What to do when your characters become whiny brats

I have been pondering this issue for awhile, ever since I decided to take a break from Becca's Story.  (Now awesomely titled: The End of Summers)

My main motivation behind this pause: I was running out of steam for the plot.  I had set up some crazy plot twisty things and I didn't feel ready to make decisions about the ultimate end of the book.  There are lots of them:  Does Becca actually die?  Does someone sacrifice himself?  Does Kevin get killed off?  Does Jeff kill Kevin or vice versa?  How does Elsie tie into it?

I didn't really intend for Elsie to be in the story this long, but she kind of just hopped on board.  Now, I'm stuck with her.  I could ax her, but that feels too easy.  Something has to happen that is plot pivotal to break up their little team or to get her or Kevin dead.  Or arrested.  Arrested would be alright.  Maybe she gets captured and all her power sucked out or something...hmmm...

Anyway, back to topic. The way I recognized I was having plot troubles with Becca is she suddenly became incredibly whiny.  I could sense it in the few chapters leading up to the place where I stopped.  They took a long time to write and everything got all personal and she became super annoying.  Then I wrote a bunch of short scenes that all sounded lame in which she basically regressed into a spoiled twelve year old, flopping around and complaining about everything.

I have come to realize this is my brain telling me to take a break.  This usually happens when the character in question is about to go through some sort of mental transformation.  They have reached a pivotal point where they need to make decisions and perhaps alter their way of thinking.  They can't be swept along by external events any longer.  They become the driving force behind the story, more than the circumstances that got them into this story in the first place.

Sometimes this whininess is a good thing.  In my zombie Apocalypse book, the female character is pretty much useless.  The book is partly about how she bucks up takes charge of her life, even if her life is now fleeing from cannibals.  She realizes how useless she is/was towards the end of the book and resolves to be more like the male main character.  Just in time for her to rescue her man.  Convenient?  Why, yes, yes it is...

I know it sounds crazy, but I'll say it again and again.  Many times my characters DO NOT do as I wish them to do.  They plow ahead on their own.  If I try to force them into my plot, they either baulk completely or become the aforementioned twelve year old girl.  They are indecisive, they make stupid mistakes, they sit and talk about their problems forever like an especially terrible episode of Star Trek.

I have a couple ways I have played with to break through this problem.  One is to simply take a break, as I did with Becca's story.  Give it some time to breathe.

Another is to jump ahead in the story, skip over the decision entirely.  I have had mixed results with this technique.  If I jumped ahead and write a whole bunch, I am essentially trapping myself into a plot, which as we know doesn't work very well.  But sometimes I can write the place where I want my characters to go and then bridge the gap between.

Related to this is to jump backwards.  Do some character development, especially if one of the characters has had some trauma in their past.  Write about that, then see how you can fit it into the story.  I wrote a ton of background stuff for the main male character of my zombie book and ended up using almost all of it in the book itself.  It showed why he was so capable and unwhiny, while the female was still struggling.  He had already gone through something so personally traumatic, that the reduction of humanity to roving bands of cannibals was no biggie.

Another way I've tried with some success is to keep going with the external forces aspect of the plot.  If the characters have reached a decision forced on them by events outside their control and I can't get them to do something, a final event can take the decision away from them and make them to act.  Sometimes this clears things up and sometimes it comes out sounding really stupid and I just erase it.

And sometimes nothing helps.  Sometimes it is just a bad plot.  Or bad characters.  Or even just a plot and characters I haven't thought through enough.  Why are they doing these things?  If I don't know, even subconsciously, then my characters sure as heck don't.  And if they have no motivation for saving the world or chasing down a murderer or fighting zombies, then why should they try hard at it?

It is painful, but sometimes I have to ditch a plot and start over from scratch.  It hurts.  A lot. Especially if I've put lots of time into it.  But it has to be done.  I don't usually erase a large body of words, just hide it somewhere deep in my files and let it stew until I can face beginning again.  I have several that are in that stage right now and I am avoiding looking at them.  I can feel the potential there, but I just can't face all redoing all that work just now.

Which ironically, makes me sound whiny and indecisive.  Art reflects life, I guess...

A Weird Thing

So, as I'm sure I've said a least a hundred times before, my husband is awesome.

And, no, that's not the weird thing.

It goes something like this:

Husband read my book for the second time and made all sorts of helpful notes and things in the margins, crossing out unnecessary words and scribbling little question marks where he was confused.  We sort of worked in tandem, me editing a chapter or two, then him reading some more.  It took awhile, but you know that whole day job and housework thingy...

Then all at once, he got way ahead of me, finishing it in one fell swoop.  He presented me with the manuscript binder with his usual and always heartwarming: 'It's good!"

Then it sat for several months.  Admittedly, some of those months I felt like curling into a ball and sleeping through my every-second-morning-sickness.  (Oh, wait, that's pretty much exactly what I did.)  Now, though, I have had several months where I feel great, even if there is a small life form doing jumping jacks in my lower abdomen all the time.  But I still didn't work on my edits.

I honestly, truly felt...scared of editing.  I really can't explain it.  I had a huge amount of trepidation about editing this manuscript again.  I didn't want to read it, or think about it or look at Husband's ideas.

I was convinced it was all terrible and trite and stupid and that I would hate it if I had to face it again.  Which is silly, because it is good, tooting my own horn notwithstanding.

It was weird.

Today I finally worked up enough courage to plow through the end of the book.  And contrary to my fears (duh) he only had some minor things he thought I should adjust.  Like one bit where I smooshed two different parts together and it was night in one and day in the other.  Easy fix.  Also, there were a few times I forgot a period.

