Tis The Season

   This the time of year when we anticipate joyous family get togethers, share Christmas cards with friends and relatives we haven't spoken to all year, and give thanks for all that we have. It is also that time of year when we must accept the fact that some of those friends and family members are no longer available to share in the joy of the holidays.


   At my age, this is happening with greater frequency. This year alone, I have lost a favorite uncle, two dear cousins, a number of high school classmates and several of my shipmates from the Navy. I will always regret the missed opportunities to tell them how much they meant to me and to reminisce over old times.


   Don't let this opportunity pass you by and end up as a regret. Reach out to old friends and family members this holiday season. Instead of just sending a generic card with a signature, add a little note inside, especially for your elderly family members. You have no idea how much of a blessing it is for the elderly to receive hand written letters or notes letting them know they are not forgotten.


   In closing, I would like to wish a very Merry Christmas to all of my online friends, not in an attempt to highlight my faith, but for me, it is the most meaningful expression of my appreciation for the new friends I have found here and my heartfelt desire to see you all blessed in some way.

How Important is Your First Draft?

   Always make a hard copy of your first draft and store it in a safe place. It is the pure essence of your creative spirit brought to life. Every first draft is a diamond in the rough. Uncut diamonds are just ugly pieces of rock that only through extreme patience and skill will the diamond cutter be able to reveal the inner brilliance of the stone.
   As writers, we must learn patience and develop the skills necessary to cut and polish our rough drafts into a work of art. If a diamond cutter makes a mistake, the stone is ruined forever. Fortunately for writers, if they have saved the original, they can go back after a mistake has been made and start over. It is a natural tendency for others, intentional or not, to try and influence your story to fall in line with their vision. Sometimes that vision will match yours but other times it can change the original direction of your story.
   This happened to me. The opening chapter of one of the stories I'm writing, that received some recognition from a major contest, has had the opening paragraph re-written so many times, it no longer fits my vision of the story. Before I knew what I know now, I would rewrite it to satisfy the critique of every group or individual who read it. I assumed they knew more about writing than I did and I wanted my opening paragraph to be the best it could be.
   I do not like the way it is written now and neither did the last group who read it. I would like to return it to the way I wrote it originally but never saved the early drafts. Why save something that I was improving? I cannot remember how it was for the first draft but hope that I can return that first paragraph so it fits my original vision for the story.
   I now make a hard copy of every chapter I write and keep them in a folder. The only changes I make are to the files in my computer. I'm sure not every writer has this problem but it works for me.
   Thanks for reading! 

Do Critique Groups Truly Serve a Purpose?

   Last week, just prior to our monthly writers critique meeting, I received an e-mail from the person who runs the group asking if I could take over for him since something had come up. I agreed with a certain amount of apprehension since I have never been in that position before.
   The experience was not what I expected. It was interesting to see how things work from the other side of the desk, so to speak. We always have a couple of new writers show up every month and it was not surprising that they would look to me, as the facilitator, as knowing more about writing than they. What was interesting was how the older members of the group saw me differently just because I sat at the head of the table and not beside them.
   I have always enjoyed helping others when I'm able so I hope my suggestions were of some benefit to them. Anyway, just something I wanted to share but now it's time to move on to the real purpose of this post.


   Maybe once you become a best selling author, you will feel that a critique group is no longer necessary. For the rest of us however, I believe critique groups are an important step in our journey to becoming the best writer we can be.
   I just don't think that we can be truly objective when it comes to our own writing. It requires someone who does not have a vested interest in your story to look at it with a non-biased eye. Sometimes we are so enamored with the special trees we have planted that we can't see what a mess our forest has become.
   A successful critique group is one that does not bother with word for word line edits. That job is reserved for a professional editor. A successful group also does not focus on the writer but on the writing. That's not to say that if you see the writer consistently use a word out of context or make the same grammatical error over and over, you don't comment on it. The group should look at all the parts that make the story whole.
   Our group tries to follow a basic set of questions when writing a critique. Are the characters believable and interesting? Is there enough action or tension to keep the story moving? Is the plot consistent or does it wander all over?
   I believe the role of a critique group is to identify a writer's strengths and weaknesses. Praise for parts of the story that worked well and constructive feedback on the parts that fell flat. Suggestions on how to re-word a sentence or an example of proper grammar are acceptable but at no time will we re-write an entire section and tell the writer, "This is the way it should be written". At that point it becomes the voice of the person doing the critique, not the voice of the writer.


