Today I'm taking an intermission from Deb's story. Thursday and Friday I'll post the last two segments. Then we'll all have to wait until the book is published to read the rest.
I want to update you on my October goal. I didn't make it. I was trying to finish a 50,000 word rough draft, and only made it to 42,000. The end just wasn't ready to be told. In fact, that's where I'm still sitting.
But I don't feel bad for not hitting my target dead center. Setting that goal in the first place spurred me to write 42k on a draft that had been sitting for a year with only 2 pages completed.
My final goal hasn't changed. I want to have a decent manuscript by the end of February. One that's at least ready to show my agent.
The last two months have taught me why it took me so long to get started on this project. First, the family situation. This is based on a true story--an aunt all my relatives admired. I'm afraid when they read it, they'll be expecting my character to be Elsie.
I named my character Emma, and Emma may do some things and make some choices that Elsie never would have. But Emma has successfully become a character to me. I'm finding out what issues Emma has to deal with. I don't yet know her as deeply as I should, but I'm getting to know her.
So I have to put thoughts of disappointed relatives aside and think of a larger audience.
My second problem is that the time period spans more than three years. Large chunks of that first year have to be skipped over to move to story along. The last two years includes a romance. When I had the idea for this book, I didn't know it involved a romance, but I'm happy it does. This is set in a prison camp and a romance will add a hopeful element--something for Emma to look forward to each day.
But look at the typical romance formula: Meeting, conflict and friction, and finally realizing their love. I don't want to make this overly formulaic, but it's a pattern to follow. How do I stretch that out over two years so that they aren't in conflict for too long, and they're not all cozy and romantic for too long?
So you can see I have a lot of work to do. I don't have all the plot points figured out yet, but I'm a lot closer than I was two months ago. Now, off I go to plug away at it again.
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
Seasons in the Mist, #3
By Deborah Kinnard
(I’m sorry for the late post. My internet connection has been down all day.)
“This way, then. Mind your step. These stairs are old, and not in the best repair.” From a pocket of her slacks, Sheila removed a huge cast-iron key and tried the lock. Jess expected the heavy iron-hinged door to creak in protest, but it swung open silently as if kept well-oiled. Sheila flipped a wall switch. “It’s not very well lit, either. We’ve neglected this part of the house. A pity, but family fortunes don’t grow on trees, do they?”
Jess followed her into a narrow passage that opened onto a large, high ceilinged room. Walls of the local gray stone formed bays along each side, with pointed arches framing doorways into other parts of the wing. A fireplace that could have cooked an entire ox took up one end of the room, its mantelpiece a narrow, angular funnel with carved corbels as trim. The roof beams, dim in the late afternoon light, appeared be hewn from tree trunks. Vagrant beams of sun slanted, dancing with dust motes, through narrow leaded glass windows. “Wonderful,” she breathed. “It’s the great hall, isn’t it?”
“Yes. The oldest remaining part. We think this range might have been a fortified manor house, but that portion’s long gone.”
“Those high windows look defensive.” Jess pointed. “Before they were glazed. And those squarish holes, up high on the wall? See the ones I mean? They could have held beams for a second story. That would be the solar, if this dates back as far as I suspect it does. ”
“My word,” Sheila said on a chuckle, “you are the genuine article, aren’t you?”
“I’ve lived and breathed the middle ages since I learned to read.” Jess turned three-sixty, taking it all in, breathing, getting the feel of the old hall deep into her bones. And yet the experience wasn’t entirely pleasant. Like a roller coaster—scary and exhilarating, and vaguely unnerving because it must end all too soon. “How can you bear to leave it unlived in? Not to use it?”
“Well, there’s a reason.” Sheila’s expression changed, took on a sorrowful air. “It looks long-abandoned because it was. Bertie’s ancestors had the money to restore it. They didn’t want to.”
She looked a question at her hostess. Sheila continued. “They feared the places in this wing where one can sense something.” The dog gave a fretful whine and Sheila reached to scratch her huge bristly head. “There now, Wenna. That’s the girl.”
The dog’s unease triggered Jess’s. “Something unpleasant?”
“Worse, I’m afraid. All these old piles have their ghost, their cold room—call it what you like. I almost think we English would be disappointed if they didn’t. As for Mossock’s, it’s no Victorian ghost. Ours goes back many generations. The tales Bertie’s grandmother threatened him with! That old harridan. She put fear into that boy, let me tell you. She warned him if he were rude, she’d let him spend some time in the old hall with the ‘Gray Lady.’” Sheila scratched the dog’s ears, making it sidle closer.
“What? Who was she?”
“Nobody now knows. But she’s called gray for good reason. Nobody’s ever actually seen an apparition, mind you. It’s more sensed than visualized. Those who report her presence call it an overwhelming feeling of displacement. As though she’s lost somehow, and grieves for someone. Yes, grief. Soul-deep and almost too much to bear.” Sheila’s eyes clouded and Jess wondered why, but in a second the look vanished. “According to legend, the Lady first appeared in the Trevorgas’ time. They held the manor in the sixteenth century. The Lady wouldn’t make herself known to just anyone. Only those of the family—and sensitives—could feel her.”
“Sensitives?”
“People like me, luv. And like you.”
“I’m not.” Jess took a step back. “There are no such people.”
“No, of course not. You’re a modern woman. Practical. Such stories are no more than rubbish, aren’t they? Feelings, impressions, these have no root in fact.”
Something motivated Jess to whisper, “And yet—I’ve always had the strongest possible desire to come here. To visit
“Yes.” Sheila sounded unsurprised. “You were called, maybe by the Lady herself. Maybe, in time, she will tell you why.”
