Live by the Sword . . . Well. You Know.

When it comes to murder most foul, or in this case fowl, I lean toward being an Angry Old God. Especially for the final boss fight. Sure, my books have body counts. The SFRs tend toward the usual thing - laser rifles and plasma pistols with maybe an odd genetically-designed plague thrown in. The kicker in the SFR is that the ones who develop the disease engineered it so they can't be infected. They're using the disease to poison humans like we might poison vermin. And maybe as a bit of payback, since their first contact with humans gave them every illness known to humans and nearly wiped them out as a species. They have very little sympathy.

In the UF, it's magic every time, baby. Specifically, magic tattoos that draw their power from your life force - maybe from your soul. If you have the will power to maintain balance, you and your tattoo will be pretty darned powerful. Fail and that tattoo will suck up every ounce of who and what you are to take control. But if a power hungry bad guy starts trying to hijack other people's power? Then the tattoos rip right off of your body, taking vital animating force with them when they go. 

When it comes to my heroines rising to meet their final challenges with whichever nemesis is theirs, they turn the bad guys' favorite weapon against them. In that regard, I am very much live by the sword, die by the sword. Even if that sword is a figment of your telepathically enhanced imagination.

I'll take fantasy murder, please. With a side of pasta sauce.

(the closest I've been to a murder scene off-page: 

my attempt at jarring homemade pasta sauce without a funnel)

No matter what genre you read or write, there’s murder lurking there. Murder’s been around since Cain and Able, and ever since then people have been talking about it. 

But what do I consider the most intriguing fictitious murder method? Hmm…I guess it depends on the genre!

In my sci-fi thriller, The Mars Strain, there’s a world-wide pandemic that takes people out by the thousands. *cringe* I do love viruses, still can't take the lab outta the girl, but a little too close to home for you at the moment?

Fantasy! I also write fantasy and in them there’s: 

• brutal trolls with club-like arms (don’t get squished)
• undead creatures called Draugr (watch out for their teeth)
• swords (naturally my heroine’s carry fabled, named ones, but you’ve gotta be careful with the ones swinging at your head)
• assassins (shadows peel from their skins and you’re not even aware you’ve let them in)
• aaaand magic

Magic. That’s my answer and I’m sticking to it! 

In both of my fantasy books magic in inherent, if a character has fae blood in their ancestry then they have some amount of power. In The Dark Queen’s Daughter my MC’s power allows her to tap into the magic of the world and use it for brief moments. So she’s able to control the trees and crushes revenants back into dust and stabs a draugr, though they regenerate up to three times so different methods are required. 

Magical murder can range from gristly to the soul passing on a sigh. I appreciate that it’s fantastical in nature and therefore has a certain distance to it. Because when it comes down to it, I’d rather write about magic’s glitter and healing properties. Still, when I want to do good evil is right there with me, so murder will keep worming it’s way into my stories. In one form or another. 

Do you have a favorite book-murder, magical or not?

My weird relationship with murder

We're talking this week about our favorite methods of fictional murder. In terms of story, I found Inigo Montoya's sword fight with Count Rugen in The Princess Bride compelling. Of the murders I've done in my own books, the funnest to research was how to kill a person with a class-4 laser. (Spoiler: it takes time.)

But I don't get really into murder as a thing. Recently, I read a book on the Japanese invasion of Nanjing during World War II and had to put it down several times. Some murder is too much murder, especially if it actually happened.

And I guess that can be said for death in general. I remember when my dad was dying in the hospital, I saw a cockroach on the back porch of my house. My usual reaction to seeing a cockroach is to kill the thing immediately because eew, but right then I just watched it skitter. With death so close and immediate, I couldn't bring myself to take a life, even a cockroach life.

That's sort of how I feel writing this post in the middle of a pandemic. I mean, yeah death can be fictionally useful for story, but right now, with all of that darkness looming, I'd rather think about life.

Also, "I want my father back, you son of a bitch."

Beware the Ides and Plagues of March: Favorite (Written) Murder

As days in quarantine stretch without a light of reprieve, those who enjoy being left the hell alone now find themselves trapped with other beings who require attention and maintenance. They may find their thoughts turning to murder...

...Fictitious murder, folks. We're all about the fantasy here.

Not gonna lie, people and non-people die in my books (but never the dog!). Usually amid spatter and gore. Depending on the series, death is by blade, brute strength, or magic. Parasites that extract salt from a body while injecting venom that boils the blood. A portal that tears open a heart. Angel fire or electrocution. Eviction of a soul. How 'bout an old fashioned neck snap. The bodies do pile up in my stories.