   My advice to writers is to find a critique group that will help you grow or at the very least, a critique partner who isn't afraid to tell you your writing stinks and is willing to help you make it better. It might take several tries to find the right group for you. If you are unable to find a group in your area, post a notice at the local library and establish your own critique group.


   As always, these are just my opinions and I hope you will find them useful.
   Good luck and keep on writing!
   The world is waiting for your story!

It's My World and I'll Build it Anyway I Want! Not!

   I know most, if not all of these things, have been written about many times but it helps me to remember, as I'm world building, by repeating them.
   Unless you are writing a science fiction story based on a starship in deep space, your world will be similar to our own. Therefore it needs to follow the same basic rules of nature and science. Some of you might say, "That's obvious," but I have read some stories where that wasn't the case and they suffered for it.
   I believe writers who live above the equator naturally place their story in the northern hemisphere of their world. Subsequently, the farther north you go, the colder it gets and if your characters travel far south, the world becomes hotter. The opposite is true if you live in the southern hemisphere. No matter where you live, the higher in elevation you go, the colder it will become. Rivers always flow downhill from the source, either in the mountains or a tropical location with lots of rainfall and end up in an ocean or sea.
   For a world to be believable, there should be areas of agriculture to provide food and forest lands for building materials of wood and stone. Rivers, lakes and oceans all provide a source of food, an avenue for travel and provide a source of power, be it electrical or to drive a mill.
   I find it very helpful, as I'm developing a story, to have a notepad with a basic map of the world so I can fill in areas as the story progresses. If your character needs to travel from point A to point B, you will see that they might need to cross a mountain range or a large river. These are perfect places for things to go wrong and challenge your character, making the story more interesting.
   Bottom line is your world needs to be realistic and familiar to the reader. My personal opinion is that the best stories are character driven, based in a familiar world, so the reader can relate.
   There are probably some of you who may disagree. If you do, I would love to hear your opinions. I'll never be too old to learn something new.

Characters in a supporting role.

Not being a published author, I refrain from writing posts on how to write a successful story. However, as an avid reader for fifty plus years, I feel qualified to write about what makes a story stick with me like a hot bowl of oatmeal on a cold winter day.


Strong secondary characters form the foundational framework to support the main character during whatever trials and tribulations he/she must face to be successful. None of us go through life completely alone and without support. Even the lowly dandelion seed must rely on the support of the wind to carry it to its new destination or it would simply fall to the ground accomplishing nothing.


Supporting characters need to fulfill a variety of roles. They should be there to lift up the main character when he/she fails. An understanding mentor who can teach them what they can't learn on their own is sometimes needed. I always enjoy a character capable of providing some comic relief to overcome those parts of a story that can mire us in sorrow.


Typically, the main character is someone who does not want to do what's necessary and it's up to the secondary characters to push/pull or even trick him/her into action. They can consist of family, friends or just someone met along the way.


Of all the stories I've read, the ones with a strong cast of supporting characters are the most memorable. My favorite series of all time, Robert Jordan's Wheel of Time, has so many secondary characters, I lost count!


This is just my opinion, of course, but I think a well thought out cast of supporting characters will make any story more memorable.


Thanks for taking the time to read. As always, any comments or opinions are welcomed.

If you think you don't need a developemental editor, think again!

