My last post focused on revising a nightmare for one of my main characters. I would feel remiss if I didn't post my latest draft to show you the changes. This is still not final...
She stood at the conference room table of her former employer, Minerva Pollux. She gazed to the window, Lower Manhattan pierced by her bold and surprisingly thin reflection in a cranberry red suit. She turned, as if in slow-motion, the faces around the table coming into focus one by one. Twelve people surrounded the table, twelve old American men with gray hair and pinstripe suits, the type of men who smoked cigars and drank Scotch, each one a client. She could match these men in business smarts, in ruthlessness, even with imbibing alcohol and net worth, but she would never smoke a cigar. Galen sat at the foot of the table, striking a metallic blade against his palm over and over.
They waited for something. What? Basilie retrieved her BlackBerry from her pocket, splitting her attention between that and the television on the wall. The market remained steady. The name of the company on the stock ticker triggered her memory. They had gathered for a hostile takeover. Basilie had orchestrated it, leveraging her investors’ cash, Minerva Pollux’s reputation, and her own ability to carve the company into profitable pieces for the highest bidders. Oh, yes, Basilie did this all the time. Creeping tender offers from new shareholders taking advantage of a proxy fight...
Basilie stepped closer to the table, a crunch stopping her. Her rosary laid on the floor. As she knelt to retrieve it, her reflection caught her eye again, except this time, she wore simple robes instead of her suit. Her body glowed. A baby cried in the distance. Her breasts ached as she heard it. The BlackBerry rumbled. She read the number and answered her ‘mole.’
“They spun it off. Your department. Your crown jewel. They saw you coming.”
The ribbon on the screen announced the news. The value of her stock had plummeted when the corporation had spun off its core department.
“Damn it,” Basilie snapped.
Millions lost. Basilie turned to the table. She opened her mouth to relay the news and the clients transformed into... family. Her father sat to her right, then her grandfather and grandmother Saint-Ebène. The couple beside them might have been her great-grandparents on her father’s side. Others next to them bore a strong resemblance. The man closest to Galen rose from the table. A woman neighboring him wept. He had the sword. He extended it as he approached Galen, the ornate gold hilt fitting perfectly in his hand. She recognized the crest on the sword, and peered closer at the man with it. She could have been looking in the mirror. She saw her face, in the masculine.
“He has it,” her doppelgänger told her in middle French. “Matris Virginis—”
Galen punched him in the face, interrupting his statement.
Without knowing the exact plot, how much symbolism can you decipher? If she were your friend and she asked for help deciphering this dream, what would you say?
Friday, January 22, 2010
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
A nightmare
I am 'ahead' of schedule on chapter seven of my revisions on Courting Apparitions. This pleases me, even though I'm losing hope of how 'worthwhile' this all is. I listen to published writers struggle with selling their second and third books, editors from 'dream publishers' that publish a book and then take a year to say no to the next, not to mention the hundreds of rejections we, the unpublished, receive.
But I push those thoughts from my mind. Right now I'm writing for me. So I have more than one book 'done' to the level I like. To prove my ability and professionalism to myself in order to sell it confidently to others.
I'm working on a nightmare.
Literally.
This was the early draft(s):
She stood at the head of the conference room table, gazing halfheartedly at the view of Lower Manhattan as she noticed her own reflection in the glass. She wore a cranberry red suit. She looked meticulous, bold and surprisingly thin. Twelve people surrounded the table, with Galen opposite her. Galen struck a metallic blade against his palm, over and over. She turned to a television. The red ribbon, the same color as her suit, flashed a message across the bottom of the screen. The market remained steady.
Basilie had orchestrated this hostile corporate takeover with financing from some of the Minerva Pollux’s major investors, leveraging her ability to carve the company into profitable pieces for the highest bidders.
She looked at the men around the table, all men, all men except for her, all gray-haired men with severity in their faces. Each of these men, clients of the firm, had purchased enough stock to join in her creeping tender offer. Between their new influence as shareholders and the proxy fight Basilie’s operatives had stumbled upon, the deal should happen quickly and ruthlessly. While a good, old-fashioned corporate raid didn’t make sense these days, this one did, because Basilie had a client who wanted the core of the business. He just wasn’t willing to pay for the entire corporation. So, Basilie would deliver the piece he wanted. The BlackBerry in Basilie’s pocket rumbled.
She answered it. Her ‘mole’ was on the other end.
“They spun it off.”
“What do you mean?” Basilie replied.
“Your department. Your crown jewel. They saw you coming. They spun it off. We... I mean the board... no longer control it. They set up their own board and IPO.”
