Lyn was raised on a small farm near Austin, Texas. A lover of storytelling from the beginning, she got her start with goofy stories about wild horses and house pets, read aloud to family members on long car rides. From there her interest in fantasy and adventure blossomed, resulting in her YA fantasy novel "The Four Stars" and retro fantasy novel "Prism World."
Lyn and her husband currently call the beautiful valleys of Chattanooga, TN home.
They say that one of the hardest things about being a writer is deciding what gets to stay and what doesn’t when all is said and done. It’s a common theme for writers. My work is my baby. How can I just let it go?
I started writing the first book in my Legend of the Stars series back when I was a sophomore in high school. Somehow, that one book turned into a trilogy, and by the end of 2012, it had turned into a full-blown series. Thanks to some very honest (if slightly brutal) feedback from my writing mentor in college, I started the process of rewriting my old books, and in 2015 I published the second edition of The Four Stars. And then? Radio silence.
The last six years have been a process of determining what goes and what stays. This series is, as far as maturity level and experience goes, absolutely ancient. With disjointed worldbuilding and character development spread across some 20-odd planned books, where do I even start with trying to piece everything together and convince it all to make sense?
Well, I’ve finally settled on a more concrete plan. The new-and-improved Legend of the Stars series will include a set of four books plus a prequel: The Four Stars, The Secret of Erris, Rebirth, Ancient Vengeance, and Fall of Paradise (the prequel). The first four have already been written. They just need to be revised and reorganized. I’ve already got extended outlines done for the first three and am well on my way through the revised extended outline for Ancient Vengeance as well. Fall of Paradise was partially written back in 2011-2012, so I have the beginnings of a manuscript to work on for that story as well. The other dozen or so books I had planned? Well, they may someday show up as a collection of short stories, but for now, they will remain in my head as a pleasant and entertaining piece of my childhood.
Aside from extended outlines, step one for fixing some of the issues I had with the original copies has been rebuilding the map that goes with the stories. My husband and I discovered a wonderful map-creation tool called Inkarnate thanks to our D&D campaigns. We got the yearly Pro subscription to this incredible program which includes commercial use, so one thing you can expect in the rewrites of this series will be a much more organized and consistent map for reference. Here’s a first look at what I’ve drafted so far:
There are definitely still some revisions to be made as I comb the old copies for locations and lore and organize everything accordingly, but I’m liking how it’s coming along so far.
I’ll probably spend most of October doing prep work. With NaNoWriMo around the corner, this may just be an opportunity to buckle down and really get this ball rolling. Happy October, folks! May it be a wonderful and productive month for every one of you!
Currently listening to “Friday Morning Jazz” by Relax Cafe Music
Like the talented procrastinator that I am, I spend a lot of time scrolling mindlessly through Facebook and Pinterest. In an effort to keep myself from being entirely unproductive, one of the pages I’ve followed on Facebook is Writer’s Digest.
I discovered Writer’s Digest back in college when I worked as the periodicals assistant in our university’s library. I used to love skimming through the new issues whenever I went to check them in and dream of a day when I could be a “professional writer.” While being a “professional writer” seems pretty far out of the sphere of possibility at the moment, I still enjoy seeing what the writing world is up to. And that’s how I discovered “Flash Fiction February.”
I am not the sort of person who could credit themselves with being terribly familiar with flash fiction. I’ve heard the term, but as the sort of person who, in my short story writing class in college, was consistently told that I did not, in fact, need to meet that 5,000-word limit on EVERY story I wrote, flash fiction is a pretty foreign concept to me.
Still, I have been looking for ways to improve my writing, and I thought that perhaps learning to say more with less would be a good exercise for me. Because let’s be real. I could stand to learn some brevity.
For those who aren’t familiar with flash fiction (I had to look it up to see exactly what it meant), this is a genre of writing that focuses on stories that are significantly smaller than your average short stories. According to Wikipedia, there are many levels of flash fiction: six-word stories (6 words, obviously), “twitterature” (280-character stories), the “dribble” or “minisaga” (50 words), “drabble” or “microfiction” (100 words), sudden fiction (750 words), and standard flash fiction (1,000 words).
Pretty sure I’m gonna need to just focus on keeping it below 1,000 words for the time being.
Having just discovered the whole concept, I’ve elected to write smaller pieces to get myself caught up. Still only managed to do two today (I was really struggling with some of those prompts), but at least I managed to get somewhere! So, here are the first two prompts I’ve managed to complete. Good luck to anyone else who decides to join in this little event! (Find the original prompts and their explanations/examples here!)
Day 1 Prompt: For today’s prompt, write a story with no dialogue. It could be a story about a place or a person or anything, as long as nothing speaks.
(Note: This is actually something my dog did last night. I felt like it fit perfectly for this prompt.)
Saoirse sat there, staring at the red-and-white knitted fabric hanging off the seat of the computer chair. Her head cocked to one side, then another, brindled ears flipped forward as her dark brown eyes searched for a way to get at the comfy thing in her human’s chair. She was just a dog after all. Her paws were not so flexible as that of her human’s. And her human was sitting on the thing she wanted: that soft piece of fabric that her human would sometimes put on her.
The dog pawed at the back of her human’s chair, but he was enthralled with the shiny box on the table in front of him and didn’t seem to notice her. It was unfortunate. Saoirse liked it when the humans put the soft fabric on her. It kept her nice and snug and warm, and the house was very cold right now. But she didn’t really want to bother her human either. Oh well, she best do it herself.
Gently, Saoirse put her mouth around the fabric and began to tug. Still her human tapped away at the table, eyes glued to the shiny box. He was oblivious.
