The Straw in the River

I’m sitting on the banks of the Mississippi river. The grass is rather crusty and brown because this summer’s been so hot and rainless. As such, the water level is low, but a soft wind is moving it along in little foamy wakes, and the lapping harmonizes with the crickets in the long grass, a pleasant atmosphere in which to write.

Today is my second day at the community college. I had my second English class today, Intro to Creative Writing. True to the mold of all English classes, Professor Riehl began the class with an activity (an introduction of the students to each other utilizing name cards and markers) followed by a reading and discussion of a poem and short story, and the perusal of the syllabus the size of a novel.  It was all very characteristic of an English class and I loved every minute.

Prof. Riehl explained that this class would cover poetry and fiction, which is right up my alley, until I realized that she meant literary short stories and not genre fiction. No six-hundred page historical fiction novels in this class. Literary fiction, she says, is character-driven, where genre fiction is plot-driven.

Something clenched inside my stomach…could it be anxiety? I was kicking myself mentally. Com’ on, Grace! You’re a writer. Maybe you’ve never attempted stories fewer than one hundred pages that are “character-driven,” but that doesn’t mean you can’t do it…right? I thought about all my favorite books, many of which are literary: To Kill a Mockingbird, Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry, The Witch of Blackbird Pond, Jane Eyre, all of which I enjoy because there is so much depth to the characters. (Similarly, I prefer slow-paced British shows and movies (often based off books) to the fast-paced, action-packed American counterparts, because they speak to the heart rather than dazzle the senses.)

I’ve always held the belief that fiction should reveal truth about human nature, and tried to capture that in my stories through my characters, as well as create intricate plots. But I began to doubt my ability to do this, both in class assignments and my novel writing.

I’m currently reading a book called Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life by Anne Lamott. Where sometimes crass, it holds a lot of good points. She talks about a mental radio station called KFKD (or K-F***ed) that every writer has. Out the right speaker come the inner voices of congratulations, self-exaltation, and exceptional writing abilities. Out the left come those of doubt and self-loathing, a recitation of every writing failure and flaw. It blares in my head every day (especially in the English classroom) and I have to force myself to tune out when sitting down to write.

Perhaps lately I’ve been tuning into the left speaker a little too often, which is why I haven’t made any progress on my book, because I’m agonizing over all my flat scenes and cardboard characters. And then I sign up for a class that requires stories driven by stellar characters. Needless to say, my confidence deflated like air let out of a bike tire.

At a point in her life when Lamott was constantly turning on KFKD, she came across a passage in a prayer book: “The Gulf Stream will flow through a straw provided the straw is aligned to the Gulf Stream, and not at cross purposes with it.”

As I sit by the river, watching the flow of the current, this passage holds so much truth. “When KFKD is playing,” Lamott writes, “we are at cross purposes with the river.” The flow of the river is the innate ability to write within me. My own mind is the straw, through which the river will either flow through or against. When I get to a certain point, when the busyness of life, and the noise, and the commotion fills my head, all I can hear is the left speaker.

So I must sit by the river, tune out, take a deep breath, and plunge in, trusting the current will take me where I need to go.

Boy Meets Girl

I think I've seen too many chick flicks. Probably read too many love stories. Frankly, I enjoy them. I like the butterflies I get in my stomach at the lovers' initial meeting. I feel their twisting pain in my gut when they hit rough waters. Best of all, I experience the soaring ecstacy of their triumph over hardship in the end, and the anticipation of long years of incandescent happiness to follow.

Who doesn't appreciate stories like these? They are hope that love can conquer any obstacle and endure through the end of time. They speak truth to the heart of humanity. I believe hope, love, fear, and the will to triumph are in our nature. It's easy to glory in the happiness of a character, to agonize with them in their troubles, to rejoice in their successes.... It's quite another thing to experience that for yourself and realize it's nothing like literature and the media portray.

I've been learning that real life doesn't match up with the stories I read, the movies I see. I get far too comfortable playing God with my character's lives; I can make their love story whatever I want it to be. But I can't do squat about my own. It isn't hard to write conflict between Michael and Cecily because I know exactly how they will react, what they're thinking, what they want (because they want whatever I want). When I come back to reality, I find conflict in my relationships much harder to deal with. Suddenly I only know how I will react, what I'm thinking and wanting.

