For me it started with Saturday morning cartoons in those distant pre-Cartoon Network days when getting up early on a Saturday was this exciting ritual. Later it was those amazingly corny 80's TV series. Dukes of Hazard, Night Rider, Greatest American Hero. And of course, I fell in love with movies from an early age. I didn't really start reading much until I was 12 or 13. Then it was The Destoyer series which was a serial that had something around 200-300 editions. I ate these up. Somehow that lead to comic books after novels. I still love all these methods of storytelling and have gotten really heavy into anime in the last few years.
The need to tell my own stories developed somewhere in the middle of that garbage stew and, just like my natural ear for grammar (I don't know the rules I just know what sounds right), I learned how to tell a story. I learned where to start and how to not choke it with info-dumptruck loads of back story. I just started writing and when I was coming to the end of my first novel I decided I'd better figure out what to do with it once I finished. What I found was that I knew nothing about writing a book which is probably why I had had been able to get so much done in so short a time frame. Ignorance if bliss. I soon found out that the end of my first novel was going to have to be the middle of it if I wanted to make it long enough to publish the traditional route, which was really the only option at the time. I'm getting off topic here.
What I also realized at this point was that I needed to make sure I was doing it right. A great deal of what I was doing was correct. I had 3-dimensional, flawed characters. Everything was based on conflict that moved the story. My protagonist had the crucial moment of change in order to overcome the greatest conflict of the story. Understanding the whys of storytelling was so empowering but it also robbed me of something. You see, I was no longer blissfully adrift in the rivers of creation, but held fast in a vessel designed to navigate those waters. The muse hates structure. But I grew as much in this time as a writer as I had in the first half of my novel. And then it took me 3 more years to finish that novel and I grew even more. That's when I really began to court my muse and understand what I needed to finish it.
And I've completed nothing since. I've become hyper critical of myself and it's stifling. I talked about this in the last blog. But one thing that has come out of it is the ability to recognize good storytelling when I see it and to identify its major flaws. I can see that makes it good when it works too. I think we writer's forget that we are carrying on the ancient tradition of storytelling based in those fireside oral stories passed down over generations before writing was used.
So, for the next few weeks I'll be talking about storytelling and some of the things I notice in new writers and this is really for my fellow indie writers because we dont get the benefit of an editor usually to point out these things. We are all trapped in our own heads and the things we write sound great to us so we usually don't even recognize that we are making any mistakes. I'd like to hit on some of the things that I think make readers put your book down and make a conscious decision to never pick it up again and those things that can hook them and keep them.
While doing this, an old, nearly forgotten novel crawled its way through my self doubt and depression to take up residence as my muse's favorite fucking thing in the world, so I'll be working on that as well. I've posted an excerpt below just because I like to share more than my pompous ranting.
-From "Freaktown, VA" Urban fantasy set in the fictional city of Freetown, Virginia, known as Freaktown to many in the area. Vampire, Sorcerers and ghosts... Thought I was gonna say OH MY? Uh, no.
The old man, prostrate on the stone floor, continued his work as if Gray’s boot steps echoed only in his own ears. He walked around the edge of the large circle, careful not to trespass on the countless runes carved into the stone. Thousands of hours of work, all wrought by Darius’s hand.
Gray kneeled at the far end of the circle opposite the entrance with is back to the old seer.
“One hundred years and more for you to learn patience, Nathaniel. You had only to lose your humanity to gain discipline. You honor me.”
“I have a strange problem, Master.”
Darius continued his work, undeterred. The hammer and chisel chipped away at the rock, inscribing the markings that would serve whatever great work the old seer had pursued these many decades.
“You only call strange that which you already understand but resist accepting as truth. You come to me to confirm truth or to relieve fears?
“Both. There’s a killer loose in Freetown.
“Many, I would assume.”
“This one is different. He is like Priest.”
The hammer taps ceased. Darius was motionless for several moments. “This isn’t a conclusion you would come to lightly. Are you certain?”
Gray stood up and turned. “Germaine Litchfield is dead. He’s the second bloodletter this week. The first was a fang near Tremble Park. Holes in their chests, no heart, almost no blood.”
“You have a collector then, a warlock. Priest was not the first, you know.”
“But he was the last. That black art was dead when he found it. I’ve traveled the world destroying the tomes of that evil sect. How is this possible?”
Darius struggled to his feet. The hems of his robes were dirty and tattered from so often dragging the rough stone floor. He was skeletally thin, his eyes rheumy with age but still saw far more than any other could. A bald pate, crowned with long gray hair that blended into an even longer beard, shown with a mixture of sweat and dust from his labors.
“You must consider the strength of one able to commit such horrors and decide how best to handle the situation. If he grows as powerful as Priest there may be no stopping him.”
“You have envisioned this?”
“I have. I have seen this and what will become of the city. This one brings war with him and death for practitioner, bloodletter and human alike.”
“What should I do?”
Darius hobbled over to stand before the enforcer. Gray knelt before him, still able to dwarf the old man even on his knees. Darius laid a dust coated hand on the other’s shoulder. “You will do what you have always done my friend.”
“Will I prevail?”
“Many will die before this one is stopped.” He took a deep breath. “I see no future for Nathanial Gray.” The old man’s twisted fingers squeezed Gray’s shoulder with a trembling strength that belied a strange harmony of frailty and power.
Darius turned and sought his hammer and chisel again.
The tunnel was darker when Gray left.
Listening to: Amanda Palmer- Polly I love Amanda Palmer as I did the Dresden Dolls. This Nirvana cover is unique and haunting. The video tells a very interesting and disturbing story and it worth the watch.
Very glad your old novel found its way back to you. I'm already hooked just from the excerpt and can't wait to read the finished product. Try not to doubt yourself, you're amazingly talented. ;)
ReplyDeleteThank you so much Lori. I really appreciate the support and your sweet words. :D
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