Writing Words for Nerds #AtoZChallenge—O is for Outline. Do you need one?

Do you need an outline? The answer is...it depends. 

Those who write outlines are called outliners (duh!), and those who don’t are called “pantsers,” which refers to how they write by the proverbial seat of their pants.

I recently ran a survey in a Facebook writer’s group I belong to, and what I discovered surprised me. While there are more pantsers than people who consider themselves outliners, the biggest group was made up of people who consider themselves both! Sometimes they outline, and sometimes they don’t. Some will outline the beginning and then let the story work itself out from there. Others outline certain kinds of projects but not others.

Me? I’m an outliner. Not only do I need to outline the entire book before I sit down to write it, I also need to outline individual chapters before I write them. I like to outline the next thing I have to write when I finish writing for the day. It gives me something to work toward when I return to the manuscript. I have a terrible sense of direction, and the outline is my road map. I need one, so I don’t get lost. For me, being a pantser just isn’t an option.

But I don’t just need to have an outline; I LIKE having one. It means that I can always “start with dessert.” I know what all the scenes are and where they go, so I can start with the scene or conversation I’m most excited about. And I do. My full outlines have bits of dialogue and some fully fleshed out scenes in it, because those are the desserts I’ve already eaten. I only move onto the things that aren’t dessert when I’ve eaten all the desserts I can. And you know what? Very often I find the things that I’m not really excited about writing don’t need to be written at all. It’s cool how that works out.

I know that many outliners feel that pantsers should be outliners too, but I’m not one of them. I believe you should do what works for you, and if that’s writing without an outline, then you should definitely do that.

Some pantsers think that outliners should be pantser, too. Very often it’s because they see an outline as something that restricts creativity. Being a pantser gives them freedom to take their story anywhere at any time. I don’t like getting lost, but for many pantsers, that’s a part of the joy of writing. They love getting lost in their story, discovering it as they go along, and seeing where it leads. They love discovering the characters and being surprised, just like a reader would.

Again, that’s not me. I don’t enjoy getting lost. I’d rather fly straight to Orlando, check into a hotel I’ve researched well so I know what to expect, and take Disney transportation into Disney World, a detailed schedule of what I’m going to do in each of the parks tucked away in my bag. Have a great time getting lost and wrestling alligators in a Florida swamp, pantsers. It sounds exciting. It’s just not my idea of fun.

And outlines really aren’t as restrictive as many pantsers seem to think. Who says that just because you have a detailed schedule in your hand you have to pass up a better opportunity if one comes along? Outlines are flexible. They can be rewritten. And it’s a lot easier to rewrite a five page outline than it is to rewrite a 250-page book, which is what most pantsers who write novels end up having to do.

Some strict outliners and pantsers don’t see it as a choice.

Some outliners say, “I can’t write without knowing where I’m going.” Are you sure? Have you ever tried it? Who knows, it might be fun.

And some pantsers say, “How can I write an outline if I don’t know where my story is going? I don’t have a plot. I just have these characters. I don’t know what they’re going to do until they do it.” Then how do you know they’re good characters? How do you know they have a story worth telling? Of course, if it turns out they aren’t and they don’t, you can always rewrite the whole thing. Me? I have too many great characters with stories that I’ve already fully outlined in my head, and not enough time to follow around characters who may or may not get anywhere. Of course, it’s the finished result that matters, not how you get there.

The answer to what you can do if you’re an outliner who wants to be a pantser is easy: just do it! 

It may be scary, but maybe that’s a good thing. And if you find yourself stuck, just give yourself a timer and a goal. How does 500 words in an hour sound? Don’t be surprised if after the hour is up, you feel the urge to write more.  

The answer for the pantser who wants to be an outliner is a little more complicated: instead of being a long-form pantser, writing every little detail as you go along, try being a pantser of a short story.

You can write on paper, but you can also write it in your head. Just go and get lost in your story, but try not to do it for more than a page. If you need to, add another page. And another. It could be a series of short stories with the same characters and a single character arc. You can keep writing those short stories until you find a satisfying end to that character arc. And then you’re done. You’ve just pretty much pantsed your way to an outline.

I hope this helps, or at least gives you some food for thought. Again, there’s no right or wrong way. There’s only what works for you, and you won’t know what that is until you’ve tried both options.   

Writing Words for Nerds #AtoZChallenge--I is for Ideas

It only takes two words to inspire an infinite number of story ideas. 

“Where do stories come from?” It’s the question writers get asked most. “Where did you get the idea for your book? What inspired you?”

I think the idea for all fictional stories starts with two short but incredibly powerful words: “What if?” 

There are what-ifs everywhere you look. Every person you meet, every story you read or see or hear, and just about everything you experience or have experienced is full of what-ifs. This is why I completely agree with something that Neil Simon wrote in his autobiographical book Rewrites (I’m paraphrasing), “Writer’s block isn’t when a writer has no ideas. It’s when a writer has so many ideas and doesn’t trust himself to choose the right one.”

