WRITING BY THE SEAT OF YOUR PANTS

I recently entered a month long 500-words-a-day challenge. ‘Easy peasy’ I thought, not realizing life had a bucket of things to throw at me over the next four weeks. I took off with gusto, whistling up 2,500 words in the first four days, thinking ‘Ah-ha, I’m ahead of this game’. Then I struck a problem.  I ran out of ideas.  I had a number of characters I intended to use in this proposed novel and this would be the first rough (very rough) draft. No one would be overseeing it, critiquing it, or ‘dishing’ it either, so I could just write, write, write. I introduced the characters, each one a gem in his/her own right but chapter two loomed and I didn’t know where to go next. No immediate plot-posts ahead to aim for and a big blank in my brain.

I remembered how many of my author friends pantster their writing. Sitting at the computer, hands above the keyboard, letting the thoughts run out of their fingertips. I’d always thought, ‘No, not for me. Couldn’t possibly work - could it?’ One writer I know throws rune stones when she runs out of plot and follows the direction the chosen stone points her in. How does she sort the ending? Throws the runes again I guess. So far no bolt of lightning has struck her dead and she’s never stuck on where to go next in her plot line. I couldn’t try that; no rune stones to hand.

Desperate, I decided to try pantstering.  Truth is stranger than fiction they say and I’ve proved it.  Out of my imagination poured all sorts of thoughts, witty dialogue, one dog and then another.  Oh no. This was going to be like a day of Facebook postings with dogs and cats everywhere.  Luckily the cats stayed away and the story raced off on a tangent. Another endearing character appeared, drawn slowly to life as his dialogue added to the word pictures and revealed more of himself. He even managed to describe and name the breed of one of the dogs! I hadn’t thought of doing that either.

This time I want to write a full length novel. Not an easy thing for me, because I always seem to end up with a novella of reasonable length, but just shy of a novel word count. I think I’ve found the answer.  Pant-ster-ing is giving me a much larger word count. I may have to kill off a character or two, even one of the dogs. I’ve stopped worrying about what I’m going to write tomorrow, because I don’t know. What I do know is that when I sit, hands poised, my brain will switch on and my imagination will click into creative mode. I become the conduit for the words to trickle out onto the keyboard. I don’t say ‘that’s too crazy’ and press backspace.  I don’t growl about all the was’s, just’s and so's that fall out of my fingers. I can delete them later. All I want is words; words that equal story bones and characters .

What bliss. I’ve been converted.  I’m a pantster for as long as it takes to reach a plot point in my planned novel.  Then again, I may never reach that point, but it doesn’t matter. I can always transfer that story point to the next novel. This one might have more exciting plot points.

 Give it a go. Become a pantster – it really works and it doesn’t hurt at all. When you’ve filled the gap in your story you can go back to being a serious plotter. No one will ever know how you filled in the gaps, unless you tell them. Curses, in my excitement I’ve typed up over 500 words when I should have been adding to my novel.  The contest organizer will never know. I’ll just include this total in this week’s word count. I typed these 668 words by the pantster method.

FIRST PRIZE to Me!

I recently won first prize for my beginning for an accumulator story run by ww.creativefrontiers.com
http://creative-frontiers.com/continue-next-part-riggins-story-enter-accumulator-short-story-competition/

How about composing the next 300 - 350 words to the story and adding it to mine.  This is a great fun competition with great prizes to be won, for just 300 words and a little effort and imagination.
Here is my entry:

Riggins pushed back her fedora and re-read the black words crawling across the cream page. No, it said the same thing with her glasses on. The spidery strokes triggered a faint memory.  She should know who wrote it. She fingered the paper. Good quality, decent thickness, not some flimsy airmail weight. She held it to the light and noted the ‘croxley’ watermark. Obviously the writer had taste, albeit shocking penmanship and didn’t mind paying full postage.  She turned it over - nothing further, not even a signature. She examined the envelope. Posted in the U.K., last week, with no return address. Damn.

