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Raise Your Voice
I’ve often thought that there are plenty of parallels between the writing process and a Bob Ross painting show. The first bit gets it out there — you prime your canvas and sketch in the bulk of the design. This is one of the most vital parts, because you have to just get the story out there. It’s rough and unfinished — full of unwelcome adverbs, perhaps — but it’s also integral. It lays a foundation. Establishes the big three: Plot, People, and Place. (Like my alliteration?) It might be a verbal equivalent of a pencil sketch or stick figures, but it’s important because it commits you to the story, to the telling of it. It gets it out of your brain and onto paper.
The next steps are to add depth and texture. You shade those fluffy clouds and add color to the happy trees. It’s what takes your vomit draft from two dimensions to three. It’s making sure that what populates your story — the characters, places, and events — doesn’t blur together. It’s when you consciously make this shape into a bush and that shape into a boulder. In a rough sketch or vomit draft, they both might resemble an amorphous blob. It’s your job to make sure your readers can tell who’s who at an early stage and not mix the two up like a big leafy rock.
Finally — after a lot of toiling about — you put leaves on your trees and waves in your river. Maybe a soaring little bird. That’s the moment writers and painters wait for, but no one can get there if all the layers don’t exist in harmony.
Where I am now is stage two. Specifically, my current goal is to make boulders and bushes. In my first draft, some of the characters seemed interchangeable. Forgettable. Ultimately unworthy of print. The joy of this stage comes from getting to know these characters much as I would a human being. It means finding out about their back stories and how they relate to the plot, choosing careful details to flesh them out. Making sure that if they do something out of character — which the best characters do — it has a reason and an explanation based in the reality of that person.
Every writer has a voice. It’s that sense you get from an overall work. Classical, quirky, edgy, humorous, morbid, forceful, blunt, lyrical. It’s how they turn a phrase and create moments that get your attention because they are different than what you’d say or maybe similar. Whatever categories describe a writer’s tone, they ought to be muted when her characters open their mouths. The characters shouldn’t all sound like the writer. Dour characters shouldn’t be overly exuberant until they have been well-established, and then it should convey irony or show a by-product of that character’s development. Even secondary characters should have some texture.
I know my characters well enough to be alarmed if they do something strange or say something that sounds more like someone else. I have one very reserved vampire I caught grinning a few times when he seldom cracks a smile. He isn’t broody or self-pitying — he just isn’t the bubbly type. Needless to say, I must have thrown in a few grins as filler, which have since been chopped from the draft.
I’ve loved picking apart the motivations of my characters, realizing that they are complex people who sometimes surprise me. Often. In doing so, I can go back and make them from a formless lump into a happy little bush or boulder. It’s my brush strokes that bring them to life, so I better do it well.
“I Like Your Waist”
One might wonder why I decided to title this blog the way I did. Very well; I’ll explain.
Today I went to the post office to mail the thank-you notes from my bridal shower, return some books from the Science Fiction Book Club that were mistakenly sent to me, and get my Netflix rolling again. While buying my stamps, the woman helping me suddenly said, “I like your waist.”
My first impulse was to say, “I beg your pardon?” I didn’t think I’d heard her right. My waist? What does that have to do with…anything? She repeated herself, and I discovered that yes, she was indeed complimenting me on my waist. I don’t think anyone has ever specifically done such a thing before, at least in regards to me. I was torn between my fascination with the compliment and a slew of thoughts that flooded me right on its heels. What intrigued me so about her little declarative statement was that it was very specific, and that it’s not a body part many people would single out. Sort of like saying, “You have lovely kneecaps” or “I admire your shoulder blades.”
It also brought up something that was sparked a few days ago when I read an article regarding how we as a society talk to little girls. How often are the first words out of our mouths something about a little girl being pretty, cute, or beautiful? How often do we comment on her adorable little dress or her shiny shoes? Her perfect hair? How often would we say most of that to a little boy? I realized that it doesn’t really change. If a stranger speaks to me, nine times out of ten it’s to remark on my looks. I can’t remember the last time I was approached with a legitimate question about the time or directions or hell, to sign a petition.
I currently work as a cocktail server. Yes, server, not waitress. I serve drinks. I am a server. It’s gender-neutral, and I prefer it that way. I know I’m expected to look put together when I work, and though I find it a little degrading (especially because I have to dress up like a Pauli girl in two weeks), I’m more or less okay with it, because I recognize that my job right now is a means to an end. It’s a way to pay the bills while I concentrate my mental faculties on getting my novel published until the time comes that I can make my living that way. The way people treat me, however, is constantly a point to ponder. There are those who don’t even use basic niceties like “please” or “thank you.” There are plenty who ask me personal questions that they would never ask someone who they didn’t perceive to be a lower social status. I’ve been grabbed, harassed, and even bullied.
I rarely get questions about my life beyond work, even from tables who try to engage me in active conversation. Even then, it can feel very condescending. To an extent, the men I work with get it too, but the women have to put up with that and much, much more.
