Imaginary Friends

Dude, I'm a pantser after all.

2012-01-29T14:07:00.000-07:00

And can I just say I hate the term "pantser?" My Mac hates it, too. It keeps trying to change it into panther. That's a much cooler thing to be. So instead of plotters and pantsers, let's call them plodders and panthers and move on from there. :P

Plodders are the people who write detailed outlines of how an entire novel should take shape before they actually start writing it. Panthers are those who simply sit down and write with no idea where they're going, "by the seat of their panths" as it were.

Anyway, I do try to outline a book before I start writing it. The first novel I wrote had no outline and it turned into a train wreck. No, it was too far from any tracks to be a train wreck. It was like if you took a train and dropped it in the middle of a lake.

The second book, well, I tried to write an outline but I got it all completely wrong and doomed the book from the very start.

The third one I thought and thought about for a long time, wrote an outline, and then did what I'm doing on my current project, which is this:

I write a chapter. If it's good, and my wife also thinks it's good, I figure out what I want to have happen next. Then I think about the next scene or chapter for at least twenty-four hours and sometimes several days. I don't usually write anything down, I just figure out where I want to start, what drives the chapter forward, and exactly what I want to have happen.

Then I sit down and write that chapter based on thoughts that are fresh in my mind. Sometimes, like happened yesterday, a character will say or do something that's not quite what I intended but seems better anyway. Yesterday, this ended the chapter earlier than I thought, but it was good. And Ammii agreed. So I'm on to the next chapter.

I still have my very bare outline, but it's really more of a road sign than a map. I know where I'm going, but how I'll get there is still very much up in the air. I take it one scene at a time.

And isn't that what it means to be a panther?

*RAAWRRR*

(This post could show up in some completely inapplicable Google searches.)

Dear Agent,

2012-01-21T15:54:00.001-07:00

These are the things I wanted to say in my query letter but decided I shouldn't.

I don't know who you are. I've been sending queries to ten agents a week, and I don't have all day to cyber-stalk you properly. I visited your website, if you have one. First, I looked up your bio to make sure you might want my book. Then I checked the submission guidelines. I started a new email, typed in the subject "Query: DRIVERS," wrote Dear [You] at the top, and pasted in my query letter. I may have followed that up with a painful synopsis and/or sample pages from Drivers that I'd previously formatted with spaces between paragraphs. (So it'd look better in email, you know.)

That query is my sixth version, meaning it was at least my sixth try at writing a query from scratch for Drivers, which is the third novel I've written, revised, and edited. I wrote it from my heart, the way everyone says we're supposed to, and I've never been sure anyone else would like it. But I think maybe there's a chance you will. (And yes, that's redundant on purpose.)

It's been through half a dozen beta readers and countless revisions. I've done my best not to edit out my own voice. You won't find many unintentional grammatical or spelling errors. (If I had a dollar for every time my writing's been described as clean...)

I may have described Drivers as a psychological thriller, but feel free to ignore that designation. I didn't set out to write a thriller. I just wanted to tell a certain story, and it evolved over the months between when it occurred to me and the day I wrote the first line. Maybe you know a better genre to put it in.

I'm already a professional writer. I write what I'm told to write. I do research. I meet deadlines. And this is the driest blog post I've written in a long time. My mouth gets dry talking to strangers, especially when I'm worried about making a good impression.

Finally, I want you to know that Drivers isn't the last or even the best book I've got in me. Ask me about The Freezer. It'll blow you away, but I'm still writing the first draft.

Regards,

Ben

Memory

2012-01-15T20:35:00.000-07:00

As in mine is seriously bad these days. I'm talking short-term memory, because my long-term memory seems to be fine. I can find my house, usually.

Like, I saw a thing where someone asked who said the following: "If there's anything more important than my ego around here, I want it caught and shot."

And I knew it was from a movie, and I knew I'd just recently seen that movie. It was on the verge of coming to me for like five mind-imploding minutes until I finally just cheated and Googled it. And you know what? I totally should have known who said it, because I had just seen it, and it's from one of my favorite movies, The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. I'd just watched it with my kids the week before. (They thought it was weird. But you know, they watch the Backyardigans, so who are they to talk?)

But anyway, that's not why I say I have a bad memory. It's because I've thought of three or four things I could write a blog entry about in the last week and every time I have a few minutes to spare, I can't remember a single dang one of 'em!

What's really disconcerting, however, is when I have conversations with people and absolutely no memory of the event a few minutes or hours later.

I suspect this may be a prank that my wife is playing on me, however. "Yes, I told you about it and you said 'Okay!'"

I don't know. Maybe it's all in my head. (Ha!)

You know, I'll bet I can still remember all the lyrics to Memory.

Just a little update

2012-01-11T06:58:00.001-07:00

Wow, that was weird. I typed a title and hit enter, and it published this without any content. So now I'm updating my update.

Which is to say, I'm simply saying I've updated my pitch for Drivers, and you can find it here. (The Drivers tab at the top of my blog.)

I've also been working on the manuscript again. Making it better. I just went back and read over the change I made to the first chapter right after Christmas, and I really like it. Love it, in fact. It was one of those, "Wow, I wrote this?" moments.

See, there are two kinds of people in this world. Those who group everyone into two categories, and those who don't. Ha! I'm so funny. Seriously, there are those who can relate to a depressed main character, and those who can't. My wife can't. Or couldn't until I started adding memories of Ash's life and how he ended up suicidal in the first place.

Gah, it's seven in the morning and my brain is already fried. How shall I explain?

Depression isn't an easy thing to understand. It doesn't make any sense from the outside. But everyone knows someone who does or has had it. Showing small slices of Ash's life gives everyone a way to relate to him, either because they've been in his shoes, or because they've been in the shoes of the people around him.

I'm not telling the story of how Ash became suicidal. I'm not telling the story of how he gets better, though he certainly does get better. I'm telling the story of a guy trying to escape from a dead-end job driving armed robotic vehicles.

But I'm also painting a picture, and it's all there in the background. How he got there, what it's like, and where he's going.

Does that make any sense at all?

A little about me

2012-01-01T19:51:00.001-07:00

There are a thousand things I could blog about: Christmas, sushi, Kindles, children, the book I started writing, the book I went back to fix something in, the contest I won, email, fabrication with duct tape and foam core board, desk arrangements, the utter lack of snow on the ground, etc.

But I want to say something that only I can say. There are millions of people expressing opinions and viewpoints out there, offering advice, critiquing, etc. (That's the word of the year, I just decided. Et cetera.) Many of them are very good, insightful, inspiring, etc. (Okay, maybe that's obnoxious.) I want to say things that only I can say. And so, even though there are also a thousand people doing similar things for hundreds of blogfests, I'm going to say a little about myself.

Hi, I'm Ben.

I love cross country skiing. Since I was a little boy, I've gone with my dad and his friends skiing up the mountain behind our old house or one of the canyons. We don't ski flat ground or groomed trails, and we don't use so-called telemark skis and boots like people use at resorts. We're on a never-ending quest for the perfect powder on the perfect slope to make perfect S-curve telemark turns without falling down. I almost always follow my dad down the hill, making my turns exactly opposite his, like sine waves half a wavelength out of sync. That's the goal, anyway.

I love cycling. My dad is also to blame for this. Before I started writing seriously, I identified strongly as a cyclist. I rode over 100 miles a week, usually commuting to and from work. My daughter's mountain bike cost more than most adult's bikes, and it's not because we're rich. It's just our priority. In fact, our recumbent trike would sell for more than the car I drive to work. Nowadays, I usually only do short rides with the family.

I love trying new things, and I also hate trying new things. (I suspect many people are like this.)

I'm a hopeless romantic, but I don't buy my wife flowers. They're expensive and useless, and she'd rather get Star Trek DVDs anyway.

I'm a feminist, I guess, because I see sexism and disrespect for women every time I watch TV. (Part of the reason I don't watch TV very often.)

I'm an environmentalist, but not as much as when I rode my bike to work. Something about bike commuting changes your perspective on conservation.

I'm a liberal, but only by Utah standards. I'm not affiliated with a political party.

I like spicy food.

I'm an introvert. That means I'm happy to talk to you, just not if we're in a large group.

I'm a Mormon. I don't bring that up in casual conversation, but it underlies every aspect of my life.

I like talking about myself. (Haha! Obviously.) I also like talking about my wife, but I'm afraid it would sound like bragging.

Happy new year! And no, I haven't resolved to blog regularly or better in any way, so don't get your hopes up. Sorry.

Late at Night

2011-12-14T22:40:00.000-07:00

It's ten thirty, and I'm still awake. Time was I could stay up past midnight, and often did. I used to work swing shift, for cryin' out loud. Worked until midnight, then came home and talked with my wife until two or three in the morning. That was before our first baby came along.

I got used to writing in the early morning. I'd get up at five and write until seven or a little after. Made me late for work a few times when I got on a roll.

But as the days gave way to long winter darkness, it wasn't working for me anymore. So I switched to nights this week. So far, it's working pretty well.

Besides, my narrator is writing his letters late at night. This gets me in the same frame of mind. Everything feels different at night. Bleak and impatient.

Sunsets always look different than sunrises, even though they're both the same basic phenomenon.

Last time I tried writing at night, it didn't last long. We'll see if I can convert back into a night person again.

I'm Still Here, or An Update on The Freezer

2011-12-06T07:10:00.001-07:00

I think I've got things figured out, again. Writing has gotten easier. Life is still busy. I don't have much else to say. I just thought I'd post something here to let my loyal fans know what I'm up to.

Twenty-eight thousand words. That's what I'm up to on The Freezer. Some of them are really good. Most of them make sense. If you were to ask me what this story is about, I'd ask how many words you want the answer in.

One word: Hope

One sentence: It's about a father and daughter facing the end of the world by building a spaceship out of a freezer.

More: It's the story of a man torn between his wife, who's on her way to another planet, and his six-year-old daughter, who wasn't allowed to make the trip. It's about parenting, futility, and the collapse of society. It's about religion, hypocrisy, and whether lying to your child is really ever a good thing. It's about hope in a hopeless situation and what it really takes to turn a freezer into a spaceship.

And that's just the first 28k words!

Lamentations

2011-11-28T19:48:00.001-07:00

What is it about this freezer story that makes it so hard to write? SOMEBODY TELL ME!

Is it because I'm trying too hard? (That's what Ammii just suggested.)

Is it because I don't know the characters well enough?

Is it because there's not a lot of action?

Is it the format, writing the whole thing in the form of letters?

Is it paranoia?

Do I just suck?

Is it because I didn't spend enough time outlining?

Is it because trying to do nanowrimo psyched me out?

Is it because I took a wrong turn somewhere?

WHAT'S GOING ON?

Maybe I'm just spoiled after having such an easy time on the last book.

Or maybe I remember it wrong, and it wasn't that easy.

Gah.

Any other ideas? Aliens stole my brain?

I Have No Idea

2011-11-20T20:05:00.001-07:00

No idea what to write a blog post about. So I'll just share a bit of my current project, which is taking way too long and may be the hardest thing I've ever written.

The hardest to get right, I mean. Oh, it's a glorious, wonderful story in my mind. On paper, so far, it's dark and hopeless and introspective. Getting it where I want it to end will be an adventure. Sometimes I wonder if it's possible. Passages like the one below are what give me hope.

(But it's completely out of context, so if it doesn't sound as good to you as it does to me, that's no surprise.)

“I know there’s little time left,” Will said, the quality of his voice melting my retort. “There will come a moment when she needs you more than air, when the world is falling apart around her. She’ll need to be able to look into your eyes, hear you say everything will be alright, and have absolute trust that it will be.”
The first syllable of a laugh escaped my lungs. “But you just said not to lie. How can I tell her…”
“That’s your other problem. You have to believe it yourself.”
“But it won’t be alright. The world’s going to end, for crying out loud.” I folded my arms and looked back over my shoulder to be sure Mandy wasn’t hearing this. I had to swallow hard as her tiny hands built another small mound of dirt.
“It'll be alright.” Will’s whispered response sent a chill through my body like an early spring breeze. “But if all your lies are blown open on the ground around you when that moment comes, your little girl will die alone and afraid.” He rested his hand on my shoulder again, lightly this time. “And so will you.”
The hand withdrew and then the man, back to his little utility vehicle. Its springs creaked as he settled into the seat. “That’s what happened to me,” he said. “That’s why I’m alone, but you don’t want to hear that story, do you. Just don’t ever doubt that I know for myself, Thane Ryder.”

How I Invented Spam

2011-11-14T09:59:00.001-07:00

Way back at the end of the last millenium, round about the time I was in middle school, my parents had a subscription to America Online. The company is called just AOL now, but back then they were the largest of two or maybe three major online services. (Bonus points if you can name the other two.) At first, they didn't even offer access through their service to the newborn world wide web. They had a self-contained ecosystem with different areas depending on what you wanted.

And AOL had chat rooms. Lots of 'em, organized by the topics that were supposed to be discussed there. A room was just a whole bunch of people all talking at once, and got real confusing sometimes. And people said whatever the heck they wanted. Some of them tried to be annoying on purpose. Especially the spammers.

Now this is where my story gets a little vague, because I frankly don't remember how we got started spamming. By "we" I mean my older sisters and myself.

If you look up the origin of the term "spam" as applied to unwanted email, you'll probably get the right story. It's all thanks to Monty Python's Flying Circus. One of their shows had a spam sketch, in a diner, with vikings. (This is all based on memory. I haven't seen it in years.) Everything on the menu has spam in it, and the vikings repeatedly interrupt other customers trying to order by breaking out into a song about lovely spam, wonderful spam.

At some point, being annoying young teenagers, we decided it was jolly good fun to do the same thing in the chat rooms of AOL.

For example:

Do you like spam?

I like spam.

I love spam.

Spam, spam, spam.

Spam, spam, spammity, spam, spam, spam, spam. Lovely spam, wonderful spam.

Well, sure, but what does that have to do with spam?

Needless to say, this really ticked people off. Good fun.

And I have no idea if we saw somebody else doing this and decided to join in the fun, (which is likely,) or if we just came up with it on our own and invented online spamming. (Highly unlikely, but fun to imagine.)

That's right, kids. I was there. I remember when typing a colon and closing parenthesis didn't automatically generate a yellow smiley face. I remember when people still wondered what it meant!

And I know the difference between config.sys and autoexec.bat.

p.s. Compuserve and Prodigy. I'm such a nerd.

What Are We Really?

2011-11-07T10:08:00.000-07:00

So, Krista sent a draft of a blog post to me and Amy because she talks about us in it. That was nice. Thoughtful. Maybe I'll return the favor.

See, I couldn't help but notice that Krista hardly mentioned herself. The post is about writing what you are, and she used me and Amy because we've written books that only we could have written.

I mean, I wrote a book combining suicide with unmanned vehicles and photography. In a lot of ways, it was the book I've always wanted to write. When it finally fell together and I came up with a plot, it was exciting. Writing was fun—if also depressing because of the subject matter and my own past. But Krista's right. It's definitely a book that only I could have written.

Here's the thing: Krista's novel (nicknamed Steve) is just as unique and personal. It's Frankenstein meets To Kill a Mockingbird and quietly powerful. The voice is wonderful and likable. It's a book that only Krista could write.

But...why?

Sure, the premise is interesting, but I don't think Krista has personal experience with regeneration or what it was like to be a kid in the fifties. It's not based on any sort of uncommon experience or situation from her life—at least not so blatantly.

Maybe this is where the really personal aspects of storytelling come in, the deeper things that Krista talks about in her blog post. To me, this means feelings. Specifically, hopes and fears.

Why hopes and fears?

Because that's what's on my mind as I write my current project. I have no personal experience with the collapse of society, building spaceships, or the end of world. What I have are hopes that something impossible really could happen. What I have are fears of losing those closest to me, frustration with not knowing, and the love of a father for little girls who have their own darkest fears.

These are things that many people share, yet are still deeply personal. Being a father or a mother, a friend, a lover—they're different for each of us. Unique.

So, yeah. Like she says, write what you know from experience, but especially write what you feel. And then use your imagination to make it interesting. That's what Krista did with Steve, and I hope I can pull it off with the novel I'm working on.

I've never faced the end of the world, but I'm a daddy and a husband, and that's what I'm really writing about.

(By the way, that character in my book who's handy with a camera? He's way better than I am. I plead guilty to one count of Mary Sue;)

Pure Genius

2011-10-31T21:06:00.000-06:00

I got the word today, of all days, on Mandy’s birthday. It sucked the air right out of my lungs and clamped my brain in a spinning vise right before the party started.

Daniel called. “The Esperanza’s gone silent,” was all he said.

That's it. The opening lines of The Freezer. I'm eager to write this one. Starting tomorrow.

In other news, my kids are up way past their bedtime and one of them is bawling because she can't find her panda.

Happy Halloween!

What I'm Up To

2011-10-25T18:22:00.000-06:00

So, work. I spent two years on reduced hours with barely enough work to do. I took over the jobs of three other people who were laid off, and still had barely enough to do. Well, now we've got as much work as the company has ever had AND I'M STILL SUPPOSED TO DO FOUR JOBS! AAAAAA!

(Those jobs, in case you're curious, are Technical Writer (my real job), graphic designer, and two quality assurance jobs.)

Aside from that, I've suddenly got tons of scouting- and church-related meetings. The upshot of all this is that I sent out eight queries about Drivers more than three weeks ago and haven't gotten around to sending out any more. At all.

(Because it takes me half an hour to send out a query, and who has time for that? I have to check and double-check each agent's email address. Visit their website and double-check submission guidelines. Read their bios, search Google for interviews, see if they're on twitter, write a personalized message, rewrite if five times, ask my wife if it's any good, read the email over and over and over again, hold my breath, and click send. Then I hyperventilate for a few minutes before starting on the next one.)

But I did rewrite my query. Again. (Click on the Drivers tab above if you're interested in seeing it.)

And then there's this thing I'm thinking of doing to the ending to make it better. That's next on my list.

I wrote the first page of The Freezer but got it all wrong and couldn't continue. I have to figure it out before next month, because this will be my first chance at doing NaNoWriMo! I've always been at the editing stage of novels in years past, and I'm not about to draft a new novel just for the heck of it. So the timing is good.

Or will be if I can figure out the first page.

And I bought my wife a new camera for her birthday. And she just barely got a brand-new thirty-year-old Squeezo Strainer.

A Blog Post

2011-10-21T06:01:00.000-06:00

We've been together for ten years. And we have a lot of fun, but that's not what's important. Fun is so ephemeral and easily spoiled. Joy is what she brings me and what I strive to give her.

I don't know what it's like for other couples, as I've never really been in another couple. They look happy enough. As happy as we are. We don't understand some of the things they do, particularly anything that takes them away from each other when they don't need to be.

The way we see it, nine hours a day five days a week is too long to be apart. Why would I want to go hunting? Why would she want to go shopping? I spent a week at Scout camp this summer. That was the longest we've ever been apart. I missed her. I called every night. I climbed a ridge every night to get cell reception because I missed her.

This wasn't supposed to be about me, but somehow it always is. I guess it's either that or I start bragging about how amazing she is. I've done that before. Even that would come back around to me.

Every so often, she asks why I love her. It happens less often these days, because I usually give some variation of the same answer. I don't know if it's a good answer. Is there such a thing as a good answer to that question? I know it's one of those things philosophers like to wrestle over.

My answer is that she brings out the best in me. Or she makes me better. The words are a dim shadow of what I feel. I love her like I love myself. More on my better days. Anyway, they're kind of the same thing. We're kind of the same thing.

And when I stop to think what an amazing compliment it is that someone so vibrant, deep, beautiful, and smart voluntarily chose to spend forever with me...

I am not without her. She is not without me. We were both a little broken when we met—healing and doing well, but still a little broken. We healed together, healed each other.

She. Me. Only aspects of we.

We have fun, sometimes.

We always have completion.

We always have love.

We always have joy.

Ben & Ammii: The Rematch

2011-10-19T19:13:00.000-06:00

So, that last review ended up sounding a lot like "Ben is a crybaby," so I thought we'd review something completely different this time. Something manly. Something tough. Something that has never made me cry:

Power tools.

Once again, I have my lovely and talented wife Ann Marie (aka Ammii) here with me. Let's start off with my personal favorite power tool, (that I own, because it would be silly to review tools I have no experience with,) the Dremel.

Ammii: *ahem* That's mine.

Ben: No it's not. I got it for--was it my birthday?

Ammii: Oh yeah. 'Kay it's yours.

Ben: The thing I like best about the Dremel is you can use it for almost anything.

Ammii: As long as I'm not using it.

Ben: *ahem* As long as what you want to do involves cutting things that aren't too big. I once used it to cut the big chainring off a cottered crankset. I've also used it to remove the rust from a bicycle frame.

Ammii: That Dremel tool really is mine. It may have been for your birthday, but we all know whose it really is.

Ben: The other time I used it was to cut the top off a plastic drain pipe.

Ammii: And that's about the only times you've used it. But that's okay, because I don't want you using my tools. I mean your tools.

Ben: Okay, why do you like it so much? It's totally a man's tool. Meaning, you can use for things that there are really better tools for but you're too lazy to go get them.

The Starship Enterprise. What a girly thing to carve.

Ammii: Like woodcarving? 'Cause that's what I use it for.

Ben: Oh sure. Use it for what it's meant for. How girly.

