Update schedule:

New On Writing with Kana segments on Tuesdays and Thursdays. New Sakura Sweet updates on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. New comedic bits on Saturday and Sunday if I have the inclination.

Thursday, May 7, 2015

Character Creation

This will be by no means a comprehensive or even fully applicable post.  Some of the things I say are purely observation on my part, though I do believe that my critical eye will always have at least some value.  Digressions aside, today I'm going to talk about the creation of characters, and what you can do to make your character sympathetic to your reader.  Because this is a broader subject, I'm going to use general examples, all of them real, whether created by me or by a global conglomerate author.

There are two things that I have noticed, in my experience, that cause me to remember a character.  I'm not talking about sympathizing here.  I'm talking about the kind of character that sticks.  The kind of character that hands you a new lens to look at the world through.  The kind of character that shows you new things.  These two things are powering up, and undeserved hardship.

The character Eragon, from the Eragon cycle, is a perfect example of the first trait.  Through his own hard work and the teachings of his mentors, Eragon goes from simple, powerless boy to warrior demigod to literal god at the end of the series.  (At least, that's how I interpreted the end.  Spoilers?)  Because of this, he stuck with me.  His power felt earned.  I felt like I had taken part in the creation of his power.  His power was part mine, because I had read him in the act of gaining that power, step by step, all the way to the end.  I love this about Eragon.  He is the perfect example of the human quest for vicarious empowerment.  There is a scene in the second book, Eldest, where Eragon's older brother, Roran, meets him in the middle of a heated battle on his dragon Sapphira.  While Roran is no weak man, Eragon is so much more powerful than Roran that that scene stuck in my head, and hasn't left since.  I loved that scene.  It was an orgasmic payoff, at the end of two books worth of training.  My wording is a little strong, yes?  That's because that's what I liken it most to.  Okay, maybe I should censor it.  Ice cream.  It's like taking a big bit of ice cream after churning it in a bucket for an hour.

Because of this scene, and others like it, Eragon stuck with me.  I like the way that he works.  And, like the writer that I am, I want to take the best in him and blend it into my own characters.  While I will say that my own experiments with empowerment didn't work so well over the course of a book, I can say that I know of several useful tips to keep in mind while creating an empowered character.  A hero, so to speak, that transcends his boundaries.  

First: the hero must start weak.  Normal.  But--and here is the caveat--he must deserve power.  He must have some skill set, some sort of internalized--normal--power, that he can draw on at the beginning of his story.  For example, Eragon was a hunter.  He was good with the bow.  He was strong.  Another character that becomes quite empowered later on in her story, Katniss Everdeen from the Hunger Games, is very good with her bow.  The character to be empowered must have something to set them apart from the rest of the normal crowd before they ever begin their journey.  They must be admired, not pitied, from the very beginning.  Admirable, but within reach.  That is the root of vicarious empowerment through the growth of a fictional individual.

Second: the hero must train for every last ounce of his power.  The training is the buildup.  The training is the churning of the ice cream.  Without the training, you have a superhero, rather than an empowered every man.  And, while superheros have their own merits, they are of a different sort than what I'm talking about.  When a character grows in visible increments, it makes the end payoff all the more satisfying.  

Third:  there must be a payoff.  A payoff of the sort where the hero faces up against incredible forces, and dominates them.  His struggles with power are over.  He deserves to win, every last bit of the way.  Of course, he has more powerful enemies, but a moment where, perhaps, the hero lays waste to a legion of little baddies that gave him trouble early on before going to face the ultimate monster is always a good payoff.  As well as the big payoff, there can be little payoffs as well.  I'll give two examples.  In the Eragon series, there are two moments that I remember stand out above the rest: when Eragon looks in the mirror to see his limber body for the first time, and when a mentor comments that he uses his left hand very well, after he was forced to train it earlier because of a broken right wrist.  These little moments reminded me of how powerful Eragon was in the process of becoming, and cemented his growth in my mind.

The second thing that marks a character in my mind is undeserved hardship.  Or, more specifically, rejected vulnerability.  I don't have any characters off the top of my head that are archetypes for this characteristic, but this characteristic does color my attachment to Katniss Everdeen, from The Hunger Games.  Her pitiful, vulnerable state at the beginning of the book cements my involvement with her.  I believe it to be an extension of the human sense of justice.  When we see unjust things happen, things that we believe shouldn't happen to good people, we become involved.  I'm not going to make any grand arguments here.  This is just an observation.  There's that feeling in the pit of the stomach that balls up tight when we feel something unjust happening to a character that we like.  In fact, that unjust thing can cause us to like said character.  It certainly makes them memorable.  

