As people send me their links to their character articles, I’ll add them here. Check back — the list will grow throughout the day!
My Static Trait: The Little Things
Kait Nolan’s Unstructured Character Interviews
Bethanie’s Favorite Character: Gregar (what an honor for my character to make her list!)
Soleil’s What’s Your Sign?
Jessica Tudor’s The Arsonist and the Firefighter
God is in the Details.
Have you ever thought about “character details”? What makes one character leap out on the page, and another sadly forgettable? That’s what we’re hoping to explore in this clinic. I’d like to start by considering the Static Trait.
One time years ago, I sat down and filled out a huge detailed bible for my characters. Eye color, height, body build, favorite clothes, favorite songs, family, friends, high school, job, car… Boxers or briefs! You name it, I probably had it written in this bible. Despite all this knowledge and all this detail, the characters didn’t mean anything to me. In the end, I killed them. I threw out that story. Literally, those files are gone from my computer. And I never once mourned their loss.
If you made me kill Gregar, Rhaekhar, or Shannari from the Shanhasson trilogy and told me I could never read their story again, never walk in their heads, never feel their emotions…I would be devastated. I’d bawl like a baby. I would grieve for them. I know this, because I did murder them once. One time I despaired of ever having the chance to finish their story and I filed it away. It felt like my heart was cut out of my chest. I dreamed about them. I heard their voices clearly in my head. I didn’t have to drag out a character bible to check what Gregar’s favorite color was or how many friends he had in high school, yet I could sit down and write a scene in his POV and KNOW it was him, inside and out, without effort.
As for boxers or briefs, if you’re curious, Gregar prefers neither.
That’s the kind of character I want to write — and as a reader, that’s the kind of story that ends up on my keeper shelf.
What I’ve come to learn over the years is that DETAILS MATTER. However, they have to be the right details. Making a body-type chart and listing favorites simply doesn’t work for me personally. The details I want and need to know about are the ones that make a difference in how the character reacts. What do other people see when the character is stressed, afraid, angry, or in lust?
Exercise. If you’re a writer, take out one of your stories and look for a scene where two characters are interacting in some way. If you remove all the names and dialogue tags, and hand those pages to a reader, could they see definable differences in the two characters? Could they tell who was speaking just by the detail you provided?
Those little defining details are what we’re after. It’s what makes each character unique and individual. These character details remain unchanged throughout the story arc, and if used well, you can bait the hook for your reader in the most suspenseful moments of the story.
It’s called a static trait. It’s some little, everyday thing a character does without thinking. It’s part of who he is, deep inside. This trait never changes, despite whatever growth and horrors you’re putting him through in the story. Removing this trait would be like cutting off his arm or blinding him. He would be forced to become a different person without the trait.
Example: In Kung Fu Panda, Po eats when he gets nervous. Seems like a little thing, right? But everything about Po fits this trait.
He’s…rotund.
He huffs and puffs up the stairs.
He seems to be the kind of person who’d rather eat than exercise.
While he might dream of being a great fighter, we don’t seem him DOING anything fighter-like in the beginning of the movie.
He even works in a restaurant!
From the very beginning, we see him with food and eating. The more nervous or upset he gets, the more he eats. So what did I mean about skillful character development baiting the reader (or in this case, the viewer)?
It happens when that innocent little static trait begins to affect the plot.
It fits. It works. I remember every little detail (okay, I’ve watched it dozens of times because it’s one of the monsters’ favorite movies). But every action he makes fits this trait. If a bad guy surprised him, what would he grab? Probably a chop stick. The audience sees it, over and over, and so believes it.
That’s the secret to the details you define for a character. The static trait makes him unique; how you use it to unfold the story is what makes him compelling and unforgettable. I don’t care if you define a comprehensive bible of traits, if none of them lie at the heart of the character and how he reacts not just once but over and over through the story, then all those details are worthless.
The real magic occurs when the audience sees a scene developing and begins to SCREAM (at least in their heads) because they know exactly what’s going to happen.