Tug, tug, tug…
Just then, she heard her female human call to her other human from across the room. He turned, staring down at the fabric still in Saoirse’s mouth. Now she was getting somewhere! The dog released the fabric and sat down, brindle tail wagging as she looked up at her boy expectantly. He laughed, standing and slipping the red-and-white fabric over her head. The dog did a little happy dance before returning to her bed and the stack of blankets on top of it, curling up contentedly.
Now that was what she wanted!
Day 4 Prompt: Any home or professional cooks out there? For today’s prompt, select a kitchen item and write from its perspective.
Stove. That’s what the humans call me. I’m an old thing, moderately used by the humans who come and go from the kitchen where I reside. My white exterior is scuffed and faded, a few dents here and there marking my many years of use, and a layer of dust blankets the decorations on my backboard. I’m an old thing, but faithful enough.
I watch now as one of the humans reaches toward the burner controls, turning the knob on the inner-right side all the way to a marking labeled “Hi.” Instantly I feel a surge of power rush to my back right burner, and I shutter slightly with the effort. The human has learned that I am slow to heat up if she doesn’t give me all the power available to me. Almost in the same movement, her hand flicks over to another button, and I feel my core heating up as well.
A large pot heavy with water from the nearby sink lands on the warming burner only moments before the human is off to a different side of the narrow kitchen. She tosses a bag of frozen spinach into the microwave and punches a button, bringing my newer (and much more heavily used) relative to life with a pleasant buzz. The water in the pot begins to gurgle, and the human girl pours a bag of pasta into it.
Off again she goes, this time with a large bowl and grater, block of Swiss cheese in hand. I hum as the human moves here and there, measuring out ingredients and arranging various dishes, utensils, and spices. Her eyes and jaw are set; her movements are practiced, if slightly awkward. I have seen her prepare this dish only a handful of times, but she clearly has seen it done more than she has practiced.
A timer chirps to let the human know that the pasta has been cooked well enough, and she pours it out into a colander she has previously set in the sink. Then down the pot goes, back on top of me. This time it’s on a different burner, though. She doesn’t need as much power as before, it seems.
The human concentrates more carefully on this part. Butter first, then some flour, then some milk, all methodically added. The light scrape of the large spoon the human uses to mix the ingredients echoes through the otherwise quiet kitchen. The human never ceases her stirring, one hand continuing in rhythmic circles as she reaches every once and a while across to a counter behind her, picking up a small slip of paper and looking over it before nodding and turning her attention back to cooking. She doesn’t stop stirring until she flips the burner off.
I relax then, happy to be able to focus on the warmth burning in my core. I chirp to let the human know I have reached the temperature she needs. A dish is swathed in oil and the various ingredients are layered into it before the human opens the door to my core, placing the dish inside. She taps the timer for good measure, and it isn’t long before the signal rings through the house. The food is ready!
The human gingerly removes the item from my heated core with a gloved hand, setting it down on top of me and looking pleased. Another tap of a button, and I relax with one last shutter, content to simply sit and cool after such hard work. I am an old machine, but at least I am still a reliable one.
Recently I managed to get my hands on a copy of Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild, and as I have been playing through the game, one thing in particular has fascinated me: the characters. This became especially true for me after finishing the Vah Ruta arc, and I couldn’t help but share some of the things I’ve noticed so far that I feel have particular value for those of us who endeavor to be writers.
For any who are concerned about spoilers, I’d suggest reading this post after you’ve played the game. For those who are just curious about my musings, here they are.
I was first introduced to the Legend of Zelda back when I was around 14 or 15 years old. The game series had been out for a long time, but I didn’t have access to any Nintendo consoles. As such, my exposure to the series was limited almost entirely to what I heard from my friends at school, with the exception of the Ocarina of Time mangas I picked up at the bookstore.
Twilight Princess was the first in the series that I had a chance to play, as I would sneak in game sessions while over at my best friend’s house, but I never had a chance to play much of it myself. Still, I watched the playthroughs on YouTube and enjoyed the story for what it was.
I’ve always liked Link as a character. Zelda, I never had much interest in, as her character always seemed somewhat flat to me. The game was named after her, but it wasn’t her story. With Breath of the Wild, I was expecting much the same sort of feel as that of Ocarina of Time or Twilight Princess. I was wrong.
While Zelda’s character development in the game is much more vibrant than I remember it being in either Ocarina of Time or Twilight Princess, the two characters that have really stood out to me so far are actually Link (the main character) and Sidon (the Zora prince).
Link
I have always been a fan of Link, ever since I first was introduced to the game series, and I can’t say his character is strikingly different from other renditions of him, but the thing that I wanted to mention about Link is actually how incredible it is that you can have a character who literally never talks. Or, I should say, who we never hear talk.
A regular aspect of Link in every Legend of Zelda game I’ve played or seen is that he is usually the only main character that has no notable dialogue, whether verbal or subtitled. This is equally true in Breath of the Wild. And yet, despite never really hearing his voice, we (or, at least, I) find him to be one of the most loveable characters of any story I have ever been exposed to.
As a writer, I get hung up on dialogue a lot. This is not to say, of course, that dialogue isn’t important, but if you look at how Link’s character is portrayed, clearly his dialogue is not what makes him the brave, loveable character he is.
There are two things I’ve noticed so far that really make Link stand out. The first and most obvious of those two things is the dialogue of the other characters. What Link says to the other characters is left almost entirely up to the player’s imagination, but what the NPCs say about and to Link tells you worlds about who he is supposed to be as a person.
The memory flashback of Link and Mipha, for instance, tells you almost everything you need to know about Link’s childhood and his relationship with the Zora princess. They are close friends. Mipha undoubtedly thinks of Link as more than a friend. We definitely get the sense that Mipha thinks highly of Link, though there is also mention that he was reckless and accident-prone even as a kid. Impa, either of the two researchers you meet earlier in the game, even the Zora king have positive reactions to Link’s return and give you clues as to how important he was before the Calamity, not to mention how loved and admired he was.
