I put in my last post that I didn’t know if I was going to go through Jezaline’s story one more time or just move on now that I had added and subtracted from her story to the point of near completion. Well, I went through it again. This wasn’t a “writers” decision. This was my decision. I just wasn’t done yet. Now I can say I am as close to done with Jezaline’s story than I have ever been in the last ten yeas working on my monster. One third of Embraced by Darkness is truly done, even for me now.
Reading back through all the words I had added and all that I had edited I realized some more things to add to give her more emotional impact. I believe I did right by Jezaline and I am elated to say now that I believe her story even stands on its own. Imagine that? Now I am sending the story to my mom. Jezaline reached 64,672 (give or take) at one point than I clipped her all the way down to 52,259 words. That makes about a hundred 8 1/2 by 11 pages. I am tentatively hopeful. I hope she has the time to read it soon. Of all of my writing I have learned not to expect folks to drop everything to read what I give them. Even moms and boyfriends. I may be willing to drop all else to write this thing but I can’t expect other people to do the same. But I am dying to know what she’ll say about it.
I already know that she’ll say one thing for certain, “There’s a lot of sex!” Hopefully my reassurances that the rest of the book will be stripped of sex will help my mother cope. lol. We’ll see. I’m a sexual creature and I believe women to be capable of being strong sexual creatures. It is a part of life and I will, above all other things, write unflinchingly and as realistically as I can. But the truth is anyone who doesn’t believe sex is a part of life just won’t like my book.
I can live with that.
I struggled with whose story I was going to work on next. Osondrous or Karalay? Osondrous is the heart of my book. I chimped out by choosing to work on Jezaline’s story first. I picked the easiest start. Where Jezaline was sitting at 50,000 to begin with Osondrous right now is at 93,000. Karalay is somewhere between those two but I fear I need to get myself through Osondrous as soon as possible, if only to prove that I can. She is techincally the start of my book while Karalay is techincally my end. There is a lot of setting up to do for Osy and her story is also connected through and through with my partial main character Constace. So it’s really two main characters’ stories that I am attacking. If I choose to work on Osondrous next.
Just working on it last night for a couple of hours I have already cut two chapters and need to re-write them completely. As always I am laden with doubt. Will I forget something? I need to do Osy justice above all of the other characters. Like I said, Osondrous is the heart and start of my book. I find I identify with her on a deeper level than the rest of the characters and I do not struggle with her dialogue but, instead, it just falls out of me like it’s my own. On the other hand she is the most energetic, talkative and moving character in my book. She practically sprints from one event to another and I fear I let that sprinting dictate my writing. I tend to lose focus on meaningful descriptions of surroundings because Osondrous could give a rats ass where she’s at at any given moment.
I fear that my writing loses depth.
That my readers will be standing there wondering, “Where the hell are we?” While meanwhile Osondrous is ripping the throat out of some poor bastard. I cannot let this happen and I am left staring at what needs to be written aprehensively because this feels like my last shot at this book. I have tried starting this book so many damn times and failed over doubt. I cannot let it rule me. On the other hand I can’t help but think caution is not so bad a thing.
Damn it. No. I will not be cautious because of doubt. I will not let it rule me. I will not delay I have already spent so much time on this book. If there is any semblance of forward movement that I have. Of hope that I have from finishing Jezaline’s story. I will not let that disappear over doubt. No, I am going to try. What’s there to lose accept more time?
I pull out my outline, the one I wrote a while back when I decided that there was nothing worth keeping. I am surprised, turns out I’m going to need it. The support of it beside me is reassuring. At least I have something that makes me feel as though I may not miss anything.
So it begins. Right now, after some cutting in the beginning, Osy sits at 90,521 words. I can do this.
I think.
I hope.
I will not allow myself to lose this little glimmer of hope. It took me two weeks to get through Jezaline’s story and I hope you know that I do have a life outside of this and if I hadn’t been working to support myself I think it would have only been a few days. But being able to focus largely on just a piece of writing, with no distraction (I have learned) is largely over rated. A writer gets tired. Mundane chores: dealing with family, cooking supper, continuing renovations on a house that includes taping and bedding sheetrock, playing guitar hero with the man that I love, sleeping, eating, working to support myself besides. I need these things. As much as I am a one minded person who likes to sit down and focus on nothing else until I am finished. That is simply not practical in this case nor is it even possible. It has taken me literaly years of adjustment to learn how to work on my book in short starts and stutters. And I have learned, more then ever these days, that I cannot simply just write and write and write.
Without getting my writer tired.
At some point along the way I lose my creativity and my descriptions and I know to stand back when I just want to write, “She walked through the god damned forest and like really hated it.” If you are a writer, remember that your writer needs breaks too.
I dive in to Osondrous’ story tonight. Wish me luck.
