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Welcome all dreamers, fantasists, bibliophiles, and romantics. Join me Mondays and Fridays for speculation about other worlds, exploration of the human heart and soul in fiction and fact, sojourns in history and science, advice and tidbits in the realms of story, and thoughts on everything in between...

Friday, August 22, 2014

Even Animals Should Have Personalities

As an avid dog lover, I found this site absolutely hilarious. It shows the mischief people’s dogs get into and, on occasion, the results thereof. It also made me appreciate how well behaved my dogs are, even if one did take off with my shoes this morning and another did her business in my parents’ bedroom.

But all the humor left me with one significant thought when it comes to writing. Animals, perhaps because they can so easily become moving props, are often lacking in personality in writing. But in actuality, giving an animal, even a minor character animal, a touch of personality goes a long way. Think of all the animals in fiction and movies, especially the ones that weren’t the main characters. The ones with distinct personalities were much more likely to touch you, and I’m wiling to bet that those are the ones you remember.

So, with that thought, I encourage you to check out these adorable and hilarious examples of mischief.

See you Monday for the next round of Outlander by Diana Gabaldon.

Monday, August 18, 2014

Outlander by Diana Gabaldon: Read, Chapter 1


Welcome to today’s read of Outlander by Diana Gabaldon. Unlike previous novels I’ve shared on this blog, this book is not as directly speculative; however, by the very nature of time travel in the story, it falls within the speculative vein. Further, as the new series of Outlander has recently begun on Starz, it seemed fitting to do a read of the novel.

To check out other books I’ve read for this blog and broken down into writing tips, click here.

Enjoy!

SPOILERS!

This story begins with a brief text, not even a prologue, but a commentary on disappearances. As it’s so short and I want to break down how and why it’s effective, I’ll quote the whole text:

People disappear all the time. Ask any policeman. Better yet, ask a journalist. Disappearances are bread-and-butter to journalists. 
Young girls run away from home. Young children stray from their parents and are never seen again. Housewives reach the end of their tether and take the grocery money and a taxi to the station. International financiers change their names and vanish into the smoke of imported cigars. 
Many of the lost will be found, eventually, dead or alive. Disappearances, after all, have explanations. 
Usually.
Writer Comments: A haunting opening to be sure. Before I begin on the text itself, take note that this is given on a page with no number. Page one doesn’t begin until the actual start of chapter one. It is as if this little aside were as disconnected and unplaced as the people who disappear.

So why does this aside work and why include it? 

Let’s begin with the first sentence, for it is, after all, the book’s opening line, which we know is crucial.

“People disappear all the time.”

At first glance, it may appear a simple, common statement. As of yet, we have no character, no setting, not even a true event with which to connect. This seems contrary to most advice on the subject of first lines. However, Gabaldon uses a different technique to snare reader interest: the unsettling of expectations. Disappearances, after all, whether our car keys or a beloved family member, are disturbing. Yet Gabaldon places them in an unexpected context, as normal and common. This is a highly uncomfortable thought, and the need to soothe ourselves drives us to read further. After all, the author didn’t mean it the way it sounds, did she?

Then Gabaldon uses short, punchy sentences, all given in a conversational tone for the remainder of the paragraph. Short sentences are a common tool to inspire tension. So she hooks us with discomfort and draws us in with a growing sense of unease.

Her next paragraph gets into the real motion of the aside. We can picture all these characters fading away. A young girl slipping out her window a night. A child looking up and realizing his parents are gone, the crowd thick and impassable. A housewife frantic, snatching the little stash of cash, then glancing out the train window once before turning to a life yet unknown. The financier in his pressed suit with smoke curling up around his head in a foreign city too remote to ever be found. They are haunting images. We’ve known or heard of or feared similar things, and thus Gabaldon further plays on our unsettled state, adding to the disquiet.

Additionally, in the second paragraph, she adds in motion via the acts of each person vanishing. Each builds on the other, becoming more complex in structure or ideas until, at last, the end leaves us with the lingering scent of cigars. This works like a wheel rotating, going slow at first, but quickly increasing in speed, thus rapidly drawing us into the story.

Then, in the third paragraph, Gabaldon reassures us. Though people disappear quite often, they are usually found. Yet she leaves that thread of disturbance, for sometimes they are found dead. But note how she puts “alive” last, leaving us with the hope of life rather than the macabre death. And she lastly reassures us that disappearances have explanations.

Then she yanks the carpet out from under us with one simple word offset by itself, “Usually.” With that one word, she sets up the entire story and prepares us with a sense of urgency. What does she mean by “Usually”? Who disappears that we must be concerned about? How can their be no explanation? What danger is lurking just around the next page?

