One thing that occurred to me about names, that may or may not have bearing for you is this - One of the first decisions I make about a book, when the very first sliver of an idea begins to form is:
What emotional reaction do I want my reader to walk away with?
For me, this is one of the most important questions I grapple with when trying to decide what I want the tone of the book to be, what themes I want to explore. Oftentimes, I don’t “decide” it at all, it comes part and parcel with the idea.
But the answer to that question will color everything, from the type of action you have, to the way your characters behave, to the details you choose to highlight throughout your book, most definitely including names.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Names Are Destiny
Of course, one of the most obvious things names do is convey shades of character. Clearly a person named Mandy gives off an entirely different feel than one named Cassandra.
Not only can you have a lot of fun with this, you can let the names do some of the heavy lifting in terms of setting the tone. I do this a lot in the Theodosia books. It was especially fun naming the three governesses who bedevil Theo in Theodosia and the Staff of Osiris. They were short, walk on roles, so I didn’t have much space to dedicate to describing them, so I turned to their names to help set the tone of their personalities. One was unbearably repressive, another a tippling nervous wreck, and the last was a lovely looking woman, but with a vicious edge to her. The names I assigned them were Miss Chittle, Miss Sneath, and Miss Sharpe.
There is also a pompous lord named Lord Chudleigh, the chu being very reminiscent of chump.
For the Beastologist books, I wanted a family name with the venerable weight of generations and tradition behind it. But I didn’t want it to take itself too seriously, almost like an inside joke. My first choice was Dinwiddie. I’d seen that name on a billboard somewhere and fell in love with it. However, the Beastologist books are chapter books, so I needed a shorter name. I finally came up with Fludd. (Note how many of my favorite letters it has in there!) It’s short, not too common, and carries a slight sense of ridiculousness about it—especially when paired with the concept of veneration.
That’s actually something I do a lot—go far back in family history to understand where the names came from. For example, a mother who has an unusual name and hates it, will often give her daughter a more popular name. Someone who felt their name was too bland, will be inclined to give their child a more unique, individual name. Ethnic roots come into play here too, many people trying to tap into those as they name their children. Names in the 1950s were wildly different than the names we give our children now. But also the interests and focus of the family can effect names. A family of classical scholars might name their children Persephone and Augustus.
If you feel that approaching names this way feels too contrived, let me tell you that you couldn’t possibly make up the following names of REAL PEOPLE I’ve run into:
Mr. Swindle – a bank manager—no lie (and he's very upright and responsible!)
Dr. Kwacko – a doctor (Now tell me name’s aren’t destiny!)
A name I used in the Theodosia books, Fagenbush came from a kid in one of my kid’s classes back in elementary school.
Here’s an exercise I do in workshops that can be a lot of fun. Name the four following people, trying to have their names convey the attributes assigned to them:
A firm-but-fair female principal
The old, musty smelling math teacher
The boy who plays the tuba in the high school band
The girl who has been home schooled and feels socially awkward on her first day of school
Don’t forget that names aren’t limited to people. You can bring the same wealth of texture to your setting with the place names that you choose. But I’ll talk about that next week when I talk about setting
Not only can you have a lot of fun with this, you can let the names do some of the heavy lifting in terms of setting the tone. I do this a lot in the Theodosia books. It was especially fun naming the three governesses who bedevil Theo in Theodosia and the Staff of Osiris. They were short, walk on roles, so I didn’t have much space to dedicate to describing them, so I turned to their names to help set the tone of their personalities. One was unbearably repressive, another a tippling nervous wreck, and the last was a lovely looking woman, but with a vicious edge to her. The names I assigned them were Miss Chittle, Miss Sneath, and Miss Sharpe.
There is also a pompous lord named Lord Chudleigh, the chu being very reminiscent of chump.
For the Beastologist books, I wanted a family name with the venerable weight of generations and tradition behind it. But I didn’t want it to take itself too seriously, almost like an inside joke. My first choice was Dinwiddie. I’d seen that name on a billboard somewhere and fell in love with it. However, the Beastologist books are chapter books, so I needed a shorter name. I finally came up with Fludd. (Note how many of my favorite letters it has in there!) It’s short, not too common, and carries a slight sense of ridiculousness about it—especially when paired with the concept of veneration.