Where I can't complain about my love life (there's relatively little heartbreak to speak of) it hasn't exactly gone as I hoped, or planned, for that matter. The older I get the more I realize I have no idea how I'm going to meet my husband, much less of the journey to becoming his wife. I am frustrated with love stories that make it look so easy. One trial is thrown in to test the endurance of love and everything wraps up into a nice little wedding bouquet by the end of the ninety minute flick or 150 page novella.

If I, an average American youth, don't know the course of my own love story, how much less will my protagonist know his standing with the Caesar's daughter when everything he believes of the Jewish Messiah is considered treasonous to her position. I want to avoid cardboard cut-outs. I want avoid cliche endings. I want to steer clear of unrealistic endings, in light of the culture and time period. But I also want to satisfy my readers. Having my characters marry other people, or die tragically, or go their separate ways in mutual consent never pleased anybody, and is a cop-out as the author.

So how do I reconcile a happy ending with a realistic approach to the culture and time? There are four things I can do to work toward a believable love story.

Firstly, I must give myself some license as a fiction writer. Where 90% of my story is going to be an authentic recreation of Roman times, 10% of it is going to be made up, including some of the characters and some of the norms of the day that I'm going to break. (How much association would a swordsmith, however renowned, really have with the princess? None, but this is fiction.)

Secondly, I must do my research and keep my characters consistent. What interactions these two unlikely candidates will have must be built on the records of male-female interactions of the time. This includes being accurate with Michael's addresses to Cecily as his superior, codes on propriety, speech, and body language. The emotions that I tap into must fit their characters and be influenced by their past and the experiences they've had with the opposite sex. Michael will view Cecily's plight rather like he sees his infirm little sister, treating her gently, but perhaps too much like a child that needs to be protected and patronized. Cecily will view Michael like all other men she's known--deserters, promise-breakers, chauvinists. A relationship would never work if they can't break down the predisposed ideas they have of the other gender.

Thirdly, I must let my characters have their own way. A writer shouldn't keep his characters rigid, creating every scene just so, having every person know exactly what to say, orchestrating every moment perfectly. If he does this, he will lose the potential for three-dimensional development because he's not letting the characters voice their opinions. I might be surprised by what Michael and Cecily will do when I loosen my hold on their perfectly plotted lives.

Fourthly, I must stop watching so many chick flicks. Instead, I should draw from real life, asking different couples what their experiences have been like, how their relationships lived up to the Hollywood standard, how they didn't get close, or how they have been unbelievably better than anything an actor and actress could exemplify. I must look at my own life and the struggles I've had in making relationships work. All the times I've had to apologize for a misguided action or word, all the heartache and all the joys, all I have lost and all I have salvaged, all the ways I've changed and grown from one experience to the next.

These, after all, are the real stories.

Writer's Block

Writer's block...that mental brick wall every writer runs into countless times, bruising the imagination and the plot line. I managed to get through eighteen chapters of Iron Bloom without running into one, probably because I plotted the first half of the story so well. The rut I find myself in right now is a historical hang-up. As this is my first attempt at historical fiction, I'm not really sure how much of my story should be history and how much should be fiction. My story includes members of the Imperial family, Caesar Tiberius, his nephews Nero, Drusus, and Gaius, and his mother Livia, as well as members of the Praetorian Guard, Sejanus and Macro.

Their personalities are based off a mixture of research and fictionalization, but many of the events of the story truly happened to them. Tiberius has exiled himself to Capri at the begining of the story and Sejanus assumes command of the Empire as his proxy. Nero, Drusus, and Gaius are heirs to the Emperorship and therefore targets to Sejanus as he conspires for the title. They are pawns to be played, and were played in specific events in history that I meant to include. Trouble is, I can't find any details about their removal. It was actually their mother, Agrippina the Elder, who was exiled for treason and Nero and Drusus went with her.

The other night I was lying awake well after midnight when Right Brain decided to come alive and devise a scheme for Sejanus to undo Nero and Drusus. I scribbled it all down in my journal and am still deciding if I want to use it or continue researching the actual events. In the end, it probably isn't something to lose sleep over, because these historical characters aren't my main characters and I can kill them in any way I want and still have a story. I guess I just want their exits to be as authentic as possible.


What writer's blocks have you hit in the past? How did you get over them?