I started at 1:30 this afternoon and added ten thousand words by 6:30 this evening. I took a break for dinner. Started writing again at 9:00 and now I am writing this post to say I got through Jezaline’s story at 5:03 this morning. That is twelve hours of writing; I’m numb from the chin up. I edited and cut over twenty thousand words and added over ten thousand. I wish I were a faster writer, I am a very fast typist but my thinker only moved so quickly. I want to exclaim, “C’mon I’m making this up as I go along!” This is a good day but at the end of all of my writing marathons I am plagued by two things, Elation and Doubt.
A great large part of me thinks, “I did good” The rest of me thinks, “We’ve been here before. It’ll be shit like everything else and you know it.” I went through three sex scenes tonight, added one, cut down two to being what I hope even my mother would consider tasteful. We’ll see about that one I guess.
The more reading that I do the more I realize that the very best fiction writers actually are telling two stories at once. The actual physical story (she goes here than there and then gets shot) and then the emotional story (she cries when she gets there, she goes here to salvage her pride and then she is glad when she gets shot). The key is to never forget the emotional story. This is my biggest flaw as a commercial fiction writer. I am a terrible emotional story teller. And on a night like tonight, numb from the chin up, I know I missed the emotional impact of Jezaline’s last ten thousand words (at least). But I hope, “crosses fingers” that maybe I have something to ADD to the next run through it. I don’t know, now that I’ve finally got through it, if I’m going to go back through, start to finish, one more time while it’s still fresh or if I will move on to the next main character’s story in my novel. This is a hard choice but I feel myself leaning to staying here, while it’s fresh, and going back through the writing I did tonight. Maybe I’ll be surprised, maybe some of it I’ll even like.
I am leaving you with my favorite scene that I have added to Jezaline’s story. Take note this has NOT been edited. This is first draft directly off the press. There is sex and it is graphic so be warned:
EXCERPT FROM EMBRACED BY DARKNESS: JEZALINE’S STORY
Copyright Tarah L. Wolff All Rights Reserved.
By the time he reaches the bed his hands are quivering. He has not eaten a human in over a decade and then that had been a very ugly, very old man; nothing worthy of raping. Not that he turned his nose up to men it had just been so long since he had tasted a woman.
He moved up and on to the bed like water running up stones. She whimpers and Waltruk grabs himself, gasps and barely keeps himself from climaxing. He laughs into the empty darkness of his chamber as she lays beneath him, a white swath of fabric, silk, against black hides.
Jezaline grips the blanket in her fists, he turns her over and she stares into his face. His eyes are black beacons beneath, long fine brows. The room fills with the desert sun and the king before her changes into the man made of fire from her past.
And Waltruk is struck still, his own past suddenly called upon. A past centuries older than Jezaline’s but as fresh in his heart as she is beneath his fingers.
She rises up to him, feeling the blessed desert heat again, lost in the warmth. The fire in her past that was once her entire life, the sand, the sun. Jezaline reaches out, tries to touch the red man’s face and the illusion evaporates. She tries to say Red man, but nothing comes out of her swollen throat. Before her is the Vamepire king but so confused, for an instant, she is unable to feel the terror that he paralyzed her moments before.
Her hand on his cheek. The memory of the molten end of her child hood fades and his cheek is very cold. The ache in her has grown into a culvert across her chest. The forgotten, ignored emptiness that red man had left. And no matter the men she had had in her life, inside of her, filling her up, they never touched the ache.
He whispers, “Red lady.” His eyes clear, he blinks and stares.
He said, “Who are you?”
“Jezaline. Who are you?”
“I am Waltruk, king of the Vamepire. You are the red…?”
She shook her head, finds herself unable to move away. He is tall, strong chested, clothed in leathers and furs. There is too little light. He is nothing else but a figment in the darkness. Her terror returns slowly, as though she is still trying to wake from a nightmare.
He reached for her and she pulls back to try and stop it. But the Vamepire king clasps his fingers around her wrist.
“How do you know of the red lady?”
She said, “No lady, a red man in my past.”
His cold fingers lay a line down her cheek and she winces but is unable to pull away again. The ache in her is wide, deep and shockingly empty.
He grabs her head, pulls her face to him, “What do you know!”
“I don’t know who they are!”
“This thing, this woman, has controlled me for three centuries. Now fucking tell me what you know.”
Jezaline got it out, in sputters and gasps, her story, without editing. Too terrified to not tell this creature every last detail. With his fingers digging in to the back of her head she recounted the red man. How fear had turned to need.
“I was desperate for him. What was my getting raped… I demanded him to enter… me.”
Her voice fell to a whisper and she finally struggled out of his grip, fell to her knees and held her face.
“What did he do to you?”
“I am a Ward.”
Waltruck’s eyes widened, “A Ward of high power. What are you doing here.”
She said nothing, having dissolved into a soft crying. His hand swept down her back and she winced away.
“Do you feel it?”
“What?”
“The empty hole inside of you?”
She pressed her hands to the place between her breasts and her belly.
She whispered, “Yes.”
“You were never able to fill it?”
She shook her head, “Never.”
Waltruk sunk down to his knees on the bed before her, put his head in his hands. His hair was jet black, it lay in tatters down his cheeks.
