Pick a Favourite

“Which writing project are you the most proud of?”

This question was posed as a creative exercise. Once I got over it ending with a proposition, I thought it was a bit like asking a parent which child she loves best. I also realized that I have a more extensive catalogue than one might assume, given my constant whining about writer’s block and lack of time/inspiration/talent. Picking one was suddenly a daunting prospect.

My initial thought was “Fixed Fire”. Writing five novels in four years and self-publishing two of them was no mean feat. What started as a one-off about a disillusioned warrior in denial of his magical powers quickly evolved into a saga set in a world beyond the mountains. The landscape was rich, the romance was blistering, the characters were vivid, and the family dynamic was utterly—sometimes hilariously—dysfunctional. It was a blast to write ... until it was not. Stalled at volume 7 since 2011, I’ve written novellas about some of the lesser players in the greater tale and each of them is captivating in its own way. But to pick the one that does me most proud? Errrr ... Next!

How about the vampires? I am secretly impressed with myself for writing three different versions of the genre starring three different incarnations of the iconic immortal: the romantic Julian Scott-Tyler, the power-hungry Darius Wolfe, and the outlaw Ariel Black. Perhaps I love my vampires a little more than I do the “Fixed Fire” crew (it truly depends on the day), but which of the trio does me the most proud? It’s really too close to call.

Then I considered the list of short stories spanning a decade from “Four Legs and a Tale” to “Ruby Red”. I’ve written about centaurs and witches and princes and waiters and angels; how can one stand out above the others when they’re literary apples and oranges?

Oh, and let’s not forget the blog. I’ve posted some dandy diatribes and yes, I have favourites among them, mostly among the fictional pieces but including a few of the philosophical. Winnowing out a singular post for personal pride is impossible.

Finally, I realized something that maybe should have been obvious from the get-go. I love them all, every one of them, and always will. However, given the folder of half-started stories on my hard drive, and the difficulties I encounter in actually completing something, I’ve decided that the project I am most proud of will always be the one I’ve just finished.

Gone Fiction

Almost halfway through November and this is my third post? One might think disaster has struck! A computer malfunction, perhaps? Global catastrophe? Plague? In some measure, all of the above may apply. My computer is fine—gods know, it hasn’t been overworked of late. The global catastrophe was the outcome of the US election. Plague-wise, Ter has been checked by her first cold in years (that’s what we get for starting the homeopathic flu program last week). She’s a fighter, though. She hasn’t missed a beat despite ongoing congestion and coughing fits, but in truth, none of the above explains why the Rebellion has been silent.

Truth is, I’ve started a new story. If I treat it like dessert and write my veggies first, I won’t get it done before my appetite is gone; not that blogging is a chore, but it can interfere with the fiction flow, and after so many months of struggle with a novel that won’t cooperate and a bunch of beginnings that won’t move past the halfway point, this one has gained some serious momentum and I intend to roll with it.

It’s liberating to drop the gloves and go for something just because I want to do it. As I have mentioned in previous posts, I tend to write in chronological order, a practice that served me well enough during the Fixed Fire storm. Blogging and short stories have shown me the joy of bouncing around from one idea to another rather than the next in line. It’s also messed with me a bit. One day a few weeks ago, after a futile stab at forcing my muse, I asked myself what I wanted to write rather than what I felt I should write, and the answer came so quickly that I knew it was for real.

So I’ve leapfrogged over a couple of FF volumes and tackled the story of Book 9: the reunion of the brother and sister who were separated at the end of Treason. I’m working specifically with him right now, wanting to get his story out before switching to another’s angle; it’s a novel-sized project with a few points of view, but again, breaking new writing ground, I’m focusing on one character at a time and planning to weave the threads together once they’re all done.

My journey continues to inspire the usual mélange of philosophy, comedy, drama, hockey woes and food porn. Life is a curious mix of black and white and fifty shades of  ... well, you get it. And, fascinating as everything is right now, I am more fascinated by someone else’s story.

I’ll let you know how it goes.

With love,

Return to Castasia

“Enjoy your book,” Ter says, leaving the room to let me read a bit before I go to sleep.

What’s so strange about this, you ask?

I am reading my own book.

Re-reading, actually. I was inspired to revisit The Healing after a work colleague asked if I would take a look at the first few chapters of a fantasy novel she’s writing. I have great respect for this person, not only because she rocks at her finance desk job, but because she has published a bunch of books through real contracts with established publishers. She already identifies me as a capable employee. To have her recognize me as a fellow wordsmith—or at least someone who knows something about writing—was pretty darned cool.