A link clicked shut. “You spoke of passion, and how it’s not always easy.”
“I spoke on impulse, but it’s true. Even before you were stranded at Heathrow, I felt our paths would cross again.” She gave a grin almost impish. “My foolishness doesn’t always make sense, even to me. What your journey entails, I can’t say. But I do feel that in time, you’ll know.”
“God brought me here,” Jess said quietly.
“You’re a believer?”
“Yes.”
“Well, He has many mysterious ways,” Sheila replied. “Past finding out.” The dog gave a higher, more insistent whine. “But that’s a conversation for another day. Come, the old stables are out this way. Wenna wants to show you her new litter of puppies.”
* * *
Despite the “Gray Lady” and Sheila’s enigmatic words, Jess slept well that night. The disturbance of her inner clock meant that she snapped full awake at
The ocean muttered accompaniment below the cliffs. It waited to be explored, and she felt its pull as it beckoned. After a hasty shower, she pulled on jeans and a sweater—she’d already learned that here they were called jumpers—and went to make her own discovery of a Cornish morning.
Almost without intention, she strolled down the garden toward the ancient hall. All around her, wildflowers, colorful annuals and plants she didn’t recognize bloomed in a lush profusion of color and scent. Behind her, a premature sun crept over the horizon. This puzzled her until she remembered
Dew wet her sneakers from the thick grass near the old hall. Jess wished she’d brought her notebook to jot impressions as she strolled its perimeter. The architecture strongly reminded her of photos she’d seen. Mid- to late-thirteenth century, she calculated, not later. The long-and-short corner detail, the shape of the arched doorways, the slender semi-defensive window apertures—all these features shouted of its early date.
She stepped across the ruin of a stone wall to approach the hall more closely. Beyond one corner, a worn dirt path led to an area she hadn’t explored. Funny, how this path alone looked ungroomed, lacking the fastidious upkeep of Mossock’s other areas. Jess shook the dew off her sneakers and followed the dirt trail round the corner of the building.
Set exactly at the wall’s midpoint in the building lay an ironbound oak door. Smaller than the others, this door almost looked out of place. Jess tried the handle and it swung smoothly inward. She tiptoed in, afraid it might lead to an ancient privy or something equally uninviting. She looked around a cool stone corridor, as yet untouched by the warmth of morning. Faint, dust-laden dawn beams served as its only illumination. Though the passage obviously wasn’t often visited, it seemed tidy and maintained. Jess took a step away from the door.
Between one heartbeat and the next, the narrow hallway went cold. Mind-numbingly cold. Jess gasped and reached for support, her hand landing on the stones of the wall. She found it almost icy. No help here. The sensation lingered and deepened, and another overlay it.
Grief. A woman’s sorrow, too deep for tears.
She almost cried out, so overwhelming was the sensation. Around her something shifted and went dark. She felt consciousness ebb. Though she’d never felt faint in her life, the sensation was unmistakable. She sagged against the wall, both hands flat against it, searching for handholds the surface didn’t offer, afraid she’d go down.
She did not.
Instead, the blackness ebbed. Her head quit whirling and the wall stopped quivering. Her world righted itself into a normal Cornish early morning. Outside the open door she heard the birds’ random twittering. The impression of sorrow had fled, and the passageway’s cool was only the expected chill of a shaded stone building. Jess sighed. Wiping her clammy hands on her jeans, she strode back down the passage and out the door.
The man in the garden hadn’t been there a moment before. She stared, and the man stared back, his jaw hanging open. He looked a mess—tangled dark hair hanging onto the shoulders of a dirty loose shirt, slacks ending just below the knee, and bare, grimy feet. On his head sat a shapeless cap, looking like a chair cushion emptied of its stuffing. In his big, gnarled hands he pushed a crudely constructed wooden wheelbarrow with no sides. It overflowed with small wood and bare branches.
It cost nothing to be courteous. “Good morning,” Jess said.
The man jumped as if she’d thrown a rock at him. He gabbled something in a tongue she didn’t recognize, made a hasty sign of the Cross at his chest, dropped the barrow which dumped its contents, and ran.
She gaped after him. He ran as though he wouldn’t slow down ‘til
“Well!” she muttered, taken aback. It cost nothing to be polite, but apparently that small courtesy was beyond him.
Shaking her head, she rounded the building’s corner. And stopped dead in her tracks. Her heart sped up alarmingly and she thought again she might faint.
Mossock—the Mossock she’d slept in—wasn’t there.
In its place, she saw several ancient stone buildings attached to the great hall. Two-story ranges in the same architectural style straggled to the right, including a high, round tower with arrow-slits in place of windows. A single-story range off to the left backed onto wooden outbuildings with roofs of slate or thatch. The ruined stone wall over which she’d stepped had morphed into a wall higher than her head, enclosing a garden fragrant with herbs and undersized, richly aromatic roses. To her right, a horse stamped and blew through its nose in a wooden stable. The aroma of the stalls almost overwhelmed that of the garden.
She took another step forward, her heart hammering. Smoke rose lazily from the wooden outbuildings, carrying a scent of cooking food. Hens scratched, loose in the rutted yard. A rooster greeted both Jess and the morning in the usual way.
But this was not the morning that should be.
Again, I think the pace is good. There’s a good balance between description and action. And this twist at the end will push things forward nicely.
Monday, November 5, 2007
Story and pace (Seasons #2)
The next series of posts comes from Deb Kinnard. You may want to refresh your memory of the first excerpt. This is a first draft, and Deb doesn’t need help with little technical things like punctuation or word choice—those will be handled in a later draft. She’s only asking for an overall look at the story: Pacing and flow and any road bumps—things that make you say “huh?”—that may have slipped in. So if you notice things in those categories, please comment.