Ammii: Why ruin a perfectly good tool using it for something it's not meant to be used on? Like some of those attachments you totally wasted.

Ben: They're disposable. They come in packs of twenty. Besides, Dremel Inc. or whatever they are markets it as a do-anything tool. You can tell that company's run by men.

Ammii: Okay, so what's your second favorite tool. Is it your dead power drill? 'Cause I wore the battery out?

Ben: Aha! I can honestly say that I use that tool far more than you do. In fact, you always use your Dremel to drill holes when the drill is clearly the better choice. Real men know to use the right tool for the right job.

Ammii: Uh HUH...I don't use it because the battery's always dead.

Ben: Yeah, it won't hold a charge anymore. Too many years of HEAVY use.

Ammii: *giggles* Like you built this house with your drill.

Ben: I never implied such a thing.

Ammii: My second favorite tool is my scroll saw. And that one really is mine.

Ben: Yeah, I got it for her for Valentine's Day. Isn't that a totally manly gift?

Ammii: Totally romantic.

Ben: Yeah, I picked out the best scroll saw in the store, because I know how to pick good tools, right?

Ammii: I thought it was the cheapest one.

Ben: Actually, it was the only one. But it is nice. As quiet as a sewing machine. With a sawdust collection thingy. And it takes two kinds of blades.

Ammii: Sewing machines are power tools.

Ben: But like I'd ever use one of those. Ha!

Ammii: Umm...are you forgetting all those hours you spent sewing stuff for your bike?

Ben: But at least I wasn't using a pattern! Totally winging it, brave and daring! And it was nylon tent fabric, so it was really hard. I'll bet you couldn't have done as good a job.

Ammii: I wouldn't even try.

Ben: There. See? Totally manly. And we're going to end the review right here with a picture of something only a man could make, the Velo-tent-mobile!

It's a velomobile! No, it' s a tent! No, it's THE VELOTENT!

By the way, this is my 100th published post! (Meaning, it's the one hundredth post excluding the ones I wrote and never posted, and the ones that I posted and later took down!)

Ammii: Obviously. Duh.

Unconventional

2011-10-17T16:56:00.000-06:00

I wrote Drivers in present tense. That's not as unconventional as it used to be, and it was also in first-person. (Present tense third person still sounds really weird to me. First person feels as natural as thinking.)

The Freezer is going to be past tense, first person. But I'm doing something else unconventional. Yeah, it's generally not such a good idea to be different when you're still trying to find an agent, much less get published. (Or it is a good idea, depending.)

What can I say? I follow my heart.

Meet Thane Ryder. His wife Dawn left for outer space as the pilot of an interstellar ship carrying infrastructure for a new colony on an Earth-like world. She did it to get Thane and their daughter Amanda seats on a ship that will follow. Meanwhile, Thane is raising Amanda in a dying society on a doomed world.

Then Thane finds out Dawn's ship has disappeared. No one knows what happened. Maybe its out there, maybe not.

Then he finds out that if he leaves Earth as planned, he has to leave his daughter behind.

He chooses to stay, knowing there's still a chance Dawn will be waiting for them on that new world. So he writes to her to explain his decision. And he keeps writing.

And that's what the book is: letters from a doomed husband to his missing wife about their daughter. (Can I just say it breaks my heart to think about it?)

There are quite a few novels that have been as letters. It doesn't matter to me how many there are. The more I think about it, the more I feel like this is the way I want to tell this story. It's a glimpse from the outside into the heart of a man—beamed into space at the speed of light, available to everyone in its path.

And by the time it reaches Dawn's ship, Thane and Amanda will be gone.

(As far as you know, anyway.)

The Next Door Boys

2011-10-13T05:00:00.000-06:00

Today, I am doing a book review of a real book. This is a first for me. Sort of. AND my lovely wife Ann Marie (Ammii for fun) will also be doing the review. First, the book is The Next Door Boys, by Jolene Perry. It's an LDS romancy sort of book about a college girl. Why am I reviewing it? Because I wanted to finally read one of Jolene's books, and...well, you'll see.

Ammii and I had a conversation about this review the other day. It went something like this:

Ben: Would you like to do the review on video?

Ammii: Why?

Ben: It would be funny. You could make fun of me.

Ammii: Like "Ben likes chick books and romance?"

Ben: Or when I admit that it made me cry.

Ammii: *looks at Ben like he's crazy* It made you cry? *laughs*

Ben: See? Now I've wasted that reaction. It would have been hilarious on video.

Ammii: Oh, I could do it again. It really made you cry?

Ben: *talking with his hands, as usual* Not really cry. Just, you know, a little extra water in my eyes. Maybe some throat, uh, spasms.

Ammii: *laughs* You are such a girl.

But we're not quite ready to show our faces on video. (Also, it's more work.) And I hate listening to my own voice, so we're just going to pass the laptop back and forth and have a typed discussion. It's just like when one of us is upstairs and the other is downstairs and we have conversations on Facebook.

Ben: What I liked about this book was, as mentioned, the emotional impact it had for me. What happened didn't surprise me, but how it made me feel did. Part of it was that Leigh is a well-developed narrator, but at the end, it was mostly that I could really relate to Brian, chicken that he is.

Ammii: Yes, Ben, you are a chicken. Just come out and say it. You LOVED all the mushy gushy stuff. Okay, so it really wasn't all that mushy gushy. It was a fun romance and the ending was great.

Ben: Well, I wouldn't say I LOVED it. Not in capital letters, that's too strong.

Ammii: I should have said ADORED.

Ben: I'm not exactly in the target audience.

Ammii: Yeah you are.

Ben: Ahem. It's really a book for 1) young 2) Mormon 3) women. I meet only two of those criteria.

Ammii: Maybe one and a half.

Ben: Anyway, you're right in the target audience, aren't you?

Ammii: Yes, all three. Definitely young. It's the perfect book for girls looking for clean, fun, romance that introduces them to the game of college dating.

Ben: A game you know better than I. But we're getting off topic. Let's sum up by saying that we both enjoyed the book, and yes, I'm more of a romantic than my wife.

Ammii: I'd recommend it to any teenage girl.

Ben: And sensitive, good-looking, slightly-over-29 men who...

Ammii: ...cry over hymns in church.

Ben: Okay, we'd better stop. You can find more about The Next Door Boys here, along with links to buy it.

Raindrops on Roses

2011-10-12T16:34:00.001-06:00

I could have titled this post "My Favorite Posts," but that wouldn't have been nearly obscure enough. This is a flashback episode. You know how some TV shows have episodes where the main character is hooked up to a neural-whatever or stuck in a coma and forced to relive ten-second snippets of past episodes? That's what I'm doing here. Except I'm not going to quote old blog posts, I'm simply going to link to them. That way, you can avoid the pain of rereading stuff you've already read. Ready set read. (Read is a weird word.)

My favorite things I've written on this here blog in no particular order:

The Hunger Games and King David: What do those have to do with each other? Thou art the audience. Why I will never see the movie.

Author Interview: Myself: In which I interview myself. Funny, if I do say so myself.

The Old Gray Goose: The sad story of our widowed goose. Writing it made me cry.

The LDS Writer Blogfest: The Atonement Covers All Pain: A bit of what my religion means to me. A unique post on this blog, and by far the most viewed.

To Kill A Mockingjay: How do you recover from destroying your main character? Fast forward! (Yes, I did still read the whole series.)

The Heart as a Compass: Why I write what I write.

Thirteen Reasons: Snarky critique from someone who knows something about this popular novel's subject matter.

The Worth of a Word: In which I actually post pictures. That I took. And tell why a picture is NOT worth a thousand words.

The Teen Disease: One of the first posts I wrote. It's about how important the teenage years really are and in the form of a letter to my past self.

There are plenty of other posts I like, some more than some of these. I just don't want anyone reading them. Now don't you want to go find out why?

Ha! Just kidding. Sort of.

The Freezer

2011-10-10T09:15:00.001-06:00

Yes, I've been missing for a week. Or more? But I have something good to share today. It's a new story idea. Except that it's not new. I first started developing it several years ago with the intention of writing and filming a little movie. We were going to use our house and grounds as the set, so the setting of this book will always look exactly like my house in my mind. A little weird, but it makes description easier. I might have to relocate it closer to a city, though.

Man, I love writing.

The world is about to die a violent death at the hands of a rogue planet. The last escape ships have gone, leaving billions of people knowing the exact date and time of their demise. Society is coming apart at the seams. Violence is spreading; food is disappearing. There's one month left.

One father turned down a seat on a spaceship to stay with his five-year-old girl, and he intends to make her final days happy. He'll stay in his home and refuse protection. He'll feed his enemies and treat them like friends. He'll plant a garden, find water for the lawn, and teach her to ride a bicycle. He won't pick up a gun or show any of the fear gnawing away at his insides.

And if keeping his daughter from feeling that fear means building a spaceship out of an old freezer, he'll do that too. If she sees the lie in his eyes, maybe he'll even learn to believe the impossible. That their crude spaceship will work. That it will carry them away to find mommy, who left—and was lost—on a scout ship.

Whatever it takes to hide the fear. It's only for a month.

(And no, I haven't settled on names yet.)

Lookin' Out My Backdoor

2011-09-30T06:41:00.000-06:00

(Doo doo doo. Anyone else hearing CCR?)

I love the sky. Whenever you step outside, it's half the world, and it's never the same from one day to the next, one hour to the next. And when it is, everyone gets depressed because it's usually due to fog, smog, or living someplace where it's constantly overcast. Why would anyone do that?

Here in beautiful Cache Valley, if you don't like the sky, wait five minutes. (Okay, that's what they say about weather. It's sort of a joke. It's actually true about the sky.) Even on days when there's not a cloud in sight, you still get to watch night descending like a curtain in the west or rising in the east. I didn't notice this until I was in Australia and away from my mountains. The flat land and clear air made it easy to see the shadow of the horizon on the sky, but it happens here as well.

The sky is a canvas on which God paints an ever-changing mural to reach through our eyes and into our hearts. Do you ever feel like you can't look fast or wide enough to take in a rushing sunset or flaming sunrise? That's when I grab a camera. Usually, I step out onto our back deck.

Sometimes I step onto the front porch.

Almost There

2011-09-27T09:32:00.002-06:00

I printed out a copy of my manuscript and marked it up while reading it aloud. This morning I moved most of those changes to the computer. I'll finish up tonight or tomorrow, and then there's another change I'm thinking about making.

And then I'll be done.

And then I start looking for someone who can sell it to a publisher for me. I am both eager and reluctant to begin this process.

Someone should invent a machine for it. Writers could slide their pretty manuscripts into a slot, and in three seconds the machine would spit it back out along with a slip of paper like an ATM receipt. It would have the name of the very best agent for you or it would say, "Sorry, please try again."

No waiting. No wondering. No shadowy doubts lurking backstage.

But that's impossible, soforgetIevenmentionedit. I love waiting!

It's the wondering I don't like.

Torn Sky

2011-09-23T11:19:00.001-06:00

Today, I give you another photograph! Hooray!

This particular photo, you may notice, is the background of this very blog! Why? Because it reminds me of DRIVERS. It looks like the sky was torn wide open and is bleeding. There's a distant clear like freedom, but you don't know if the clouds are withdrawing or moving in. There's darkness everywhere but that narrow strip, and that's where you want to be. (And the mountains nicely complement the clouds.)

I shot this one from my back porch with a 5 megapixel Nikon Coolpix. That camera's really showing its age, but has always taken good photos. My wife has grabbed lots of amazing pictures of the kids with it even though the shutter lag is terrible.

For awhile, I had a logo that I threw together in Illustrator on top of it. Anyone remember this?

I wanted it to look like flames, kind of. And the font is meant to look like old machine-readable type, appropriate for a book with robots in it. And the crosshairs, well, that's what you see from the driver's seat. (I'm not really a graphic artist, but I pretend sometimes.)

And here's the composite image. Feel free to download it and use it as your desktop wallpaper while you eagerly await the release of DRIVERS sometime in the future. I know you want to.

Oh, and here's a bonus picture I didn't take. It's the vehicle the ARV3s in my book are based on.

That's right. They're REAL. Javelin missiles and all.

Interview: Jolene Perry

2011-09-21T06:20:00.000-06:00

Occasionally, we here at the Imaginary Friends blog get the chance to interview an author. Some of you may remember the previous interviews. Both of them. If so, please be assured that this interview is NOTHING LIKE the previous interviews.

Okay, so it's actually pretty similar, but there's one big difference: This time, we have a REAL AUTHOR!

Jolene's Book

Jolene B. Perry is the author of uncounted millions of books, one of which will be available in PRINT on October 8th. It's called The Next Door Boys. Jolene also has a fabulous blog. (But don't go there yet! You might not come back!) She lives in Wasilla, ALASKA, which pretty much proves that she's crazy.

And if that's not proof enough, on to the interview!

First, Jolene, what would you like me to call you in the interview to mark where your answers start? I could use your initials, JP or JBP; your name, Jolene or Jo or even Joe, just to confuse people; or something completely arbitrary like a ^, or #,...or $&@#. You know, whatever you want. Jol, Jole, Jolly P.

I will regret doing this later - BUT my nickname in elementary school from the girls I did 4-H with (yep) called me Joleenie Weenie Fettuccine. So, you COULD shorten my answers to JWF. Also, when I was in high school I did show jumping (had an amazing horse that stood at 17'2" - he was awesome) my nickname there was Lean Mean Jumping Machine Jolene - so, you know, the abbreviation would be a bit longer LMJMJ.

Jolene (who has cool shoes, apparently)

Okay, JWF, now for some questions.

JWF: OK BS

(BS? Where did you get that? My initials? That doesn't seem fair.)

BS: Are you still working on all those books?

JWF: No. Not THOSE, books. The other ones. The new ones. The old ones are collecting dust at 24,000 words, the new ones will be collecting dust at 24,000ish words any day now.

BS: When will I be able to walk into a bookstore and buy them?

JWF: Uh . . . the dust covered ones?? YEARS. The Next Door Boys?? In your neck of the woods in October - HA! Hopefully my mainstream sometime the very end of 2012, or maybe 2013, you know, if we all live past December.

BS: What are they about?

JWF: Uh, so, there's this girl . . . and she meets this . . . umm, boy . . . and I think that she's going to have some sort of problem you know? Something that will make her NOT like the boy . . . yeah . . . and the guy? He just got burned, and so he's not ready for a relationship, and then . . . well, I'm not sure, but there's bound to be an amount of kissing, and probably, but not definitely a happy end, or something like that . . .

BS: Are you friends with Sarah Palin? Why don't you just ghost write a book for her?

JWF: Because I might strangle her first?? So, there's that. Her husband goes snowmachining at their cabin in Petersville, so believe it or not, that's the only place I've ever seen them - two and a half hours north of the town we both live in. Though - she's never here anymore. Oh. And no one can see Russia from here, aside from Google Earth.

BS: How much money do writers like you make?

JWF: Oh, you're going to get excited about this. Ready?? I figure that I'll make just over a dollar a book for The Next Door Boys. This type of fiction usually sells between 500-1000 copies. There's exceptions, of course, but that's the norm. I get my FIRST royalty check seven months after the release date of the book. So, that'll be say, May 2012. When I get that check, I'll hop down in my newly purchased coach-fare ticket, to do a book signing in your area, in hopes that it pays for my rental car. Pretty sweet, huh?

BS: I'll mark my calendar! Where do you get your ideas?

JWF: EVERYWHERE.

One of my favorite books I got the idea for while Mike and I were talking about old eighties movies in the Taco Bell drive-through. It turned into one of my FAVORITE books - Night Sky, which comes out later this year. (smooth selling my new book, right?) I wanted a book that STARTED with a bad ending, to see what happens after the guy plans a night with his best friend, who he's been in love with, and she ends up with the other guy. You know, like Duckie in Pretty In Pink (who totally should have gotten the girl). I got one idea while thinking how one thing could have totally changed my high school experience (Want To Be). I wrote a book after hearing Breakeven by the Script (Knee Deep, goes on sub next week :) So, yeah. from my life, but twisted. From songs, and from the Taco Bell drive-through. I could give you a list as big as my project list, but that would be boring to everyone but me.

BS: What's the greatest thing about being a writer?

JWF: I love the escape I get from books, but being a writer you get to immerse yourself in the story in a whole different way. It appeals to my creative side, and to the side of me that loves precision, order and math. Though - I'd argue that the higher up in math you get, the more creativity you're allowed in solving problems. I know, I know - I used to be a math teacher, what can I say?

BS: How long does it take to write a book?

JWF: Depends drastically. I wrote the first draft of The Next Door Boys in two weeks. BUT spent months overhauling it. I wrote the first draft of Joy (at publishers being read hopefully sometime this century) in 8 days, and the MS has only been tweaked since then. I started another project a year and half ago that's sitting at 24,000 words (a third of the way done) and I have no idea how long it'll take me to get back to it. Right now I'm bouncing between three projects (not recommended) so it'll be hard to say how long it takes. Also, I probably took this question WAY too seriously.

Generally:

One month to first draft.

Read to Mike.

Two weeks of pretending it doesn't exist.

Go over it.

Send to Heather who works for shoes (she's a reader not a writer, and helps me make sure the story all ties in)

Go over with her corrections.

Let it sit.

Read again.

Send to another reader.

Go over.

Let it sit.

Read again. Pretend that each page is the ONLY page the editor will see. SO HORRIBLE AND TEDIOUS.

Send to my agent :D

BS: Do you still ride horses?

JWF: I have access. I have people who would LOVE for me to ride their horses because they know who I am. Okay, that just made me sound snobby. Several things stop me. 1. I need a place for my kids to go while I ride, and right now, I use that time for writing. 2. It's expensive, I'd get sucked in quick and we just can't afford it. 3. I can never own a horse again, because I have really expensive taste in horses, and it just isn't going to happen. Also, when your hobby costs that much, you end up doing JUST that when you have spare time, and there are a million other things I like to do - climbing, mountain biking, hiking, rafting, chasing my kids around the museum, hanging at my parents cabin (no roads there, snowmachine only) so, no. No riding. I might change that next year when Jack goes to Kindergarten, and ride once a week or so. I miss the jumping bad.

Thanks for stopping by Jolene! Have a safe trip back to Alaska!

(I'm gonna have to think of harder questions next time.)

An Unusual Weekend

2011-09-19T07:39:00.000-06:00

I had an unusual weekend. Heck, it wasn't just unusual, it was unique. Completely. Ohhhh, and it would take too long to tell about it and I'm not sure I should, so I won't.

Okay, so I will. Sort of. Skipping the details.

I helped take the Boy Scouts on a fifty mile bike ride. (They made it, which is really impressive for twelve and thirteen-year-olds on mountain bikes.) Along the way, we were asked to help in the search for a missing person. And then we found her.

Cool, eh?

Yeah, I left out most of the story.

I'm responsible, at least partly, for the spiritual education of those boys. Two weeks ago, I taught them a lesson in church about showing respect for women and girls. I didn't mince words. I told them the girls they knew at school were more likely than them to deal with eating disorders and depression and that they could have a huge impact for positive or negative on those girls. I even told them girls were more likely to attempt suicide. That wasn't the whole lesson, but it was a big part of it.

On Saturday, the lesson continued. The young woman we found had tried to kill herself. She was injured, but alive and conscious. And I use "we" loosely, because I never saw her and only two of the boys did. The rest of us were half a mile up the road.

A couple of the young men were a little traumatized by the encounter. Had the injury been an accident, it likely would have been easier to process. Yesterday at church, we talked about it with them.

I didn't lead the discussion. (I don't think anyone in that group, boys or adults, knows my history in that regard. This blog is available for anyone to read, but I don't regularly send people here.) It was led by the man in our group who found the woman and talked with her until the ambulance arrived. And he did a good job. He emphasized the fact that no matter how worthless you feel, people still love and care about you.

The adult leader of the young women's group also joined us. Her day job is helping girls who have eating disorders and depression. She told them again just how big an impact they can have on their peers. She's never experienced depression herself, but she gave an excellent description of what it's like.

I told the boys that depression is a disease that people can recover from. I said the woman we'd helped could go on to live a long, happy life.

And if I could, I'd say the same thing to her.

So it was kind of an amazing, emotional weekend for me. I don't know what the scouts got out of it and I probably never will. I can't give them experiences like this on purpose or know what they'll mean in the long run. I'm only partly responsible for their education.

Toto Deserved It

2011-09-14T19:12:00.000-06:00

I had a life-changing realization early this morning. The exact moment of my paradigm shift is hard to pin down exactly. It gradually came to light as I drifted from sleep into consciousness, and the more alert I became, the more urgent and important this thought seemed to me.

You know how in the movie version of The Wizard of Oz, Elmira Gulch comes to Dorothy's house to collect Toto and take him away to be put down. And Dorothy's all freaking out and everyone's mad at Ms. Gulch.

A Victim of Animal Cruelty

Well, the dumb mutt deserved it for biting a cyclist!

That's my life-changing realization, and I'm going to make it my mission to vindicate Elmira Gulch. All these years, we've all been on Dorothy and Toto's side. In reality, Ms. Gulch was the good guy. She was the victim, standing up for her right to live in safety, and we've vilified her for it!

Put Toto down! That's what I say.

Of course, by the time I got in the shower it didn't seem so important anymore. Just really funny. I'm sure it had something to do with riding my wicked-witch bike home after dark last night.