So we turn to the next page to begin the real story, already unsettled, already craving reassurance. And there you have why Gabaldon includes this brief aside, to snare our attention, to leave us wanting, to set the tone for the rest of the story.

Part One

Inverness, 1945

Chapter 1: A New Beginning

Summary: Claire and her husband Frank are spending a holiday in the Scottish Highlands at a bed and breakfast. They were married nearly eight years before but quickly torn apart from each other when World War II began. Now, before Frank takes a position at Oxford as a history professor, they’re attempting to reconnect and rebuild their marriage.

However, Mrs. Baird, the bed and breakfast’s landlady has a certain dirty fascination with the couple, frequently hoovering outside their bedroom door at strategic times in the morning. Thus, this gives them another reason to wonder if, perhaps, they should have chosen a more riotous location for their second honeymoon. Between Mrs. Baird’s snooping and the Scottish favorite indoor sport of gossip, their time has not been quite as private as they could have wished.

On this particular morning, Frank is going to meet a reverend to see old baptismal records, which he hopes will help in his quest for genealogical information on his family. Claire, on the other hand, who has no interest in family history whatsoever, determines that, upon hearing Frank mention that Gaelic has no word for undergarment, she should find a man in a kilt and ask if he, indeed, wears anything underneath. To which, Frank replies:

“Well, do try not to get arrested, Claire.” page 4

Writer Comments: This is, for all intents and purposes, a rather mundane scene, yet it has a certain humor and draw to it that makes it difficult to put down.

First of all, the opening line plays off the tension built in the introductory material:

“It wasn’t a very likely place for disappearances, at least at first glance.” page 1

Disappearances are apparently a theme in this book, and the unlikely place for the one we’re about to witness fits eerily with the idea that not all have explanations. At once, Gabaldon continues her initial thread into the first chapter, thus connecting them, but she quickly shifts into the meat of the scene: a Scottish bed and breakfast with a snooping landlady and an English couple trying to reconnect after the tragedies of war.

The premise contains plenty of tension and interesting contrasts. However, the scene itself is quite domestic and simple. A couple waking up in the morning with the standard quiet moments of life: dressing, reviewing the upcoming events of the day, and reexamining their choice of vacation spot. It’s light and amusing, a stark contrast to the introduction’s gloom.

So why does it work?

First of all, Gabaldon has already set us up for calamity. We know a disappearance is coming, but we don’t yet know who or how. She tosses us into an idyllic scene, throwing our emotions once more in an unexpected direction. The contrast adds to our curiosity.

However, none of that would work if the dialogue were not riveting. The conversation between Frank and Claire has a dynamic sense, a feel that they enjoy each other, even the parts of each other that they don’t understand. The humor and lightness and the real feel of personality drives the dialogue and the scene.

Further, Gabaldon adds undertones of disquiet and pain. Claire and Frank have been trying for a child and have yet been sadly disappointed. The war haunts them, a small shadow in the corner of the scene, but there nonetheless. And finally, Gabaldon includes their slight disappointment in their vacation spot, the gossiping Scots, an insulting tone from the barman the night before, and a finicky landlady who frequently admonishes Claire on her less than pristine appearance

In fact, the scene is quite complex, despite its initial appearance of simplicity.

Summary: Claire finds no kilted Scotsmen when she goes out shopping that day. Instead, gossiping Scottish housewives fill the square and stores. The shelves too are bursting with things that were scarce or completely absent during the war.

We get a brief history of Claire’s past. Her parents died in a car crash when she was five, and she came into the care of her archaeologist uncle, who, when she refused to attend boarding school, whisked her off to one archaeological site after another. She learned to read and write through archaeological journals and do all sorts of camp tasks improper for a gently bread young lady.

Then she met Frank, who had come to her uncle to clarify a point of Egyptian religion as it related to French philosophy. But even after marrying Frank, she moved constantly as he had conferences and engagements all over the place. Then the war came. Frank went to officer’s training and she to nurse training.

Though she has no true home of her own yet, not until they reach Oxford, she impulsively purchases a set of vases.

Writer Comments: This scene is purely backstory with one little tag on the end, which I’ll get to shortly.

Backstory is usually discouraged in the first chapter. Actually, it’s discouraged in the first several chapters of a book. Backstory slows the tale down. It takes away tension and can easily lead to reader boredom. However, if you must include backstory this early on, Gabaldon does it about as well as it can be done.

First, she keeps it short. The backstory in its entirely is barely a page. Further, it’s given at a quick pace with plenty of unique details and sensory description. It isn’t just a recitation of facts, but vivid glimpses into years gone by.