There are so many ideas—so many what-ifs—everywhere you look that it seems impossible to me that a writer could ever have no idea what to write about. Why, I write at least a dozen story ideas in my head every day. At least. And I throw them out, because I don’t even have enough time to write the stories I’m already working on, never mind a dozen new ones every day.

A little imagination and two words are all you need to create infinite story ideas.

Here’s an example. Recently I was sitting with my husband in a courtroom, because he had a couple of unfair traffic tickets we wanted to contest. (We reached a compromise with the court, because the police officer who issued the tickets wasn’t available and taking it all the way would have meant my husband taking another day off work, which wasn’t worth the $58 cost of the remaining ticket.) We had to spend about three hours in the courtroom waiting for our turn. My husband thought I might get in trouble for using my cellphone, but even the bailiff was using hers. The first cases brought before the judge were those where defendants had lawyers, as well as drug-related cases that involved already incarcerated defendants. Instead of being brought in, those defendants appeared in the courtroom via some sort of teleconferencing arrangement on a large flat-screen TV.

I leaned in toward my husband and whispered, “I can imagine a story about a woman who comes into court because of a traffic violation and is shocked to see her missing husband on that screen.” My husband loved the idea and continued it. What if the husband was in jail pretending to be someone else? What if he married her while pretending to be someone else? What if he had other wives who had no idea where he was or who he really was? What if after she screamed in court, “that’s my missing husband,” he pretended not to know her? What if he really didn’t know her? What if the husband but had lost his memory in the same accident that led to his incarceration, and while the system believed and had been telling him for a year that he was someone else, she was the only person who could reveal the truth and that he was innocent? What if after his experiences even he isn’t sure she’s telling the truth?

By asking one what-if, I came up with a story idea. And by continuing to ask one what-if after another, my husband was able to hone it into a very interesting story idea. I’m probably never going to use it, because, like I said, I think of and then abandon at least a dozen of these a day. But this little event gave my husband a glimpse into how my mind works when I write a story—and how much fun it is.

And asking what-ifs really is!

Yes, hearing or reading or seeing stories is fun, but it’s even more fun when you’re the one who’s telling yourself the story and you can make it go anywhere you want.

Infinite story ideas are everywhere. All you have to do is ask yourself, “What if?” and then let your imagination do the rest. 

Writers, looking for inspiration? Have you tried a random photo generator?

Do a Google search for "random photo generator" and you'll find several. Here's a link to one: http://www.pbase.com/photos/random.html

Looking at the photos can give you places, characters, actions, and moods. If you don't feel inspired by what you see, click again to get new photos.

When I tried it, I got a little girl picking up a turtle in a garden. That could be the start of a story. Just ask yourself, "What happened after that?"

I also got a backpack on a kayak. That could also be the start of a story.  Just ask yourself, "Who does that backpack belong to? Why is that person in the kayak? Who else is there? What's their relationship? What kind of conflict could evolve on their adventure?"

Clicking "more" gave me a wistful bride looking out a window and a race car. Put the two together, and you can probably come up with a great story. Maybe the bride is giving up racing. Maybe she wants to race away. Maybe she's marrying a race car driver, and maybe he was killed in an accident on the way to the wedding.

Give it a try. It's a lot of fun, and you never know what you're going to come up with.

Here are some random photos of mine to get you started.

Have fun writing!

Guest Post by W. Jack Savage

A while ago I sent out a request for guest posts. I asked that they be either inspirational or informative, and I wanted them to be personal, because I didn't want something I could have written.

The guest post below is one of my favorites. It's raw and honest, and it shows how it you can learn something in the most surprising places if you just pay attention. It also shows how one person can have a long-lasting impact in a teenager's life.

_________________________________________

The Crown of the Road

By W. Jack Savage

            I’ll never forget Mrs. Johnson, my art teacher in high school.  I liked her at a variety of levels.  She had a good sense of humor, she didn’t take any crap, and she would make observations about you through your artwork that went beyond the usual critique.  “You’re my dreamer,” she would say.  “Your work has a dream quality to it.”  I found her comments useful because in high school my whole life had a dream quality to it.  But her observation, using the vehicle of a drawing I was working on, gave substance to what I was feeling without judgment.  “Don’t be such a dreamer,” other teachers might say.  As if to dream was the enemy of one’s education.  Indeed, it may have been.  It was in my case.  But, at times, to dream was all that allowed me to survive.  When she said it though, it was just another word used to describe something—in this case a drawing.

            One spring day she came in and began our day with this sentence: “No matter who you are, you have to be pretty comatose not to have noticed the budding of the trees and bushes today on your way to school.”  I hadn’t.  It wasn’t the first time the winters of my youth had instilled in me a paralysis of observation that lingered through late spring.  But, again, her giving words to my affliction made me notice it.  Her speech preceded our first outdoor sketching assignment of the spring.  I remember thinking a lot that day about why I hadn’t noticed these obvious signs of spring.  As time went by, I began to realize that whereas a nuance or an inflection of speech, a side-ways glance, or even a conspicuous silence could never escape my notice; the terrain or background against which these little dramas played out was less significant to me.  Therefore, now in my fifties, it came as somewhat of a surprise to me when I became aware of the crown of the road.