It all sort of ties in to how women are still viewed. I’m a writer. I’m an intellectual. I love to think, to analyze, to evaluate. Very few people bother to find out what is going on in my brain, or the brains of many women, if not most. I could read when I started kindergarten. If I can manage it, my children will too. I will make sure that male or female, my kids are intellectually stimulated at home and in the world. It saddens me that women are still viewed as being something pretty to look at. Women are beautiful; I’m not denying that or demeaning it. What I’m saying is that we’re even more beautiful on the inside. What’s in our minds, our personalities. How we try and how we learn.
My challenge to you is this, gentle viewers. Next time you meet a young girl, hold your tongue on the compliments. What’s on her head or those dimpled cheeks are just the wrapping. Instead, ask her questions. Does she like books? Which one is her favorite? Why? What makes those characters special? If nothing else, what’s her favorite movie? Why? Why is the bad guy bad? How are the good characters smart? Ask her if she wants to know what makes a rainbow. Most adults can tell a child that much science. Ask her if she noticed that her puppy grows up like she does. Ask her what she likes and why. Ask her what she likes to do, what sports she plays, what her favorite games are. She might be shy at first, but keep trying. Show her an adult who expects little girls to think, to use their insides as well as their outs.
It’s what’s inside that matters. Just like a good, well-written character has faults as well as strengths, the value of humanity isn’t in what we look like. It’s the whole picture.
I write urban fantasy. Many of my characters are vampires, shapeshifters, seers, witches. I purposely did not describe them all as inhumanly beautiful. They sometimes have big noses or awkward brow lines. Most of them age, even if it’s more slowly than those of the human persuasion. They’re not perfectly good or perfectly evil. Sometimes the good guys act awfully shitty. Sometimes the bad guys surprise you. All the ones in between act like people going through life and making choices. I wanted it gritty. I wanted it real. And I don’t want to flood the market with more perfect-looking characters none of us can really relate to.
Here’s to vampires after the glitter has worn off.
(Progress note: I am almost at the halfway mark of draft two. I will write a post about that tomorrow, I hope.)
New Project
I started this new project several months ago, sort of as an exercise. It’s an autobiographical piece with a rather lyrical turn of phrase, poetic in parts, somewhat experimental. It’s pretty special, because it’s going to be a gift. I’m copying it into a leather journal I bought, which is painstaking but will be worth it in the end.
It’s a joyous project that I’m very excited about. It’s going to take a while, which is why I finally got going on it now. I had something happen today that sort of spurred it on and lit a fire under my bum. I can’t wait.
More than anything though, I can’t wait for the next month to go by. Or rather, the next 3.5 weeks. There is a lot in those weeks that I am looking forward to, but mostly just the sheer joy of being finished with this job. And this weekend is a long weekend, so hurrah for that!
All Day
…I wished I had my camera and a pen. Today was a lovely day. I wish I could have captured it more fully, but I can live with what I have in my mind.
People speak and write of love in sweeping, often generic terms. However, they leave out the day-to-day things, the little moments of pure joy and delight. Today was full of those.
No progress in the story today due to the above adventures. And now, given the chance to sleep before midnight when I actually feel tired, I’m going to take it.
Good night, gentle viewers. Rest well and sleep sweet.
When You Think You’re Done, You’re Just Getting Started
Oh, Rewrites. You are like that cat that kept coming back the very next day. Just when I think you’re gone and I’m done with you, I hear you meowing. Sure, you look cute and cuddly. You might even purr as you’re drooling on my shoulder and digging your little retractable razors into my flesh. But you see, you won’t go away.
It’s only after a very long time spent with you that I realize that you’re actually one of my most valuable friends. While my first draft may seem like a shining achievement — and don’t get me wrong; it is — it’s like a kid building her first tower of blocks. An accomplishment to be sure, but not quite the Empire State Building. To get to that level, it takes a lot more practice. And math classes. That too.
I’m getting to the end of my first draft of my second novel, and that means that I’m starting to hear little mewling sounds at my front door. The sounds of the Rewrite Cat come to tell me that it’s time to go back to Primeval and fix it. I used to approach rewriting with a huge sense of trepidation. Even a little anxiety. I thought that if I had to rewrite and revise, it meant that I wasn’t a good writer. Silly, silly, amateur me. No matter how good a first draft is, it can always get better, which is the point of revision.
In contemplation of this little kitty peering through my windows now, snaking her tail along the borders between window panes, it’s clear that she just wants the best for my story. She wants to make sure that everything is told the way it will resonate with readers best. I have said this before, but I’ll say it again: a vomit draft is when we tell our story to ourselves. In a vomit draft, we can spew out all the back story and little random details because it’s important that we know that when we move forward. When we polish it up, though, we choose the most economical route between points A and B. We want our readers to grab the rope, jump off the ledge, and swing right to the other side without getting hit in the face with tree branches. If they’re going to take a risk on our book, we need them to want to grab the rope.