Additionally, Gabaldon frames the backstory with a subtle but significant element of Claire’s character. She is, in many ways, isolated from the life she desires, one of domestic bliss with a baby and a husband, one with a nice house that she stays in long enough to build a true home. At no point does Gabaldon directly state any of this, but it’s heavily implied. The beginning of the frame details Claire’s separateness from this life. The end reveals her desire to grasp a new life through the purchase of the vases.

Summary: Claire and Frank meet up and return to Mrs. Baird’s; however, on the doorstep, they find a large splotch of blood. At first, Claire is horrified, but Frank quickly discerned from the spot of blood on every doorstep on the street, that no ax-murderer is at work but a local ritual to sanctify the houses. In this case, rather than adhering to ancient custom and sacrificing a human to then bury under the foundation, the blood comes from a black cock.

They join the rest of the village at the pub. Frank gets drawn into a lengthy discussion on religion and pagan practices with the Vicar, and Claire is introduced to Mr. Crook, a local plant expert, who agrees to show her the rarer local plants the next morning as she herself studies botany.

That evening, a storm is brewing, and Frank goes for yet another visit to a fellow obsessor of history. Claire elects to stay in because, the last time she visited this particular gentlemen, she accidentally burned herself on the teapot, dropped it in his lap, and unleashed a particularly unfortunate oath she learned from the Yanks during the war.

Writer Comments: This scene accomplishes a number of things all at once. First, it establishes the color of the region with its folklore and pagan practices. It also sets up the fact that Claire, for all her attempts to be genteel, is far from a proper lady. It also contains humor and provides a little historical background so that, presumably, the reader can be fully engulfed in the story’s world and prepared for events yet to come.

However, Gabaldon is careful about how she portrays the historical background. Frank is, primarily, a mouthpiece for her to give these facts, but she makes it more tolerable by giving us a viewpoint character, Claire, who finds them rather tedious. Therefore, if we readers find them tedious also, we have a sympathetic listener in Claire. If we find them interesting, we can look at Claire as we look at our own friends who roll their eyes at our gushing recitations of fascinating historical facts. Further, Gabaldon gives us historical facts set up with a gruesome scene, the cock’s blood on the step and the concept of people sacrificed and buried under houses. That is, after all, far more interesting than dry dates.

Summary: In preparation for Frank’s return, Claire dresses for bed and tries to do something about her rebellious curls. The electricity in the air from the coming storm makes them crackle every time she tries to brush them. Instead, she settles with putting cologne in her hair, Frank’s favorite scent. The power goes out, and she lights candles all about the room, creating a romantic ambiance. Then Frank rushes in on a gust that blows some of them out, white as though he’s seen a ghost, and in fact, he confesses he may have done just that.

A Scotsman stood, he tells, at the edge of the garden, looking up at Claire through the window. He appeared most disturbed over something, and when Frank tried to ask him if he needed anything, the man whirled away and went up the street. But Frank is certain he should have felt the man brush by him. And then what was most odd occurs to him. Despite the lashing wind, no part of the man’s kilt or plaid stirred, save for the natural rhythm of his steps. Then he vanished into thin air before reaching the corner.

Claire is reluctant to believe in a ghost, but she admits the sighting sounds spooky. Frank asks her if she tended many Scotts in the field hospital during the war. She confesses that she did and mentions with amusement their aversion to needles.

Later that night, as they lie in bed together, the oddity of Frank’s question begins to nag her, and she asks what he meant by it. Reluctantly, Frank confesses that seeing the man staring at her merely made him wonder if there had been someone during the war. It would be natural, he insists, under all the stress and after all that time, if she had found comfort with someone.

This infuriates her, and she nearly kicks him out of the room for such an implication. Slowly, he soothes her. But as she lies down to sleep, she begins to wonder if perhaps Frank had his own assignation in the war. After all, it had been six years, and they’d barely seen each other. And Frank did think of it to ask.

Writer Comments: Much of this chapter involves the female mundanities of a holiday in the Scottish Highlands in 1945. While Gabaldon can string us along with the concern over an impending disappearance and little nuggets of tension, she must leave us with a far more profound problem. Despite their attempts at marital bliss, are Claire and her husband not so well suited? After all, their interests have very little to do with each other, and there is this issue of an implied infidelity, which, like the raging storm outside, might have truly destructive power. Like any adept author, Gabaldon closes her chapter with unresolved tension, for only this will drive us onto the next chapter.

Thank you for joining me for this first part of our read of Outlander by Diana Gabaldon. Like all reads of books on this blog, we’ll continue every Monday to draw out the techniques a successful author employs to tell a riveting story. Until then, join me Friday for further forays into the fiction, the speculative, and life.

Friday, August 15, 2014

Why Poetry Is Important for Prose Writers

Writers tend to excel at either poetry or prose. Usually, we struggle a bit with one, and it’s a rare writer who is truly accomplished at both forms. However, poetry should be essential study for prose writers.

