The Character Interview Blog Hop -- Heroes

Welcome to week 6 of the Character Interview Blog Hop. For those of you who don't know what this means, I'm participating in a chain of blogs, where several authors are introducing heroes and heroines from their stories. When I was invited to join, I knew immediately which hero character of mine I wanted in the hot seat. I had to make some concessions, but eventually I got an encouraging “Sure. I got nothin’ goin’ on Tuesday,” from him. How could I resist that kind of enthusiasm?

Last week, Stephanie Kepke introduced sweet new dad Zach Gold, the hero from her women’s fiction short, A NEW LIFE. You can find her touching interview on her blog. I hope you’ll check it out, and from her blog you can link to our previous blog hop interviews of heroes with their authors. You’ll meet some interesting men!

I'm going to be speaking with Walter Sherman from Frannie Buckets, which is not only what he calls his niece Francesca, but also the title of their first adventure. In it, Walter and his friends take over her peaceful life to help a reluctant Fran solve a cold case murder. Things go very awry. There’s knife throwing, bologna flinging, impersonation of medical personnel, and a gun-toting florist. Through it all, like Rambo without the muscles, stalks a determined Walter.

            He’s agreed to meet today in an after-school hours classroom. Fran’s driven him since his old Dodge recently bit the dust. They’ve come in bickering softly, and I sense he’s not thrilled to be here. He scratches at military-short grey hair with a look at Fran, who’s remained near the door after giving him a do this or else glare. Walter sighs, settles into the metal folding chair in front of me, and briefly stretches forward to shake my hand.

            “No desks?” he asks, looking around. “This is the best you could do?”

            “It was difficult even arranging this,” I say. “You picked the location.”

            “I was always comfortable in classrooms. Worked in the school system for thirty years, you know.”

            I do know, but this is what the school was willing to offer. I explain that none of the teachers wanted us in their rooms, so I was lent this one, which is more of a storage space.  

            “Not exactly cheery. There’s not even maps or projects or posters on the walls,” he complains, and Fran catches his eye. Some unspoken communication passes between them and he turns back to me. “Fran says you’ve got some questions.”

            “I do,” I tell him. “I’d like to give readers some insight into your character, intrigue them into reading your story.”

            “Intrigue them into…” He stares at me blankly for a moment, then says decisively, “What’s in it for me?” Behind him, Fran groans. He shifts and says, “What.”

            “Here we go again,” Fran mutters.

            “It’s a fair request.”

            “It is not a fair request. She has plenty else on her mind. You are not Fabio. You are not even Tom Selleck.”

            “I’m told I’m still pretty hot for my age,” he argues.

“Who told you that?”

“People. People have told me that.”

“Nobody has told you that,” Fran retorts.

“You are not around for every conversation I have. Trust me, there are people, multiple persons, who have approached me in public and told me I’m a stud.” He turns to me. “You don’t have your cover yet, right? I want to be on the cover.”

            “Ummm,” is about all I can manage. 

            Fran speaks up once more. “Walter. I’m not even seeking to be on the cover. I thought we could go with something more conceptual.”

            “Conceptual my eye,” he argues, gives me a look. “What do you say?”

            All right, I’m not proud of this, but I do want to get on with things. “I haven’t made up my mind but I’ll seriously consider it. Fair enough?”

            Walter nods. “It’ll do. Ask away.”

            I glance at my notes. “All right,” I say. “What is your greatest fear?”

Walter tilts his head thoughtfully. “Really, I got no fears.” He looks around. “Are there going to be snacks? Fran said there might be a nice cheese plate but I don’t see so much as a Triscuit in here.”

I grimace apologetically and forge on. “Have you told this to anyone?”

He shrugs. “I just don’t have any. What’s to tell?” He pauses in what appears to be deep thought. “Okay, maybe I don’t like tunnels. Or cellars. Or looking inside top-loading washing machines. That right there gives me the willies.”

            “Why?”