My Wicked Witch Bike

See, I have this other side of me that you people who only know me from this blog have never seen. (No, I'm not a witch. Silly.) It's not a secret life, it just doesn't have much to do with writing. Except that it's pronounced exactly the same: riding.

(Oh, stop! It IS pronounced the same by me and most red-blooded Americans. (That's for my wife, who pronounces her Ts.))

I love bicycles. Do you know the formula for determining how many bikes you need?

b = n + 1

Where b is the number of bikes you need, and n is the number of bikes you have. That's why I have two road bikes, my ride-to-church bike (the wicked witch bike), a John Deere bike frame (I know! It's so cool!), and a recumbent trike (which my wife has commandeered), two more bikes for my wife, and at least two or three bikes for each of my kids. That includes an awesome tractor-bike my son drives around all day long. He even drives it up to the bus stop to get his sisters after school. Oh, and there's a Schwinn Varsity that I'm going to put a mailbox on someday.

I used to ride upwards of 150 miles a week commuting 30 miles round trip to work each day. Then I started writing.

Now I'm soft around the middle.

I kind of feel bad and miss riding. I miss being in shape. (I don't miss coming home dripping saltwater so much. Usually.) I just love writing more, and my time is limited. I still ride to church! It's a mile and a half away. *sigh*

But here's a picture of me in my glory days, wearing my super-suit:

Mr. Incredible

(That's during Lotoja, a 200 mile bike race that I did. Once.)

More Photos

2011-09-09T09:43:00.001-06:00

This is supposed to be a writing blog, so why am I posting photos? Because sometimes they just fit with what I'm writing.

My novel In Memory has an ensemble cast of characters. (Its reincarnation will split them up into smaller groups, giving each their own entire novel, but that's another story. Pun intended.) Awhile ago, I got an urge to give my blog an In Memory-themed background and pasted silhouettes representing each character onto a photo I had. (Some of you will remember that background.)

Here's the original photo, which I took from the roof of the Doncaster Shopping Centre in suburban Melbourne, Australia in late 2000. It was shot on 35mm film, 200 or 400 ISO. The camera was a compact Pentax with auto focus and exposure. The scan was made from the negative. It's a pretty typical Australian sunset.

And here's the wallpapered version made with stock-photo silhouettes:

The feel of the sunset was exactly right for the book. The suburban setting was right, too. And I hate putting photos of actual people to my characters, because they're never quite right. The silhouettes work nicely. (Though I did have to swap one of the heads to get the hair right.) The guy on the far left is Peter, the bad guy of the book. His head and shoulders are currently my Twitter profile pic.

I also considered the photo below, which I also shot in Australia with the same camera. This is looking southeast from the highway between Finley and Tocumwal, New South Wales.

The storm is nice, but the sunset works better with people.

My Readers are in Boxes

2011-09-07T10:36:00.000-06:00

Sometimes, for a variety of reasons, normal people get locked in a box called depression. The reasons vary. Maybe it's a negative pattern of thinking, stumbled onto or learned from someone else. Unrealistic expectations is a common one. There are physiological reasons, too. Illness. Grief. Things that should go away but don't. Frequently, there doesn't appear to be any reason at all, even to the person in the box. All they know is that they're in their own private hell and there's no way out.

Some other people get mugged and stuffed into the box. Once inside, they can easily forget how they got there. They frequently blame themselves, even when it's obvious to everyone on the outside that it was the muggers' fault. It's a personal hell decorated with memories.

The boxes are about the same for both groups. Once a person has spent enough time isolated in the dark box, their eyes adjust. Not completely, just enough to read the sign over the most visible exit. It says "Death."

I just happened upon a blog post prompted by an attempt to ban the book SPEAK from public school libraries. It was about rape. It was courageous and moving and made a compelling argument for keeping books like SPEAK available. Because some teens need to know they're not alone. Because it sure feels that way when you're in a box.

It made me think. "My characters have nothing like that, no horrible past for readers to latch onto. Maybe I wasn't hard enough on them. Not edgy enough."

Then I thought again. "No. They don't have a horrible past because that wasn't my experience. Other people can tell their stories. I tell my stories."

I knew that already. I mean, DRIVERS is already written. I've already solved the problem of how to make getting locked quietly into a box interesting. Depression is hell, regardless of how one got there. I simply put a face on that hell, so my readers will know they're not alone—and it's not their fault.

I've never seen a book that did that. Not for people in the first group.

The Worth of a Word

2011-08-30T09:08:00.000-06:00

I'm a writer. My medium is words. But I've had other artistic interests, namely photography. To excel at either takes so much practice I had to pick one, and writing won. But in this, my hundredth blog post, I'm going back to photography.

Because a picture is worth a thousand words, right?

I now give you a three thousand word story about myself:

Get it? Probably not. Don't even try. Because when it really comes down to it, there's a reason books are full of words.

Words can convey more information, emotion, sensation, and meaning simultaneously than any other single medium. A picture might be worth a thousand words of visual description, but it has no other senses. Looking at those photos, you might feel the breeze at your back on a mountain top, but will you hear the eagles just out of the frame? You won't smell the liquid pouring from the bottle and know what it is. You won't feel what I felt or have any idea what would make an environmentally-minded neat-freak throw a glass bottle to shatter on the rocks below.

They're evocative, even interesting. But the story's not there in the pictures. Without the words, they're only images.

And—sometimes—a word is worth a thousand pictures.

(And if you're interested, the photos were shot with a completely mechanical Fujica SLR on real black and white film. Yes, I'm sort of bragging. I didn't develop it myself, though. And I tried scanning the prints, but wasn't happy with the image quality until I scanned the negatives. And lo and behold, there was a lot of detail in the negatives that hadn't made it to the print, especially on the second one.)

Ten Years

2011-08-23T06:05:00.000-06:00

Sunday marked our tenth wedding anniversary. What can I say about that? My siblings and their spouses were all impressed that we'd been married for so long. Only my oldest sister has been married longer. (I'm the third of seven children.) My younger brother got married earlier in the year. He and his wife are about ten years younger than us.

They're so young.

What does that make me?

Wise, I'm sure. It's funny, but Ammii and I went to the same high school and never met. I was a senior when she was a sophomore. I was in band, and spent a lot of time hanging around the band room. She was in orchestra and spent a lot of time right next door in the orchestra room. I think I remember seeing her in the halls or at her locker, but I never knew her name, never said a word that I recall.

For her part, Ammii remembers being annoyed by a group of saxophonists practicing Sabre Dance in the hall before school. Like we thought we were so cool. I was part of that group. She swore she'd never marry a saxophonist.

What if someone had taken me by the shoulders and pointed me in her direction? What if they'd said, "There's the girl you're going to fall in love with and marry"? (And how does one punctuate a sentence like that?) Would I have been impressed?

Four years later when we really met, I was very impressed. I remember walking into her parents' house, shaking her hand. She was my sister's friend by then. They were going caroling to a nursing home in early December and invited me to come. Ammii had a crush on another guy in the group and did her best to stay near him.

And I stayed near her. I loved her laugh. The way her wrists moved as she played the guitar. The curve of her voice, the line of her jaw, the nervous confidence. I don't know if I ever registered that she was nervous because she was trying to impress that other guy. All I know is that I never felt more at ease around anyone. It's hard for me to be myself around strangers, but Ann Marie didn't feel like a stranger.

That other guy—the one she liked—never worried me in the slightest. That was the most amazing effect she had on me. Normally, if there was any hint at all that a girl liked someone else, I wouldn't bother trying. Normally, I was terrified and tongue-tied. But she brought out the best in me and then she fell in love with it. She never had a chance. Nor did I.

Ten years is a good start.

I call it "The Unlimiter"

2011-08-17T10:37:00.000-06:00

I'm still alive and have returned from an epic two-week road trip with my family. I have also replaced the starter in my other car, but I only mention that because I'm so proud I actually did it.

So, I'm starting work on a new novel. Except that it's not really new. I've gone back to the original concept for my second novel (called at various times Charism, The Qualia of Magic, The Sense, and In Memory) and am working on constructing a new story around the same characters and premise. This stirs up a lot of mixed feelings for me.

Mostly, what makes me think I can pull something better from my original idea?

I know what to ask. I know whose story it is. I got the other story I wanted to tell out of my system in a different novel, Drivers.

And now everyone has clear and compelling motivations. Let's see if I can sum them up:

Brian makes superheroes. Occasionally a supervillain. He removes the natural limits from the talents that people already have.

For example, Esha was born with a gift for empathy. With Brian's unique sort of help, she can now read and control other people's emotions. She can make you feel whatever she wants you to feel. This really helps in her summer job as a fundraiser for a local non-profit.

But Esha doesn't believe Brian has anything to do with her success. To prove it to her, he removes the limits from another fundraiser, Peter, who has a gift for speaking.

Then Brian meets Leah, a girl he knew in middle school but hasn't seen for years. He unknowingly removed the limits from her memory, and now she blames him for ruining her life. But Esha's new ability to manipulate emotions also allows her to undo what Brian did, reigning in Leah's memory to something more manageable.

In other words, she can unmake Brian's superheroes.

And that's a good thing, because Peter's abusing his new power. When his fundraising tactics turn dirty, he frames Esha and discredits the whole organization. Then he sets his sights on local government.

No one can win an argument against Peter—except Esha. And she's not about to let him get away with what he did to her.

Leah recognizes what's happening to Peter and Esha. They're losing control of their talents and their mental health. The best thing for everyone is for Esha to undo Peter's unlimiting and then try to undo her own.

The problem is that Peter's too dangerous for Esha to go near him. He knows she's the only thing standing between him and eventual world domination, and he'd just as soon see her dead.

Brian can only watch as Peter gets scarier and Esha changes into someone else.

The solution seems clear. Brian must accept responsibility and eliminate Peter—even if that means spending life in prison and eternity in hell.

The only other way is too risky. Leah would have to risk insanity and Esha would have to risk dying. What would Brian risk? Living with himself if it all went wrong, knowing he'd be more at fault than ever as Peter took over the world, Esha was buried, and Leah got locked away.

For Brian, that's far worse than death or prison, and probably worse than hell.

So that's the story. If you happen to know of a song that sort of fits with this plot, please tell me what it is! I'm having a hard time making a playlist.

Community of Writers

2011-07-25T09:18:00.000-06:00

Hey, y'all. I'm glad I found you. See, for the longest time, I wrote all on my own. Yeah, I had a couple of college classes on creative writing. They were okay, but that was a long time ago and no one was really writing novels. Only short stories. And that's what they taught us about, as if short stories are the first step along the road to novels, which is debatable.

And yeah, there's a local writing group. They meet every other week to read and critique, and that's really good because there are vastly different people. Some write stories, some poetry, many are working on a novel or two. That group helped immensely. But the meetings were long, and at one chapter every two weeks, it's not a great way to get a novel reviewed. They helped me clean up my writing, mostly, as there were a few, ah, fearless critics in the group.

And then I started blogging. And it's fun. I enjoy it. I don't blog on a schedule, just whenever I feel like it and about whatever I feel like—which is almost always about some aspect of writing and trying to get published.

I read similar blogs, written by people like me. I've learned a lot about every aspect of the process from various blogs by writers, agents, and editors. Fantastic advice abounds on the internet—along with some not-so-great advice. C'est la vie.

What do I get from doing this? Certainly not fame or fortune. I get friends. Understanding. Support. Shared experience across continents. Many of the best things found in any community. And I get readers and critiques that are immensely valuable to me.

Cheers, friends. See ya 'round.

Everything You Know Is Wrong

2011-07-22T16:36:00.000-06:00

Up is down, black is white, and short is long. Stole that from Weird Al. That's my song of the day. Why? Because it's probably true.

About me, I mean. Not you. Necessarily.

It turns out that it was true last week, before I realized the following things:

No, I can't please everyone. I shouldn't even try. I mean, we've all heard that. But good writing is good writing, isn't it? (Of course this is about writing. Do I blog about anything else?) Part of me still holds to that notion, that nagging feeling that the first sentence of this paragraph is just something that crappy writers tell themselves when people don't like their books. Just look at Harry Potter! Everyone loves Harry Potter. But more and more, it's sinking in that no matter how well I write, how amazing a story teller I am, some characters and stories won't get along with some readers. Some characters and stories won't get along with most readers. Because...

Voice really is important. Just look at The Catcher in the Rye. I could hardly stand it. Didn't see much merit in it. But millions of people have read it and many of them LOVE it. Strong voice? Oh yeah. And if I were J.D.'s beta reader, I'd have wanted him to strip that voice right out of it because it bugged me. He would have ended up with a book that was palatable to me and loved by virtually no one. This leads me to believe...

I should critique with a light touch. Because who am I to play the person a writer should be trying to please! I guess if I love the book, that gives me some right to critique. Chances are I'm in its audience. Still, it makes me wonder if we rely too much on outside feedback. There was my first novel, which kind of sucked and I didn't get much feedback, and it still sucks. But then...

If I rewrite, revise, or edit too much, I'll kill my own writing. People talk about polishing, editing, revising, revising, revising and doing twenty, thirty, a million drafts and working on books for years until they're perfect, AND I don't think that works for me. Seriously, it's an art, not bricklaying. It's like I start out with a block of granite and carve a story in it. Every new pass makes it smaller and smaller, until there's nothing left of that beautiful stone I started out with. All that's left is the words. The core is gone. I know this because I've done it. Of course...

Everything I know might be wrong. The best I can do is do my best based on what I think is right today. And that's why...

I still need feedback from a lot of different people. Everyone knows what's right in a slightly different way. In the end, it's my decision what to do. It's my baby. My responsibility. And I'm not at all objective. But everyone has something helpful to say, even if they hate everything about a novel. I guess it's just a matter of feeling out what I need to learn from each reader and how, when, and where to apply it.

Maybe that's all I really need to know. I'm pretty sure it's right. What do you think?

It's All There

2011-07-19T06:46:00.000-06:00

In Drivers, said drivers are recruited via the internet. I didn't go into specifics, and I didn't ever do the "research" to find out exactly how this could be done—until this morning. A few people wanted to know more about how the company found suicidal people. I didn't think it was important, and frankly, I was a little uncomfortable with searching for actual people.

As it turns out, it's easier than I thought. A Google search, a result on the first page, and there they are. Some of them want to be contacted, and for various reasons—advice of both kinds, help of both kinds.

I added a few sentences to my book to clarify this, and that's enough. Rest assured that whatever you're looking for online, it's there.

What's Going On

2011-07-15T09:31:00.000-06:00

There are now five people who've read Drivers—besides me. I've gotten some good feedback, and version 3 is coming along well, I think. Sometimes it's hard to implement a suggestion, like adding emotional impact to the beginning of a scene. No ideas yet. If none come, I'll just leave it. With this manuscript, I'm much more wary about making major changes. Everything seems to be working so well in a broad sense.

Drivers is dark. When people started telling me this it kind of took me by surprise. It's dark? It's sad? It's really depressing? And I smile, because that's what I was going for. It doesn't seem that dark to me, though. Maybe because my eyes have adjusted to the dim light after five months.

But it ends well. I love it, anyway, and no one's complained yet—except about what does or doesn't happen to the bad guy. To be honest, I'm leaving him available for a sequel. Drivers stands alone, but it doesn't have to. There are possibilities.

There are always possibilities.

But, oh, what I'm thinking would be so cruel. Poor Ash and Zephyr.

I'm smiling, now. Am I sadistic or what?

Anyway, once I'm done with this revision, it's off to a couple more beta readers. And then another pass or two of editing. And then—I guess I'll query. Speaking of which, I keep changing the query. The latest version is on the DRIVERS tab at the top of this page. You can even leave comments, dear readers, if you wish. Oh, and the first scene is there as well.

And that's what's going on with me. What about you?

p.s. Hey, relatives-who-live-nearby, if you don't want to wait for version 3, I have a printed copy of Drivers version 2.5 you can read.

Time Travel or I Can't Believe I Did That

2011-07-13T16:32:00.000-06:00

Have you ever wondered why time is so one-way and restrictive? Like, why am I here right now instead of yesterday before that big mistake I made or tomorrow after that horrible thing I dread?

A Brief Story:

When I was but a lad—and also a Mormon missionary—I once borrowed a television from the local church meetinghouse. Some other missionaries were coming to visit for the night, and one of them wanted to show us some videos he'd shot. As I lifted it out of the car, the cord fell down far enough to drag on the ground.

"I should pick that up so I don't trip on it," I thought. Then I thought, "Nyah, I'll just be careful." I would have had to set the TV down, and it was an old boxy one, partly made of wood, and quite heavy.

You can see what's coming can't you?

I carried the TV with the screen against my chest and my arms around the sides far enough to grab the bottom. It was pretty well balanced. When I stepped on the cord—like you knew I would—it pulled the back of the TV just enough to tip it out of my hands and onto the sidewalk right outside our apartment.

There was a crunch. And a hiss. And I watched a circle in the middle of the screen darken. I knew exactly how bad the damage was.

And in that moment, I experienced the awful linearity of time. That WHY DID I DO THAT? feeling. It would have been so easy NOT to drop the TV. I shouldn't have even been borrowing it in the first place! What business did I have TAKING a TV from the CHURCH, let alone BREAKING IT?!

I would have given anything to get a second chance at the previous three seconds.

Stuff like that still happens to me, though not usually that bad. There was the could-have-been-fatal car mishap on an icy curve. The email with some unfortunate wording. Other stuff. Like, say, blog posts.

*SIGH*

You know, the guy I had to call and tell I broke the TV was terrifying, but it wasn't so bad. When the branch got together to watch General Conference a few months later, he publicly thanked me for making it possible for them to get a brand new TV. It was humbling, as stupid mistakes always are.

Homeless

2011-07-08T12:14:00.001-06:00

Okay, this a huge freaking deal to me, and my biggest complaint about the publishing industry: They split my favorite kind of books between the young adult and adult sections of bookstores, and it makes them rather hard to find.

Of course, the real reason it bothers me is that I write books like the ones I love—and I have no idea where to categorize them! You know what I wish? That there was no Young Adult section of bookstores. They should just lump them all together from Junie B. Jones through Tolstoy and let us pick the ones we like from actual genres: science fiction, fantasy, mystery, horror, pointless, etc.

Or, if they really feel like there needs to be an arbitrary division, they should group them by length: short, medium, long, extra long, extra extra long, and Robert Jordan.

Oh, I know there are plenty of books that fit squarely into teenager land. They're not usually my favorites. There are some books that are sold as YA that I really, really love! And some books are sold as adult that I really, really love. Part of the problem is the name Young Adult. I'm sorry, but if your main audience is thirteen years old, that's not Young Adult. It's Teenager. Actual young adults are 18 through 25, give or take.

But then you run into the fact that EVERYONE'S DIFFERENT ANYWAY! There's no good way to classify books based on age, and I wish they'd just quit pretending there is.

So I end up dumpster diving to find a few tasty morsels among the juvenile and adult bins, and I curl up squarely in the doorway between the two to write my little stories.

And I spit watermelon seeds at the ankles of anyone who asks me which one I prefer.

(This rant sponsored by Sarah LaPolla's insightful post of today.)

Nothing.

2011-07-08T07:32:00.000-06:00

Just nothing.

That's what I've had to say on my blog this week. I tried to write a post about metaphors, similes, analogies, symbolism, and other similar things. But finding the right analogy is like. . .it's like. . .uh. . .

On the bright side, I do know what to write in my book. That's what's important, isn't it? I spend all day writing things that I have to write. I just can't make myself do it in my free time. So I write what I want to write. And that's all I want to write.

How do people blog on a schedule?

p.s. You can tell when I'm not actively working on a draft because I blog more frequently.

Lovin' the Language

2011-06-27T06:00:00.010-06:00

I'm not here right now, but I've prepared this lovely post for your enjoyment. It's part of the Lovin' the Language Blogfest instigated by Jolene Perry. Go here to get links to the others.

And what is it? I've picked five lines (passages, actually) from my work-in-progress, Drivers. (It's about a suicide-mission driver who falls in love and changes his mind about dying.) They make me laugh, smile, or cry each time I read them. (I hope they don't make y'all cry.)

So, uh, here they are, out of context and without any introduction:

ONE

“Ash.” Zephyr’s breath touches my chin, she’s that close. “Thanks for saving my life today.”

“Do you mean that?”

“I—” Her voice chokes off. Her head doesn’t move, but I feel it pulling, straining against a spider-silk strand of something between us, so fragile. Don’t break it, Zephyr.

“I mean it.”

TWO

Time stops in the middle of a heartbeat. In the air between Zephyr’s hands and my feet, a perfect universe has formed to contain me. I don’t dare breathe, and scarcely dare to think for fear of screwing this up. That’s what I do with everything—screw it up. I flunk classes, scare girls away, alienate family, get fired, wreck cars, lose phones, and how am I supposed to respond to this? What’s my line, the one that will bind us together in blissful happiness at the end of this movie? I don’t know. I never know.

THREE

“It’s trading one kind of pain for another. A small cut, or even a large one, is a distraction. It’s not real damage. It’s not like burning alive. No, we’re looking for quick, clean deaths, aren’t we? I’ve no doubt there are things that would make you run into a burning building, but depression isn’t one of them.”

FOUR

She pulls back, still grinning. “I love you, Ash Palmer.”

“I love you too, Zephyr…oh, crap.”

“I’ll let you call me the Wicked Wind of the West, but I draw the line at Zephyr O’Crap.”