Though more subtle, Link’s character also comes out in his visual responses to what is happening around him. His eyes widen when he is surprised or he remembers something. Arms outstretched and body hunched, he’s ready for a fight. His most notable visual responses I’ve seen so far are in the flashback memory of the fall of Hyrule Castle, where a sobbing Zelda collapses into his arms. His reaction is awkward at first, but he eases into the embrace. His face remains somber, every bit what you could expect of a Hyrulian knight and Champion, but his body language is soft.
To sum it up, there are the two things I have noticed about writing in the character of Link. The first is that, when developing dialogue, consider whether or not it is absolutely necessary for the continuation of the story. After all, you don’t need dialogue to portray a character. When you do use it, however, make it powerful, and don’t neglect even the more minor characters. Even their reactions to your main character can have a big impact on character development.
Secondly, don’t forget about body language. This sort of falls into the “show, don’t tell” adage you will often hear in writing communities. Basically, the idea is that everything from a twitch in the eye to a bend in the knee can tell you worlds about who the character is if used correctly. It’s not just about the big, superfluous action scenes. The subtle movements of a character can be just as important.
Sidon
Sidon is the prince of the Zora who you meet in order to complete the Divine Beast Vah Ruta part of the main questline. For me, I got dragged into meeting him thanks to a collection of random Zora NPCs harassing me across the map of Hyrule saying that I should meet their prince on some bridge nearby.
At the beginning, I found Sidon to be an excessively annoying character. He’s weirdly chipper and has this thing he does where he gives Link some sort of thumbs up and a tooth twinkle at every opportunity. Basically, he was one of those characters I wanted to stuff back in the proverbial box and stamp “return to sender” on it.
Sidon is a major player throughout the Vah Ruta arc of the story, and despite his atrociously annoying quirk, he did grow on me over time. It was this aspect of the character I found fascinating: that a character so annoying could also be so loveable.
I still haven’t fully grasped what it is about Sidon that made his character grow on me, but as a writer, I find the idea intriguing. Sidon has this annoying quirk, and yet he’s so brave and passionate, you have to give him a measure of credit. He’s a bit awkward, sometimes repeating himself or talking very loudly, and by the end, you get the sense that there is a lot more depth to his character than was originally portrayed. He is the younger brother of the Zora princess, Mipha, Link’s close friend from before the Calamity and one of the Divine Champions. After Mipha lost her life in Ganon’s hijacking of the Divine Beasts, the title of heir fell to Sidon. Being so vastly different from his sister, however, Sidon has a lot to live up to, and in a way, you can see him struggling to keep up the strong façade, which perhaps is the real source of his annoyingly garish introduction.
In terms of writing, Sidon is a fascinating study of a character who can at once have both annoying quirks and loveable traits. In real life, I feel safe in saying we are all a “Sidon” at times. We all have our annoying quirks and loveable traits. Writing characters with both is what makes them real, but it’s especially important for an otherwise annoying character to have reasons for the reader to love them, too, or they become more of a hindrance in the story than a help.
There is so much more that could be said of the writing behind Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild, and maybe I will write about it again, but in conclusion, there is a reason why the series has lasted as long as it has, and I don’t think it’s just because of the gameplay. From the viewpoint of a writer, I feel like there is a lot that can be learned from a story as timeless as the Legend of Zelda, and that is especially true in the character development of some of the major players in Breath of the Wild, whether it be the use of dialogue and body language, or simply the art of making an annoying character loveable at the same time.
Recently, in order to help myself increase my writing productivity, I’ve given myself permission to write whatever I want. Don’t worry about catching up on the many official books and series I’ve started or have planned. Don’t worry about making up for lost time on the blog. Just write. As such, I’ve turned to a slightly different type of writing. Something more realistic but maybe a tad less unique.
I haven’t decided whether or not to call it fanfiction yet, but it certainly is something inspired by a game. Not any game, though. It’s an old, mostly text-based online game called Final Furlong, and one of the few things/projects I’ve stayed mostly committed to for over a decade.
Final Furlong is an online virtual Thoroughbred horse racing game that was launched in 1997 that runs on real time. I discovered the game around 2008 while searching for virtual horse games (must admit, I was a virtual horse game addict). It’s been 12 years and I still play the game fairly religiously. It’s been a bit of a journey for me. It’s only been in the last 3 years that I’ve really been able to figure the game out and become successful. The creator of Final Furlong is, to me, a coding genius, making the virtual horses wonderfully complex, and I’ve found myself falling in love with the creatures that are as much in my mind as in the series of 0s and 1s in my computer.
It’s not like horse racing (or horses in general) are entirely foreign to me. I grew up close to a horse racing track (mostly quarter horses), and there was also a stud farm near where I lived. As a kid, my parents would (almost without fail) take me to the stud farm which technically housed more broodmares than stallions so that I could see the foals playing in the paddocks.
The short story/scene written below is largely inspired by an experience I had as a kid while at the stud farm. It’s possible I may one day rework this whole story to be an actual book, but for now, it’s just fun writing inspired by a mixture of the real and virtual worlds I have loved so much for so long.
It was a quiet, grey morning as an old Ford pickup pulled off the country road on which it had been travelling and onto the paved driveway of a small stud farm. A wooden sign at the entrance of the property read “Edgewood Stud,” which was scrawled in chipping paint across the sign’s weathered surface. Across from the weathered sign, a small duck pond shivered in a cool spring breeze, reflecting like a mirror the blanket of light grey clouds that hovered above.
Further down the paved driveway, the property opened up to a series of barns on the left and a couple dozen quarter-acre paddocks on the right. A variety of sturdy mares milled about the paddocks, polished hooves glistening with the moisture remaining from an earlier misting, while leggy weanlings tagged along at their heels and the local stallions nickered at them from the stables across the drive.