“If I had known,” he said, than shook his head, “I couldn’t have stopped myself.”
“What?” She looked up His skin was smooth as glass but it did not shine in the light. His fingers were long and ended in sharp, black hooks that grew in severity down his hand until the claws curved long and blackest at his thumbs. She rubbed the back of her head.
He said, “I am king because of her, but, if I had known what this would feel like. I would have tried to stop.”
She shook her head, “I couldn’t have stopped… What is all of this?”
“Something changed our paths.”
“Are there others?”
“Not that I’ve known.”
He looked into her face and she stared into his.
“I think it’s Grim.”
She frowned, “No, he doesn’t exist.”
“Grim is on the move right now… why are you in the Krept, Jezaline?”
She felt herself standing on the blade of a knife. She had no idea what this thing wanted of her. What this king wanted her to do or say or what she could do for him. But there was something guiding her. Something dark, something empty. As the moments passed between them, where she could smell his body and his breath, where her own body reacted to the presence of his, she felt herself longing to touch him. She was revolted by herself, appalled but without control. She looked his jaw and face, down his lean neck and strong shoulders. His clawed hands looked powerful and she could almost feel on her again, feel him against her. Jezaline swallowed hard, forced herself to look away.
“Talk to me now.”
“Or you will kill me?” she talked to the candle across the bed, the little flame that did not flicker. The stillness of the room made it feel like a tomb.
“What are you doing in the Krept?”
“The prophet Tarick asked for me, said that if I did not come that I would die. I was looking for the Draegoone. Not the Vamepire.”
The sound of Tarick’s name sent a jolt through Waltruk. He climbed off the bed and began to pace. His body faded in and out of darkness, the wings on his back jutted out of his clothes and looked impossible, like they were something he must have put on that morning.
Jezaline sat cross legged with her face in her hands, she fought the urge to curl into herself. She hated herself viciously no matter how she closed her eyes or the tears threatened her throat, she wished a little bit that the king of the Vamepire would come back to bed.
She screamed, “Are you going to kill me?” It erupted out of her ravaged throat like an animal tearing free.
He stopped before her and stood in the darkness, alone but not alone, as though the darkness was a part of who he was.
He said, “I think killing you would be very stupid.”
She was beyond tears now, Jezaline’s heart was pounding, she shook her head, asking the question without speaking.
“Your destiny was changed by a prophet, now another prophet is trying to interfere. That much I can deduct… if I killed you now. Fuck all, I don’t think it would be handled happily by fate. You are important somehow.”
“What do you know for certain.”
“You and I Jezaline, never should have met. This is another prophet that got you here. I know of Tarick, he is the second youngest brother of Draegoone royalty.”
He hissed it out in a long fluid jolt of pure despise. She watched him pace without speaking, sensing he would continue. He pressed his fists into his temples and his face contorted with anger.
“We are at war with those cold-blooded things. I will kill them all, that was not changed by the red lady, that I will do before I die.”
She said, “What will you do with me?”
“I want to drink you and then fuck your corpse for three days!”
Jezaline knew that that was not going to happen now. Away from him, thinking about the ache and the red man, she made no effort to make sense of any of it. If Waltruk was right, which she seriously believed he probably was, it all still left her here, in the highest room of the tallest Vamepire tower. Surrounded by creatures she knew to be dark, wicked and unmerciful. But there was clear intelligence in his eyes, it was there in Blondie’s eyes too. These were not stupid brutes as she had been made to believe and that scared her more deeply than anything she had ever known. These were conniving, brilliant creatures.
He came at her in three long strides, evolving out of the dark. His fingers moved up her face, pushed her to the bed. His weight bowed it beside her and he stretched out his body beside her, touching her throat, her collar bone and lips. His hot breath begged for her. She heard the grinding of his teeth in her ear.
Jezaline squeezed her eyes shut. Her entire body was rigid and trembling.
She was overcome by two polar opposites. The desperate, primal need to throw him off of her, run until she was overcome and die by hysteria; her heart finally bursting in terror. And the other to pull him against her. Embrace the darkness that was this king. Hold him between her legs, pull her skirt up so he could enter that hot place that was the ache the red man had left in her. Give this king the opportunity to fill it as no man had ever been able to.
He pressed his face beneath her breasts and his hot breath steamed her skin through her dress.
He whispered, “Right here.”
“Yes, right there.”
“it has not yet engulfed you in the void. But it will someday.”
“Like you.”
He sighed and she felt his head relax on her body. The weight of his hands rested, one on her chest, one on her thigh. She stared up at the ceiling, though the darkness made it impossible for her to see anything.
“Prove something!” She cried out and her voice carried up and up until it was gone. “Anything, end this or something. Don’t let me just be here in the dark. How has it engulfed you? How much does it hurt?”
His fingers slipped up beneath her and she felt them untying the back of her dress. She could not see his face.