“I can’t remember your last name. Something Greek.”

FIVE

Words shred my voice. Tattered ribbons, like life itself. Unraveling as I drive. And all around, the world is scorched, littered with ruins. Bodies. Death and pain left by her passing.

Just like me.

Note to Self: Relax

2011-06-24T10:40:00.000-06:00

What makes me do what I do and think what I think and feel what I feel? Every time I try to figure one of those things out, it spins up a lovely frustration in my mind. Does anyone really know?

Early Monday morning, I'll be leaving for a Boy Scout camp. Twelve and thirteen year old boys are deceptively simple. A primary motivation for them is impressing each other, usually by making the others laugh, frequently at their leaders' expense. It's a simple motivation. The deceptive part is that there are so many other things going on in their heads that I'll never know or understand.

So how do you deal with kids like that? I'll let you know when I figure it out. I guess what I'm thinking is that if I don't even know what makes me tick, I've no hope of deciphering the early adolescent mind. Especially since each one is unique.

There are no formulas and no hard rules. You've just got to take things as they come, correct yourself when you're wrong, correct them when they're wrong, and do your best at figuring out which is which. You try to understand people, and sometimes you do. When you don't, it's not a calamity. Don't get frustrated—especially when it's yourself you don't understand.

Note to Self: Relax, Ben. Nobody's perfect. Nothing goes completely as planned.

This applies to, oh, pretty much life in general.

(screams) READ ME!

2011-06-20T08:59:00.000-06:00

Ash is a suicide bomber. Not the kind you think. He drives an expendable armed robotic vehicle—from the inside. No one even knows he’s there. But it’s an important job and it pays well. Sure, it’s literally a dead end job, but that’s what he wanted when he took it.

Ash turns out to be better at staying alive than anyone expected. And since meeting Zephyr—since falling in love with her—he has a lot more to lose. They don’t want to die, anymore.

The problem now is the unwritten fine print of their employee agreement. They can’t quit. They know too much. A corporate security team, two armies, and their own inner demons will try to stop them.

What do they have? Zephyr’s brains, Ash’s photography skills, and a couple of armed vehicles everyone thinks are unmanned and will be told are out of control.

DRIVERS is a psychological thriller for young adults, 77,000 words after the second draft.

I told Ammii this morning that it needs to make you want to read more. Also, it needs to answer more questions than it raises, aside from obvious questions about what happens. It should not be boring, confusing, or poorly written.

So tell me, does it work for YOU? (Whether or not you're a writer yourself.) Anything I should maybe, possibly change?

(Yes, I know the second sentence isn't. A sentence, that is. Also, I wrote it for young adults, 17-23. That puts it outside the normal "YA" range and into general fiction, so I may not mention the intended audience.)

Psyched out

2011-06-16T08:55:00.000-06:00

You know what's hard to write about? Death. I can't write convincingly without first finding a connection from my own life. Meaning, I have to literally feel what I'm writing. I don't know, maybe this is a crippling limitation. But it's my art, right? I've gotta find what works for me, and the climax I've written doesn't yet.

The thing is, I've never lost anyone that close to me. I'm grateful for that. I don't want to. But I still have to find some way to feel like I have, some time in my life where maybe I thought I had, and then let my imagination take it from there.

One of those times was recently, when my youngest daughter kept vomiting for no apparent reason. The doctor ordered a CT scan of her brain—just in case. Wait a minute. Just in case what? She has a tumor that's increasing her intracranial pressure?

Faced with that possibility, it was easy to imagine how it would feel to lose her. I was in tears just rolling through possibilities in my mind. (Turns out it was cyclic vomiting syndrome. Relatively harmless. Like hiccups of the digestive tract.)

So that's a start. And there are other scares I've had. Drawing on those, I need to connect with Ash, somehow. The fact that he's not sure who's died makes uncertainty the biggest player. I've certainly experienced that. Uncertainty that burns and climbs to your fingers, stretches, grasps at time itself but only slides and falls.

I have a good imagination, but I can't conjure up feelings from nowhere. I have to psych myself into them—without psyching myself out.

Random Sunday Thoughts

2011-06-12T20:41:00.000-06:00

Look at that picture of me. Over there. I really do sit like that, with one hand against my chin, jaw or some other part of my head. Frequently it's just a couple fingers. Sometimes I cover my mouth. But I do it all the time. Weird. Yet another reason I don't like to watch video of myself.

Everyone talks about how getting critiques back from people is scary. Or any sort of feedback about their writing. Personally, it's doing the critiquing that terrifies me. I mean, I've got this precious thing, someone's baby, in my arms. I'm supposed to look it over quick, sometimes one piece at a time, and tell them how to raise it. Like, what if I give bad advice and the thing dies an untimely death? Even if it's good advice, is it really my place to contribute? I try really hard not to make stuff up just for the sake of saying something. If there's nothing wrong with it, there's nothing wrong with it. At the same time, if I don't see anything wrong with it, maybe I'm just blind. Does it mean I'm a bad critique partner if I just say it's great? I try to couch everything in uncertain terms like "you might consider," or "what if?"

I have a one track mind. Multitasking? I don't see how it's possible, and don't think it really is. Some people are just really good at task switching. Me, I can block out everything but what I'm reading, even if it's only ad copy in a magazine. (So long as it's interesting ad copy.) Someone can be sitting right next to me, talking directly to me, and I'll look up in surprise after a few minutes and wonder when they got there.

This annoys my wife, sometimes. I like to think I'm focussed. That's another word for oblivious, depending on your point of view.

My wife's name is Ann Marie. I call her Ammii. She likes spelling it that way. It looks Finnish. It's also cute. I feel very fortunate to be married to her. She's the reason I write about romantic love.

Okay, so I'm a hopeless romantic. She's the reason I'm a happy romantic. Everyone should be so blessed. I believe that eventually everyone will be, or at least get the chance. Maybe that's why I give it to my characters.

Ammii doesn't like the mushy stuff. She's kind of a tomboy. If I can write a mushy scene that she likes, I know I've done well.

We're a perfect match.

Thirteen Reasons

2011-06-10T09:43:00.000-06:00

Okay, so I know I've been posting a lot of depressing suicide-related stuff on here, but I'm kind of writing a book about it, you know? Like the thing over there -> says, I write about basically whatever I want. And today I want to talk about Thirteen Reasons Why by Jay Asher.

Even if you've never read Thirteen Reasons, you've probably heard of it. It's the story of Hannah who recently committed suicide as told on audiotapes to the thirteen people she blames for pushing her to it. Actually, it's Clay's story as he listens to the tapes. He had a crush on Hannah, but didn't act to stop her from killing herself. Very touching. Poor Clay.

Oh, was that mocking? Mmm, maybe a little.

Before I go any further, let me say that it's a pretty good book. I couldn't put it down and enjoyed reading it for the most part. It deserves most of the praise people have given it.

Okay, now here's what I want to say: Hannah, you have thirteen reasons and they're all other people? You lucky girl! Most of us feel like we have only ourselves to blame. (Which hurts pretty bad in and of itself.)

No, actually that wasn't what I meant to say. Change course a little.

NEVER recommend this book to a teenager who might be thinking about suicide. (Did you notice the caps-bold-italic-underlined word? Now that's emphasis.)

Disclaimer: Not everyone is like me, so maybe I'm wrong. But really, why take chances?

By showing the aftermath of a successful suicide, the book glorifies it. Some kids will see the sorrow Hannah left behind and think that's exactly what they want. No one loves them now, but if they die, everyone will. (Some of them may be right.)

It's a success story. It's the Hoosiers of suicide. Hannah pulls off a difficult feat to perfection, and gets exactly the effect she intended. It's inspiring.

The important thing is the feeling it leaves you with. Stories are powerful. Don't underestimate them. For most people, Thirteen Reasons Why elicits a desire to reach out to someone, to talk or listen more. It made me want to kill myself. Not because I felt sad or depressed. It simply reminded me of suicide's appeal, something I haven't felt for a long, long time.

And if it can do that to me now, what would it have done twelve years ago?

Shameful Books part II

2011-06-03T11:02:00.000-06:00

Many moons ago I wrote that I couldn't think of a single book I'm ashamed to love. Allow me to quote myself:

The reason is simple, I think: if I love it, I really think it's good and am therefore not ashamed to love it. It doesn't matter who it was written for, written by, or how it was written. If I like it, it's good.

You see that? Doesn't matter who wrote it. If I love it, I love it. End of story.

EXCEPT, my list of favorite books now includes one that I'd be ashamed to say "Oh, I LOVE this novel. It's compelling, exciting, emotional, and the writing is fantastic!"

What's different about this book?

I wrote it.

I've been trying to edit my own novel. I say "trying" because I think I'm missing a lot. Oh sure, some scenes I change quite a lot. And I did a bit of patching up while I was writing. But I find myself getting so engrossed that I can pore through scene after scene without changing anything but punctuation.

I say things like "Dang, did I write this?" and "Sometimes I amaze even myself."

And usually no one's around to say "Doesn't sound too hard."

Somebody say that. Please. My hats are already too tight.

The Unlimiter

2011-05-30T17:41:00.000-06:00

I woke up with this crazy desire to go back to the manuscript I put down four months ago. I thought about it all day, piecing it together like a puzzle, and I think I've settled on something good. The thing is, it's completely different.

Well, not completely, but enough that I don't know if I'll be able to reuse a single chapter. I have the characters and the setting, though. I know them. I won't need to go through that process again.

Most importantly, I'm excited about it again. And I know it takes me about three months to turn out a decent rough draft from this point.

I've developed a habit of writing queryesque blurbs about books before starting on them. (Just to make sure I have an actual plot.) It's kind of fun.

So, here's Brian explaining his problem. If you want to see how it looked before, click the In Memory tab near the top of the page, just under the blog title.

I’m not particularly talented. I do well in school, make friends easily, keep out of trouble. There is one thing that sets me apart.

I make superheroes. Occasionally a supervillain.

I know. It’s crazy. Maybe a bit of an exaggeration—but not much. Take my girlfriend, for instance. She can control people’s emotions. I gave her that ability.

Okay, again I exaggerate. Esha was born with a gift, you might say. But how far does talent get you? I mean, even with a lot of work and perseverance, talent still has limits, right?

Not Esha’s. I unlimited her.

I guess that’s my talent. I bring out the best in people.

So imagine my surprise when the girl Esha rescued from suicide blamed all her troubles on me. I knew Leah. (Had a crush on her in middle school, in fact.) Weirdly, she knew about my talent. She says I unlimited her years before I even knew I could. It was an accident.

Now she claims unlimiting drove her mad, and that it will do the same to Esha—and Peter, and everyone else I’ve unlimited. She says madness will drive Peter to homicide, and I have good reason to believe her.

There’s only one way to stop him, but I can’t do it alone. I make super-people. Only Esha can unmake them.

That’s exactly why Peter wants her dead.

The Best Bookends in the World

2011-05-26T20:23:00.000-06:00

I'm not exaggerating. Ever since we moved into our house five years ago, I've needed a set of bookends for my dresser. That's where I keep a bunch of books that I'm reading, intend to read, or think I should read. I've been getting by with one plain metal bookend and a picture-frame/old-trophy combination that sometimes lets the whole line fall over.

My wife, who is not only beautiful but also unbelievably multitalented and infinitely creative, (it's okay for you to feel a little jealous—of either of us,) asked what I wanted for my birthday. This was, like, six months ago because she also plans waaay ahead. One of the things I mentioned was a set of bookends.

A couple weeks before my birthday, she asked what I like. Not the same question, you'll notice. I really had to think about that, and she had to ask follow up questions to get the answer she wanted. But I settled on three things: books, stars, and bikes.

Forgive me some bragging, but my wife has a lot of talent with the arts. She draws, carves things out of wood with a Dremel, and has recently picked up wood-burning (pyrography). (There are other things, but I'll stop.) She worked for hours to make this gift, and I was amazed when I opened it.

Bookends that look like books about my favorite subjects! Our daughters picked the titles: The Bike and Search for the Stars. Even the inner sides are woodburned and painted. I may have to unscrew the bottoms and switch them around after awhile so I can see the telescope and stars. These aren't the greatest photos, and that one would look better with old hardcovers, but I don't have many of those.

Write the Truth

2011-05-25T09:41:00.000-06:00

And the truth shall make you fees. Or something. Yesterday, I went back and rewrote the first scene of Drivers. (BTW, I really like that Blogger now recognizes Command-I as a shortcut for italics on Macs.)

I wanted to add a little action. There wasn't any in the original, and I wanted the hero to do a little something heroic for his girl right off the bat. You know, to kind of foreshadow bigger things later and make people like him.

Here's the deal: They both arrive in a foreign country on a private jet. They're among strangers, under armed guard, and doomed to die in a few days. The security guy at the airport lets Ash and two other men pass without so much as a metal detector scan, then announces that he has to search Zephyr because she has a violent criminal record. She's embarrassed and protests, since she was searched before getting on the plane and has been under guard ever since.

The problem now is that there's nothing Ash can plausibly do to rescue her. I tried to play up the conflict between Zephyr and her guards, then have Ash defuse the situation by insisting they search him too, and making fun of the security guy.

It was pretty meh.

I thought maybe I'd build it up more, so when Ash steps in it really feels heroic despite him not really changing anything. I thought about having him actually save her from the search. And it all started to feel like the original opening scene of In Memory that no one liked. Nothing felt right. It felt contrived.

Because it was!

So I settled on something completely different. I still have Zephyr in the same situation, but I don't play it up and make it more than it is. It's only a pat-down that no one else got, not a strip search or anything really bad. It's just an insult on top of everything else wrong in Zephyr's life—and everything else is much, much worse than airport security.

The truth is, to the helpless and hopeless, small victories don't matter. But it helps to know you're not alone.

Ash quietly walks back to join her. He doesn't do anything heroic—just nice. It fits his character, and it's not contrived. It's true.

It's not exciting. It's not action. I don't really know that it's a good beginning. But I like it right now.

Theme Song

2011-05-23T09:36:00.002-06:00

I finished the first draft of Drivers on Saturday. It's a good thing, too, because I was raptured that afternoon.

Ha ha. Kidding.

Anyway, a funny thing happened on the last page. Third-to-last sentence: "We're. . .back in the sunlight."

Cue the music!

I know a lot of writers make playlists of songs to go with the novel they're working on. (I'm going to leave that preposition right where it is, thankyou.) But when paraphrased lines from songs work their way into your manuscript, does that mean you're listening to that playlist a little too much?

The thing is, Follow Me Back Into the Sun is the theme song for this novel. I originally had it near the beginning of the playlist as a bit part to go with one chapter because it's a nice song and kinda sorta fit.

Then I realized it neatly condenses the feel of the whole book into four minutes, and I promoted it to the end of the playlist. It could have been written about my characters—but, of course, it wasn't.

Did I write a novel based on a song? (No, I didn't)

Or do I simply interpret vague lyrics to mean what I want them to?

I do that second one all the time. Take the line "You can blow what's left of my right mind" from Future Starts Slow by The Kills. I doubt they were thinking about literally blowing up a mentally ill person. But they could have been. I mean, that's what it says.

The Rescues' lines

Love be brave
Burn all the maps and let the ashes blow away

aren't about a boy named Ash and a girl named after the wind.

Sirens in the distance cry
Don't know how to leave you
Don't know how to leave you now

doesn't have to be about lovers trying to save each other on a battlefield. That's the nice thing about ambiguous lyrics. They let you make the song mean what you need it to mean.

And it's an awesome song. Listen to it, if you haven't already.

(If your browser settings prevent that link from working, you can go to Rhapsody.com and search for "Follow Me Back Into the Sun" by The Rescues. No need to register or pay.)

The Heart as a Compass

2011-05-18T09:27:00.000-06:00

I had a bunch of words written about singing in my car and how it's like writing and never showing anyone, and blah blah blah. They felt like a rotted log, hollow and dead. And something Napoleon said kept running through my mind: "Follow your heart. That's what I do."

Yeah, that's Napoleon Dynamite. Like I'd know anything the other Napoleon said. Gosh.

So I'm following my heart. It says I'm in the same place I left Ash (my protagonist) yesterday morning—on a minefield. He's still there. I couldn't write this morning because all my ideas felt like that same rotting log. How do you get through a minefield?

Metaphorically, life is a battlefield. (I said LIFE, not love. Did anyone else hear Pat Benetar just then?) The battlefield is mined, meaning there are bombs that blow up when you step on them. Stepping on a mine is a mistake, the kind you make when you're not being careful and start following the wrong tracks, going off the path, etc. You have to slow down and think before every step you take.

In other words, to avoid making mistakes and stepping on mines, follow your head, not your heart.

If I were Ash and stuck on an actual minefield in a damaged vehicle and with snipers shooting at me from the trees, I'd be strongly tempted to simply drive like mad for the other side. I know this because that's basically how I got through school. I tried to study hard and do all my work. But there came a point in every class where I lost all desire to tread carefully and do good work. That point usually came late the night before a big test or deadline. No matter what my head said I should do, my heart sabotaged it by not caring anymore. It really hurt me. Led me onto a lot of mines and bad grades.

My head said I should major in computer science. I like computers. I like science. There's good money in that field. My heart said no. I flunked my CS classes.

All right, I told my heart. We'll do physics and astronomy, because that's what we really love. Nope, said my heart. The night sky is wonderful, but I don't like math. Never have, never will.

But you're pretty good at it, I answered.

Don't care, said my heart.

All right. Fine. What do you want to do?

English.

But there's no money in English, and it's ridiculously easy. Don't we need a challenge? Don't we want a good job?

It's easy because we're good at writing. And I like easy.

Speaking of easy, it's no problem to follow your heart when your head agrees. It took me two years of getting beat up by college to switch to English. Lo, and behold, I got good grades and enjoyed school.

It's still hard to follow my heart—especially when it seems to be leading me to do the wrong things. I rewrote a novel several times because it felt like the right thing to do. After the last rewrite, the first feedback I got from someone who'd read earlier versions was that the characters felt flat.

All that work had made it worse. All those hours that were supposed to make the manuscript wonderful robbed it of what's most important.

What do you say now, heart? How does it feel to kill something you love?

It hurts.

We have to fix it. So many people are invested in this project.

Not right now. Maybe later. Right now, I want to move on.

Whose side are you on?

My head says don't use present tense. It's a fad, an affectation, rarely done well, a rookie mistake, a sign of weak writing, unnecessary. . .

Do it, says my heart.

I'm not a logical person. I follow my heart. It leads my head kicking and screaming down wrong paths. I've seen it make so many mistakes. And yet, part of me wonders if it's ever done anything that turned out bad in the end. Didn't I learn a lot from those rewrites? Didn't all that homework turn out to be unimportant?

To survive the predicament I've dumped on him, Ash should slow down, ignore the less dangerous gunfire, look where he's going, and find the right set of tracks to follow. He should follow his head, not his gut instinct. That's what my head says he should do.

And me? I'm charging blindly across the field at top speed, scared to death that I'm making a huge mistake—but doing it anyway.

At least I know what to do with Ash, now.

Drivers: Another Try

2011-05-12T09:42:00.000-06:00

So, I have two early versions of a query. The first one I wrote just recently. It's short. (And I'm almost done with the first draft of the book.)

Ash had nothing to lose when he took the job. He wanted to die, and it sounded like a good way to go, hidden inside a supposedly driverless robotic vehicle fighting in a foreign war. Speed, guns, explosions and all that.

But Ash is better at staying alive than he thought. Since meeting Zephyr—since falling in love with her—he also has a lot more to lose.

And he'll lose it all unless he and Zephyr can escape from two armies, a corporate security team, and their own inner demons.

Aside from their desperate new love of life and each other, they don't have much to work with: Zephyr's brains, Ash's photography skills, and a cell phone with no service.

And the following is what I wrote before I wrote the actual novel. I thought that one up there ^ was much better, but this one has a lot going for it:

Ash is trapped in a dead-end job, but he’s changed his mind about dying. He’s basically a suicide bomber. Not the terrorist, strap-a-bomb-around-your-chest sort of bomber. He works for an American security contractor, driving a heavily armed vehicle on missions too dangerous for soldiers.

Too dangerous for anyone, actually. That’s why the vehicles are supposed to be unmanned, computer controlled. No one on the outside even knows Ash and his fellow drivers are inside the armed robotic vehicles.

Yeah. And he works for the good guys.

Ash signed up for the suicide mission. He wanted to die, anyway. Speed, guns, and explosions sounded like a good way to go.

That was before he met Zephyr, another driver. She understands him. She even cares about him. After they both survive their first operation, Ash wants his life back. Then he and Zephyr run up against the downside of their employee agreement.

They can't quit.

They know too much, and a lot of money and criminal charges ride on keeping the company’s secrets. With a fifty percent survival rate per operation, odds aren’t good they’ll make it through another.

Their only escape is locked inside a robot with a hair-trigger self-destruct—a mobile arsenal that everyone thinks is unmanned and will be told is out of control.

Now, if you don't mind, tell me: Which one gets you most excited to read the book? Are there pieces of the other you'd like to see grafted into your favorite? Have you ever made a root beer float with chocolate ice cream?

No News is Good News

2011-05-09T10:04:00.000-06:00

I'm still not sure what that's supposed to mean. Does it mean that not getting any news means nothing bad has happened? Or does it mean that all news is bad? Are those basically the same thing, and I'm all confused about it for nothing? Is this statement even true, for cryin' out loud?