That’s actually something I do a lot—go far back in family history to understand where the names came from. For example, a mother who has an unusual name and hates it, will often give her daughter a more popular name. Someone who felt their name was too bland, will be inclined to give their child a more unique, individual name. Ethnic roots come into play here too, many people trying to tap into those as they name their children. Names in the 1950s were wildly different than the names we give our children now. But also the interests and focus of the family can effect names. A family of classical scholars might name their children Persephone and Augustus.
If you feel that approaching names this way feels too contrived, let me tell you that you couldn’t possibly make up the following names of REAL PEOPLE I’ve run into:
Mr. Swindle – a bank manager—no lie (and he's very upright and responsible!)
Dr. Kwacko – a doctor (Now tell me name’s aren’t destiny!)
A name I used in the Theodosia books, Fagenbush came from a kid in one of my kid’s classes back in elementary school.
Here’s an exercise I do in workshops that can be a lot of fun. Name the four following people, trying to have their names convey the attributes assigned to them:
A firm-but-fair female principal
The old, musty smelling math teacher
The boy who plays the tuba in the high school band
The girl who has been home schooled and feels socially awkward on her first day of school
Don’t forget that names aren’t limited to people. You can bring the same wealth of texture to your setting with the place names that you choose. But I’ll talk about that next week when I talk about setting
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
What's In A Name? A lot!
Forgive me blogger, for I have sinned. I have been a very boring blogger lately, and I apologize!! Profusely, no less.
To make it up to you, I promise to talk about meaty subjects for the next few weeks. Of course, many of you will have wandered away, (and rightly so) bored to tears by the lack of anything new going on here. That’s okay. Someday, in the distant future, you may wander back here and be happily surprised.
I thought I’d spent this week talking about names. Names you say? How is that a meaty subject?
Well, I get a fair amount of email asking me how I come up with the names in my book. For me, naming is a huge part of character. In fact, I cannot get very far in a novel until I have the correct name. I can be brainstorming and jotting down plot notes and some basic character sketching but until the true name clicks, I’m rudderless. The character doesn’t become real to me until that name solidifies.
The truth is, names matter. A lot. Both in real life and in fiction. So much goes into a name; parental hopes, ancestry, gender, ethnicity, and social status.
Because names carry all that weight, they can also be a hugely valuable tool in terms of world-building, setting an emotional tone, creating an integrated setting, and of course, characterization. The right name can also help anchor us in the story world, whether it be historical or contemporary or Other. Think how different the name Araminta is from Jennifer, or Carradoc is from Justin.
Plus all words have connotations, even names. The way they sound, feel, roll around in our mouths as we say them. All those elements affect how we perceive a name as well. As writers, we can use that, make it work for us. The names can do a significant amount of “showing” so we don’t have to waste time “telling.”
And then some letters are just funnier than others. I think u is the funniest of the vowels. Perhaps it's something as juvenile as being reminiscent of certain forbidden words, or hearkens back to the ugh of the caveman. I don’t know, but it amuses me.
There are also certain consonants that are funny (b, f, d, g, k) and others that are stately (s, t, r, c) and others still whose sound brings a lot to the table, (b, g, s, l, z) Let those inherent qualities in letters work for you as you choose your names.
(Of course, now you all know how slightly whacked I am about letters, but that can’t be helped.)
Tomorrow we'll talk about the different way names help convey shades of character.
p.s. Also, Mary Hershey and I are guest blogging today over on Becky Levine's blog about marketing tips for when you're pre-published, in case that's something you're interested in.
To make it up to you, I promise to talk about meaty subjects for the next few weeks. Of course, many of you will have wandered away, (and rightly so) bored to tears by the lack of anything new going on here. That’s okay. Someday, in the distant future, you may wander back here and be happily surprised.
I thought I’d spent this week talking about names. Names you say? How is that a meaty subject?
Well, I get a fair amount of email asking me how I come up with the names in my book. For me, naming is a huge part of character. In fact, I cannot get very far in a novel until I have the correct name. I can be brainstorming and jotting down plot notes and some basic character sketching but until the true name clicks, I’m rudderless. The character doesn’t become real to me until that name solidifies.