The murder that still makes me snicker (because I'm an evil author, natch) is from my debut novel LARCOUT where our fire-warrior protag is being introduced to a new culture that assumes women are feeble:

Vadrigyn pivoted. Her fist connected squarely with the nose of the closest fool…and punched through the back of his skull. Blood and brain oozed down her wrist and stained her vambrace. The body reduced to sand, leaving her with a skull bracelet.

Fragile blood-beings.

Soft blows, barely more than a swat at the air, would suffice to incapacitate a blood-being. She knew that. Gentle. She must be gentle in combat.

How absurd.

In this time of social distancing, please, Wash Your Damn Hands and Stay Home when possible. You don't know who around you is a carrier or immunocompromised. Dying from the plague is a shitastic way to go.

🍀 Lá Fhéile Pádraig sona duit! 🍀 

Dead Is Dead - Or Is It?

*kitty is not actually dead

Our topic this week at the SFF Seven is: Beware the Ides of March: Fav/Most Intriguing Method of (Fictitious) Murder.

Do I get to pick pandemic??

Seriously, it’s kind of creepy that Calendar Maven K.A. Krantz picked this topic while we’re all practicing social distancing to #flattenthecurve on COVID-19—and she picked it months ago, before she could possibly know this would happen.

Or did she?

I mean, a global pandemic sounds like a great Evil Mastermind Plot…

Anyway, all of this is to day that I don’t really think about types of murder. Just not my thing. I occasionally have to kill off characters, but I tend to do it in efficient, not very interesting ways. I guess I figure dead is dead and I don’t have a lot of morbid curiosity about how to get people that way.

Probably this is why I don’t write murder mysteries.

Is this something you all pay attention to as readers? Are there more interesting deaths than others? Do you have a favorite fictional death?

Fishboning Clears Story Tangles For Me

Our topic at the SFF Seven this week is: "The most difficult scene you ever wrote and why."

If I have a scene that for some reason isn’t flowing well, I remind myself that the first draft is supposed to be ugly. It’s allowed to be fragmentary and lacking details and maybe even full of X’s here and there or notes to myself like “add more here”. I just have to get words on the paper (or into the computer file) and build from there.

(Time for my standard disclaimer that there is NO one rule for how to write and everyone should write their books in whatever way works for THEM.)

I do as much as I have creativity for on the first pass and then each time I re-open the file thereafter, to keep writing the rest of the narrative rather than obsess over the one scene, I do go through the specific moment again and build upon it, refine it, in a process I think of as ‘layering’.  Each time I touch it, I end up adding words and depth and color and actions and…by the time I finish the entire book, each scene inside is finished.

DepositPhoto - A classic fishbone diagram.
The ones I do for my writing do NOT look like this.

If I’m really at a standstill, I fall back onto what I call ‘fishboning’, in honor of a very useful process improvement technique from my days at NASA/JPL.  I end up building a structure with the possibilities that flow from any decision a character could make in the scene’s situation (or that I, the omniscient author might drop upon their heads) and as I brainstorm and work through this, the path with the most possibilities or the most exciting-to-me events along the way becomes clear and off I go to write. I can’t tell you how many times this has worked infallibly for me. I use my trusty, very sharp No. 2 pencil and a pad of legal sized yellow (or lavender) paper. Something about doing this just really clears the way for my Muse or my creativity or whatever one chooses to call it, to break loose and enhance the story telling.

DepositPhoto

In actual fact, it’s a combination of true fishboning for root cause analysis and “The Five Whys” technique developed by Sakichi Toyoda, where you drill down and down to what the ultimate root cause of any problem may be. The fishbone is a cause analysis tool, which a trained facilitator (which I used to be) might pull out to use when a problem solving team has hit a dead end or finds itself in a rut.

I am a NASA Lean Six Sigma Black Belt so trust me, I’ve had training in these and many more process improvement techniques. I’ve amalgamated and adapted them for this creative purpose of mine and it leads my Muse through the cluttered field to the right path for the story.

Now most of the time I just sit down and write the book, and don’t do any fishboning or anything else. The story flows, I type and it’s all good. But every once in a while, perhaps once or twice per book, I resort to pencil and pad and brainstorm.