Honestly?  Honestly?  I was all worked up about missing punctuation?  But I can't explain it.  I still have a vague and restless sense of disease when I look at the green binder, like I want to stuff it in my 'old scribbled-on manuscript' box I keep shoved under the couch (we have a tiny apartment and a futon with a foot of space underneath = storage!).

I am the first to admit when I write something that stinks.  Sometimes it stinks because it hasn't been thought out quite right, or the story is weak or whatever.

This is the first time I have irrationally wanted to just shred something and give up.

It is unsettling.  I don't like it.  I'm trying to blame baby-hormones, since yesterday I totally melted down despairing over my inability to make pie dough that rolls out smoothly while Husband gave me hugs and tried not to laugh.  Serious stuff, I know
So, I'm not exactly sure what to do.  Other than give birth to a baby.  However, as that is still some time away, I need some different ideas.  I like the 'suck it up' mentality, but that only gets things done and actually doesn't dispel my suddenly wavering confidence.

As I obviously don't have an answer right now, I'm simply going to congratulate myself on my bravery for editing at all and let the green binder sit once more.  I have one more chapter to work on, but it needs some tinkering and I don't think I can face that right now.

Plotting Ideas

So, I've been in a dearth of writing the last few months.  I really feel much better, except for when the muffin decides to kick me in the stomach.  That is not so fun.  But I'm still arid of ideas.

Lucky me, my dreams came to the rescue.  I had a very long, involved dream about an archaeological dig. So I decided to go with it.  Why not?

Here is where I ran into my first troubles.  One, I don't know anything about any real archaeological digs.  Two, I decided I wanted to set it in South America.  I didn't want to do anything with Egypt or biblical lands.  That's been done a lot and kind of infringes on Indiana Jones/Mummy/Tin Tin territory.

Then I decided I wanted it to be post WWI but pre-WWII, mostly because the twenties were a raucous time all themselves and also to avoid the 'Nazis as bad guys' plot - see Indiana Jones note above.

Since I have no idea about anything happening in the South American ancient burial sites scene during the twenties, I did some google searches to see what I could come up with.

Mostly: nothing.  Seems nobody cares about early 20th century South America.  There was tons of stuff about the conquistadors.  And 'South American Explorers' always came up with Lewis and Clark or the American Southwest.

Then I found this guy, Thomas Athol Joyce.  He wrote a bunch of books about South and Central America, all published before 1923.  So, anybody who would be digging about in the dirt in the twenties would probably have read some of these. (now they are downlaodable as ebooks.  Joy!)

So now it looks like I will have to read them to know what my character peeps would now. Right after I finish reading about what a dork Napoleon was.

Here's the deal...

Okay, here's the deal.  I am sick to death of Becca's Story.  I've been writer's blocked for a few months now.  Most of that was because I did nothing but sleep and eat toast - Yay for two months of morning sickness.  And it was during the holidays, too.  How lame is that?

Also because I'm just kind of stuck on what to do next.  I think it needs to sit and percolate a bit before I try to revamp it.  The plot has shifted around so much, I'm not sure where I want it to go.

Which leads me to my writerly thoughts for today.

Becca's Story Chapter Nineteen

Hey peeps! Sorry for the delay.  We're nearing the end of the Becca stuff I have written and not only is it over 50,000 words - Yikes!!! - but I'm kind of petering out with ideas.  I think I might have to take a break for a bit with her story and work on something else.  Something actually...ahem...short.  I don't know what happened: once I get started, the plots have a mind of their own.

Here you are!  Thanks for reading!  I really appreciate it.  :)  E.T.

***
A long hike through a crocodile infested bog improved no one’s mood. Any satisfaction I had at Elsie’s make-up streaking in the heat was crushed every time I looked at Kevin’s rigid shoulders.

“Finally,” he growled as we broke from the trees.

I drew up, looking around in astonishment. It was the parking lot for a Wal-Mart. The huge store sat a few acres away from us, shoppers going in and out with no idea that a magical school existed only a few miles away in the swamp.

“This is me,” Elsie said. She unlocked the door of the small passenger car and popped the trunk. “Need anything before we go?” she gestured to the big-box store.

“I’m fine,” I said weakly. Kevin maintained his glower as he dropped his pack in the trunk.

“I’ll drive,” he said, taking the key from Elsie’s hand. She watched him slide into the driver’s seat, then turned to me.

What’s up? She mouthed. I shrugged. She opened the passenger door. “I’ll sit in back,” she offered.

Unexpectedly, I smiled. “Coward.”

She shrugged at me and smiled too. I put my pack in the back, shut the trunk and went to the front passenger door. I didn’t look at Kevin as I got in my seat and buckled in.

“North?” he asked.

I closed my eyes, feeling. It was easier than it had been before. “That way,” I said, pointing. I opened my eyes to look. I was stabbing the Wal-Mart with my finger.

“North,” Kevin agreed. He started the car and backed out of the spot.

“How far?” Elsie asked.

“Far.”

Kevin found a freeway in a matter of minutes. The silence inside the car was oppressive, but I wasn’t going to be the first to break it. The only thing I could imagine that would make this situation worse would be to materialize Jeff in the backseat next to Elsie.

I wondered if the car would explode from the force of Kevin and Jeff trapped inside. He was already taking up more than his fair share of ego. Add their castings on me into the mix and between the three of us we might blast a crater in the middle of the road. Poor Elsie wouldn’t have a chance.

As we drove, I looked out the window, just thinking. It didn’t help at all, but it gave me something to do instead of staring at Kevin’s profile.

What was in that house? I knew it had nothing to do with Jeff. Would it help me break the castings that Jeff and Kevin had put on me? Could I convince Kevin to see his somehow, to undo it, even though the curse would be able to reach me?