In The Return of the King Gandalf refuses to let Merry and Pippen see the mysterious ball he took from the other wizard. We already knew those two were trouble. From the very beginning of Fellowship, they were getting the other hobbits in trouble. They simply can NOT stay out of things. So weren’t you just shaking your head and moaning in agony as Pippen snuck it away from Gandalf? You KNEW Pippen couldn’t resist. He had to look at it! That curiosity is his static trait.
How about the fantastic Notre Dame football movie, Rudy? He never quit. It didn’t matter how many times the bigger, more skillful players knocked him down, he got up again. His heart would not stop. He’d sooner die than quit. So near the end when he swears he’s going to quit, we know that he’s dying inside. His dream is dead. His heart is dead. Yet he still goes back, doesn’t he? And it’s that return that fuels the other players to take a stand and win him the jersey. The final moments in the last game are driven by their admiration for his static trait.
Near the very beginning of Maverick, we see Mel holding his hand over the deck of cards, trying to use his mind to cut the deck to the exact card he wants. He plays with a deck, absently, in several scenes. Then the final hand of the big poker game, he refuses to even LOOK at the card. Weren’t you holding your breath? Were you hoping, praying, wondering, if he’d get the Ace of Spades he needed? Did he really KNOW it was there? And I couldn’t help but give a happy little sigh when Annabelle kissed him goodbye and he drew the Queen of Hearts.
That’s the magic that makes your character breathe on the page.
Static traits make the character unique and immediately identifiable. They never change. They begin to affect the plot in little ways. And then the skillful writer will put the character into a situation that will have readers screaming with excitement, fear, or both because they know exactly what’s going to happen.
A few keys to success:
Can you give more examples of static traits in movies or books? Think about your favorite movie or book–does the protagonist have a static trait? Discuss at will!
Have you ever stayed up all night to finish a book because you just HAD to know what happened to the poor character? Or dreamed about a character in a book or movie? Or months (even years) later after reading a book, you still remember the character’s name, his/her story, and FEEL emotion just by remembering?
I think it’s safe to say that every writer dreams of creating such memorable, haunting characters. So how do we go about breathing life into these characters and make them more than just a few words on a page? That’s what we’re hoping to explore in this clinic. So get comfy, pour a cup of tea, coffee, or your favorite beverage, and let’s chat!
Remember, there are incentives (e.g. free books!) to participate, whether you have a blog of your own and want to write up an entry (or several), or if you simply want to comment on the clinic entries. Both are fine and double your chances of winning. Simply comment on this entry with your link, or e-mail me, and I’ll include your article in each day’s link roundup. Feel free to comment on any participating clinic article as many times as you like. I’ll enter every commenter (the more you comment, the more chances to win) in one pool, and every clinic article creator (again, the more articles, the more chances to enter) in another.
Stop by often — many of us have several posts a day scheduled!
Up for grabs: two $20 gift certificates to any online book retailer of your choice (e.g. Fictionwise, Amazon, B&N, Drollerie Press, My Bookstore & More, etc.) Or, if your order qualifies for Amazon Prime, I can have your books shipped directly to you (assuming you’re willing to provide your address). If your wish order doesn’t qualify for Amazon Prime shipping, your order including shipping must be less than $20.
Winners will be announced Monday, Feb. 16th.
So to kick things off, I’m going to include some general character creation links I’ve found useful in the past. If you have other links to share, I’d love to see them!
Tami Cowden’s Hero Archetypes
Tami Cowden’s Heroine Archetypes
Tami Cowden’s Villain Archetypes
The Emotional Toolbox
Archetype Storycards
How to Create a Character
Personality Types
Personality Strengths and Weaknesses
Character Trait Chart
These aren’t exactly “character” links but who can forget PBW’s John and Marcia series on novel writing?
Most of my work last night was on the upcoming Character Clinic. I’ve written up an introduction and two detailed posts so far, and I only stayed up until midnight to do it! Needless to say, no Dark & Early writing this morning.