The ribbon on the TV screen announced the news. The value of her stock, the stock she bought for the men now gathered around the table, had plummeted as soon as the corporation had spun off its core department.
“God dammit,” Basilie snapped.
Millions lost. The gray-haired men in their navy blue suits rose from the table. They swarmed her, grabbed her, some holding her while others bit her and drank her blood. She pulled, but she couldn’t go anywhere. Everywhere she looked she saw arms. She shivered. She looked at Galen, sitting sentinel at the end of the table. The blade continued swinging up and down, until Basilie wondered: Was that her family sword? Then the heads of the gray-haired men moved away from her, and each of them had eyes like opals.
The writing is far from an example of my best. But that's why it's an early draft.
Now that I have this draft, I'm working on refining what it needs to do:
But I push those thoughts from my mind. Right now I'm writing for me. So I have more than one book 'done' to the level I like. To prove my ability and professionalism to myself in order to sell it confidently to others.
I'm working on a nightmare.
Literally.
This was the early draft(s):
She stood at the head of the conference room table, gazing halfheartedly at the view of Lower Manhattan as she noticed her own reflection in the glass. She wore a cranberry red suit. She looked meticulous, bold and surprisingly thin. Twelve people surrounded the table, with Galen opposite her. Galen struck a metallic blade against his palm, over and over. She turned to a television. The red ribbon, the same color as her suit, flashed a message across the bottom of the screen. The market remained steady.
Basilie had orchestrated this hostile corporate takeover with financing from some of the Minerva Pollux’s major investors, leveraging her ability to carve the company into profitable pieces for the highest bidders.
She looked at the men around the table, all men, all men except for her, all gray-haired men with severity in their faces. Each of these men, clients of the firm, had purchased enough stock to join in her creeping tender offer. Between their new influence as shareholders and the proxy fight Basilie’s operatives had stumbled upon, the deal should happen quickly and ruthlessly. While a good, old-fashioned corporate raid didn’t make sense these days, this one did, because Basilie had a client who wanted the core of the business. He just wasn’t willing to pay for the entire corporation. So, Basilie would deliver the piece he wanted. The BlackBerry in Basilie’s pocket rumbled.
She answered it. Her ‘mole’ was on the other end.
“They spun it off.”
“What do you mean?” Basilie replied.
“Your department. Your crown jewel. They saw you coming. They spun it off. We... I mean the board... no longer control it. They set up their own board and IPO.”
The ribbon on the TV screen announced the news. The value of her stock, the stock she bought for the men now gathered around the table, had plummeted as soon as the corporation had spun off its core department.
“God dammit,” Basilie snapped.
Millions lost. The gray-haired men in their navy blue suits rose from the table. They swarmed her, grabbed her, some holding her while others bit her and drank her blood. She pulled, but she couldn’t go anywhere. Everywhere she looked she saw arms. She shivered. She looked at Galen, sitting sentinel at the end of the table. The blade continued swinging up and down, until Basilie wondered: Was that her family sword? Then the heads of the gray-haired men moved away from her, and each of them had eyes like opals.
The writing is far from an example of my best. But that's why it's an early draft.
Now that I have this draft, I'm working on refining what it needs to do:
- The premise of a failed corporate raid is exactly how this character's psyche would process what's been happening in her life. BUT I've changed the intensity of what has happened before this dream, so the content of the dream must clearly foreshadow struggles to come.
- The 'crown jewel' needs to represent the feminine magic Galen has stolen from women over the generations
- The sword must be described
- Should Basilie's family members slowly replace the clients? What about Adelaide? How does she fit?
- Should the baby Basilie is carrying factor into this dream. I think so.
- Finally, I scribbled this note on a piece of paper today: "What does the magic say to Z? (Basilie)
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Hurtful memories
I'm not 'scheduled' to have a blog entry here until tomorrow. But I had to write.
This is my current facebook status: Angel Ackerman knows her writer friends can sympathize. A song popped on while the music was on shuffle, and it hit me it the gut, because I'd never heard the lyrics before and it reminded me of a tender moment between characters before one of them 'died.'
My daughter asked to listen to some music. When she requests this, I put iTunes on my laptop on shuffle. A song popped on that I hadn't ever really listened to the lyrics. "Small Favors" by Fountains of Wayne.
