If The Walls Could Talk

My house is full of story walls. In today’s time-sensitive world, making a point form version of the story you can hold and pin on a blank surface is considered a waste of time. But outlines for novels and scripts help me lift my game: weaknesses in the plot become obvious when staring you in the face—literally.

The storyboard is like a work of art, capturing your project in one visual. Stand back, and take in the patterns. Why is Act One so full? Why does more happen in Chapter 7 than the first third of the novel?

And not a printed word document but handwritten notes. Penning your concepts makes weak points glaringly obvious. The realization a chapter is flimsier than you thought really hits home during the process of writing it down, and pinning it up.

This also means you can make alterations when inspiration strikes. Scrawl a note, and stick to the storyboard. The plot is whole, organic, and open to change. Even when busy it just takes a moment to vastly improve your project.

On top of the basic penned narrative I use colored post-its so I can pinpoint where exposition, action, or romance take place. Gaps in the colors help you “see” portions of the story still tangled, or lacking.

A character falling by the wayside becomes abundantly clear. Looking at a storyboard shows Susan went to buy dinner—and never came back. Or highlights that Bob can’t be involved in the reveal in Act Four because he wasn’t around when everything went down in Act Two.

Walking past a storyboard engages your subconscious. A part of your mind is mulling over the project even when other aspects of life blow up. Each moment counts: a masterpiece can be put together around the edges of everyday routine.

And this way, making changes, replacing one piece of paper with an updated version, isn’t discouraging. Instead you’re working toward a better mosaic of ideas that will lead to a  much stronger finished product.

Best of all, when you do wrap up the novel/script, physically taking down that storyboard is so satisfying.

My Young Adult novel Otherplace

Otherplace is my first Young Adult novel, making me appreciate the "requirements" of the genre. (To clarify, there are no real rules, merely patterns and trends that have emerged over time.) Writing for a younger audience calls for a slight shift in vocabulary, pace, and tone.

So how was writing this book different to writing Sound? 

I find people are more accepting of impetuousness in a Young Adult novel. A life choice made by a 16-year-old character is perceived differently to a life choice made a 36-year-old character. Descriptiveness is also kept to a minimum, as if the words in a YA book have been whittled to a sharp point.

What I think of as "realization" is another key factor. The lead characters often realize their place in the world (or how to go about finding it), their emotional strength, ways to handle relationships/personal connections, and the ability to say no (or yes). Sometimes they discover a sense of purpose, and begin to work out a way to forge their own path.

Otherplace includes adventures that would have appealed to me at 15 or 16. The story is also a traditional linear narrative (no unreliable narrator this time), and a coming of age tale with consecutive internal/external journeys.

My favorite books were always really imaginative fare, probably why Otherplace leans toward slipstream more than anything else, melding elements of the fantastical with the futuristic. What can I say? My imagination isn’t big on following rules.

Here is the promotional text, and the novel is currently available on Amazon Kindle as an ebook (highly affordable, hint, hint). To purchase click here

The One says all Placeless must Fade.

Citizens of Otherplace who don’t know where they belong have three choices: hide, run, or Fade from existence.

With Place Police sweeping the Dome, Hellen and her brother Hop are forced to take refuge at Desperachen Manor. Over time they realize one thing is worse than being Placeless: being prey.

From the seemingly magical life of a Module at the Castle to the rebel caves on the border, it turns out Placeless have secret allies and mortal enemies everywhere.

What is the purpose of Symon’s talisman? Why does Prince Charming have so many faces? How did Death become trapped inside a person? And is there any truth to the seer’s prediction?

Will Hellen really save them all?

The Conceptualist: An Excerpt

My novel The Conceptualist is one of my faves, and scheduled for release in 2016. 

Set in the near future, the story is split between two perspectives: that of Grey, the famous Conceptualist struggling to hold onto her sanity while navigating a shifting cultural landscape on the brink of war, and Byre, the charismatic son of the President who lives to party, has a clone bodyguard, and enjoys twin lovers. At least, that's the persona he cultivates.

I won't ramble on about the concept (bound to happen next year) but I will leave this sample here, lifted from Byre's first chapter.

...Nearly falling, it takes my tired mind a split second to deal with the derailing. Across the room Jarred sits up almost on cue, metallic pupils glinting in the dim light.

“Heard you were somewhere on the left side.” He slides out of input phase and the gaming vision folds back from each iris, returning his eyes to their standard blue.

“Grav levels?” I wade across the room, my breath on the security panel of the cupboard almost a sigh. Grabbing clean threads, I turn around to face the latest issue on a long list.

“Any second, info freak. Conceptual kick?”

“Scape sounds.” My head’s cracking from fast flights, too many thoughts, and a serious lack of sleep.

“Where?” He gets up off the floor, pausing for balance. “Glacier? Volcano? Or will it filter through later?"

“Don’t remember.”

"Not surprising." Wired tight, it’s obvious he’s been hooked in for a while. 

