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CPR for the Undead: Can We Save the Vampires?
I love vampires. Ever since I got my paws on Christopher Pike‘s book The Last Vampire, they caught my attention. It was a series, and I first read it back when the cover looked like this:
Such charming imagery. Yes, I know this is the second book. I loved this book.
It enthralled me, thinking of a 5,000-year-old vampire who had walked the earth with Krishna. I think I was 9. I guess that makes me precocious. Anyway, the next vampire book to snag me was Daughters of Darkness — followed by Secret Vampire – by L.J. Smith. That did it. I was hooked. I wanted Rowan’s sinewy feet and her raw strength. I wanted to see the glow of nebulae with my naked eye.
I’ll admit I’ve still never read Anne Rice‘s Chronicles, but I devoured The Historian by Elizabeth Kostova. This book captured me both because of the elusive vampire that haunts just outside the protagonist’s periphery through the entire book and because of her sweeping and single-minded mastery of the detail of Eastern Europe. I found out this weekend (thanks Chuck) that she spent an entire decade in Romania and Hungary learning and studying and recording. That book shines.
Back in the 90s following the advent of Buffy and the explosion of vampires into mass media, people began to think that vampires were a bit passé. They relegated him to the shadows and told him not to catch his swirling cape in the door on the way out.
But then someone dunked him in glitter, and he burst onto the scene once more.
Don't look at me. I'm hideous. Hideous like a unicorn and rainbows. *Runs away* (image from twilightsaga.wikia.com)
In the aftermath of Twilight, many other vampires joined the party. Enough that I’ve heard some groans — and as I pitched my book to agents, I wasn’t oblivious to the flinches I saw at the mention of the v-word.
My question is — can vampires be resuscitated? Can they still be salable?
You might call me blind or tell me I’m sailing Denial as its queen, but I believe people will always have a bit of bloodthirst for the fangy fiends. Here are my reasons and my caveat in frank, easy-to-follow bullet points! Just follow the bouncing ball!
- Blood is high-concept. Everyone has it. We all know that bad blood and leeches are stuff of the dark ages, but when we feel the pulse of blood, we know we live. Vampires threaten our very reassurance of life.(After writing that and searching for pictures, I discovered that people still use leeches. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry about that — or just bleleeeurrrrgh.)
Blame it on Stand By Me, but I will never let one of these critters near me.
- Vampires are sensual. Our necks are erogenous zones. Even when the vampires are well and truly monstrous, they evoke an allure.
- The “vampire genre” is mutable, always evolving. From the broody self-flagellators like Edward and Angel to Nosferatu and the vampires that plagued Barrow in 30 Days of Night, there are as many interpretations of vampires as there are minds to think them up.
Here is my caveat, without which all of the above becomes pointless drivel:
As Donald Maass put it, 21st century readers crave a blend of elements . They want gripping, engaging plots full of complex, fully-realized characters.
How many thrillers hit the shelves each year? Specifically how many “crime thrillers” or “legal thrillers?” Category romance? Mystery? No one thinks readers are sick of those because readers still devour them.
I believe that the Twihards will grow up still loving vampires. As they grow and mature, I believe they will seek out worlds that reflect their own evolution.
That is why I believe there will still be a market for my books in two years.
Vampires in my world are not omnipresent or gimmicky, nor are they an unnecessary focal point. They exist. They are predators, and they each have their own moral spectrum. The rule — as always — for standing out in a crowded room is to say something interesting. To paraphrase Hemingway (I think it was Hemingway — if you know and can find the exact quote, I’d love you forever), say what’s been said a thousand times over, but for fang’s sake, say it a different way.
Vampires aren’t dead — they just need a little CPR.
What do you think, gentle viewers? Do you think they’ll go the way of the dodo or stage a comeback like the African Elephant? Are fresh voices enough to revive them?
Related articles
- Why Are the Undead So Popular in YA Fiction? (beyondthepalebooks.net)
- The Recalcitrant Vampire: Immortal Pop Culture Emperor (emmiemears.com)
- Mommy, Why Do Vampires Sparkle? (emmiemears.com)
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The Recalcitrant Vampire: Immortal Pop Culture Emperor
When people ask what I do and I respond with, “I’m a writer,” the inevitable follow-up is to ask what I write.