And why was the power out of balance? What made me so special? Nothing, I was sure. It was not me. I was just a girl, a stupid, useless, nonmagical girl. No matter what Malcolm said, I had no skill in magic, I couldn’t use it. I might as well not have it at all.

Was it my magic that was healing me and not a shield Jeff had put around me? When I cut my own hand, it had not healed. But then it had after I had seen the curse? Could I heal others, if I could find a way to control my magic?

I shivered as I realized where my thoughts were going. I did not want to use magic, no matter how much I had inside me. I did not want to be magic at all.

I closed my eyes and tried to think of nothing. Blazing lines crossed my vision, blue and gold, twisting, fighting, until I fell asleep.

“Becca.”

I stirred, surprised out of another dream of that house. The few windows not broken out glinted in the sun.

I lifted my head looking around blearily. Kevin’s hand was resting on my knee.

“Becca, it’s lunch time. Are you hungry?” I straightened in my seat, my neck aching. I felt a little better about passing out when I saw noticed Elsie curled up on the backseat as well.

“Becca?”

I shook my head. “No. Thanks, though.”

He grunted and lifted his hand away and put it on the steering wheel.

I sighed, both glad and annoyed by having a third wheel snoring in the backseat. It made it hard to have a private conversation.

“Kevin?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry.”

His eyebrow I could see flattened. “You keep saying that. Are you sorry you kissed me?”

I blushed, glancing warningly back to Elsie.

“She can’t hear us.” He said.

“Why not?”

“I put her to sleep.”

I simply stared at him. “Why?”

“We need to talk.” He slowed and stopped the car right in the middle of the busy freeway. I flinched as a semi-truck swerved to avoid us. Nobody honked, just shifted at the last moment to slip by the car.

“I’m not sorry I kissed you, Becca.” I took refuge in staring at the center console. “I don’t know why you felt you couldn’t tell me. And honestly, I’m pissed you didn’t. I think I’ve proved myself enough to you.”

I was oddly relieved to be getting this all out now. I had thought it would fester between us for days, until we could get rid of Elsie. He went on.

“I’m going to help you. You know I will. I will find a way to save you.” His voice had become steely. I could feel his casting tightening around me, suffocating.

His fingers were tapping on his leg, showing his agitation. It was the bravest thing I had ever done. I reached over and gripped them. They stilled under mine.

“Kevin,” I said gently. “I am not sorry I kissed you. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I was scared and shocked and I didn’t know what to do.”

His thumb was running along my knuckles, making it hard to think at all, let alone be reasonable. I took a quivering breath and said what I had to.

“I know you want to try to save me. I want to try to save me. But I might have to die. You have to accept this.”

I heard his sharp intake of breath to deny it and cut him off. “Kevin, I promise I will not try to end it myself until the very last moment. I will do anything you think will help, go anywhere searching for an answer. But I can’t fully trust you until you take off your casting.”

I felt him stiffen, his fingers clenching around mine. “What?”

I explained as gently as I could. “You put a spell or something on me. It is holding back the curse. You have to take it off.”

He twisted, gripping my shoulders and shaking me. “That’s a lie!”

I shook my head, looking in his blazing eyes. He knew I couldn’t lie under eye contact. “Kevin, I can see it.” I could, bright lines across my vision. I wonder he couldn’t feel their heat. “You must take it off.”

“I haven’t put a casting on you,” he snarled.

“Yes, Kevin. Can’t you see it?”

He set his jaw. “I did not put a casting on you, Becca.”

I sighed and dropped my eyes. “Kevin, please.”

“No.”

We sat like that for a long time, listening to the traffic rushing around us. He growled under his breath and jerked me to him.

I discovered I really liked being kissed. By Kevin particularly. I thought it had been the shock that had made the first one so electric.

He pulled away a little. “I’m sorry, but I did not put a casting on you.”

I smiled sadly. His was brighter now, stronger than Jeff’s, more tightly woven. I knew that was bad, but it was hard to care about my curse or anything with his arms wrapped around me.

His eyes moved over my face slowly. “I can’t see it.”

“Your casting?” I asked, slurring a little.

He grunted. “No. Your magic.”

I shrugged. “I can’t see it most times either. Or the curse.”

“You can see your curse?” he demanded. I nodded, more than happy to drown in his eyes.

“Sometimes. It’s like a dark cloud, blotting out the world. You’re holding it back. You and Jeff.”

I knew that was the wrong thing to say as soon as it left my mouth, but I couldn’t help it. I thought for a moment Kevin was going to back off. Then he swore.

“I’m getting really tired of hearing about Strenton,” he growled. Before I could respond, he kissed me again and even in my inexperience I could feel the possessive quality of it. He was claiming me as his, in some base, hormone-driven fashion. I didn’t put up much of fight. Any, really.

I was pleasantly surprised that when he drew back at last even he had kind of a starry-eyed look. He cleared his throat, glancing to the backseat. “I wish you hadn’t let her come,” he said.

I shrugged. “I needed a ride.”

He made a rude noise. “Becca, look at me.”

I was, smilingly. “Yes?”

The blue of his eyes flared. “You ever kiss him like that?”

And all at once I knew how to fight his power over me. Sharp, seething bitterness cut through the soft fog that had wrapped around my mind. I wiggled out of his arms.

“No.” I answered truthfully. “And I’d appreciate it if you would believe me. I’ve already told you there was nothing between us.” My insides squirmed. “I may have had a crush on him once. But nothing happened.”

I crossed my arms over my racing heart and stared out the windshield. “For your information, today was the first time I have ever been kissed.” I imagined he winced.