I head for the sonic, moving faster now the gravity’s balancing.

“Trying to make this scene play a little smoother?” The mild tone is laced with a whisper of tension he can’t quite subdue.

“Are you holding?”

“What are you wanting?”

“Nutrients, maybe a low adrenaline. Alert, but not-”

“-So she can tell you needed a helping hand?” He throws a few slips across. “Kind of clear from the clothes you picked. They’re a little muted.” Moving to his setup he slides into the chair. “Besides, you’ve got that look you always get before you’re reeled in. Hail the conquered hero. Jaz is back, by the way.”

I pause mid-step. “Why?”

“Lives here, doesn’t she?”

The words are gently mocking, but I’m not in the mood for games. “And?” Leaning against the wall, I slide one slip under my tongue, another under the nail. “Is she here?”

A quick scan of the premises doesn’t read anything. He kicks the system on, and streaming visuals fill the air. From what I can decipher, he’s lining up status reviews for pre-submersion.

“Jaz was here this morning, but she’s out now.” The clipped sentence say a lot, but not enough.

“She’s meant to be on a high velocity tour for at least three more rotations.”

“Well, things change.”

“Not a scaled tour. Takes a lot to get out of that kind of contract.”

“Yes, it does.” Suddenly my features float across a dozen different holoscreens, alongside another face. “Source the transience, hey?” Haunting eyes hover at face level, over and over.

I try to control my reaction because that’s one thing he’s always monitoring. “It’s not what you think,” is all I have—the truth. I'm too tired to come up with a lie shaded in enough facts.

“You know what I’m thinking?” An ironic twist of his mouth almost becomes a smile. “Interesting how the pattern’s unfolding. Odd, actually.” He spins to face me, expression unreadable. “But I’m just a rich gamer who doesn’t like to think too much, especially in dangerous directions.” The images disappear.

“Probably best,” I manage.

“But Jaz panicked. Because for her, there really is only the surface.”

‘It’s her beauty,” I feel compelled to point out. “If you don’t see the depths, you can’t see the shadows.”

“She panicked because?”

I sigh. “Because she thinks she understands me.”

“A little,” he agrees. “But she has no idea, does she?”

The flood of visuals light up again, back to flowing unintelligible graphics, droning gamer stats, and analytic streams of code. Haloed by the information, he spins, attention split between the complication in the room and the neural seduction of the game.

 “Let me guess: she was worried she wouldn’t get to read me, but Legal had to be in person.”

And since I’m here…” He leaves the rest unsaid.

“She’ll get a clear contract. Or at the very least, a delay.” A reprieve is the best I can offer, because it’s all I can offer, and we both know it.

“You‘re going to be late.” He turns his head to meet my eyes. The tone tries for mellow, but the look is cold.

“Glacier,” I point out distractedly. “It was a glacier.”

Locked in that gaze, it’s like her pain is here in the room. My heart feels seared by it.

“Can’t believe I thought the whole emotive connection you two transmit was a kick.” I shrug, trying to shake off the wild, uncontrolled feed.

A lazy grin spreads across his face. “It’s all hers?”

Too much already, I can’t help thinking. I need a break.

“So do I.”

He scores a dirty look for that illegal read. “Got to clean up.”
Not that he offers to join me, but I slam the door anyway. Fucking telepaths.

It Takes Two To Tango

Note: This blog was originally published Febrary 15th, 2015. 

Writing more than one novel at a time might sound odd but the process is surprisingly helpful, in terms of keeping the words flowing in a relatively steady stream.

I’ve been jumping between The Conceptualist (cover pictured below) and The Studio (no cover design yet). Maybe a hop, step and a jump would be a more accurate description; one book is speculative fiction, the other general fiction (although the short story extracts in The Studio probably qualify as slipstream), and it takes a change of mental gears to redirect my thoughts.

The biggest benefit? Your mind doesn’t get stuck. If a section isn’t working, instead of fretting, you bypass the whole issue by focusing on a different project. It’s like walking from one room to another inside your head. The good news is your subconscious keeps working in the other room, getting the ideas to line up in sentences and behave themselves before you get back.

When both rooms are throwing a party? That’s a problem. The brain wants to to simultaneously soak up the happening scenes, and it just isn’t possible. But I figure an inability to focus on one project because two are screaming in your mind is a lot better than the infamous writer’s block everyone keeps talking about.

My brain is more prone to trying to write too many things at once, leaving me cross-eyed thanks to a confusing mishmash of sentences from multiple projects streaming through my skull. Those are the days I feel like I’m meditating in one room while trying to ignore the sounds of a fantastic get together next door…

On a side note, yesterday was Valentines Day, and I went to see Peter Bibby play at Bar 459 at the Rosemount Hotel, in the Blokes In Coats ensemble. Was a lot of fun, but it also made me think about The Studio (which focuses on a group of charismatic artists), because I believe a strong stage presence like Bibby’s is its own form of charisma. Or maybe you could say, a projection, or channeling, of charisma?

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