The song begins:
I have to sit you down
Let me tell you what it's all about
'Cause I've been carrying a torch around
And I've forgotten how to snuff it out
And you have been unkind
And that’s a matter I cannot ignore
You have to skirt around the truth sometimes
But it’s time I told you what I came here for
To thank you for all the small favors
I’m thinkin’ now I hope it doesn’t change us
And take us to a time when we were strangers
In a two-station town
You can’t get the train to slow down
Small favors
Oh to you as sure as she was honest
And now do you remember when you promised
To forgive me someday
The debts that I can’t repay
And this song, that I've known for years, suddenly hit my in the gut with an overwhelming sadness. Because one of my characters has an unrequited love for another character, and he does do more 'small favors' for her than she can ever repay. And she dies. So, it's some heavy thinking...
I can't shake this emotional upheaval.
This is my current facebook status: Angel Ackerman knows her writer friends can sympathize. A song popped on while the music was on shuffle, and it hit me it the gut, because I'd never heard the lyrics before and it reminded me of a tender moment between characters before one of them 'died.'
My daughter asked to listen to some music. When she requests this, I put iTunes on my laptop on shuffle. A song popped on that I hadn't ever really listened to the lyrics. "Small Favors" by Fountains of Wayne.
The song begins:
I have to sit you down
Let me tell you what it's all about
'Cause I've been carrying a torch around
And I've forgotten how to snuff it out
And you have been unkind
And that’s a matter I cannot ignore
You have to skirt around the truth sometimes
But it’s time I told you what I came here for
To thank you for all the small favors
I’m thinkin’ now I hope it doesn’t change us
And take us to a time when we were strangers
In a two-station town
You can’t get the train to slow down
Small favors
Oh to you as sure as she was honest
And now do you remember when you promised
To forgive me someday
The debts that I can’t repay
And this song, that I've known for years, suddenly hit my in the gut with an overwhelming sadness. Because one of my characters has an unrequited love for another character, and he does do more 'small favors' for her than she can ever repay. And she dies. So, it's some heavy thinking...
I can't shake this emotional upheaval.
Monday, January 18, 2010
Troublesome Chapter Six
My self-imposed goal for this year is to revise a chapter a week of my second novel, Courting Apparitions. I needed chapter six complete last night, and spent an hour an a half trying to find the write transition between the two halves of the chapter.
I was merging elements from the revised chapters five and six, plus an older version of chapter eight, AND parts of the original chapter twelve.
It was painful.
I finished it a few minutes ago. I got the job done last night but reread and smoothed this morning.
Sometimes, the hardest goals/deadlines to meet are those that are self-imposed. At the same token, missing these goals cause the most disappointment because you made them yourself and you should know your own capabilities. On the opposite side, when you greet them, there is enormous relief and satisfaction... but it is fleeting, after all, no one will pat you on the back for meeting your own goal.
I was merging elements from the revised chapters five and six, plus an older version of chapter eight, AND parts of the original chapter twelve.
It was painful.
I finished it a few minutes ago. I got the job done last night but reread and smoothed this morning.
Sometimes, the hardest goals/deadlines to meet are those that are self-imposed. At the same token, missing these goals cause the most disappointment because you made them yourself and you should know your own capabilities. On the opposite side, when you greet them, there is enormous relief and satisfaction... but it is fleeting, after all, no one will pat you on the back for meeting your own goal.
Friday, January 15, 2010
A tale of two brothers
I wonder if two brothers on the phone to talk about their mother's experiences with a "ghost" would taunt each other about the circumstances at the time of their father's death. They were due for mandatory conscription when Pop died, the older already in the service counting bananas in Guadeloupe and the younger got a deferment. The question becomes...
Is it pointless to include it in the scene, or does it strengthen their relationship as brothers OR does it also show, indirectly, the younger brother's capacity to accept responsibility since he got the deferment to care for his mother and grandmother after his father's death (which of course he already had a student deferment when he dropped out of school to care for his mother and grandmother after his father's death).
The scene intersperses some humor, and I would think some realism to an otherwise emotional time. I don't want to ruin the pace of the novel...
Edmond is the older brother, Étienne the younger (remember him? I promise, I will write something that doesn't involve him). Edmond has recently graduated from university and has opted for a volunteer assignment rather than the shorter traditional military service. Étienne, to this day, never served his country. Ironically, his wife has. But in a capacity similar to Edmond. She actually nationalized some banks for the Mitterrand administration... but anyway...
So, Étienne has seen a ghost, talked to the ghost and interacted with the ghost. He does not believe in ghosts but he knows his mother insisted their father haunted the workshop after he died. Étienne and his brother thought their mother a tad touched with grief, and attributed the ghost to that. And now Étienne calls his brother to find out what he should do.