Why?

Mood:

Poetry is all about feeling and mood. In a few precise words, a poet can strike any emotional chord. This is something that prose writers may not be as adept at achieving. However, if a prose writer understands or has some experience with poetry, he can utilize its techniques to help set mood.

Sound:

Even though, the vast majority of the time, we read silently, the sound of the words is crucial. First of all, at some point, someone will read your work aloud. If the cadence, tempo, or any other element to the sound is off, it will dampen a listener’s experience of the story. Alternately, even though we usually read in our heads, our brains possess a sense of the sound and rhythm of the words, and fiction or nonfiction that violates that will jar or set a discordant component in a reader’s experience of the story.

Further, the sound of words can play a significant impact on the mood, emotion, tension, and just about everything else in a scene. Certain words have softer sounds. Others are hard and direct. Often, using such subtle techniques is unconscious on the writer’s part, but a poet is more aware of them and can bring intentionality into the sound of words.

Breaks:

Whether it’s a comma or new paragraph, breaks in writing should be strategic. Their frequency creates a sense of speed and tension. Prolonging them creates a slowing effect. Poets must be keenly aware of breaks of any sort. This awareness can improve a prose writer’s use of tension and pacing.

Literary Devices:

Some writers use them liberally while others avoid them. Whichever way you choose, literary devices are a staple of prose and poetry. They have long traditions and can act like fingerprints for a writer. Metaphors, imagery, similes, assonance, hyperbole, and irony, among many others, are standard fare in writing, but by understanding their use in poetry, a prose writer increases his knowledge and affinity with them, thus allowing him to make better use of them.

Implication and Omission:

Prose allows us to expand and expand and elaborate and explain and... Prose contains few if any limiting factors. We can go on and on and, ultimately, shoot ourselves in the foot. Poetry, on the other hand, cannot yield to this temptation. Poetry, in its concern with form, must adhere to structural rules, and those rules require the writer to learn restraint, precision, and the power of implication and silence. Sometimes, what isn’t said is more powerful than what is. Poets must grasp this to master their craft, and prose writers could certainly learn from this technique.

Precision:

Because of all its rules, poets must choose their words with extreme care. A poet might fiddle and experiment with a single word until it’s perfect. Prose writers can get away with being a touch sloppier. But imagine the power we might have if we were as precise in our language and word choice as poets. Imagine the power our prose would wield.

Beauty:

Now, this isn’t something all prose writers want. Some writers tell very impactful stories and become known for their sparseness or their direct, plain language. That’s perfectly fine. But other writers enjoy the elegance of language and the beauty it can create for setting mood, conveying descriptions, and awing readers. There is a place for both types of prose.

But for those who enjoy writing a beautiful sentence, they would do well to study poetry that is also written to be beautiful, for it will provide many lessons and fill their heads with the sound and grace of words. Alternately, those who write sparsely ought to consider studying poetry as well. Not flowery poetry, but poetry that can say a great deal with very little. This type will improve their ability to do this exact thing in their stories while keeping their style.

The Birth of Fiction:

For fiction writers especially, studying poetry is essential to understand what came before. Until recent centuries, the bulk of fiction was written in some form of poetry whether Beowulf or Shakespeare or Dante. Poetry is the infancy of modern fiction, and it does us good to understand our roots.

Has poetry helped you become a better writer? If so, how? Do you read both poetry and prose or just one or the other? Is there anything else you know that poetry can teach prose writers?


Be sure to join me on Monday for the first part of our read of Outlander by Diana Gabaldon.

Monday, August 11, 2014

The Last Unicorn by Peter S. Beagle: Read, Part XIV


Welcome to the final segment of The Last Unicorn by Peter S. Beagle, where we look at the elements that make up a successful novel. To catch up or review previous part of this read, click here.

Enjoy!

SPOILERS!

Chapter XIV

Summary: After the tide of freed unicorns vanishes, the unicorn returns. In silence, she regards Lir, standing over him much like he stood over her to guard her when she was the Lady Amalthea. Then she restores him to life with a touch of her horn, a touch as clumsy as a first kiss. A second time, she touches him, lingering, then she flees.

Lir is desperate for her, wanting nothing more than to pursue her, even if it means he never sees her again. But Schmendrick persuades him that he is needed more as king and that his people need him, even those of Hagsgate whose town came down around them when the unicorns passed through.

The three ride to the edge of the kingdom, and day by day, they see that spring has at last come and the land been blessed from the passage of the unicorns. It is, despite Hagsgate and its people, a good land.