I know from experience that this sort of thing is painful to write.  It hurts, to put the people that I have created in situations that they in no way deserve.  But, I think it's a necessary hurt, that mirrors the feeling that the readers will have when they read said character.  And, that's a good thing.  Emotional involvement is what reading is all about.  

Of course, its easy to overplay this characteristic.  But, you'd be surprised at how much leeway there is, as long as the situation is believable, in the traditional sense.  At the very least, it wouldn't hurt to experiment.  The heartstrings are powerful tools for the writer to pull.  And one of the best ways to pull them, in my experience, is to send just characters into undeserved, unjust situations.  The deeper, the blacker, the better.

That's it.  That's all I have to say on the subject of characters that speak to me.  What kind of characters speak to you?  What kind of characters do you enjoy writing?  Tell me below, in the comments.  

New updates on writing every Tuesday and Thursday.  New story fragments every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.  Come again!  

Wednesday, May 6, 2015

Zombies!

Here you go, the beginning of a story that I started a while back.  Have fun.  

Chapter 1:

August
+12:00
“No!  Henry!  We can’t leave Henry!”
August grabbed on to his mother’s sleeve.  His mother kicked him off.  He stumbled to the ground.  She stared at him with wide eyes.  Her eyebrows trembled. 
“Run!  August, run!”
August pushed himself up on his knees.  He glanced behind him.  At henry.  August’s dog.  His best friend.  It couldn’t be. 
He couldn’t be eaten alive by zombies.
The people, they were once people, they pushed their fingernails into Henry’s flesh, which quivered underneath and came up soft and warm for their blackened teeth to bite.  Blood spurted from torn arteries.  Bits of offal dropped to the ground. 
August put his hands over his ears. 
“No, no, mommy,”  he lifted up his head to the sky, “Henry!”  
A zombie twisted its head around to peer at August.  Its eyes bulged.  It moaned and dropped the piece of dog flesh that hung between its fingers.  Flesh showed between its teeth.  It stumbled up onto two feet and lurched down the little suburban street towards August. 
August reached towards the monster. 
“Please, Mr. Teniis, you don’t want to eat Henry, he doesn’t taste very good, see—“
Arms wrapped around August’s stomach.  From behind.  The Mr. Teniis zombie glanced up above August’s head.  It broke into a run.  It screamed.  Other zombies joined the chase.
The arms lifted August up into the air.  He landed on his father’s shoulders, which smelled of aftershave, and of bloody sweat.  A thick bite mark pulsed on his father’s neck, in front of August’s nose.  August turned his head away. 
His father sprinted past his mother, who stumbled down the street with her arms in front of her.  Father gripped Mother’s sleeve and yanked her along.  August craned his neck to look back at Henry.  A heavy hand pushed his head back down.  Into the bite mark.  Blood covered the tip of his nose.  Father sucked in air through his teeth and continued to run.  The zombies got father away.  The did not move fast.  Sometimes they fell over, and then got back up again.  The suburban landscape scrolled by.  They passed underneath a big sign, lettered in all capitols. 
Welcome to Innerston, Indiana.
Population-12,987
Dog Trot Capitol of the world.
Father yanked August’s head down so that he couldn’t see the sign anymore.  They passed underneath.  Zombies stood around in front of them.  They caught sight of Father and Mother and ran forwards with their arms out and their mouths open.  Father dodged past groping arms.  Black fingernails brushed against August’s leg.  August shivered. 
Mother jerked Father to the side. 
“There!  There are people in there!  Look at the boards!”
Father pulled away. 
“No!  They’ll kill us!  They’ll kill our son!  They know I’m—“
Mother slapped Father, hard.  Her fingernails scraped August’s face. 
“Get the hell over here!” 
Father slumped.  He followed Mother up to the door of a boarded up house with big white wood columns.  A curious face poked through the cracks.  A gun followed. 
“Who are you?  What do you want?” 
Mother broke down.  She slammed at the door. 
“Let us in!  Let us in, please!” 
Zombies closed in all around.  They crashed through doors across the street.  They climbed out of cars parked along the side of the road. 
The welcome sign fluttered in the wind against a loose nail. 
The curious face popped back into the house.  The door clicked.  It flung open.  A plump lady with a shotgun in her arms ushered Mother and Father in. 
“Come!  Come!  We don’t want to leave anyone behind, that’s just unchristian!”
Mother collapsed past the doorway. 
“Everything is unchristian, nowadays.” 
The plump lady slammed the door shut behind Father and locked it tight, then placed a board across it. 
“Tell me about it, hon.”  She glanced at Father. 
“What’s the little guy’s name?” 
Father dropped August down on a plump red couch.  A little girl about his age scampered to make room.  A family of black people huddled in one corner.  An old man peered down from upstairs. 