“Urban fantasy” gets a blank stare from them and an internal headdesk from me.
The inside of my skull is full of headdesk. Glimpse possible because of icanhascheezburger.com
Usually my response has to be short and consists of two or three words. Those words are often “self-actualized vampires.” At the v-word, I people either respond with more blank face and a high-nodded “oh” of ending the conversation or by getting excited.
The thing is, as much as there is somewhat of an arching mythos surrounding the vampire world, vampires do pretty much whatever they want. They walk in sunlight, or it makes them go poof. Stakes do them in, or beheading, or fire, or the occasional holy item, or any combination thereof. They might be offended by garlic or eat it every day. Running water or the threshold of your home might stop them, or you might be eaten before your toe gets wet.
They might eat you flat out or fall in love with you or have some massive self image issues. They might wear clothes that are still hot among goth circles or that went out of style in the 70s. (Which might be back by now.)
Without further ado, here are some classics for you to peruse.
Mmm, I can see where the sexy stereotype comes from. Image via thehorrormoviesblog.com
Look at this guy. Teeth front and center. The Uncle Fester skull and eyeholes. A vampire with an extreme weakness for the beauty of femininity. Kind of an oversight on the evolutionary plane, don’t you think? The guy got so distracted with this woman that he forgot about the sun coming up. That’s like a human getting so fixated on something shiny that they miss the shark gnawing their feet off until they die of blood loss.
Puh. Gimme Nosferatu any day. Image via fanpop.com
Ah, the introduction to the swirling cape. This image has been seared onto our retinas (and beautifully mastered by the artist here!) for the last several decades. It’s the stakes. The buxom vampire beauties. The torchlight and castle-y goodness. That Drac.
He’s the guy who made us think vampires should be sexy, sensual. He made women swoon when he went for the throat. And rightly so.
I couldn't resist. Wikipedia knows what's up.
The Buffy vamps — I can’t go far in this post without mentioning them. No muss, no fuss staking, folks! Just zing, poof! Try not to inhale the dust. And talk about sexy factor — between Angel and Spike, they’ve kept a couple generations drooling.
The mythology that went into these vampires is fascinating as well. No soul unless cursed (or in one unique case, fought for). The vampires of the Buffyverse are supposed to be the descendants of demons who mingled their blood with humans. Here’s a picture of their great-great-granddaddy:
The uber-vamp. Wouldn't want this guy serving me tea. Or coming round for it. Image via buffy.wikia.com
The Turok-Han (above) had a sternum like steel and Holy Water rolled off him like…plain old water. Not many weaknesses besides sunlight and a nifty little scythe doodad Buffy King Arthured out of a rock. And definitely not someone you’d want to share a bed with.
Probably should have put this guy before Spike. Chronology fail. Wikimedia win!
Talk about culture icons. Before Robert Pattinson graced the sunlight with his glimmering skin, there was the deadly duo of 90s heartthrobs, Brad Pitt and Tom Cruise biting their ways to your heart’s blood. Sensual. Elegant. Bloodthirsty. Prone to excessive combustion when exposed to sun.
Let’s not forget the lovely Kirsten Dunst in Interview With the Vampire, either. Tragic and terrifying at once — this image of an immortal child long before Breaking Dawn.
Did you think this would be Kirsten? Fooled ya! obfuscationofreality.blogspot.com helped.
Before this post comes to its inevitable conclusion, I had to veer away from the pretty-boy vamps to show you a truly sinister incarnation of the vampiric mythos — the vampire from 30 Days of Night. These vampires don’t just suck you dry, they massacre whole towns when they can. Sunlight is a weakness, but that’s about it. Fast as hell on wheels and virtually impossible to track, these guys don’t much care what you throw at them. The vampire lady above is one bad mama jama.
