Genesis

Trice Farrow is the primary antagonist in a fantasy WIP, named Phelia's Sound. I knew how she played into the events of the story, but not necessarily what drove this driven woman. How did she become so self-centered and mean? I figured it’d all come out in the wash, but then I wrote the bit of freewriting below for fun one day, and lo, Trice’s genesis.

I come upon his room as I came upon it the first time, alone. The little boy I found inside is now a man. The one who’d been too sick to leave his bed has just returned from another adventure overseas, his travels undoubtedly marked by a trail of broken hearts.

Twenty-two years ago, I left this hall, asking my mother, “Mama, can’t you help that boy?”

Roald had been so nice, letting me play with his toys. I could hardly believe he was too sick to join in or even leave his bed. There had to be something Mother could do for him.

No, she’d said, even though she was a healer.  “He has people for that. They can make Roald feel better, but he’s dying, Trice. No one can save him. It’s better to put him out of mind.”

Out of sight and out of mind, the Hamlins’ little boy was practically dead already. I hadn’t known him before I wandered away from the party downstairs and discovered his room. Trailing Mother’s voluminous evening gown as she ushered me away, I did not want to forget him. I didn’t want him to die.

 “But, I don’t want Roald to die.”

Mother sighed. “You never should have come up here.”

I stepped back when Mother leaned down to carry me. “You can’t let Roald die, Mama—you can’t.”

“It isn’t within my power. When you’re older you’ll understand.”

I frowned, because I did not understand, nor did I believe I ever would. “You’re lying. You just don’t like healing. You said some people don’t deserve help. That’s what you said before when you thought no one could hear, but I heard you.”

Mother straightened so that she towered above and stared down her nose at me. “Trice Farrow, you apologize for your rudeness, or you will be in serious trouble when your father hears of it

“I won’t. You’re selfish and mean.”

Her eyes flashed briefly. “So, you think healers must be unconditionally selfless and kind to all who are in need of their services? Very well. There is a way for you to save Roald, yourself. We will see how long your generosity lasts.”

Twenty-two years. Roald looks up at me, the poison creeping up his veins, mottling his golden skin with black splotches. Who knows how it happened? All I can think of are all the times he tempted fate because of the enchanted pendant dangling from the chain around his neck. I think of how many times his recklessness hurt me, and his brazen disregard sapped my strength.

A sharp pang rips through him and I feel it as though it were my own. He gasps. I gasp. Dizziness overcomes and I steady myself, a hand against his bed.

Roald grips my wrist and pleads, “Trice…help me?”

No one can. I reach for the pendant. Twenty-two years. No more.

This scene will not be in the story. At least, not in this form, but I now know Trice’s prime motive, underneath everything, was to prove her mother wrong. Yet, all her efforts seemed to be for naught—the boy she saved hardly appreciated it, to say the least. The more he enjoyed life, the less she did, until she became just as begrudging and compassionless as her mother predicted.

A few posts back, I talked about how journaling helps reveal things about my personal writing process—habits, strengths, weaknesses, etc. This is how freewriting can sprout new ideas and reveal new dimensions of a given story or character. It's pretty exciting. :)

Photo credit: "Sprouts" by MissMessie, available under CC BY 2.0

Journaling the Journey

I keep track of my writing. By ‘keep track’ I mean I journal—offline—about anything and everything writerly, even if it’s just “This WIP is cursed!” or “I’ve just read the most awesomist sf story.” It is not the same as free-writing fiction. Journaling is about self-examination without concern for audience, craft, or pointlessness. It can be therapeutic and enlightening, even if it’s just to rant, rejoice, or sort out a mess of thoughts. 

In an entry from two years ago, I had decided to compare excerpts from a few successive drafts of one my first sci-fi stories, dubbed ORIGINAL, FIRST, and SECOND. With many months, if not years, between them, it presented a good sampling of my writing over time. The results were pleasantly surprising.

The first thing I notice is how the paragraphs got shorter and more deft. 

ORIGINAL reads like a list: I did this and then did that. There was this and then that other thing. 

FIRST is immediately more active. The mc comes to fore—he’s moving, and experiencing the world in real-ish time, not just relating some past event, but the deets are still painfully meticulous and that SLOOOOOOWS the pacing down to a crawl. 

SECOND is leaps and bounds better as regards word usage, structure, and style. It has cadence and mood. The mc not only comes to fore but his voice is so much clearer. Many of the same details remain but are described more matter of factly and succinctly rather than painstakingly or with many words that don’t paint a clear picture. Oh yeah, and he talks! Lol! Hooray for improved writing skills!

Journaling has helped me track and appreciate how much I’ve grown as a writer, which is not always evident deep within the trenches of writing and rewriting. Taking some time to read back those ramblings might show recurring problems. Fits and starts resolve into patterns for a writing regiment, solutions present themselves, ways to break bad habits and reinforce good ones. Causation clarified. Improvement illuminated.

Read the excerpts I’d taken, below the fold.

Characters and Purpose

Whether it’s to move the plot forward or provide a unique perspective on an event or another protagonist, every character should have a purpose. Not just, but no two characters should have the exact same function in the story (aka cloning.)

It seems obvious enough, but while working on my space opera WIP, I ran afoul of this critical idea, and rectifying it was not a happy experience.  Over halfway through the novel, I wanted to inject some new blood into the story. Enter Tara, an ex-U.S. Special Forces operative but geek at heart. She was funny, animated, and a breath of fresh air.

Five and a half thousand words later, I realized she was a younger clone of another character, Mrs. E. But, but, but! Tara was an ancient astronaut geek, so she could provide insight for the crew! So could Mrs. E.  There were some great moments in those five thousand words! Too bad. Why can’t I keep her? Because when I got right down to it, she served no real purpose. I had to contrive ways to involve her in the rest of the plot, and that inevitably marginalized more integral characters.

I've no words of wisdom to impart, just the foibles from which I learn on my writerly journey. I learned Tara existed because I was tired of writing all the other characters, and I just wanted to write something new. Don’t do that, even if it feels good—and fun and exhilarating. Make sure each character compliments others instead of replacing them. Make sure they fit the plot instead of the other way around. Make sure each has a developmental trajectory over the course of the story, a lifespan longer than one scene.

Anything less warrants no more than a few paragraphs, let alone five thousand words. Failing that? Cut ‘em without mercy…and paste them into a new document for another story. ;)