His hands slipped the dress off of her shoulders and she murmured in need and in absolute abhorrent. His claws curled over the neck of her dress and with his face beside hers he pulled it down off of her breasts. Than down, revealing her ribs, her belly, her hips and then the place that made her a woman. The dress hit the floor. She was naked before him, her breasts leaning back in their weight, her nipples dark perfections in the light. Waltruk could see in the dark and she lay the shadow of him. He ran his fingers so lightly across her nipples. They grew hard.
Waltruk had never had another creature touch him in want. When her hands raised he waited for her to struggle, to hit him, to scream. Her fingers landed against the side of his throat, slipped under the collar of his shirt, pressed against his hard shoulder.
She gasped, shocked that his body was putting off heat. Her heart beat doubled and she bit her lip to keep from moaning. She rose before him, found laces with her fingers and began to tear his clothes from his body.
Having never known this Waltruk froze. Jezaline was unstoppable the ache filled her entire mind as it began to scream. The blood pumped through her in dangerous currents. Revulsion, fear, primal sense, it was all forgotten. Jezaline was who the red man had made her.
Her fingers splayed over his chest, worked down to the soft black hair that pointed her in the direction she wanted to go.
He almost wanted to stop her but he was taken with watching her body work, her strong back pucker and move, her breasts hang and bounce. She ripped off his belt and when Waltruk was naked she curved her fingers around his hard shaft and she gasped.
The moan was nothing he had heard before, the same sound of pain filled with a want. A desire so infinite he knew she would get exactly what she wanted, whatever it took.
Her legs parted and she lay him back, eased herself over him. His face was by the candle now and she could see his eyes. Jezaline stared, perfect lips opening. He saw her tongue and his teeth grit. The muscles down his cheeks worked. They both shook and trembled until finally, she pushed him inside of her.
She came down to him and pressed her mouth against his. She forced him to learn how to kiss her, how to press his tongue against hers. He had never kissed anything before without the intention of eating it but tasting her blood now was the farthest thing from his mind. He had never seen such beauty.
She had him, ground herself against him and he watched her be transformed by the act that he had never known existed. Watched a human woman find something in a Vamepire. This was what she wanted and she writhed. All the while, the ache in them both reached a piercing volume. They were hearing their own emptiness and the others. It grew and grew with her until they were deaf to all but it.
Jezaline threw back her head and cried out as her climax finally unleashed and it was beyond anything she had ever felt before. She succumbed entirely, fell before his chest, clawed at his body as it took her. He felt the waves around his shaft, felt the hard pleasure that took her and could not stop himself.
Waltruk roared and it was more animal the human, they grabbed each other. Jezaline embraced the darkness. Felt his wings around her arms and momentarily lost all awareness. Her eyes filled with the site of the red man.
As fast and hard as it came, it evaporated, and silence left them listening to their frantic breathing. The ache in them each was not gone, but silenced. She was holding on to him like he was a raft and she was adrift in a storm, at night, at sea. He rolled her unto her back but did not break their hold. He held himself inside of her incredible heat. Her legs clutched him to her.
Waltruk leaned back, pushed the hair off of her face and looked into her eyes.
“It is so quiet,” she whispered.
I am the co-editor of the literary journal The Talking Stick. I have been the co-editor and sole layout designer (and cover designer) of this Minnesota book (published by the Jackpine Writers’ Bloc) for almost ten years now. My aunt Sharon Harris and I took over the Jackpine Writers’ Bloc and The Talking Stick seconds before it all disapeared. There was just no one left with the time to devote to such a large task. So we took over. Right now I’ve designed, co-edited and been on the editorial board for eight different Talking Sticks. They’ve gradually grown every year and every year we’ve been bombarded by more submissions and more writers submitting. Our books have grown so big in fact that we have had to cut back to a smaller book this year. In the years since Sharon and I took over this is the first year our book did not get bigger but smaller by choice. And because of the limited page count, as well as so many submissions, we’re declining far more writers than we’re publishing. The Jackpine Writers’ Bloc is a non profit organization devoted to giving Minnesota writers a place to get published: so we still try to publish as many Minnesota writers as we can. On top of that the more writers we publish, the more books we sell, so it’s a win-win situation.
This does not mean that we ever decide to publish a poorer quality piece just to get more work in the book. We are proud to say we always publish for quality not quantity. But in the situation where we could publish three decent works by one writer or two instead and sneak another good writer into the book, than that’s what we’ll do.
The Editorial board is given two weeks to read all of the submissions and then we meet to decide what will get published. We have a good system and always make sure we have an odd number of people voting (usually five). At first you would think it was simple; we’ll all vote for the best stuff and we’ll all agree etc. Of course that is never the case. Regardless of how I believe personal preference should not be involved that is the deciding factor for most people. Some people prefer poetry, some people prefer fiction, some people hate dogs, hate cats, whatever, it happens. And it is personal preference of editors that gets all books published, regardless of quality writing. Sucks huh? Well I sure as hell think it really sucks.