In my opinion, it’s very smooth and full for a first draft. I’ll be reserving most of my comments until the end. I’ve broken it up into four posts, and I only took on so much because she didn’t need a line-by-line. Plus Deb has been such a great supporter of this blog. I’ve enjoyed Deb’s story so far, and I hope you will, too.
Seasons in the Mist, Part 2
By Deborah Kinnard
Graeme Tyrrell pulled up almost immediately. Sheila’s son turned out to be a long, thin man of about twenty, with a low-key manner and virtually no conversation. Jess yielded to Graeme’s insistence that he load her duffel into the “boot” of a sleek black Vauxhall. She froze a moment when Graeme got into what she considered the passenger’s side of the car—until she noticed the steering wheel was there, too.
Duh. Knowing they drive on the left side sure isn’t the same as seeing it!
Sheila offered Jess the front seat, for the better view, and chatted comfortably from the back, pointing out various items of interest as Graeme wove skillfully through traffic and onto the M4.
“The West,” said the large blue motorway sign. Jess rubbernecked without shame as the superhighway wound through tidy communities, industrial parks, farm country of a lovely, luminous green. Hedgerows, another first, bordered the country roads they passed. Occasionally Sheila pointed out a landmark visible from the motorway.
The driving part of the experience Jess tried hard to ignore. Graeme drove much too fast, on the left side of the road, of course. Knowing about this British aberration hadn’t prepared her for the reality. To Jess’s eyes it looked as though driverless cars shot toward them at terrific rates of speed, from the wrong direction. She’d just have to grit her teeth and get used to panic.
“Now over there—” Sheila pointed. “Up that road a ways is
Jess nodded and smiled. Sheila continued, “Or course, you’re not on holiday but on business. I keep forgetting you haven’t sufficient time. A pity it is you can’t sightsee.”
Graeme glanced in the rearview mirror and chuckled, the first sound he’d produced in sixty miles. “She might get the chance, Mum.”
Jess felt obligated to explain. “More than anything I’d love to, but my project won’t let me. Given the short time, I’ll have my hands full getting the work done.”
Sheila and Graeme exchanged a glance. “Wait and see,” said Graeme’s mother. “Just wait and see.”
Small towns along the way spaced out further. When she turned to ask a question, Jess found Sheila in a sudden doze, sleeping tidily without sound, her dark head canted back on the seat rest. “Catch a nap yourself if you’ve the mind to,” Graeme said softly. “We’re still an hour from home.”
“Thanks. It won’t bother you?”
He made a dismissive gesture. “I drive this route often enough to do it in my sleep.”
Jess shuddered. “Feel free not to.”
Graeme chuckled and lapsed into silence. Taking Sheila’s example, Jess rested her head and let her imagination take flight.
And I’m headed toward
She drifted on a tide of jet-lagged fatigue, dreaming in spurts of Mossock House and of her project. For two months she would join the dig team at
Jess knew the source documentation as well as any seasoned scholar. In old manuscripts she’d studied contemporary accounts, comparing the eyewitness version with that of modern scholars. Though the Pestilence, as the contemps had called it, had depopulated all
“We’re home.” Graeme’s voice cut through the dreams and she started awake. In the back seat Sheila was stretching; apparently both women had succumbed to jet lag. Jess stared into the hazy blue-gold of her first English afternoon, and gaped. An imposing pile of gray stone and slate, Mossock’s photos didn’t do it justice.
Sheila laughed while unfastening her seat belt. “Go ahead and look, Jess. It’s a bit run-down about the edges, but it’s home.”
“My word.” Jess had trouble finding her breath as she got out of the car. “It’s incredible.”
“Mossock,” Graeme said simply. “Welcome.”
As before, he insisted on carrying her duffle. Jess gaped some more as Sheila, quite wide awake, led her in through two great iron-bound oak doors. “Bertie! Trev! Hullo, house. I’m home.”
Two huge dogs with wiry gray hair bounded out to be rubbed and greeted. On their heels came a tall man of about fifty, clear-eyed and dark bearded, emerged from a side door. He caught Sheila in a massive hug. “So you are, sweet.” He kissed her soundly and set her onto her feet on the stone floor. “And who’s this you bring with you?”
Jess hastily put down her carry-on and took the man’s outstretched hand. His paw enveloped hers twice over, warm and firm. Sheila made the introductions. “Albert—we all call him Bertie—my husband. This is Jessica Lindstrom.”
“Welcome,” Bertie said with a smile.
“Thank you for having me in your home.” Jess gave a futile gesture around the hall and the grand room into which it opened. “Amazing. The photos don’t do it justice.”
“But you’re not to tour it yet,” Sheila declared. “That’s for after tea. For now, let me settle you in a room. You’ll want to clean up—I’m certain I do.”
“You’re right. I feel as though we’ve been traveling forever.”
“Then come right this way, luv. I have just the thing.”
* * *
Jess crept—she could find no other pace—down the great staircase after showering and changing. Her bedroom had blown her away. More a suite than a room, it was decorated in yellow and navy, with ivory accents, the patterns echoing the eighteenth century flavor of the Chippendale furniture. The bed’s ivory curtains draped gracefully from a massive four-poster bed almost too tall to climb into. Large, deep-set windows faced the ocean, which muttered and hissed against the rocks fifty feet below a stone garden wall. The private bath seemed minimalist by contrast, but proved more than adequate. She’d indulged in plenty of soap and hot water to make her feel more like a human than a piece of abused airline baggage.