The first time I read Life in the Woods by Henry David Thoreau, I got to his rant about news and felt a little—miffed? He basically says news is worthless unless it directly involves you. At the time, I was in my first year of college, idealistic, and very much into news and politics.

Lately, I'm not really into either. Why? Jaded cynicism, I suppose. What passes for news largely consists of the following:

Congress isn't doing anything. Each party blames the other and/or the White House. (Insert clips of politicians spouting meaningless rhetoric.) In other news, (insert latest disaster or coup I can't do anything about), (update on celebrities I don't care about), and (sports I don't care about).

I find myself agreeing with ol' Thoreau. News is worthless. Unless I'm going to be voting in a local election, sandbagging the local creek, or going to a multiple author appearance at a local middle school (which should have been in the news before it happened, dang it!), nothing in the news really applies to my life.

The idealist in me feels bad about this. He thinks I should be actively trying to promote change. To borrow a line, I'd join the movement if there was one I could believe in. Maybe I'll run for school board, someday.

Until then, it doesn't matter who I vote for in presidential elections. (I'm in Utah.) It doesn't matter who I vote for for U. S. senate or house. (Same thing.) Our state legislators all deserve the boot, so I never vote for an incumbent. I don't live in a city, and county positions are usually unopposed.

Activists annoy me, and I'm not going to become one.

I'm not likely to travel long distance to help disaster victims, and I already donate money to a charity I trust to make good use of it.

I do like reading about new books coming out. I get that from blogs. In fact, I get all my news from blogs, Twitter, and Facebook these days, and that suits me just fine. Most of the news is about people I know and care for. When they need my help, I can give it directly, sometimes over a great distance.

And so, the mass media in my life have been replaced by social media. You know what? I'm happier that way. (I mean, you see how grouchy I get at the mention of politics.) I'm in touch with the real world of people's lives, not that fabricated reality of mass media where nothing ever changes.

But if anything ever does change, someone let me know in 140 characters or less.

To Kill a Mockingjay (with spoilers!)

2011-05-01T21:15:00.000-06:00

It was either that or "Jay Mocking" for a title, and I flipped a coin. I'm sure there are some other good puns I could've used, but I haven't thought of them.

A while back, when I finished reading The Hunger Games, I wrote a blog post about the moment I realized I was the audience consuming violence for pleasure. I said the book was horrific in its conception and execution, and I still think that. I don't plan to ever read it again. (I never reread, though, so that doesn't say much. Too many new books to read, too little time.) But I liked it.

When I finished Catching Fire, I hated the ending and wrote a little about that here.

Spoiler Alert! Stop reading if you haven't read Mockingjay. Seriously.

I finished Mockingjay last Friday, and as if to prove wrong what I recently said about crying over books, it brought tears to my eyes. It was the moment when Katniss realizes and enunciates why she needs Peeta and not Gale.

Prior to that, there was a lot of over-the-top violence. I was ready to throw the book across the room at one point. I thought Collins was going to end it badly. I was overjoyed to be wrong.

Here's the funny thing—Collins completely destroyed her main character. I expected that after the hell the author put her through, Katniss would never recover. You know what I loved? She tried to kill herself. Katniss was suicidal for weeks! How do you recover from that? I mean as a writer. How do you drag your character to rock bottom right at the end of a book and not end up with the readers cursing your name?

Fast forward!

Just skip all that boring recovery from PTSD and other unpleasant psychological issues.

I don't mean to say that I didn't like the way she did it. I loved it. It's just that I'm writing a book that starts with the characters at rock bottom and drags them up from there—aaaaand then back down. And when they reach the end, there won't be any fast forwarding into happy endings, because—well, I don't want to make it sound easy.

Anyway, I was telling my wife about Mockingjay, and she said she'd never let me write a book with that much violence. I thanked her. (She has no interest in reading them, and I wouldn't recommend them to her.) But you know? I didn't have the same issue I did with The Hunger Games. All that violence had plenty of awful consequences by the end of the series. If I were to rate the books individually, the first two wouldn't score highly. But the entire series gets a thumbs up. Two thumbs up, because I have two thumbs.

p.s. It was nice to see a strong person driven to suicide in a popular novel, but it probably did little to shed light on the problem in the real world. The circumstances were too extreme.

That Special, Secret Something

2011-04-27T18:03:00.000-06:00

I stole that title from Krista V's blog post about Fear. It got me thinking, again, about the spectrum between assembling words and really writing. (I just thought up those terms on the spot, so I'd better define them to keep them straight in my head. And yours.)

Assembling words: This is what I do when I line-edit a scene to death and back again. (Or more frequently, just to death.) It's like building a brick wall, a tower of blocks. I do it one piece at a time, carefully choosing and lining up each word, seeing only the bit I'm working on.

Writing: The fun way to tell a story. I sit down with a few thoughts and let them carry me through a scene. Most commonly done when drafting or rewriting sections, I've heard this described as the writer's trance or the zone.

Now, most of what I simply sit down and write comes out badly formed and requires some assembly. When I first started going to a writing group and getting critiques from multiple people one chapter at a time, I did a lot of reassembly. It really helped my writing—sort of. I cleaned up a lot of redundancy. I learned better how to show instead of tell. I learned how to use dialog tags. I also lost my Voice.

Ah, Voice. I don't know how many times I've seen agents say that's primarily what they're looking for. It's always among the top three on everyone's list. There are also numerous helpful (and less helpful) definitions and tips for finding your voice. I've yet to see one that really clicked with me.

But I've settled on something that feels right to me, makes sense, and most importantly, gives me hope. Because if there's a special, secret Something that my manuscripts need to reach an audience, it has to be something I'm capable of delivering. And I think that something is me.

Yes! Me! I'm so awesome, who could resist?

No, actually it's not just me. It's everyone. And all writer's know this to some degree. We tell each other shades of this all the time. Write what you care about. Write with passion. Write what you have to, what no one else can write, etc. etc. etc. We're all chasing the same notion, aren't we? That's the feeling I've picked up from y'all out there on the Intarnet.

I won't try and sum it up one neat little mission statement. I prefer to leave it a nebulous feeling in my gut and simply call it Voice. After all, if you pin a recipe on a secret sauce, it loses its allure.

I will share my motto: Write fearlessly.

I feel every fear that Krista spoke of, in spades. Driving in the car, sitting at work, lying in bed, I can think of a million things to fear. I do my best to set them all aside while I'm actually writing. Whether I'm writing or reassembling words, I try not to strip out that special something, the traces of myself in my writing.

And in honor of that philosophy, I'm not going to edit this post at all!

What do you think; did I completely miss what's meant by the term voice?

I love my job.

2011-04-15T07:00:00.006-06:00

Sure, I'd rather be writing novels, but this ain't bad. I work at Autonomous Solutions, Inc. We make robots. And by "we" I mean "my coworkers." I test and write user manuals, mostly. Sometimes I get to make things like this:

Automated Vehicle Warning Sticker

Get the point? I was inspired by a John Deere tractor manual with a drawing of a person's entire body wrapped neatly around a driveshaft several times. No blood. No bones sticking out. Unless you're Elastigirl, you can imagine how uncomfortable it would be.

Our robots aren't stationary industrial robots. They're mobile. Most have steering wheels, which means they were originally meant to be driven by humans. Most retain that capability, and can switch between manual and auto modes. In auto mode, actuators work the brakes, gas pedal, and gear shift. A motor of one sort or another turns the steering wheel much faster than a person ever could. We've automated everything from golf carts to mining haul trucks.

I do the opposite in the novel I'm writing. I take people and stick them in vehicles that were designed to be unmanned. We make robots to do the dull, dirty, or dangerous jobs. But throughout human history, there have always been people to do them for one reason or another, even if it means death. Drivers is about one of those people and his reasons. I'm 45,000 words into it.

Another fun thing I get to do at work is make movies.

LDS Writer Blogfest: The Atonement Covers All Pain

2011-04-12T05:30:00.003-06:00

By way of introduction, I'm taking part in the LDS Writer Blogfest today. (LDS = Latter Day Saint, as in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints.)

For this blogfest, I picked a favorite talk from the church's most recent General Conference, and now I'm going to write about it. I chose the talk given by Elder Kent F. Richards called "The Atonement Covers All Pain," and you can read, listen to, or watch it at LDS.org.

So, yeah. Pain.

Dang, this is harder than I thought it would be. I've written the beginning of this post five times, deleting each approach. I ought to forget trying to be clever and just say what I need to say.

I've hurt. So badly I wanted to die. So bad I nearly killed myself to end it. For several years, I dealt with depression ranging from moderate to severe. Ten years ago when I was twenty-one, my illness faded quietly away for the last time. My life now is sweeter than I could imagine during my darkest years.

I've been fortunate not to experience chronic physical pain, but I'm very close to someone who does. My wife developed rheumatoid arthritis a couple years ago. The various medications she's on have been only partially effective, and she has to stop taking the strongest ones whenever she catches a cold or any other infection.

There's this thing about pain that I discovered the other day while discussing Elder Richards' talk with my wife. Though maybe I've known it for years and only just found words to wrap the thought around. I realized that pain is necessary for some of us.

Yeah. I know how that sounds. Preachy. Cold. The uncomforting words of someone on the outside. Maybe I can explain it better. And actually, it's closer to why pain is necessary for some of us. Here's where Elder Richards' talk comes in. He said:

Sometimes in the depth of pain, we are tempted to ask, “Is there no balm in Gilead; is there no physician there?” I testify the answer is yes, there is a physician. The Atonement of Jesus Christ covers all these conditions and purposes of mortality.

Do you know what that means? It means there's salvation from more than just the spiritual pain. The Atonement covers emotional and physical pain, too. It covers everything and everyone, from the expiring cancer patient to the depressed young adult. And why not? Are not physical, emotional, and spiritual pain all an equal part of life, of us? Doesn't one inform the others?

But how? When loss and despair grip your chest and squeeze till there's no tomorrow, what on earth does the Atonement have to offer? Simply believing that Christ suffered for our sins offers no answers. Forgiveness doesn't heal disease. It doesn't even cure depression, no matter how much some people think it should. Elder Richards, who is a surgeon, said:

Late one night lying in a hospital bed, this time as a patient and not as a physician . . . I pondered: “How is it done? For whom? What is required to qualify? Is it like forgiveness of sin? Do we have to earn His love and help?” As I pondered, I came to understand that during His mortal life Christ chose to experience pains and afflictions in order to understand us. Perhaps we also need to experience the depths of mortality in order to understand Him and our eternal purposes.

President Henry B. Eyring taught: “It will comfort us when we must wait in distress for the Savior’s promised relief that He knows, from experience, how to heal and help us. … And faith in that power will give us patience as we pray and work and wait for help. He could have known how to succor us simply by revelation, but He chose to learn by His own personal experience.”

Wait in distress for someone who knows how to heal us, but won't for some reason. Patience. Yes, yes. Be long-suffering. About as helpful as "Hey, cheer up! It could be worse!" Right? Okay, maybe I'm more cynical than I should be, but when you're in pain, this isn't the balm of Gilead.

Faith in the Savior's power to heal will give us patience. But only if we have faith that he will eventually heal us. Belief in the afterlife offers the same comfort. But as I said to my wife, only partly in jest, sometimes the afterlife can't come soon enough. Sometimes you want to take yourself there.

In such distress, two questions are paramount: Will healing come? When will it come?

The answer to the first is Yes. The answer to the second is—at the best possible time.

You see. . . no, you don't. Neither do I. We're blind to the future. Ignorant of what lines the road we follow. Everyone feels this uncertainty, and those who are suffering feel it keenly. When will it end?

Here's where to set your faith. And here's what Elder Richards says:

As Elder Dallin H. Oaks has taught: “Healing blessings come in many ways, each suited to our individual needs, as known to Him who loves us best. Sometimes a ‘healing’ cures our illness or lifts our burden. But sometimes we are ‘healed’ by being given strength or understanding or patience to bear the burdens placed upon us.” All that will come may be “clasped in the arms of Jesus.” All souls can be healed by His power. All pain can be soothed. In Him, we can “find rest unto [our] souls.” Our mortal circumstances may not immediately change, but our pain, worry, suffering, and fear can be swallowed up in His peace and healing balm.

Read that last sentence again. "Our mortal circumstances may not immediately change."

How can that be healing? The pain remains. Swallowed up? What does that mean?

For my wife, it means being able to smile at her kids when they jump into our bed in the morning even though her ankles and wrists are on fire. It means days with constant pain don't equal constant grumpiness. It means that some days are endured and others are relished.

For me, it meant having strength to return from a midnight walk when it seemed there wasn't a single person who would really lose anything if I vanished. It meant that even when I hated myself with a venom so toxic it translated to physical pain, deep down I always knew who loved me.

It also meant a dozen small miracles kept me alive long enough for a greater healing, complete and profound. A transformation wrought with counseling and Zoloft and only God knows what else.

Counseling? Psychotropic drugs? What sort of miracle is that? One of modern science? No one on the outside can really know.

But I know. I endured depression long enough to know that it wasn't trivial, wasn't a stage or a passing thing, and wasn't under my control. It's so easy to dismiss inconveniences, illnesses, and daily tragedies as simply part of life. If God had healed me the first, second, or twentieth time I asked Him to, that's all it would have been. A trial to overcome, one that didn't really change me.

But I know I didn't overcome it. I was healed, first in ways that let me live in pain, and then completely. And that stays with me. It's part of me. It finds its way into my perceptions, my opinions, my writing.

I won't make any claims about being a great person because of my past. (Or any sort of good person at all.) I'll say only that my experience set me on the road I now walk. It's not the road I envisioned as a young man wrestling with life, and yet—somehow—it is the same road.

I can't see what's ahead, but I see what's behind. And it's beautiful. Such pain and such wonder along the same path. Now that I know it's possible, yes, I do have faith. And it does give me patience.

There is a physician.

Others in the LDS Writer Blogfest:
Annette Lyon: “Desire”
Annie Cechini: “The Spirit of Revelation”
Ben Spendlove: “The Atonement Covers All Pain”
Chantele Sedgwick: “LDS Women Are Incredible!”
Charity Bradford: “LDS Women Are Incredible!”
Jackee Alston: “The Eternal Blessings of Marriage”
Jenilyn Tolley: “What Manner of Men and Women Ought Ye to Be?”
Jennifer McFadden: “Establishing a Christ-Centered Home”
Jessie Oliveros: “Establishing a Christ-Centered Home”
Jolene Perry: “It’s Conference Once Again”
Jordan McCollum: “What Manner of Men and Women Ought Ye to Be?”
Kasey Tross: “Guided by the Holy Spirit”
Kayeleen Hamblin: “Become as a Little Child”
Kelly Bryson: “The Atonement Covers All Pain”
Krista Van Dolzer: “Opportunities to Do Good”
Melanie Stanford: “What Manner of Men and Women Ought Ye to Be?”
Michelle Merrill: “The Eternal Blessings of Marriage”
Myrna Foster: “Opportunities to Do Good”
Nisa Swineford: “Desire”
Sallee Mathews: “The Eternal Blessings of Marriage”
Sierra Gardner: “The Atonement Covers All Pain”
Tamara Hart Heiner: “Waiting on the Road to Damascus”
The Writing Lair: “Waiting on the Road to Damascus”

The Old Gray Goose

2011-04-06T09:49:00.002-06:00

We used to have two geese. They were always together. They swam around the pond together. They waddled up the hill and pooped on our sidewalk and lawn together. They honked in harmony in the middle of the night. They took turns dipping their long necks into the feed bucket. They got rather playful in the pond occasionally. (Daddy, the geese are trying to drown each other!)

One day, I noticed they hadn't eaten their food. When I stopped to think about it, I didn't remember seeing them at all in the previous few days. The next day, my wife and little boy put on their boots and went looking for them. Their was still snow on the ground, so they followed two sets of goose prints up the hill from the far end of the pond, through a hay field, and down into another nearby pond. And they found the geese.

One was dead. The other was standing by her body, which was in the water near the shore.

All that day and the next, the remaining goose stayed by its mate, swimming around the smaller pond. He never came back to eat, and we worried he'd starve.

That's when I finally sucked it up and did my duty as the man of the house. I put on a pair of gloves, grabbed a big black trash bag, and collected the dead goose. The other honked at me, but stayed behind as I carried his companion away. (Domestic geese are pretty heavy, by the way.)

I found a patch of dry ground and dug a grave. It was about a foot wide, two feet long, and as deep as my arm is long. With my wife and kids and one of my daughter's friends watching, I dumped the dead goose out of the bag and into the hole. No one cried. The real mourner was still by the other pond, mourning. There's a small mound of dirt to mark the grave, and that's all. The other goose has no idea what it is.

So, life went on. The remaining goose came back and ate. But he kept wandering around the hay field, honking plaintively. I got the distinct impression that he felt lost, like the world had changed and nothing looked the same anymore. One day his mate lay down and never got up. Then she disappeared completely.

The widower took up a new residence by our neighbors'—my wife's parents—back door. I still fed him in the usual spot down by the pond, but he spent most of his time and even slept by that back door. They scared him away, but he always came back. No one knew why.

The other day we finally figured it out. There's a full length window by that door. It's covered with the traces of goose kisses. He wandered past one day and saw a goose in that window, dim and trapped behind cold glass, and found the missing part of his life. He stayed there because he thought she was there, out of reach, but within sight.

My father-in-law covered the window with cardboard, but it didn't work. He found an old window pane and covered the back with black plastic. He set it up down by the pond, next to the food bucket. Our lonely goose spends his time down there, now.

Sometimes he follows the wild ducks around the pond. Sometimes he waddles up the hill onto our lawn. He honks solo in the middle of the night. The food lasts twice as long. And he falls asleep in front of an old window pane.

Note to Self: No! Don't go in there!

2011-04-04T10:41:00.000-06:00

You ever been watching a movie or TV show, and you know there's a dangerous, evil beast lurking somewhere, and the characters ought to know it too because they just discovered a mangled body or something and the door's ripped off its hinges and broken into matchstick-sized pieces and you can hear breathing from the darkness, either inside or outside—and the idiot in the movie picks up a butter knife to defend himself and walks through the freakin' doorway ANYWAY, and you just want to scream DON'T GO IN/OUT THERE YOU IDIOT, but you don't, because you no longer care what happens to that character because he's too stupid to live, and the only tension is because you know there's blood and screaming and crunching noises coming in the near future and frankly, it kind of grosses you out?

*pant pant* That was a looong sentence.

Have you ever noticed that? I see it all the time. It's a standard part of television, like montages and laugh tracks. And like montages and laugh tracks, we see it so often that it almost works, sometimes.

Well, self, it doesn't work in writing. Actually, I'm sure in some circumstances it might, but for the most part it either makes your characters look like idiots or simply deflates tension from the scene. This was pointed out to me in my own writing, recently. A little more recently, I noticed this mistake in Catching Fire, the second Hunger Games book.

Yes, I said mistake. Maybe it works for some people, but not for me.

In theory, the reader knowing something that the characters don't is a kind of dramatic tension. The reader knows there's a monster waiting outside. The character is either completely oblivious or suspects something but doesn't quite know what or where. If the character is the protagonist, the hero, and should by all rights be smarter than the reader, then one of two things will happen:

1) The reader thinks, "Okay, Jade would know if there were really a danger here, but she's not concerned, so I don't need to be." *Hissss* There goes the tension.

2) The reader thinks, "I've lived this entire book in your head and seen nothing more than you have, and you still haven't figured it out? You're a moron, Katniss!"

Note to Self: Either make the characters just as smart and scared as you want the reader to be or don't let the reader in on things the character hasn't figured out. (Or make sure there's no reason that the character should know about the monster, but that's only an option in third person with multiple POVs.)

Ideally, the reader should figure out what's going on a page before or exactly when the characters figure it out.

Disclaimer: The Imaginary Friends blog makes no claim as to the suitability of this writing advice for any purpose whatsoever, including, but not limited to, writing better and entertainment.

Crybaby

2011-03-24T18:15:00.001-06:00

Hello, I'm still here. Or, I'm back. Or something. Hi.

It's been awhile since a topic said "write about me on your blog." And I just can't write something that doesn't speak to me first, whether it wants to be here or there or wherever.

Do books ever make you cry? I can't remember the last time a book made me shed actual tears. I get that tight, choky feeling in my throat—sometimes. It happened with The Hunger Games. Curiously, it didn't happen for me with Thirteen Reasons Why, which is arguably more emotional and closer to home. And that got me wondering, what really makes people cry?

Yeah, there are the standard answers: the characters are well-developed, the pacing is right, the stakes are big, the reader actually cares what happens to said characters. (That last one is a symptom rather than a goal. Some people will care, and some won't. Some people like enchiladas; some don't.)

What really makes people cry? Is there an answer? Sad things probably stand a better chance, but the same could be said about happy events. Reading out loud makes me cry far more reliably than reading to myself, which as I've said, never makes me shed tears. Pictures help, too. Children's picture books that I'm reading to my kids.

Or stories about mowing lawns that I'm reading to a group of twelve and thirteen-year-old boys. Yikes.

But the big winner in the competition to choke me up is music. No particular type, genre, or topic, but it needs words and can't be overly familiar. Also, if I'm listening with someone else, say my daughter or wife, the chokiness is greatly enhanced. But I'll choke up at completely unexpected times during songs that it makes no sense to cry about. It happens all the time. I just sit quietly, keep it to myself, and hope the tears don't show.