I believe the deciding factor should be quality not on whether the subject is something I can relate to. If I want to read about a subject I can relate to, I’ll buy the book, right now I’m an editor and I will only vote to include quality writing. My other main factor is, “how well did they follow our submission guidelines?” You know, it might be one hell of an essay but we have no category for essays in The Talking Stick. Our categories are fiction, creative nonfiction and poetry. I swear to god if I read one more essay that should not have been submitted in the first place I’m going to puke.
Don’t writers read submission guidelines?!
From what I can tell most writers seem to think that their incredible opinion about the democracy of Spain is so shockingly good that it belong in a literary journal asking for creative nonfiction. Are you kidding me? If you don’t follow submission guidelines, trust me, whatever the hell you submitted will be thrown away without consideration. That is exactly what a writer who does not follow the guidelines deserves and that is what you can expect from all publications.
Creative Nonfiction – fact or fiction?
That moves us on to the point of this post. Who is to say that an essay does not qualify as creative nonfiction? This is Wiki’s answer to what Creative Nonfiction is:
<<Creative nonfiction (also known as literary or narrative nonfiction) is a genre of writing that uses literary styles and techniques to create factually accurate narratives. Creative nonfiction contrasts with other nonfiction, such as technical writing or journalism, which is also rooted in accurate fact, but is not primarily written in service to its craft. As a genre, creative nonfiction is still relatively young, and is only beginning to be scrutinized with the same critical analysis given to fiction and poetry.>>
Helpful huh? If you check out wikipedia.com and do the same search (creative nonfiction) you will find lots of quotes and opinions on the subject, non of which are considered the absolute definition of creative nonfiction. Many people think an essay belongs in creative nonfiction. Hell, I know people that call all written prose an essay unless its over several thousand words in length. So, where do we stand? The best I can do is give you, right now, our definition for The Talking Stick on what creative nonfiction is.
Creative Nonfiction
A creative narrative based on fact. A prose piece that is written to read like fiction but relatively based on some facts. The facts do not have to be absolutely accurate, we really don’t give a rat’s ass on whether or not your mother’s dress was actually blue. In fact, a writer writing creative fiction should consider making the damn dress red if it means a better read. Creative nonfiction, in my opinion, should be interesting, riveting and, most of all, should keep my interest. Trust me, I don’t care whether your mother’s dress was blue all we care about is that it reads like fiction. MAKE IT INTERESTING!
Tips on writing Creative nonfiction
Write in third person. Why? Because every writer I know has found it easier to step away from absolute fact (a memoir) and make the peice more interesting by writing it in third person perspective. If you’re going to write creative nonfiction (that is make the effort to create a factual story that reads like fiction) you need to consider changing some details. It is the same work a fiction writer goes through. Should I explain that she’s exciting and interesting or describe that she wore a fabulous, gigantic hat and a red dress to the funeral? Whether or not she wore a red dress to the funeral, trust me, as a reader, that is how I would rather find out about who she is than your long description on who you think she is. Frankly, as a reader, I have no reason to trust your opinion. As a writer, you need to earn my trust, good description is the way to go. And good description starts with the undying quote from the book The Elements of Style “Omit needless words”. You must trust the images you give people and never repeat yourself. Trust me, you can do that in one sentence what you just did with five.
I cannot begin to tell you how many times I have started crossing out sentences (often whole paragraphs) while reading the submissions for the Talking Stick. Often, the submissions I cut the most from are never fiction but always creative nonfiction. That detail might be important to your little ten year old self when you lived through the big flood of sixty but I just don’t care. All I care about is, “Does it support the story? Does it add dimension or depth to the story? Is it neccesary for that fact to be in there to get this story from start to finish?” We have a 1500 word count for creative nonfiction in the book, I have never read a creative nonfiction piece that was the full 1500 words long that could not have literally been CUT IN HALF and improved ten fold.
Right now I am working on Jezaline’s story. I am literary reading through and cutting, cutting, cutting and adding, adding, adding as I go. To some extent I am doing this with the eye of an editor, on the other side the adding is with my entire heart as a writer. I have added now more words than I have cut from her story, not much, but a few. It is rightfully so, Jezaline’s story was spars and one dimensional. Interesting things happen – heart wrenching things – but I don’t think I ever gave the reader any reason to give a rats ass about her. She was never my favorite character and it shows.
It always bothered me that she had so little substance. On the other hand she is actually in a far more unique and interesting situation than my other characters even before the book started. Her entire life is changed by a moment in the past when the bad guy in my book (Grim) gives her the power to become a ruler. The bad guy in my book is a prophet and he changes who Jezaline is to completely change the outcome of her future because Grim saw that it would be Jezaline who would finally manage to kill him. He changes her so completely by giving her power that there is absolutely no way she could ever become who she was to be able to kill him.
This is where things go wrong for Grim. In my book another prophet intervenes and manages to get Jezaline to where she was SUPPOSED to be in time. But the problem is the obvious one, Jezaline is not who she should have been, getting her back to where she would have been is simply impossible. She is someone else now and Jezaline winds up doing far greater damage in the long run, even though she does manage to kill Grim. Grim’s influence lasts far on past this book and, in the end, Grim destroys who she was supposed to be and essentially, destroys her. Jezaline goes on to betray the people she had once loved and become a ruler, not of humans, but of Vamepire.