“Sorry,” he said softly.

“For what?” The irony of us reprising our conversation from this morning was not lost on me. I was not amused.

He sighed. “I don’t know. I just am.”

“Sorry you kissed me?” I asked nastily.

I did not expect him to chuckle. But he did, low and rich. Like chocolate again.

“No,” he said. “No more secrets, Becca. I’ve wanted to kiss you since I first saw you. It’s been all I could do not to. Then you took us to Strenton’s school and that hellhole in Montana…” he sighed and when I chanced a look, he was rubbing the back of his head, his brown hair ruffled. “Well, I thought you were looking for him. The Speaking sends you after what you desire most.”

“I needed to find Strenton,” I said. “So he can take off his casting.”

“I did not put any spell on you, Becca, I swear it.” He touched my arm. I looked at him. “I swear, Becca. No more secrets, okay? What are you looking for in this house?”

I met his eyes squarely and lied. “I don’t know. I just feel we need to go there.” Until he saw the casting, I could not tell him my plan.

He smiled a little. “Alright.”

“Speaking of secrets, what was between you and Elsie?”

Kevin grimaced and glanced to the backseat. “We dated a few years ago. Nothing serious.”

I sniffed. He chuckled again. Before I could draw away, he pressed a firm kiss to my lips. “Don’t be jealous.”

“I’ll stop when you stop,” I retorted. He grinned at me. I watched him settle himself in his seat uneasily. Where we boyfriend and girlfriend now? How did one go about that? “What are you going to tell Elsie?”

“I said it before.” Kevin said with a hint of exasperation coloring his tone. “What happens between us is none of her business.”

“But if really there’s nothing between you,” I said, “Why don’t you want to tell her?”

Kevin stilled, his hand on the key. “Becca?”

“Yeah?”

“You need to learn to keep your mouth shut.” He started the car. “Tell her if you want. I don’t care.”

He was angry again. Why? “Why are you angry?”

“I want you to trust me,” he snapped.

“I do!” Almost.

“Then stop asking me about Elsie.”

“But-”

“I’m done talking about this.” He made a curt gesture. I had opened my mouth to argue when Elsie yawned hugely and sat up, rubbing her face.

“Wow!” she said, yawning again. “How long was I asleep?”

“Not long,” I assured her. I eyed Kevin. He was gripping the steering wheel so tightly the tendons in his arms were standing out.

I sighed and looked out the window at the world passing us by once more. We were back where we started, him angry and hurt, me confused and too inexperienced to figure out how to fix things.

His casting shimmered around me, Jeff’s still fighting his, jealous and gaining strength, the curse pressing closer, reaching, searching.

Becca's Story Chapter Eighteen and other news

Now that the Christmas crazies are over and the Muffin is allowing me to feel like a human being once more (as opposed to a blob of constantly nauseous goo) here's some awesome news!

Becca's Story Chapter Seventeen

So far, my holiday cheer has consisted of sitting on the couch and eating cookies while watching movies.  Not much shopping or preparing for the DAY.  Mostly because this past weekend was my anniversary and Husband and I spent it being incredible lazy and eating more cookies and playing video games.  Good times were had by all. :)

Enjoy! E.T.

It was hot outside. Malcolm was waiting off to one side, rummaging through a wooden crate.

He smiled at me, a knowing, secret smile. I scowled in return.

“What do you want?” I asked bluntly.

“I thought I would run some tests, see if I could learn anymore about your…condition.”

I rolled my eyes. “Fair warning. The last test I had didn’t end so well.”

“Oh?” Malcolm asked, still smiling. “What happened?”

“I exploded a PFNF machine and destroyed a secret underground lab at the CMR.”

His smile faded. “How?”

I shrugged. “You’ll have to ask Kevin. I don’t know anything about magic.”

Malcolm grimaced. He drew a book from the crate, stepping closer to me.

“You’re going to kill yourself if you keep repressing it,” he warned in a low voice.

I held his eyes. “Good. That will stop the end of the world.”

He made a disgusted noise and waved at me irritably. “Sit.”

I did. A line of color drew a circle in the grass, surrounding me.

“What’s that for?” I asked.

He grunted. “To protect me from you.”

I put a cautious hand out, feeling the air above the line. My skin tingled as it had when I had passed over the ‘security’ protecting this house. And like the line Kevin had drawn on his table, to keep the necromancy books contained.

I drew my limbs back, shivering. I felt dirty, contaminated, like I was something dangerous. I was something dangerous. I was the reason, the impossible, inexplicable reason the world was going to end. I hid my face in my knees and waited.

It was not very dramatic. Malcolm muttered to himself, moving around me. Every now and then he would reach across the line and feel my pulse or lift my head to look in my eyes.

After a while, he started writing things in the air. The light of it hurt my eyes. When I glanced away, I saw Kevin on the porch, leaning against one of the posts holding up the roof. He was watching narrowly, his arms folded across his chest.

He still had that slippery look, his eyes gleaming. I blushed and ducked my eyes once again.

Finally Malcolm gave a weary sigh. He waved his hand and the line encircling me vanished. He helped me to my feet. I was stiff from sitting hunched up so long.

“Well?” Kevin asked, coming down the steps to meet us.

Malcolm rubbed his face, taking his time answering. He gave me a long, considering look. He spoke slowly.

“There is a lot of magic inside you, Becca,” he said. I stiffened, ready to deny it. He went on smoothly. “From several different sources. Your curse-”

“You found it?” Kevin demanded. “Where? What is it?”

Malcolm shook his head. “I don’t know. I could just see…something. Something heavy. But it’s there. You are cursed. But that magic is battling with others. Powerful castings; some of the most powerful I’ve ever seen.”

