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Building story relationships

by | May 14, 2012 | Fearless, From Hell (A Love Story), Process

It’s my belief that any story is, at its core, about relationships. Relationships between people or groups of people, usually: families, friends, lovers, enemies, warring countries/planets/galaxies, spies trying to outdo each other, whatever. A story about a boy and his dog making their way through the post-apocalyptic countryside is about a relationship. Or a story about a female fighter pilot and the only thing in the world she trusts – her plane – is about a relationship. Even a story about the last surviving scientist looking for a cure to a world-spread disease is about a relationship.

Spy vs. Spy

Perhaps the greatest unconsummated love affair of them all?

Now, my stories tend to examine relationships on a smaller scale, usually between two people, along with a supporting cast of eccentrics around them. Love stories. But it’s never just a love story. I like some kind of conflict (often external) that will rear its ugly head, and which my characters need to face together to overcome. Or die trying in the process.

My question, though, is – when you have an external conflict that the lovers must face – how much time can you spend building the relationship, first?

I like building relationships, myself, but in this age of short attention spans, if a storyteller spends a lot of time forging that alliance between the characters, will the reader get bored before the big ol’ conflict hits? What’s a reasonable amount of time to spend getting a couple together? What if I’m telling this story all wrong?!

Oh noes! (by Michelle Burnette)

(image by Michelle Burnette)

Have you ever read a story and thought, “They would never get together that quickly!” Or, conversely, “Why is this truce taking so long?” What are your thoughts about this topic? I’d love to know!

And there’s the pitch!

by | Apr 28, 2012 | Fearless, From Hell (A Love Story), Process

One of the things that Mr. Guy talks about over at The Red Pen of Doom is keeping your pitch simple. Four words or less, he suggests, to give a basic summary of your novel. From there, you can elaborate to a sentence and then a paragraph, but those four words need to sum up the gist of your story.

the number 4

Brought to you by the number 4.

Four words? Even my comics creator friend, Pete Stathis, suggested the seven-word synopsis. I had issues coming up with seven words to sum up my story, but, compared to four, seven would be cake.

Anyway, since reading that article about the simple pitch, I’ve been trying on and off for the last several weeks to come up with something suitable. Everything sounds so trite, though. I’m trying to stay universal, since one of the other suggestions made over at the Red Pen of Doom is that the hero doesn’t matter (not to the pitch, anyway): it’s the conflict that’s really important.

That piece of advice should probably make my task easier…except that it doesn’t.

I asked my mother for advice about this (so you know that I’m desperate). She asked what a pitch was, to start, and then said, “So, if I were to write my life story, my pitch would be something like, Memoirs of a Gaido-san, yes?” (Gaido-san is Engrish for “Miss/Madame Tour Guide.”)

Damn it if my mother isn’t better at this than I am.

Your typical "gaido-san"

For anyone who’s taken a peek at Fearless, it’s about this carefree and callous surfer-type who falls in love with the bold new girl in the village, blah blah blah, and I’ve likely lost you already. The main focus of the story is really about their relationship, coming to terms with their past and present mistakes and misconceptions, and how a single accident can change the way that they approach their lives. There are no invaders from space, no marauding pirates. So, how do I compress that story of love and relationships into four words and still make it interesting?

Whenever I consider my four-word pitch, I’m dogged by cliched, general phrases that ultimately say nothing about the story. If I read these on a poster with a graphic, maybe something would click, but probably not. To give you an idea, I’m stuck with such trite fare as: “Healing isn’t just physical,” and “One accident changes everything.” Or the oh-so basic, “What’s love without fear?” (Because the story deals a lot with these people’s fears: fear of trust, fear of loss, fear of letting go of the people whom you love.)

But none of these have really grabbed me. And if they don’t grab me, they don’t have a chance in Hell of grabbing you.

Love, by Dolk

Painting by Dolk.
If only I could use this as my pitch.
http://www.thegiant.org/wiki/index.php/Dolk

So, it’s back to the drawing board, for me and this project. I’m coming in to the home stretch on my first draft (denouement left, now), and then it’s off for some light (followed by heavy) editing. In the meantime while I finish up the big text, though, I guess I have plenty of work to do on the little text.