"Hello?" Edmond answered.
"Edmond, it's your brother. I have a problem. Adelaide," Étienne paced. "She's haunting my bathroom. I have a ghost."
"Étienne… There's no such thing as ghosts. Maybe you should call Mom."
"I know, it sounds crazy. Do you remember Mom insisting Dad was there, in the workshop?"
"No, Étienne. I was in Guadeloupe, sacrificing for the motherland."
"Sacrifice. Two years in the accounting office of a banana plantation in the Caribbean. Only you could land—"
So do I allow them to tease each other? or do I stick to business?
Is it pointless to include it in the scene, or does it strengthen their relationship as brothers OR does it also show, indirectly, the younger brother's capacity to accept responsibility since he got the deferment to care for his mother and grandmother after his father's death (which of course he already had a student deferment when he dropped out of school to care for his mother and grandmother after his father's death).
The scene intersperses some humor, and I would think some realism to an otherwise emotional time. I don't want to ruin the pace of the novel...
Edmond is the older brother, Étienne the younger (remember him? I promise, I will write something that doesn't involve him). Edmond has recently graduated from university and has opted for a volunteer assignment rather than the shorter traditional military service. Étienne, to this day, never served his country. Ironically, his wife has. But in a capacity similar to Edmond. She actually nationalized some banks for the Mitterrand administration... but anyway...
So, Étienne has seen a ghost, talked to the ghost and interacted with the ghost. He does not believe in ghosts but he knows his mother insisted their father haunted the workshop after he died. Étienne and his brother thought their mother a tad touched with grief, and attributed the ghost to that. And now Étienne calls his brother to find out what he should do.
"Hello?" Edmond answered.
"Edmond, it's your brother. I have a problem. Adelaide," Étienne paced. "She's haunting my bathroom. I have a ghost."
"Étienne… There's no such thing as ghosts. Maybe you should call Mom."
"I know, it sounds crazy. Do you remember Mom insisting Dad was there, in the workshop?"
"No, Étienne. I was in Guadeloupe, sacrificing for the motherland."
"Sacrifice. Two years in the accounting office of a banana plantation in the Caribbean. Only you could land—"
So do I allow them to tease each other? or do I stick to business?
The emotional side of writing
My husband always says I'm happiest when I'm writing. My husband's happy when I'm writing the naughty scenes. On Wednesday, I was having one of those days where I was in a good mood (a very good, excitable mood) and I was still working on my outline and I got to a scene that recalled one of the male POV character's pivotal experiences in his youth that helped construct his sexual identity.
Doesn't that sound way more academic than I meant it to.
It was a scene that signaled the beginning of the end, the denouement if you will. The bad guys and the good guys get tangled a bit. Étienne and the female witch Flidais end up... well, having a special sort of battle. Flidais enters Étienne's mind and reads his memories and discovers that he harbors a bit of an interest in his mother-in-law. Nothing serious, nothing he'd act on, merely the impressions of a 12-year-old boy.
Violà:
"Circa 1971, the 12-year-old boy sewed with his father, waiting for the coveted moments when Marthe-Georgine came into the shop. Her Chanel purse quickly opened to offer expensive bittersweet chocolates. Her bosom pert and her body an hourglass unlike the soft and undefined shape of his mother or the budding promise of the girls at school. She would step behind the screen to try her garments and he would hope for a stray glimpse of her silk and lace undergarments, so unlike the white cotton things his mother hung in the bathroom. Young Etienne loved the camisoles, the slips, and the seamed stockings of a lady who remained a lady even beneath her clothes."
I also have a line in there about him realizing years later that the smell that seemed attached to her skin was actually Chanel No. 5 (which his wife also wears).
This passage, which I merely reread and refined that day, had me on edge ALL day. I came home still excitable, and while my husband put my daughter to bed I continued the outlining project. That was my mistake. Because the chapter after the one that excerpt comes from has Étienne and Basilie getting into the worst fight of their relationship, followed by a life-threatening tragedy and a kidnapping. So, I was a tad depressed after reading that.
And for some reason, the next day, I realized I could make a small edit to the first volume of the manuscript and have a cameo from a very important character. Étienne's first love. I have a scene where all the guys go out drinking and end up at a jazz club and I thought, wow, since Arlette is a singer, they could go hear her sing, and her brief (800 words) appearance could cement Étienne's typical behavior (I've billed him as a flirt with a rich history with the girls) and serve as a link for later volumes in the series.