As a person she is strong-willed, raised a horseman on a breeding farm of the gorgeous, black-skinned horses of the desert. She had a very specific moment of her past that I completely failed to elaborate in the book as it is. I knew it was time to bring in her past, to give people a taste of who she was and of the betrayals that led to her choices now. Her father had promised her to a man for a huge price. Essentially sold his own daughter. Jezaline fled into the dunes and there Grim came to her. I spent last night describing this moment in detail. I hope I did it justice. The words did flow.
I was able to integrate a good portion of the old book here and move right along editing, clipping and adding bits and pieces. I move, hopefully seamlessly, between her past and her present to reveal her. I actually feel good about all of this now. Is there doubt? Always… But I feel better about this because I have finally found a place for Jezaline in my interest. I like her and I want to do her justice; that has got to be a step in the right direction. Initially, in the version of the book now I had Jezaline’s betrayal a total secret almost entirely to the readers too. Now I am going to write in every detail of her time with the Vamepire king. I am bringing in a past for this Vamepire too. It is a meeting between them that no prophet or person or thing in my entire book could have foresaw. Just as the king of the Vampire moves in to kill her they both realize they are looking at another being whose life had been violently changed by Grim. The Vampire king feins that he wants to make her his queen and, though he does, he wants to use her first. And this is the beginning of Jezaline’s dip into darkness from which she will not surface.
She does what the king wants her to do and it is to get close to another species in my book, the Draegoone. Essentially, she will be the instrument that unleashes the Vamepire plague upon the world, her betrayal to the human race will be felt for centuries to come. And this is what she does after having been a kind ruler of the human people. Grim’s influence is so dark she is incapable of doing anything else. I hope I can give the meeting between Jezaline and the vampire king enough of a fucked-up scary vibe. We’ll see.
I look forward to the other two main stories of my book with daunted reverence. I am going to have a alot more adding to do for Karalay but I think the majority of Osondrous/Constance’s story will but cut, cut, cut and edit. The writing is the fun part but it’s also the most time consuming so I both loathe and look forward to adding to all of it.
I write in a very clipped up style, so often people ask me how many times I have edited and re-written a piece because they suspect it’s alot. When I tell them, “that’s first draft” I’m usually met with gawking. A good thing? I have no idea but I do now have a good idea for another blog post, it will be called “Cutters” and “Adders” what kind of writer are you?
I will leave this post with one of my all time favorite songs by one of my all time favorite bands:
“The start of a journey is every bit worth it I can’t let you down anymore. The sky is still clearing we’re never afraid and the consequence opens the door. I never stopped trying, I never stopped feeling like family is much more than blood. Don’t go on without me. The piece that I represent compliments each and everyone. Til we die.” Written by Slipknot
I finished my book Embraced by Darkness… something like a year and a half ago. If you see the stats over there on the right, it’s massive. It is an epic, that’s easy enough to say I guess. I had decided after reading through it a few months ago that the entire book was worthy of nothing less then to being soaked in kerosene (in my back yard) and set on fire. I would then quietly sit beside my monster and watch it burn. It would be freeing. But I started to get the feeling, after a few of my closest friends had read the book, that maybe “freeing” wasn’t the right word. Instead, my wonderful boyfriend told me that of all the writing he had read of mine (and in my opinion writing a hell of a lot better then Embraced by Darkness) he said that my monster book made him want to read the sequel. With this unyielding encouragement over many months no matter how many times I screamed “It’s shit! Why can’t you see that?” I considered yesterday that maybe I was over reacting a little bit.
Maybe.
Maybe not.
But having tried to sit down to a blank page number one and trying to start the full and complete re-write of this massive thing time and time again, I am wearing down. No not “Wearing” I have been “Wore” down, and I have opened my mind to keeping the heart of my monster.
This is one of the most freeing, frustrating, wonderful, saddening, frightening decisions I have ever made about my writing life. I have spent more time writing the finished Embraced by Darkness then I have spent with anything else in my life even more time then I have spent in my six year relationship with Joseph.
It does shame me to say I wanted to burn it, wanted to step away and never go back. Essentially giving up, though with every intention of re-writing (oh god yes) there was always the intention of re-writing. This brings back to mind the eternal blank fucking page number one and how many times have I tried to re-write this thing? Too many to count. I will write a blog post someday about how the beginnings of things haunt me so completely. I hate writing beginnings, but because I believe the beginning pages are what keep you to the end of a book. I hold beginnings up as being the absolute decision maker on whether a book is worth reading or not. This is probably why they haunt me so. If there has ever been black, endless doubt it has always been about the beginning for me.