(Wait, wait! How about “Love, by accident“? Nah. Didn’t think so.)

Be Your own One Person

by | Apr 14, 2012 | Fearless, From Hell (A Love Story), Process

I think Dave Sim is a bastard. An accomplished bastard, to be certain, but a bastard nevertheless.

During his 300-issue run on his independent (that’s self-published, to the literary crowd) comic book Cerebus, he used the titular character as an outlet to complain about many grievances he had about the world, most notably the role of women in it. Sim was not a happy guy when it came to women, during this time, and he made no secret about it. Of course, he was going through an ugly divorce from his wife, so it’s somewhat understandable. It doesn’t really excuse the way he took a dump on women in general in his book, but I suppose he had his reasons.

Still, despite his somewhat misogynistic words, I still find – even to this day – that I have to admire the guy. Why? Because he wrote what he wanted.

There’s a lesson in there, right? I mean, I may not agree with his perspective, but he wrote the story he wanted to write, and if readers didn’t like it, that was their fault. It reminds me of a response another writer (Rick Remender) gave to a fan, who’d written an opinion letter saying that Remender was not writing a beloved character the way that the fan thought he should be written. I’m going to paraphrase Remender’s response to this, but it was, essentially:

I am writing this story. Not you. So shut up.

Man, that response gives me wonderful chills every time I think of it. I’m going to write it again just for that reason.

I am writing this story. Not you. So shut up.

I read a lot of articles and blog posts and comments from, about, and to writers, many of whom seem to be slogging through the same drama I am: writing a novel, which we hope we can sell, of course, but that’s not all there is to it.

Many of us are in love with our stories. I know I am. But, like love for anything, there comes with it a deep sense of trepidation. Are we doing what’s best? Are we doing it right? Are we going to be hurt when we put this out there for everyone to see? The answers, of course, are yes, yes, and – sadly – yes. But I think that we can take a lesson from the bastards out there.

We should tell the stories we want to tell. We should tell these stories the way that we want to tell them. And if someone out there doesn’t like the story, that’s their problem.

Of course, there is value in writing for your audience. And we can’t all be Dave Sim or Rick Remender, able to write whatever in Hell we choose because people will buy the work regardless due to brand loyalty or whatever.

But, for pity’s sake, love your story. Have faith in your story. If you don’t love it first, if you don’t have faith in it first, who do you think is going to follow after you?

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0Zzfdlxjx4Y]

The video above is of the Muppet performers singing “Just One Person”, from Snoopy! The Musical, at Jim Henson’s memorial service. If you can watch it and listen to those words without tearing up at least a little bit, I don’t think I want your support.

No matter what you create, you owe it to yourself to trust in your own vision. Be willing to take advice and criticism, and be willing to listen to other people who have the good of your story at heart, even if the words they have to say may be harsh to your ears. But always remember that this is your work. And if you don’t love it first…well, no one else will.

Leave the Line Open; or, The Boys of Stinky Joe’s

by | Apr 11, 2012 | From Hell (A Love Story), Short Stories, Uncategorized

This is what happens when I take a nap after brunch and a beer (scrambled eggs and bacon, and a Bear Republic Racer 5, for anyone interested):

Once upon a time, there were three boys – Devon, Kent, and Cleve – who worked the counter at Stinky Joe’s Pizza. (Actually, only two of them were working; the third was just hanging around because he had nothing better to do.)

Would you go to a place called "Stinky Joe's"?

Stinky Joe’s Pizza was never very busy. In fact, it almost never got any business at all. The three boys didn’t know why this was. All they knew was that the lack of business made them very bored. And very, very lonely.

One bright day, the telephone rang, and this made the boys quite excited. They’d never received a telephone call before-!

They fought over the handset for a minute, and then Devon – the bravest, the tallest, and the oldest – ventured, “Hullo…?”

“Hello.” The high, gentle voice on the other end sounded very friendly. And very pretty.

Devon smiled brightly at his mates, each of whom smiled back.

“Is this Older Forty-Four?” the voice went on.