Walter starts. “What the hell do you mean, why? Have you ever been in one of those things? It’s generally dark and damp and smells a little. Well, I mean, before the wash is done. After it’s not so bad, if you use a nice mountain air-scented detergent. Even then, you can’t be a real big guy and fit in one comfortably anyway. So personally I feel it’s a moot point. No problemo.”

            From the list on my notepad I read, “Is there anyone you would never tell this to?” and Walter scowls.

“I do not understand why my not liking basements or one – okay, maybe two – major appliances, is worth a conversation with anyone. Who likes basements? Is there going to be a club formed? Is that what we’re thinking of here, a bunch of people who like to hang out below street level together?”

            “Why?” I know this doesn’t necessarily work with his answer, but I do have a list to follow. Plus he’s freaking me out a little.

Walter throws up his hands. “Why what? Why should we form a club? We should not. Next question.” He turns and gives Fran a smug I told you this would be dumb look.

“Uh,” I say, determined to move forward. “Tell me about one person who made a positive difference in your life.”

After some consideration, Walter strokes what I can see is freshly shaved cheek. “Hmmm. Well, usually I am the most positive person in the room; no lie. I like to look on the bright side of everything. However, if I have to pick someone else who made a positive influence on me, …I would have to say there was this cute little… shall we say ‘companion’ in Saigon named Mai. A long time ago. She made some very nice things happen for me.”

Fran audibly groans. He turns to her.

            “What. That’s not what she means?” Looking back at me, he says, “Did you intend for Fran to be over here kibitzing in my ear? Apparently I am expected to be more appropriate.  She was my companion. She made me happy. That’s positive. Then I got shot at a few times, which wasn’t so positive, but here I am today.” He concludes his explanation by folding his arms resolutely over his chest, making the pens in his shirt pocket slant with the motion. Again there’s feedback from near the doorway.

            “What, Fran.”

            “You can’t do better than that?” she asks in a chiding tone.

            “Well no – I would probably have a better answer but I’m distracted by the growling in my stomach because I’m hungry. Not even a nice piece of sharp cheddar, can you believe it? This is creating some major suckage in my vibe, as the kids say these days.”

            “The kids do not say that,” comes the rejoinder.

            “They do so say that. Next question.”

            Maybe I should try to think of a tactful way to ask Francesca to step out for a few minutes, and I ask my next question, only half listening at first while I ponder how to separate them. “Where do you go when you need time to yourself?”

“Well,” Walter replies, “I used to like to retreat for a nice bubbly soak, but somebody really put a damper on that for me one night when she had to pee so bad she disregarded the mostly locked door. There’s nothing like sinking into a hot bath to get your thoughts in order. It’s where I used to do my best thinking. Although now I’m practically paralyzed after being intruded upon and shrieked at. I got PTSD from tub intrusion. Some mornings I can barely work up the courage to get in the shower.”

“I did not shriek.”

            “You did. Ruined a perfectly good meditation. Now I’m probably going to be reincarnated as a slug or a … a emu or something because I’ve lost touch with my inner growth.” Fran abruptly rises and turns for the door in a huff. “Fran, wait. Don’t be like that; wait a minute.” But it is no use: my dilemma has been solved. Walter turns to me.

            “She did shriek.”  

            A second later, he shouts, “Fran! Fran, if you’re going to stalk off, could you maybe pick up something to nosh on for when you come back? A nice egg and cheese sandwich, maybe, with mayo? Or a pack of Yodels – Yodels would be excellent!” With a confidential look, he tells me, “She heard me; I could tell.”

            Question number four. “Do you have a secret? If so, why do you feel the need to keep it secret?”

Here my hero smiles. “I do, actually. A good one, but if I told you, I’d have to kill you.” Maybe I go a little pale at that; after all I do know Walter’s history. “You okay? You look a little shook up. I’m just kidding.  I wouldn’t kill you.” He reaches forward and pats my hand reassuringly.