Making it Worth $300,000

I've been reading through a thick writer's guide called The Complete Handbook of Novel Writing, a compilation of articles, advice, and interviews from successful authors. All of it has been very helpful, but chapter eight stuck out to me as one of the most useful tools in novel writing. Les Standiford's "What I Stole from Movies" talks about writing a novel like a screenwriter would put together a movie. If a producer has $30 million to work with, and plans on one hundred scenes, each scene is going to cost $300,000 and he has to make each scene worth his money. Similarly, when writing a book, no matter how many scenes I include (whether a whole chapter as one or five scenes in one chapter) I must have the same mentality about capturing every last emotion, action, word, and expression. I must make each scene worth $300,000.

I had never thought about writing this way and realized that my novel would be so much more concise, brief, and vivid if I had to pay for each scene I wrote. So if I open my document with this in mind, how do I go about milking every last dollar's worth? Standiford says a good scene will do at least one of--but should strive for--three things:

• enrich setting/character
• provide necessary information to the reader
• move the plot forward 

Whether a slow scene or an action-packed scene, the contents should include brief description about setting, bringing it to life through detail that is inserted into the action. The character's actions, words, and emotions during the scene should be consistent and believable from what I've established early on. The scene should provide only necessary information to the reader, which often means cutting out the "fat" that bogs the story down. This might be unnecessary description or dialogue between characters. Moving the plot forward goes hand-in-hand with providing necessary information. If I include a scene between my lovers simply because I want them to flirt and stare googly-eyed at one another, this is not only unnecessary, but detracts from the advancement of the plot. Here is an example from Iron Bloom, the first written without these characteristics:

           Michael stared around the new smithy with a dismal expression. The small forge was equipped with everything he would need to conduct Sejanus' cruel bidding. A bloomery furnace was built into the farthest corner, a solid mass of blackened stone constructed around a clay-lined shaft that had an opening to shovel in coal and ore. Blocks of iron ore were stocked against the wall beneath a worktable, and he also had access to a water pump and every smelting tool imaginable. There was an anvil on the worktable with a two-headed hammer beside it, and with a pang, Michael remembered his father's tools at home.

In this first example, there's too much narrative clogging the action. We see the smithy clearly enough, but we don't see Michael. It's necessary to the reader to see Michael's new station, but that can be shown in fewer sentences. In addition, there's no insight into Michael's emotions or attitude toward the place. His character is not enriched in this paragraph, and the plot is staggered by too much description.
Here's the scene again, this time worth $300,000.

           Michael's eyes swept the new smithy, lines plowing his forehead. The small forge was equipped with everything he would need to conduct Sejanus’ cruel bidding. A bloomery furnace was built into the farthest corner, a solid mass of blackened stone constructed around a clay-lined shaft. Michael gave the large pair of bellows protruding from the bottom a few half-hearted pumps before inspecting the blocks of iron ore stocked against the wall beneath a worktable. He had access to a water pump and every smelting tool imaginable, but his hand found its way to the familiar pocks in the anvil, and then the two-headed hammer, weighty and worn, identical to the one in his father’s forge. His knuckles turned white and he dropped the hammer, hunching over the table as he shook with silent tears.

In this example, we see the forge through Michael's eyes. We see him pump the bellows, we feel the cold, bumpy anvil. We get enough descriptive detail without bogging down the action, and the plot is moving toward Michael's employment to Sejanus. We see his anguish in the tightening of his fist and his tears, and know that he blames himself for what happened to his father. His character is deepened through his actions and we can sense his emotions without having to write "Michael was anguished."

Makes scenes smaller and compile them into chapters so each paragraph will be rich, vivid, and emotional, building to the climax where the $300,000 really counts.

When In Rome...

"When in Rome, do as the Romans do."
I've been trying to immerse myself in the ancient Roman culture since March, when I began writing my first historical fiction novel. It's not the first novel I've written, but the first in a category which requires so much research of the setting. Always fascinated with history and different eras of life, I discovered that Rome was perhaps the most scandalous society to ever exist, even more so than that which Westerners live in today. Political corruption, sexual promiscuity and perversion, extravagant wealth and wasteful indulgence.... Rome boasted the strongest army in the word, the largest empire, and a reputation for gory entertainment. It was perfect writing material.

I always write fiction, but I wanted to bring the ruins of this mighty empire to life, creating an authentic and believable day-in-the-life of a Roman citizen. I realized my knowledge of Rome came from Russel Crowe's depiction of the gladiator, and I couldn't depend on Hollywood's replica to be true, which meant many trips to the library to seek out the history section. I found myself becoming ansy, however, wanting to sit down and write the story. Nevermind paging through Roman Life, let's get onto Michaelius' forced employment to the Prefect, swordsmithing for the games! So I set my fingers to the keyboard, prepared to start my story in the lovely Roman countryside.