Devon wilted. “Oh,” he said, and the other two boys wilted, too, by association. “No. This is Stinky Joe’s Pizza.”

“Oh,” the girl on the line repeated. She sounded just as disappointed as Devon felt. “I’m sorry. You see, I was looking to make reservations, at Older Forty-Four. I thought this was the number listed.”

“No,” Devon said again. Then he brightened once more. “But- why don’t you come here? We have plenty of food!”

The other two boys – Kent and Cleve – gave a chorus of excited cheers: “Yes, come here!” and “We’d be happy to serve you!”

The girl’s voice hummed. “I’m afraid I can’t, this evening,” she said, and then she gave a little sigh. Even that sounded nice, though, and pretty. Then she drew a breath, and Devon could hear in her voice a smile. “But,” she said, “why don’t you tell me your address, and maybe I can come by some other time?”

Devon grinned. “Yes, yes!” he said, and he snapped his fingers at his mates. “Our address… Our address is… um…!” Oh, no! He couldn’t remember the address!

The other two boys – Kent and Cleve – looked at each other, and then began to scramble around and about the counter, ducking beneath shelves and yanking open drawers, trying to find the address. They bumped into each other in their frantic search, falling to the floor in a tumble.

The girl’s voice hummed again in Devon’s ear. “Listen,” she said. “I really need to go. I have to make those reservations-”

“No, no! Don’t hang up!” Devon told her. What if she never rang again? “I’ve almost got it…!” he said, and he shuffled some papers about, trying to sound busy.

“Why don’t you just read it from the menu?” the girl asked of a sudden, giggling softly beneath her breath. Devon knew that she was likely giggling at him, but even that sounded kind.

He smiled again. The menu. Of course! He grabbed one from beside the telephone – how could he have missed it, there? – and scanned the front of the paper, with its drawing of Stinky Joe, and its orange-on-white lettering. Finally, he found it, and he read it aloud to her, word by word.

“Thanks,” the girl told him when he was done. She giggled again, high and sweet. “You have a pleasant evening, now.”

“You, too,” Devon said, smiling and a-flutter and full of joy. Then he hung up.

Kent and Cleve screamed.

“Her name!” Kent said.

“You didn’t get her name!” Cleve echoed.

Devon stared at the phone in his hand, horrified at what he’d done. That girl would never ring back. She sounded too sweet, too smart, too kind, to ring back to someplace called “Stinky Joe’s.”

Mustering his courage, he opened the line again. Maybe an operator could help him find her again. Maybe the police could help him find her again!

The telephone beeped as he pressed the button and brought it to his ear again. But there was no dial tone. Instead, there was quiet laughter.

“Don’t you want my name?”

Devon felt something inside of him soar at the sound of the girl’s voice, already familiar to his ears. “Devon,” he said through his grin. “I mean, my name’s Devon. What- What’s yours?”

The girl hummed a third time, charming him. “Tyne,” she said, and that was all he needed to hear.

Leave the line open

I honestly can’t say what possessed me, to write down the details of this dream. When I woke up, I found it funny – three rather dim, bumbling stoner kids fumbling over finding the address of the pizza place where they worked, just to keep a girl on the line because they’re bored. But, as I wrote, Devon, Kent, and Cleve (though mostly Devon) became more sympathetic to me. Almost sad. And Tyne became much more playful.

The Dude is my all-time favourite stoner character from film, but Brad Pitt's Floyd, from "True Romance", did come first.

I wrote this down in a rush, mostly just to get it down…though, again, I’m not entirely certain as to why. I guess it just felt nice to write freely and straight from the pen, without worrying over craft or thematic meaning.

100-Word Challenge: No Nightmare

by | Mar 7, 2012 | From Hell (A Love Story), Short Stories

100 Word Challenge for Grown-Ups

This week’s 100 Word Challenge for Grown-Ups (100WCGU), courtesy of Julia’s Place, was a bit different. We were given a visual prompt: a horse statue, from the Eden Project in Cornwall.

They say that a picture is worth a thousand words, but I could only use 100! Anywho, here’s my attempt:

Mummy crouches close, frowning. “Don’t you want to see?”