If some unknown person thought she would drop everything in the middle of her secret mission to Egypt on behalf of M.I.6, (or was it 7?) to stand around at the Cairo airport with a sign saying ‘Pick Me’, then they were crazy.  With strict instructions to be undercover at all times this action would attract the attention of the local police, not to mention numerous randy British tourists arriving to see the pyramids.

Her decision to dress as a male, right down to the classy headpiece and white linen suit was her answer to ‘being  undercover’. Most female operatives would have dressed in a burqa. Few would have had the imagination to take it a further step, although the attentions of several men and their invitations to accompany them home had worried her. She blamed her heavy jaw-line inherited from her late father, Brigadier Riggins. Young men appeared to be in great demand.  She had reconsidered the burqa option on three such occasions.

But a burqua would prevent her driving a car and transport was a necessity.

She’d been chosen for this mission because of her imagination and lateral thinking. Cecily had told her this, personally. So why the hell didn’t Cecily sign the damn letter? She’d just recognized the hand writing. Could it have been written under duress? Did her boss have a gun to her head? Contract law said anything signed under duress was invalid.

Someone pounded on her door…

USING SYMBOLISM IN YOUR WRITING

At a recent Romance Writers meeting we were set an exercise in symbolism using soap, and all it's components, as the symbol. Below is my contribution:

 ****

It had her taken an enormous effort of willpower to walk out of his flat and hurry home.

 
 The hot shower made the cold walk, without a coat, worth the effort. The water cascaded down her back, its heat coursing through her veins, warming her body.  She titled her chin, leaning her head back, letting the water run over her scalp.

She reached for the soap in the recess and cupped it in her hands. It’s smooth, rounded surface reminded her of his back muscles and their lovemaking. She’d stroked his back and made the noises he liked to hear: whimpers of appreciation, mews of delight. At times she wondered at his lack of commitment, his reluctance to say ‘I love you’ -  nevermind a proposal of marriage.  This seemed further away than ever after tonight. Was he using her body? She shivered; unable to bear the idea his attraction to her could be purely physical. She pushed the idea down into the dark recess from where it had surfaced. Surely he loved her?  He must, because you only hurt the one you love. This is what the song said, and seemed to be an accepted opinion among her friends.

She rubbed her thigh, building lather and the soap slipped from her fingers to hit the floor of the shower with a thud. One corner had been flattened, its symmetry ruined, yet it retained its pleasant perfume and usefulness. Could this be her? Pleasant and useful -  with nice curves in the right places.

They’d been to the movies and then eaten a quick meal at the local Indian Takeaways. The plastic forks refused to stab into the meat, bending at the points. Even the vegetables, chilli-hot and spicy, slid off the short plastic prongs. Some fell on her white dress.  He’d been annoyed at her for squealing. Well, the dress was new and the curry powder would leave a bright yellow smear. Such a small thing really, yet it seemed to set the tone for the rest of the evening.

He‘d laughed when she said she’d forgotten her coat, but tonight he didn’t put his arm around her.  She suggested a takeaway coffee for the walk to his flat. He sucked his teeth. He did this when cross.  When he muttered he’d run out of cash she offered to pay, but he wouldn’t wait and she didn’t fancy being left behind. She should have gone home then.

She rubbed the soap across her ribs and winced. There would be a bruise. Tonight, for the first time, he’d hit her. She lathered her hair and the soap ran into her eyes, stinging them. Even the nicest of soap needs lye to make it set and cure. He seemed to be the same: an attractive, smooth mover, except for caustic element that lurked inside his nature.

She rinsed the soap out of her hair. He wouldn’t have another opportunity. She’d glimpsed the evil through a crack in his beautiful surface.