    For those of you who have read some of my blogs in the past, you know I don't waste everyone's time posting what I had for breakfast or what kind of trouble my cats have gotten into. I write blogs about experiences that have had an impact on me and that might be of interest or benefit to others.
    This blog is about the importance of interacting with a developmental editor before you thrust your literary masterpiece on an unsuspecting world.
    I've recently undergone an enjoyable and informative session with R.J. Blain who graciously accepted the task of looking over a short story I wrote some time ago. Even though she is busy with her own projects, I needed something to help me get past a slump in my writing and R.J. provided just that spark.
    I must say that I was apprehensive and a little skeptical over having someone look at a piece that has been critiqued and edited several times already. Could she actually make it better or just different? Would hers just be another opinion on how the story should read? We all know what they say about opinions, (they are like a...holes, everybody has one).
    Even though my short story was fairly well written, R.J. found several areas where timing and story flow were off. Her suggestions on making certain scenes stronger were right on and she found several inconsistencies that others had missed.
   Needless to say, I am pleased with the outcome. Working with R.J. on this short piece was a pleasure and a learning experience. I would certainly recommend that any serious writer work with a developmental editor and R.J. Blain would be my first recommendation.
    Remember, you want your story to be the best it can be.
    Happy writing! 

Chapter one of Eyes of the Deluti

This is the first couple of pages in my WIP. Please give it a read and let me know if you would continue reading and if not, why not. Any and all comments, good or bad, are appreciated. Thanks!


This is from the first book in a fantasy trilogy.

                                     Chapter One

A Whisper from the Past

 

  Barely able to see, Navon took the stairs two at a time. The hot tears of shame and rejection burned his cheeks as he tried to distance himself from the looks of sympathy on the faces of everyone in the Great Hall. Why? Why had his father done that to him? Was he really such a disappointment?

  The sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs alerted him to the eminent arrival of his older brother, Altair. He ran into his room and wiped the tears from his face. No one was going to stop him now that he had made his decision to leave.

   His brother walked in and stood there for a moment, watching him pack, before he spoke, “Are you sure you want to do this, Navon?”

   “No, but what choice do I have Altair? You heard Father at dinner tonight. He laid out all of his hopes and plans for everyone in this family except me. He never mentioned my name or even looked in my direction. You could see from everyone’s faces that they understood what was happening. I no longer have any hope for a future as part of this family.”

   The youngest of the Baron’s children, Navon had been given a small room on the upper floor of the Keep. A giant oak, rooted in the center of his room would have been as nothing compared to the presence of his brother. He wished that Altair would just leave him alone with his misery but his brother’s concern also gave him comfort. He had always been there when Navon needed a shoulder to cry on and never laughed at his fears of being different.

   As Navon stood in front of his small wardrobe, his light blond hair fell forward to conceal the tears that threatened to flow again. Altair approached him from behind and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder.

   “Do you know how eagles learn to fly, little brother?”

   Unable to speak, Navon shook his head.

   “The chicks spend months standing on the edge of their nest just flapping their wings. It builds up their muscles. Then one day, the parents will push a fledgling out of the nest. He will either learn to fly or fall to the ground where he will die. I think Father just gave you that push.”

   When he didn’t respond, Altair turned his brother around and with a finger under Navon’s chin, raised his head, wanting, needing to look him in the eyes. “You have no idea how much I envy you, little brother. The rest of us will always be chained to this Keep or at least to our little corner of the country. Do you remember all those fantastic tales of the world that traveling Bard regaled us with at last summer’s festival? You are free to travel and experience those faraway places for yourself, while we are prisoners here to our duties and responsibilities. From the day you were born, we have all felt that you were someone special and that someday you would have to leave us.”

   Altair reluctantly released his little brother and quickly moved towards the door. Once there, he turned back with as fierce a look as Navon had ever seen on his brother’s face. “Learn to fly Navon. Never forget that you are a Roddel. If you are ever in need, send word to me and I will come regardless of what Father says.”

   Unable to concentrate on his packing after Altair left, Navon sat on the edge of his bed trying to make sense out of what his brother had said. A knock at his door jarred him out of his thoughts. Wondering who it might be, he heard a soft voice outside calling.