Halfway down the pavement, the old Ford pulled to a stop along the string of paddocks. The passenger door was the first to open as a girl of about five, with a mop of auburn hair pulled into a ponytail and lively brown eyes, bounded from her seat, small booted feet thumping lightly against the loose turf as she scanned her surroundings excitedly. Her name was Fae Darling, daughter of Neil Darling, one of the jockeys who took mounts at the small but friendly little Kentucky racecourse just down the road from the Edgewood Stud Farm.
Fae hardly waited for her father as she all but waltzed down to the first of the string of paddocks housing the mares and their tiny foals. It was a tradition for her, as far as traditions could go for a girl of only five, to go with her parents to the local stud farm to view the weanlings every spring, and so far in her short life, it was her favorite of all the places on earth.
Neil said nothing as he followed along behind his daughter, seemingly amused at her bright and childish excitement. Fae was hardly more than a weanling herself, thin and all legs as she bounced from paddock to paddock. She had to greet every mare and foal, no matter if the horses paid her any mind themselves.
“Hi, mama,” she would call to a mare, reaching one hand through the bars of the paddock gate and rubbing her tiny fingers together in an attempt to get the horse’s attention.
Some mares at least feigned interest, lazily wandering up to the gate to bump the child’s hand with their velvety noses, no doubt more in search of treats than of petting. Some merely chose to view the leggy creature from the hay racks in the center of the paddocks. A few ignored her entirely. Only one or two showed any real interest in the clumsy petting Fae had to offer them.
What Fae loved the most, however, were the foals. The tiny creatures, still more legs than horse, had no end of ways in which to flirt with the girl who beckoned for their attention from the barred gates at the end of the paddocks. Some ducked their heads beneath their mothers’ bellies, watching with a mix of fascination and fear, trying to figure out the two-legged human creature that was as small as they were.
Some weren’t so much afraid as they were entertained, teasing Fae by trotting just outside of her reach before kicking up their little heels and putting on a show as they ran circles around their mothers who watched in seeming resignation.
Most of the mares seemed at ease around the humans at the gate, keeping close to their foals but never really feeling the need to butt in to whatever it was they were on about. Some were more protective, ushering their young away from the gate whenever they got too close to it. The odd mare actually seemed to become jealous of her foal, pushing her baby away in favor of a good pat on the neck.
Sometimes, though rarely, a particularly curious foal would wander all the way to the gate, relaxed mother watching on in what could only be construed as curious boredom, allowing Fae to stroke it a bit before romping off to play, either alone or by challenging its peers in the neighboring paddocks to a race up and down the fence line.
One paddock, two paddocks, three paddocks, four…
Fae made her way down the rows, giggling at the antics of the babies while offering pets to the mothers. She was nearly to the end of the paddocks when she at last came to one with a particularly bright-eyed grey filly, who cocked her head and perked her ears forward when Fae approached. The filly’s dam, also a grey with doe-like eyes and a white star on her forehead, chewed lazily on the hay in the rack, watching her foal and the human girl with interest but little more.
Again Fae started up her ritual, putting her hand through the gate and rubbing her fingers together to get the mare and foal’s attention, as she had seen her mother and father do in times past.
“Hi, pretty baby,” the girl cooed, locking eyes with the bright-eyed filly. “Can I pet you?”
The filly let out a little snort and shook her head, prancing in place when she realized the two-legged creature’s attention was on her.
Fae smiled brightly, leaning her head against the bars of the gate.
“It’s ok, baby, I won’t hurt you.”
She clucked lightly at the filly.
The little horse seemed overcome with curiosity then, edging closer, big, dark eyelashes blinking back at Fae as she walked. The filly stopped within inches of Fae’s outstretched hand, sniffing curiously.
“It’s ok,” Fae cooed again.
A little more coaxing, and suddenly the filly was in reach.
Gently, Fae tickled under the filly’s chin. The little creature jumped slightly, unsure at first about the unexpected touch, but on the second try she seemed to settle into it, clearly beginning to enjoy the new-found feeling. At first it was just chin-scratches; then it was jaw rubs. Soon Fae was petting the filly from the face, down her neck, and to her back. Slowly but surely, the little creature began to press into Fae’s hand. Before long, the filly was all but leaning against the gate, and the next thing Fae knew, the little creature had poked one tiny hoof through the bars of the gate, resting it in the little girl’s lap.
A bit of a squeal escaped Fae’s lips at the gesture.
“Daddy, look!” she called as quietly as she could muster.
Neil, who had been petting a mare in the paddock next to this one, glanced toward his daughter at the sudden call.
“That’s cute,” he chuckled lightly, going back to petting the mare in front of him. “We probably need to get going, though.”
He gave the mare one final pat before making his way back toward the truck further down the drive.
“Just a little longer!” Fae pleaded, half looking after her father and half watching as the filly continued to lean into the petting that the girl offered. The tiny hoof spearing Fae’s leg now was a bit uncomfortable, but she dared not move.
I want this horse, she thought to herself. I wish I could take this baby home with me.
“Fae!” Neil called then.
The girl let out a very animated and frustrated sigh, and the grey filly opened one eye curiously at the sound.
“I’m sorry, but I have to go,” Fae said, gently trying to push the filly’s leg back through the gate without hurting her. The little horse pressed forward, as though not wanting to put her leg back through the gate.
“I know. I’m sorry,” Fae apologized again, this time managing to safely put the filly’s leg back on the other side. As she stood to go, the foal put her face through the bars, as though reaching out for more petting.
“Don’t do that or you’re gonna make me cry,” Fae fussed, patting the filly on the head one last time.
By now, the filly’s mother had come to see what all the fuss was about, leaning her head over the gate to inspect the small girl. Fae giggled, giving the mare a pat as well. It was then that the glistening of a name plate on the mare’s halter caught Fae’s eye, and she traced her fingers over the letters, reading out slowly.