You don’t entrust your fledgling child to just anyone.

After I sent her my review, she dropped by my office for our first real writer-to-writer conversation. We’ve scratched the subject on occasion, but because I respect her practice of keeping her writer’s life separate from her work life, we had never gotten into the meat of it. My effort with her manuscript proved more than she had hoped for—not knowing what I was doing, I did a complete line edit rather than a general overview—and our relationship seems to have shifted in a more comfortable direction as a result.

At the same time, I decided to take another look at The Healing, if for nothing else but to remind myself of how my own fantasy story started. Of course I’d write it differently now … but not by much. My style has evolved in the decade-plus since I finished the first draft. The story itself is good. The characters are complex and colourful. The magic is present but not overpowering—I recall GRRM saying that magic is like anchovies on a pizza: too much and the whole pie is ruined. Best of all, elements are present in The Healing that remained consistent and actually propelled the series forward in subsequent novels. I should be proud of that sucker; it’s a pretty good read, if not a little fatty in places. It’s actually fun to see that I could have cut a line or a paragraph, or even a scene, to make the flow move faster—then again, I always write what I want to read. In 2003, it seems I wanted to read something thick and sticky with detail. Nowadays, not so much.

And that’s okay. Like Treason before it, The Healing deserves better than two of five, so I’ll give it …

The Leppard Long Weekend

It started with Viva Hysteria! on Friday. Ter got the DVD for her birthday and waited a whole week for the viewing—the Leppards live in Las Vegas, playing their classic album in track order from Women to Love and Affection. Cool show. Had no idea it had been filmed.

One of the bonus features is the opening set they played as Ded Flatbirds—“the best Def Leppard cover band in the world”—and in that set was a song called Undefeated, one of three original tracks recorded for the live album, Mirrorball, in 2011.

I swear, if ever a song was written for Lucius, Undefeated is it.

So, next day, Mirrorball goes onto the car stereo for our sojourn to lunch with my folks. We switch to Yeah! for the drive home, and somewhere on the road, Ter observes that it’s been a Leppard long weekend.

It’s supposed to be a Thanksgiving long weekend.

But hey, I’m thankful for the Leps. Without them, and the King in particular, there would be no Lucius. My legendary hero would not exist, or if he did, it would be in someone else’s world.

I’m so glad that he chose to exist in mine. He takes up a lot of room and burns a lot of energy, but I’m glad of that too, because I’ve been reminded yet again that “it’s about Lucius”. Fixed Fire is the story of a family, and volume seven is Reijo’s romance, but no matter where in the series or who the protagonist, there he is, commandeering the spotlight, the great Golden Savage, Mr. Undefeated himself.

I have lots for which I am grateful. On a daily basis, I have a rotating Top Five, but if where you focus becomes your reality, then right now a rock singer from Sheffield figures high on the list.

Happy Thanksgiving.

With love,

FF Spinoffs

Rather than quit, I have set aside the novel for the nonce. I actually did return to the story of Margaret and King Charles for a time, managing to write a couple of new scenes and get a better idea of the plot before I was called back to Castasia, but not for Reijo’s romance.

This one is about Rikka.

The beauty of a series is one’s ability to write back and forth in time. Treason was the starting point for Fixed Fire, the legend of Lucius Aurelius told in a series of nine volumes. Side projects have sprung from main storyline, usually about the history of Castasia and the characters other than Lucius who figure in the present tale. Over the years I’ve written a few short stories and novellas about some who were either directly or indirectly affected by him in his youth.

Rikka is his twin sister, who probably suffered more from his absence than anyone else did. She’s alluded to it throughout the series, and one day I got curious enough to consider what her life must have been like after he left home.

In a word, yikes.

On the plus side, I am more interested in writing her story than I am in blogging or F***book, so what spare time I have these days is taken up with actual writing instead of writing about writing. It’s a relief to be obsessed again, and my revelation from a few weeks ago still holds true. This may be his sister’s story, but—you guessed it—it’s about Lucius.

Lucius

The Leppard King, circa 1992 - the template for my hero

“Lucius!” I cried. “It’s about Lucius!”

It’s Reijo’s story, but it’s about Lucius. It’s always about Lucius. Always has been, always will be. Fixed Fire is his world, created for him, and while others occasionally take a lead role in the ongoing saga, he is the sun at the center of their galaxy and everyone—everything—revolves around him.