            Mind you, I don’t know if engineers or the people who work on roads even call it that.  But, to me, where the curve of a road from curb to curb meets its highest point is what I consider the crown of the road.  If it had ever occurred to me in the past, and it never had, I would have assumed that the crown of the road for the most part was always in the middle of the road.  I would have frankly doubted any idea that the crown of the road could be as near to one side as five or six feet in some cases.  But it is.  As an avid runner, I became aware of this one day.  I recently brought this observation up to someone in passing, who, having given it some thought, wondered out loud who could possibly give a damn about such a thing.  I then pointed out that it was my opinion that observing such a thing was no less poetic in nature than noticing the budding of the trees in spring.

            “Who says budding trees are poetic?” he asked.  “This is California for Christ’s sake.  We don’t have a ‘budding’ spring as such anyway.  I can’t remember noticing a budding tree since I left the Midwest, and now this…this crown in the road business.  What the hell are you talking about?”

            “I’m a runner,” I said.  “You know that.  I run everywhere: streets, trails, up in the mountains, in your neighborhood, too.  I’ve never been known as the most observant guy around when it comes to outdoors anyway.  I’m just telling you that I noticed something about the streets.  They’re a part of our world that we take for granted and drive on every day.  The crown of the road, or at least its high point, is different.  Sometimes it drifts from side to side depending on how they want the water to drain off.”

            “What water?” he asked.  “I’ve lived out here for sixteen years.  It didn’t rain at all for the first four.  If it did, I never noticed it.”

            “Yes,” I said, “but when it does, and real hard I mean, like the flood years, that’s what the crown in the road is for.  If you live on a north hill that slopes to the south, and the street in front of your house goes east and west, the crown of the road is almost certainly nearer to your house and your side of the street than the other side.  You see it impedes the water flow a little and drains it east and west to a natural flow point on either side.  There they put storm sewers or something to catch the majority of the run-off.”

            He just looked at me.  “I don’t live on a hill,” he said quietly.

            This man clearly had no sense of wonder.  Or if he had, it was long gone.  I tried for a little longer but it was no use.

            Not long after that, I began again with a woman I had known for some time.  Perhaps, unconsciously, I chose her because I wanted a woman’s opinion to begin with.  Secondly, being a woman, I reasoned that even if my observation held no particular interest for her, she would at least assess what I had to say with less antagonism.  The possibility that it might even be of interest seemed increased by the fact that she had once been a runner like me.

            “When you used to run,” I began, “did you ever notice the crown of the road?”

            “I’m not sure what you mean.”

            “Well,” I explained.  “You know how most roads have a sort of arc, a slight rounding to them in the middle from curb to curb.”

            “Yes, that is, I suppose so,” she said.  “That makes sense for the drainage, I’d guess.”

            “Okay,” I said.  “As you get up in the hills, the crown of the road varies a great deal.  Sometimes the crown or high point is as close to the curb as six feet.  As the street continues, sometimes the crown will change completely to the other side.  If it winds up a hill or something, it will change from side to side.  It’s not always in the middle is what I mean.”

            She looked at me.

            “Did you ever notice that when you were running?” I asked.

            “No, I was too busy noticing suspicious cars or vans that might follow me and want to force me in if I wasn’t paying attention.  In other words, I was trying not to get raped while I took my morning exercise.  Now that you mention it, I didn’t notice anything about the roads or my neighborhood either.”

            “You weren’t by any chance listening to music, were you?” I asked.

            “Not then,” she said.  “I power walk now.  It’s easier on the knees.  I have a headset that I listen to now and then.”

            “I see. Ever notice the budding of the trees in spring?”

            She shook her head. “Not the budding exactly, but the purple Jacaranda trees bloom in the spring.  I always notice them.  What did you call it?”

            “I’m sorry?”

            “The crown,” she said.  “Was that it?”

            “Yes,” I said.  “I don’t know what road engineers call it.  I mean, I don’t know if that’s what it’s called.  That’s just what I call it.”

            “Was there something else you wanted to ask me?”

            “Well, no not really,” I said.

            “Are you sure? You know if you change your mind, you can call me at home.”

            “Oh,” I said.  “Okay.”

            I next called my son who listened to my observation and said, “Is there a point to this Dad?” 

            My daughter wondered if I might be getting high again after all these years and said, “That’s the kind of thing someone who’s high would notice.”

            A part of me wanted to argue with both of them.  But since the lion’s share of their up-bringing was done by their mother, while my contribution could be measured more in canceled checks, I was not unaware of the futility of attempting communication with those for whom their own luminescence provides a shield against official and, in my case, semi-official points of view.  Much the same as ours did in our youth.

            Finally, I attempted to call Mrs. Johnson.  From time to time, actually once after I got home from the service and again fifteen years after that, I looked up Mrs. Johnson just to say hello.  In so doing, I hoped this would indicate my affection for her.  Her somewhat sarcastic nature made telling her of my affection more difficult than any “three times in thirty years” phone call should be.  If she couldn’t figure out that I still thought of her fondly enough to call, she wasn’t as sharp as I’d always imagined.