I know my first draft of Primeval has its issues. There are a lot of things I want to tighten up, streamline. Some things I need to flesh out a bit more. So as soon as I finish my first draft of Elemental, I will let this scratching little kitty in, pet her a bit, and give her a bowl of cream that she can get in her whiskers. She’s going to be my constant companion until this story gleams like a stone straight out of the tumbler.
Emmie Mears, Author
Ted Mosby….Architect.
Both of those have a certain ring to them. 
Imagine my surprise and warm fuzzy feelings when I discovered (thanks to WordPress’s handy-dandy stats box) that someone had searched for “Emmie Mears author” somewhere. How lovely! Now I only feel bad that I don’t have a book published yet…woe.
Bear with me, gentle viewers. I will do everything in my power to get Primeval and Elemental into your hot little hands as soon as humanly possible. If only it was as simple as willing them onto the shelves….and the bestseller lists.
To the illustrious personage who hath made my day brighter by their curious search-capades: thank you!
This process is a long one, but I have a sneaking suspicion that it will be worth it in the end. I have a good friend who is going to help me edit Primeval and Elemental before I begin to query agents, and because I am committed to making this my career, I want to get everything in tip-top shape before I start. I can’t wait for the rejection letters to come pouring in.
Sometimes I feel like this blog takes place under water. The surface of the water is smooth and unbroken until someone lets out a “Yop!” and creates some ripples — then I know I’m not alone out here. If you find yourself puttering around these pages, know that you’re appreciated.
Seeing as how once I do get an agent and get this ball rolling faster, this blog will remain my conduit into the world and make its nest on my website, I rather want to nurture it. I’m not sure if it’s a baby bird or a fish. Either way. I’ll leave you to ponder the philosophical ramifications of my blog’s species taxonomy. I am going to snuggle down and take a nap.
Goal Fail
I haven’t been keeping up with my end of the bargain and writing 1000 words per day the last few days. Beginning Saturday, I think. So that puts me about 3,000 behind. Bugger.
I have been feeling a bit under the weather, partly due to my neck injury, but if I can manage to watch half a season of X-Files, surely I can manage to pitter-pat my fingers on a keyboard, no? I’ve been a wee bit blocked. Partly because I am overwhelmed with excitement of going back to Scotland at long last. Also because I was waiting for a couple more things with my plot to click into place, which as of now I think they have. One of my character’s motivations were a little fuzzy, but she ended up doing something that completely clears up that mess and provides a nice background for one of her future exploits — one, I might add, that I really wish she’d reconsider, even though I know she won’t.
Writing strong characters is an interesting thing. The best characters to me are the ones who bulldoze me into telling their stories, which is exactly what happened with many of the ones in this trilogy. It’s like I’m minding my own business, walking down the street one day, and suddenly I get a 2×4 to the head. I don’t really mind in all the concussion; they make my job a bit easier when I just feverishly jot down everything they say and do. They don’t even care if we get published. As long as I tell their stories, they’re more or less content.
I think every writer is just an eensy bit schizophrenic. Maybe that’s why I’m an introvert — I have enough people in my head trying to get me to write them down to deal with the rest of the world all the time.
Hush, don’t worry. I’m kidding.
Sort of.
But mostly kidding.
Not Much News
I didn’t get any real fiction written today. Not a particularly good day in any way, shape, or form. Is it June 22 yet? I am yearning for summer, for the chance to set my life right.
I knew when I moved here what I should do, and yet I didn’t do it. I took the tempting teaching job because frankly, it paid more than I ever have made before. I knew the hours would be brutal for a nocturnal critter like myself. I knew the sheer hours per week expected of me would frequently be almost double a “normal” full time schedule. I had spent years adamantly telling people who inquired that no, for pity’s sake, I did not want to teach, damn it. And yet I did it anyway. The kids are the only thing that have made it worth it this year. I honestly cannot justify my decision in any way besides that. The stress and the things I have put up with are beyond belief. The fact that my body has nearly given up on me is something that I hope will be forgiven in time. (Please, body? I <3 you. Don’t hurt me.)
I knew when I moved here that I ought to find a job working in a bookstore, just being around books, concentrate on my writing, and keep being poor. That was by far the better idea. Instead, I got greedy. And the irony of it is that my expenses went up drastically enough that I really don’t have that much extra money. Har-de-har-har. Joke’s on me. I think the universe is pointedly telling me to follow my bliss already.
On that philosophical note, I’m going to rest my poor tender head for the evening and then go face the Inquisition tomorrow. Literally. My department at school is being audited, which is awesome, because I’ve been there so much in the past month. Sigh. Stupid lady who hit me with her car. The good news is, I can beg out and leave early because my neck is so screwed it might never be the same.
Ah, la vie. Qui peut comprender? (I don’t even know if that was French. I don’t speak French, but I pretend. Alors, le singe est sur le branch. Mais, non. Le singe est…disparu.)