The truth is, names matter. A lot. Both in real life and in fiction. So much goes into a name; parental hopes, ancestry, gender, ethnicity, and social status.
Because names carry all that weight, they can also be a hugely valuable tool in terms of world-building, setting an emotional tone, creating an integrated setting, and of course, characterization. The right name can also help anchor us in the story world, whether it be historical or contemporary or Other. Think how different the name Araminta is from Jennifer, or Carradoc is from Justin.
Plus all words have connotations, even names. The way they sound, feel, roll around in our mouths as we say them. All those elements affect how we perceive a name as well. As writers, we can use that, make it work for us. The names can do a significant amount of “showing” so we don’t have to waste time “telling.”
And then some letters are just funnier than others. I think u is the funniest of the vowels. Perhaps it's something as juvenile as being reminiscent of certain forbidden words, or hearkens back to the ugh of the caveman. I don’t know, but it amuses me.
There are also certain consonants that are funny (b, f, d, g, k) and others that are stately (s, t, r, c) and others still whose sound brings a lot to the table, (b, g, s, l, z) Let those inherent qualities in letters work for you as you choose your names.
(Of course, now you all know how slightly whacked I am about letters, but that can’t be helped.)
Tomorrow we'll talk about the different way names help convey shades of character.
p.s. Also, Mary Hershey and I are guest blogging today over on Becky Levine's blog about marketing tips for when you're pre-published, in case that's something you're interested in.
Friday, January 23, 2009
Of Plot Threads and Sub Plots
Now that I’m diving into revisions for Theo 3, I’ve been thinking a lot about subplots. I tend to have a lot of them in the Theodosia books. Actually, what I have in the Theodosia books aren’t so much subplots as they are plot threads, which may be a distinction only I get, but it’s important to me.
I think of subplots as plots that are totally separate from the protagonist—say a love story involving the best friend, or a sibling dealing with a bully at school.
A plot thread, on the other hand, is simply another area of the protagonist’s life that the main plot affects. So using Theo as an example, the main plot is her dealing with some horribly cursed artifact. However, her actions in dealing with that impact her relationship with her parents, the other curators, her brother, and her grandmother, ergo plot threads rather than subplots.
For a really specific example, in Theodosia and the Staff of Osiris, Theo’s dealings with the Arcane Order of the Black Sun is a plot thread because it is a consequence of Theo’s primary actions in dealing with the story problem. The governesses aren’t a subplot either because their appearance in her life is caused by Theo’s behavior as she tries to cope with the story problem. In fact, the only true subplot in that book is Will and the Grim Nipper, because that dynamic is entirely separate from Theo’s actions. However, like all subplots should, it does intersect the main plot at the end. This is probably a fairly fine distinction, but one that feels important to me.
In Werewolf Rising, the Luna and Ranger relationship is a subplot and truthfully, probably doesn’t intersect back with the main plot as solidly as it should. It was, however, an effective way to show the social constraints of living in a wolf pack, rather than just tell of the rules, so in that way I think it worked as an echo of the themes Luc was dealing with; would he submit to blind obedience like Luna, the most extreme example of what that total submission could cost an individual?
It seems to me that good subplots should foreshadow the protagonist’s struggle, act as an echo of the themes the protagonist is dealing with, set up a foil, or illustrate the road not taken.
In Theo 3 I have five (okay, five and a half) plot threads. However, because of the greater amount of character development in these books, one of the plot threads has almost turned into a subplot: Stilton and his relationship with the Black Sun. Initially, it was a plot thread because Theo came under their attention due to her curse-removing actions, but the more time we’ve spent with Stilton, the more he’s developed as a character in his own right, and now has his own arc which, again, echoes some of the themes Theo is dealing with, and intersects with the main plot at the end.
One of the reasons this distinction is important to me is because I don’t think all books need subplots—a second plot line separate from the protagonist’s—but I do think most books need plot threads. The story needs to show us how the main story problem affects the characters in all aspects of their lives. Because the truth is, if something happens in our life that is momentous enough to cause us to change, that change is going to reverberate throughout all facets of our lives. You know how it is. When something happens to you, an accident, you lose your job, you have a major fight with your best friend, it doesn’t happen in a vacuum. You still have to relate to your parents or your spouse or your children, you still have to show up at work, do you chores, get to school every day. And because we’re human, the emotional tension and ripples caused by the main problem are felt in the other areas of our lives. And I think by pulling this into the story, it gives a more richly textured plot AND character—those plot threads SHOW the character in the act of changing and dealing with the main problem.
