Writers in the Storm

by Fae Rowen

This one isn't so much a throwdown  as a mirror reflecting what keeps us writing.  Usually Laura Drake draws the line in the sand first, but today I'm going to talk about inspiration and writing.  On Wednesday, since she's the queen of "bottom in the chair," Laura's going to follow-up with perspiration and the writer. (How lucky for me that, according to the old saying, I'm only writing about the 1% inspiration and Laura gets the hard work--the 99% perspiration!)

Without the inspiration of that first story I would never have attempted to write my own novel.  But the characters kept adding scenes to the movie in my head and I felt my day-to-day life slipping more and more into their reality.  A bit scary when the story is a medieval fantasy! An English-teacher friend told me to write the movie down and my first novel was born.

Typically my characters start to impinge on my consciousness to the point of me saying, "Okay, already!  I'll write your story!" so they'll leave me alone when I'm not writing.  I pretty much know the beginning scenes and the ending before I start writing. When they're clear enough in my head, and the characters are three-dimensional complete with backstory, I start the book.

If you read our throwdown about Plot- vs Character-driven stories, you'll know that I'm not much of a plotter.  But when you've been a voracious reader all your life, you've pretty much got the drill down.  Things start out bad and get worse and worse still.  When your character is facing death--or worse--things get better fast and you're done.

This writing style can be a problem after the first three or four chapters. Uh, what happens next? How do I get to that compelling ending? How do I weave my theme into non-existent scenes without getting that dreaded sagging middle? That's where inspiration takes over for me. I can get inspiration from almost anything--and have.  Take the time I was working on a contemporary (so out of my time zone!) about a female math professor who had been a star ballerina in her younger days. Because of an injury, she now tutored young ballet students in her spare time.  Need a scene.

I was taking a belly dancing class in preparation for my Middle East trip. Now, I am not any kind of a dancer. As I was trying to figure out where the muscles were that made my stomach ripple (Did I have them?), I thought, "What if my heroine were a belly dancer?"  What if her friend, a fellow student at Juilliard, danced in a belly dancing troupe? What if, after my heroine's injury, she learned to belly dance? What if she rejoined the troupe for one night only as they toured the West Coast--and that was the night our hero saw what he thought was an uptight college professor belly dancing?  Hmmmm.  Yep, bump up the romance with a shimmy and a hip thrust.

My little sports car has been a jet fighter, a spaceship, and a race car, depending on the book.  In fact, Laura calls the car the Athena-mobile, after the heroine of my first futuristic.  My Siamese cat, Shogun, has spawned a tiger, a lion-like creature, and a sentient alien race.

Most recently, on a trip to Kauai, I was snorkeling as I usually do on vacation.  While maneuvering through coral tunnels looking at eels, octopus and hundreds of brightly colored fish, I thought of the book I'm working on now.  Of course, there must be an ocean on that end-of-the-universe planet.  Since it's a planet with crystals instead of trees and plants, it would make perfect sense that underwater there would be beautiful crystalline gardens with incredible hues and dangerous currents from the vibrations of the crystals.

Not only that, but this beach would work well to show the hero he isn't infallible and that he can't fix everything like he can on his home world. Later, a major scene with a competitive sporting event will have a a broader influence if it's at two venues, one of which is that same beach. Made one scene into two like that! And ramped up the tension (thank you, Donald Maass!), because the heroine must compete at the location of her recent almost-deadly accident.

All that from a wonderful morning snorkeling the North Shore of Kauai.

Did I mention that this planet has no food source? The people must eat only protein bars and protein drinks packed with all the necessary supplements--and some nasty things they don't know about!  Guess what? When I came up with this idea I was on a diet, you guessed it, of protein bars and powders.

You could probably look at what you do the next two hours through a different lens and come up with at least one--I'm thinking more--story ideas for setting, character or scene. Just ask, "What if ...?" and go with it.  There is no wrong answer. You're opening the door for inspiration from your everyday life. And, like it or not, we all write based on our own lives, because that's what we know best. And great writing comes from what we know best.

So put on those glasses of a different color and be inspired by your world. Awaken to everything around you and see it in a new way, as if you're seeing for the first time. And wonder what might happen if ... .

Do you have a sure-fire way to get inspired to write? Do you have a routine to call in your personal muse? We'd love to hear from you. (Heck, I'm not above stealing a good routine!)

Unfortunately, you can't finish a book on inspiration alone. You've got to do the work. On Wednesday Laura Drake will address writing from the "perspiration" angle.  I can't wait to read her blog--she's incredibly dedicated to putting in the time.

