Sixteen and a half long months since the day I began, I finished writing the first draft of my novel this evening.
I’m celebrating by going to bed.
Tag Archives: writing
Advice from Kristen Lamb
Excellent advice about your antagonist!
One of the biggest mistakes most new writers make is they don’t understand the antagonist and how antagonists are used to drive plot momentum and ratchet up the stakes. Without true antagonists, there is no way to generate dramatic tension. One of the “outs” many writers try to use is “Well, my protagonist is his own worst enemy.”
Yeah, um no. That’s therapy, not fiction.
All stories need two types of antagonists:
The Big Boss Troublemaker
Since the term “antagonist” confuses a lot of new writers, I came up with the term, BBT. If the BBT is something existential (like alcoholism) then it needs to be represented by someone corporeal. In WWII, the Allies weren’t fighting fascism, they fought HITLER. Concepts need a FACE.
Scene Antagonists
Often allies and love interests will provide the scene conflict. Protagonist wants A, but then Ally wants B.
Today, we’ll use a “My protagonist…
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Private Thoughts, Private World
Do you see the head of the dragon?
We all have our little private world, filled with thoughts that are seemingly impossible to express in words. Try as we might as writers to embellish, whether by attaching to them a likeness of something totally foreign to the initial thought or by attempting to capture something that is close… neither quite click perfectly in place.
Many times we find ourselves giving up, moving on to something else that seems closer to the human condition, as though no one else has ever felt exactly what we are feeling. And yet we have to wonder, maybe others were as unable to put across that particular idea as we were.
It’s those breakthroughs that keep us going though, isn’t it? When the sun shines on our idea – when we are actually able to put into text what we were feeling, and then our private thoughts, our private world becomes stuff of the outside world, no longer within us.
Free.
…One Mother
Odd shapes shine on linoleum, on table. Wind outside splays triangles of leaves displaced on again, off again, the clouds whisk like milk boiling on the stove. Struggle, dear mother. Coffee dreams drown bourbon breath bathing father’s last wish. Struggle no more, precious mother.
Mother retrieves a crystal cut tumbler from the kitchen cupboard at father’s behest. Into it she pours the golden liquid until it brims.
Mother and father are alone, as they usually are since the children moved on, brother with his family, boy… mother thinks of boy’s wanderings as something that will certainly bore him eventually.
“Where’s my drink?” father demands.
“I’m coming!” mother cries with cheer.
(to be continued)
To go to the beginning of this series click here
Disclaimer: This story (and series) is semi-fictional, and is in no way connected to persons alive nor dead. Apart from certain facts, it is a product of the author’s imagination.
March Break Blues
It’s snowing. And I’m thinking to myself, why the hell is it snowing when it’s almost the middle of March? And then I remember, oh yeah, I live in Canada.
I’m also right smack dab in the middle of March break. Kids are home and the youngest one is looking for something to do, as usual. I know what I want to do, but sitting around while I write, for some reason doesn’t seem all that fun to him. He wants my attention. Constantly. OR he wants my laptop, which is not very conducive to getting any writing done either.
So I pawned him off.
No, I didn’t sell him, though sometimes I’d like to. I gave him to a friend. Somehow I think he may be returned however.
… One Brother
White quiet halls, scuffs covering walls, nurses pad by in soft shoes. Whisper, obedient brother. Crumpled sheets on vacated gurney, heart leaps then falls as toilet flushes. Bow down, father’s son.
Brother, standing in the doorway of father’s hospital room, steps aside when an orderly arrives pushing a wheelchair.
“You takin’ him home?” the orderly asks.
“That’s what I’m here for,” brother answers.
The orderly leaves without comment. Father exits the washroom and torments brother with yellow eyes.
“Are you ready to leave father?” brother squirms, offering the chair.
Father turns, sits and waits for brother to gather his belongings. Brother wheels him to the car.
The two drive through rapidly emptying streets into the setting sun. Brother squints and glances at father’s hands in his lap. Old and sallow, liver failure tinctures his skin.
“Stop at the liquor store,” father commands, his first utterance of the journey.
“Yes, sir,” brother concedes, relieved to turn away from the blazing, bloody beam of the sunset.
(to be continued)
To go to the beginning of this series click here
Disclaimer: This story (and series) is semi-fictional, and is in no way connected to persons alive nor dead. Apart from certain facts, it is a product of the author’s imagination.
Fifteen Attending Brother
Oppressive darkness shrouds the vast black hallway while spotlights scream energy out on stage where there is air. Wait, raging son. Shrill electric pandemonium resounds from mile-high boxes, drowning out sickly shrieking adoration. Unclench, trembling brother.
Brother waits, impatient for his younger sibling to leave the stage. Fists at his sides he scrutinizes the singer as he wails and thrashes for his audience. Brother’s fury lies in the frustration that the little shit would never mutter a sound while taking his beatings.