On the last night, the unicorn comes to Schmendirck in his dreams. She is touched by a sadness that no unicorn before her ever knew, and, as she tells Schmendrick, she regrets though no unicorn was ever made to regret. He apologizes deeply, for he realizes that, in turning her human, he did a greater evil to her than Mommy Fortuna, King Haggard, and the Red Bull combined. But still, she thanks him for it, in part because it lead to the release of her people, in part, though this is implied not outright stated, because of Lir. She vanishes then, and he wakes, he finds that Molly and Lir have also seen her in their dreams. Molly refuses to confess what the unicorn told her, and Lir in agony tells them that the unicorn said nothing to him, nothing at all. He rides away, heartbroken.

Schmendrick asks Molly to come with him as they follow the road before them to their destiny and, on some level he hopes, the unicorn. She accepts and they travel beyond Lir’s kingdom.

Shortly after crossing the border, they come upon a princess in dire straits, so Schmendrick sends her onto Lir, who is a hero of greatness. He gives her his horse and points her in the right direction. Then, after laughing for a long time, he and Molly sing on the road of love.

Writer Comments: For all the sad and beautiful things in this chapter, I want to focus on two: tragedy and love.

Many, if not most, of the most famous and lasting books of all do not end with the stereotypical happily ever after. The villain is defeated and the quest resolved, but it comes at a painful price. This sort of ending lingers and leaves us satisfied yet haunted. It is much like life.

Yet, especially for modern American audiences, it’s risky. True happy endings leave us smiling but rarely imprint as deeply on our hearts. Tragedy, even amongst victory, is more impactful. However, many readers don’t have the tolerance for it. Many readers do not want to close the book and feel any sense of sadness.

I suspect that, on some level, Beagle knew this. His ending is certainly full of tragedy. Everything the hero Lir desired is gone. Yes, the unicorns are free, but the unicorn herself is now corrupted by sadness, regret, and the fear of death. The touch of mortality lingers upon her, and she will never truly be free of it. Yet she knew love. Schmendrick has come into his power, but in doing so, he comes face to face with the fact that, even while seeking kindness, he can inadvertently do great evil.

Yet Beagle pulls the end together at the last with hope. The princess comes, and it’s implied that she will be exactly what Lir needs. Certainly Lir will save her, but perhaps along the way, she too will save him. Molly and Schmendrick ride off together to a kind of happy ending. They’ve both found where they belong. Hope is perhaps a more human and lasting emotion than joy, and so Beagle ends his tale on that note, a note that drives us ever onward to the achievement of greater things.

Lastly, I want to look at love in the context of this chapter. Love is addressed twice. First, it comes between Lir and the unicorn. Despite resuming her natural shape, she clearly still loves the prince. Twice, she touches him, something she has never done for anyone except Molly, who she let touch her often. Then Beagle writes into her a longing, a sadness for the man she loved. That love too is mirrored in Lir, and the two are cleaved in twain, never to know resolution or happiness. In this, Beagle violates every modern expectation of romance. Yet how could he have done anything else and kept the unicorn as the focus? Had he brought happiness to them, it would have destroyed her and cheapened the story.

Finally, Beagle implies repeatedly that Schmendrick and Molly are now together. Schmendrick takes her hand. He tends her kindly. And at the end, they sing together of marriage and love. Yet not once do either of them actually say, “I love you.” Not once does Schmendrick come out and directly ask Molly to marry him. In fact, one could argue that the romance between them doesn’t even occur. However, Beagle heavily implies it. He does not satisfy our traditional expectations, but in going about it this way, he creates a unique glimpse into Schmendrick and Molly’s happily ever after. He creates poetry and beauty and freshness, and that is, after all, what much of the book contains. It is beauty and it is tragedy, and from them springs a story as magical and touching as the unicorns leaping from the sea to freedom.

Thank you for joining me for the read of The Last Unicorn by Peter S. Beagle. Next Monday, we’ll start a new book Outlander by Diana Gabaldon. Until then, swing back by on Friday for further forays into fiction, the speculative, and life.

Friday, August 8, 2014

When to Skip Time in Stories

For inspiration for this blog, I frequently turn to whatever happens to be going on in my writing or life. So, this week while working on the first draft for a new book, I came across a dilemma that led to the exploration of when and how to skip significant periods of time in a story.

In this particular story, the main characters are separated for a year, and for one of them, a lot changes. However, I felt that writing out the events of that year would bog the story down and distract focus from the main plot. But I’ve rarely skipped more than a few months of story time before, and I’ve read few books that have done it.

In my quest to decide how to handle the situation, I ran across some good articles.

Time Skip: Do and Don’t from Story Addict says, 

“if you’re going for longer time skips, make sure you catch up the reader with what happened as soon as you can. Avoid time skips where too much has changed to connect to the present.”