We're huge Donald Maass fans here at WITS. We've got all his books. Mine are dog-eared. He has a way of breaking down critical craft points and making them easy to understand. He's graciously allowed us to repost a blog that originally appeared on a blog we're also fans of, Writer Unboxed.

Note: If you don't have Writer Unboxed on your 'must read' list - go do it now - we'll wait. *whistling*

Okay, here's Don:

It’s Not About The Cougar
by Donald Maass

Last month I looked at how tension emerges on the page when apparently nothing is happening. The inverse of that is when high action hits with bullets whining, cars careening and explosions mushrooming.

You’d think that high action would be the most riveting stuff in any novel, but strangely it often is easy to skim. C’mon, be honest. You’ve skimmed some action, haven’t you?

A few weeks ago I had the pleasure of spending a day with Chi-Libris, a group of published authors of Christian fiction. Late in the day we tackled micro-tension. A participant offered a paragraph from a WIP in which a cougar carried a toddler across a stream (in its mouth, in case you were wondering), pursued by the story’s protagonist.

The passage was well written, visually clear—and not particularly scary. When I asked, “What do you think will happen next?” hardly anyone was stirred to speculate. I then asked, “How can we add tension?”

As I expected, most suggestions focused on making the cougar more menacing, raising the stakes (the toddler is a Senator’s child!), changing the protagonist’s actions, etc. No improvement. The outcome still didn’t matter to most.

Then came a suggestion that held the key to increasing tension: heighten the emotions of the point-of-view character. Even better, create conflicting emotions. Bingo. Suddenly the moment sprang to life. Both the interest level and uncertainty of the outcome spiraled up…

…except for a group of a male authors, who were mostly clustered in a back row. “But what if the cougar reared up on its hind legs?” “Cougars have vicious fangs, what if its lips curled back?” The men didn’t want to let go of the idea that tension comes from guns, or in this case claws.

Finally, I improvised a version of the passage that went something like this:

The cougar splashed across the stream, the toddler limp in its jaws. Jim splashed after it, snapping off a branch. No way was he backing down. Forget it. It was man against nature. And this time man was going to win.

Simple as that was, interest increased. Someone noticed that the hero’s determination was undercut by the words this time. Another participant wondered, “What happened last time?” Exactly. It’s the contrast between bravado and fear (both implied) that creates tension and makes the outcome uncertain…

…except for the guys in the back row. “But seriously, what if the cougar…” I shook my head in despair. “It’s not the cougar,” I said, “it’s the emotions.”

Guys. Ah-yee. What are you going to do?

Donald Maass is president of the Donald Maass Literary Agency in New York. His agency sells more than 150 novels every year to major publishers in the U.S. and overseas. He is a past president of the Association of Authors’ Representatives, Inc. (AAR).

SAVE THE DATE! Don't miss our guest, DONALD MAASS, blogging at Writers in the Storm this Friday.

Ever since Jenny wrote about her dog Hoshi, I've thought I should write about my cats and what they've taught me.

Anticipation:  When I was in first grade and we moved from our apartment to the house my parents built, they made good on their promise to give me a kitten.  I had no idea what to name her, but since Mitzi was her mother's name, Mitzi became my little Siamese kitten's name.

Patience:  Mitzi had patience with a capital P.  I used to dress her in doll clothes and walk her around my new neighborhood in my doll buggy.  When women would come over to see what they thought was a doll they were surprised to see a sealpoint face peering out from under a bonnet.  Mitzi never bailed out of that buggy.

Unconditional love:  I was fortunate to have two parents who loved me, so I grew up surrounded by unconditional love.  I didn't understand their love at the time, but I understood that no matter what I did or didn't do to Mitzi, every night she hopped on my bed and purred when I petted her.

I have to admit that I didn't learn responsibility from Mitzi.  My mother fed her and since Mitzi was an indoor/outdoor cat, there was no litter box to clean.

When I got married, Mitzi came to live with me.  My husband never had a pet (His mother thought they were dirty and unruly.)  Very quickly he found himself wound around Mitzi's little paw.

Since we lived with coyotes walking through our yard, Mitzi was restricted to being an indoor cat.  That was fine with her, because she was definitely "retired" as a seventeen-year-old cat.  Though I fed Mitzi now, I just couldn't stand scooping the litter box, so my husband did that.

The Pain of Loss:  Before our first anniversary we lost Mitzi.  It was the first time I saw my husband cry.  A few weeks later he asked me if I'd like to get another cat.  No, it would hurt too much, I told him.  But he said, "I never had a Mitzi, and I'd like to have my own pet."