He needn’t even be present to own a scene. Be it a short story,  a novella, or a volumes in the series proper, my great Golden Savage figures prominently in the plot. I got confused with Reijo’s romance because Lucius isn’t a POV character, but I’ve lately been reminded that it doesn’t matter if he’s not the one telling the story. It’s still about him.

He’s a typical Leo male. “Pure-faced and roaring,” as Nicole once described him, putting her impression into a poem that said it all in that one powerful phrase. Love him, loathe him, fear or revere him, he is the driving force in his world.

I must admit, seeing the Leppard King again was a sharp reminder of where it all began. It took the universe eight years to engineer a royal return to Victoria, and in the course of one evening, it all came back. The birth of our hero in 2002, the writing of four fat novels in the following five years, the crazy coincidence of Leppard’s proximity to my creative consciousness. The King eventually fell off my radar but the story continued—albeit with less enthusiasm on my part, and even less understanding of why it was so. Seeing him in April compelled me to pull out the albums that had fuelled my passion for his fictional child, to revisit Treason and remind myself of who the General was when I first met him.

And then, the inner voice stating with crystal clarity that this part of the story, that Reijo’s romance, is also about Lucius. The hopelessly tangled knot suddenly unraveled and has run straight and smooth ever since. I’m rewriting scenes, adding new ones and reorganizing others, and haven’t want to write anything else for weeks.

Not even blog posts.

This is what happens when I am truly obsessed with a project. It becomes my sole focus, to the exclusion of all else—except maybe F***Book and my office gig. My thoughts are all with the story, reworking bits of dialogue, envisioning new scenes, typing so fast from the heart that my head can’t stop my momentum. It’s blazing and brilliant and precisely the point of my existence, to feel this alive in the creation of something wonderful.

So I haven’t been writing, but I have been writing—and it’s looking good.

How can it not, when it’s all about him?

The Return of the Leppard King

I thought I’d fallen out of love with them. Last December, I heard that the former producer of the Q Morning Show had died in a car crash on snowy roads and I was looking up further info on the station’s website. I was so intent my mission that notice of the Leps’ concert date on the coming events list gleaned naught but a huh? Then my wee sister IM’d me: “Def Leppard is coming to town. Are you guys going?”

“I dunno,” I wrote back, feeling uncomfortably lukewarm about what had once sent my temperature to thermonuclear heights. Joe and the boys had fallen off my radar. The world he had inspired was in a holding pattern while my passion for vampires raged anew. Neither Ter nor I listened to their albums anymore; we didn’t follow them on F***book and hadn’t visited their website in years. In fact, we were living in fear of the band turning up to play the River Rock Casino or, worse, on PBS as part of the “Rock of 80s” nostalgia pledge drive package that you just know is coming down the road.

My email pinged. The Q Crew newsletter arrived in my inbox, letting me know that the Leps were coming and tix were going on sale that Friday. I flipped it to Ter with a feeble: “What do you think?”

My phone immediately rang. “Of course!” she practically yelled when I picked up. I hadn’t heard her so pumped about anything in a long while.

“Really? I didn’t think you’d want to go.”

“Why not?” she demanded. “He’s coming to me!” Which, roughly translated, means that she’s done with traveling to see the Leppard King, but if Victoria is on their itinerary, us going is a no-brainer.

Of the Joes we know, Elliott is to Ter what Perry is to me—that mysterious memory of a previous life where he played a role so important that the effect has lingered through dimensions. Crazy, yes. Improbable, maybe. Possible, definitely. Why not? No matter what you believe, something about his current incarnation sparked the birth of our mutual hero, Lucius Aurelius, and the world of Fixed Fire. For that, I am eternally grateful to him, to Ter, and to the band who played the soundtrack for Treason.

So, yeah, she’s right. Of course we must go to the gig. Of course we must pay homage. Of course he’s come for a particular reason at a particular time, and isn’t it funny that I’ve gone back to Castasia once more? His Royal Leppardness has no idea, but it truly is a homecoming for him.

Four of us are going—Ter, my wee sister, my boy sister, and me. The kids are fans for a different reason; they just like to rock, and if you wanna get rocked, then the Leps are DEFinitely the band for the job.

More to come …

Thunder-struck

I’ve not been writing much of late. It’s typical at this time of year, when fiscal-year-end eclipses life outside the office. I’ve been reading instead, seeking inspiration to keep from freaking out that I’ve lost my gift. Honestly, it happens every spring, and every spring I must remind myself that this ain’t my first rodeo. After Easter, I’ll have time that I presently don’t have to create. In the meantime, read, read, read. I’m almost finished with Lestat and have borrowed Station Eleven from a friend after reading kudos for it from GRRM and Erin Morgenstern.