Shiiiiiiiny....Image assaulting your retinas courtesy of twilightphenomena.blogspot.com
It had to happen…see above re: inevitable conclusion. I can’t talk about the emperors of pop culture without showing his face. You see, this vampire has a sunlight thang, but it’s not to burst into flames (though it might still blind you). He can’t be staked or beheaded by a human without some serious steroids. (Staked at all, really.)
Although they’re only in print, Anita Blake’s vampires have their quirks — they essentially die from sunup till sundown and have to feed to be able to function sexually. The vampires of the Hollows are unique in that they are born that way and die two deaths at some point in life — the first takes their soul and leaves them hugely strong but bereft of sunlight and church for the rest of their existence, and the second commits them to the abyss.
The Night World vampires could walk in sunlight and didn’t share many of the biggies like holy items and garlic (not many care about garlic anymore). In The Passage they had a type of hive mentality. There have been so many incarnations of these creatures that they have made themselves immortal in our culture.
While this is in no way a complete rendition of all vampires in literature and film and television, one thing shines through: vampires have dominated our culture for a hundred years and more through legend and myth and literature, and no one is going to be stealing their coffins any time soon. There are as many ways to write them as there are days in a year and more. The important thing, as Hemingway (I think it was him. Stake me if not.) would have it, is to go ahead and say what’s already been said — just do it in a way no one’s done it yet.
And my vampires? Where do they fit in?
Well, gentle viewers, you’ll have to come back another time for that. Until then, sleep well, and keep a stake handy.
Related articles
- Vampires in Pop Culture (5min.com)
- The Lure of the Vampire (joleenenaylor.wordpress.com)
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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.
Late Night Rewrite
At long last, a rewarding post appears. Due to an ill-timed evening nap of three hours in duration, I found myself wide awake around the witching hour. After watching Face/Off and walking the dog we are sitting, I settled down at my trusty iBook dinosaur to work on revising the first draft of my novel. I got a solid twenty pages or so done. What that accomplished is more than just rewriting — I recently rewrote the beginning in its entirety, and today I got the new bit woven into the original, ironing out that seam a bit. It flows the way I wanted it to. I might need some cutting done, because it’s a little exposition-heavy, but that can wait. Because you know what?
HUZZAH!
I got something done!
Do you have any idea how good that feels, gentle viewers? I’ll give you a clue. AWESOME.
My character is getting where I want her. The tone is closer to what I was trying to achieve. There’s some quirk and some wit, and some grit. I smoothed out a few bumps. Filled in a few holes. All in all, I am tremendously happy with what transpired this evening. It may be almost 4:30 a.m., but by golly, I feel accomplished. If I can keep this up (When! When, Emmie!), I should be on track to start officially agent fishing this fall. Trundling right along. Thank you, gorse bush in the bum.
It doesn’t hurt that my day job (night job?) is slinging beers at a brewery, and it has been painfully slow lately. The money has not been seeking me out much. July and August are our slowest months of the year, and I’ve been feeling it. My bank is broke. As Louis C.K. says, “I’m so broke that if it’s free I can’t afford it.” Nothing like financial trouble to start pushing you in the right direction for your dreams. I will make writing my career, dang nab it.
Cheers to a night where I got some work done. Today was a progress-laden day. Hour and a half workout, finished reading Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, and tackled my second draft with renewed vigor. I think this calls for a second HUZZAH!
New Spring
These times, they are a-changin’. Beyond the fact that we are fresh into a new season, trundling along in a newish year, et cetera, I get the feeling that there are good things coming my way. I wrote a while back about feeling how moving to Maryland was like stepping on a solid plank on a rickety rope bridge with the other side of the chasm in sight. While I could have taken the switchbacks down the side of the canyon years ago only to take them back up the other side with no guarantee I would end up anywhere near the destination I had in mind, the rope bridge provided a risky, yet seductive alternative. Not that plunging to my death is an attraction to me; I just meant it was a route bound to get me closer to what I want to do with what time I have here.