I am shamed to say that I have not decided to keep my monster (or salvage it might be a better term) because I think it’s good or because I think there is something there worth keeping. I am salvaging my monster because I simply do not have it in me to try to do this again. Two hundred thousand words is not much to some writers but the way I write (I am a cutter) it averages to about three times that of actual words that I have written though ultimately deleted. The task of filling up that first number one page yet again with a beginning that I will no doubt scrap is just too daunting.
So the decision has been made.
I will salvage my monster, I will attack it, I will make it work.
So where the fuck do I start? That’s easy. I open up the ancient file of my monster… if it were there. Oh No.
Turns out I had so completely been certain that the book had nothing in it worth salvaging that my file for Embraced by Darkness is gone. On all of my desktops and my laptop. GONE. At this point I have been reduced to a whimpering little brat, talking to my computer with, “No, it can’t be gone!” “How could I have lost it?” “This… this just can’t be!” Turns out maybe I value my time a little more then I thought and maybe, just maybe, my threatening to burn it all up was more show then I had thought. Thank God I remember lulu before I really panic. It seems the only digital file left of my monster in existence is a pdf on lulu.com.
So I do have my book now and the endless thing is before me. I have got to do something to make this a less daunting task. No longer a single blank page sure but what about seven hundred and thirty six pages of text? Okay, let us not be completely stupid. These are MY words dammit! Have some fucking dignity and suck it up. This will be better then the blank page number one if it kills me.
So, I have three main characters (I said it was an epic didn’t I?) and their chapters weave, usually in a pattern, one to Osondrous, one to Karalay, one to Jezaline, sometimes a few here and there etc. In the beginning of the book it was one to O, one to K, one to J as the book gets on it it becomes more like three-four to O then on down the line etc. Nearing the end it reduces back to one each, back and forth etc. Not rocket science, I let the book dictate me when I wrote it the first time, I never said any of it was a good idea did I? In fact I remember threatening to kerosene it in the back yard so let’s not say I’m proud of it, kay?
So, I need to make this attackable. At my elbow are three hand written notebooks full of my endless, only understandable to me, notes that I wrote after I read the book the last time. basically I have my hand written outline beside me. This outline alone took my a very long time, I wrote it on the idea that those notes, that outline, would be my only guide when I re-wrote this monster (you know that blank page again). It is beginning to occur to me that this work, these notes, this outline, is basically not going to do much for me now. What I need now is to get back to it, there is TOO much of this thing for me to be able to absorb it all, no matter how good my notes are anyway. This is an epic, there is so much information that I need to be in the book and working on it in my heart and head before I can touch it at all.
So, I need to make this attackable. My notes will not help me. I have decided to split it all up. I am taking out all of my chapters for Osondrous and putting them in consecutive order by themselves in a new document as well as the same for Jezaline and Karalay. Well, now I have three much smaller books before me and I simply work on each story from start to finish individually. Will this work forever? No. However, it will work for the majority of the job. Each story must stand alone anyway and though they do affect each other there is a major mistake I made when writing this thing the first time: I tried to write the book from start to finish.
Funny huh?
Seems obvious, wouldn’t you always write the book from start to finish?
I just can’t do that here. So often I would write five chapters devoted to one character then have to untangle myself from her and reintegrate myself into the other characters story, essentially losing my rhythm time and time again. From now on, I am going to write one story at a time, when they need to be put together is when I will begin the next arduous task of this book; weaving the characters/chapters together to create tension.
This begins with what must go. Two hundred thousand words is way too much, remember the kerosene idea? It’s not like it was a bad one. But let’s not talk about it again… I will try to refrain even though right now it was brilliant. let’s face it, I am a CUTTER. No, stop it. I am a writer, damn it. I’m a writer first and this is about words. Every single one of that monster’ words are mine. Isn’t that something?
So it begins. What to keep, what to throw. I’m starting with Jezaline, her story is the shortest right now. But I’m distracted… Can’t help it. I’m thinking about someone else. I’m thinking about Constace.
Who is Constance? Well, she’s a fourth “main” character who appeared from nowhere and made herself a very small niche somewhere in the heart of my monster. I want her to die. No, that would require words, I want her to evaporate. It’s the first cut I’m really considering. It would be a twenty thousand word save. She’s not a real main character though she gets some chapters of her own. I am trying to evaporate her… But I can’t. Damnit! My first big decision, the first good idea I thought I had. I can’t do it. Maybe this is the truly shitty writer in me pouting and saying “but… but… but…” and I hate all of that.
But, in the end, I have good reasons to keep her.
Constance stays because she is the humanity in my book. She is the only unpowerful main character that I’ve got. She is the one person the reader can truly relate to. She goes through a change and she proves that no matter who we are we are capable of standing up and doing what needs to be done; even if it means giving up. She was created for my book to be a main character in a sequel. She was destined to one day be very important. But I didn’t think she was important now. She is.
Constance gets to live and I will do my best to truly give her life along with all of the rest of it.
These are the books every writer should have in their library. They are here in no particular order and I have included a link to Amazon (because if you’re a writer you should buy them) and a review. I am going to be adding to this post as the books come my way, these are the books right now that influenced me the most.