Katie’s head judders. She hates statues. Especially angels, with their blank eyes and cold faces, looming over silent graves. In her dreams, they move, lightning fast, grasping her collar, spiriting her away.

She whines; Daddy’s trouser leg rustles in her grip.

He smiles. “But, you like ponies…!”

She blinks; the word intrigues.

So, now, Daddy scoops her up, and she sees: No stoic, marbled nightmare, this, but a majestic mount, captured mid-motion in a canter.

Mummy takes her tiny hand, pressing it to noble, knotted muzzle.

Enchanted, Katie beams.

Nightmares (night-mares) are horses from Hell, made popular by the Dungeons & Dragons game and manuals. There’s nothing horrific about this particular horse, though. Rather, it’s actually quite lovely and majestic. I wanted to try and capture some childhood ambivalence about statuary (especially those sometimes-scary angel guardians), and make Katie’s fear turn around, when she comes face to face with unexpected beauty.

The Nightingales are characters I’ve visited before, but this was a fun new take on them. It is certainly difficult to break these relationships down into 100 words! I’m tempted to collect the drafts and put some of them up for people to see, to illustrate how ideas start out but then get pruned. Maybe that’s a project for another day, eh?

Excerpt: Fearless, Chapter 3 (draft)

by | Feb 10, 2012 | Excerpts, Fearless, From Hell (A Love Story)

An excerpt from Chapter 3, still in draft form. This is about a third of the way through the first “arc” or minor conflict of the story. (Also, likely the only arc to be posted online.)

I’ve always had some trouble controlling how much smuff I put into stories like these, but I also have always believed that humans are very sexual creatures. If the situation warrants sex – for reasons of emotion, strife, trust, fear, whatever – then I think the sex is “worthwhile.”

Plus, it’s just fun to write.

The next day, when Amber arrived at the shop in her sparkling smile and button-up pinafore dress, and her blonde hair wound in loose, curling plaits that folded over her shoulder, ready for the beach, Ross did his best to set aside his more prurient interests in the separate parts of her and focus instead on the girl as a whole.

It was rather a difficult thing to do, though, especially when she bounced up to the counter and hopped up onto her toes to offer him a quick kiss, even before she greeted him with her usual bubbly salutation. For at the soft and welcome press of her lips, his anatomy gave a quick, jerking jump in his pants, and it took him a second of focused concentration to settle it again, before he cleared his throat and offered her a low, “Good morning.”

Dropping to her heels once again, she fixed him with a beaming and elfin grin and declared, “I want a suit of my own.”

Ross piqued one brow at her, and then leaned forward onto the counter, placing his cheek on his fist. He chuckled at her. “You’re certain you’re ready for that?”

Amber nodded, all bright confidence. “I want to be a real surfer,” she reminded him. “And I can’t do that if I don’t jump in all the way, and get myself a real suit and board.”

“You want a board, too?” he asked, mockingly incredulous.

She nodded again, and an excited gleam appeared in her eyes. “I want a gun,” she murmured in a low, desirous growl that made his pants strain a little again.

But despite how easily that started him up, he shook his head. “Not a chance,” he told her, standing straight with both hands on the counter. “You’re definitely not ready for that.”

“But I’m riding real waves, now!” she said, placing her hands flat on the counter, too, as though to rise up a bit and take away his height advantage (as if that could happen; he was easily a head taller than she was). “You said it yourself only yesterday: I’ve made a lot of progress these last few days. I’ve even joined the rest of you!”

He shook his head again. “Just because you’re out of the whitewater and in the pack doesn’t mean you can steer a gun,” he told her. “Those are made for really big surf. You’re not ready for that.”

The irritated pout she gave him was adorable, but he wasn’t going to let it sway him any, and he told her so:

“Listen, the water doesn’t care how good you think you are. If she wants to wipe you out, she will. And on a ten-footer – or more! – that can get hairy. Even I’ve been axed on my gun, and I’ve been doing this a lot longer than you.” He fixed her with a stern look. “So, no. It is far too dangerous for you; I’m sorry.”

Her sulking expression deepened in the ensuing silence, until Ross gave a halfway-yielding sigh.