Kevin’s face darkened. I knew he was thinking of Jeff. And the reasons he thought Jeff would want to keep me alive at any cost.

I sighed wearily. No matter how many times I said it, Kevin would never believe that there was nothing between me and Jeff. There was nothing.

Right? I asked myself. I didn’t have an answer. I looked at Malcolm, who was looking at Kevin’s face. Watching closely, his eyes narrowed.

I shivered, understanding. Malcolm thought Kevin was the one holding me here. Or that one of the castings warring inside me was his. Was it? How would I know if he put a spell or whatever they called them on me? How could I stop it if he tried?

How could I not feel them? If all that power and force was centered on me, how was I not aware of it?

Suddenly, I wanted to see it. I wanted to see the magic, see what had controlled my life since that day at my father’s farm. Maybe even since the day I was born; my curse.

“You’re tired,” Malcolm said, taking my elbow. “You should rest.”

“No.” I wiggled from his grip. “No, you go ahead. I want to be alone.”

Kevin opened his mouth to argue, but Malcolm interceded. “Stay inside the perimeter,” he told me. “Come, Kevin. I have some observations that might be helpful on her Quest.”

I watched them until they went inside and shut the front door. The house was still and quiet, no voices, no music. Anything less like a school for magic, I couldn’t imagine. But then, how different were they from the rest of us? The few magical people - practitioners, I supposed - were just normal people. Until they waved their hands and spoke strange words and did impossible things.

I turned from the house and walked directly to the security line. My leaving would no doubt alert Malcolm or Alva at once. Hopefully I could get far enough away to be alone for a few minutes. Really truly alone.

The heat intensified as I stepped back into the real world. I started sweating at once, the air clammy on my skin. I walked in the straightest line I could, hoping I could find my way back.

I stumbled on a little clearing, almost completely closed off from the swamp around me by trees and vines. I sank to the moist earth, kneeling.

I felt numb. Disconnected. This world was dreary after the life and energy of Alva, Elsie, Kevin. They had so much power in them. I had nothing. I was dead already. I should have died months ago.

And for the first time in my life, I wanted to be like them. If I knew anything about magic, I could find a way to stop this. I could find a way to give my life in exchange for all the crops. I would gladly be some sort of botanical messiah. What was my life worth compared to the billions that would starve to death when their food rotted on the vine? What about plankton? All the sea-life would die, the oxygen levels depleted. It would be the end of the earth, nothing left but dust. No one was worth that.

Especially not me.

I closed my eyes, listening to the silence around me. The air was still. I could heat a faint trickle of water. After some minutes, a bird call far away.

I let that stillness seep into me. Was it possible to will myself to death? If I sat here, wishing to be nothing, would my will overpower my heart and lungs and let me drift away. What would happen to the magic inside me? To the curse, Jeff’s magic, Kevin’s magic, and the magic Malcolm was convinced I had. Would they simply disperse, no longer anchored to me? Was I somehow holding them at bay? If I died would they backfire, causing an explosion like what had happened to the PFNF?

Would the shield around me let me die? Fury at Jeff nearly choked me.

How dare he work magic on me without my permission! How dare he take away my right to choose, my right to decide my own fate? I had the right to do what I felt I must to save the world, no matter what he felt for me.

My fingers moved over the ground, roving through the slimy leaves and twigs carpeting the mud. My fingers caught on a stone. I felt it carefully. It had a thinner edge, jagged.

I palmed it, closing my fingers around it. I could feel it biting into my skin. The fingers of my other hand trembled as I held it out, palm up. Taking a deep breath, I slashed the rock across my open palm.

Dark red blood sprang up at once, a few spots where the stone had scraped me deeper. I sat and started at the wound, waiting for it to heal.

It didn’t.

I wiped the blood away, sure I was mistaken. It bled still, pooling and running down my wrist. It bled until it scabbed over, an angry red line across my hand.

I stared at it until I heard my name being called.

I didn’t have much time until they found me. I could hear Kevin’s voice, rough with worry. Had he put a casting on me? He would have had plenty of opportunities.

What would it look like?

Like his eyes, I decided. Bright, nearly clear blue. Like water, blue-green when seen from a distance, clear when viewed up close. Or the reflection of the sky on glass.

I relaxed, cradling my aching hand in my lap. What would the curse look like? Something dark and heavy, a cloud surrounding me.

My lungs tightened as the air around me dimmed. It pressed closer, seeking, searching. Trying to fulfill its purpose, trying to reach me and end my life. Kevin’s magic twisted through it. Jeff’s twined with his, where they touched, they strained away from each other, the brilliant gold of Jeff’s casting flaring when it came to close to me.

To me.

The curse writhed, swirling, still searching for a way to the center. When it came close, the brilliant light at the center cast it back, burning it. It wrenched away, wounded, but not defeated or diminished.

“Becca!”

I blinked and it all faded. I stood shakily. There was one more thing I had to try before I went back.

The stone in my hand had changed. Now it was a keen double-edged knife. How, I had no idea, only that what I wanted most right then was a way to kill myself. End the curse and save the world.

I pressed the point of the blade over my heart, gripped the handle tightly and thrust with all my might.

A peel echoed through the clearing. The knife was wrenched from my grip, flung away from me. I whirled, expecting to see Kevin or Jeff behind me, furious and afraid. There was no one.

I clenched my fists, feeling the newly healed skin on my palm. I did not want to be here, be alive. I was not the one holding that curse back, not anymore. But no matter how I let it in, dimming the bright light within me, the other lines only strengthened. Pressing it back.