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Review by Amazon.com
Short and snappy as it is, Stephen King’s On Writing really contains two books: a fondly sardonic autobiography and a tough-love lesson for aspiring novelists. The memoir is terrific stuff, a vivid description of how a writer grew out of a misbehaving kid. You’re right there with the young author as he’s tormented by poison ivy, gas-passing babysitters, uptight schoolmarms, and a laundry job nastier than Jack London’s. It’s a ripping yarn that casts a sharp light on his fiction. This was a child who dug Yvette Vickers from Attack of the Giant Leeches, not Sandra Dee. “I wanted monsters that ate whole cities, radioactive corpses that came out of the ocean and ate surfers, and girls in black bras who looked like trailer trash.” But massive reading on all literary levels was a craving just as crucial, and soon King was the published author of “I Was a Teen-Age Graverobber.” As a young adult raising a family in a trailer, King started a story inspired by his stint as a janitor cleaning a high-school girls locker room. He crumpled it up, but his writer wife retrieved it from the trash, and using her advice about the girl milieu and his own memories of two reviled teenage classmates who died young, he came up with Carrie. King gives us lots of revelations about his life and work. The kidnapper character in Misery, the mind-possessing monsters in The Tommyknockers, and the haunting of the blocked writer in The Shining symbolized his cocaine and booze addiction (overcome thanks to his wife’s intervention, which he describes). “There’s one novel, Cujo, that I barely remember writing.”
King also evokes his college days and his recovery from the van crash that nearly killed him, but the focus is always on what it all means to the craft. He gives you a whole writer’s “tool kit”: a reading list, writing assignments, a corrected story, and nuts-and-bolts advice on dollars and cents, plot and character, the basic building block of the paragraph, and literary models. He shows what you can learn from H.P. Lovecraft’s arcane vocabulary, Hemingway’s leanness, Grisham’s authenticity, Richard Dooling’s artful obscenity, Jonathan Kellerman’s sentence fragments. He explains why Hart’s War is a great story marred by a tin ear for dialogue, and how Elmore Leonard’s Be Cool could be the antidote.
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Review By Christopher B. Jonnes
When I write a book I use only a handful of reference tools: dictionary, thesaurus, Gregg’s Reference Handbook, Writers Market, and the Elements of Style. Strunk and White is a wonderfully-written, extraordinarily concise tool that pays homage to classic high-end English. It takes language insight to make this prediction in 1979: “By the time this paragraph makes print, uptight… rap, dude, vibes, copout, and funky will be the words of yesteryear.” The book begins with eleven “Elementary Rules of Usage,” and then continues with eleven more “Elementary Rules of Composition,” and eleven “Matters of Form.” Each is presented as a brief statement followed by another sentence or two of explanation and a few clarifying examples. This amazing compilation fills only thirty-eight pages, yet covers ninety percent of good writing fundamentals. My favorite section is Chapter IV, a twenty-seven-page, alphabetical listing of commonly misused words and expressions. Here’s a trade secret: when my manuscript is “done,” I then turn to this chapter and use my word processor’s Find function to study every instance of all these problematic words and phrases. I never fail to find errors this way. Many great writers are so only because they’ve learned to make use of the best available tools. The end of the book contains an essay on “An Approach to Style” with a list of twenty-one “Reminders.” Those who fight the apparently-natural tendency to go against these recommendations succeed as writers. Those who don’t, fail. It’s that simple. The single drawback of The Elements of Style is that it’s too concise; it does not stand alone as an all-encompassing tutorial or reference guide. Many readers will seek other sources for more in-depth explanation of style elements. Despite that, it easily replaces ten pounds of other reference material.
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Review by Publishers Weekly
Lamott’s ( Operating Instructions ) miscellany of guidance and reflection should appeal to writers struggling with demons large and slight. Among the pearls she offers is to start small, as their father once advised her 10-year-old brother, who was agonizing over a book report on birds: “Just take it bird by bird.” Lamott’s suggestion on the craft of fiction is down-to-earth: worry about the characters, not the plot. But she’s even better on psychological questions. She has learned that writing is more rewarding than publication, but that even writing’s rewards may not lead to contentment. As a former “Leona Helmsley of jealousy,” she’s come to will herself past pettiness and to fight writer’s block by living “as if I am dying.” She counsels writers to form support groups and wisely observes that, even if your audience is small, “to have written your version is an honorable thing.”
Review by Betty Trapp
This author is a new find for me, but I will surely read much more of her. She is fabulously funny, incredibly informative, and absolutely generous with her thoughts and feelings and expertise on writing. The book warmed me, and made me feel that I could continue my writing with a stronger and better perspective. For aspiring writer’s everywhere, and for writers published and not, this book will take you on a journey and offer invaluable advice for your hard work. It will help you revive that natural urge to write and keep you plugging away at the keyboard during the very worst of slumps. You will also laugh with Anne Lamott, the author, who is hilarious and honest and very witty. The practical and real life advice will stay with you as you struggle to become the writer you already are.