As far as the most difficult scene to write because it affected me so much – there’s a scene in  Timtur, book 2.5 of the Badari Warriors series, where Lily the human heroine sits through the night with a dying soldier and does her best to comfort him, even forgiving him for participating in kidnapping her. (And no, this is a supporting character, not the hero.) Folks, I cried writing this scene. I’ve never had that happen to me before or since on a book I wrote.

I have a feeling the scene might be mining an experience in my own past where I sat vigil through the night by a person beloved to me who was not going to survive. (I’m not normally too self-reflective or even conscious of where and what influences my Muse is drawing upon deep inside my own memory and experiences to spin the stories I write. Sorry if it seems weird to discuss my writing process as disengaged somehow from my everyday, entirely rational ‘thinking’ mind, but when I write, I’m in the flow.)

So anyway, here’s a portion of that scene. Lily and the dying soldier are both imprisoned within an alien lab:

Hastily, Lily ran to the sink and filled a piece of lab glassware with water, before going to the table where Hilkirr was restrained.

He lay still, fangs and talons extended, all the veins in his body standing out and glowing blue as if filled with liquid phosphorescence. As she approached the table she observed his eyes were open and his breathing was labored.

“I brought you the water,” she said in a near whisper. “Can you raise your head enough to drink?”

“Teacher?” He blinked as if his vision was impaired, although even in the darkened lab he ought to be able see so much better than she could.

“Yes, it’s me.” She slipped one arm under his head and helped him get the right angle to sip at the water, although he didn’t take much. His whole body trembled.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “Stay?”

Lily shot a glance at the door, assessing the risk.

“Please?” His voice was a raw thread of its former volume. “I—I don’t want to be alone, and I can’t hear the pack in my head anymore.”

“All right.” She searched for a stool or a chair and found one shoved into a corner. She went to retrieve it then sat next to the table, wrapping both of her hands around one of his, mindful of the extended talons. “I wish I knew how to get these restraints off so you could lie more comfortably.”

“No. It’s better this way.” Hilkirr shook his head feebly. “Might hurt you.”

“I don’t believe you would,” she said as warmly as she could. “Do you need more water? Are you cold? I could try to find a lab coat or a blanket.”

“Just your company.”

“Okay.” She sat and closed her eyes, unable to bear looking at his abused body for too long. His grotesquely expanded muscles and tendons were distressing, as were the brownish-yellow bruises spreading over his body as the experiment slowly extinguished his life. The glowing blue of his veins was fading, to be replaced by more ominous colors, a vile mix of purple and black.

Hilkirr’s clasp grew lax, and she sat up with a start, afraid he’d died, but he’d only dozed off. She went to the sink and got a wet cloth. Back in her place beside the table, she brushed his hair off his face then bathed his upper body carefully, as much as she could reach, drying him off with another, softer cloth.

With obvious effort, he turned his face toward her. “Feels good.”

“I wish I could do more.” After dropping the cloths in the refuse bin, she resumed her spot in the chair and clasped his hand again.

“I’m sorry, teacher. We shouldn’t have kidnapped you. That was wrong.”

“I forgive you,” she said and found she meant it. Hilkirr had suffered so much as a result of following Vattan into this hellish lab that she only had pity for him.

“Swore a blood oath to my Alpha,” he said. “Had to obey.”

“I understand.” Lily wasn’t sure she truly did but pack meant everything to the Badari, and blood was the magic used to seal all their most important bonds and agreements.

“Wish Aydarr had been my Alpha. The valley was so beautiful.” Now his voice was wistful, and Lily had to blink back tears.

“I’m glad you got to live there in freedom for at least a little while.” Sorrow in her heart like a stone, she patted his hand and wished she could do more.

“Do you think the goddess will forgive me? Can she forgive me?” His whisper was intense.

Lily bit her lip, throat tight with repressed sorrow, pondering how best to answer the question. What would Timtur say to comfort a dying comrade at a time like this? Words came to mind. “I don’t know much about your goddess. But I know you call her your Great Mother, and I know a mother loves all her children equally and forgives them. So, you hang onto that thought.”

“You should be a mother,” Hilkirr said a minute or two later, surprising her. “The cubs all love you, did you know that? The boys think the Great Mother sent you to them.”

“Maybe someday I’ll have a baby,” she said, thinking of Timtur and what a child born of the two of them might be like. Motherhood was a dream far removed from her current situation and she pushed the happy subject to the back of her mind with regret.  Her muscles were complaining at the awkward position so she shifted a bit and stretched, while hanging onto Hilkirr’s hand. “Do you need more water? Are you in pain?”