I’ve also scored a copy of She’s Got Soul—a compilation CD from the Starbucks collection that features Nina Simone, Amy Winehouse, Etta James, and a host of other soul sistahs. It’s squaring off against Diana Krall’s Wallflower for air time on my stereo. I’ve played around with opening scenes and story ideas on Tuesday nights, but have been totally disinclined to boot the writing rig on my days off. I did discover that I can stream whole episodes of X Company from cbc.ca, however, and I’ve baked a lot of muffins in that downtime. Ter and I were also supposed to travel to Vancouver for the Flyers/Canucks game on the 17^th, but the energy required to get there, plus the inconvenience of losing two workdays at this critical juncture, convinced us to stay home and watch the game on TV.

It’s the worst time to wrestle with my muse. I am easily frustrated by alluring fragments for new works and reminders of those that have stalled. I realize that I haven’t finished anything since January, when the speed picked up at work, and have recently (irrationally) wondered if I will ever finish anything that isn’t about vampires. This prompted me to consider, for the nth time, unraveling the novel to the first eight chapters and writing it in another direction though the only thing wrong with what I’ve written so far is me.

Ter and I saw Celtic Thunder perform on March 11. The lads came to Victoria on their “Best Of” tour, and with Damian McGinty returned to the fold, I was taken back in time to the early days of my Fixed Fire series. The first few volumes were driven by Def Leppard and Sarah McLachlan, but a good chunk of the next generation was fuelled by the Celtic boys and “Celtic Woman” before them. Hearing the songs that sparked so vibrantly in my imagining a handful of years ago was a welcome jolt to the system last week. At this point, I’m either winding down at work or completely desperate to escape it, because seeing the show brought back all the passion I felt for my Castasian characters and their wild green mountainous magical world. This past weekend, I dragged out the novel again, reconnected with the story, and have committed to finishing the f***er or die trying.

This is volume 7. I’ve got material for one more after this, and part of my motivation to finish Reijo’s story is so I can get to Aurelia’s. Make no mistake; I adore Reijo. He’s my white knight in dented armour and he deserves a happy ending. I’m just not very good at happy endings, so doing right by him has been a struggle. I need him now, though, to prove to myself that vampires are not my sole strength, to get me through year-end and give me a project for a much-needed writing holiday planned for some time in April.

Paging Inspiration

Still no spike on the Inspir-O-Meter. My online haunts have been quiet, too. I visit a few blogs almost daily and this past week, no one has been posting much of anything. Either everyone is writing for real or life in general has distracted them. It happens—the latter more often than the former, I fear, but there you go. One simply has to roll with it. At least I’m not climbing the walls or fretting my innards to fiddlestrings over not knowing what to do next. My attitude adjustment is proceeding nicely in that regard.

When none of my regulars are around, I swing over to see what Chuck Wendig is saying at www.terribleminds.com. Earlier this week, he posted a lengthy dissertation (one might call it a diatribe) about the pros/cons of self-publishing which was interesting but not terribly helpful in that my head ain’t there at present; however, on Wednesday he featured a guest blogger named JC Hutchins who wrote about writing in a way that resonated like an Oriental gong.

Writing will drive you crazy. By the same token, stay with it, do not give up, and for the sake of all that is holy, do not abandon an idea. Put it on hold if you must. It might be years before you can pick it up again, but pick—it—up. It was an awesome post (read it here) that struck me for a reason:

Reijo.

I have longed to write a romance for Reijo since 2005. He is easily the most poetic character I have ever met, more so than Julian because Reijo is truly the pristine white knight of yore. In my hands, of course, he has suffered mightily; he’s not near as pure as he was when he started, but he’s been through the mill and if anyone deserves a happy ending, it’s him. After six volumes in the Fixed Fire series, book 7 is it. Reijo’s happy ending, the story I waited half a decade to write.

I finally started it in 2011. Started it and stopped it, moved house, started it again in 2012, moved house again, stopped it again, got distracted by Sian, Julian, Comfortable Rebellion, Jake and, most recently, Shade. I’ve been sitting on a half-written novel for going on three years, a novel I have dreamed of writing yet appear to have done everything in my power to avoid completing. In truth, the entire series got out of control; it took over my life in 2002 and my life has been fighting to reclaim me ever since. It’s tough being the bone in a tug of war, I’ll tell you, and while this sounds a lot like whining … well, it is. I think it’s just dawned on me that I want to pick up Reijo’s romance and finish it before I am distracted by anything else. I can entertain new ideas and stash away scenes and little conversations for future reference, but he must be my priority.

