Tag: Storybuilding

I’m sure you’ve heard the saying “Can’t win for losing.”  Sometimes, I think the saying should be “Can’t lose for winning.”

My name is Victor, and I always win.  I’m the victor in everything I do.  I’ll risk anything, defeat any opponent, pay any cost…to win.  Now that I’m well into my thirties, I can admit that winning has cost me more losses than I ever imagined possible.

The first time I won—and lost—I was twenty two years old and the starting quarterback at Texas A&M.  We were headed to the Cotton Bowl and the world was mine to conquer.  I had my whole life planned out: we would win the game; I would enter the draft; some big-time NFL team would pick me up—preferably the Dallas Cowboys—and my future would be assured.  Every minute of my free time I was training, lifting weights, drawing up new plays, and dreaming about the Hall of Fame and Superbowl rings.  I lived, breathed, ate, and slept football.

My team had never lost a game once I’d taken the helm as quarterback.  I certainly wasn’t going to let my team lose the championship game.

The world was at my feet and I could do no wrong.  Everyone loved me and cheered for me, especially my high-school sweetheart, Mandi.  We’d been together since our junior year in high school.  She was a beautiful girl, cheerleader captain, everything a guy like me could have wanted.  Everyone agreed we were the perfect couple.  She wanted to be a model, and once I joined an NFL team, I knew she’d have every break she could ever dream of. With my millions and arm, and her classic looks, we’d be the perfect couple of football TV too.

What few people knew was that Mandi had a problem.  She’d hid it from me pretty well, too, but I’d started to suspect once she went to college in Dallas and I headed to College Station.  Her bright cheerful ways had always had a few dark valleys, but those periods of darkness became more frequent and more shadowed.  This beautiful girl didn’t have any friends, shy and unsure and miserably depressed.  She called me often, and more frequently she was sobbing and desperate, not happy or excited about her classes.  I loved her, but her constant need for me to anchor and support her began to wear on me.

One night she called me at 3 AM, crying and hysterical.  Evidently she’d jumped in her car and began driving to College Station in the middle of the night, only to have an accident.  I rushed to her aid, naturally, only to learn she’d been drunk driving.  At least no one had been hurt, but neither of us could deny her problems any longer.

She admitted she hadn’t been to class in months and barely left her apartment.  When she begged to come live with me, I didn’t know what to say. I lived in an apartment with three other guys off campus.  We didn’t have room for her, and my Daddy would have hunted me down with a shotgun and dragged us both to the church before he’d let us live together unmarried.

Besides, I wasn’t ready for that much commitment, not yet.  I had the big game, my career, our careers, to think about.  I had to win the game to assure our future.  I drove her home to her apartment and called her parents while she slept like the dead.  They came and took her to a clinic in Houston.  I know she was terribly hurt.  She must have felt like I’d abandoned her.  But I simply didn’t know how else to help her.  She needed help, professional help, and the next time I talked to her on the phone, she sounded steadier, more alert and calmer than she’d been in months.

The game was only a week away.  I don’t remember Christmas that year.  With Mandi safe and getting treatment, I focused all my will on that game.  I would win.  She would be better.  Everything would be better.  I just had to win the game.

With my family in the stands cheering me on, I stepped out onto the field and we played one hell of a game.  Even though we were six points down at the two-minute warning, I wasn’t worried.  My coach handed me the ball and sent me out on the field with the final words, “Victor, the game’s on you.  Take us all the way, son.”

I’d done it countless times before; I knew I’d do it again.  Without any hurry at all, we steadily moved the ball down the field.  Quick toss to my receiver, and he zipped out of bounds to gain another first down.  We crossed midfield.  We entered the red zone with plenty of time left.  Even though my favorite target of the season dropped the ball and came back to the huddle with tears in his eyes, I wasn’t worried.  I told him to shake it off.

I’d simply run this one in myself.

I took the snap, did a little play action, and floated in the pocket like I was waiting for him to get open again.  He ran toward the corner of the endzone, dragging two defenders with him.  That left me a wide-open lane of green and I took it.  I sprinted forward with a hand on my lineman’s back as he plowed through like a charging bull.  Too slow, though, so I left him.  I saw the goal line gleaming, and felt a defender behind me, scrambling closer, so I launched off my feet, reaching with the ball——

And got helicoptered by surely the biggest Sooner on the bench.  I crossed the plane and held on to the ball, even though the world slipped out of focus.  I knew we’d scored.  I knew we’d won.  I didn’t care about the blackness sucking me down, until later, when I awoke in agony.  Even then, I wasn’t worried, until I saw my Daddy’s solemn face and the suspicious glitter of tears in his eyes.