K.M. Weiland points out on her blog that skipping time has perils. On the one hand, we risk boring readers, but on the other, we risk confusing them. A balance must be struck, and she suggests, 

“Tell the readers only what they need to know when they need to know it.”

No matter who you talk to, significant time skips are a tricky business. But before getting into the best method of doing them, we should first ask if we actually need one. How can you tell if you should even consider skipping a significant period of time in a story?

Story Purpose:

Every story contains a centralizing purpose. It can be the growth of a certain character from one point to another. I can be the achievement of a specific goal. It can be the resolution of a romance or the solving of a mystery. Regardless, there is a singular point to every story. When considering if time should be skipped, ask whether or not the events during that time play a crucial role in bringing the story along its path to resolving the story’s main purpose. If those events are important, don’t skip them. If they’re not, then that time might indeed be eligible for bypassing.

Potential to Engage:

Are the events during the time you might skip boring? If so, yes, skip them. Are they tedious? Would they drag on or distract from the main story? If so, skip them and summarize. However, if those events are fascinating, if they have great emotional impact, then reconsider including them in the main story. Readers should always be engaged, and if the events dull their interest, the chances of them continuing to read drop significantly.

Maintain Focus:

Sometimes, story asides are fascinating. Many times, they’re not. Would detailing the events of this time period detour from the story? Or do those events act as important stepping stones toward moving the plot and characters forward? Every story needs focus from the largest structural level to the very word choices on each page. Skipping time, whether you do it or avoid it, should occur only because it keeps the focus of the story.

Time and Word Count Considerations:

Some authors, like me, come up with complex, dramatic, and vibrant worlds and stories. We could happily explore and detour and fill volumes doing so. However, most books around about 100,000 words, and most readers have finite patience. Sometimes, skipping time, even significant periods of time, is necessary to keep a story from waxing long. This should, naturally, not be the main determining factor, but it is an important consideration.

Boring vs. Confusing:

Which is a greater threat? That depends on the story and the moment skipped. Ask yourself, which is more likely a danger in this particular instance: boring readers by detailing the events of the potential time skip or confusing them by skipping time? Whatever you decide, you should attempt to mitigate both boredom and confusion, but if uncertain, consider these factors and decide which is a greater risk.

There are, of course, numerous other considerations, but these form a basis. If you answer all these questions for yourself and are still uncertain whether to skip time or not, get a critique partner or beta reader’s opinion. Better, get several opinions. And if that fails, go with your instincts.

How to Skip Significant Periods of Time:

As for how to skip time, be sure to address these elements:

Advertise It:

Set up the time skip so it doesn’t come as a shock to your readers. In Ben-Hur, when Ben-Hur is placed into slavery, we know as the audience that we’re likely going to see some sort of time skip. In Gone with the Wind, we know that, as the story covers a period from before to after the Civil War, some time will be glossed over. But you can advertise the jump with more than just event or setting context. It can also be implied within the narration itself.

Make It Blatant:

Don’t assume your readers will figure it out, not on this one. Make the skip and how much time has passed extremely obvious. Mention it in the dialogue, give an obvious clue. If the readers know that a bridge will take three years to build and a scene ends with the agreement to build it and the next begins with the ceremony declaring the bridge ready for use, readers can easily understand that three years have passed. Even more obviously, put a notation at the beginning of the chapter, “Five Year Later,” or something similar.

Catch Readers Up Immediately:

This is not the time to withhold significant information. It’s not the time to risk losing reader interest. Immediate confusion will set in at a time jump of multiple month, years, decades, or even centuries. Orient your readers at once with clues and direct information in dialogue and narration. Don’t resort to a boring rendition of past events, but identify the most significant changes and highlight them immediately. Give readers landmarks, literally and figuratively, so they know how to navigate the next pages with confidence.

Don’t Get Bogged Down in the Time Skip:

With all these things you need to be careful to include to create a smooth time skip, it would be easy to get bogged down. No matter how you handle the technique, remember that all normal story rules apply. Info dumps are still boring. There must still be conflict and motivation. Things must still happen in the present context of the story. Treat skipping time with care, but don’t let it overwhelm the riveting tale you’re composing.

Do you have any other tips for how to successfully skip a significant period of time in a story.

Monday, August 4, 2014

The Last Unicorn by Peter S. Beagle: Read, Chapter XIII


Welcome back to this read of The Last Unicorn by Peter S. Beagle. On this second to last chapter, we’ll take a look at climaxes and how a skilled writer manages them.

To catch up or review previous parts of this read, click here.

Enjoy!

SPOILERS!

Chapter XIII

Summary: The Lady Amalthea, Prince Lir, Schmendrick, and Molly make their way down the dark, earthen passage toward the Red Bull. Along the way, Schmendrick explains who they are and their adventures to Lir. Too, he explains that Amalthea is actually a unicorn. Lir refuses the idea that anything Schmendrick or anyone else might do could impact his and Amlathea’s love for each other, but he knew she was something other than a mere human girl.