Why? Why does music make me cry? Is that normal, or some seriously crossed wires in my brain?

p.s. Singing is twice as bad. I can't actually sing the last verse of The Star Spangled Banner because I start crying. I'm choking up just thinking about it. I'm such a crybaby.

The First Line

2011-03-08T09:33:00.000-07:00

I don't exist anymore.

That's it. The first line of Drivers. This story at once challenges and excites me. Maybe it's not the greatest first line. It's short. It doesn't tell you anything. It almost doesn't exist itself. But I LIKE it. The protagonist and narrator Ash is sarcastic, funny, and feeling intense pain. The other protagonist Zephyr is a major presence, physically and psychologically. I'm still figuring her out, but she's smart, intense, and also funny.

Man, I love writing.

How Writing is Like Riding

2011-03-02T20:04:00.000-07:00

Bike riding, that is. Cycling. Let me tell you a story.

A few years ago, I entered a 200 mile bike race from Logan, Utah to Jackson, Wyoming. (Of course, the year I did it they changed the route due to road work and it ended in Alpine, Wyoming and was only 188 miles. But that's beside the point. Why am I even mentioning it?)

The last rest stop was in Star Valley. I don't remember which town. Star Valley is a beautiful, rolling break in the Rockies, dotted with small towns. The mountains cast long shadows. The riders are strung out over fifty miles of road by that point. I sat with my wife for as long as I dared, getting a foot rub and trying to eat despite queasiness.

When I finally got back on my bike, the saddle felt like a pile of pins. My legs felt like rubber. But the sky was gorgeous and I had a slight tailwind. I ended up riding with a guy who had the same idea that I had: get to the end as fast as possible.

Without a word, we fell into the accepted pattern. One would pull (ride in front to break the air) as long and as fast as he felt he could, and then move over to let the other take his place. We averaged about twenty-five miles an hour, much faster than my average through the rest of the race.

We rode thirty miles together as the sun set to our left. At the 2k to go mark, the other guy hit the wall. I still had energy to spare. I could have ditched him and sprinted to the finish line, but it didn't seem right. So I stayed with him, in front. It didn't matter if I got there a few seconds later. The winners had crossed the line hours before.

It was the first time either of us had ridden that race. He found me afterwards. We shook sweat-crusted hands and he thanked me for staying with him. I thanked him for pulling me. That was all we said to each other.

Everyone can use a little help. When cyclists meet, whether it's during an organized ride or just a random crossing of paths, we help each other. (Riding behind another cyclist uses about 30% less energy.) Sometimes we just talk. We're automatically friends because we share something—the joy, the pain.

Writers are the same way. Thanks. Nice pull.

What I'm Up To

2011-02-28T19:59:00.000-07:00

Or, if I wanted to be one of those people who refuse to end sentences with prepositions, I could say "That to which I am up." But that is the sort of English up with which I will not put. (Thanks, Winston.)

I just started a new book. Writing a new book, that is.

I just finished reading a book about depression in teenage girls (not because I'm only interested in depression in girls, but because that's what the book happened to be about and I couldn't find any others that were about depression but not for people with it,) and just started reading a book about war in Afghanistan. Both are research for the one I'm writing.

I've been reading about fifty cal machine guns and Javelin rockets. Very fun.

I also read my journal entries from age thirteen to twenty. That was interesting. What was more interesting was the poetry I wrote and tucked into the pages of my journal. An excerpt:

Beneath stones ancient druid-made
And round perdition's flames
My cries fall silent as they fade
And stars fall crying haunted names

When Sirius burns overhead
While brightly Acrux shines
Then may the heavens find me dead
In snow among my Utah pines

I don't write much poetry these days. For me it's always been something that arises from very intense feelings—usually feelings I'd rather not feel.

I'm going to tell a story from inside the head of someone with severe depression, and I'm not sure how it will turn out. Who wants to read about depression? Most people don't even want to think about it. The funny thing about depression is that it has a logic all its own.

I ask myself why I want to risk writing a book no one will want to read. Somehow, it feels like I've been drawn into this, a little closer with each new story, and sucked into this one because I fell in love before I thought it all the way through.

My protagonists want to die, for cryin' out loud. Who can relate to that? More people than we realize, probably. But the story isn't about death. It's about what happens instead.

Why YA?

2011-02-23T10:58:00.000-07:00

I always intended to write grown-up science fiction. I don't

How did this happen?

It started with a question: What if magic were real? The answer isn't as important as what the question meant to me.

You see, I live in a world where magic is real. I don't call or think of it as magic, but it's essentially the same thing—an unseen agency by which lives, circumstances, and worlds are changed. It's hidden in plain sight, overlooked, misunderstood, ridiculed.

I had a question, a premise that meant something to me. Part of my answer was that magic would work through ordinary abilities, common talents that are also overlooked and frequently unused. Talents that sometimes cause more trouble than they're worth. Talents with which I had some experience.

I could have made my characters my own age—about thirty—but if anyone were going to develop supernatural talents, it would be younger adults. Eighteen-year-olds. Maybe a little earlier or later, but there's something about eighteen. It's transitional. Pivotal. Vital.

And I'd never forgiven myself for being eighteen. Silly thing to say, but that's what it came down to. I acted like a teenager, and the memories—not so much of what I did as what I thought and how I felt—still made me cringe.

Working through a young adult novel helped me finally understand and forgive my past self. I also learned that who I am today isn't as far from who I was then as I wanted to believe. And I'm okay with that. For all my mistakes, I also did a lot of things right.

Why do I write for young adults? Because I have something to tell myself, and only the eighteen-year-old inside me will understand.

DRIVERS: A Pitch for an Unwritten Book

2011-02-22T07:39:00.000-07:00

Ash is stuck in a dead-end job, but he’s changed his mind about dying. He’s basically a suicide bomber. Not the terrorist, strap-a-bomb-around-your-chest sort of bomber. He works for our side, the good guys. He drives a heavily armed vehicle on missions too dangerous to send soldiers.

Too dangerous to send anyone, actually. That’s why they’re supposed to be unmanned robotic vehicles. No one on the outside even knows Ash and his fellow drivers are inside the mobile coffins.

Yeah. And he works for the “good guys.”

Ash knew full-well that it was a suicide job. He was planning to kill himself, anyway. Might as well make a butt-load of cash doing it. At least his parents would be better off.

But Ash discovers two things that make him rethink his death wish. He's very good at staying alive, and maybe someone loves him, after all.

It’s Zephyr, another driver. She’s cute. She understands him. Thankfully, she’s also good at surviving suicide missions. They quickly run up against the downside of their employee agreement.

They can't quit.

They know too much about the operation, and there's a lot of money and criminal charges riding on keeping its secrets. To keep the love and the future they've found together, Ash and Zephyr must escape.

The only way out of the compound is inside a coffin with a hair-trigger self-destruct—a mobile arsenal that everyone thinks is unmanned and will be told is out of control.

DRIVERS is a (what? Thriller? Sci-fi? Romance?). Not even started, yet.

The Latest Query

2011-02-21T09:16:00.000-07:00

As of February 21, 2011:

Brian’s life is nearly perfect.

Leah’s is a living hell.

Brian lives in the moment.

Leah remembers things that haven’t happened yet.

They have one thing in common—Esha. She’s Brian’s girlfriend and Leah’s rescuer, and she just learned to control other people’s emotions.

According to Leah, she’s also about to be murdered.

But Leah has a plan. It hinges on the fact that Esha’s power comes from and fulfills other people’s desires. That power will protect her as long as someone nearby wants to keep her safe. Brian’s feelings for Esha make him the perfect power source.

Unfortunately, Esha can only draw power from people who don’t know what she’s doing. For Leah’s plan to succeed, she and Esha must keep Brian in the dark. It’s not hard. In the dark is exactly where he wants to be with Esha.

And Leah tells Brian not to temper his desires, even when they drive Esha crazy and threaten their relationship. It sounds like really bad advice, but can he risk ignoring it? Esha trusts Leah, after all.

In truth, Leah has no idea how to prevent the murder. Her power to remember the future could help—if she used it again. It would also destroy her mind. Even Esha wouldn’t be able to repair the damage.

Brian wants to keep his girlfriend.

Leah wants to keep her sanity.

They both need Esha to live.

Someone has to lose.

IN MEMORY is a 74,000 word young adult urban fantasy.

Happily Ever After

2011-02-17T11:12:00.000-07:00

I just finished a revision of In Memory. (Almost. There are still a few chapters I need to make another pass over. The rewriting and additions are all done.)

Anyway, after I wrote the second to last chapter (must resist urge to say "the penultimate chapter") my wife wondered what people would think of how the story ends. I wonder that, too. All I can say is some people will like it, and some might not.

I really like it. It's not the typical sort of ending for a YA novel. It pulls together the themes of the book so well, though. Better than I could have planned, and better than I ever dreamed. It leaves the past where it belongs, ties up the important threads, and stares boldly into the sunrise of the future.

Man, what a lame description. But I don't want to give anything away! Gah! I wish you could just read it!

The thing is, it's not a "happily ever after" ending. It's a realistic* ending. Some of the characters end up happy, some wonder what the heck just happened—and one is definitely not happy, but will be, eventually.

Isn't that the way life goes? Awful things that you absolutely hate fade into memories, and what you learn makes the future that much better.

But dang, when you're in the middle of life, wouldn't you give anything to be able to skip to the end and find out what happens? In a way, that's what In Memory is all about.

And now, I give you a song about that very subject, for free. You're welcome. (Okay, it's free from iTunes, not me.) "Happily Ever After" by He is We. (The link goes to the album. Click on "View in iTunes" next to the song, halfway down.)

*You know, realistic in context of being fantasy to begin with.

Kissing

2011-02-14T07:22:00.001-07:00

Here's the first kiss from In Memory. It's in chapter one. Yeah, I don't mess around. Actually, Brian and Esha start out as boyfriend and girlfriend. This kiss isn't their first. It's significant because of what else happens at the same time—though neither of them realizes what that is.

“I don’t doubt what you feel, but I’m sure there’s a logical explanation for it.”

“Alright. Why don’t you explain it, genius.”

She didn’t really want an answer, but Brian couldn’t let it drop. And yet, he didn’t know what to say. Surely there was an explanation. Maybe what she said was true? She had another sense. No, that ranked right up there with telephone psychics.

“There might not be a simple answer,” he finally said.

“It’s simple enough. You don’t trust me.” She folded her arms and Brian knew there was little else he could say.

He wanted to believe, wished he could trust Esha’s assessment.

She tilted her head to one side and stepped closer, sliding her hands around his neck. They stared at each other.

Something passed between them like heat through a window pane. Esha’s eyes widened for an instant before she shut them and pulled Brian into a kiss. A gorgeous warmth washed away the jumble of questions in his mind.

There really was nothing to worry about. Esha was perfectly sane and perfectly fine. She just had an extra sense, that’s all. The sense of—desire?

She pulled slowly away, searching Brian’s eyes.

“Oh, wow,” he said.

“Brian?”

With the kiss drying cold on his lips, he slipped his fingers through hers and they continued their walk.

A 160,000 lb Toy?

2011-02-09T13:21:00.001-07:00

A couple of "unmanned" haul trucks.

Oh, not a toy. The truck on the bottom is the one my employer automated a few years ago. The truck on the top is the toy my little boy got for Christmas. (I made the illustration. Not bad for a writer, eh? Don't answer that.)

Note to Self: Chapters are People, Too

2011-02-08T11:26:00.000-07:00

So, you start drafting a chapter with a pretty good idea (sometimes) of what you want to happen in that chapter. Character X needs to say such and such, Y comes to this realization, Z falls off a cliff, etc. There are several pits you tend to fall into yourself, self.

First is the pit of trying to do something. You aren't actually the agent in the chapter. You are the storyteller. YOU shouldn't be trying to do anything at all except capture what X, Y, and their buddy Z are doing. It's okay to have an idea of what you want to have happen and how. It's necessary. Just keep your perspective. The characters are in charge of the chapter, and if they refuse to do something you thought you wanted them to do, don't twist their little imaginary arms and make them do it. They'll rebel and get revenge later.

The second pit is right next to the first. It might even be a branch of the first, connected by a little underground tunnel. It's the pit-of-not-having-a-plot.

Wait, aren't we talking about chapters?

Yes, self. Even chapters need to have plots. More specifically, they need to have goals. Whose goal? Not yours, oh no, not yours! The characters'. Usually it's the POV character's goal, but not always.

Note to Self: Before you start working on a chapter, write down the goal and whose goal it is. Keep it specific and limited to that chapter, not something like "defeat the bad guys." Through the chapter, that person works towards that end, and they either make it, or they don't. At that point, STOP WRITING! That's the end of the chapter.

It's okay to have characters reflect a little after they do or don't reach their goal.

In fact, on further reflection, also make sure the end of the chapter sets up the next goal. Don't give them everything, or where's the rest of the story?

(I'm pretty sure I learned all this from Janice Hardy. She's brillianter than I is.)

Another Query Attempt

2011-02-04T20:10:00.001-07:00

No, I'm not querying yet. But here's my latest attempt at writing a query letter. What do you think? Confusing or no? Does it make you want to read the book?

Brian’s life is perfect. Leah’s is a living hell. Brian is ordinary. Leah remembers things that haven’t happened yet. Their lives have only one thing in common—Esha. She’s Brian’s girlfriend and Leah’s savior, and she just learned to control other people’s emotions.

According to Leah, she’s also about to be murdered.

But Leah has a plan. It hinges on the fact that Esha’s power comes from and fulfills other people’s desires. For Esha, that means as long as someone nearby wants her safe, her power will protect her.

Brian’s feelings for Esha make him the perfect power source, but Esha can only draw power from people who don’t know what she’s doing.

So, even though he’s central to the plan, Leah tells Esha to keep Brian in the dark. And she tells Brian not to temper his desires, even when they threaten to destroy his relationship with Esha. Brian’s not sure he trusts Leah’s judgment, but can he risk ignoring it?

In truth, Leah has no idea how to prevent the murder. If she could use her own power again, she’d know better what to do. But the process would destroy her mind. Even Esha wouldn’t be able to repair the damage.

Brian wants to keep his girlfriend.

Leah wants to keep her sanity.

They both want Esha to live.

IN MEMORY is a 75,000 word young adult urban fantasy.

Hmm. Still needs some polishing, but I like the structure.

Note to Self: He's the Hero, Duh

2011-02-02T08:58:00.000-07:00

Just real quick before I forget, don't make the antagonist a spineless wuss. I mean, just because you're a spineless wuss and can totally empathize with someone going along with whatever happens is no reason to write protagonists who do it. It doesn't make them sensitive, attractive, and most especially doesn't make them heroic.

Come on, self, this is a recurring problem for you. Okay, granted, you're doing better, but that scene you wrote this morning was inexcusable. I guess it kind of relates to that last note about things not going according to plan. You didn't plan to make him act weak and childish. You simply planned to have him duped into betraying another character, one for whom he cares deeply, one he's supposed to be protecting.

Really. You should have seen it coming. I mean, falling for a pretty face and a hug? Okay, it might be realistic, but he's beyond that. He knows better. If he's gonna fall for something, it should be something internal, a deep character flaw. He's got 'em. Jade's not one of them.

Note to Self: They call them heroes for a reason. Who wants to cheer for a pushover? Not your audience. Flaws are fine, but if your protagonist is still a regular guy at the end of the book, something's wrong.

(Did I admit to being a spineless wuss up there?)

Note to Self: The Best Laid Plans o' Mice

2011-01-31T13:44:00.000-07:00

Now, self, when you follow all those previous notes and have yourself a great chapter all outlined and thought out, when you know your characters and can predict their every move, when your plot is a shining jewel just waiting for a setting—things will still go awry.

It's okay. Just press delete and try again—and again. And again!

See, the truth is, nothing's written until it's written. A scene that feels like it makes perfect sense might come out all wrong because of one little thing—like it has too many characters, tries to do something it shouldn't, or on second thought, no, that character wouldn't actually say/do/ingest that no matter how much you need them to.

Writing novels is easy. Writing good novels—that's hard. Some chapters are simply harder to get right, and it never gets any easier. Does it mean they don't belong? Sometimes. But not necessarily. Some things require sustained effort and long periods of meditation in a hot shower.

Note to Self: When your plans go wrong and nothing feels right, keep going. A small change might make all the difference. Other times a large change is required. In the end, you've got to keep going until you're satisfied—or there's nothing left to try and no new ideas at hand. Then you've got to try again, just to be sure. As your marching band director always said, "Leave nothing on the field."

(He may have been reminding us to jam our mouthpieces in really hard.)

(Yes! A dash in every paragraph.)

Note to Self: Make it PAY!

2011-01-28T19:13:00.000-07:00

You remember in The Hunger Games when the tributes all ride their chariots in a parade into--a stadium? Was that what it was? I don't even remember for sure. What I DO remember is how I felt about it.

"Yes! That's so awesome! There's hope for the heroes!"

That's what I call a payoff. It makes the reader feel something good, whether it be exciting, hopeful, poignant or whatever, it's a high point in the story. When you invest your time and emotional energy to read a novel, it's nice to get something back from it. In fact no one (masochists and academics excepted) will read a book that doesn't give them some sort of pleasure. (Forced reading in school excepted, as well.)

The same goes for music. The very best, most listenable songs and compositions follow a pattern veeeery similar to the classic story form.

We all know the story form, right? Well, it's not just a beginnning, middle, and end with a single climax. At least, not in my mind. You see, no one's going to get to the climax if there aren't smaller payoffs all along the way. They can be anything from little oh-that's-cools to full on stand-up-and-cheers.

And when they all tie into the mother-of-all-payoffs at the end in a way that the reader doesn't see coming but makes perfect sense when it hits—IT'S TOTALLY RADICAL!

Note to Self: Give your readers several big climactic scenes throughout the book. (It works out nicely if they're at the end of each part.) Don't save it all for the end or no one will get there. Don't give it all up early! Save the very best for the end, but make them cheer for the hero all the way through the book, even if the hero is getting the snot beat out of herself.

Just as a series of novels each have their own climax, the parts of a novel need their own climaxes, and each chapter, too! It's a flaming fractal!

More about chapters to come.

(Oh, man. I've been dying to use the word "radical" again for like twenty years.)

Note to Self: You Don't Understand Women

2011-01-23T21:14:00.000-07:00

I started out Novel 2 with ten characters. Five were boys. When I thought of another character I wanted, I made her a girl. Six to five is still pretty close to even. But one of the boys was dead weight, and he was the first to go. That left six to four. One of those boys was the antagonist, one was the main protagonist. The other two ended up with very minor roles in the plot. Two of the girls also ended up with minor roles.

Are you keeping track? That means I had four girls with major roles and two boys. For reasons that are no longer true, the antagonist wasn't a point-of-view character. One of the girls became the point-of-view for the bad guys. And that eleventh character, the girl I added as an afterthought, has become a main protagonist, equal with the original one--the boy.

Now I have a book with four female POV characters, and one male POV character.

I'm not female.

Note to Self: If you're going to write a book just to practice and learn by making mistakes, you might as well make it as difficult as possible.

Ha! Just kidding. That's not really the lesson here, though it is potentially useful advice. Except that I don't recommend sitting down to write a novel just for practice. Takes all the fun and motivation out of it.

No, the real lesson here is: No one can tell you how to really write male or female characters and do it right. At least, no one I've met. You can resort to stereotypes. You can just not worry about it. There are plenty of books where the boys act like girls and plenty where the girls act like boys. Maximum Ride, for example, has more testosterone that I've ever had. (And yet, somehow, no sex drive. Hmm.)

But who wants to do it wrong? Not me. So, when girls tell me something's not quite right, I listen, knowing that I'm not the expert. I've lived with girls and women my entire life. For a lot of those years, I much preferred the company of girls. I still have a hard time thinking like one.

Note to Self: Pay special attention to how you write female characters. Close attention. You'll never get it exactly right, but you can fake it well enough that it won't distract. Most people. If you're careful. And edit a lot. Did I mention to pay close attention?

Coincidentally, Novel 3 will have a single POV character. A male.

Note to Self: I Think You Move Me

2011-01-21T10:54:00.000-07:00

So, if you had superpowers, wouldn't your first inclination be to help make the world a better place by fighting crime, raising money for charity, or cleaning up the local government? If you were eighteen?

It would be mine.

Okay, no. It wouldn't. My first inclination would be to get rich and famous. What on earth possessed me to think anyone would do otherwise? I don't know. Early drafts of Novel 2 had impulsively good characters.

"Hey, what shall we do for fun?"
"I know. Let's start a non-profit to clean up and redevelop a blighted neighborhood!"
"No, let's run for city council!"
"Let's risk our lives to save strangers!"

Actually, risking their lives to save strangers is probably the most realistic of the three. People actually do that. People do the others, too, but they have some connection, some motive, something in their lives that leads them to those choices.

Note to Self: Characters should have motives that are easily understood by the reader. They should act in ways that any normal person would act in their situation OR they should have realistic, compelling, and known reasons to act differently.

Alley risks her life to save her brother. Her friends risk theirs because they trust Alley. (And don't give proper weight to the dangers. Nice thing about young adults.) Esha gets paid to work for a non-profit. Peter runs for office because it's a good first step in a political career. Leah's been through hell, and doesn't want to go back. Brian's a teenage boy.