My knee was a shattered, torn mess that a single surgery couldn’t fix.  They told me I’d be lucky to walk without a limp.

I’d never play the game again.

Lying there in that hospital bed, I struggled between rage and determination. Why had I been so stupid?  So what if we’d lost the game.  We’d played our hearts out.  There wouldn’t have been any shame in losing. I still would have gone high in the draft.  But I couldn’t stand to lose.  I had to win, and I paid the price.

It was my own drive, my own heart, my determination to win at any cost, that had led to the worst defeat of my entire life.

I returned home to the ranch with my family, facing endless rounds of physical therapy and surgery.  My determination renewed.  The Dallas doctors didn’t know me.  They didn’t know I was THE Victor.  I’d defeat this injury, just like I’d defeated everything else in my life.  They couldn’t know my heart and will to win. I focused that formidable will on physical therapy, determined to defeat even my blown knee.

Mandi called me from her parents’ home.  I didn’t even know she’d been released.  We talked about the game and our future.  I told her this was my last chance.  I would heal myself and by late summer, I’d be well enough to walk onto the team in Dallas and try out.

She was as supportive as ever.  “Don’t worry about me, Victor.  You can do this.  I’m fine.”

I had no idea how unfine she really was—until her parents called and told me that she’d accidentally taken too many of her prescription drugs and never woke up.  My sweet, beautiful girl was gone, and I hadn’t even gone to see her, not since that night I’d called her parents and abandoned her.

Guilt ate at me.  Everything began to unravel.  My knee hurt like a bitch.  The doctor warned me that I was pushing too hard, too fast.  I had done even more damage to my fragile knee and it had had swelled up as big as my head.  Dream after dream died, and I slunk home like a whipped dog, afraid to see the resignation on my Daddy’s face.  Instead of going into the house, I slipped into the old barn we didn’t use much any more.  Defeated, angry, and guilty, I hid from my family—and my failures.

If I’d spent more time with Mandi, if I’d been there for her, could I have helped her?  Would she have taken too many of those drugs if she hadn’t been so lonely?  Was my career worth her death?

And my career wasn’t going to happen. The harder I worked, the more I fucked up my knee.  With constant pain and a noticeable limp, I was a cripple, not a star quarterback.  I couldn’t win this game.  In fact, I’d never win another game.  I’d never play again.  I’d never see Mandi again.  Everything was over, gone, broken like my fucked up knee.

The barn smelled of decades of hay and horses.  Slants of light cut through the ramshackle roof.  Motes of dust danced around my head, making me dizzy as I paced—limped—in a tight circle.  I noticed an old leather riding crop looped on a rusty nail, so I grabbed it and slapped it absently against my thigh.  Limp, pain from my knee—slap, pain on my good thigh.  Limp, slap, back and forth.  The bad pain from my knee began to fade away beneath the burning cut of the crop.

Alone in that old barn, I punished myself.  I punished myself for my failures, for my injury I couldn’t heal with sheer determination, for my selfishness that might have cost Mandi her life.  I sliced that crop through the air with a sharp whistle that snapped against the denim and burned deep into the muscle.  It was a good pain.  It made me forget about the bad, hurting pain of my knee.  This was a cleansing pain.  Pain that helped me wash away my guilt.

All the tension and regret, doubts and rage, even my broken heart—all that emotion poured out of me. The harder I hit myself, the better I felt.  I found myself unbuttoning my jeans and stroking myself to release awkwardly with my left hand while I cut my thigh with that crop.

Afterward, I felt calm, relaxed, centered, and at peace.  I had grieved—and finally accepted—my losses.  Mandi, my first love, was gone forever.  There would be no NFL career, no Superbowl rings, no Hall of Fame. But I was still alive, my family still loved me, and I still had my Victor’s heart.

I just had to find a new game to play.

First of all, don’t get too hung up on the details.  Don’t let your mind run away in panic at the sight of index cards, or whatever you use to plot.  Treat this as a fun exercise — a different way to engage the other side of your brain.  A new way to think of your story.  You’re still going to write it YOUR way — this is just to help you get some ideas down.