So all I have to share with you are the corrections to yesterday’s snippet and a few more paragraphs continuing that scene. It’s still not finished, but closer. I’ll start where I made the first adjustment: when Sebastian Shah enters the room. I also tweaked why she’s angry/frustrated with her father’s doubts.
Because of his “expeditions” in the lower realms of the decks, he’d dressed simply. No wonder the steward ignored him. In simple brown breeches and outdated–timeless, Sebastian would claim with a sniff, not to mention modest–cutaway coat, he was dressed poorer than the dining room’s servants.
She rose from her chair, and immediately the steward’s attention whipped to her. She gave him a nod and pulled out the chair beside her. The man quickly brought her father over, but it was the daughter who seated him.
“May I bring you anything, Lady Shah?”
“I’d like a fresh pot of tea, please, Mr. Whitman. This one isn’t quite hot enough.”
“My apologies,” he bowed quickly and cleared the table. “More of the same?”
“Golden tipped assam, yes, and bring my father a cup, please.”
She barely bit back her laughter at the strangled look on Sebastian’s face. As soon as the steward left, he leaned closer and whispered, “Daughter, the expense!”
“It’s all part of the game, Father. I’m sure you have numerous notes from the middle deck about the possibility of Britannia going to war. Zijin won’t be satisfied with merely denying us trade in their ports; they’ll blockade the Colonies as well. If we lose Sidhu, we lose tea.”
“I know all this, Morghan,” he replied testily and slammed the datapad down onto the table so loudly that the lady several tables over flinched and glared in their direction. “That still doesn’t excuse wasting an entire pot of the most expensive tea in all the Empire, only to order another!”
She concentrated on keeping her face smooth and her hands steady, calm, and unclenched on the table, but she yearned for the privacy of their suite where she could raise her voice. Stars, this was his dream, his plan. She played the game for him. Either he had little understanding of the intricate play of society’s politics, which she knew to be patently untrue; or sadly, very little faith in her ability to pull this off.
She took several deep, slow breaths before explaining, softly and kindly, which was difficult with her jaws straining to bite back a curse. “Queen Majel’s favorite tea is golden tipped assam. The tea is on board as a tribute to her, although no one ever expects her to take a deep space voyage. Certainly, she’ll never take a trip to the Colonies in person. Think of the impression my desire to drink this tea makes. Mr. Whitman is spreading the news in the kitchen even as we speak. Immediately, it associates us with royalty, and Her Majesty’s Royal Family certainly doesn’t give a damn how much a bloody pot of tea will cost.”
Before her father could respond, the steward returned with a fresh pot of tea, bowing and scraping so low she knew her surmise was correct. If nothing else, she was firmly cemented as a Person of Importance in this man’s eyes, and so she managed an arrogant, albeit frosty, countenance.
As soon as they were alone once more, her father spoke so low she had to concentrate to hear him. “You chose this room deliberately. You knew the steward served this room. He’s the highest servant on board and answers only to the Captain, who will certainly hear of the wealthy strangers traveling to Londinium who drink the Queen’s own tea. The Captain will be invited to the Tower to meet the Queen, and so you’ve ensured she’ll hear of not only our arrival but also the manner in which we traveled. Well done, Daughter.”
The tension eased in her shoulders and her face thawed enough that gave him a quick flash of a smile. “I wager we’ll be dining at the Captain’s table tonight.”
Sebastian poured fresh cups and they sipped in companionable silence. They’d plotted this trip over countless pots of tea and numerous years. For most of her lifetime, he’d thought of nothing else but returning to his homeland and reclaiming his birthright. For her, he always claimed, but she had little interest in Society. She’d much rather have stayed in the Colonies and overseen the harvest. For all she knew, this tea could have been cultivated on Shaw land.
“Rather drastic measures to gain an introduction to the handsome ambassador, no?”
She arched a brow at her father’s knowing little smile. The Zijin ambassador had indeed caught her eye last night as he dined at the Captain’s table. How could he not? The other gentlemen on board were insipid sheep compared to him. Glorious in his scarlet tunic embroidered with a fantastic golden dragon, he’d commanded her interest despite his affable yet perfect manners. His clothing screamed royal hauteur, proclaiming dynasties of tradition that Britannia could only envy, at odds with the easy way in which he’d chatted with everyone he met.