The staircase was straight out of Masterpiece Theatre, its banister a solid foot of wood so polished she checked for her reflection. Her footfalls made no sound on thick moss-green carpet as she entered the downstairs hallway.
On the right, two sets of closed pocket doors, also varnished to an intimidating luster. On the left, an open set. Toward these she ventured. Spotting her, Sheila waved her in. With a grin, Jess joined her hostess in a cheery parlor, where tea had been set up near French doors open to the summer evening.
“You’ll have to excuse Bertie and Graeme. They went into Newquay to look at a grass mower, or some such male concern.” Without asking, Sheila dropped a half-spoonful of honey into a fragile cup of floral china and added a tiny drizzle of cream. “Feeling more the thing, are you?”
Jess accepted the cup and sipped. How does she know how I take my tea? “I certainly do feel better. You didn’t mention you live in a famous house. It’s wonderful.”
Sheila smiled as if pleased. “Mossock has been in my husband’s family since the Civil War,” she said with a hint of pride. “It’s much older than that, of course. Parts of it—not the parts we live in, unfortunately—date from before Henry V. We’re greatly blessed to have our home. So many Cornish families lost their family estates to bad political judgments, poor management, hard times. This is not easy country in which to prosper.” She sipped from her china cup and handed Jess a plate on which many tiny sandwiches clustered as if fighting for the attention they deserved.
“Tell me about the house.” Jess took a sandwich.
Sheila gave another smile, almost conspiratorial. “Eat hearty, luv, and I’ll do much better than that.”
Jess obeyed and finished without delay. A girl in a black turtleneck and blue jeans came with a smile to clear away. Before the fireplace, one of the hounds sighed and lumbered to its feet. With the dog for escort, Jess followed Sheila down a bewildering maze of passages. She not only knew her ancestral home’s structure but its history, down to the fascinating personal stories and little details historians craved.
“You’ll want to see the oldest wings, won’t you?” she guessed with scary accuracy. Jess could only nod and rubberneck. Sheila turned to regard her, and after a long moment, returned her nod. A glint in her eye gave her a sudden sly look. A shiver traced its slow way up Jess’s spine.
Once again, I’m the one ending it here, not the author.
So far, so good. Come back tomorrow for the next part, where things take a twist.
Saturday, November 3, 2007
Interview with Miralee Ferrell
Joining us for a brief interview today is Miralee Ferrell. Her debut novel, The Other Daughter released just a couple of weeks ago.
Miralee: Great question and one has a very personal answer. I was brainstorming with a friend who suggested I use an experience from my life as the basis or theme for my first novel. I ran through several scenarios in my head, as we've had many interesting things happen in our marriage...some great, some not. This personal incident did indeed capture the essence of secrets, forgiveness and healing...not as much in my life as in our marriage and the life of an 18 yr old girl.
About 17 yrs ago my husband received a letter stating a young woman believed him to be her biological father she'd never met. We agreed to meet and hear her story, and after some investigation came to believe he probably was her dad. The episode was similar to that of David in the book...a one night stand prior to his becoming a Christian, but that's where the similarity stops. He was not dating me at the time, and I had a strong relationship with the Lord and didn't have a problem accepting Trish into our lives.
Do you ever struggle with writer's block? How do you get past it?
Miralee: Yes, in the final ¼ of my second book, Past Shadows, I stared at a blank screen more than once when I sat down to write. It doesn’t happen often, but when it does, I skip ahead and start writing what I DO know, then I’ll come back and link the old and new together. I’ve found that if I can just get writing again, even if it’s several chapters ahead, the rest will come in time. Sometimes I simply need to step away for awhile and not push too hard. Prayer is also a key…ask the Lord to unlock the block and stir up a new creativity in your heart and mind.
How long did it take you to write the book, from idea to delivering the manuscript to a publisher?
Miralee: The rough draft flew out of my head and onto my computer....5 weeks from the first word to the last, of an almost 100,000 word document. It was one year later that I submitted to several houses for consideration, and part of that time was spent hunting an agent and sending it out to a couple of houses on my own, prior to signing with Hartline Agency.
Five weeks for 100k…that’s fast. My readers know I set a daily word count goal to finish a skeleton rough draft in two months. Do you have a word or page goal you set for each day?
Any advice for those of us who have yet to land that first sale?
Miralee: I know what I wish I would’ve had, when I started out. Critique partners…they are invaluable. I didn’t belong to a group until well into the writing of the second book in my series. Through ACFW I was able to get connected and our small group of four is a perfect fit for each of us. Don’t be too shy to ask for help and don’t be too proud to take constructive criticism of your work, when it’s offered.
You’re singing my song.
Miralee: You don’t have to change everything that’s suggested, but if more than one person points out something wrong, take it seriously and be willing to learn. And most of all, don’t give up. If you believe that God has given you the gift or desire to write, then be obedient, even if it’s never published. When I started out, I thought the best I’d attain would be publication in magazines….having a book published didn’t seem possible. The Lord gave me this story and it needed to be written, and the rest was up to Him. My responsibility was to write it, then keep moving forward in whatever direction He pointed out.
Good advice. Thanks, Miralee. I think we focus too much on getting published when we start out. But there’s incredible freedom in this time before publication. It can be a time to explore what God wants us to do—without a deadline.
Leave a comment for a chance to win a copy of The other Daughter.
Miralee’s tour continues through November 16. Comment here, and on any of her other stops. For each blog you comment on, you will receive one entry in the drawing. So get out there and rack up entries.