Fists rattled the boarded up windows.  Father slumped down on the couch beside August. 
“His name’s August.  My name is Winston.”  He jammed his thumb in mother’s direction. 
“Her name’s Janis.” 
The plump lady laid her gun down beside the door.  She wiped her hands together. 
“My name’s Christie.”  She waved at the black family.  “These are the Applinesons.” 
The father of the family gave a curt nod.  Two little boys hid behind his legs.  The plump lady motioned to the little girl beside August. 
“We don’t know her name, or who she belongs to.  She won’t talk.”  She motioned upstairs, at the old man.  “That’s George.  He fought in Vietnam, the gun and house are his.”
George climbed down the stairs.  He tapped a cane in front of him.  He stooped over.  He stopped at the midway landing. 
“Welcome.  I have food enough for everybody, at least for a while.  You can get comfortable.” 
The black family shuffled.  The little girl beside August pressed her face into a pillow. 
A rotten arm smashed through a window and jammed against a board.  Teeth showed through the gap.  Christie jerked the gun up from its place by the wall and pushed it through the gap.  She pulled the trigger.
Boom!
August slammed his hands to his ears.  They rang.  Gunpowder smell filled the room.  The little girl beside August cried out into her pillow.  Christie loaded another shell into the gun with a satisfied click. 
The sound of the zombies grew louder.  More arms broke through the windows.  On the stairs, the old man gave his head a slow shake.  Christie raised her gun up. 
Father leapt off the couch and muscled her aside.  He ripped the gun out of her hands. 
“Pardon me for my rudeness, but that was a dammed stupid thing to do.”  He took the gun and protected it with his arms.
Christie shrunk towards the wall.  Zombie faces pushed through the boards in the windows.
Mother pushed herself up from the floor and straddled Father’s waist.  She pulled him away from Christie.
“Winston, no, don’t be—“
Father tripped on a piece of wood.  The gun in his arms slipped down.  His finger yanked on the trigger.  The barrel pointed straight at Christie’s head. 
Boom!
August squinted his eyes closed.  The little girl beside him screamed.  The black family huddled closer together. 
The old man sputtered.  He held his hand to his chest.  The beams that he leaned on cracked.  His body thumped to the floor.  A vase spilled.  Water seeped into the bottom of the wallpaper. 
The black father rushed towards the fallen old man. 
“Heart attack!  He’s had a heart attack!”
A zombie pushed its whole torso through a window near the door.  It rasped.  Its arms grappled with the wall.  They gripped Mother’s hair.  Mother slammed against the wall.  The zombie sank its teeth into her neck.  She didn’t scream.  Her eyes closed and she fell limp.  Father roared.  He brought the gun around and fired it. 
Boom!
The bullet went wild.  It split off half of Mother’s face, then dislodged most of the boards that protected the window she pressed against.  The zombies pulled her through.  Father glance around himself with a crazed fire in his eyes.  He put the shotgun to his feet.  He put the barrel in his mouth. 
Click.
Father’s eyes snapped open.  He looked around the room in a rage.  He took the gun up in his arms, stock raised high.  He jumped through the open window.  His shirt caught on a broken piece of glass.  He lodged in the space.  Zombies tore at his head and shoulders.  He screamed. 
A zombie burst from a door on the second floor and toppled down onto the black man and the dead old man.  The black man collapsed under the weight.  He screamed.  His family sobbed. 
August’s mind kicked into action.  His body moved without thought.  He grabbed the arm of the little girl beside him.  He yanked her off the couch and through the center of the room.  His sneakers tracked in blood and bits of grey matter.  He found the back door and unlocked it.  No zombies bashed at it from the other side. 
The remainder of the black family stared at August and the girl.  August stared at them back.  He forgot how to speak.  He turned to the door and swiped it open.  He jumped through.  He dragged the little girl outside.  A treehouse ladder ran up the side of a big elm tree in the corner of the yard.  August ran towards it.  He gripped the first wooden rung.  He yanked on the girl’s hand. 
“Come on!” 
The girl stared at August with huge eyes. 
August tried to pick her up.  His arms wouldn’t. 
The girl rubbed at her eyes with her sleeve.  She set forth with a determined look.  She gripped the first rung next to August.  They climbed. 
Screams erupted from the house below.  One of the black family’s children ran out into the yard.  A zombie lurched out behind him—his father.  The boy turned to the zombie and began to plead.  The zombie topple onto the boy and took a bite out of his neck. 
August’s body kicked him with adrenaline.  He made it to the trapdoor to the treehouse and pushed it up.  He climbed in.  He looked around.  Brown boxes surrounded him.  A gun leaned in the corner, another on a table underneath a window.  Stacks of bottle water stood underneath another wall. 