            I called long-distance information expecting to get her number as I had done in the past.  But I was unsuccessful this time. She had always been listed under her first two initials, but it seemed this was no longer true.  I sat there, trying to remember her first name (if ever I’d known it) and theorized that, because she had long since retired from teaching, it was possible that she had gone back to using her first name.  I tried again and again but had no luck.

            This might well have been the end of my effort to get someone—anyone—to appreciate the fact that the crown of the road varies with the terrain and the various undulations it passes through, but my daughter’s observation kicked off something in my memory.

            “The crown of the road,” she rationalized, “might be something that someone who was high might take notice of.”

            Naturally, being an avid runner, I am no stranger to the endorphin high.  It is a heady state that can be achieved by prolonged exercise, usually by runners.  Indeed, I have felt it often.  Not consistently but often nonetheless.  I tried for a moment to remember exactly when it was that I first noticed the crown in the road.  I could not, at least not exactly.  Therefore, it’s at least possible that I was in the state known as “the runner's high” when it first came to me.  But although the crown of the road itself may be a somewhat offbeat observation, the way I presented it was not.

            I first chose a friend over drinks.  The fact that we were drinking alone should have at least paved a surface conducive for such an observation.  The nonsense I have listened to over drinks down through the years could fill volumes with observations less astute than mine.

            “Ever notice how people who drive yellow cars are all assholes?  If they’ve never seen Pluto, how do they know it’s there?” These two were just off the top of my head.

            After that I choose a fellow runner: a woman fellow runner, but a runner anyway.  She should have registered something approaching an affirmation of my observation; instead, I came away with the feeling she thought I was hitting on her.  And, upon further thought, had I been hitting on her, I might have done so successfully.  I could still call her.

            That my children were unresponsive was a surprise something akin to the sun coming up each day.

            And yet, perhaps my observation was the kind that never quite lands when you bring it up, but one that you never forget either.  I was riding a bus down University Avenue once, going to a job that I hated.  Actually, it was a bus ride with a transfer, and University was the final leg, making the fact that I hated the job worse because the commute was tedious as well.  Anyway, I’d get on the bus that was always full, and there were a number of retarded riders from some group home; each morning they took this bus to where they all worked.  I enjoyed this leg of the ride because, since the bus was usually full, the retarded riders couldn’t sit together.  They were scattered around the bus.  Being that I was in my twenties, during the seventies, and less than enamored of my employment status quo or prospects, I got high on marijuana every day before going to work.  And while I’ve grown tired of the debate over what, if any, benefit may be gained by staying in such a state, being that I no longer use it; it seemed at the time to provide great theater now and then, and this bus ride was an example.

            First, with no obvious signs of mental retardation, it was fun trying to decide who in fact was retarded and who wasn’t.  Everyone sat quietly on the bus and unless someone had their hat on sideways or slept so that one side of their hair stood straight up, given my own state of impaired reality, it was hard to tell.  Under these circumstances, a man I may otherwise have pegged as a shop foreman or even small business owner of some kind might just get up and shuffle off at their stop with the other mentally challenged riders.  Then, who’s to say they were all a part of the same group just because they got off at the same stop?  You get my drift.  Over time, of course, you could kind of tell.  After a while, my daydreams concerned themselves with other things.

            One day, as happened occasionally, I was lucky enough to get a window seat for this last leg of my commute.  Another guy, who had been standing as well, took the seat next to me as I got in.  In moments, I was in that reverie aided by a window view I knew I had been lucky to get.  As we approached Fairview and the stoplight there, the fellow on my left leaned forward a bit.

            As we stopped, he suddenly blurted out “A gas station!”

            I immediately knew he was one of our challenged group and I, challenged in my own way but part of the larger whole nevertheless, responded with good-natured stoned affirmation, “Yeah...a gas station.”

            “I’ll bet they have road maps in there,” he said.

            “Yeah,” I bet they do.”

            But it was more than that.  Over the years I believe it was far more.  To begin with, given both my state of general dissatisfaction and marijuana impairment, this young guy’s progressive observation has stayed with me for thirty years. 
          At the time it was just something funny that happened on the bus.  But, after a while, it seemed like an answer to a prayer somehow.  A road map could get you anywhere, and they were available at the nearest gas station.  Too simplistic to be profound you say?  Nonsense!  It’s as simple as this: if you don’t like your situation--job, relationship, prospects, whatever--and the process of change seems too complex, leave!  Maps are available.  They chart a path of both escape and renewal.  Moreover, they are proof positive that wherever it is, you can get there from here.  I have used this metaphor countless times to kick-start my life whenever I felt trapped.
            I’m not saying that the “crown of the road” will one day compete with “road maps available at your nearest gas station,” but, over time, it may find meaning for someone.  Consider that a path—any path—leads somewhere and can therefore lead you back if necessary.  But taking your eyes off the path to a point too far ahead can lead you off the path in a hurry; looking back can as well.  Therefore, staying to the rounded apex of the path and following that apex or crown as it moves from side to side can not only provide security against leaving it but also allows you to go faster.  That is, should you desire to.