Depending on your comfort level, grab some pens or pencils (I prefer colored pens), notepads, index cards, sticky notes, etc.  For me, this is bonanza time.  I love office supplies — I’ve been caught drooling in Staples — so I get to drag out all these cool supplies I’ve bought but hardly ever use.  If you want to stick to paper and pen, cool.  Personally, I can’t start right off with sticky notes — they cost too much and my brain can’t just let go and mess up.  Index cards are cheap and I don’t mind blasting through a whole pack.

At this point, don’t make the process too analytical.  This is brainstorming – fun.  Just let your mind loose and write down any idea, no matter how crazy it is.  You can always throw those wild ones out — but who knows, that may be exactly the right way to add surprise and make the story fresh.  What we’re going to do is think of your story from several different directions.  Like facets of a gem, each exercise will reveal a different layer of your story and/or characters.  Some may work better for you, or for this story, than others.  That’s cool.  Again, don’t worry if you don’t get much from this particular exercise — a different one may work better for you.

Since there are a lot of different ways to get ideas, I’m going to break this post down into pieces.  Today, we’ll play the What If Game.

All you need to begin is the original idea for your story, whether it was a character, a premise, etc.  What was your original idea for the story?  What gave you goose bumps?  What made you determined to devote months of your life to this particular story in order to write, revise, polish, submit, and endure countless rejections just because the idea was that cool?  This is definitely the place to start!

Now using all the research, character building, etc. that you’ve already completed, begin to generate ideas with the “what if” game.  Jot them down, no matter how crazy.  Expand on each idea.  Don’t be afraid to take branches or paths that seem really strange or out there.  You’re not committed to including any of this in your story.  Just have fun!

Try to explore as deeply into the story line as possible.  If you can’t see all the way to the end, that’s fine.  Skip ahead if you can.  If you’re writing a story with an antagonist, think of all the possible ways your protagonist can face them, either subtly or blatant showdown.  If you’re writing romance, think of all the ways the hero and heroine can get together, get separated, fight, make love, etc.  Some you will keep — some you won’t.  Just generate ideas.

Example:  I knew all along that Gifted is set on a rather risque cable channel “reality” show.  That was the original idea.  The more I thought about this, I got the following “ideas” that may or may not make it into the story:

• What if Shiloh took the main role on the show?  Originally I was thinking a secondary character came up with the idea and Shiloh had a more passive role as a contestant.  What if SHE came up the idea? Why would she devise this show in particular?  ahhhhhhh.  Lots of ideas came off this one.
• What if there’s a competing company?  Victor’s worried about ratings.
• Ohhh, wait, not ratings — what if Victor’s worried about a leak?  A spy within his company?  This gives me a whole new subplot to carry through.
• I know Shiloh’s mother haunts her and has affected each and every relationship Shiloh has.  What if the mother was dead, literally haunting her?  Okay, this idea got scratched.  Originally I was going to do a paranormal element to match Miss Belle in Dear Sir, I’m Yours, but the general consensus seems to be that the paranormal thread, albeit amusing at times, detracted from the main story too much.  So no ghost, I promise, unless Miss Belle and Colonel Healy show up on page.

The “What if” game is one of my favorite ways to expand the original premise.  Each time you get a new idea, jot it on the index card, or make a new bullet on your paper, whatever works for you.  Some of this will end up in the recycling bin — but that’s okay.  For now, don’t throw any idea away, no matter how stupid it seems, although you might make a pile of the “best” ideas for the other exercises.  Keep the “other” ideas handy just in case.

Next, we’ll use character to continue brainstorming.

I’ve talked a lot about characters; just take a look at the Character Clinic and all the great articles and resources.  There are a million ways to build a character.  For me, each character comes to life in a slightly different way.  Sometimes I do loads of prework and still don’t have a good handle on the character.  Other times, I set out to write up detailed history and the voice comes through so loud and strong that I discover I’m actually writing the book (e.g. Chanda in Survive My Fire.  That’s why her sections of the book are in first person–I was actually trying to write her “character letter” below).

With Victor’s story, I cheated a bit.  As soon as I finished the first draft of Conn’s book (then called Letters), I immediately started working on his brother’s book.  I have about 10K of loose sections written out.  I didn’t do character planning, plotting, etc. — I was just writing out the ideas as I got them.  That work gave me the basic external plot.