The blade was sinking into a thick tree dripping with lichen. The bark hissed and steamed as the knife was consumed, the blue and gold lines pulsing as they forced it away from me, destroyed it.

I turned and walked back to the house.

Kevin gripped my shoulders as I stepped through the security perimeter into his arms.

“Where the hell did you go?” he demanded, shaking me. He raged at me, his eyes terrible. I murmured apologies until he ran out of curses and pulled me against his chest. When I didn’t return the embrace, he stepped back, still glowering.

“Don’t you dare run off like that again,” he snarled. I nodded.

“Are you alright, Becca?” Alva asked, feeling my forehead. “You’re hot, a fever. Come lie down, dear.”

I wondered how long that would last, the heat burning in me. Would it grow and grow until I was consumed? Was that what they meant by ‘burning out?’ That my magic would destroy me from the inside if I didn’t acknowledge it, didn’t use it? Like a damn overflowing, bursting forth all at once and wiping away everything in its path?

“Malcolm?” I asked as they helped me up the stairs to Kevin’s old room.

“Yes?”

“Can a magic person do a casting and not know it?”

He frowned at me. “What do you mean?”

“Can they cast a spell and not know they did it? Not recognize it when they see it?”

“Why do you ask?”

I looked across the room to where Kevin was fussing with my pack, arguing with Alva. “Can’t he see it?”

Malcolm sighed, kneeling to remove my shoes. “He doesn’t want to. He hasn’t accepted that you may have to die.”

I nodded, remembering the bitterness in his voice as we spoke in Malcolm’s office.

“And, if he refuses to admit that to himself, refuses to see what he’s done, there is no way he can undo it.”

I nodded again. “Thank you.”

Malcolm sighed. He stood, gesturing for Alva and Kevin to follow him out. Kevin resisted, hesitating by the door.

“Becca?” he asked.

I shook my head, not wanting to speak to him. I was afraid I would start hurling accusations at him. Something dark and dangerous crossed his slightly un-human features.

“I knew it was mistake to come here,” he muttered savagely. He shut the door.

I sighed, feeling the heat roiling inside me. Slowly, I willed it to stop. To recede. Will power was everything. How had I repressed it for so long? How had no one realized?

My thoughts drifted aimlessly. Like me. I needed to decide what to do next. I needed to complete my quest. Before Midsummer. Before it was too late.

The room turned around me, the first time in days I had been aware of the Seeking. Had I repressed that, too? Not truly wanting to discover the solution, the truth? Had I known that it would lead me here, tell me things I did not want to know?

The world slowed, feeling, searching. It stopped and I sighed. I knew where I had to go next. It was far from here, but I knew.

And Kevin could never guess.

Becca's Story Chapter Sixteen

Hi!  Hope everbody's holiday is going good!  I managed to stay awake all day yesterday...I know, pretty cool.  And the Muffin says hello:

:)

        Alva woke me the next morning. Her expression told me Malcolm had told her what we had spoken of. I washed quickly in the bathroom and went down to breakfast. I didn’t want to, but I also didn’t want to be thought a sulk. And I didn’t like leaving Kevin in Elsie’s power.

Scowling as my face heated, I paused a moment outside the kitchen to gather my thoughts. Will power, Malcolm had said. Well, I’d show them what will power could do.

Kevin eyed me warily as I entered and sat across from him. He was eating a bowl of oatmeal.

“Morning,” he said cautiously.

“Good morning,” I returned pleasantly. He winced.

Alva plunked a bowl in front of me and dumped a mound of steaming cereal in it. All the usual accoutrements for oatmeal were laid out on the table. Grabbing the milk and the brown sugar, I prepared my breakfast.

Alva went out. Kevin’s hand closed around my wrist.

“What did Malcolm say to you?” he hissed, his fingers tight. He gave me a shake before I could dissemble. “You’re angry. Why?”

I couldn’t look at him. “It’s nothing.”

He swore and jerked back. He slammed his spoon to the table and stood.

“He won’t tell you,” I said as Kevin made for the door.

“Like hell he won’t,” Kevin growled.

Of course Elsie was the next person to enter. I shot her back a glare of loathing as she fetched a bowl from the cupboard.

“Where’s Kevin?” she asked me, also eying me warily.

I shrugged. “He left.”

She made half a grunt and tucked into her food. Raised voices down the hall betrayed his location.

Alva poked her head into the kitchen. “Who’s yelling at Malcolm?”

“Kevin,” I said. Torn between laughter and sheer fury, I smiled.

Alva rolled her eyes. “Not even twenty-four hours. Those two…” she shook her head. I wondered if her act was all for Elsie or if she meant to try to fool me as well. But I caught her sharp looks as she bustled around the kitchen.

“Why don’t you use magic?” I asked as she measured things into a bowl.

“Hhmm?”

“To cook. It would be easier.”

She nodded. “Yes. But I like to cook. And when the children are gone, I only have to cook for a few.”

Kevin came back. He didn’t look angry at all. He grinned boyishly at Alva. “Any more oatmeal?”

She sighed and ladled him out another glob. Elsie immediately launched into conversation. I listened absently.

“Becca.” I blinked, broken from my preoccupied stare at the wall.

“Yes?”

“I want to talk to you about your Quest.” Kevin stood, gesturing for me to follow. I followed, keeping my face in a mildly interested expression. Kevin glanced back to look at me and grimaced, but said nothing. We went into Malcolm’s office again, but the man wasn’t there. At least, I hoped he wasn’t there. Maybe he could turn invisible or something.

“Can you turn invisible?” I asked Kevin.

“Can I what?”

“Be invisible.”

He frowned. “I don’t know. I’ve never tried.”