            Well, I’m not saying that it will keep anyone up nights.  But the first of many springs in my life, where I failed to notice the budding of the trees, spawned in me enough of a sense of wonder to notice the variances in what I have now dubbed “the crown of the road.”  And if the “rounded apex of the path” thing seems too contrived, then consider that the crown of the road is only my observation.  What you do with it is your business.  I’m staying with “road maps available at the nearest gas station.”

W. Jack Savage is a retired broadcaster and associate professor in Film Studies who now writes full time. The Children Shall Be Blameless is Jack's third novel and fifth book. He and his wife Kathy live in Monrovia, California. You can find out more about him by clicking here.

The Fine Art of Talking to People Who Aren’t There: Drawing Fictional Characters to Life

 I’m delighted to have a wonderful, multi-talented writer as a guest on my blog today, Jeff Davis. Jeff is the author of a new YA fantasy novel, The Seeds.  

I was surprised to discover that, like me, Jeff likes to draw his characters and put them somewhere he can see them when he writes.

For at least 20 years, I’ve had a drawing of Toren taped under the hutch that goes over my desk. The look on her face tells me that she has a story that needs to be told. More recently I’ve had a drawing of Gilbert Garfinkle taped there too. Unlike Toren, the look on his face says, “Oh, no. What are you going to do to me this time?” Sorry, Gilbert, but I have to follow what I call Murphy’s Law for fiction writers: namely, if anything can go wrong for your main character, it should.

Jeff shared with me his thoughts about drawing characters and how this helps in the writing process. Even if you can’t draw, just having a visual representation of your character—perhaps an illustration or a photo you found online—can help you in the same way. I know some writers who collect photos on Pinterest that they use for inspiration.

So what exactly can a drawing of your character do for you?

Here’s Jeff with the answer to that question:

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There’s a demon on my screen giving me attitude.

Matra from The Seeds by Jeff Davis

As a kid, I was always drawing. Usually heroes and dragons. Facing them, riding them, conjuring them, my characters were always captured within an action. Something was going on. I would sit and stare at them, waiting to find out how their stories played out in my mind’s eye. The stories were always so much more intriguing than my meager talents could portray. It was as if each drawing was seen through a window into whatever world I was dreaming up.

Fast forward to the present.

 Writing blog posts, web copy and promotional materials doesn’t leave much room for fantastic characters or muscle-bound heroes, even though that kind of writing does weave a narrative that’s suppose to whisk you off to a more utopian world. But fantasy fiction? Ah! 

That’s the thing.

When I started writing my first fantasy novel, “The Seeds”, it was written in my head far longer than it has existed in print. I would watch the characters move through scenarios in my mind’s eye, just like when I was a kid.  But, where a budding artist can draw a sword in a hand if the situation calls for it, a writer must make having that sword consistent, it must make sense.

 As an exercise in continuity, I decided to create a more complex set of designs for my first major effort. Each of the main characters was created in full color that I could pull up when necessary. Does he carry a sword? I might want to mention that fact somewhere before he whips it out. Physical descriptions? To avoid the characters from becoming perfect in every way, some boundaries are needed.

But, the most surprising and most frequent use of these visual references came when writing dialogue.

Witty banter is fun to write, and usually rolls right across my keyboard. For Varia and Dartura of “The Seeds”, being twins makes their conversations appear pointed and clipped. They know what the other is going to say almost before it's said, so only what is needed is expressed. It’s almost like the lossy compression of video for the web; only the pixels that change from the last keyframe are rendered. (If that makes sense to you, Yay! You’re a geek like me!)

But, it was the shadowy antagonist that vexed me.

How many times can one rely on writing “Bah!” to express contempt? I had to really convey a personality that I didn’t have in me--that of a conniving trickster old enough to be bored with her world, yet sinister enough to care little for the damage she does. So, I created Matra in graphic form.

Her eyes would stare malevolently at me as I posed questions to her. I would form dialogue, out loud, and actually ask if that was what she would say in that scenario. She didn’t really answer. (Thankfully, or I might be writing this from a padded cell.) But the disdain in her expression was enough for me to interpret when something worked (I hope), or when it didn’t.

I usually write whenever I get the chance, but most frequently at night, when the house is quiet. Often, my wife would open the door to my office, only to quietly close it again as I sat arguing with Matra. (“But, you hate this guy! Why would you be cordial?”) More than once my wife searched my eyes for some physical sign of the madness that was surely creeping over me. When I announced that “The Seeds” was complete, I was unsure which of us was more relieved.

Still, not only sketching but fully realizing my characters is a practice that I will continue to use as my writing improves. The illustrations take on a new life when complete, and for me at least, really form the basis of the inner workings of a character. The downside for the reader may be that they interpret the character differently, but that’s okay. I would like nothing more than for a reader to tell me, “I saw this character like this…”

If you are reading my work enough to form such opinions, it can only help me become a better writer.

