Raise the stakes

I was watching kids beat each other up on the playground at school the other day.

It was Kindergarten, so there weren't any fists flying...blood dripping...or faces shoved against the ground. But there were plenty of hands on hips and mouths shouting, "Oh yeah? Well I'm gonna..."

I thought about stepping in. I probably should have.

But I was laughing too hard by the fifth time I heard someone shout and stomp away without ever finishing the sentence.

From a dramatic standpoint, it was the most boring fight I've ever seen.

Don't get me wrong. As a teacher, I'm glad the kids didn't kill each other, mangling someone into tears, snot balls, and bloody noses.

But as a writer, I have to do better than that in my books.

I have to raise the stakes.

While watching the fight I couldn't help but notice all the kids' energy fluttered and flitted around in every direction. None of the teachers could tell what happened or what anyone wanted. If I write that way in my books, my audience won't know what's going on, either.

It's not as simple as just knowing what your character wants. All of those kids knew they wanted to win the fight.

But they didn't know how to win. And they definitely didn't want it bad enough.

Characters have to be willing to do anything, no matter what the cost.

Even if it means they get their face shoved to the ground. Or popped in the nose with a fist.

Holy Cow. Or Holy Horse.

I got bit in the head by a horse.

My daughter and I were at the stable getting the horse ready for her weekly lesson, and he took a chomp at my hair.

I should have expected it. I mean, he was being a pill that day as my daughter prepped him for her lesson. He pushed. He nipped a few times. He lifted his head as high as he could knowing there was no way I could get the halter on him.

I was reading the signs. Watching to make sure his hoof didn't end up on my foot. Or in my gut. Or that he wouldn't take the pocket off my coat.

But I wasn't expecting the chomp-o-rama of his teeth against my scalp.

Especially on the top of my head.

After I toweled off the horse spit and poked the bruise 20 times to prove to myself that he really did bite me, I was still thinking to myself, "Holy cow. I can't believe he bit me."

And that, my friends writerly and otherwise, is good plot. The signs are there. The audience is invested and interested, and then: WHAM-O. They get something they weren't expecting.

Spit on the head. Teeth in the scalp. All of it.

Great plot happens when a writer makes the audience look back and say, "I thought I was reading all the signs. I can't believe I didn't figure it out sooner."

So onward. Charge ahead on that steed before he decides your head looks like a bag of oats...and work on writing great plot.

Playing With Toys

No. Not those kind. Though with my husband gone for a whole year, something like that might come in handy.

Totally kidding.

Sort of.

I got a new laptop.

It is amazing how much easier it is to actually, you know, write. No more eliminating letters created by a psycho keyboard. Or banging the shift out of the shift key to unshift it. Or finding the secret spot on the touch pad so it will quit highlighting everything on the screen.

I think it saved me from falling into the robot pit: I must write. I must publish. I must write I must publish. ImustwriteImustpublish.

I must rublish.

Sometimes I get so wrapped up that I forget everybody needs time to play. Everybody. So my advice for today is: go play with yourself.

By writing, of course.

Write a chapter where everybody breaks into song. Stick characters in a car with a manual transmission so they have to bang the shift out of the gear shift to unshift it. Draw someone in a secret spot where they get away with something ridiculous.

Or get yourself a toy and play with it.

Like a new laptop, of course.

You might find, just as I did, that it can shake you up enough to keep your story from becoming rublish.

Jerks

I like jerks.

That's my answer when somebody asks me about writing compelling characters.

I could go into a great laundry list of questions. Ask for definitions of words like compelling and character, or lists of likes and dislikes, but that would just mix all the whites with the bright or dark colors. Then everything comes out grey and you still don't know where the lost sock went.

Confusing, right? Exactly.

I like jerks. Like House. Tom Sawyer. Huck Finn. The Lorax. Clementine. Dorothy. Claudia. The Cat in the Hat. The little boy who planted a carrot seed. Vashti.

But especially House.

All spin cycle jokes aside, he is the most interesting, compelling character I've seen in recent times.

He is smart.

He is funny.

He is honest. And damaged. And pathetic. And he goes after what he wants, regardless of what stands in his way.

I don't always like him or agree with him. I AM always interested in what he'll do next.

Sort of like...my husband.

And that's what makes him compelling. House comes across as real. Heightened, of course. To superman proportions. It is a TV drama after all. But I bet he could probably find that freakin' lousy sock that always disappears in the dryer.

And he would definitely make laundry a whole lot more interesting.

DISCLAIMER: The above listed reference to my husband's personality is not meant to defame or damage said husband's reputation, esteem, or self-proclaimed sub-genius status.

Sa Whomped

I've been pitifully lacking about writing in my blog since returning home from the States. I will give you the equally pitifully excuse that I'm busy. Beyond busy.

Sa whomped.

But in between a boy throwing colossal tantrums, a girl full of middle school drama, a pouting, neurotic dog chewing off his nails, and a car that can go but doesn't stop, I do try to make an occasional foray into re-writing my second novel.

I've got writing goals. I've got ideas. I've got desire. I even have a plan.

What I don't have is time. Which is sort of irritating, because I had time all summer when I didn't know end from up about my story.

I'm ready to go, go, go with rewrites. But when I'm forced to one very slow 30-60 minute nightly session, I want to toss myself on the couch in a drama moment. Or chew off my nails. Or throw a tantrum and whomp the sa out of something.

Because I want to finish my book.

I realize that since I'm now...older, I don't really get to act this way. But am I the only person out there, writerly or otherwise, that has such a problem with patience?

Things you hang on to

You know how when your kids are little, you hang on to EVERY picture or art project they finish because each one represents some major milestone they managed to accomplish?

A circle. A real circle that is round and doesn't look like a squished eyeball.

A line. One that makes the house touch the ground instead of floating in the air.

A face. With features and more than three strands of hair sticking straight up.

I sort of feel that way about one of my middle grade novels.

I keep trying to rewrite the opening because the general response is that it sets a great tone, but no one is sure where it's going. Readers feel like they are floundering, and they don't trust it.

Now...I understand that the world of the story is very foreign. I also understand I can't let that be some excuse not to draw a better circle, line, or face.

But each rewritten opening completely loses the heart of the character at the middle of the story. It becomes a plot line of information to help the reader understand the foreign world.

So I'm trying to decide...

Do I keep coming back to the original opening because it belongs there?

Or is it just one of those pictures I'm hanging on to?

And I need to decide soon, because I'm going a bit crazy...and I sort of feel like I'm floating in the air with squished eyeballs and only three strands of hair left.

The Sting of a Jelly

I've waited to talk about growing a thick skin to handle rejection for a long time, because usually it comes across as a pumping sunshiney Nike commercial.

When really, it's more like getting stung by a jelly fish.

Which happened to me for the first time today.

My kids and I spent a gorgeous day at the beach jumping over waves...occasionally getting knocked over...sand in all corners of the suits...when I felt a ZIP across my leg that stung enough to make me swear in German. And then each of the kids got zapped, too.

Needless to say, we didn't want to jump waves anymore. I sat on my beach mat to check out the welts on my leg and foot, and they searched the sand at the edge of the water for broken mother of pearl looking shells.

I watched them thinking...that's EXACTLY what it feels like to get a rejection letter.

It bites.

Enough to make you swear in German.

It makes you want to quit playing in the proverbial writing waters.

But eventually, the sting goes away. All it leaves is a little red mark. Maybe a scar. Maybe a spot where your skin is a little thicker.

And eventually, like my kids and I today, you are ready to jump a few waves again. Even knowing that you'll probably get taken out by a jelly or two.