“Why not?” It seemed like the first thing I would learn, if I was magic. Which I wasn’t, I thought fiercely.

He shrugged. “Never had a reason to, I suppose.”

We sat in silence for a few minutes. I left it up to him to break it. He did, by shifting in his chair and clearing his throat. “Look, Becca.”

“Yes?”

“About…about Elsie.”

I frowned in a confused fashion. “What about her?”

Kevin’s eyes moved over my face. “We’re friends.”

I nodded. “Yes, I know.”

“Just friends.”

I looked at him blankly. “So?”

He frowned then, too. “So…I just wanted to tell you.”

I laughed a little. “Obvious isn’t it? She hasn’t stopped talking to you or about you since she got here.” I sent him a sly look. “Maybe she’s got a crush on you.”

He was perplexed now and angry about it. “Becca!”

I shrugged. “She did kiss you yesterday. Is that a magic thing? Because I’m punching anyone who tries to kiss me.” I kept my smile in place, reveling in his frustration with my obtuseness.

He took a slow, self-control inducing breath and changed the subject. “Though I know you sent us after Strenton for a reason, I don’t know what it is.”

I nodded. “Me, neither.”

“And,” he continued. “Until we do know, I think we should focus on finding a way to stop this curse. I know…” his voice broke a little and I had a pang of guilt for taunting him a moment ago. “I know that you think you’re going to have to die to stop it.”

I nodded again, slower. “I do.”

“The problem with that,” he said, not meeting my eyes. “Is that you can’t be killed. I can’t hurt you. I…” he hesitated again. “I don’t think I could.”

I understood. “I wouldn’t ask it of you. You’re my friend.”

Something flashed across his face, darkening his eyes. “You’d have to kill yourself.”

“I know.” The weight I was already feeling on my shoulders intensified.

Kevin leaned forward, staring at his hands resting palm up on his knees. “Here’s the problem, Becca. I will not help you find a way to kill yourself.”

I stared at the crown of his head. “You mean, you’re not going to help me anymore?”

He swore. “No!” he snapped. “I mean, yes, I’ll help. But there has to be a way to lift your curse, to stop it. Someway other than you dying.”

I smiled sadly, forgetting our quarrel as I reached for his hand. He closed his fingers around mine, squeezing them tightly.

“Kevin,” I began gently.

“No,” he repeated stubbornly. “We have time. Give me time. We’ll find a way. There has to be a way.”

“And if there isn’t?”

“Give me time,” he said fiercely, jerking his head up to glare at me. “We have time. I will find a way to stop it.”

I sighed. “Yes, Kevin.”

Some of the tension left his face, his shoulders relaxing. We sat and simply looked at each other for a moment, his glowing eyes on mine.

The door opened.

“Oh!” Elsie exclaimed, coming to a halt. “Sorry,” she said, ginning at us.

“What is it?” Kevin asked smoothly, letting my hand go. We both sat back.

“Malcolm would like to do some testing on Becca,” she told him, ignoring me as I expected.

“Sounds like a good idea,” I said, standing. “Where is he?”

“Outside,” she waved in the direction of the front lawn. I went out without looking back.

Becca's Story, Untitled...Chapter Fourteen

Which is turning out to not be 'short' at all.  It's over 40,000 words already.  Holy Crap.

And, what is it about having a deadline and a goal all laid out that completely gives me writer's block?

I knew I shouldn't have done any plotting for NaNo. I plowed through the first 10,000 words like they were nothing. But as we've already covered, I'm super verbose anyway. 10,000 words is nothing. Now I'm stuck. Insert audio of grinding gearbox and compression breaks.

NaNo, Characters, and Soapboxes - Oh, My!

So, NaNo is going pretty well so far!  I've been kind of 'meh' about writing in general the last week or so.  But, since I know how I want the story to go, I can skip around a little and write some here and there.  Word Count: 9,196 - Woot!!

My main stumbling block is that I think this would make a better movie than a book.

Gasp!  I know.  Usually, I think completely the opposite: books are ten thousand times better than movies, even though I love movies.

It Has Begun!

Yay!  It's November first!  Which means:

NaNoWriMo!

Super exciting stuff!  I am going with my idea about capturing electricity.  It seems to be working so far...I want to write and write, but I think I'm coming down with a cold and my brain has declared I am done being creative for a while and that I need to take a nap.

So, I leave you with my proud word count for today and go off give my poor brains a break.  more tomorrow!

Word Count:

4,104/50,000

That's 8%!

My NaNoWriMo Process

Before I embark on my novel writing escapade, I thought I might write a little about how I am organizing my thoughts.

Usually, I just start writing and plow through whatever comes my way.  I add back story and other sundries as I go.  Makes revisions hard, but it seems to work best for me.

I used to feel an inordinate amount of guilt about this approach.  I read all about how people use graphs and note cards and flow charts and nifty binders and things to structure their novels.  I tried that.  It really doesn't work for me.

And I was reading in the current issue of Writer's Digest, an article by James Lee Burke, who not only once had a string of 111 rejections (holy crap! and I thought 4 was bad) but he also doesn't outline or story board or anything.

Now, I know that there is no law declaring that an author must outline.  But the idea of being super organized to ensure success is touted and blathered about so much, it kind of gets to a mind-control level of influence.

Burke had a comment that I really like.  To paraphrase:  'If I know how it's going to end, so does the reader.'

Exactly!  If I know exactly what happens in every scene, then I feel I have no room to improvise.  I feel it becomes boring and predictable.  I like to be surprised, along with my readers.  Why does the spaceship captain not like to talk about his past?  Well, maybe he committed treason and has been disowned by his family.  Why do Kevin and Strenton hate each other?  Er...I'm still working on that one.  Get back to me.