So get on it, Ru. Write Reijo’s happy ending. Really. You know his world better than your own; how hard can it be?

Pick—it—up.

2 out of 5

Volume 1 of Fixed Fire

My poet buddy, Nicole, has been dabbling in prose these past few months. She’s a poet first, but one day a voice came to her and from then on she’s been besieged by characters clamouring to tell her their stories. It’s been great fun to watch and share her experience. We’ve both learned a lot from it.

On completing her most recent piece, she emailed me with an interesting observation. Everyone, she said, hated it. She’s been writing for long enough to have exchanged ego for “educational opportunity”, so she welcomes negative feedback as graciously as the positive – and that’s imperative if an artist wants to develop and improve. You have to lose your ego.

Sure, Ru. Remember “Treason”?

Oh. That.

A few years ago, I proudly entered my first self-published novel in a contest sponsored by a literary magazine that shall go nameless. At the very least, each entry was guaranteed to be read, and the author would be awarded a review of their work. After an interminable length of time, I got the very least – a 5-point rating of the story, the characters, the layout, the writing proper, and the artwork. In each category, my baby garnered 2 out of 5.

You bet I was insulted. Outraged, even. Some faceless drone had just called my child lame and stupid. Inaccurately interpreted by ego, I was lame and I was stupid. No, I did not take it graciously. I let it depress me for a while, though I did not cry and, more importantly, I did not quit writing. I can’t quit writing, simply because it’s what I do, what I am. It’s not up to others to decide if I can write. It’s up to me, and because of that, I should welcome the negative feedback with the positive.

Once I realized this, the below-average grade lost it is edge. It even became an in-house joke between Ter and me. “What do you think of this, bud?” I would ask, to which she would cheerily reply, “2 out of 5!”

These days, I share my work with a trusted few whose opinions I respect. Good, bad, or indifferent, theirs is the feedback I appreciate most. Anyone else is free to like or dislike it without risk of being cursed or, worse, hunted down and maimed. Just don’t be bitchy about it.

There is always something positive to be said about someone’s art, even if it’s only finding a gentle way to say, “Don’t give up your day job.” The same rule applies to everything else life – not because I have the power to destroy someone’s universe (I wish), but because something good can always be found if you take the time to look for it.

Hey, I’m not above spouting a knee-jerk, “Idiot!” when my feelings are hurt, and I’ve held grudges from kindergarten ... but I hope that my ego is softening, that one day I’ll be as brave as Nicole about feedback of any ilk. Until then, 2 out of 5?

I re-read “Treason” last week. Yes, I see where it could be tightened up and improved, but compared to books I’ve recently read that were published through a big fat company, I’m adamant that it deserves nothing less than 3 out of 5.

Methinks the ego may still need work.

Next!

It’s true that creativity breeds creativity. Halfway through anything, I’ll be struck by a spark of something else – a voice, a scene, a plot portent or a title that has nothing to do with what’s currently underway. I generally spend the last half of a story fighting to finish it. I’m a pro at starting something new, but my computer is like a quilter’s shop: lots of scraps lying around that could each contribute to a greater whole if only the quilter could stick with it until it’s done.

I spent three quarters of last weekend dithering. Once I’d polished “Between the Storms”, it was time to let Jake go and decide which thread to follow next. I had three options:

1) go back to volume 7 of “Fixed Fire”, presently on hiatus because a bunch of short stories were clamouring offstage ... and I’d written myself into a corner from which I could not readily extricate myself. However, I have waited for ten years and six volumes to write it and it deserves to be attended;

2) pursue the urban vampires and see if my plan to update it as per “Finis?” gets traction; or

3) confront the angels.

Hm. Option 1 is peopled by characters I’ve known for a decade, who are as beloved as my own family – foibles and all – in a world where I’m very comfortable.

Option 2 is peopled by characters I knew before I started FF, and the vampire lore employed by that series is also familiar. Plus, I’m excited at the notion of reworking it to fit the present day.

Option 3 is peopled by total strangers in a world I know nothing about, whose pasts and futures involve a whole lot of unknown. When I consider option 3, I freeze like the proverbial deer in headlights.

I chose option 3 because it scares me to death. An entirely blank canvas. A whole new world. Strangers in my head. A continuous bout of who, where, what, why and when? Yup, I’m terrified, but I’ve rarely felt so inspired. One thing I can say for sure is that this one will be as twisted with passion, conflict and darkness as all that’s preceded it.

It’s my style, man.