Joy:  Soon thereafter, we were given a Siamese kitten, which my husband promptly named Mitzi.  She was his cat.  He would lay on the floor and she would crawl all over him.  She would fetch the little knit ball he threw.  My former light heavy-weight wrestling husband, who ordered a sixteen ounce "cowboy steak" when we went out to dinner, now ordered lobster.  And he brought half of it home!  You got it.  He was bringing the rest home to hand feed to his cat.

Sharing and Devotion:  Don't get me wrong, she was just as much my cat as his.  She was an equal opportunity lap-sitter.  But he trained her to walk on a leash and to wear a life preserver when he took her to our boat.  She would wait at the kitchen door for him to return home.  I didn't know that I had learned so much about devotion until years later.

My original Mitzi was seventeen when we lost her.  We expected "new" Mitzi to live even longer since she had always been an indoor cat and been given healthy food from our vet.  Unfortunately, we lost her when she was just sixteen years old.  We had helped her fight kidney disease successfully once, but we didn't win the second battle.

Loneliness:  For five years we lived a catless existence.  We were unwilling to deal with the sorrow that we knew would ultimately come if we loved a new kitty.  My father decided to take matters into his own hands and rescued a feral part-Siamese female cat.  He told us to come over, he had a surprise.  When he tried to hand me the cat, she jumped away and hid under the couch.  Unfortunately we still weren't ready to live with a cat and told my dad we couldn't take her.  Shocked--and grumpy--he looked at my mother and said, "Well, then, I'm keeping her."  And he did.

Three years later my husband was diagnosed with cancer.  We'd been seriously talking about finding a new cat, but when he found out he was so ill he said he didn't want a cat.  One morning, a month into his treatment, he woke up and said, "I want to get a kitten. Today."  I was amazed.

Excitement:  I had looked six months before for a breeder of traditional Siamese cats--not an easy find.  To my surprise, the woman who taught the two writing courses I'd just completed at the local college was a third generation breeder of the old "apple head" Siamese cats.  When I called she said I was lucky.  She hadn't bred her two mother cats for two years, but she did have kittens that were ready to come live with us right now.

We drove ninety minutes to her house, then spent two hours with seven kittens.  Well, I spent the time with seven kittens.  My husband picked up the kitten that reached for him and never put that one down, even though I held each of the other six to find the perfect one, as my former writing instructor told me the personalities of each.  We added the kitten that picked my husband to our family.  My husband named him Shogun, Emperor's Warrior.

Healing:  Since my husband couldn't work during his treatment, Shogun kept him company, entertaining him with the typical antics of a kitten--chasing a twirling ribbon, or popping up from an empty flower pot or box. hiding, When my husband was having a bad day, Shogun would jump in his lap and within three minutes my husband would fall asleep.  An hour later he'd wake up feeling better.

Discipline:  My husband had definite ideas about proper feline behavior.  Shogun was not allowed on the dining room table, the kitchen counter, or in the garage.  My husband would pick Shogun up from the verboten area and say, "That's a kitty no."  If Shogun persisted he was put in "Kitty Time Out."  Really.  My husband trained Shogun to sit in a corner of our bedroom until he was picked up.

One time when I came home from work,  Shogun was nowhere around.  My husband was working outside on a project.  I asked him where Shogun was and my husband froze.  "Oh, no!"  He ran to our bedroom and swooped Shogun into his arms.  "I forgot I put him in Kitty Time Out!"  Shogun had been sitting, waiting patiently for over two hours.

Shortly after Shogun's first birthday, my husband died.  We grieved for him together.  Shogun would curl up at the foot of my husband's empty chair.  I didn't have the heart to keep him off the dining room table or out of the garage.

Serendipity:  My dad died the year after he rescued the feral cat.  When my mother died five years later, her neighbor asked if she could have Mitzi.  I was delighted to give Mitzi to her since she'd just lost her cat and I had Shogun.

Well, two years ago my mother's neighbor died.  Seventeen-year-old Mitzi now lives with Shogun and me.  It was not easy at first, but last week, for the first time, I came home to find them snuggled together, napping.  How wonderful is life?  I have my dad's cat and my husband's cat to love.  And to keep teaching me about life and living.

Mitzi wraps herself around my neck and Shogun sits in my lap while I write.  How good is that?

Have you learned life lessons from a pet?  Has a pet helped you through an illness or grief? We'd love to hear about it.

Fae