“Can’t see anything. Can’t feel anything.” His hand twitched. “Other than your fingers. Warm. Nice. Would you sing? Like you do for the cubs after classes, if they’ve been really good?”

Happy to have something she could do to comfort him, she said, “Of course.”

******************************************************

There's more to the scene in the novel but I think this gives the flavor...

Curing Writer's Block

Happy Friday the 13th! Gather up your good luck charms while ye may. I've got mine.

We're chatting difficult scenes and writer's block this week.

Have you ever had one of those arguments where long after it's over, you bolt awake knowing exactly what you SHOULD have said??

That's me writing scenes. Any scene. I've learned this about myself, though, so I give myself permission to write my the high emotion/high conflict scenes as pieces of junk first. They flow pretty easily because I know that overnight or in the shower the next morning, I'll suddenly get this brain dump of all the things I should have had these characters say to make everything much worse.

Yeah, but what about the scenes that aren't like that? *Shrug* I can't tell you what scene was hardest. Mainly because I get stuck so often. When I do, though, it is almost always because I can't see a way forward within whatever scene I'm working on. I get wrapped up in the back and forth between characters, but I may not necessarily be moving the story or conflict. That stops me every time, and I bog down.

To move forward, I have to walk away from the recalcitrant scene. I move on to the next place where I know what happens. Or I work backwards from the end of the book. I almost always know where and how my books end. I know the beginning. I very know the middle. Which, of surprise to no one, is where I get stuck. But you know what? There's no magic in writing in a straight line. There's no reason not to skip and hop around inside a story if it's what breaks you free.

For me, working from the end reminds me of what these characters have at stake. I'm reminded of what matters to the arc of the story. Based on that, I can go back to the scene where I bogged down and I can ruthlessly pare it down to its bones - to the skeleton that supports the tissues and fibers of the story.

I suspect strongly that one of the major cures of writers block is giving up the notion that there are Right Answers when it comes to plotting and executing a story. There's only 'hey, this looks like an interesting direction, let's try it!'

How to cheat yourself out of a difficult scene/writer's block.

This week we’re talking about the most difficult scene we’ve ever written. And I really don’t want to talk about it because I don’t have the mental capacity to unbox that at the moment. So, I’m going to cheat!

Cheating’s fun! We do it all the time! That donut in the break room, the extra coffee even though we’ve already had a whole pot, staying up till the wee hours of the morning to finish that Netflix series or book. We cheat in life.

And if you find yourself stuck…writer's blocked…try a cheat! 

*This is for those times you’re simply stuck: can’t think of what to write, can’t figure out how to get your characters from point A to point B, can’t get the words on the page. 

Are you wondering how to cheat at writing? It’s as easy as reaching for that glazed old-fashioned. Simply fill in a sentence or two, or however many it takes, to warp-speed you to the next scene that formulates in your head or the next plot point in your summary.

YMMV, but when I’m stuck with writer’s block I just need to find a way past that sticky point because my brain is what’s stuck on that scene, those details that don’t fit, or that plot hole that I can’t see yet but my subconscious knows is there. 

By cheating, I give my brain a pass to move on and return to production state. By cheating, I’m giving myself a bandaid that will eventually fall off, because those dang things never stay on long enough, but by the time it slips free it’s usually because I’ve found the source of the plot hole or character inconsistency and fixed it. By cheating, I take away the stress. Did you get that? It takes away the stress which is the biggest road block of anything, mentally and physically. Get rid of the stress and everything opens up.

An example? I was writing THE MARS STRAIN and my MC, Juliet, had to end up at the CDC with the Martian virus. But!!! I didn’t know how to get her there. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. I wasted a month staring at my computer screen, trying to write and ending up with a handful of words or some nifty new adjectives. 

Then, I decided to glaze over the details on how she got to Atlanta and focus on what she’d be feeling when she got there. So I wrote, and Juliet had a breakdown, a full-on sob fest breakdown from the stress of fighting the Strain, losing her best friend, and possibly losing the man she loves. And then I knew exactly what had to happen before she reached the CDC!

Game over writer’s block! I’d broken through and all it took was a little cheating. 

Go ahead! Give it a try! Reach for that cake donut, toss a couple glaze-over-sentences in that WIP and move on! 

(Which totally has me craving one right now…I’m going to have to convince my wonderful, amazing husband that it’s time to whip up a batch. Since I can’t eat store bought ones the only donuts I get are his made with organic heritage wheat. Jon, you’ve been warned!)