“Some…thin’ Spe…cial… Somethin’ Special,” she said out loud before looking back up into the doe-like eyes of the grey mare. “Yeah, your baby is somethin’ special. I have to go now. Bye bye!”
And with a wave, the girl trotted off after her father who waited somewhat impatiently at the passenger side door. A little whinny cut through the quiet morning atmosphere from behind, as though issuing a final farewell.
Currently listening to: Traveler’s Song by Aviators
Look who’s still alive!
I’m not even going to pretend that I’ve been good at keeping up with my blog in recent years, and honestly it’s time to stop making excuses. (I feel like all attempts at blogging in the last few years have been excuse-making and not actual blogging). There are a myriad of reasons why I’ve struggled with the blog since leaving college, but this will be the last time I mention it. I’ll update when I can and just work toward better consistency in the meantime.
One thing I’ve realized in the years since leaving college is that I am not so much a writer as I am a social writer. Some people write simply because they have a story to tell, or some sort of burden on their hearts that drives them to write even if no one will ever look at what they’ve put on paper. Maybe I used to be that way, but in the years since leaving college, I’ve found that being creative without people to share that creativity with has meant that I have a lot less drive to prioritize my writing over housework or computer games.
Freelance writing has been a lesson in futility for me, being an extremely competitive and often thankless work. I’m not competitive, but I am hard on myself. My view of my ability as a writer has always been tied up in the approval of others, and I am quick to become despondent when my proposals are rejected over and over again. I’ve done ghost writing, but there is something very empty about that, and in the end, I have turned to other, more consistent forms of work. I’ve done some editing along with my journey into the world of freelance, which has been mostly positive but it has been made very clear to me that my editing is not publishing house quality. I suppose I’ve always known that, but I wanted to try. My husband has been very supportive and tries to listen when I rattle off story ideas of my own, but he’s not really the literary sort, so everything sounds good to him as far as he’s concerned, and I have stopped asking him for feedback because frankly he’s too nice. I have felt like I have been stuck in a tailspin with no way to get out. And for a while, I became so depressed that I stopped writing all-together. If I did write, it came in very short spurts followed by days staring blankly at the computer screen.
However, there has also been something in the background that has slowly but surely begun pulling me out of that depression, beginning last summer but growing over the course of time to the point that I finally felt I could pull this blog back up and try again. Some may laugh at my source of inspiration, but here it is. Last summer, I discovered Dungeons & Dragons (D&D for short).
I had heard about D&D for years but had never given it a whole lot of thought. I come from a very religious family and community, and anyone who knows anything about D&D knows that it used to be considered, at best, a game for 40-year-old men living in their mothers’ basements and, at worst, a devil-worshiping cult. As such, I never had a whole lot of exposure to it. I just thought of it as another game. So when my husband suggested we join a D&D game last summer, as both of us were sorely lacking socialization in our lives, I readily agreed. It sounded like a fun way to pass some time. What I discovered, however, was that D&D was much more than just a game. At least for the group we play with, D&D is like a living, breathing fantasy novel.
For the first game we joined (after trying a couple characters I didn’t end up using very long), I created a wizard bladesinger who multiclassed into rogue named Aeva. I did a cursory overview of the lore of the Forgotten Realms, which is where our campaign is based, and wrote up a little blurb about how Aeva had studied at the Blackstaff Tower and had become an archaeologist, but that was pretty much it. We played through a good portion of the campaign, and like the other characters I had tried, Aeva seemed bland. She wasn’t fun to play, and I really couldn’t figure out why. I mean, the game was fun enough, but if Aeva had died during that part of the campaign, I wouldn’t have missed her much.
At one point, another of the players decided it made sense for her character to stay where the group currently was. (Her character was from that city, and the city was trying to recover from nearly being demolished while its leader, that character’s brother, recovered from a bad injury sustained in the most recent battle). At the time, my character’s one driving factor was her search for ancient ruins, so I thought maybe I’d just dump Aeva here, too. After all, there were some ancient ruins nearby that we had failed to explore thoroughly thanks to a brutal encounter we ended up running away from. Then the DM (the person who runs the game) asked that no one else switch out characters. OK, I was stuck with Aeva. But if I was stuck with Aeva, I needed to make her more fun to play. That’s when I realized something. My character had no depth. Her driving force was shallow. So I asked the DM if I could redo Aeva’s backstory. He said that was fine.
That’s when I really sat down with my character and looked her over. D&D, I realized, wasn’t just a game where you threw together a bunch of stats and killed monsters. It was a living, breathing world woven together by the amazing storyteller who ran the campaign for us. If he was going to put that much effort into telling the story, I needed to put some real effort into making one of that story’s characters worth “reading” about.
First, I looked at Aeva’s classes. She’s a wizard but also a rogue. Rogues in D&D are typically associated with thieves. Why would a character who studied magic at the exclusive arcane academy that practically runs the metropolis of Waterdeep have anything to do with skills related to a rogue? Where would she have learned them? I had originally chosen to multiclass her to give her a little extra damage with her rapier (bladesinging feature), but what kind of reason in the story would she have to know those things? I had recently learned that Aeva, being an elf, would have lived through the Spellplague, a time in which using magic would (at best) not work and (at worst) turn the magic user into some sort of horrible monster. Aeva survived that as a magic user, which meant that she had to have had some sort of skills other than magic to keep her alive. That, I decided, was where she must have learned to use a sword. I then wrote in a character for her backstory who taught her how to use her rapier more effectively. This character was a rogue who helped Aeva survive some awful times during that part of her life. That was how she multiclassed into a rogue.