The next several stops:
4th Teresa Slack---ShoutLife Blog
http://www.shoutlife.com/teresaslack
http://www.teresaslack.blogspot.com
5th Pam Meyers---A Writer’s Journey
http://pammeyerswrites.blogspot.com/
6th Betsy St. Amant---Betsy Ann's Blog
www.betsy-ann.blogspot.com
7th Megan DiMaria---A Prisoner of Hope
www.megandimaria.blogspot.com
8th Christa Allan---CBAllan WordPress
www.cballan.wordpress.com
View the complete list here.
Friday, November 2, 2007
How to Become a Bible Character, Part 3
by Timothy Fish
(If you're just tuning in, be sure to read part one and part two of this chapter.)
Chapter One…continued
“God may not be ready to send the next great world revival,” I said. Something inside of me told me that I should temper his enthusiasm a little. Whether it was from God or from Satan, I do not know. [Using every little connecting word is another thing that adds to your formal tone. “Something inside told me…” is more casual. Also, instead of “all of the rest” cutting it to “the rest” sounds more casual, plus tightens your writing.]
“I would be happy if it was just in this area,” he said. There was no stopping his enthusiasm.
“Some of the men in the Bible had a problem with pride,” I reminded him. “Don’t you think that you need to watch that?” [This would be more fitting after Neal’s statement “I want to be the one who does that one thing everyone looks back at…” Because that sounds a lot like pride.]
“I figure that if God can use me then he can work it so that I don’t have a problem with pride,” he said.
“What are you willing to do?” I asked.
“Whatever it takes,” was his answer. I assumed he was answering with a cliché.
“Then maybe you need to be asking God to use you like that.”
“I already have been,” he said. “You are the great youth minister,” he began.
Here it comes, I thought. I knew he would find some way to let me know what a bad youth minister I am.
“What is it that I can do that will make a big difference?” he finished his question.
“I wish there was something I could tell you, but I don’t know. Wait for God to show you what to do.”
“There must be something that you can tell me,” he said. “I’m tired of waiting and doing nothing. What can I try while I wait? What would it take to win a community for the Lord?”
“Let me tell you a story,” I said. His question reminded me of something. “I don’t remember where I heard this, but it was told like it was the truth. There was a small town church that called a preacher as pastor. He was all excited and wanted to go to all the houses in the area to let people know who he was and to invite them to church. The members of the church did not see much need in it, but if that was what he wanted to do then it was fine with them. They only gave him a warning about one of the houses that was near the church. They told him that a man lived there who did not like preachers. I will call him Bubba. Bubba owned the local service station, so he was well known. He did not mind his wife going to church, but he was not interested. If a preacher came around, Bubba was willing talk to him all day as long as the preacher did not start talking about the Bible. If that happened then he would chase them off with a shotgun.
“Over a period of time, the new preacher made his rounds. He went from one house to the next, but he would always avoid that one house. Weeks went by and he saw no results. He kept visiting. He kept inviting people to church. He kept sharing the gospel, but still no one showed up at church, no one accepted Christ. It was very discouraging.
“One day, the preacher was walking through town trying to visit all of the houses where he had found no one at home on previous attempts. He happened to walk past Bubba’s house and Bubba was outside working. The preacher cringed. He had been avoiding this house, but he could not walk by it with Bubba standing outside watching him. So the preacher walked up to the man and just as he had at all the other houses, he introduced himself. He did not bother to ask Bubba about the condition of his soul. He knew the man was lost. Instead, he told Bubba that he was going around to all the houses telling people that if they did not accept Christ then there was no hope for them. As he had many times before, Bubba told the preacher to either stay away from talking about the Bible or leave. The preacher moved on to the next house.
“The next Sunday, Bubba’s wife showed up at church, just like she always did. Walking in the door after her was Bubba. He was wearing the only suit he had. He had the brightest smile anyone had ever seen on his face. ‘Preacher, I got saved!’ he said when he saw the preacher.
“After that, there were many other people who started going to church and many people who got saved. It was because of the change they had seen in Bubba.”
Neal did not say anything for a moment, and then he asked, “Are you telling me that I should go find the meanest person in town and get him saved?”
“That would not be a bad thing to do, but {I am just telling you a story. If you get something out of it, then that is great!} No two situations are the same. God may use someone like Bubba to convince people they need salvation or he may choose to use something else. I guess all that I am telling you is to be open to possibilities and not to let other people tell you that something won’t work when God is telling you to do it.”
[This pastor is obviously unsure of himself. That’s a great characteristic you can work with. But I’m not sure he should say the part in brackets above. Reading the subtext, I hear, “Hey, I’m just talking because I don’t know what else to say. If you learn something from my babbling, super!”
Maybe that’s just me. Plus, I think the point of that story got lost. Bubba gave no indication that it was the pastor who led him to salvation. I was waiting to hear who finally got through to Bubba.]
Neal left my office and I turned my attention back to my sermon outline. I thought he would be on his way home when he stuck his head back into my office.
“Did you want me to teach on Sunday?” he asked.
“Sure, I’ll let you teach,” I said.
“Great! I had this really good idea.”
I did not find out what that idea was until Sunday.
I arrived at church on Sunday at my usual time with Tiffany and our two kids.
“Brother James wants to see you,” someone said as I came through the door.
The tone of voice told me that I was already in hot water with our senior pastor and that was why he wanted to see me. I could not imagine what I had done that early in the day. Whatever it was it had gotten me into hot water even before I had made it to my office.
I found him in his office. He asked me to close the door, so I figured I was in big trouble. It was the appropriate thing to do, but closed-door sessions in the pastor’s office have always made me nervous.
“Have a seat,” he said.