“Fine,” he muttered. “I’ll compromise. I’ll let you borrow my Mollusc for a few days, and we’ll see how you do with that. It’s longer than a practice board but still wide enough to give you good balance,” he explained, and then he pushed a coercive smile to his lips. “All right?”

Amber’s grimace softened. “Is that a real surfboard?” she murmured.

He rolled his eyes a little. “Yes, it’s a ‘real’ surfboard,” he told her wearily.

The pleasant, pleasing smile returned in an instant. “Thank you, Ross,” she said in a saccharine voice, sounding supremely chuffed with herself, and now there was no doubt in his mind that she could manipulate him, if just a bit.

But he still enjoyed how easily he could make her smile and brighten, and that made him smile, as well.

“So!” he said abruptly, to change the course of their discourse. “What was that about a new steamer?”

She patted one hand upon the counter. “Yes!” she agreed with another grin. “The best you’ve got.”

Ross eyed her with an exaggerated leer. “The best, eh? That is bound to be quite expensive.”

But she shook her head, her curled plait bouncing from shoulder to back. “Money is no object,” she replied gleefully. “I want the top of the line.”

He moved out from behind the counter now, to lead her toward the tiered racks of spring- and fullsuits. “All right,” he drawled. “You’re the customer.”

He lifted down a few options for her perusal, and – to her credit – she knew exactly what she wanted: a tape-seamed women’s Super Stretch 4/3 fullsuit, with the zip built in front, one of the best makes they carried, built for what she would glowingly refer to as a “real surfer.” It was also, as he’d noted, one of the most expensive of the lot, but (again, to credit her word) she barely blinked at the price tag. All she said was:

“It’s perfect.”

And indeed it was. It fit her like a tailored glove, and when she stepped out from the fitting room to show it off, Ross had to admit that she did look quite authentic. Not to mention, sexy as hell.

“Nice,” he complimented as he tilted his head left and right, to examine her more closely. “Very nice,” he added in a low murmur, as he took an extra-long moment to linger his gaze on her arse. Then, more clearly: “How’s it feel?”

“Cosy,” was her reply, and she rubbed one hand over her opposite arm in a stretch. Then she giggled. “It was quite different to get into, though…!”

He nodded. “Yeah, the openings on these are small,” he muttered, checking the state of the zip flap above her chest. “But it’s the best at keeping out extra water. Lots more flexible than the thirty-percent one, too. But you’ve got to be careful with this one,” he warned her. “It’s strong, but you can still rip it if you pull on it too hard.”

She blinked at him in quiet concern, until he gave her a leering smile and added:

“But don’t worry; I can show you how to get out of it.”

Amber smiled. “I hope so,” she said, and then she pressed him for his board, so together they could head down to the already-bustling beach.

Once on the water, she took to his Mollusc with surprising ease of skill; Ross made certain to keep a close eye on her form (in more ways than one), but she handled herself well enough on the heavier board, despite a somewhat wobbly and slow start. She seemed resolved to proving herself on the stronger swells, though whether it was for herself or for him – or some other reason entirely – he didn’t know.

But shortly after midday, the winds from the west started to roll in, forming taller cresting waves and rougher surf, and he paddled up beside her with some concern.

“Looks like a blow-out brewing,” he told her as he sat up on his board. “We’d better head in.”

“Just a little while longer,” Amber pleaded. Still prone on the board (she had yet to get the hang of sitting up in rolling surf), she tossed a look over her shoulder. She indicated with a nod of her head Neville and the others, who were still in the lineup and paddling to catch the coming waves.

“No one else is giving up,” she said, and then she pulled a face at him. “I don’t want to be the only one going back to the beach. Please, Ross…!”

But he shook his head. “No,” he said, though at her imploring look he softened a bit, and changed tactic. “Listen, my arms are noodles,” he told her (even if it wasn’t true, it was easier than trying to argue with her; he’d learned at least that much about her already). “Let’s just head in,” he said, the timbre of his voice cajoling. “We can get something to eat, yeah?”

She glowered at him, her arms dangling motionless in the water.