Bit by bit, I began to ask myself other questions. How did she gain the cartography skill? Why has she not been to Waterdeep for nearly 100 years? Why would she join forces with this eclectic group of adventurers (which I have affectionately dubbed “The Odd Squad”)? With these questions in mind, I began to build a character who really wasn’t much of a hero in the standard sense of the word but who had a reason for being part of the adventure all the same. That’s when I began to have fun playing her. That’s also what has engaged me more in the overall story. I worry for my character now. I try to make the decisions that she would make and I try to see through her eyes. Sometimes those decisions really aren’t the best, but they’re hers. I started writing the story of our campaign just to keep up with all the information and to make sure I was playing true to my character. And that’s when my creativity started to return.
When sifting through the myriad of writing tips that float around the internet, you often see advice to “interview” your characters. I have done that before even on this blog. The interview questions I have often seen listed range from “What is your character’s favorite food?” to “What is your character most afraid of?” These are all good questions to ask, but perhaps for people like me they’re a bit too specific early on in the development process. Perhaps a better, slightly broader question is: “Why is your character here?”
I know that more than once I have written down plots that sound like pretty cool ideas, but my characters seem only to be along for the ride. They otherwise have no real reason to be there. They are apathetic at best, and even their deaths would not elicit an overabundance of emotion. That’s when you know the character isn’t real.
Recently, one of my friends from the said D&D game introduced me to a book he has been using to build his newer characters as he, too, has been struggling with a character with minimal backstory who he doesn’t much care for.
The book is called The Ultimate RPG Character Backstory Guide by James D’Amato. Though definitely geared toward RPG players (think Dungeons & Dragons or Pathfinder), I have found that the ideas behind it have been very good for my story characters, too. This is especially true since I’m more experienced with fantasy writing than other types of writing.
While not every question or category really applies to a given character, there are a variety of things in this book to get a person thinking. These topics can range from creating holidays for your character’s culture to discussing how a group of people working together might react to each other in certain scenarios. If your character is leaving on a journey, what might they be leaving behind? If your character were to be severely wounded and on the verge of death, what thought might keep them fighting for their lives? What kind of experiences in childhood would your character never want to experience again, and how do those experiences shape the way they react to the world around them now? These are just a few questions brought up in the book that I have found very helpful in shaping my characters.
For me, I often find that I get too fixated on the mechanics of writing. I want to do things perfect the first time, so I focus on themes, and wording, and punctuation, and all those other formulaic guides about how to write a perfect book. It gets depressing, because I am quite aware of the fact that I am not perfect, and I probably never will be.
I read a comment on a forum recently that struck home for me. The person in question wrote, “I would rather read a book with a sucky plot and a character that I can identify with than a book with a perfect plot and a boring character.”
It made me realize that I have been so focused on building the perfect story that I have forgotten that the characters are the ones who give the story life. Characters need flaws. They need struggles. More specifically, they need backstories. Because in the end, where we come from greatly influences who we are and where we go in the present.
Really should have posted this one a while back, but with moving across country and diving into the world of full-time freelancing, I’ve been a bit slow on the draw.
Honestly, this isn’t the sort of book I would have picked up on my own, but when my cousin enthusiastically asked me if I’d read it so she could talk about it with someone (she absolutely loved it), I couldn’t say no.
This month’s book review is for Paris Time Capsule, an innocent mystery/romance written by Ella Carey.
My rating: 3 of 5
Summary
The story centers around a young American photographer named Cat Jordan. Cat has everything a girl might dream of: a decent (if mundane) job, a handsome (and rich!) boyfriend, and the promise of a glamorous life amongst New York’s elite. Sure, the boyfriend’s circle can be pretty demanding, but Cat never thinks much of it. At least not until she receives a mysterious package with a key.
In a whirlwind of events, Cat finds herself the dubious owner of a flat in Paris bestowed on her by a woman she has never even heard of. With the help of the previous owner’s handsome grandson, Cat sets out to discover the reason behind the strange inheritance, turning up a story of heartache and intrigue with an untouched WWII apartment sitting at its core, all the while searching for where her heart truly lies.
What I Liked
I’m a history addict, so the concept of an apartment sitting mysteriously untouched since WWII definitely had me hooked. What makes this story concept even more amazing is the fact that it is actually based on a real place.
Originally owned by Marthe de Florian (also the owner of the apartment in the book), a real-life courtesan during the Belle Epoque era, the apartment was passed down to Marthe’s granddaughter, who fled Paris just ahead of the Nazi invasion and who never again returned to the apartment to claim all the priceless possessions left inside.
The amount of research and true-to-life events woven into this story truly had me captivated, especially as the mystery began to unravel later in the book.
Perhaps what most impressed me, however, was the unexpected turn of events toward the end when the truth behind the abandoned apartment was revealed. (And no, I’m not spoiling that for you.) I pride myself in being able to predict most stories, especially romances, as many are incredibly formulaic in nature. This one, however, did manage to throw in some pieces I didn’t expect, and for that I was very impressed.
What Could Have Been Better
So, with me being so impressed, why only 3 of 5?
Honestly, the history, research, and mystery were really the only things that impressed me. Beyond that, the book read much like a Hallmark movie. For what I assume is the target audience, that probably isn’t a bad thing. For me, however, I find Hallmark-esque romances to be very annoying.
Start from the beginning. We begin the story with a stereotypically annoying, not-right-for-you boyfriend who I spent the entire book wanting to toss out the nearest window. You know Cat isn’t going to end up with him, especially when that predictably drop-dead gorgeous Frenchman enters the scene, but hey, she needs someone to break up with, right?