But who was Victor?  Oh, I knew he was the CEO of VConn, an up and coming Dallas cable company.  I also knew he was a Master.  No mere dominant title will work for Victor.  But none of this gave me his heart.

There are a few crucial tools I come back to over and over as I develop a story.  If I do these things, I can usually plot the story or simply begin writing.

1. Greatest Strength/Greatest Weakness. Every character should have a strength, that can also become a weakness and be used against him.  Victor’s strength is that he never loses.  Never.  He’s so driven, so competitive, that he’ll pay any cost to win.  Sometimes he gets so caught up in the victory that he doesn’t realize what he’s lost.

Now I take that strength and come up with one word that fully describes it.  Then I come up with its opposite that reflects his weakness.  Usually one is an adjective and one is a noun, but they can be in any order.  The trick is to come up with an oxymoron for the character that encapsulates this strength and weakness.

Victor is the victorious loser.  Shiloh is the unburied treasure.  (Note: I don’t think Shiloh’s is as strong as Victor’s. I’m playing off the idea of “buried treasure” and its opposite, unburied or “found” treasure.)   They don’t mean anything to anybody but me, but they’re powerful reminders of who these characters are.  Note, too, the importance of the characters’ names.  Victor’s name IS his strength, and so is Shiloh’s, because she’s definitely a gift.  She means to gift herself to Victor, if she can convince him to unbury the need he’s hidden away in his heart.

2. The Character Letter.  So I know that Victor has this extreme drive to win.  Knowing, though, doesn’t give me the details I need.  I wanted a specific instance in his past that showed me how he’d won — but lost.  That event still haunts him.  I also needed to know how he realized he was a sadist.  How did he feel about that?

The best way for me to figure these defining moments out is, of course, to write about it.  I could always choose to write it out like backstory (and I’ve done that — like Letters, the backstory for Dear Sir, I’m Yours that’s a Free Read), but I can kill two birds with one stone by writing it in first person.  This lets me get deep into Victor’s head AND figure out his voice.  What words will he use that no other character would?  How did he FEEL?  So I sit down with him and write in his voice, his words, about these defining moments.

And yes, as my beloved sister requested, I’ll post some of that letter this week–after I edit it a bit.

Background:  that’s why there are so many letters in Dear Sir, I’m Yours.  I started them as a character-building tool for Rae, and I found them so powerful and moving that I continued to write them.  Then they became so integral to the story that I ended up writing many more.

3. The Emotional Toolbox. I love this site.  It highlights everything I love about the hero’s journey.  A moving story is all about removing the mask and revealing the character’s deepest fears.  When I’m stuck at any point in writing the story, I can always go back over the six questions and my notes.  The answer is there.

Usually I can get plot ideas just by answering the six questions.  I also figure out supporting characters I need to add in order to highlight the theme and the journey.  In particular, the most important thing I get out of the Emotional Toolbox is the fear.

Deep down in the darkest corner of Victor’s heart, he’s very, very afraid, and that’s where the magic is.

My major project for the fall is a follow-up novel to Dear Sir, I’m Yours for Conn’s brother, Victor Connagher.  When I begin a story, there are a few things I need to know in advance. 

Working Title:  Gifted

Target:  Samhain

Target Length:  70K

Genre:  contemporary erotic romance with elements of BDSM

Protagonist:  Victor Connagher.  Yes, I know it’s rare for the hero to “star” in a romance, but he has the most to lose in this story and the largest character arc, although the heroine has a very strong, important role.

Love Interest:  Shiloh Holmes.

Setting:  Dallas, TX

This is all basic information.  The KEY information that will decide the rest of the story is the THEME. 

The theme is the promise I’m going to make to you.  Every character in the story will prove the theme.  Every scene will illuminate the theme in some way or it will be cut.  The antagonist(s) will prove the opposite, dark side of the theme; the supporting characters will help the main characters prove the theme. 

Theme will drive every single aspect of the story.

For this story, my Beloved Sister provided the theme.  She told me every time she listened to Time is Running Out by Muse, she always thought of Shiloh.  Absolutely, Sis. 

I won’t let you bury it.  I won’t let you smother it.  I won’t let you murder it.

Or in other words, 

Victor must learn that revealing his deepest, darkest, most hidden needs to a loved one frees his heart and soul.  Burying–and denying–those needs will only murder his soul.

Next up, characters.