There are--or can be--understandable reasons for anyone to do almost anything. Find them or make them up, but make sure the reader knows them.

Note to Self 2: There's Too Many Kids in this Tub

2011-01-20T09:05:00.000-07:00

As I mentioned in the last post, dumping a dozen characters into a novel and trying to give them equal weight ain't such a good idea. True, I realized pretty early on that one of my unusually gifted teens wasn't contributing to the plot (which wasn't really a plot), and so I axed him. That left, let's see, NINE other unusually gifted teens to deal with. Plus a boyfriend, a mom, and a shrink.

Uh...

I know, it seems pretty obvious. Even the inexperienced I knew it was probably too many. But I LOVED them! I loved them all! They were great people, y'know? I mean, we've all got that many friends that we easily keep track of, right? Why should it be a problem to keep track of that many imaginary friends?

For more information, see Note To Self 1. You can't build a good plot around an ensemble cast that large. At least I can't do it. And if a picture is worth a thousand words, and video is thirty frames a second, well, you need a whole lot 'o words to equal real life—or even television. Twelve main characters is too many for one book. It's not Heroes*, for cryin' out loud.

So, I relegated four teens to minor roles, cut the shrink, made the mom an extra, and shunted all but three characters into distinct sub-plots. Still convoluted and confusing, but nowhere near its former glory.

Note To Self: There are an infinite number of interesting, lovable, fantastic characters you could put into any story. You can't keep them all! No. You just can't. I've already told you why. I said NO! Because!

*I've never seen Heroes, but I did read about it after someone told me my book sounded similar**.

**It's not.

Note to Self 1: Pick a Plot

2011-01-19T07:09:00.000-07:00

So, when I was eighteen, I set out to write a novel. I had no qualifications aside from a good command of English grammar. I'd read a lot of science fiction novels, but as it turns out, writing a novel is a lot harder than reading one. I picked up a lot of what went into those books, but that didn't include structure, plot, characterization, sentence structure, or any useful storytelling techniques beyond coming up with a really freakin' awesome premise involving an entire civilization and/or a woman in a sexy spacesuit.

I promptly fell into world-building purgatory and stayed there for over ten years. In 2009, I finally finished that book, kicked it out the door, and started on novel number two.

And, as it turns out, I hadn't learned a whole lot in those intervening ten years, despite taking two creative writing classes. I guess one has to actually write to learn how to write. In the last two years, I've written nearly 500,000 words. (That's halfway done with my practice words!)

I remember clearly the day I sat down with Novel 2 (In Memory) and proceeded to begin from as wrong a starting point as I possibly could. It's a day I'll never forget, and it's put me through rewrites and hard lessons I don't ever want to forget.

First, I had a good premise. What if there really were some kind of magic in the world? It would be clearly visible, yet completely unnoticed or disregarded. It wouldn't involve hidden worlds, fantastic creatures, or magical talismans. Etc. etc. etc.

What I lacked was an actual plot. Common newbie mistake.

Note to Self: Pick a single character who wants something, put something else in their way, and then give them a hard choice to make about how they're going to get what they want.

DO NOT: Pick ten or twelve interesting characters, give them each a cool new power, and dump them in a box to see what shakes out.

Only after you've got that one, central character can you even begin to think about subplots. Subplots aren't always necessary and are frequently undesirable, but they can be good if they: tie in to the main plot in a compelling way, have their own actual plot (see above), add to the story/theme/tone of the book.

I'm not an expert on subplots. For Novel 3 (Drivers), my first instinct was to have a main plot and a subplot, but I've already discarded that idea. There's something attractive about keeping things simple—especially after what I've gone through trying to get In Memory to a coherent form.

In Memory

2011-01-16T08:21:00.000-07:00

Latest query attempt:

Brian’s girlfriend Esha has always been sensitive to feelings, but now she can directly control them. It’s a logical extension of her natural charm, enhanced to something way beyond logical, and powered by the desires of other people—especially Brian. What he wants most though, is to stay with Esha, for nothing to change between them.

Leah can draw power from others too, but the way she does it has led her to the brink of suicide. Esha’s ability to alter emotions saves Leah. She’ll do anything to repay that kindness, even risk using her own talent for remembering not only her past, but also her future.

Leah remembers Esha lying dead, murdered by a desire-powered rival, Peter.

After changing the future she saw, Leah has no idea what’s going to happen next. Just as her misuse of power once destroyed her mind, Peter’s power will destroy his, leaving him unpredictable and dangerous. If Leah uses her power again, she’ll know exactly how to keep Esha safe, but she’ll also lose her sanity.

Brian will do anything to help save the girl he loves, but Leah’s advice seems destined to drive them apart. Is it really necessary to destroy their romance to save Esha’s life?

Brian wants to keep his girlfriend.

Leah wants to keep her sanity.

They both want Esha to live.

In the end they’ll both lose—unless they trust each other.

IN MEMORY is a 78,000 word YA urban fantasy.

Any suggestions? Does it work for you?

Author Interview: Spendlove

2011-01-15T20:30:00.000-07:00

And today we have a special treat: another author interview! This time it's with a brilliant, up-and-coming author who apparently has identity issues. I may or may not be related to this person, who is frequently called Spendlove, and whom I shall refer to by the abbreviation "S".

Now, without further ado, I have a few questions for you, S.

S: I shall answer the questions for you, however, I want it noted that I am The Shiz, and there shall be no other Shiz besides me.

IF: Where do want it noted?

S: My left tricep.

IF: Alriiiight. Let's start with these basic questions. Never mind if they don't apply to you; answer them anyway. Are you still writing that novel?

S: Yes. Explicitly.

IF: Well, when will I be able to walk into Borders and buy it? What's taking so long?

S: Two words; Munchkin Encounters. Simply put, you have literally no idea what that's like.

IF: Are there vampires or zombies in it?

S: What do you take me for? Some bandwagoner who's only care in life is to have angsty teens read his books?

IF: What else is worth caring about? Are you famous?

S: Well, among those who know me, I am quite well known.

IF: But how many degrees are you from Kevin Bacon?

S: All seven, baby. All seven.

IF: Are you rich?

S: Define "rich"....

IF: To be rich is to have the respect and gratitude of your siblings. How much is that worth to you?

S: Roughly 17%. Give or take.

IF: What's your book about?

S: Seven inches by four inches by two inches.

IF: Is it written on cheese slices?

S: Slice, not slices. It's a miracle of modern engineering.

IF: Am I in it?

S: No. But for a sufficient amount of money, you could be.

IF: I can offer something better than money. I can make you rich. Can I be the hero?

S: Okay, now who's definition of rich here? are you saying that by simply being the hero in my book you can guarentee me a post on the New York Times best sellers list? Or are you saying that I'll earn your respect by making you the hero in my book? I'm confused.

IF: Obviously it's the NYT list, but we'll move on. You claim you're a writer, but what do you really do?

S: I uh... What kind of a question is this? Are you questioning my validity as an artist or something? How dare you? What right do you have to profane the image I am striving to uphold of a conscientious author? And where do you suppose you got that right? And who do you think is responsible for protecting that right? So don't you think that the next time the topic comes up you should GIVE A LITTLE MORE RESPECT TO THE ARMED FORCES???? Yes. You should. I rest my case.

IF: So, you joined the Marines? Does Mom know?

S: Not joined. AM. Completely different situation there.

IF: One final question: I have a great story idea that's sure to sell millions. You wanna ghost write it for me?

S: If by "ghost write" you're implying that you'd have to kill me first, I say no. If, however, "ghost write" is to be interpreted as "you get all the royalties and I just get to put my name on the cover", I'm down. Fame has never been my drive. Fortune might enter into it, but fame certainly doesn't.

IF: Actually, that's a really good idea. I'll publish my book with your name on it, and I'll take all the royalties. Sweet! (The offer to make you rich is still on the table. You can describe me as tall, muscular, with thick hair and a strong jaw.)

Thank you, Mr. The Shiz, for joining us today. As always, if you're an author and would like to advance your career by appearing in this exclusive space, email us at the address above right.

Several questions in this interview were taken from this great blog post by Elspeth Antonelli with tips for what to ask an author. Oh, wait. It was what NOT to ask an author. Oops.

Check out Spendlove's blog, My Valley. One final word from his email signature:
--
"Hear the tolling of the bells, Iron bells..."
-The Bells, Edgar Allen Poe

This is just to say...

2010-12-14T21:23:00.000-07:00

That I have eaten...no. Where was I? A red wheelbarrow? There are some great subjects that I've wanted to write brilliant, insightful posts about, but I just don't have the time or the will. Of course, if I had the will, I'd make the time. That was insightful. Anyway, given the choice of spending my few free hours writing blog posts or working on my book, I just have to choose the book. It's more fun.

And it's freakin' awesome!

Did I say that out loud? However, I've lined up an interview with another up-and-coming author. Look for it eventually, right here. Or up there. And thus concludes my self-righteous justification for not writing something better.

I give up! Charism it is. For now.

2010-12-10T16:32:00.001-07:00

What's Charism? It's the original title of my work-in-progress. But what does it mean? It's a noun, meaning a God-given gift, basically.

Pretty harmless, right? It seemed like such a perfect title for the book—since there are too many books called "Gifted" already. Problem is, it means something more specific to the only people who actually use it. Just Google Charism and see what comes up. And my book has nothing to do with religious orders.

So why go back to it? Because I'm too stupid to think of a better one. Anyone remember The Qualia of Magic? Yeah, that was before I removed all instances of the word "magic" from the book and realized that one silly bit of advice I'd read was right: don't use Latin words in your title. (Charism is Greek in origin—through Latin. Dang! I could call it Kharis, going all the way back to the Greek root word, which means "favor.")

At any rate, I can't for the life of me think of a title I like better. The Sense is misleading and that long one is cumbersome and I can't even remember it off the top of my head. Another one I kind of, sort of like is Gifted/Cursed. It's a little play on the common phrase gifted/talented, see? Yeah. No one does.

So Charism is a placeholder name, because that's what I originally named it, and that's how I think of it. If you have any brilliant ideas, please let me know.

In other news, I'm in a strange place right now. Let me explain...no, will take to long. Let me sum up. I no longer have any idea how Charism will be received by anyone. I've gotten so many different opinions that I've lost all sense of expectation about who will like or hate what about the book. I really like the book. I love it, in fact. Recent changes have really improved it, and as I work my way through each chapter, revising and adding a real live plot to it *rolls eyes*, I'm finally starting to feel satisfied by what I've written. I'm only two chapters into this revision, but when I'm done, I'll hand it to someone who's never read it before and nothing they say will surprise me. I've screwed up and fixed so many things that I'm way beyond thinking I've heard it all.

I now realize that I will never hear it all. Go on. Hit me with your best shot.

[Update: I think I found a good title! In Memory. That's what I'm calling it, now.]

The Hunger Games and King David

2010-11-29T12:15:00.001-07:00

The Hunger Games

The story goes that the prophet Nathan came to King David and told him about two men from the same city. One was rich, and the other poor. The poor man had little except a lamb he had raised. He shared his food with the lamb, slept with it at night. It was more, even, than just a pet. He loved it like a child.

One day, the rich man had a visitor for whom he wanted to prepare a feast. Instead of taking a lamb from his own large flock, he took the poor man's precious lamb, slaughtered it, cooked it, and fed it to his visitor.

King David was outraged by the tale and swore that the poor man's loss would be repaid fourfold—and that the rich man would die. Nathan told him, "Thou art the man."

Nathan didn't walk up to the king and berate him for taking another man's wife. He didn't accuse him of murder for sending that man to his death in battle. He told a story, got David ticked off at the antagonist, and then in four words turned it around so David couldn't deny his own guilt.

The Hunger Games is an excellent piece of storytelling. It's compelling, crisp, and I learned some things from it that I think will help my own writing. Collins spends a lot of time developing Katniss as a character, both through her past as well as her thoughts in the present. I know—I'm one of the last people to read this book, and I'm sure it's all been said before. Bear with me.

A couple things didn't sit well—but they were just nit-picky little things. There was one big thing that really, really bugged me, and I can sum it up in one word that describes the entire book: horrific. From the premise to the last death, the characters are put through an ordeal that's just about the worst thing imaginable. To make it even more terrible, there's a live TV audience watching the entire thing, rapt.

I'm not against dark themes and terrible events in books or movies. But in The Mission, no one wins. Heart of Darkness leaves you feeling dark. 1984 gives no cause whatsoever to stand up and cheer. The Hunger Games is like Lord of the Flies made gloriously entertaining.

And that's the problem. But it's my problem.

I will never forget the moment it hit me that it wasn't just a fictional TV audience getting pleasure from watching kids suffer and die—it was me. Katniss could have turned to me and said, "Thou art the audience," and it wouldn't have hit any harder.

Oh, sure, Katniss and all the other tributes aren't even slightly real. They're the products of Collins's imagination, the result of a late night in front of the TV.

But you know what? Non-fiction outsells fiction. I've read true stories about people dying, freezing to death on Mt. Everest, for example. Why did I read them if not for fun?

Death is not now and never has been entertaining when you're actually there. Does seeing a fireworks stand crush a man leave you with anything but a sick feeling? Does seeing a man break his back and die feel any more heroic because he managed to spare other people? No! In my experience, death is infallibly gut-wrenching.

Capturing a death in pictures, sounds, or words strips it of qualia, the intangible things that make it real. It allows us to experience something terrible without the pain, allows us to find pleasure in the excitement of a moment that should only make us sick. Couched in a good story, safely ensconced behind a pane of glowing glass, there's nothing so awful it can't be made entertaining. (I suspected that's exactly what Collins had in mind and found it confirmed in this interview.)

I've never watched reality TV. But can I be entertained by the horrific? Thanks to The Hunger Games, I now see the answer is yes. The whole "gladiator games are bad" theme has been done a million times. (Star Trek did it at least half a dozen times.) Only now will I think twice about every death that I watch, read, and write, and ask myself why.

My only concern is that a whole lot of people will read the book, watch the inevitable movie, and completely miss the forest for the trees. What do you think? How did you feel after reading The Hunger Games?

Gifted/Cursed: Poem for Aspiring Writers

2010-11-17T09:33:00.002-07:00

Hmm, how's that for a title? Seriously, sometimes they're one and the same. It's so hard to tell a good story, but I can't help but try.

Fall in love with people
no one else knows
Cry about tragedies
no one else sees
It's a dream
a world in your throat
that you can't quite speak
Feelings real as anything
about phantoms
hallucinations in the night
It's only a story
Write it down
with just enough skill
to make you think you can
Just enough love
to keep trying
and nothing more
Try
And again
Because you must
It's your gift

Finished!

2010-11-16T09:32:00.000-07:00

Excuse me while I laugh.

Okay, I'm back. So, three months ago—wait, let me check—holy cow, it was exactly three months ago! I'm a man of my word! Anyway, back on August 12th, I announced I was virtually chucking my novel in the trash and rewriting the whole thing. I said "Give me three months from tomorrow." Well, I wrote the last sentence of that rewritten book on Saturday, November 13th.

Finished?

No!

Not by a long shot. Well, it's a whole lot closer than it was before, but now I've essentially got another rough draft on my hands. I've gotta go through it again and tweak the emotional responses and speech of characters, work on setting (which I frequently forget about), get rid of repetition and redundancy (get it?), and pay a lot of attention to verb choice. And delete commas. They always creep in where they're not wanted.

So what did I do with that three-month-long rewrite, aside from have a lot of fun? I got the story right. Everything makes sense. The characters come alive. It's twenty-thousand words shorter! I've finally—finally!—got a good framework to start making pretty.

A year ago, if I'd known I'd have to rewrite every single sentence of the whole book, I'm not sure I ever would have started. But here I am. If I thought I'd have to do it again, I'd probably give up right now. But I don't. (The hardest things only get done by people ignorant of what they're really in for.) Soooo...

Here I go!

Again!

Infidelity

2010-11-13T12:36:00.000-07:00

Do you ever cheat on a book? You know what I mean, and it could be either a book you're reading or one you're writing. I'll confess that sometimes, if a book I'm reading doesn't quite intrigue me all the way through, I'll see a prettier one sitting on the shelf just waiting for some attention, and I'll pick it up without finishing the first. Usually, that's it for my relationship with the first book. If you go back to it, where do you start? You can't really start over, knowing that it didn't work out last time. You can't really pick it back up where you left off once you've lost your connection with that world. I guess if you wait enough years, you forget everything and can start back up like strangers. That's what I did with The Hobbit. I tried reading it in elementary or middle school, but it was just too—something. Wordy? Obtuse? Over my head? I read it a few years later and loved it.

I cheated on Stranger in a Strange Land, and I haven't gone back to it. It's been two years, and I was less than a quarter of the way through. Kind of makes me sad, because I was so excited to read it. I mean, I bought it for crying out loud. It's still on the shelf.

Robinson Crusoe? Tried it as a kid, and it wasn't at all what I expected. (I mean, who'd have thought it was, like, two hundred years old?) Never read it.

I don't know if cheating on a book you're actually writing is worse, but it's probably easier. That kind of relationship is easier to come back to. You've got more invested. I had a brief dalliance last month with a new book idea. I never actually started writing, or even outlining, but I sure thought about the new book a lot. It's an exotic, very original idea, with great characters.

It didn't last long, though. I returned to my current project, and the closer I got to the end, the more I fell in love with it all over again. Maybe it helps that it's changed so much during this rewrite. We're very happy together right now, and I hope that romance lasts a little longer. Then, once our relationship is complete, I can move wholeheartedly onto the next one.

Well, not exactly. For awhile there, I'll have to practice bigamy. Whew. Took that metaphor a little too far, eh?

A Car Crash

2010-11-09T16:12:00.001-07:00

Ever wondered what it's like to crash into a freeway overpass at high speed in a convertible? What would it be like? Would you survive and with what sort of injuries? What's in those yellow barrels, anyway?

I wondered. Yeah, it's weird, but I have my reasons. I'm sure you can guess what they are.

The yellow barrels you see in front of overpass supports and barriers, especially on the freeway, are impact attenuators. More specifically, they're called Fitch barriers, named for John Fitch, who invented them. There are other types of impact attenuator, but Fitch barriers are the simplest and probably the most effective.

Each barrel in the line is filled with a progressively greater amount of sand or water. When a car hits the line of barrels, the sand/water is scattered in all directions, taking with it some of the car's momentum. Each barrel slows the car down a little more, as the amount of energy absorbed (and speed reduction) increases with the mass of sand/water in the barrel.

A car that hits a Fitch barrier at highway speeds is decelerated over nine or ten meters (or more) instead of the one or two that the front of the car would smash in if it hit a concrete pillar directly. This is a lot faster than a car could stop on its own, but a whole lot better than a direct impact. Some of the tests I looked at had the occupants experiencing less than 10 g, and 15 g at most. Easily survivable.

Vehicles can be flipped around by the impact. (Video of test) In a convertible, you'd end up covered in sand. It's also conceivable that a car could roll after hitting a Fitch barrier, but much more likely in high center-of-gravity trucks and SUVs.

The impact at the front of the car is more than enough to set off the airbags and will smash the front in pretty good.

Now, if the car is moving well over 100 mph, is a small convertible, and the occupant isn't wearing a seatbelt, it's possible they'd survive—maybe even likely. But at that speed, rollover risk is greatly increased, as the car could be deflected by the barrier and slide sideways at a fairly high speed. It's also possible that the car could nose down enough that you'd slide over the top of the airbag, but probably not very likely. Sports cars tend to keep your legs way out in front of your torso.

So, I didn't find a definitive answer. It seems like a rollover would be the most likely cause of fatality. That's a matter of luck. At any rate, I wouldn't try it at home.

Prayer of the Gifted

2010-11-05T10:03:00.000-06:00

For the treasure of potential
For the night we know will come
Blessed and gifted
Cursed and scorned
Lead us far away from home

Let our power tame our passion
Hold its fire, quell its pain
Send a hero
Send us someone
With a calming gentle rain

May desire die like morning
May its flame no longer burn
Good around us
Be inside us
May our human evils learn

May the blessings we are cursed with
Never make our loved ones cry
Blessed and gifted
Shall we thank thee?
Let us ask thee only—Why?

(Does anyone understand what I'm saying?)

Polishing

2010-11-04T19:38:00.001-06:00

I recently downloaded The Rescues' first album, Crazy Ever After. I got one of their songs a few months ago, and it was good enough that I decided to see what else they'd done. That song, Break Me Out, is probably the most perfect rock song I've ever heard. I wasn't paying attention when I downloaded the album, however, and now I have three different versions of Break Me Out—the single released through iTunes plus two more from the first album.

The funny thing is that as perfect as the iTunes single is, it took them three tries to get it like that. And that's just counting released versions.

Version one is rather restrained. Break Me Out 2.0 (that's what it's called) hits you with a wall of sound on the first time through the chorus and tries out some different licks in the middle. The final version, which is on their new album, has different mixing for a cleaner sound, a faster tempo, and drives harder. But what makes it stand-out amazing is its story arc.

A lot of songs start out small and add instruments and volume up to a climax of sorts. Most of them don't do it right, though. The chorus is frequently the same, so you get an up-down-up-down feel. A lot of songs use a wall of sound to add impact, but often that's all it is.