Oh yeah. About that drop-dead gorgeous Frenchman. How do they meet? On a dark street, in front of a mostly abandoned building, claiming to be the grandson of the apartment’s previous owner. And what does our heroine do? Completely buys his story and goes to a bar with him. Because that’s not suspicious at all. Of course, this is after she just up and flies all the way to Paris on a photographer’s salary thanks to a mysterious package and a phone call from a person she’s never met claiming she’s inherited an apartment from someone she’s never heard of. There were multiple times when I wanted to reach through the pages, take Cat by the shoulders, and shake the stupid out of her. In real life, this woman would have probably been kidnapped a dozen times within the first 48 hours of her arrival in France.
The dialogue was also confusing and awkward at times, and the unnecessary levels of drama (or lack thereof during appropriate moments) made reading through the story quite frustrating.
Conclusion
If you’re a fan of Hallmark, I’d say this is the book for you. It’s definitely not a bad book, and it gets better as you read. The beginning is very slow, but I certainly enjoyed getting a little history lesson on an event I admittedly know very little about, and the mystery was very well done. Overall, decent read.
I’ll be honest, with everything going on in my life these days, I actually forgot it was November, and by default, it wasn’t until this morning that I woke up and thought, “Wait! It’s November! I’m missing NaNoWriMo!”
Not that I’ve done well in NaNoWriMo in the past few years. I’ve got the attention span of a fly, and I’ve noticed that, unless it’s my freelance writing, my self-discipline seems to be woefully inadequate these days to keep up with the ambitious goals that are National Novel Writing Month.
This is, of course, on top of the fact that my own writing goals have been especially lofty (possibly too lofty) this year. Most of my writing time has been spent on world development for my Legend of the Stars, Prism World, and Olandris Legacies series, all of which are huge, detailed worlds spanning anywhere from hundreds to hundreds of thousands of years. I probably have at least a dozen half-baked ideas and manuscripts lying around, with nothing especially viable to show for the time I have put into it all this year. (Not to mention my lack of activity here on my blog makes it look like I keep getting raptured and returned.)
Considering the disarray of my writing projects, I’ve decided that NaNoWriMo this year will be a bit different for me. Instead of coming up with a new project to work on, or trying to force myself to work on one manuscript or another that has already been started but currently feels very stagnant, I thought I’d take the opportunity over the next however many days we have left in November to get everyone up to date on what I’ve been working on by giving myself some smaller writing goals. Maybe somewhere along the way I’ll be able to get at least one project back on track and start getting all these books finished.
Again, and again, and again, I’ve tried to find methods of keeping myself writing since I graduated from college 4 years ago. I’ve found that it’s more difficult than I ever thought it’d be. I’ve tried writing prompts, 100-words-per-day goals, even keeping a notebook and pen by my bedside. There are certainly moments of inspiration. Still, writing in a distracting world can be really difficult.
Enter Pinterest. If there’s one thing that has helped me with inspiration and techniques, it’s been this site, which is chock full of prompts, techniques, and any sort of inspirational art/photography/fact you could possibly want.
This morning, I found a new technique which I am eager to put to the test. Found on the website The Novel Factory, this “novel writing roadmap” is designed to get a novel writer from idea to final draft over the course of one year.
I’ve seen many method outlines for writing a novel over the years, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen one quite so complete as this one. This “roadmap” offers a breakdown not only of what should be accomplished in each segment, but how to do it as well. I’ve got a head start for The Secret of Erris in that this book is a rewrite, but I still want to make sure it at least meets (if not exceeds) the quality of the rewrite of The Four Stars, so I’m hoping this guide will get me organized and back to writing soon.
If you try it, feel free to leave a comment to let me know what you think of it too!
Recently, I’ve hit a roadblock with my main stories, as I’ve gotten a bit bogged down in the world building and plot crafting, so today I decided to do a small freewrite to get my creative juices flowing.
Titanfall is the working title for a story idea I’ve been playing with for a few months now. The genre is a sort of apocalyptic/sci-fi mix.
Backstory:
Roughly 50 years prior, the world fell into a third world war which spanned nearly 3 decades. Toward what would become the end of the war, a swarm of hostile creatures of unknown origin descended upon the earth. Greatly resembling dinosaurs, these creatures came to be called dragons. Their appearance was followed shortly by even deadlier monsters, many the size of small cities, which came to be called titans. Human civilization was reduced to small pockets of refugees, and many of these small bands began to doubt that there might be any other survivors.
Shortly after the appearance of the titans, an event known as Titanfall, a young boy was found unconscious in the path of one of the beasts. His identity and origin a mystery, the young boy soon claimed the name of Nox, meaning “night,” and made it his mission to discover the truth behind the bringers of the apocalypse.
The Beginning
A thick mist hung heavy over the gnarled trees that spanned the near horizon, the greyish red light of dawn casting an eerie glow against the dismal landscape. In the distance, a large, dark form could be seen traipsing slowly along an unmarked path, its ribbed back arching above the treetops which shook with each lumbering step. Nothing else broke the silence.
From where he stood on the crumbling concrete steps of an old church building, a young man of about 16 watched the dark form disappear into the grey curtain stretched along the horizon, keen hazel eyes silently mapping its path. He jumped at a light touch at his elbow.
“Is everything alright, Nox?”
The visitor was a young girl of about 12. Her long black hair was pulled back into a braid, and she looked up at the teen with worried, pale blue eyes.
“Yeah, it’s fine, Emma. You shouldn’t be out here, though. We never know when a dragon or titan might show up.”
“As if this old dump would be any match for a titan,” the girl snipped back, crossing her arms over her chest.
Nox sighed, then patted her head before turning back to the door.
“I can’t argue that,” he responded. “But anyway, come inside already. I could use some help with breakfast.”
—–
“You were watching the titans again, weren’t you?”
Nox paused at the question, staring absently into the skillet of sizzling potatoes in front of him.
“You know me too well,” he answered at length, his hand coming to rest on the hilt of the sword at his hip.
“I wish you wouldn’t do that.”
Emma’s countenance sank with her voice as she uttered the words.