 

THE WRITING PROCESS BLOG HOP

I was tagged by Daisy Banks to participate in this blog hop. You can visit Daisy's blog and read her wonderful posts here: http://daisybanks.wordpress.com/



 Q. What am I working on?

I’m between projects. I’ve just finished the fifth in my futuristic romance series about genetically altered people. Called “Romancing the Memory Collector” and have submitted it.  I’m going to pick up a more serious short story that I’m converting into a novel. This will not be a romance – but who know romance could sneak in.

Q. How does my work differ from others in its genre?

I write my romances set in the future.  This allows me to create unusual characters and gives me the pleasure of watching technology catch up to my imagination. My characters are genetically altered with animal genes, which allow me a huge scope of amazing talents I can endow them with.
Altered at conception with a cocktail of genes they are carried by surrogate mothers who believe they are helping childless couples. The children are reared by the Defence Department in the ‘Nursery’ and if they don’t show any useful talents by the time they are seven  they are adopted out. Some of the greatest talents are latent and develop after seven years of age. These are the characters in my romances – escapees from “The Nursery” who live among the public, keeping a low profile, pretending to be normal. I write of their loves and lives. They’re absolutely charming -  could be your neighbours!

Q. Why do I write what I do?

I really don’t know. I started off with one story and then took a minor character from each story to create the next.  I have a delightful character that has popped up in the latest vella but she is going to have to wait a while before I use her

Q. How does my writing process work?

I will have a germ of an idea.  I write it down so that I don’t lose it, then leave it to ferment in my brain.  I need to have a few basic plot points to hang the story around and once I start writing other events will occur and side characters always emerge.  I’m a cross between a plotter and a panster!  I can’t write without a basic idea path to follow. I often sort out the beginning of a chapter in my head before I start. I think the beginning of each chapter is very important to capture the reader’s attention; almost as important as the last line of a chapter that gives the ‘hook’ to make the reader turn the page and carry on.

I also write poetry and short fiction  - and I love creating cameo scenes with a twist.

On the 28th March you can hope over to catherine Mead's blog and read how she creates her novels and characters. Her blog address is: www.catherinemede.com

Also on the 28th March Love's Bright Star will be a free download from Amazon for the whole day.  Take advantage of this opportunity and read the first of my series.

PONDERING ON POETRY

Recently I was one of six finalists in a poetry competition with a first prize of $1,000.  This figure alone should get the average writer’s heart pounding but surprisingly the competition received only twenty seven entries.

True, this was a New Zealand competition, and concerned the 150 year commemoration of a British versus Maori battle. The significance being that this was one of the first battles that Maori won using trench warfare. (None of this standing in square, chests marked with crossed red webbing that invited the opposition to ‘aim here’ as the British forces were forced to do in the eighteen hundreds.)

For the final judging we six poets were asked to read our poems aloud, before the Judge.  A small crowd filled a room off a restaurant and between the two sets of readings the audience were entertained with a song by one of the descendents of the Maori who fought and still live in this district.

I didn’t win but was heartened to see the youngest poet claim the prize money. Hopefully this will inspire her to write more poetry and I am sure the money will be well invested in her future education. There wasn’t a brief for this contest: simply write a poem to commemorate the Battle of Gate Pa. It was a shot in the dark as to what you wrote as the history and information available was comprehensive.   http://history-nz.org/wars4.html 

I thoroughly enjoyed the creation, editing, rewriting, tweaking, and my final selection of stanza before I submitted my effort. 

On the night I met up with fellow writers and poets I hadn’t seen for some time and had the satisfaction of reading my poem to a captive audience, something that is not always possible to find.

I’m a great fan of entering competitions. Just by entering you are improving your writing skills. I now have a poem I love; on a subject I wouldn’t ordinarily have chosen to write about. Plus it will now be filed in the local Library’s kete (learning basket) and available through Te Papa’s website. Te Papa is our national museum. There is even talk of recording the pieces, read by their creators and for these recordings to be available for the public to listen to.

  

What more can a poet want?