“Come on,” Ross said now, in a tone that he made sure she would not mistake for a simple request; he even grabbed one rail of her board and gave it a push in the direction of the shoreline. “I’m not leaving you out here with this lot. Let’s go.” And he went to his belly, too, dropping his hands into the water to start paddling. He glanced over his shoulder at her, and, after a begrudging moment, she followed, though she looked none too pleased to be doing so.

“It’s not fair!” Amber complained as she dragged herself out of the water after him, struggling to keep up with his stride while holding the heavier and unfamiliar longboard.

“What’s not fair?” he said as he ran one hand over his wet hair.

“You treat me differently just because I’m a girl!” she said, and he heard a muffled stomp and thunk, which made him turn around. She had planted both board and feet in the sand, and was now glaring huffily at him.

Swallowing a grumble, he stalked back to her, leaning over her to enunciate with a snarl, “You are not strong enough for those waves.”

“Yes, I am!” she argued, nearly in a shout.

He did shout back at her: “No, you’re not!” He pointed out toward the water, punctuating his words with a jab in the air. “Amber, those swells are dangerous for you, and I don’t want to see you get hurt!”

In the wake of this outburst, her expression of vexation turned to chagrin, and the tight purse of her lips became a soft frown, and that made him relent a bit.

He let the fins of his own board drift toward the ground as his grip went a bit slack, and he bowed his head to her. “I’m sorry I yelled at you,” he muttered after a moment.

She looked up at him through the strands of wet fringe blown across her forehead, the corners of her mouth still turned down. “You wouldn’t tell Neville or any of the others that they had to come in.”

“No,” he agreed with a shake of his head. “Likely not.” Then he gave her a small smile, one he couldn’t help but let go at her pitiful little pout. “But none of them are you.”

She made a frustrated noise, something between a sigh and a snort. “I just want you to trust me-”

“I do trust you,” he assured her. Then he turned serious again, stepping close enough to tuck one hand beneath her chin and lift her face, until she met his gaze. “But you have to understand that the water can be dangerous. And you can get hurt if you’re not careful out there.” And then he stroked his thumb along the slope of her jaw, tenderly, and whispered, “And I don’t want that to happen.”

She blinked up at him in the silence for a long minute, and then her frown relaxed, and she offered him a weak smile. “Are you always going to treat me like a girl?” she asked lowly.

“Absolutely,” he drawled with a toothy leer. Then he chuckled at her as he leaned close. “That is what I like best about you.” And when she gave muffled little laugh in reply, he wound his arm around her shoulders and hugged her in to his chest, briefly but firmly, as he laughed back at her.

“Come on,” he said at last. “Let’s get out of these sand traps and get some food.”

Amber giggled and stepped up from him, then hoisted her board from the sand to comply, lifting it over her head to carry. Her face was shaded by the width of the board, but he could still see the white shine of her smile, and that pleased him.

By the time they made it back to the shop, she seemed in high spirits once more, so he just nodded toward her stash of things behind the counter, moving there himself to tuck away his longboard in the rear room, with its stairs that led to the eaves loft above.

“You want to grab your things,” he said with some distraction, “and we can find something to eat?” He took a moment to settle his Redline into his quiver, but when he turned around to get her answer, he found that she had followed him into the back, still carrying his Mollusc.

She pushed the bright yellow board into his hands, then looked at him with an oddly tense curl of her lips.

“…What is it?” he murmured, glancing her up and down.

She pulled a long breath, mirroring the route of his gaze with her own eyes. Then her smile turned beguiling, and she whispered, “I thought you were going to help me get out of this suit?”

Ross felt his grip on the board go a little slack as he blinked at her, but then she pushed it against his torso as she leaned up to him, rising on her toes to press her mouth to his. She hooked her hands behind his head and held him close for a moment that could have been five seconds or fifty; he was suddenly too lost in her kiss to know, or care.

Somehow, he managed to shove the fibreglass board out from between them, to instead take her in his arms, clutching at her back and hip with his hands as his mouth did the same to hers. Then he pushed back against her, stumbling with her toward the narrow desk along the wall where they kept acquisitions and payment files, which he spilled to the floor, in favour of her.