   “Navon. May I come in?”

   By the Eyes! It was his mother, the last person he expected. She had never come up to his room before, so why now? He swung open the door to his room and answered with a bow. “Of course you may come in Lady Mother.”

   All the excuses for why he was packing that sprang into his head melted away as he watched his mother calmly survey the room, holding a plain wooden box in her hand. The box was like nothing he had ever seen before. The edges had darkened with time and the simple design spoke of an age long past.

   “I knew this day would come, my son. That is why I am here. I have something that has been in my family for many generations. I became the bearer of this box on the day my mother passed from this world. It is a thing of power,” she said and opened the box, removing a triangular amulet that contained three luminescent eyes and was attached to a small gold chain. “Once you put this around your neck, the amulet should disappear and only you will be able to remove it.”

   “Why are you giving this to me?” he asked, unable to keep the hurt and frustration from his voice. “You have many more sons and daughters who are more deserving of this than I.”

   “Navon, no one in living memory has worn this. Tradition says that the bearer of the box will know who is to wear the amulet or who to pass the box on to for the next generation. The moment you were born, I knew you were the one to wear it and that I was not to give it to you until you were ready to leave. Please put it on, my son. It is yours.”

   With trembling fingers he reached for the amulet. The loop in the chain appeared to be too small to slip over his head. The chain began to glow and Navon felt a tingling travel up his arms and into his chest. The glow quickly faded and the chain separated, revealing a tiny clasp. At a gasp from his mother, he raised his eyes and stared in awe as the box disappeared in a flash of light. He reached behind his neck with the ends of the chain where they snapped together to become a solid loop once again. From the look of wonder in his mother’s eyes, he knew the amulet was no longer visible. Unnerved by the touch of the chain, he froze as a voice in his head whispered, “Go north.”

                                                *          *          *

   Far to the north, in a castle hidden deep within the Mountains of Mists, the Ancient One raised his head and smiled. Far to the south-west, on the Isle of Dahlian, the Stagwood Marshe trembled as Scorpios clenched his scarred fists in a fit of rage. The slave who had been serving him burst into flames until reduced to a small dusting of ash on the floor.

                                                *          *          *         

   In the morning, wearing a comfortable pair of leather pants and vest over a light green shirt with a touch of lace at the cuffs and neck, Navon gathered his things and went down to the kitchen. It was early enough that he should be able to avoid everyone in the family. Now that he had made his decision, he was eager to be on his way. He asked the cook to wrap up some sausages in bread that he could eat while he traveled, then noticed the furtive looks of the kitchen staff. So, it appeared that his father’s words, or more accurately his lack of words on Navon’s behalf, had reached the rest of the Keep. The cook’s words as he handed him the sausage rolls were unexpected, “May the Eyes of the Deluti watch over you wherever you go, m’lord.”

   The guard at the outer gate barely acknowledged him as he trudged through using his un-strung bow as a walking staff. Sword and knife were hung from his belt, a quiver of arrows over one shoulder and his pack and bedroll tied to his back. The pack was only large enough to hold a few of his prized possessions, some clothes and his herb pouch. The old healer at the Keep had taught Navon everything he knew about healing lore, so the pouch should come in handy.

   Defending himself wouldn’t be a problem even though he would never achieve the brute strength of his brothers. The Keep’s arms-master judged that Navon had the quickest hands of any swordsman he’d ever taught and his skill with a bow was un-matched by anyone in the Keep. He might only be fifteen summers, but imagined this was what it must feel like to be a man. Raising his face to the warmth of the morning sun, he strode away from the Keep with a spring in his step. You were right, big brother. It is time for me to fly.

                                                *          *          *         

   A solitary figure stood on the ramparts of the Keep long after Navon had faded from view. Forgive me my son, for what I had to do. Your path in this life was set the day you were born and I fervently hope I was able to prepare you for it. You will always be my special son. Turning away, Baron Rodgier d’Roddel disappeared into the Keep, his beard glistening with tears that no one would see.