Tian Zhong had a way of putting even suspicious, fearful strangers at ease. A most admirable trait in a diplomat who must coerce two equally arrogant and fierce Empires into averting full-scale war.
“I might as well enjoy one last fling before we’re cooped and caged by Londinium rules.”
Not much to report yesterday and Dark & Early this morning. I started the new project, Seven Crows, and it’s slow going. This is a new world and a new genre-blending for me. It’s part spoof, but part homage to the very genres I love so much. I want to poke fun at some basic tropes, but also provide a rich, detailed, compelling story. I want you to snicker at times, but continue reading because of the character’s story.
Needless to say, it’s been challenging, and openings are always difficult. This one, I deliberately started in a scene that should be basic and standard. It should make you think the first part of the genre: Regency. Yet very quickly, there are little hints that technology is not quite what you’d expect in a true historical Regency setting. Society in this story has a few little…quirks. *smirk*
So here’s a little first draft taste of my “Regency Science Fiction Spoof.” Does it work for you?
Watching the ship’s wealthiest guests at tea, Lady Morghan Krowe Shah decided that if her secrets were as obvious, then she and her father had no hope of pulling off this sham.
A countess well heeled in the latest fashion of peacock silk–which the lady had surely worn to last night’s ball–slipped a ridiculously handsome tip into the virile servant’s trouser pocket. Surely a feat indeed to lodge those coins in such skin-tight buckskins. Somber in black and crisp linen, her husband sat beside her, either oblivious or studiously ignoring his wife’s transgressions. Hardly more than a schoolboy, he possessed the unfortunate features of a very long-faced mule padded with lingering baby fat.
Money, no title, Morghan decided, and too recently leg shackled to comprehend the reality of his predicament. She hoped the boy’s parents enjoyed their newfound prestige won by accepting the countess’s troth. Whatever inheritance he’d brought to the marriage bed would soon be gone after her heavy losses at the gaming tables last night.
A winsome young man in impeccable morning dress sat with his chaperone, secluded on the far side of the opulent room. Although closest to the massive viewscreen which served to draw its guests here instead of the other countless, equally luxurious dining rooms, they utterly ignored the display of endless blackness and whizzing stars through which their ship navigated. Not even the darkened corner could obscure the young man’s sweaty face and trembling hands as he pulled a sparkling silver chain in an endless loop about his neck.
An addict, she guessed, likely an opiate given the port from which they’d sailed. According to her father, many of the fashionable bored gentlemen ended up addicted to laudanum for their “headaches.”
At the other occupied table, an older lady sat glaring pointed daggers at any woman who presumed to prance in front of her table and take note of her exceptionally attractive, robust husband. Easily twenty years younger, the man couldn’t help but draw feminine attention. His shoulders filled out his stylish short coat impressively. When he jumped to his feet and rushed off to fetch some trifle for his lady wife, every female with a pulse noticed his impressive package, rippling thighs, and tight rounded ass stunningly framed in tight faux leather. No wonder the latest styles had moved away from the longer cutaway coats that concealed a male’s assets. The poor lady was in for quite a long trip, no matter how fantastically advanced the ship’s engines.
Last evening at the inaugural ball, the Captain had proclaimed that Her Majesty’s [ship name] would make the jump from Kali Kata’s station on Sidhu to Londinium, Britannia in less than a fortnight. No one had ever made the voyage from the Colonies in such a short amount of time. In fact, when the first colonists had sailed to Kali Kata, they’d done so cryogenically asleep.
Even with her hand flattened on the pristine tablecloth, Morghan still couldn’t feel the rumble of the engines. It would be a smooth trip indeed. She took a delicate white china cup from the silver tray, poured a steaming cup, and took a measured sip, breathing deeply of the leaves’ smoky rich aroma. Technology could not improve upon a fine cup of tea, no matter how hard and long the Empire’s greatest scientists labored to program the replicators.