The girl climbed in behind him.  She pulled the trapdoor into place behind herself.  She leaned against a wall and buried her face in her hands.  August sat down and stared at her.  

Tuesday, May 5, 2015

Conversations

We all know the feeling. We'll be reading along, when we encounter a conversation, and we think, who said what? As a result, we'll have to go back to the last dialog tag--perhaps half a page away--and restart the conversation to discover who, exactly, said what.

It's a common mistake, one that I make all the time, when I'm not paying attention. When dialog tags are eschewed in favor of style, there is always the danger that the reader will lose track of who's who.

So. How to avoid this?

First, let's look at an example of a lost dialog flow.

Billy stepped into the car.  Dylan put his arm against the roof.  Billy placed the key into the ignition.  He turned it.

"So, how is your wife?"

"She's good.  We had our anniversary last month."

"Did you?  Was it fun?"

"Oh, you bet.  I'm glad to be Mr. Billy Sharpe."

Dylan shifted his arm.  Billy started the car.  He pushed down on the clutch.  

"Ha, and I'll bet your wife is really glad you're Mr. Sharpe."

"What's that supposed to mean?"  Billy asked.  


I tried to make it apparent, but did you notice the disconnect?  That subtle pulling away that happens when you realize that you don't know which mouth the dialog is coming out of?

Let's analyze that feeling.

First off. Remember last week, when I talked about motivation reaction units in action sequences? Well, dialog is a part of that motivation-reaction rhythm. To recap, a motivation reaction rhythm is a linear progression of events within a textual scenario that emphasizes cause and effect. The cause affects the effect. This happens within the text in order to create scene flow.  It's sort of like shot composition in a movie.

And, like in shot composition, dialog within written works deserves to be linear.  What would you feel, if during a movie, a camera cut to one character moving, and the other character spoke instead of the character in the screen?  Sure, it might be used for effect, but in any case, it would be jarring.

The same is true of written dialog.  In order for the most effect to be had from a line of dialog, a character must be present within the mind of the reader before the line is delivered.


Billy stepped into the car. Dylan put his arm against the roof. Billy placed the key into the ignition.  He turned it. Dylan shifted his weight onto his toes.

"So, how is your wife?"

"She's good.  We had our anniversary last month."

Dylan let a sly grin creep across his face.

"Did you?  Was it fun?"

Billy gave a good-natured scoff.

"Oh, you bet.  I'm glad to be Mr. Billy Sharpe."

Dylan shifted his arm. Billy started the car. He pushed down on the clutch.

Dylan swung his legs into the car's passenger seat.  

"Ha, and I'll bet your wife is really glad you're Mr. Sharpe."

"What's that supposed to mean?"  Billy asked.

In this example, the 'scene cuts,' so to speak, have been rearranged to fit logically. As you can see, this leads to a much more fluid progression of dialog, a more vivid sequence of events within the reader's head.  There is less that the reader has to calculate inside of his head, less that the reader has to infer from context.

So, as a general rule:  always cut to the character who has a line of dialog before that line of dialog is delivered.  You may do it in any manner--through tags, motions, a direct mention, even implication, though I wouldn't try that unless you are absolutely certain you know what you're doing.

And, of course, this method needs no dialog tags, so it is possible to do away with them entirely.  However, if one does want to use dialog tags, there are certain ways in which they can be used that can increase, rather than decrease, the artistry of the situation.


Billy stepped into the car. Dylan put his arm against the roof. Billy placed the key into the ignition.  He turned it. Dylan shifted his weight onto his toes.

"So," he said, "how is your wife?"

"She's good.  We had" Billy said, "our anniversary last month."

Dylan let a sly grin creep across his face.

"Did you?" he asked.  "Was it fun?"

Billy gave a good-natured scoff.

"Oh, you bet.  I'm glad to be Mr. Billy Sharpe."

Dylan shifted his arm. Billy started the car. He pushed down on the clutch.

Dylan swung his legs into the car's passenger seat.  

"Ha, and I'll bet your wife" Dylan said,  "is really glad" he continued,  "that you're Mr. Sharpe."

"What's that supposed to mean?"  Billy asked.

Did you notice how the placement of dialog tags can imply natural pauses in conversation?

Let's take this line for example.

"Ha, and I'll bet your wife" Dylan said,  "is really glad" he continued,  "that you're Mr. Sharpe."

"What's that supposed to mean?"  Billy asked.

