God help me, I did it...

I finally made Aggie hit Stella. And not just hit her. Burrow her fingers into the soft flesh in her upper arm and pinch. A hidden cruelty, shielded by the mother's unwashed body, which is pressing Stella so tightly into a corner the girl is afraid she might faint. Pain, pressure, body odor--I threw it all at the poor, helpless child.

I didn't cry when I did it, but I wanted to.

I did it right there in the middle of the second chapter, after the morticians take George's body away. I did it so no reader can say they didn't know things would only get worse.

You guys told me I had to do it, and I knew you were right. Describing the already yellowing bruise or the memory of the sting of the slap wasn't enough to be honest about the stakes. Now what happens to Stella and what she does can all make crazy sense.

Since you told me I had to do it I'd been stalled. And now that I've done it other parts are falling into place too. I hope it's worth the damage. I don't mean to me, because I can take it. But oh, my poor Stella. ~ Victoria Tirrel

What Will They Do Next?

The comments from the writers group last week have really propelled me forward in my thinking about my book’s plot. I am currently working on a scene where I am putting several characters, who have previously been shown interacting separately, all into one room. It is actually exciting to watch the dynamics between them, the underlying jealousy and resentment, the sexual tension, the flaunting of familiarity and the brute force of class distinctions.

We as writers live amazing lives, working with characters from acorn to oak, some of whom start as supple seedlings, others who seem to emerge fully grown with an unbending will and a trajectory through life that can not be changed. I find that when I can't write a scene it is because the characters within it don't want my interference. They seem to move before I see them, speak before I hear them. "We're living our lives here! Stop telling us what to do!"

I'm beginning to think the "muse" is the state of mind when the brain does not try to think, does not try to analyze, but simply spills out images directly to the hands. The censor and the critic are left a split second behind, too late to stop the raw emotion good writing requires. Like living in dreams, writing fiction means going for a ride in a world where the brain gets to play however it wants to and that's why it is so darn fun.

Amy

I am distracted

. . . by the cold
. . . by my job (boy, howdy does it distract me--dysfunction central!)
. . . by my recovery from pneumonia
. . . by writing contests
. . . by all my friends who are out of work and thus on the edge of financial insolvency even though they are all in their 40s and 50s and should have planned better (and probably I should help them, right?)
. . . by all the approaching holidays (Valentines, my birthday, St. Pats) that bring with them EXPECTATIONS (mine and others)
. . . by global warming
. . . by trying to work on two novels at once
. . . by more fears, taboos, aspirations, ideas, rage fantasies and big Os than perhaps any one person should have in a lifetime

Hmmmm . . . these all sounds like good writing prompts to me! ~ Victoria Tirrel

Missing people who don't exist

After I finished Amy's manuscript, I've been impatient to read more. I have to wait for Amy to write it.

It's an odd feeling I have, to be so intrigued with a story, anxious to know what happens to these people. I feel they are suspended and I worry about them, as though they really exist.
Reva

Moving It

"Someone we know is a murderer" is the title of my current chapter. In it a husband and wife, a former county sheriff and his sometimes deputy, are faced with the realization that one of several close family members committed murder. What shall they do about it? It adds to their moral dilemma that no one else suspects murder, and the current sheriff won't even bother to look into it--let's just say the victim is such a thorough villain that no one, even his family, mourns his demise. This sheriff in the book's time of 1939 can get by with such a lax attitude, particularly because of where it took place. Read on.

I placed the couple in their rural kitchen, around their table, where all good discussion takes place. But wait, haven't they been there before, in a previous chapter. I don't need to describe the room again, and how many times can one of them get up from their chair and pour another cup of coffee, even in an American/Norwegian kitchen?

So I've been slogging through their dialogue, not really happy with the scene. At work one day, while walking to the lunch room where I would get in another 15 to 20 minutes of writing, the solution came to me--move them! Duh.

Now their conversation takes place inside their car that is moving on gravel roads from the small town which is the county seat (where the man has had his unsatisfying conversation with the sheriff) to their rural home, some 12 miles up-in-the-hills. During their argument the car makes three turns, each time onto less well-traveled and less well-maintained roads (from state to county to township roads) until they turn into their own driveway which is well kept and graveled.

In addition, I get to describe the country that they travel through (you can't see much from a kitchen window), which makes me happy. "All landscapes are sacred."

Will all this make the reader happy? My six writing mates will let me know when it's done and I share it with them.

Oh. My "idea" came while I was moving, too. I bet there's a message in there somewhere.

Angela