In the midst of their conversation, Amalthea comes between them and insists she will not be turned back. She wants to die when Lir dies, and she professes her love for him. Lir assures her that she needn’t fear, for it’s only Schmendrick and he can’t work real magic. But the Lady Amalthea knows differently and says so. She says Schmendrick will turn her back and she will not love Lir. But she assures him that, if there is any shred of love left in her for him, she will let the Bull drive her into the sea so that she will at least be near him.

Schmendrick declares then that the quest is ended. The unicorns will all be gone, but isn’t that a fair price for the addition of one more good woman? Then Lir says, “No,” for whatever his heart desires, he is a true hero and cannot allow his perceived order of things to be violated. Someone must save the unicorns, and no quest can be abandoned.

But as they’ve talked, the light of the Red Bull’s rising has crept into the passage. Lir and Amalthea go toward it to face it, and Schmendrick and Molly follow. Then they meet the Bull, and Schmendrick wishes with all his heart that the beast won’t recognize her, that she’ll be mortal forever, and become Lir’s in truth. Amalthea even extends her hand toward Lir, who, if he touched her then for the first time, would make her beyond even Schmendrick’s theoretical power to return to a unicorn. But Lir, in his efforts to defend her, does not see her hand.

The Bull charges, revealing that, no matter her form, he now knows Amalthea for what she truly is. They are scattered, and a desperate flight begins. The Bull charges at them again and again, and Amalthea falls. Lir stands between her and the Bull, weaponless but determined.

And it’s that awful, beautiful sorrow and strength of Lir before the Bull that gives Schmendrick what he needs. Magic fills him beyond his dreams, too much to ever be used, and his immortality falls away. He steps forward and utters the spell that turns her back into a unicorn. Lir turns just as Amalthea fades away forever, then the Bull charges anew and she breaks before it.

Wildly, they run. Then they come out of the cavern and onto the shore before the cliff where Haggard’s castle sits. Like before, the Bull drives the unicorn toward the sea, and, horn dim, she yields before him, only springing away when her hoof touches the water.

Lir demands Schmendrick do something, for what is the use of magic but to save unicorns? But Schmendrick reminds him that not even his magic can save her now. Saving unicorns is for heroes. Lir understands and turns to meet the Bull, standing in its way as it rushes the unicorn. Defenseless, he falls, crushed beneath the Bull’s weight, dead.

The unicorn turns and sees his broken body upon the shore. A horrid scream comes from her that was never meant to come from any immortal creature. Her horn flares to life, and she charges the Bull, driving it into the sea.

The Bull yields and swims away, and with his parting, the unicorns come out of the sea. Schmendrick picks the dead prince up and shields him and Molly with magic as the unicorns break over them like a flood. And then the castle comes swirling down. Haggard falls with it and perishes.

Writer Comments: This chapter is the climax of the story, and it’s a powerful one. Climaxes are crucial. They bring everything together and resolve it. They bring the reader satisfaction. And while you may find a thousand different bits of advice in how to write them, in this story, here are what I think are the key elements that make it work:

The Loss of Hope:

In good climaxes, there must be a point where hope is lost. Figuratively, the heroes must plummet off the cliff to their presumed deaths. This makes the reader fully wrapped up in the outcome. It creates a desperate desire for a pleasant resolution and amps up that desire.

In this case, Beagle has the unicorn as Amalthea refuse to be returned to her natural form, thus condemning all unicorns to eternal imprisonment and herself to her own death. And then he does it again by having the hero everyone lose everything he desired, or at least making it appear that way. When Amalthea reaches out for Lir, it means Schmendrick would never gain his magic and his mortal life back, Molly would lose her unicorn, the unicorn would lose herself, and then when Lir doesn’t realize she’s reaching for him, it means he loses the woman he loves.

Characters Face the Worst Parts of Themselves: 

To earn and achieve the ending, the characters must face the worst parts of themselves. As part of their journey and to bring deeper satisfaction to the readers, they must overcome themselves, not just the villains.

Here, Beagle has them each face themselves. The unicorn faces herself as Amalthea and loses. This in itself is significant for many reasons, but by this point, we don’t entirely want her to lose all that Amalthea gave her like the ability to love Prince Lir.

However, Lir faces his desire to turn from true heroism so he might have the woman he loves. When reminded of heroism, though, he does the right thing and refuses to give in to the easy answer. Molly begs Schmendrick not to turn Amalthea back into a unicorn, even though Molly desperately wants her unicorn. And Schmendrick, through Molly, is faced with himself and his relationship to magic. He turns from his quest for that magic, willingly surrendering it so that Amalthea and Lir can be happy.