“I have a class in a few minutes,” I said. I wanted to feel the water a little. I did not tell him that Neal would be teaching anyway. If he said that he would not keep me long then I knew I would survive. If he said he had already told someone else to take the class then I would start drafting my resignation in my head.
“I won’t keep you very long,” [I don’t like when characters echo exactly what someone thought they might say. Have him phrase it differently than
“I know you want to help the youth and all that,” he said, “but there are some things that need to go through the proper channels. I had some people come to me because they are concerned about you using money for the youth department to buy tables and chairs, a refrigerator and a microwave. They said you were going to put these things in one of the classrooms.”
“I don’t know where they got that idea,” I said. I was shocked. “I have no plans to buy any of that stuff. The church already has the things we need in that way.”
“They said you already have the microwave.”
“I don’t know what they could be talking about.”
“Well, for some reason, a few people have it in their heads that you are planning something like that. If you are, we need to be careful about bringing the whole church on board with the idea.”
“They should come to me and ask if they have questions about what I am doing.”
“Yes, they should, but they didn’t do that.” [typical]
The situation had shaken me, but I finally made it to the classroom. When I walked in, there in front of me was a microwave. It was on a table at the front of the room.
“Bother
“A lot of hot water,” I said. This had to be what had started the rumors. [Rumors and conclusion-jumping? In church? Noooo. :o)]
“How did you guess?” he asked.
“I didn’t,” I told him. “I meant that I’ve already had a lecture about it this morning.”
“Why should you get lectured? I asked Mom before I brought it up here. It is our microwave. If my parents don’t mind if I use it then why should anyone else care?”
“It was just a misunderstanding,” I said. “I take it that you have some kind of object lesson for us?”
Neal’s only purpose for having the microwave in the classroom was to heat water. At one point during the lesson, Neal heated some water. [Tighten to “…was to heat water, which he did at one point during the lesson.”] He put the cup of water on the table and then held up a grain of sand that was so small that I could not see it between his fingers. He held the sand above the cup and let it fall. The water erupted into violent bubbles. He tied the object lesson closely to the discussion we had had earlier in the week. He shared, with the class, his desire to be like that grain of sand and to make something much bigger happen.
I still had no idea how he might pull something like that off, but the more I heard him talk about it, the more I began to realize how determined he was to do it. It seemed that he would do anything short of stepping into the pages of the Bible and if it were possible, I would not have put that past him.
My final thoughts: I can see the potential for a story here, a good premise. The nervous, no-self-confidence associate pastor who I’m sure is going to learn some valuable lessons from a teenager who has it all together, spiritually, and is on fire for the Lord. Just be sure that the pastor isn’t so self-doubting that it’s hard to like him and root for him.
This third scene includes some conflict. The pastor’s goal was to get to his Sunday School class, which he wouldn’t have to teach, so he can just sit back and relax. Then he’s diverted from his goal and called into the senior pastor’s office. That’s what makes for conflict—when something gets in the way of what the main character wants, or when two characters in the same scene have opposing goals. Plus we see the indirect conflict with the congregation.
The first two scenes have none of that. So they read like everyday incidents of little significance. And there really are three separate scenes altogether, but you haven’t included any scene breaks. You’ll need those or you’ll tire the reader.
When you relax your language, I’m sure more personality will come through in your words. Then you just have to paint a picture of your character’s emotions and make goals, conflicts and problems more apparent.
And just a reminder, since I don't normally post on Saturday, to come back tomorrow for Miralee Ferrell's interview. I was hoping to receive my copy of The Other Daughter in time to post a review on my date of the tour, but it hasn't arrived yet. Maybe it will come in today's mail and I'll pull an all-nighter. In any case, as soon as I can, I'll be posting a review.
Thursday, November 1, 2007
Miralee Ferrell blog tour
Miralee Ferrell is currently conducting a blog tour for her recently released first book, The Other Daughter. Saturday is my stop. I’ll have a brief interview and other tidbits. Here’s a summary of the book.The girl standing at the door took a deep breath, pulling her suitcase a little closer to her trembling legs. "My mama's dead. He's my daddy."
Susanne Carson knew that she could trust the love of her life—her husband, David—until she discovered a strange, unkempt young girl on their doorstep, claiming to be David's daughter.
Not that their marriage had ever been perfect—David's decision to embrace the Christian faith had strained their relationship. Susanne may not have agreed with his beliefs, but at least she trusted him. Had David been hiding this not-so-little secret from his past? He wanted Susanne to believe in his God, but believing hadn't done much to keep David out of another woman's arms.
As David confronts the truth of his past, Susanne must face her own moment of truth as her marriage is taken to the breaking point and the life of one young girl is left in her hands.
