fingers--fingers that could close with ease on a woman’s throat and extinguish the life from it. But would he?

His lips trembled as if he was about to speak, then warmed into a chiseled smile. “I suppose you didn’t come to speak about us either.”“No,” she said flatly. “We’ve exhausted that topic.”

 Vivi shook the woman’s plump, sweating hand and a pair of keen eyes raked her up and down.“Woy up, then!”

“How do y’do?” Vivi answered, figuring the woman’s odd words were a like manner of greeting.

“Well she don’t look like a fiz-gig and ent that a relief!” Mrs. Froggle said with a wink at Farnham. “Lord knows we’ve got enough of ‘em in the world.”

March's Chatterbox: "...then we shall see face to face."

Happiest of all happy Marches to each of you! It's a new month which means a new page on my calender, a new writing space, newly painted walls in the hall (the soles of my feet are speckled with paint), and I'm sure many adventures to come. This month I hope to be able to purchase a ticket to Romania for our missions trip in May. I am so excited about this opportunity and cannot wait to go back to all the places and people from last year. It was such a privilege to share in their lives for two weeks. Want to see some photos? Here's an album. Anyway, I digress. It's time for Chatterbox again! It's funny how uncalculated all my choices of topic are. A friend asked me what the next Chatterbox topic was going to be and I hadn't even thought of it. I threw around a few ideas and finally settled on one with which I expect you to have fun:

Mirrors

Such an ambiguous topic, isn't it? Do I mean literal mirrors? Do I mean two people imitating one another? Do I mean reflections, or a reflective spirit? Do I mean an absence of mirrors, or perhaps a superfluity of them? Do I mean a robber baron signalling to his band with flashes on a mirror, or perhaps I mean something more like The Picture of Dorian Gray.  There is ample room for speculation as to what I mean by assigning you mirrors. That speculation is your job and I am certain you will come up with brilliant ways to apply the topic to your own stories. Mirrors are always a bit mysterious, always changing what one thinks one sees into something just a little different. I recall walking through a house of mirrors are our county fair and losing my breath to laughter over how deuced hard it really is to find your way...until I looked at the cracks at the floor and was able to see where they led. Because of the properties of mirroring, you aren't really seeing exact reality...and that opens up a slew of ideas for me. Can't wait to read the entries. You can add your links to the link-up below as usual. Have a lark!