Jeff Davis

____

Author bio:

Jeff Davis has worked with some of the finest high technology teams in the business and has delivered to some of the world's most recognizable companies the high quality graphics, multimedia and print materials they demand, all over the world. He majored in art and design, and he continues to regard himself as a student of the history and reinvention of popular culture. As an author, Jeff hopes to bring his unique ideas to life in this medium. A visitor to his studio office will be treated to the sounds of Led Zeppelin, Sheryl Crow, Kate Bush and traditional Celtic music. Jeff resides an hour north of Manhattan, N.Y. with his wife and two children. www.jdsavage.com/theseeds.htm

THE SEEDS 

This is not your grandmother's fairy tale. A fantasy novel that turns the genre on its head, "The Seeds" follows Trooper Angus Mayweather as he is thrust into the conflict faced by twin sisters Dartura & Varia, Generals of the Tarol Nation. As the sisters uncover a new threat from an old enemy, Angus must do what he can to help as the Tarol Nation faces all-out war.

Click here to check out drawings of Characters from“The Seeds”.

Order "The Seeds" from Smashwords. 

Find Jeff Davis on Google+, Facebook, or Twitter @JDSavageTV

  

Do you find drawing from other mediums helps you with writing?  If so, what medium, and how does it help? Do you have a picture of your main character or a place in your story? Does listening to a certain kind of music put you in the right mood? If you haven't thought of using pictures this way before, how do you think they might help  you? What would you ask your main character, and how do you think your main character would respond? 

Please leave your answers in the comments below. Thanks!

The Challenges of Writing with Dyslexia

I asked author Alicia Kat Dillman to tell me how she overcame dyslexia to write her debut novel, Daemons in the Mist. 

This is her answer:

“It is my great strength that gets me where I want to go, but it is my flaws, my weaknesses, that made me who I am.”

Sometimes I am so determined in my need to succeed that I forget just how much I have accomplished and just how far I have come.

I don’t like to dwell on things I can’t change or things that I have no control over. Instead, I just keeping moving forward toward the goals I set for myself.

I have dyslexia; in fact I have all three forms.

When I write, sometimes I move letters or words around out of order. And half the time when I read it back, I'll miss the error because my brain is auto-correcting it for me. This is made even worse, if I’m trying to write while the TV is on or someone is trying to talk to me. I will literally start transcribing the audio into the sentences inter-spaced with what I was trying to write. Sometimes words just end up there that are out of the blue and completely unrelated to anything I was thinking.

Because I know this happens, I work around it.

It’s all about focusing on what you need to do instead of focusing on what prevents you from doing it.

I listen to music that won’t distract me and try to write mostly when everyone is asleep, which means about 90% of my writing is done between 11pm-4am. For example, I’m writing this at 2am.

Dyslexia isn’t something that goes away or something you grow out of. It’s something you have to deal with every day, something that’s just a part of what makes you, you.

The point is not to let it run your life.

Sure, nearly every time I write “me” it comes out “my,” instead or vice versa. And I will forever type “chnage” instead of “change,” even though I know how it’s spelled. And I can read a sentence a dozen times and still not see the mistakes, because my brain corrects it for me.

I used to feel embarrassed about this, but you know what? Dyslexia is a disability and those are nothing to be ashamed of.

* * *

About Alicia Kat Dillman

Indie author & illustrator Alicia Kat Dillman is a lifelong resident of the San Francisco Bay Area. Kat illustrates and designs book covers & computer game art by day and writes teen fiction by night. The owner of two very crazy studio cats and nine overfull bookcases, Kat can usually be found performing, watching anime, or hanging out in twitter chats when not playing in the imaginary worlds within her head. 

Daemons in the Mist

Seventeen year old Patrick Connolly has been hopelessly infatuated with Nualla for years but he is all but invisible to her. Until, that is, he rescues her from a confrontation with her ex. Little does Patrick know he’s just set off a dangerous chain reaction that will thrust him into a world of life-altering secrets and things that shouldn’t exist, because the fog and mist of San Francisco are concealing more than just buildings.

Website Link: http://www.katgirlstudio.com/

Book Link: http://www.katgirlstudio.com/book/daemons-in-the-mist-book/

Researching my romantic YA ghost story

I'm currently editing Ride of Your Life, a romantic YA novel involving ghosts in a theme park, when I came across this website:  http://amusementsafety.org/safety_news_11.asp

I know that several deaths and injuries take place in theme parks every year, but to see just the ones that happened in 2011 compiled like that is disturbing: 24 people died and many more were badly injured. The "lucky" ones end up with broken bones, but others lost limbs. Wow. 

Ride of Your Life was inspired by what is probably the worst amusement park accident to have ever happened in the USA: the Great Adventure Haunted Castle fire that killed eight young people in 1984. 

The song "Crazy Dreams" from last night's episode of Smash.

I loved the bittersweet irony of this song that one of the characters sang at the end of last night's episode of Smash. Two women up for the role of a lifetime, and only one can get it. One's dream comes true, while the other's is broken.