It also helps with causality. Often the characters own actions are what make her situation worse (because really, aren’t we all our own worst enemy?) So by making sure the plot affects all areas of a character’s life, you give yourself lots of opportunity for the character to make things worse for herself.
I think of subplots as plots that are totally separate from the protagonist—say a love story involving the best friend, or a sibling dealing with a bully at school.
A plot thread, on the other hand, is simply another area of the protagonist’s life that the main plot affects. So using Theo as an example, the main plot is her dealing with some horribly cursed artifact. However, her actions in dealing with that impact her relationship with her parents, the other curators, her brother, and her grandmother, ergo plot threads rather than subplots.
For a really specific example, in Theodosia and the Staff of Osiris, Theo’s dealings with the Arcane Order of the Black Sun is a plot thread because it is a consequence of Theo’s primary actions in dealing with the story problem. The governesses aren’t a subplot either because their appearance in her life is caused by Theo’s behavior as she tries to cope with the story problem. In fact, the only true subplot in that book is Will and the Grim Nipper, because that dynamic is entirely separate from Theo’s actions. However, like all subplots should, it does intersect the main plot at the end. This is probably a fairly fine distinction, but one that feels important to me.
In Werewolf Rising, the Luna and Ranger relationship is a subplot and truthfully, probably doesn’t intersect back with the main plot as solidly as it should. It was, however, an effective way to show the social constraints of living in a wolf pack, rather than just tell of the rules, so in that way I think it worked as an echo of the themes Luc was dealing with; would he submit to blind obedience like Luna, the most extreme example of what that total submission could cost an individual?
It seems to me that good subplots should foreshadow the protagonist’s struggle, act as an echo of the themes the protagonist is dealing with, set up a foil, or illustrate the road not taken.
In Theo 3 I have five (okay, five and a half) plot threads. However, because of the greater amount of character development in these books, one of the plot threads has almost turned into a subplot: Stilton and his relationship with the Black Sun. Initially, it was a plot thread because Theo came under their attention due to her curse-removing actions, but the more time we’ve spent with Stilton, the more he’s developed as a character in his own right, and now has his own arc which, again, echoes some of the themes Theo is dealing with, and intersects with the main plot at the end.
One of the reasons this distinction is important to me is because I don’t think all books need subplots—a second plot line separate from the protagonist’s—but I do think most books need plot threads. The story needs to show us how the main story problem affects the characters in all aspects of their lives. Because the truth is, if something happens in our life that is momentous enough to cause us to change, that change is going to reverberate throughout all facets of our lives. You know how it is. When something happens to you, an accident, you lose your job, you have a major fight with your best friend, it doesn’t happen in a vacuum. You still have to relate to your parents or your spouse or your children, you still have to show up at work, do you chores, get to school every day. And because we’re human, the emotional tension and ripples caused by the main problem are felt in the other areas of our lives. And I think by pulling this into the story, it gives a more richly textured plot AND character—those plot threads SHOW the character in the act of changing and dealing with the main problem.
It also helps with causality. Often the characters own actions are what make her situation worse (because really, aren’t we all our own worst enemy?) So by making sure the plot affects all areas of a character’s life, you give yourself lots of opportunity for the character to make things worse for herself.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
A Reading Fool
I haven't been on a reading bender like this in years. Love. It. It reminds me of summer vacation when I was a kid and the minute school's out you know there's nothing between you and all those lovely books you can't wait to read.
I've been reading a lot of YA, which isn't surprising since I have a YA in the mental hopper at the moment. And a lot of fae stories, which is a bit of a surprise. My guess is that I have one of those gestating down in my subconscious' depths.
Sadly, there have been a handful of books I've put down about 25% of the way in. I'm hoping once this initial reading frenzy has subsided, I'll be able to enjoy more leisurely reads. The problem I run into with each of these books that I've put down is that there is no escalation in tension, which is the third scenario I referred to in last week's post.