But I didn't have time to write. My job needed my attention, as did my family, but I managed to carve 15 minutes out before my daughter went to school and another 15 while she was in school. The results thrilled me. Because it also helped Étienne's relationship with his brother. Here's the culminating end of the scene.
“As soon as that girl opens her mouth,” J.P. said to Edmond, “he’s drooling like a teenager.”
“Our relationship ended thirty years ago,” Étienne replied. “Why can’t I appreciate her?”
Doesn't that sound way more academic than I meant it to.
It was a scene that signaled the beginning of the end, the denouement if you will. The bad guys and the good guys get tangled a bit. Étienne and the female witch Flidais end up... well, having a special sort of battle. Flidais enters Étienne's mind and reads his memories and discovers that he harbors a bit of an interest in his mother-in-law. Nothing serious, nothing he'd act on, merely the impressions of a 12-year-old boy.
Violà:
"Circa 1971, the 12-year-old boy sewed with his father, waiting for the coveted moments when Marthe-Georgine came into the shop. Her Chanel purse quickly opened to offer expensive bittersweet chocolates. Her bosom pert and her body an hourglass unlike the soft and undefined shape of his mother or the budding promise of the girls at school. She would step behind the screen to try her garments and he would hope for a stray glimpse of her silk and lace undergarments, so unlike the white cotton things his mother hung in the bathroom. Young Etienne loved the camisoles, the slips, and the seamed stockings of a lady who remained a lady even beneath her clothes."
I also have a line in there about him realizing years later that the smell that seemed attached to her skin was actually Chanel No. 5 (which his wife also wears).
This passage, which I merely reread and refined that day, had me on edge ALL day. I came home still excitable, and while my husband put my daughter to bed I continued the outlining project. That was my mistake. Because the chapter after the one that excerpt comes from has Étienne and Basilie getting into the worst fight of their relationship, followed by a life-threatening tragedy and a kidnapping. So, I was a tad depressed after reading that.
And for some reason, the next day, I realized I could make a small edit to the first volume of the manuscript and have a cameo from a very important character. Étienne's first love. I have a scene where all the guys go out drinking and end up at a jazz club and I thought, wow, since Arlette is a singer, they could go hear her sing, and her brief (800 words) appearance could cement Étienne's typical behavior (I've billed him as a flirt with a rich history with the girls) and serve as a link for later volumes in the series.
But I didn't have time to write. My job needed my attention, as did my family, but I managed to carve 15 minutes out before my daughter went to school and another 15 while she was in school. The results thrilled me. Because it also helped Étienne's relationship with his brother. Here's the culminating end of the scene.
“As soon as that girl opens her mouth,” J.P. said to Edmond, “he’s drooling like a teenager.”
“Our relationship ended thirty years ago,” Étienne replied. “Why can’t I appreciate her?”
“Appreciate?” Edmond responded. “Is that what it’s called? Where are your hands? Keep them on the table where I can see them. My first love won’t speak to me. Étienne’s sits on his lap. I hate my brother.”
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Project obsession
So, I'm in the middle of Chapter 23 with my new outline. As mentioned Monday, I'm outlining the original draft of my second draft to see what happened. I'm selecting the passages that I think are absolute gems and compiling a spreadsheet of those. Then, I also outlined the changes on the current draft on a chart that includes various characters, subplots and magical/symbolic objects. I had to add another chart: a timeline of who was sleeping with whom when, and I may need another one of these for the third book.
This book has been my 'problem child.' I have worked very hard to improve the pacing, tighten the plot and make sure the level of realism remains consistent. I have struggled with the balance of these items and the story's basic plot of a haunting, coupled with the underlying theme of emotional and physical impotence.
In completing this outlining exercise, which is not exciting but allows an intimacy with my manuscript, I have realized that the book is more solid than my brain has perceived. The problems are not insurmountable.
This is great news. I start school again in less than two weeks, and while I have completed all of the technical chores that keep my family going, I must admit I have been obsessed and mentally absent since I began this project Saturday. But, less than seven chapters to go! Wish me luck!
This book has been my 'problem child.' I have worked very hard to improve the pacing, tighten the plot and make sure the level of realism remains consistent. I have struggled with the balance of these items and the story's basic plot of a haunting, coupled with the underlying theme of emotional and physical impotence.
In completing this outlining exercise, which is not exciting but allows an intimacy with my manuscript, I have realized that the book is more solid than my brain has perceived. The problems are not insurmountable.
This is great news. I start school again in less than two weeks, and while I have completed all of the technical chores that keep my family going, I must admit I have been obsessed and mentally absent since I began this project Saturday. But, less than seven chapters to go! Wish me luck!
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