Still, it's something we all need to believe. Sometimes even crazy dreams do come true.

What Every Writer Needs To Know

Do you ever experience writer’s block?

In his autobiographical book Rewrites, playwright Neil Simon explains that writer’s block isn’t when a writer has no idea what to write; it’s when a writer has plenty of ideas but doesn’t trust himself to choose the right one.

The main thing you need to know is that writing is about taking a leap of faith in your story--and yourself.

Detail from Toren the Teller's Flight, book two of Toren the Teller's Tale

Toren the Teller’s Tale is a fantasy novel about a magical storyteller and her struggle to accept the magic within herself. She has a hard time taking that leap of faith. It seems wrong. The world doesn’t approve. She loves her own magic, but trusting in it is scary, terrifying, in fact.

In a way, Toren’s story is the story of every writer. We all have fears. We all struggle to accept our own magic. But we have to accept it. We have to believe. Our stories need us; but, more importantly, our readers need our stories, although they might not know it yet.

In the following scene from chapter nine, Toren is attending a tellers’ gathering as a storyteller’s apprentice. What the others at the gathering don’t know is that she’s a girl disguised as a boy, and that her real master is a wizard who hired a storyteller to take her to the gathering so that she can learn about the magic of the storytellers.

~~~

“The first step to becoming a great teller,” one elder master said, “is to know your audience. You must know what they wear, eat, think and believe, how they live, how they die, and where their souls go when they slumber. Your story is a journey to a greater truth, and your listener will not join you on that journey if he doesn't see it as his journey. You must paint your story in such a way that the listener will see himself inside it.”

“So true, so true,” commented another. “A teller must study everything--from the smallest details of our mundane existences to our grandest hopes and fears.”

“Is that what a story is then?” one of the older apprentices asked. “A mirror showing the listener exactly what he is?”

A wave of laughter rippled through the hall.

“Of course not,” shouted a teller in the back. “That is the very last thing a story should be” He stepped closer to the platform so everyone could see and hear him. “Indeed, it must start with the listener, but it should take him far from his reality. In each person’s mind, he is the center of the world, for it begins and ends with his experiences, thoughts, and beliefs. The listener is the one and only hero of the story of his life. In his mind all other heroes and all other stories are insignificant. But in reality he is of no more importance than any other sorry soul of the millions who have lived or have yet to live. He is a drop in the endless ocean of existence, which carries us all where it will. Of course, you must never tell your listener that. If you do, he will throw you out on your ear. The only mirrors you should show him are those he sees in his dreams. You must say, ‘Look here you are in my story. The perfect hero, that’s you. You only need to close your eyes, and I will take you there.’”

A murmur of approval greeted his words. A few even applauded.

Giddy yawned. “Don’t you find this dull?” he asked me.

I raised a finger to my lips to tell him to be quiet. My real master’s words echoed in my mind. Pay close attention to everything the master tellers say, he ordered. You are here to learn about the magic of the telling. And so I did.

“Now, now,” countered the first elder master, “not all of our stories are dreams. Sometimes we lead our listeners through their nightmares and guide them safely through to the other side. Only two things remain constant: the listener is always the starting point and our goal is always the greater truth. The easiest stories to tell are the dreams or nightmares you and your listener share. Discover what you have in common, and from that common place of departure begin the grandest journey your soul will allow.”

“But what if you and your audience have nothing in common?” asked one of the apprentices. “What if you tell a story to a king, for example? Do you tell him a tale about royalty, even though you know nothing about life at court? It won’t ring true. And what about all the tales of princesses and daring knights? Surely, they’re not only for nobles. My master tells these tales to peasants all the time, and they love them.”

“Yes,” said another apprentice. “And what about made up stories, ones that deal with fantastic things that could never be true? Where’s the common starting point, and where’s the greater truth?”

The elder master said the answer to this question was obvious, and he turned it over to us. I hesitated at first, but when no one else spoke, I asked if I might be allowed to. He nodded.
“We all have common hopes and fears,” I said. Sol reminded me to raise my voice. I continued a bit louder. “From the lowliest peasant to the king, we dream of someone who will love us more than life itself. In her dreams, every maiden is a princess longing for love; in his dreams, every youth is the one who will win her heart. Even the king’s hopes and fears are as common as our own.”

“And what about fantastic tales?” the elder master asked.

“My master’s story was fantastic,” I replied. “And yet it’s true. A man wants a son to follow in his footsteps and may be blinded to a truth he doesn’t wish to see. A woman may know the truth and be afraid to speak it. And a child may suffer for not being what the world demands her to be.”

The elders smiled at my answer, but one of them shook his finger.

“Although what you say is true, young man,” he said, “I believe a story’s truth is even greater than that. One day you’ll see. You’ll think you are telling a story, but the truth of it will take over, and you’ll realize the thing you thought you created was always there--not in this place and time but somewhere in the infinite universe and as true as your own existence. We tellers are bridges from the past to the present, from the present to the future, from distant lands to here, and from here to everywhere.”