I have discovered that I read first for voice, then character, then plot, but really I need all three to keep going. Even if the voice is there and I love the characters, chances are if I don't get a sense of forward movement or tightening tension by about the quarter way mark, I'll put the book down. Not always, but often. Yes, I realize this reflects poorly on me as a reader. However, I'm trying to turn it into a lesson I can take back to my own writing. :-)
The thing is,it doesn't have to be bang up action, but some sort of tension, a sense that things are about to get worse for the characters, that forces are gathering just outside their vision, that they're about to walk into a trap, that something is going to happen and it's going to make things worse in some way--it can be either emotional or physical. Some forward momentum. The funny thing is, even if a book stars with a bang or tense action scene, it still has to escalate to keep my attention; it can't be a one note drum beat of the same level of tension throughout, even if you start out high, you need to leave yourself someplace to go.
So now that I've figured that out, I need to go see how it applies to my own works in progress.
And in very happy news, I finally heard back from one of my beta readers on Theo 3. It doesn't' suck! Yeay!
I've been reading a lot of YA, which isn't surprising since I have a YA in the mental hopper at the moment. And a lot of fae stories, which is a bit of a surprise. My guess is that I have one of those gestating down in my subconscious' depths.
Sadly, there have been a handful of books I've put down about 25% of the way in. I'm hoping once this initial reading frenzy has subsided, I'll be able to enjoy more leisurely reads. The problem I run into with each of these books that I've put down is that there is no escalation in tension, which is the third scenario I referred to in last week's post.
I have discovered that I read first for voice, then character, then plot, but really I need all three to keep going. Even if the voice is there and I love the characters, chances are if I don't get a sense of forward movement or tightening tension by about the quarter way mark, I'll put the book down. Not always, but often. Yes, I realize this reflects poorly on me as a reader. However, I'm trying to turn it into a lesson I can take back to my own writing. :-)
The thing is,it doesn't have to be bang up action, but some sort of tension, a sense that things are about to get worse for the characters, that forces are gathering just outside their vision, that they're about to walk into a trap, that something is going to happen and it's going to make things worse in some way--it can be either emotional or physical. Some forward momentum. The funny thing is, even if a book stars with a bang or tense action scene, it still has to escalate to keep my attention; it can't be a one note drum beat of the same level of tension throughout, even if you start out high, you need to leave yourself someplace to go.
So now that I've figured that out, I need to go see how it applies to my own works in progress.
And in very happy news, I finally heard back from one of my beta readers on Theo 3. It doesn't' suck! Yeay!
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Weak Spots in the Story Fabric
So clearly one of the things my muse* is wanting to do this week is READ! And not much else. And I'm very much okay with that because I feel like I only read three books last year that weren't for research. Also, when I'm in the throes of writing a book I become the finickiest reader on the planet. If a book doesn't feed my current project, my muse wants nothing to do with it. I can't tell you how many times I've tried to pick up a book four different times, unable to get into it, then the fifth time I picked it up, devoured it in one sitting. (And I have to say, it's highly annoying not to be able to trust your own taste sometimes.) But I digress.
One of the truly great things about immersing myself in (other people's) fiction is that certain patterns begin to emerge and it makes it easier to get a handle on some things. One thing I've been noticing a ton in the last week is certain times that are automatically structural weak spots in a book, places where it is oh-so-easy to break that fine thread that connects the reader to the story: POV shifts and jumping around in time. (There is actually a third scenario where the connection lags, but I'll talk about that in a separate post.)
This is something I've know on an academic level, but because I've been on a reading binge, it is so obvious to me where my attention starts to wander. Time shifts seem especially lethal, especially when those shifts are not in a linear fashion. The truth is, in spite of the brilliance that was The Time Traveller's Wife, for most of us, time is linear and it becomes very difficult to track with constant flashbacks and visits back in time. Those are the moments I'm most likely to set the book aside.
So this has me thinking a lot about the craft choices we make. How each thing we use gains us something, but also brings it's own set of negatives along with it, and for me at least, one of the tricks of writing is analyzing if what I gain is worth what I've lost. And I have to say that for me, I am not seeing that many scenarios where time shifts add enough to the book to make up for the connection lost. For that's what's at stake; the reader's connection to the story, to that character and that conflict and that build in dramatic tension. And if you jump back three years, all of a sudden you've broken that connection, that anchor line, and now the reader is floundering.