Read the entire opening scene at Miralee's web site:
www.miraleeferrell.com
The Other Daughter released in October. Look for it at a bookstore near you, or order from www.Amazon.com or www.Christianbook.com
Here are the dates for the entire blog tour, so you can go back and catch the ones that were posted earlier:
Oct. 20th Karen Phillips---Sky-High View
http://sky-highview.blogspot.com/
LaShaunda Hoffman—See Ya On The Net
http://lashaunda.blogspot.com
http://sormagtours.blogspot.com
21st Angie Arndt---The Road I'm Traveling
http://psmcmanus.blogspot.com
22nd Deena Peterson---Deena's Books
http://deenasbooks.blogspot.com
22nd Teresa Morgan---Teresa Morgan's Blog
http://www.teresamorgan.blogspot.com
23rd Rose McCauley---Stories of Faith, Hope and Love
www.rosemccauley.blogspot.com
Pattie Reitz----Fresh Brewed Writer
www.xanga.com/pattierwr
and
http://freshbrewedwriter.blogspot.com
24th Cecelia Dowdy---New Christian Fiction Reviews
www.ceceliadowdy.blogspot.com
Tiffany Amber Stockton--A Fiction-Filled Life
www.ambermiller.com
25th
http://thekoalabearwriter.blogspot.com
Stormi Johnson---Write Thoughts
http://writesthoughts.blogspot.com
26th Robin Grant---Queen Of Perseverance
http://queenofperseverance.blogspot.com
27th Delia Latham---The Melody Within
http://themelodywithin.blogspot.com
28th Jennie McGhan---Jen's Life Journey
http://www.shoutlife.com/cmpctjen
and
http://jenslifejourney.blogspot.com/
29th Susan Lohrer ---Inspirational Editor
www.inspirationaleditor.blogspot.com
30th Carla Stewart---Carla’s Writing Café
www.carlastewart.blogspot.com
31st Christina Berry--- Posting with Purpose
www.authorchristinaberry.blogspot.com
November
1st Bonnie Leon---Bonnie's Blog
www.bonnieleon.blogspot.com
2nd Jan Parrish---Bold and Free
www.janparrish.blogspot.com
4th Teresa Slack---ShoutLife Blog
http://www.shoutlife.com/teresaslack
http://www.teresaslack.blogspot.com
5th Pam Meyers---A Writer’s Journey
http://pammeyerswrites.blogspot.com/
6th Betsy St. Amant---Betsy Ann's Blog
www.betsy-ann.blogspot.com
7th Megan DiMaria---A Prisoner of Hope
www.megandimaria.blogspot.com
8th Christa Allan---CBAllan WordPress
www.cballan.wordpress.com
9th Susan Marlow---Suzy Scribbles---Homeschool Blogger
http://www.homeschoolblogger.com/SuzyScribbles/
10th Jamie Driggers---Surviving the Chaos
www.survivingthechaos.blogspot.com
11th Cindy Bauer----Christian Fiction Author & Speaker
www.cindybauer.blogspot.com
12th Angie Breidenbach---God Uses Broken Vessels
http://godusesbrokenvessels.blogspot.com
13th Patricia Carroll---Patricia PacJac Carroll
http://patriciapacjaccarroll.blogspot.com/
14th Toni V. Lee---Spreading Truth Through Fiction
http://tonivlee.blogspot.com
15th Camille Eide---Faith Inspiring Fiction
http://camillecannon.blogspot.com/
16th Lisa Jordan---Musings
http://lisadjordan.blogspot.com/
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
How to Become a Bible Character, Part 2
By Timothy Fish timothyfish.net
Chapter One…continued
I went over to grab another slice of pizza. Every other pizza I had ever tasted came in at a far second to this pizza. I decided that God must really be good to put me in a position where even the pizza was great. Everything was working out right. Our senior pastor had made it clear that he thought I would make a good replacement for him when he retired. I was not sure when that would be, but since he was over eighty I did not figure it would be very long. I secretly made the decision to keep the things in my office to a minimum. That would make it easier to move my stuff into the larger office down the hall when the time came. I did not tell anyone about that because I did not want people to think that I was just sitting around waiting for when I could move up to Senior Pastor. It was not that there was anything wrong with my idea. I believe that it is biblical. Moses trained Joshua; Elijah trained Elisha; Jesus trained the apostles; Paul trained Timothy and Titus. There would times that I would wonder if I should train Neal and then expect him to take over the youth ministry when I moved on.
[Ah, here’s some narration. I can even see some humor trying to peek through the shroud of stuffiness your language (lack of contractions) throws over it.]
“So, what do you think?” Tiffany asked as she came up behind me.
“I think I am overwhelmed,” I said.
“We’ll do alright,” she said and scratched my back with her fingernails. “They are all good kids.”
[She must be his wife. For a second I was creeped out there. A lot of names came at me and I forgot Tiffany was even the one he came in with. Please do introduce her as his wife.]
With one word, Tiffany had said that I was not going into this thing alone. Sure, I had the title, for what little it was worth, but we would be doing the work together. To me, that is how a family is supposed to serve the Lord. It does not always work that way. I have seen some families where the man works in one ministry while the woman works in another. In other families, he serves in the ministry and she stays home with the kids. I think it would be better to remain single than to have a family that you only see when you pass each other in the halls at church. What would be the fun of having someone to talk to if you do not have anything in common?
[With the hours a pastor puts in, I understand he’s happy they work in the same ministry. I get what you’re saying, but be careful. Have him focus on the positive—the benefits of having his wife work at his side. Don’t say anything negative. Readers will often mistake your character’s opinions for your own. You seem to be saying that no one should get married if they aren’t going to work together. Like they can’t have anything in common outside of a job. In that case, they’ll dislike your character and you.
Our youth pastor’s wife is a stay-at-home mom. She’s by his side working with the youth when she can, but her main responsibility is to her 3 kids, all under the age of 4.
I’m a writer. My husband does construction maintenance. He’s laid back. I tend to worry. What we have in common is deep faith and a sense of humor. (See, you managed to offend me, and I’m here to help! :o)]
“Yes, they are good kids, but I didn’t realize that there would be so many of them,” I said.
“These are only part of them. Maybe your predecessor wasn’t as bad as what some people seem to think.”
“That could be,” I said. “Or it could be that kids like Neal have had a major influence.”