Dylan's statement suddenly brims forth with personality.  He's sarcastic, he's playfully biting, he's elbowing his friend in the side with his comment.  All because of the implication that he's pausing twice, within the sentence.

For comparison:

"Ha, and I'll bet your wife" Dylan said,  "is really glad" he continued,  "that you're Mr. Sharpe."

"Ha, and I'll bet your wife is really glad you're Mr. Sharpe."

Do you hear the difference?  That's what dialog tags, when used right, can do for a sentence.  They simulate natural pauses in the conversation, while also performing their given function, that is, to tag dialog.

I hope you enjoyed my advanced writing tips today!  New writing updates every Tuesday and Thursday, new story updates every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.  See you then!

Monday, May 4, 2015

A selection from Power Trip

Since nobody's reading these, anyways, I think it's fine for me to go non-linear.  Here's my one beta-reader's favorite part of my book, Power Trip.  Enjoy.

  King took one last look at Sand’s equipment.  Then a big grin crossed his face.  It reminded Sand of Jax.  “Do you want to take the fun way down?” 
Jax tilted her head.  “The fun—“ the implication of the phrase as applied to where they were hit her in the face.  She shook her head vigorously.  “No.  Never.  Let’s take the ladder.” 
King strolled to the edge of the observatory.  He lifted one foot off and held out his arms.  “Time is of the essence!  Make sure to land on a reinforced limb!  Channel your power only when you’re sure of how you will hit the ground!”  He leaned dangerously forwards.  The wind whipped his hair into an ocean blue storm like real waves.  He grinned mischievously.  His mannam circuits colored deep green. 
Jax’s circuits colored bright red.  Every muscle in her body tensed. 
Sand decided to do something about it.  He grasped her arm.  He powered up his limbs and pulled.  Jax held fast to the floor but she budged.  Sand pulled harder.  Exhilaration built in his body, anticipation funneled into his stomach.  He grinned like a maniac.
Jax closed her eyes.  She took a deep breath.  And she ran forwards.  She jerked Sand along with her and then threw herself off the side of the observatory and into thin air.  She squeezed her eyes shut.  And she shouted in ecstatic joy. 
“Yahoooooo!”

Chapter 24: Dead Men

The wind tore at Sand’s face.  It ripped his lips back past his cheeks.  It forced the water back into his eyes.  It rippled in his ears.  It smacked straight into his chest and pulled the cord on some internal organ and flooded his body with lightning.  Jax’s hands clamped onto his arms with visceral pressure.  Her hair streamed out behind her in full frosty brilliance.  The ground twirled.  They stayed together and did not move.  The world bent for them.  The wind tore at them but they did not part.  Jax let out another whoop of exhalation.  Sand blinked hard and joined her.  The ground came up to meet them.  Sand imagined how they would land.  He could not think straight.  The world moved too fast.  More lightning whipped through his body.  He closed his eyes tight and trusted his instincts.  He moved so that he would be there to catch Jax if she didn’t land right.  He flooded the circuits in his legs and in his spine.  He formed a card barrier around his soft parts, his forehead, his neck. 
Wham! 
The ground’s impact rocketed through his entire body with explosive rigor.  Jax’s arm landed hard on his shoulder.  But his legs locked.  The impact traveled through him like through a metal beam.  The flood of energy in his life circuits flowed straight against the energy of his fall and negated it.  The pavement cracked.  Sand staggered.  Jax fell to her knees.  But she was laughing.  And crying.  She toppled onto her back and stared up at the sky. 
Whap! 
King landed a few feet away.  Splinters of stone stung Sand’s cheeks.  He lifted his arm to shield himself.  He felt dizzy, but alive.  He looked down to check on Jax.  She stared with open eyes up at the building which she had fallen from.  Sand followed her gaze.  It looked truly magnificent.  The window out of which they had jumped was no bigger than an ant.  Sand brought his thumb up to his eye and covered it entirely.  He grinned big. 
King stepped over a pockmarked landscape to get to where Sand and Jax had landed.  It looked as if the fun way out were a regular occurrence.  Big hunks of fluid stone gaped at horrendous angles.  Around the edge of the building the ground churned like a field under plow.  King reached where Jax had landed and put out his hand to help her up.  Jax accepted and the two stood at right angles to each other for a split second.  Jax smiled. 
“Dad, that was awesome.” 
King gave a broad smile.  “I’m glad.”  He turned away from the building, down the straight street which ran across the side on which they had landed.  He brushed himself off.  “Sixth street is this way.”  He began to run.  

You can but Power Trip Here.  It's $2.99, a pretty good price, all things considered.