Possible Failure:

The reader must see the possibility and, I would argue, likelihood of failure to feel satisfied with success. It’s like how sweets taste all the better after eating something bitter.

The Bull comes after Amalthea despite her having the shape and seeming of a human woman. Schmendrick’s magic doesn’t come to him, at least not when he thinks he needs it. The unicorn yields to the Bull. Lir is killed. All of these sound like failure. The trick is to then turn that perceived failure into part of the solution for victory.

Resolution of All Plots:

Ultimately, this is what a climax is about. However, any book will have multiple story lines that need resolving. If an author resolves them before the climax, tension will be lost and with it, perhaps, reader interest.

Yet resolution is even more challenging because each story line’s resolution must play into the others. In this case, for example, Prince Lir dying for love of the Lady Amalthea and for his heroic duty--both presumably resolving his story lines--gives the unicorn the strength to drive the Red Bull away, thus resolving her story line.

Yet, further, all this must be advertised earlier in the story. The reader should not be able to guess exactly how the climax will be resolved, but by the end, they should be able to go back and nod in understanding at all the pieces that brought about the end.

Thank you for joining me for this chapter of The Last Unicorn by Peter S. Beagle. Next Monday, we’ll finish this book and I’ll announce the next novel we’ll read. Until then, join me this Friday for further forays into books, the speculative, and life.

Friday, August 1, 2014

Middle Aged Protagonists

I recently finished an urban fantasy called Curve Appeal by Mary E. Merrell, starring a real estate agent, ghost talking, vampire servant named Rosemary Fernandez. However, unlike most fiction, Rosemary isn’t in her twenties and at the prime of life. She’s middle aged, has an adult son, is recently divorced, and faces the fact that she has to compete with hot youngsters for dates. She’s certainly far from a typical protagonist, especially these days, but that also makes her more interesting.

There’s a major emphasis on young protagonists in most, if not all, fiction genres. Most protagonists fall somewhere between their late teens and early thirties, and that’s not even touching the age requirements for YA. The simple truth is that, as a culture, we have an obsession with youth. We want to capture and remain in that supposedly glorious age near and in our twenties where life seems its best. At least, it certainly appears best if you look at popular media.

However, this perception is not universal. In other cultures, youth is impulsive and the wisdom of age is considered far more enviable. For example, when my husband took a Shakespeare course in college and they studied alternate versions of the plays, he learned that, in tribal Africa, Hamlet is considered the villain of Hamlet because he disrespected and disobeyed his elders. The tribal elders, in fact, corrected the man sharing the play with them, informing him of the Shakespeare’s “actual meaning.”

Youth offers many favorable qualities to the protagonist’s role. It includes energy, vitality, and usually a proactive, open view of the world. These traits make it easy to get a dynamic character to traipse through a story. But what we forget is that not all twenty-somethings fit this description, and turning thirty-five doesn’t automatically rob one of energy, vitality, or anything else. Regardless, our culture’s perceptions, expectations, and desires form stereotypes of various age groups in fiction, and in life for that matter. Teens desperately want the freedom of their twenties, and people older long for the pleasures of a life without so much responsibility or recall the glory days of college or the newness of starting out their own lives. There’s the perception of greater beauty, health, and the hope of dreams fulfilled. This type of hero is indeed appealing.

But there is also a place for the older protagonist. In fact, this protagonist can add depth to a character that is often lacking in a younger hero. There’s often a certain stability found in older protagonists that give stories entirely new worlds, themes, and plots to explore.

Consider Dalinar from Brandon Sanderson’s The Stormlight Archive series, which we covered in this blog. Dalinar too has adult sons and many years experience. He is starting to draw a label of being diminished and weak. This is something most people are terrified of, and that, perhaps more than most things, is why middle aged protagonists are less popular. But when done well, they’re dynamic and fascinating. Dalinar is, after all, a very popular character in current fantasy circles.

But middle aged protagonists don’t have to be great warriors of times past. They can be recently divorced real estate agents who talk to ghosts and draw the unwanted attentions of vampires. In Rosemary Fernandez’s case, they can be everymen with a wide appeal to audiences. Rosemary faces the same fears we average humans face, yet she overcomes them with the determination we hope we’ll muster. For all twenty-somethings are popular, there are a lot of people who can relate to the middle aged protagonist. They should, for this reason, not be too easily dismissed.

Picking a middle aged protagonist in certain genres, especially romance, is a risk, but it can be a rewarding one. Some of the most interesting characters can come from this age group. After all, one of the most classic characters of speculative fiction, Bilbo Baggins, was middle aged.

What stories do you know that include middle aged heroes? How much, if at all, does their age effect the story for you?