Brother ducks into the cover of the darkness as the song ends and the band begins to leave the stage.
“Sir!” calls a staff member, addressing man as he finally arrives in the wings. “This guy says he’s your brother…”
Man squints into the shadows. When brother steps forward he waves off his employee and approaches.
Brother cranes his neck to sneer at man’s effeminate make-up, his long hair, his slim body in tight clothing. He wonders how so many women can desire such a sissy.
“It’s father,” brother hisses. “He’s in the hospital.”
“Why should I care?” man asks, turning to leave.
Brother grasps his sleeve. “Mother wants you there.”
“Fine, I’m almost done,” man says. He walks back onstage to thunderous applause.
Brother seethes, biding the time until his next opportunity to shine in father’s eyes.
To go to the beginning of this series click here
Disclaimer: This story (and series) is semi-fictional, and is in no way connected to persons alive nor dead. Apart from certain facts, it is a product of the author’s imagination.
Scintillating Dialogue – writing assignment
“So,” Alice asked, looking down at her shoe as she prodded it into the sun-warmed sand, “what do you do for a living?” She kept her hands in her back pockets, knowing that if she took them out she would want to touch him. Anywhere.
Daniel lowered his sunglasses and gazed at her over the top with deep blue eyes. “I build houses. How about you?” he asked. “No wait.” As his eyebrows went up so did his finger, the bicep of the same arm bulging in response to the movement. “You must be… a model,” Daniel smiled.
“Funny you should say that,” Alice blushed, swiveling her shoulders. “I thought I saw you in a firefighter’s calender the other day. But no, I’m just a lowly shop girl.”
“In that case lowly shop girl, let me carry you over my shoulder to the bar for a drink.” He flashed a dazzling grin and her hands came out of her pockets as he bent down to take her in a fireman’s carry.
“Hold on there, Tarzan,” she laughed. “What do you say we walk to the bar?”
“Only if you’ll at least take my arm.”
His gaze pierced her like a bullet, traveling from her eyes straight down to her lower belly. She swallowed and opened her mouth to consent but realizing nothing would come out, made do with a nod.
Fourteen Stirring Mother
Home breathes, love pours comfort into cups of fine gleaming china. Catch the scent, dear woman. Steam rises in clouds of humidity, obscuring the impenetrable essence of life. Smell the coffee, tiresome bitch.
Mother smiles, watching her men at the kitchen table. Father and son laugh and drink to the joys of life and the trials of marriage. The aroma of bread baking in the oven turns her attention to the clock. Father senses her concentration.
“Where is the little shit now?” asks father.
“He should be here soon,” replies mother.
Man opens the front door as though on cue. The cat yowls as man trips over it.
Brother stands, knocking over his chair. He charges out of the kitchen, mother in his wake.
“I’mm sorry, mmother,” slurs man.
“He’s fucked up on drugs!” brother jeers.
Mother extends a hand to help man rise to his feet. Brother leers and kicks man’s unsteady legs from beneath him. Man slips back to the floor.
Father staggers from the kitchen to assist and mother stands back. Hands at her face she incredulously attends the thrashing of her youngest child. She jumps as the bell in the kitchen signals the readiness of the bread.
Emancipated, mother concerns herself with the rising of the bread and her concern over the immeasurable appetite of the three men near the front door.
To go to the beginning of this series click here
Disclaimer: This story (and series) is semi-fictional, and is in no way connected to persons alive nor dead. Apart from certain facts, it is a product of the author’s imagination.
Thirteen Idolized Man
The lights, the lights, like mother’s love burn through retina and numb the brain. Drink them in, precious boy. Screams of adoration oppress and uplift, confusing like family’s comforting reassurance. Float, young man.
Man drops his key card on the table inside the door of his hotel suite, his music echoes in his ears. He turns to his chosen one and bends to press his mouth against hers. His desire radiates heat through his body. His chosen leaps up, legs around his waist, her sweet scent reaches his taste buds. Man carries her to the bed. She knows what he wants. She has been his before.
“The sword is beside the bed,” man says.
Man lays back and his chosen slides from his lap to retrieve the katana he occasionally uses, like a benediction, to shave his face. She hands it to him and with a smile and a shink! he unsheathes the weapon. He drops the scabbard to the floor and rests the sword on the bed above his head while she undresses him.
“Do you love me as I love you?” man asks.
“More,” his chosen whispers.
She crawls up his body to take the weapon.
Man closes his eyes. The lights and the roar of the crowd pierce his memory as he hungrily anticipates the inspiration of a fresh scar.
To go to the beginning of this series click here
Disclaimer: This story (and series) is semi-fictional, and is in no way connected to persons alive nor dead. Apart from certain facts, it is a product of the author’s imagination.
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