Anyway, the point is, I can't can't can't work with a super formal structure.

Having said that, with my story for NaNo, I am doing a little preplanning.  My regular process is to start with an event, like: aliens attack and bomb the capital of the planet or most everyone gets turned in a zombie.

I have the EVENT that is going to start the novel, but this time, I also now how I want it to end.  The problem with this is my characters have to make certain decisions that lead them to this end.  Which means I have to plot a little bit.  Which means I have to have some idea of who my characters are beforehand so it will seem realistic that they make certain decisions and progress to the intended end.

This is dangerous ground.  One, because my fingers itch to start writing it NOW!!!  And also, I am falling into the pit of structure from which there is no escape.  I am making do by scribbling ideas in a notebook or adding them to my Scrivner file.  In no particular order and with no real commitment.

Flexibility is the key for me, even if the outline function is singing a siren song.

Must resist!  Only three days left!

Untitled Chapter...Something

So, I'm having trouble bridging this story.  I know where I want it to go, what magical objects they need to find and such.  I have a super cool supernatural creature fight scene laid out in my head.  (Yeah, that's right.  When I'm grocery shopping, I'm really imagining what it would be like to fight mutant creatures of the night in the cereal isle.  Multi-tasking, people.)

What Do Rabbits and Novels Have In Common?

Any guesses?  Well, I'll tell you.

Yesterday, I bemoaned the fact that, even thought I had 'decided' on my NaNoWriMo plot, going so far as to actually 'plot' and get somethings organized, I was having second thoughts.

One second thought, actually, for a different - I mean completely different - plot for my novel.

Apparently, novels are like rabbits.  First there are two.  Aren't they cute and fluffy?  The lady at the pet store said they were both girls...however...

Now I have another idea.  That makes three.  With only a two weeks to go, I really wanted to be settled in my ideas.  I have lots of other stuff to do in November.  Stuff not remotely related to writing novels.  Concerts, ballet, Thanksgiving, book club, rehearsals.

Now, I know that if I don't finish the 50,000 words, nothing happens.  There is nothing serious riding on this.  I can write any day of the year, whenever I want.

However, I've got a competitive streak a mile wide.  I'll bet you five dollars it's twice as big as yours.  I want to finish this challenge.  I'll stay up all night on November 29th if I have to, going straight from Nutcracker rehearsal to typing until my eyeballs bleed.

(Husband and I never play each other on video games.  It gets ugly, real quick.  We each played sports as children and teens and are both musicians.  It's better for our marriage if we never compete at anything.  Trust me.  You should see the gloating when we play Castle Crashers and we're even on the same team.)

(I'm the orange guy, who is way cooler than the red guy, no matter what Husband says.  So he can shoot lightening.  Who cares?)

Anyway,  My three ideas are now as follows:

1.  Stick with Ghost.
2.  Use a short story I wrote for a Writer's Digest Competition as inspiration and write...duh, duh, duuuuh! What happens next!  I can't let you read the short bit itself, since its in the rules for the competition that it can't be 'published' anywhere else.
3.  This one is a little harder to explain.  One of my new favorites is Rick Riordan's Percy Jackson and the Olympians  (PS, the movie? LAME!) and the Heroes of Olympus series. (The next one doesn't come out until next year!  I'm going to die from impatience!)  I love love love young adult right now, which is a little pathetic, but true.  Though I hate hate hate Twilight.  Sorry, peeps.

I was watching something on TV, don't know what, but they were talking about old American currency, which used to be way cooler.  Check this out:

This is a silver certificate issued in 1896.  The, er, scantily clad lady in the center is Electricity, the most powerful force in the universe, at the time.

What if, following Mr. Riordan's example, these 'forces' actually exist, kind of like muses?  The classical portrayals of the elements of the universe?  Steam, fire, electricity, knowledge.  Here's a depiction of History, who was one of the Greek/Roman muses:

She's teaching America, by the way, showing the path to...greatness or something.

My idea is:  what if some scientists managed to 'capture' these natural forces?  Somehow trapped Electricity and drained her power.  It has all the makings of a adventure book as she and the Male Lead (duh, there's a Male Lead) search for her power so she can rescue her sisters.

I don't particularly want it to be young adult, but we'll see how it turns out.  If I even go with that idea.  Maybe I'll prove my over-acheiverness once again and do two novels.

I just knew it...

So, yeah.  You know how I've been all forward thinking and stuff and started plotting for NaNoWriMo?

Check this out:

All those little colored bars at the left are scenes I've plotted out.  Characters, in red, I've decided upon.  Location, notes, 'storyboards', etc, all aimed at organizing my Ghost story.  I spent most of last week thinking about it and planning to out.

And now...I think I've changed my mind.

Curses!

It happened at my writer's group on Saturday.  The lovely ladies were obliging and accomodating and read two short stories I am submitting to a contest.  They had great feed back and I lurv them.

Then one of them said: "I want to know what happenes next."

Oh, the curse of the 'next' question!  I have been here before, oh yes I have.  It's a dangerous place.

But it got me thinking.  What does happen next?  What if they...what if he...maybe someone survived and...suddenly, all my confidence in my plot, my decision, my steadfastness - phsssst!  Gone.  Maybe now I want to do something else entirely.

Well, I have two weeks and two days to change my mind.  I suppose I could change my mind after I start, but I really hope it doesn't come to that.

So, now I need to start plotting for my new idea and see if it's viable.  I write a lot of first scenes that go nowhere.  Unfortunately, the rules state no writing until midnight of November first.  I guess I'll take that first day and write like crazy on both and see which one holds my interest.

*sigh*