Surveying the room, she saw her father enter. Sebastian Shah waited at the door for the steward to notice his presence, tapping his fingers impatiently against his hip while he scanned his datapad. Inwardly, she groaned. He’d talk incessantly about all his findings, from everything to how many crew manned the ship to how much the lowest berth had been sold to what the cooks and maids had gossiped about in the kitchens.
She rose from her chair, and immediately the steward’s attention whipped to her. She gave him a nod and pulled out the chair beside her. The man quickly brought her father over, but it was the daughter who seated him.
“May I bring you anything, Lady Shah?”
“I’d like a fresh pot of tea, please, Mr. Whitman. This one isn’t quite hot enough.”
“My apologies,” he bowed quickly and cleared the table. “More of the same?”
“Golden tipped assam, yes, and bring my father a cup, please.”
She barely bit back her laughter at the strangled look on Sebastian’s face. As soon as the steward left, he leaned closer and whispered, “Daughter, the expense!”
“It’s all part of the game, Father. I’m sure you have numerous notes from the middle deck about the possibility of Britannia going to war. Zijin won’t be satisfied with merely denying us trade in their ports; they’ll blockade the Colonies as well. If we lose Sidhu, we lose tea.”
“I know all this, Morghan,” he replied testily and slammed the datapad down onto the table so loudly that the lady several tables over flinched and glared in their direction. “That still doesn’t excuse wasting an entire pot of the most expensive tea in all the Empire, only to order another!”
She concentrated on keeping her face smooth and her hands steady, calm, and unclenched on the table, but she yearned for the privacy of their suite where she could raise her voice. Stars, this was his dream, his plan. She played the game for him. Yet he evidently had little understanding of the intricate play of society’s politics and sadly, very little faith in her ability to pull this off.
She took several deep, slow breaths before explaining, softly and kindly, which was difficult with her jaws straining to bite back a curse. “Queen Majel’s favorite tea is golden tipped assam. The tea is on board as a tribute to her, although no one ever expects her to take a deep space voyage. Certainly, she’ll never take a trip to the Colonies in person. Think of the impression my desire to drink this tea makes. Mr. Whitman is spreading the news in the kitchen even as we speak. Immediately, it associates us with royalty, and Her Majesty’s Royal Family certainly doesn’t give a damn how much a bloody pot of tea will cost.”
Before her father could respond, the steward returned with a fresh pot of tea, bowing and scraping so low she knew her surmise was correct. If nothing else, she was firmly cemented as a Person of Importance in this man’s eyes.
As soon as they were alone once more, her father spoke so low she had to concentrate to hear him. “You chose this room deliberately. You knew the steward served this room. He’s the highest servant on board and answers only to the Captain, who will certainly hear of the wealthy strangers traveling to Londinium who drink the Queen’s own tea. The Captain will be invited to the Tower to meet the Queen, and so you’ve ensured she’ll hear of not only our arrival but also the manner in which we traveled. Well done, Daughter.”
A most excellent day of revision. Dark & Early this morning, and then quite a bit tonight, despite parent-teacher conferences for Princess Monster. She also conned me into reading a book she checked out from the school library that had me bawling like a baby. Wenny Has Wings by Janet Lee Carey. I don’t know how any parent could read that book and not cry.
4,382 in revision. I told you it would be bam, bam, bam action from here on out, which means a lot of these sections should fly. I do have a few research holes to plug as I go, especially once we get to Iximche. Luckily there’s not a lot known about that ruin, so I can make up a lot.
No work on 7Crows today. That deadline is looking pretty impossible.
Snippet:
A demon howled, a cry of derision or glee that skittered down [Ruin’s] spine. His sense of time told him it should be high noon, but no sunlight reached the waters. Clouds roiled in the small circle of sky, darkening the sun. If he failed, if he allowed a demon to reclaim the White Dagger for the might of Xibalba, the sun might never shine again.
Yet dread at what he needed to do twisted his gut. What he needed from her now might be the final thing that drove her to turn her face and heart from him forever.
Terrified but calm, she smiled with relief as soon as he joined her. “Where are we going?”