There are two exceptions to the above. The first, and most commonly used and easily tolerated, is having the book open at a dramatic point in time, then moving forward a few years, such as in a prologue. That most often totally works for me. The second exception is if the author has raised such a compelling dramatic question about the character's past, that the reader is salivating to know what happened. I think then, since the author is answering a question the reader wants desperately to know, it can work without losing that connection. An example of this is BROKEN FOR YOU, which I blogged about a few days ago. We are so curious about these womens' past lives, that when the author breaks away to fill us in, it is a relief.
Now POV shifts are harder. Many many books have multiple POVs, and when they're done right, having those different viewpoints adds so much to a book. But time after time I see POV shifts that just annoy the ever-loving spit out of me because they are tearing me away from the character I'm totally absorbed in and plopping me down in another person's head, for whom I have no connection at the moment.
Again, I think the answer here is to build to it. While we're in Character A's POV, have the action of the book and the dramatic tension build in such a way that the reader is dying to see what Character B is thinking/feeling. That way when the switch is made, it's satisfying a reader's desire to know more, rather than pulling them away from what they're absorbed in.
Of course, all this is based on my own reader taste and preferences. I'd love to hear anyone else's thoughts on this subject.
*I want you all to know that I use the term Muse with my tongue firmly in my cheek. It's just that I am fascinated by how my subconscious works, and it amuses me to think of it as separate from me, even though I know that it is not.
One of the truly great things about immersing myself in (other people's) fiction is that certain patterns begin to emerge and it makes it easier to get a handle on some things. One thing I've been noticing a ton in the last week is certain times that are automatically structural weak spots in a book, places where it is oh-so-easy to break that fine thread that connects the reader to the story: POV shifts and jumping around in time. (There is actually a third scenario where the connection lags, but I'll talk about that in a separate post.)
This is something I've know on an academic level, but because I've been on a reading binge, it is so obvious to me where my attention starts to wander. Time shifts seem especially lethal, especially when those shifts are not in a linear fashion. The truth is, in spite of the brilliance that was The Time Traveller's Wife, for most of us, time is linear and it becomes very difficult to track with constant flashbacks and visits back in time. Those are the moments I'm most likely to set the book aside.
So this has me thinking a lot about the craft choices we make. How each thing we use gains us something, but also brings it's own set of negatives along with it, and for me at least, one of the tricks of writing is analyzing if what I gain is worth what I've lost. And I have to say that for me, I am not seeing that many scenarios where time shifts add enough to the book to make up for the connection lost. For that's what's at stake; the reader's connection to the story, to that character and that conflict and that build in dramatic tension. And if you jump back three years, all of a sudden you've broken that connection, that anchor line, and now the reader is floundering.
There are two exceptions to the above. The first, and most commonly used and easily tolerated, is having the book open at a dramatic point in time, then moving forward a few years, such as in a prologue. That most often totally works for me. The second exception is if the author has raised such a compelling dramatic question about the character's past, that the reader is salivating to know what happened. I think then, since the author is answering a question the reader wants desperately to know, it can work without losing that connection. An example of this is BROKEN FOR YOU, which I blogged about a few days ago. We are so curious about these womens' past lives, that when the author breaks away to fill us in, it is a relief.
Now POV shifts are harder. Many many books have multiple POVs, and when they're done right, having those different viewpoints adds so much to a book. But time after time I see POV shifts that just annoy the ever-loving spit out of me because they are tearing me away from the character I'm totally absorbed in and plopping me down in another person's head, for whom I have no connection at the moment.
Again, I think the answer here is to build to it. While we're in Character A's POV, have the action of the book and the dramatic tension build in such a way that the reader is dying to see what Character B is thinking/feeling. That way when the switch is made, it's satisfying a reader's desire to know more, rather than pulling them away from what they're absorbed in.
Of course, all this is based on my own reader taste and preferences. I'd love to hear anyone else's thoughts on this subject.
*I want you all to know that I use the term Muse with my tongue firmly in my cheek. It's just that I am fascinated by how my subconscious works, and it amuses me to think of it as separate from me, even though I know that it is not.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
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