“It scares me when you do that. You always look like you’re about to leave.”
Nox cast his gaze away at this, his shoulders slumping slightly. Emma seemed to notice this, and quickly she dropped the knife she had been using to slice mushrooms with, rushing to grab Nox by the arm.
“Nox, you’re not really…thinking…”
“Yeah…”
“Why?!”
The young man cringed at the pain in the girl’s voice.
“I’m sorry, Emma. But I can’t help it. I want to know who I am, and the titans are my only lead.”
“You’re Nox! You’re my friend! What else do you need to know?”
Emma was crying now.
“I’ve already lost my brother. Why do I have to lose you, too?”
A pain constricted around Nox’s heart as he watched the girl sob, and quietly he pulled her into a tight hug.
“I wouldn’t be gone forever, you know. I just want to figure out where I come from. You know where they found me, in the path of a titan. I don’t have any memory of where I’m from, but how could I have been such a young kid and survived an encounter with a titan? I can’t stop thinking about it. And I don’t think I’ll ever be able to rest until I find answers to my questions. You understand, don’t you?”
Emma’s grip on his shirt tightened, but her sobs had died down some by now.
At this, Nox stood back slightly, leaning down to look her in the eye.
“You’ve seen me fight off dragons, and you know I would never intentionally put myself in harm’s way without reason. It would just be a short journey. And it’s not like you’re alone here. The headmistress is here to take care of you. You’ve got the guards to protect you, and the other orphans to spend time with. I’m not the only person in this compound.”
“You’re the only Nox, though.”
The girl averted her eyes as she spoke, her cheeks flushing a slight pink.
Nox laughed at this.
“True. I don’t know that the world could handle more than one of me.”
“The headmistress won’t be happy.”
“She doesn’t need to know. And anyway, it’s not like we’re prisoners, exactly.”
For a moment, silence fell over the room. Only the sound of the potatoes sizzling on the stove nearby broke the stillness.
Then, after a time, Emma crossed her arms over her chest and asked quietly, “When do you leave?”
As a relatively inexperienced writer, and one who is very much in need of practice and knowledge, the topic of what makes the difference between a good book and a great book is one of great interest to me.
Ask any writer what they think makes a great book and they will have their own personalized list of do’s and do not’s. Sometimes, these pieces of advice are similar or even the same to those of other writers. Start the story off with a hook. Avoid adverbs. Show, don’t tell. Balance tension and release. Use the word “said” in your dialogue for a change (I drove my mentor batty by using almost any other word but “said” following my dialogue).
All good advice, mind you, but what might hook you as the author may or may not hook your reader, and the show-tell/tension-release concepts can be difficult to measure. And in any case, writing is as much personal style as it is rules. So where do you draw the line, and how do you measure the quality of your work?
And then there’s something else that I’ve noticed. There are great books, and then there are great books. What’s the difference? The best way I can think to describe the difference is with the Best Seller vs. Classic concept. And no, I don’t just mean A Tale of Two Cities or Pride & Prejudice.
The fact of the matter is, just because a book is a best seller doesn’t necessarily mean it’ll become a classic. And just because it is a classic, that doesn’t mean it’ll be a best seller. This is why you’ve probably heard of (or maybe even read) C. S. Lewis’s The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe (published in 1950; not a best seller) but maybe haven’t heard of Daphne du Maurier’s The Parasites (also published in 1950; was a best seller that year).
One was a momentary fad; the other has withstood the test of time.
So what’s the difference? Why is it that a book popular in its moment can be so easily forgotten, while another can be seemingly obscure yet be remembered decades, or even centuries, after its publication?
A quick search for “Characteristics of a classic story” lead to a variety of basic descriptors. There’s longevity (duh); language (they coin new expressions or phrases that stick); originality and freshness (but there are plenty of best sellers that could fit that bill). The two things that stood out to me the most, however, are these: classic stories (a) focus on something that is essential to being human and (b) are so reflecting of the culture in which they are written that they become a beacon of that culture as time goes on.
Think of the classics that you are familiar with. Maybe it’s Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice, which explores not only the culture of the era but also the concepts of human pride and superficial judgement of others. Maybe it’s Charles Dickens’ A Tale of Two Cities, which at once covers the brutality of the French Revolution and the concept of human redemption. There are also Alexandre Dumas’ The Count of Monte Cristo (revolutionary France and the consequences of revenge), Mark Twain’s The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn (showing the brutal reality of slavery in America and exploring human value and what it truly means to be a moral individual), and Dante’s Inferno (reflecting both classic literature and religious thought in his time while also exploring the concept of sin).
Even some of the more modern stories (including movies) could be considered classics (although many might argue otherwise). The Lion King is a story that brings the wilds of Africa to life while simultaneously touching on the concept of leadership and justice. Mulan is remembered both for its portrayal of 5th/6th century China along with its promotion of equality and friendship. Gone with the Wind portrays the events of the American Civil War while also exploring themes such as the cost of war, the reality of change, and the positives and negatives of personal strength and self-reliance.
Though a bit different from what are known as true “Classics,” both old and modern stories that are well-beloved are remembered for more than just the action and excitement. They delve deep into the human mind and bring to light both social and psychological issues present not just in their time but throughout human history.
I search for the content. Something that makes me learn something.
—
A good book is a treasure trove of humanity so that no matter how often you open a page and start reading, there is still something new to be discovered.
—
A great book is not only going to have a good story, but it is going to be written well. But sometimes a good book has to do more with what the reader needs at that given time in his or her life. The books I read while going through my divorce may not fall into the normal classification of a “good” book, but it was what I needed at that time in my life and I may therefore classify it as a good book.
The moral of the story (at least from my perspective)? Good writing is great. Catching the reader’s interest is mandatory. But touching the reader’s soul? That is what makes a Classic.
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