Solemnly, he traced the curve of her cheek with his thumb. “Do you trust me?”
She stared at him, her chin trembling slightly.
“Priest!” The demon screamed above. “Surrender the White Dagger, or I’ll slice the woman’s skin from her body in thin strips and feast on her flesh!”
She paled and her pulse thumped in her neck. Staring at him, she weighed his many sins against the night they’d spent together.
Carefully, he kept his mind closed and his face shut down. He would not accidentally use the mental connection he’d forged through healing to sway her. Steeling himself, he prepared to make the most difficult sacrifice of his life. His heart rebelled. A knife cracked open his chest and exposed his frantically pounding heart.
How could he leave her to a fate worse than death? Did he dare force her? His mind and heart raged at one another in the everlasting battle he could never seem to escape. This was his true curse, this desire to throw all caution away for his heart.
For his love.
“I would die to save you,” he whispered raggedly. “I love you.”
She trembled. “You barely know me.”
“I know your heart. I touched your soul when I healed you. I love you like no one else could. I cannot harm you, Jaid. Trust me. Let me save us. I’ll pay the cost myself.”
A splash told him the demon had jumped into the cenote, willing to risk that he’d send it back to Xibalba in order to gain the greatest prize of all.
Ruin clenched his hands into fists. Choose, choose, he screamed silently. Don’t make me force this choice upon you.
Last week’s goals:
Have no fear, though, it’s much better now! Shockingly, I think it’ll be the only intimate scene in the book. I just don’t have time or opportunity to throw them together in a place of safety again. From this point out, it’s bam bam bam action. No time for nookie!Goals this week:
I didn’t get quite as much done this week — mostly because of the good news I shared on Friday. Ironically, good news can derail me as easily as bad news. I was stressed out about questions and working out a possible relationship with an agent. The latter didn’t pan out, but I was closer than ever, which makes me very happy.
Friday night, we had an unexpected get-together with That Man’s family. We ended up shopping for a sheet (not a sheet SET which would have been much easier!) with his mother at JCPenney’s after dinner. Standing around visiting, and bored, I might add, I didn’t realize that Middle Monster decided to race straight at me from behind and plow into me full speed. It was like whiplash–in my lower back. Ironically enough, the one time I was on muscle relaxers for a strained back, I had hurt myself manuevering her infant seat (fully loaded with MM herself!) into the back seat of the car.
It’s not all that bad, yet, but I definitely feel like I’m wearing a very low-slung belt around my hip area, and after long periods of sitting (aka church this morning) that belt gets tighter and tighter. I may have to use the heating pad to get through work tomorrow.
Tonight I wrote a quite long scene in Quinn’s POV that I didn’t expect. Yes, I have a detailed spreadsheet. Yes, I plotted out the rest of the block. I had “Team Update” in this spot, and as soon as I got his team together, they informed me that the serial murderer they’re tracking had struck again, this time on the outskirts of Dallas. This prompted a lot of Googling until I decided on the appropriate location and did enough research to get the site details down. Then of course I had to decide WHAT happened and why that was significant. Took me all day off and on (while we watched the NFL ProBowl, so I wasn’t fully dedicated) but I finally finished that scene.
Snippet:
“It’s getting stronger.” Quinn’s stomach felt tight and small, clutched like a fist. “It took time to play with them this time.”
“Why,” Ballard cleared his throat nervously, “do you say that?”
“Look at the broken vase, the disarray. Someone came to the door, and then ran when the demon busted through. We know how strong this thing is, how fast. It could have killed whoever came to the door then, but instead, it played. It enjoyed the chase.”
Sickened, Quinn led the way deeper into the house. The first body was an older woman in the kitchen. Her white apron looked like a gallon of ketchup had exploded on her. Eyes wide open and staring up at the ceiling, she lay twisted on the Travertine tiles, chest flowered open as before, but…
“Where’s the blood?” Dylan asked, his breath a loud pant in the room as he took another picture. “There’s not a drop on the floor.”