There’s no doubt that I’m a writer. I may be an as-yet unpublished one, but I do write. I’m even a novelist — I have indeed completed a novel and almost a second one. So there’s that. It’s just time to get this thing in gear. For the past month, I’ve been busily revising the first draft of said novel. Adding depth where necessary, detail to watercolor. As Bob Ross might airily say, I’m making happy trees out of formerly formless blobs. Not that the first draft was as vomity as I like to call it, but the voice I was searching for is getting more fleshed out in the rewrite. All in all, I’m quite happy with where it’s going. Spring time seems to bring out the creativity in me. Maybe it’s the happy trees dotting the landscape around me. Or the birds chirping. Or the spider crickets bouncing out of nowhere until I gasp a startled expletive and pounce them with my Swiffer. Nothing like battling hideous, monstrous insects to inspire a writer’s ambition to explore apocalyptic epic urban fantasy. Ah, the writing life.
But I digress. Critters aside, it feels wonderful to write. I haven’t committed my scribblings to the all-knowing iBook yet (yes, my trusty lappy is a dinosaur), but I’m working on it. And I’ve written about 50 pages recently, which bodes well for the future.
Wish me monsters.
Aaaaaaugh! End of Year Stress!
So much for that peaceful sail on the coast. More like plunging through a raging river of death. Okay, slightly melodramatic there, but a little melodrama never hurt anyone.
My poor WordPress bloggity. I’ve been neglecting you. My sincerest apologies. I’ve been rather sick. And busy with that whole raging river of death thing. The silver lining is that all of this junque is almost over, and I shall be free to flit about as I see fit.
This week has been not so good for actually producing anything, but I did go to my writing group on Monday and got some really helpful and awesome feedback on the chapter I submitted. I am going to use their suggestions for fixing my chapter. They also asked me to post more, which, as I’ve already discussed, is the highest compliment anyone can give to a writer. So much work to do…egad, Brain.
I’m hoping — possibly in vain — to get more done this weekend. However, my boyo’s dad is in town, so that may not happen. But who knows? We shall see…
Love and kisses.
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.
In Pursuit of Happiness
According to the preamble to the Constitution of the good old U.S. of A., this is one of those little inalienable rights that we are endowed with as human beens. And it’s this particular right that I am in the process of taking out for a spin.
I know that it doesn’t guarantee happiness, but if the right to pursue it is there, that’s good enough for me. (Random thought: how is it possible to guarantee this?)
What this means for me is that I am going to chase this little fledgling (actually full-fledged) dream of writing for a living. I don’t say “being a writer” because I am one of those — I just don’t get paid for it. Unless I am a horrible person and write at work when I should be doing other things…ahem.
Today I was thinking about my story. And the stories of others. There is a quote that says a story is life with the dull parts taken out. I don’t know if that’s entirely true, seeing as how plenty of stories have dull bits in them — and the idea of what is dull is subjective. However, I will say that I think a story has to be told as though it’s unfolding in front of you. Some authors manage to make it work in other ways, like telling it through letters or through dialogue — I’ve seen that work effectively in the past — but most of the time it needs to just play.
Even though 99% of novels are written in past tense, when they’re written well, it’s like you’re in the same room with the characters. You can smell their sweat and feel the shivers. If it’s told like you would tell a friend what you did yesterday, it won’t keep my attention. It lacks the flow, the tide that sucks you in. Such a flow is not something that is easy to accomplish, especially in a vomit draft.
A lot of times, when we write, we have a concept in our head and we write it down the way it makes sense to us. It’s in the editing process where we go in with a scalpel and cut into it until it makes sense to others. The best writing makes readers forget they’re reading — and this holds true with non-fiction as well as fiction.
This post is really not cohesive. For that, gentle viewers, I apologize.
Here’s a brief update on my writing progress before I attempt to cajole my body into sleeping:
(Ooh! “Sleeping” put me at exactly 500 words so far! How exciting.)
Today one of my characters got blown up. I kind of think she deserved it. She’s been in a snit this entire book. Regardless, I feel bad for her. She has a lot going on in her noggin. I just wish she’d stop acting like a 12-year-old hormone bomb and more like the badass lion she is. Seriously.