I do not know how much influence Neal had with the man who worked with the youth before me, but he had a tremendous impact on my own efforts to lead the youth ministry. As an associate pastor, [Finally, a job title. We need this info sooner.] I had other responsibilities as well, so there was a temptation to let the youth ministry slide some. Sometimes, I did not even notice that I was letting it happen, but Neal did. I could always tell when he did not think I was doing enough.
[Wait a minute; I was at a pizza party in someone’s house. Now I don’t know where I am, or how much time has passed. Other than meeting Neal, did anything happen at that party? Finish up that scene, then move on, with an obvious transition.]
“We should go on a float trip this summer,” he might say.
“We’ll see,” I would say. “It takes money to do that kind of stuff.”
“Most of us have money we can pay,” he would say.
“Let me think about it.”
“Isn’t there a big youth meeting coming up?” he once asked.
“Yes, there is,” I said, remembering that I had promised to take the youth group.
“When do we have to have our paperwork in?” he asked.
“Not for a while,” I said and then went back to my office and discovered that it would have to be in a lot sooner than I had thought. After that, I was more careful about keeping everything organized. He never told me directly that he thought I was falling down on the job. I just felt it at times.
[That little bit of remembered dialog might sound better in summary. The “might say” “would say” gets a little tedious. Try something more along the lines of: Neal often made activity suggestions, such as a summer float trip. All I could think of is the money it would take, until Neal reminded me the teens had their own money to spend. Or he’d nudge me into remembering the teens had permission slips that should be due.]
It was a few weeks after I started working with the youth that Neal walked into my office and I panicked as I tried to think of what I had forgotten. It was right after school let out for the day, so I assumed that he had dropped by the church on his way home.
“Brother Wayne, have you got a few minutes?” he asked me, calling me by my first name rather than my last. [If someone introduces him by full name earlier, you won’t need that explanation.]
“Sure, what is on your mind?” I asked and swiveled my chair so that I could face him rather than look at the sermon notes on my computer screen.
Neal did not answer immediately. He took a seat in front of my desk. He sat there for a few moments while I waited.
“I want to do something important,” he said.
Finally something I can help him with, I thought. “Would you like to teach the high school Sunday school class this Sunday?” I asked.
“No,” he said, “I mean, I will if you want me to, but that isn’t what I mean.”
“Maybe you had better explain it to me,” I said.
“I’m not sure if I know how to explain it,” he said.
“Give it a shot. I’m sure you can muddle through it.”
[Telling the kid he can muddle through isn’t exactly going to be a confidence booster. Unless you’re trying to show this pastor fumbling.]
“You know how in the Bible it tells about all these different individuals who did something that no one else would do and it made a difference? I want to do something like that.”
“I don’t follow you,” I told him. He was clearly thinking about something different than I was. I was concerned about a sermon for Sunday night and a lesson for Sunday morning. Tiffany and I had an appointment to visit a church member that evening. I had just heard that a couple of church members were talking about getting a divorce and here was Neal talking about who knows what. I could not figure out what could be more important than teaching a class or sharing the gospel with others and I had seen him do both of those.
“I want to be a Bible character, you know, like Moses. He led the people out of
“You want to be Moses? A Bible character?” I asked. He was not making sense and the last I had checked, God was not calling any more people to lead the children of
“I don’t want to be Moses,” Neal said. “I want to be like Moses.” [Again, give us some body movements, expressions. Not only to avoid “said” once in a while, but to flesh out the dialog, add emotion, and give us something to picture—something to anchor us in the scene. Neal doesn’t quite know how to say what he’s trying to say. How is that frustration echoed in his body language? Does he fidget? Is he making eye contact, or avoiding it?
The pastor doesn’t understand. What does that do to his body language? Maybe he’s leaning forward, trying to catch something the boy isn’t saying.]
“You want to be like Moses?” I asked. Once more, I could not make sense of what he was saying. The only thing I could do was echo him.
“Not just Moses. Sampson, Gideon, Nehemiah, Esther, any of them. Like Joshua. He stood up and told people that he and his house were going to serve the Lord. Don’t you think that made a difference when he did that?”
“Yes, I am sure it did,” I said.
“That’s what I want,” he said. “I want to be the one who makes a difference.”
“You are already making a difference,” I said. “You are the most dedicated teenager I know. You may not see the results of what you are doing now, but someday all of these seeds you are planting will take root and produce fruit.”
“I’ve heard all of the clichés before,” he said. He was visibly growing impatient [show us this—how so?] with me because I could not understand. “The guy who mows the yard is told that someone might have been saved that wouldn’t have come to church if the grass hadn’t been mowed. The lady that cleans the restroom is told that people might stop coming if the restrooms smell bad, so she has a part in people being saved.”
“I don’t remember telling anyone that, but I would agree with that statement,” I said.
“Is it really true?” he asked.
“Of course it is,” I said.
“Then why is it that we keep doing all this busywork, the grass gets mowed, the building cleaned, the classes taught, the sick visited and the number of baptisms keeps going down?”
“Maybe some churches are not doing their part,” I suggested. “Baptisms at this church have increased some since last year.”
“Three or four,” Neal said. He had seen the same numbers I had. “That is hardly worth bragging about.”
“Any increase is good,” I reminded him.
“Why do we have to settle for just a small increase? Isn’t God big enough to give us more than that?”
“All I can say is that we need to pray and expect more from God.”
“I don’t want to just pray. I want to be right in the middle of it. I want to be the one he uses.”
“You want to be the one who turns the tide,” I said. I was finally beginning to understand him.
“Exactly!” he said. “I want to be the one who does that one thing that everyone looks back at and says ‘that is where it all started.’”
***
(There’s really no good place to divide this section, so I'll just have to interrupt this conversation. Until Friday.)
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