The walls were pristine, the shining, polished cabinets clean. The woman’s skin wasn’t slack and saggy as with the other victims. Other than the mess of her chest, she could have simply slipped on a wet tile.
“Did it gain some new power?” Ballard asked. “Or maybe it’s not as hungry. Maybe all it needed was the heart.”
From the far end of the kitchen, Cruz stepped in and waved them toward her. “Or maybe there were plenty of fresh, young victims waiting just on the other side of the door.”
I didn’t know that Ann was prophetic.
Before Christmas, she mailed me the coolest goodies. Inside, I found signed Larissa Ione books (fan girl squee!), shells, and RT swag, including dozens of postcards, bookmarks, and a big comfy red blanket.
Of course, I didn’t get to keep the blanket for long.
Someone was always stealing my blanket!
Then some wonderful news came. I danced and yelled down the hall and the monsters came running. When they heard the news, they grabbed the red blanket and raced around the house shouting and waving it like a banner.
You see, Conn and Rae of Letters to an English Professor have found a home at:
Conn’s story will be getting a new title too. So if any of you have read snippets or my blabbering about the story and have a title suggestion, shout it out!
Thanks to everyone who has read Letters in its various incarnations and provided feedback; who gave me the courage to send out such a spicy story; who talked me off the cliff once or dozens of times; and a huge thank you to Angela James and Samhain for giving Dr. Connagher a chance for more pop quizzes and smoldering poetry lessons!
In honor of Valentine’s Day, I’m going to host a “101 Ways to Love Your Characters” clinic here on the blog, beginning Friday, 2/13 thru Sunday, 2/15. This invitation is open to anyone on the planet who has anything at all to say about characters.
If you’re a reader, I want to know about your all-time favorite characters and why you love them.
If you’re a writer, I want to know about all your tricks and techniques that help you create memorable characters. My friend Jenna is going to blog about using tarot; my friend Soleil is going to use astrology; and I’m going to talk about a variety of things, like static traits and possibly what I’ve learned using I Ching.
The clinics will be informal, chatty, and above all, fun!
I’ll post daily Clinic entries here, linking to everyone who’s participating to share the link love. Simply e-mail me (see the About tab) or comment on any post and leave me your link to be included. I’ll be giving away two prizes: one to the posters; one to the commenters (on any participating blog entry, not just mine). Posters may comment to gain more chances to win.
Since Ann and Bethanie can attest to how much I suck at getting packages in the mail *mutters at self and eyes the box on the corner of my desk that I should have mailed last freaking year!!*, the rules are very simple. Up for grabs: two $20 prizes, winner’s choice
So make a note on your calendar and I hope to see you next weekend!
Dark and Early this morning, I accomplished the following:
Next scenes are the first sex scene of the first draft, and they’re pretty bad. They’re going to need a ton of work. Once I get past it, though, the next few scenes should fly.
Snippet:
[Ruin] muttered words [Jaid] didn’t understand and drew the blade across his left palm.
Fisting his hand, he dripped blood on the altar and then flung his hand hard, slinging blood out onto the waters below.
Breathlessly, she scanned the lake, waiting. When her father had performed the ritual, he’d released an inland hurricane. She glanced at Ruin as he put the knife away and then back at the lake. “That’s it?”
His mouth quirked. “When done correctly, yes.” Stones clacked together. He whipped his head around, staring down into the darkness of the plaza. “They’re close. We need to go.”
“Go where?” Bewildered, she searched the still waters, the three volcanoes perfectly reflected. Something tinged on the altar and chips of stone flew up, stinging her arm.
Ruin shoved her up the ramped stone, using his body to cover her. “They’ve seen us. Go!”
On the rock slab that hung out over the water, she felt her stomach pitch and her head whirled like a merry-go-round. Shimmering waters beckoned, but it was quite a drop. This lake was so deep that it’d never been sounded. She remembered how her father had disappeared beneath the surface. He hadn’t flailed or tried to swim; he’d sunk like a boulder.
Shivering with fear, she reached back and clutched Ruin’s hand. He wrapped his other arm around her, and together, they jumped.