Then I realized, when in Rome, know where Rome is. I mean, I knew Rome as the capital of Italy, but what about in ancient days? How far did the Empire stretch? Where was the palace located? Where would Michael's home be in relation to the great city? From there I began studying the geography, the Seven Hills of Rome, and the layout of the Roman Forum. Michael's home would be Velia Hill, which followed the road to Capitolium Hill where the markets, public baths, expensive villas, Senate house, and Imperial Palace made up the Roman Forum.

It was incredible to see how well my plot timeline unfolded when I created a vivid and believable setting for my characters. Until I sat down and took the time to study the culture and nuances of Rome, I wasn't able to make Michael a reality. Author Lisa Lenard-Cook emphasizes the importance of setting not only as a place or time period, but also as a mood, a comfort zone, and a viewpoint. Setting allows the reader to connect with the viewpoint character, sensing his mood toward his surroundings and his current situation (whether good or bad), and in turn feeling some degree of comfort or discomfort in the setting, depending on the character's response. Here is an excerpt from my novel Iron Bloom that emphasizes setting:

“Keep up, there!” Macro hollered over his shoulder. “Sejanus wants us at the palace this afternoon.”

Michael felt no urgency in reaching the bottom of Velia hill and the Roman Forum, but the Guard had different ideas. They had ridden straight through the night, following the dirt road that wound down Velia toward the valley where Rome’s great city resided in all her richness and glory, representing all the things Romans were proud of: power, beauty, and industry.

Michael turned in his saddle and raked the sky with blurred eyes, searching for a wisp of smoke, but any evidence of his home—or what had been his home—was lost to the green slopes of the hills. His stomach turned sour again as he faced forward. There was nothing he could do for his mother and sister until he reached the palace and received an audience with the Prefect. The hours muddled together like the marshy swamps on either side of the road and Michael slipped in and out of consciousness as sleep threatened to overwhelm him. The sun blazed on his head, the air was thick and intoxicating, and the horse hooves tattooed a lulling beat on the gravel, sending him into a stupor.

Suddenly the company halted and Michael’s transport snorted and pranced, jolting him awake. The sun was completing its arc across the sky and glanced off the white stone and marble of the city spread at Velia’s feet. Michael had been to the capital many times when delivering an order and the ride down the sloping road never failed to stir wonder inside him. The buildings of the Forum were built from limestone, marble, and unburned brick, covered in sloping shingles that burned red in the setting sun. Michael became alert as they passed beyond the wall surrounding Velia and entered the Forum. It stretched from the bottom of Velia to the foot of the Capitolium hill and was filled with people on foot, on horseback, on litter, all jostling one another on their way about. Clusters of apartments and lines of shops, larger businesses, and establishments of leisure spread out before Michael and he lost track of where he was amid all the distraction.

The company navigated the crowd and emerged into a market square, where Michael’s eardrums began to throb with the noise. Street vendors advertised their ware in a dozen different dialects, buyers squabbled and bartered, children ran unattended, caged animals bleated. Michael’s nostrils flared at the smell of fish and fruit rotting in the heat, the scent of burning garbage, and the overpowering odor of feces. His eyes stung with the potency of so many scents, and the sights, rather than stimulating, only succeeded in exhausting him.

They left the market behind and moved uphill through streets that bisected the richer part of the city. Magnificent villas of sandstone and stucco had windows thrown back to tempt in the summer breeze as foreign slaves cleaned and prepared the evening meal. Michael’s stomach growled when the smell of pork drifted out one window and freshly baked bread from another.

Shortly after that, the company arrived at the main square. Michael cringed when he spotted the Temple of Caesar, a tribute to the first Imperial ruler and a celebration of everything Rome had become. Surrounding Michael on all sides were shrines and temples of the gods, as well as public houses and baths. Small shops were erected at the foot of temple stairs, selling amulets and idols, and food meant for sacrifices. Michael’s eyes locked on the men and women ascending the stairs to worship, stepping over the paralytics and the blind that begged for money.

            They moved farther northwest, up the Capitolium, past the Senate House and tribunals to the Imperial Palace. Dread bubbled like acid in Michael's stomach with every step that brought him closer, but he was resolved to face the Prefect.