I am making some good progress. Elemental looks like it will wind up being about 100,000-120,000 words, which is right where I want/expect it to be. Primeval will probably get trimmed a bit, but its successor might be able to get away with being a bit longer. Right now I’m at roughly 85,000. I did the math on Primeval yesterday and found that as is, it’s about 440 book pages if you count it out assuming around 250 per page. That’s the length I’m going for. I’m not Jo Rowling…yet.
To round out this meandering sort of post, I just stumbled across a rather perfect metaphor thanks to a friend who posted a picture of a little dark cloud against an overcast sky. It reminded me very much of Winnie-the-Pooh, who decided one day to disguise himself as a little black rain cloud in his pursuit of honey, which happened to be at the top of a tall tree. He did so by rolling in some very black mud and holding tight to a balloon, hoping that the bees would not think he was threatening their livelihood.
Whilst floating above the earth, Pooh sang, “Oh, I’m just a little black rain cloud!” (The full lyrics to which can be found here) Needless to say, the bees were not fooled by this endeavor, and Pooh swiftly found himself plunging rear-end first into a gorse bush.
The moral of this story is this: We have the freedom to pursue our honey by whatever means we see fit. It may be at the top of a very tall tree, but if we’re not afraid of falling a few times and getting some gorse in our bums, we just might get there one day.
*In case you’re wondering which books these are, they are, respectively: David Eddings’ Belgariad and Malloreon series, which are phenomenal; and Daughters of Darkness, by LJ Smith, who was the woman responsible for hooking me on vampires about 15 years ago. The characters to which I’m referring here are Ce’Nedra and Mary-Lynnette.
Write Until You Can’t See Land
I am feeling the burn.
It’s a good burn. It’s a marathon sort of burn, the kind where time begins to blur to the point that you feel you’re hurtling through the space-time continuum at warp speed and you lose track of entire hours.
I started writing at 8 p.m., Eastern Daylight Time. It’s now 5:06, and I have written 19 pages. 11,341 words. I’d say this makes up for my last few days of inactivity. And I’m not done yet — I’m going to hop into the shower at 6:15 to get ready for work, and I’m going to push through until then.
I’ve written about 10% of my novel tonight. And no, I’m not on speed, or methamphetamine, nor any other kind of drug (well, some caffeine, but only in the form of tea).
I don’t even know how to express the elation I feel right now. It’s effervescent. Or possibly scrubbing bubbles. Hm.
To put it in perspective a bit, I haven’t written like this since fall of 2008. That’s over a year and a half ago. In point of fact, I don’t think I have ever written over 11,000 words in one sitting. It’s therapeutic. It’s like a cleansing fire. I feel purified.
I blame Michael Larsen. In case you don’t know who this is (which most of you probably don’t), he is an American literary agent who wrote a fabulous book, entitled How to Get a Literary Agent, which, after reading 2/3 of in the past 48 hours, I am convinced every aspiring writer must read. I was trucking along in the book tonight, thrilled beyond measure at the information therein, amused by the humor and anecdotes from his experience as a literary agent, and invigorated by the prospect of setting out on this journey when I had to put the book down and bust out my laptop. That was nine hours ago.
Will I survive teaching my class in the morning? Maybe. If all else fails, I can assign them freewrites all period (ha) while I sit comatose at my desk. I won’t do that. But I could.
Anyway. This is a hopeful day for me as a writer. I cannot wait to finish this draft of my novel and begin revision on the completed novel I already have, with the help of a good friend who is actually an editor. And I fully plan to implement every scrap of advice in Mr. Larsen’s book, so that when the rejections become pouring in, at least I’ll know each one is just a rung on the ladder to a yes.
Yep, that’s the optimistic spirit I need.
As my grandmother would say, “Oh, hordy.” It has been a long night, but a much needed one. I have been so drained this year due to a too-stressful job that makes me feel like a punching bag on a daily basis. Maybe this car accident will prove itself to be the best thing to happen to me all year. I have no doubt in my mind that I would not have typed the 11,000 words I’ve typed tonight if it hadn’t happened.
That alone might have made my busted neck worth it. Said busted neck may hurt right now, but…it’s a good burn.
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.