~~~

Realize there’s a journey your reader needs to make, and only you can take your reader there.

Embrace your own magic. Trust your story. Trust yourself.

Your story, your characters, and your readers are depending on you.

The Story Behind Toren the Teller and the Tale

Toren changed my life.

I don’t know how old I was when I first became a storyteller, but I do know I was quite young. I remember telling my youngest cousins and my older cousins’ children stories when I was about ten. I loved the excited look on their faces, how my stories drew them in and captured their imaginations and their hearts. I also remember telling stories to the younger children on the van ride to school. I particularly remember one little girl who would ask over and over, “What happened next?” It was such a delightful question to answer.

As I was growing up, I read anything and everything I could get my hands on. I read encyclopedias and science magazines, because I was very curious, and couldn’t read enough about this world. I also read a ton of comic books, particular collections of Peanuts strips. My favorite books were funny, fantasy or science fiction. I loved the works of Peter S. Beagle, Ursula Le Guin, Anne McCaffrey, J.R.R. Tolkien, Gene Wolfe, Harlan Ellison, Douglas Adams, Isaac Asimov, Orson Scott Card, John Barth, Thomas Pynchon, and so many others.

But while I enjoyed these books, I kept looking for one about a girl like me, a girl who loved stories and loved telling them. I knew stories were magical, perhaps even the most magical thing we can experience. I couldn’t possibly be the only one who felt like this, could I? And who better to write about this particular magic than a storyteller? But the more I looked, the more I realized the book I so desperately wanted to read did not exist. No one had written it yet.

When I was seventeen, my family had moved to Jerusalem, and I had just started college. That first year I studied Hebrew and a variety of other subjects, like Advanced Algebra, Political Science, and Computer Programming. My plan was to eventually study filmmaking, because I wanted to be a director.

You see, I didn’t just love storytelling on paper: I loved it in all its forms, and I thought that movies were the best way to tell a story, because they brought so many of those forms together: with and without words, visually, and through music. I studied the movies I enjoyed, and I tried to figure out how they worked. I still read books, but I read them mostly for entertainment. These were books of my choosing, books that made me laugh and cry, think and feel.

This one night, a book had kept me up late. It was sometime after midnight that my head felt heavy, and I laid it down on the open pages. I looked out of the window of my room. The moon was big and full, far above the horizon. I stood up and walked to the window. I leaned on the windowsill and thought again about that book that didn’t exist, the one about a storytelling girl like me. I closed my eyes and made a wish.

When I turned around, a young woman was standing behind me in my room.

Although she was short, there was something about her that seemed larger than life. She was amazingly beautiful, with her long, dark, curly hair, and her olive-colored, almond-shaped eyes. She was wearing a garment the likes of which I had never seen before.

I asked her for her name.

She said something, but it wasn’t in English. I didn’t understand.

I shook my head.

She slowly reached up and touched my forehead with the tips of her fingers. She closed her eyes, and for a moment, she gave off a golden glow. It was the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen.

“Thank you,” she said, with a voice that reminded me of honey. “You have taught me your language. Both of them, in fact.”

I felt like I should apologize. “I’m still learning Hebrew.” 

 “And now so am I.” She smiled. “I understand you wanted to meet me.”

“I did?”

“A girl like you who understands the magic of stories?”

I was so stunned and happy and excited I couldn’t speak.

“You have taught me your language and about your world,” she said. “How should I repay you?”

Of course, there could only be one answer to that question. “Tell me your story.”  

“I can do better than that.”

Again she touched my forehead. She closed her eyes, and I closed mine. Her name was Toren, and her story flashed inside my mind. I saw, heard, smelled, tasted, and felt all of it. When she pulled her hand away, I was laughing and crying.

I was in awe.

She smiled at me and bowed her head. She looked out the window, and I followed her gaze. A part of me expected to see something magical on the other side. When I turned around again, however, she was gone.

Her story remained with me, and I treasured it. I re-experienced it whenever I was lonely or bored and wanted to be reminded of the magic of stories.

But, like everyone else, I had my life to live. I couldn’t study film, because the university only offered that as an M.A., so I studied English Literature and Theater instead. By the time I had graduated, I realized I didn’t really want to direct movies. I earned a teacher’s certificate, but I didn’t enjoy teaching. Instead I first became an editorial cartoonist, and a comic-strip magazine editor; and then I became an arts-and-entertainment writer, and a consumer columnist. I got married and had two children. I was very happy.

Unfortunately, I had to leave my job and my old life behind when my family moved to New Jersey in search of a better education for my autistic son. I didn’t know what to do. If I couldn’t write, edit, or illustrate for a newspaper or magazine, who was I? What was I?

A few months passed before I realized the answers to those questions. I was still the little girl who loved telling stories to the other children in the van on the way to school. Toren’s story had given me so much joy over the years. And I had been selfish. Somewhere in the world there had to be someone just like the girl I had been, someone who desperately needed a story about the greatest magic of all. It wasn’t just Toren’s story. It was my story, too, and the story of every storyteller who’s ever lived.

Perhaps it’s your story too.