Break Me Out 3 starts stronger than the others, with a brighter keyboard line with percussion behind it. It doesn't dump a cacophony on you like 2.0, but incrementally ratchets up the tension, then hits you with a brief payoff right after the chorus and before verse two. The second verse is even stronger, followed by a spell where the instruments almost vanish. The net effect is to add tension, because by that time you have some idea of what's coming. When that big payoff finally comes, the timing is spot-on perfect even though it's not where you'd expect it to be. It's an awesome payoff precisely because of that. Finally, it doesn't fade out on the end like the other versions—it winds down and stops at the end of a measure.

Listen to it courtesy of Rhapsody, if you like:
Break Me Out (new album)
(The others are on eMusic, but I think you need an account. I signed up for a free trial.)

Now, if you're a writer, go back and read this post while imagining that I'm talking about a story instead of a song. Remember that they probably had a fresh set of ears to help with the final production. And realize that good is one thing, and great isn't a whole lot different than good—but it makes all the difference.

I'm off to do some polishing.

Creating People

2010-10-13T16:00:00.006-06:00

And now I reveal the working title of my next project, right after I say a few other things. I guess that makes it not really "now" so much as "pretty soon." Either way, I haven't really started working on that project except to think about it in spare moments.

First came the premise, which started out as "unmanned" ground vehicles that are in reality driven by invisible people. It didn't take long to alter it to unseen people instead of invisible. I'd create a class of people willing to risk their lives and in all likelihood die for large sums of money on missions no human should be sent to complete. And no human would, except that these people are hidden inside these supposedly unmanned battle vehicles. There are a lot of details to work out, like how do they see, how do they get in without getting caught, who owns the vehicles, who sends them on missions, what sort of remote control and monitoring do they have? Those are fun problems to sort out, and I'll save the details for the book.

Now, I need characters. But how do I go about creating people to plunk down in this situation? Two of them I'm fairly sure where to start. They're young, college-aged, and suicidal. A boy and a girl from different backgrounds and places. They're the insiders, the invisible people, and two of a few dozen recruits. They'll risk everything for the off chance (maybe one in three?) that they'll live to collect their paycheck. If they die, oh well. They wanted to die anyway, and now they have something to leave behind; the money goes to their families, or whatever they specify. (Under the guise of life insurance, perhaps?)

There's a possible third protagonist, a man about my age or a little older. I thought about making him just like me—a tech writer at a small robotics company, or maybe an engineer. The problem is, I would never do what I need him to do. I'm the kind of person who leaves well enough alone, but I need this character to start digging, to find out what's going on under the hood, to contact the two inside characters. (Also, it's never a good idea ~~not~~ to base characters so blatantly on yourself.)

I'm thinking he's got to be either a newspaper reporter, or the former head of a small robotics company that went bust after losing a contract to a competitor. (The Bad Guys. See below.) The motivations will be different, depending on which I choose. The failed inventor would be in it for revenge, to find out how The Bad Guys managed to leapfrog so far ahead, and expose them. The reporter would be doing his job, uncovering a sinister conspiracy and trying to win a Pulitzer or something. If I go with the reporter, the other guy would be a minor character.

The Bad Guys will be a large corporation with vast resources, possibly a defense contractor, and not based on any specific company. Only an organization with clout and credibility could pull off something like this. They could buy up expertise and intellectual property rights and smaller companies as needed. They could win mercenary contracts that smaller companies never could. They could hire hit men—I'm getting carried away. Anyway, the Bad Guys will be this company, and it will need faces—managers, PR, guards, trainers, techs. I think I'll make up one main Bad Guy, though I don't know which role he'll be in.

And now for the title! I thought of calling it Drivers or something like that. Just a couple days ago, I realized a better title was staring me right in the face: Unmanned. I haven't checked for books of that name, but there aren't many novels about UGVs. I feel uniquely qualified to write one.

How do (or would) you create new people?

[update: I'm calling it Drivers instead of Unmanned. It's about the drivers, not the unmanned vehicles. Duh. *slaps forehead*]

Unmanned! (For Real)

2010-10-13T14:45:00.000-06:00

Here's the latest video I've cobbled together at work. (Including the music, if you can call it that.) The vehicle is driving really slow, but the supervised autonomy interface is the real star. It takes a 3D scan of the area, decides where it can and can't drive, and overlays what the vehicle senses and plans to do on top of the live video stream. The Velodyne laser sensor also lets it do untethered following of a vehicle, person, or anything highly reflective. (Oooh, shiny. Robot like shiny, follow shiny thing anywhere.)

*ahem*

Anyway, the red in the display are the areas the robot has decided it should NOT drive. The yellow line is where it intends to drive. The video display is pretty cool, because it gives you a nearly complete spherical view around the vehicle. The drivers in my next book will need something like that, and a sensor overlay could also be helpful to guide them to targets.

Oh, and apologies for how manic the video is. The raw footage was really boring.

The Little Guys Never Win or Curse You Google!

2010-10-11T10:27:00.001-06:00

One of Google's cars, from a Times article

So, I'm feeling ~~slightly~~ dismayed right now. I just read that Google's been working on autonomous cars. A couple things about that:

1) They've been driving them in traffic on public roads. That's illegal under current law, even if you've "briefed local police" about your work. Sure, they have people behind the wheel, ready to take over when the cars screw up—and they do. No matter how awesome your database and software, the cars are still half-blind. (They use basically the same sensors we do at Autonomous Solutions, so I know how great the data is.)

Wouldn't it be nice to have the weight of Google behind you when you want to try something like that? We couldn't even get insurance to drive our automated five-ton manually on public roads because the insurers were too skittish. I wonder who's insuring Google's unmanned vehicles, and if they have any idea what to charge.

2) Wouldn't it be nice to have virtually unlimited financial resources? I'm just feeling sorry for myself. ASI has operated without external financing for its entire ten years. The only money we have to work on research and development is what's left over from actually selling robotic vehicles and services. Maybe it's not the best way to operate, but I'm not the boss. I'm a little jealous that Google's team can afford to pay fifteen engineers plus support staff and buy cars and Velodynes (which cost more than cars) without having to worry about making a penny of profit.

ASI's dev vehicle doing some unmanned following.

Yeah, and our DARPA Urban Challenge team consisted of 2.5 engineers, and we still did pretty well. *sigh* Wouldn't it be nice to have money? The little guys never win in real life.

Which brings up NON-real life, which means the book I'm going to write next! See, the news about Google has given me a flash of inspiration about my bad guys. *rubs hands and giggles gleefully* No, I'm not going to write a thinly-veiled demonization of a business rival! I mean, it's still pretty cool what Google's doing, right? It doesn't make them evil—right? (I'm suddenly aware that Google owns Blogger.)

More later! Stay tuned! It's gonna be good.

Mwah ha ha ha ha!

I Hate Waiting

2010-10-08T16:02:00.001-06:00

Yeah, so I just wrote a post about how I love waiting. No reason I can't hate it, too. See, while it's nice to have something to look forward too, it's nicer to know what's coming. Also, there are certain things that are better had than waited for. Actually, probably lots of things.

What I'm thinking of is something that I want very badly, but is very difficult to make happen. When and how it happens depends largely on me, and maybe that's the worst part. When I'm waiting for someone else, I don't feel any pressure, only anticipation. When I'm waiting for myself—well, it's harder to be patient.

What's worse is that I don't like to be rushed. It's a vicious circle.

The Ballad of You and Me?

2010-10-07T12:55:00.000-06:00

The free single of the week on iTunes is The Ballad of You and I. I really like it. Why? Because there are so many songs about attraction, lust, falling in love, and breaking up, and it's really nice to hear a song about STAYING in love. If I were to count the days of my life spent falling in or out of love and compare them to the years I've spent just BEING in love, the ratio would be miniscule. And I'm still young.

Sure, emotional turmoil is fun once in awhile—that's why we have kids. The greatest satisfaction in my life comes from sharing it with someone I love deeply. This song comes closer to capturing that feeling than any other I've heard recently.

And as for the title, it might not be technically correct right now, but it probably will be someday. People are getting into the habit of saying "you and I." If it keeps them from saying "me and you did something," it's well worth it. "The Ballad of I" is much less odious than "me did something."

Anyway, what thinkest thou, about grammar or otherwise?

I Love Waiting

2010-10-05T19:50:00.001-06:00

You know what I've realized? I love waiting. Funny, isn't it? I always thought I hated it. I submitted my first novel to Tor's slushpile last year. I didn't expect much to come of it—it took me ten years to finish the first draft, and I was just learning how to really write a novel. I finished a few revisions, just enough that I wouldn't be embarrassed by the book, (even though I am now,) and I sent it off so I could start working on my next book.

I guess over the course of a few months, however long it took them to respond, I got used to waiting. (The response came right when they said it would, to Tor's credit.) After getting the rejection, I felt kind of bad not having something to look forward to in the mail. I also entered a writing competition that gave me something else to wait for. I queried a few agents about my second book, and had a great time checking my email every day as the rejections trickled in.

I'm in the middle of a major revision, based partly on feedback I got from Gretchen Stelter. Waiting to hear back from her was also lots of fun. I read her reply breathlessly. I've gotten advice from two agents on my query and first page. One got back to me in a few days. The other took long enough that I wondered if she'd gotten my email. Waiting gave me something to look for in my email inbox, and a surge of excitement when the expected replies came. (Feedback is a lot more fun to open than plain rejections.)

Does it sound like I'm being sarcastic? Sure, it might be disappointing to check your mail and not get replies, but I think the rewards of waiting are a little like the random rewards of gambling. You overlook all the little disappointments for that one moment of excitement. I also think it's nice to have something to look forward to. That's an important part of life—as is hope. When you've got queries or contest entries out there, you've got something to hope for.

I'm looking forward to finishing up my latest revisions so I can start querying seriously. Waiting on other people seems to be easier than waiting for myself. How do you feel about waiting for news?

Automated Parking

2010-09-23T21:01:00.001-06:00

Okay, so I haven't seen the Jetsons in about twenty years. (Note to self: check Hulu and Netflix.) So I'm just going on ancient, dusty memories here, but it seems that modern life is lacking in a few amenities we were promised as kids by the glowing box.

Yeah, we've got Roombas (and Scoobas and whatever they call those gutter-cleaning bots.) There's the Robomow and Automower lines of aimlessly wandering mowers. Honda and other Japanese companies have some pretty cool androids, but who can afford one?

Robots aside, where are the flying cars with big glass bubbles? (Edit: Here they are!) Where's the crazy architecture?

I'm thinking about this because I spent the day working with an automated parking system. Boomerang makes the hardware, and ASI has been doing the controls for their flat car-lifting AGV (or robot for short). My job is to drive it around and make sure everything works. I haven't crashed it, yet. (I heard they drove one into a pit when it had a car on it. Just a rumor.)

It's really pretty cool. The actual dispatch control software isn't integrated yet, so I'm stuck generating scripts with a barely usable interface thrown together for testing. (Drive forward 20000 units at speed 6, rotate clockwise, etc.) The idea is you drive into the bay and the flat robot picks up the tray and hauls your car away to park it. Since the robot can move sideways (and in any other direction), it can pack the cars much tighter than possible when driving them. Also, no one needs to open the doors. You don't have to walk through a parking terrace with no sidewalks, and many more cars can be parked.

Oh, and the valet won't drive your car around with a completely flat tire. (Happened to me once.)

When you're done, you scan your ticket or have your retina scanned or something, and then you sit down and wait a couple minutes for a friendly robot to bring your car back—facing the other direction and ready to be driven away.

It's expensive though, so don't expect to see one anytime soon unless you live in a place where there are many more cars than parking places. (I know, everyone thinks they live in a place like that.)

Isn't that so cool, though? Warehouses have been automated like that for decades. ASI redid the electronics for HK Systems' pallet hauler years ago. It's about time the cool stuff filters down to consumers, right?

p.s. What would you do if you had access to a big, flat, car-lifting robot?

Harris Burdick

2010-09-16T16:00:00.004-06:00

In my interview with myself, I made reference to Harris Burdick as one of my favorite authors. He's the mysterious author/illustrator in the book by Chris Van Allsburg, who as the story goes, gave a stack of illustrations with captions and titles to a publisher, along with a promise to provide the complete stories if the publisher was interested. The publisher was indeed interested, but could never again locate Harris Burdick.

The Mysteries of Harris Burdick is simply a reproduction of those illustrations, each for a different story, and each with a compelling caption and title. The idea is that you supply the story yourself.

It's an awesome concept, and Van Allsburg's, excuse me, Burdick's drawings are wonderful, of course. My fifth grade teacher, Mr. Allen, introduced my class to them by forcing us to write some of the missing stories. I don't know what everyone else thought of the idea; I was too enthralled to notice. Never had I had so much fun doing schoolwork. My renditions always came out disturbing and dark with happy endings—or so it seemed to me at the time. I was ten years old. I fell in love with writing.

My parents bought me my own copy of the book. I wrote a few more stories, but either because typing was so arduous at the time or due to my short attention span, there are still stories that I haven't written. The worst part is that I don't know what happened to my copy of the book. I think one of my sisters may have borrowed it to use in their own classroom, or possibly my Dad. (There are a lot of teachers in my family.) Hmm?

Anyway, now I have a daughter who loves writing stories. I know she'd love the book. Not surprisingly, it's not available through paperbackswap.org, so I'll have to shell out for a new copy if I can't find mine. I want to give her what Mr. Allen and the mysterious Harris Burdick gave me so many years ago.

(Man, I'm tearing up just thinking about it. *sniff*)

I Count the Ways

2010-09-14T12:42:00.000-06:00

...to disappear. It's a song. Go get it while it's free at iTunes. Then go ride your bike at night. (With lights of course.)

Then come back and tell me if you love it as much as I do. Yes, that's an order, ensign!

Chocolate Review

2010-09-12T21:32:00.001-06:00

I've had a run of good luck with winning contests and drawings on blogs lately. (I need to find someone giving away a publishing contract on a blog before my streak runs out.) The latest one was the first to give out an actual physical prize, and it's still going on if you want to enter. It's a blog tour promoting The Stone Traveler by Kathi Oram Peterson. This is the weekly prize. The grand prize is even better.

The book is LDS YA fiction, so the nominal audience is pretty narrow. I haven't read the book yet, so I'm going to review the prize—because I've never done a review of any kind before, and everyone else is doing them, so they must be cool. Right?

First, there's a cute toy jaguar and a necklace with a huge faux gemstone. They're quite nice. I don't wear jewelry or collect stuffed animals, but they were best part. Why? My seven-year-old daughter gasped when I gave her the stone necklace. I gave the jaguar to my four-year-old girl and she said "Daddy's the nicest dad in the world." Thanks for making me look good, Kathi!

The rest of the prize is chocolate, and I have opinions on chocolate. First, I love dark chocolate, and what I got was all dark, from Ghirardelli and Lindt.

The Ghirardelli Intense Dark "Twilight Delight" (what a name, eh?) is 72% cacao, which is fairly dark. I've had 90% recently, so I'm well used to this kind of chocolate. The taste is quite nice, and not too sweet, as Hershey's always is. The texture was the only thing that bothered me. It's kind of hard and dry, and doesn't melt very quickly. It's a bag of individually wrapped squares, so I put them in my pocket for a few minutes before eating them just to get them kind of melty. Whatever you do, don't just pop them into your mouth cold and start chewing. It's not nearly so pleasant. And don't drink anything cold right before eating. But it's good chocolate, if a bit harsh in texture.

I should disclose that I'm a Lindt fanatic. A few years ago my wife couldn't eat any dairy at all because she was nursing our daughter who was intolerant of soy and milk protein. The only chocolate we could find without any milk or soy ingredients was Lindt's Swiss Bittersweet. Most chocolates (including the Ghirardelli above) use soy lecithin as an emulsifier. That was all the chocolate we ate for well over a year, and we were hooked. Hershey's chocolate tastes like garbage, now. I've had other kinds of European chocolates, including some that aren't sold here, and never tasted anything I like better than Lindt.

Anyway, I was excited to try Lindt's Excellence Dark with Chili. We once got a Chili and Cherry bar from my sister-in-law who lived near the Lindt factory in New Hampshire, and it was very interesting and quite good. But it had a fruit filling, and I prefer chocolate without bits of other stuff in it. The Chili bar tastes at first like a normal (for Lindt) 50% chocolate. It's amazing how smooth the texture is. There's no trace of pepper taste that I could detect. It's just a great chocolate that makes your mouth burn. And it burns, too. It's easily comparable to a medium salsa.

I happen to like spicy food, and I love this chocolate. I wish our grocery store carried it. I've seen it at Borders, but nowhere else locally. We've been mixing mint with chocolate for years, and everyone seems to like that. Chili and chocolate isn't a new idea either. It was how the ancient people of South America fixed their chocolate drinks (if memory serves) and that's why it's included in the prize. I think it's as natural a combination as mint-chocolate, with a burning kick instead of a cool one.

If anyone can pull off something like this, it would be Lindt and Sprungli. I noticed that this bar was made in New Hampshire instead of Europe. I know the truffles have been made there for awhile, but it seems like all the bars used to be imported from various countries in Europe. At any rate, they've quickly built a reputation for making great dark chocolate. I sometimes wonder if Lindt isn't responsible for starting the fine dark chocolate bandwagon rolling in America.

Maybe next I'll compare Tim Tams to Keebler's rubbish. Oh wait, I guess I just did.

Thanks again, Kathi! Go visit her blog or website, and be sure to look into the tour for reviews of The Stone Traveler and a chance to win a fantastic prize.

Author Interview: Myself

2010-09-09T13:00:00.003-06:00

I've got a special treat for my 12—No! 13! followers: an exclusive interview with an up-and-coming new author. Ben Spendlove (let's call him BS for short) is hard at work on a life-changing new book, but was kind enough to set aside a few minutes to answer our questions.

Imaginary Friends blog (IF): When did you start writing?

BS: When I was born. I just saved it all up in my infantile brain until I could actually hold a pencil and learned how to form letters round about kindergarten. Most of what I wrote mentally in those early days is only just coming out, and that's why my writing is so fresh and original. Much of it doesn't even include actual words, so it looks like white space. But it's very meaningful white space.

IF: What was your favorite book as a child?

BS:

IF: Very deep. What's your writing process like?

BS: It's exactly like eating pancakes with maple syrup. If you understand that, then you understand how I write. My process is also a lot like writing a book, but the pancake analogy is closer, I think.

IF: Who are some of your favorite writers?

BS: I'm a big fan of fictional authors who haven't actually written anything. Harris Burdick was an early influence. Though I hate to admit it, Anne Shirley might have played a role, too. More recently there's been Alex Rover and Karen Eiffel, whom I especially love because everyone should know the joy of killing off a really good character.

IF: Dare I ask what your favorite books are?

BS: The imaginary ones written by my favorite writers, of course.

IF: Is this a manifestation of your jealousy for real authors who've actually been published?

BS: This is how I answer that question:

IF: I see. Where did the idea for your current project originate?

BS: To borrow a line from a master, it came from "the Icy BLACKness of SPACE!" Ha ha! Seriously, it was more like a parasite that wormed its way into my brain, disrupting neural function in specific areas and forcing me to behave in strange and inhuman ways.

IF: How does that relate to eating pancakes with maple syrup?

BS: Clearly you've never eaten pancakes with maple syrup.

IF: Have you ever eaten a stack of TEN pancakes with maple syrup?

BS: Why, yes. Yes, I have. Thanks for asking.

IF: That's amazing. What's the greatest thing about being a writer?

BS: Interviewing myself on my own blog has been the greatest thing yet. I doubt I'll ever meet a more skillful, insightful, and understanding interviewer.

IF: Thank you.

BS: No, thank YOU.

IF: Spendlove is an interesting name. Were your ancestors prostitutes or something?

BS: I take back what I said about you. Jerk.

Thanks to Ben Spendlove for his enlightening answers. I'm certainly going to buy multiple copies of his book when it's finally published.

Are you an author? Would you like this blog to interview you? Email us at the address above and to the right! It's a free service we provide. Just started. (We're trying to land an interview with Harris Burdick, but he's still missing.)

Where I Work

2010-09-08T13:07:00.000-06:00

I put this together from dozens of old DV tapes at work. Autonomous Solutions, Inc. started in 2000, and I joined in 2004. It's about the best tech writing job I can imagine, which is why I'm still here. Robots=cool. I'd make a blooper reel of all the times vehicles didn't do what we expected, but there's never a camera around when that happens and frankly, it doesn't happen very often.

Shameful Books

2010-09-04T07:34:00.000-06:00

There's was a piece on NPR's All Things Considered in which a writer was telling about a book he was ashamed to love (Kurt Cobain's journals). It sounded like part of a series, but I haven't heard any others since.

Anyway, it got me thinking, and I couldn't think of a single book that I'm ashamed to love. The reason is simple, I think: if I love it, I really think it's good and am therefore not ashamed to love it. It doesn't matter who it was written for, written by, or how it was written. If I like it, it's good. If it's not good, I don't like it.

In other words, I define what's worthy by what I like, not by the expectations or opinions of other people. At least, that's how I am with books. Same goes for not liking something. I recently tried to read The Catcher in the Rye. I say 'tried' because I couldn't finish it. Aside from the incessant profanity and annoying way the narrator rambles on and repeats himself, I just couldn't get into the story. I'm sure some people can relate and a lot of people really like that book, but I couldn't stand it. Therefore, it's not that good, and I'm not ashamed to say so.

Music, on the other hand—I'm ashamed of about half of what's in my iTunes library. So don't ask.