            “All right, here’s the secret. I know how to moonwalk. Seriously. One night me and Sollie were at this party, working security. No it’s true. We’re practically invisible since we’re old. Good strategy, right? Nobody pays attention to old people. And Justin Timberlake and Michael Jackson were at the party and there’s Michael Jackson, doing his moonwalk thing, so I said, ‘Hey, Mike, how’s about teaching me that?’”

“Did he?”

“No. No Mr. Prince of Pop did not, as a matter of fact. Justin Timberlake did. He felt bad for me, since the real reason Michael Jackson turned me down is that I might have inadvertently made a semi-derogatory remark about his chimpanzee’s resemblance to this woman named Barbara I met once on a blind date that went terribly wrong.”

            Before I can even ask, Walter continues. “How did it go terribly wrong? Let’s just say you do not put a banana, some hot sauce and a half dozen bad-tempered Russian women in a room and yell fire. It was like that.”

            He doesn’t even seem to notice I am speechless. “So Justin Timberlake took me aside and taught me how to moonwalk, all private like. He said he felt the same way about the monkey, although I never asked him if he’d met Barbara too. I heard later she really got around, if you know what I mean.

“That’s why I think we should keep that a secret. If you don’t mind. I don’t think Justin’s image should be compromised in the event that he had a bad experience with … well, I mean I really wouldn’t want to talk out of school about who he might or might not have ‘dated.’ That’s between him and Barbara.”

            It takes all I have to ask the final question. “If you could ask for one thing, what would it be?” 

           Walter doesn’t even hesitate.  “I’m pretty sure I made it clear at the outset that some cheese and crackers would’ve been a nice gesture. I’m just saying.”

 Frannie Buckets is currently out on submission, hoping to be picked up for publication, but meanwhile I’ve already started working on their next story, Frannie Buckets and Grampy Pendergast’s Jewels, which sets Francesca and Walter on a search for treasure after Amelia Pendergast, Fran’s insufferable, ancient neighbor, dies and leaves behind a set of diaries that brings her greedy heirs to Frannie’s door.

 Thank you for coming by to meet Walter. Next week you’ll meet loner cowboy Blue Lyons, from Linda Ford ’s Historical Inspirational Romance, A DADDY FOR CHRISTMAS.

             Linda Ford has written 46 published books for the Christian romance genre. Most of them are historical. She does not admit to the number of books she’s written that will never be published. She lives in Alberta, Canada where she can enjoy the Rocky Mountains on a daily basis. She considers herself fortunate to have Debora Dale as her brainstorming buddy.

            Right now, though, it looks like Fran’s not coming back, so I’d better go. Guess who’s driving Walter home…and stopping for snacks.

This Week's Pet Peeves

Well. I’m in a less than optimal mood. I’ve been working on a project or two that have me aggravated -- due, for the most part, to continuity and context problems, as well as lazy phrase use and repetition.

            What’s a Lazy Phrase? As a copy editor, I get two perks: I can work in my pajamas if I want, and I get to make up terms, and that’s the one for this week. Here are four phrases that make me want to go whatever is the copy editor’s version of “postal”:

“back in the day”: I suppose it’s meant to be nostalgic, but what does this expression really mean? If you don’t know the person/character who’s using the phrase well (and sometimes even if you do), how would you know to what time period this phrase refers? Most frequently it’s used to express friendly past knowledge, such as “Joe and I used to shoot pool/hunt buffalo/ride dinosaurs/hijack hovercraft back in the day.” You could probably narrow down to a particular century the buffalo or hovercraft adventures, but most of the time it isn’t such a specific activity. “Jane and I know each other from back in the day” makes me want to pop the speaker in the nose. Don’t be so lazy! How about telling us when, exactly, so we’re not left feeling uncomfortably clueless about your past?

            Unless of course you feel, like I do about some of my experiences in the 1980s, that some stories are probably best left vague.

“come with”: This one has become quite the phrase for people trying to sound chic or trendy. It’s used, for example, in invitations: “Marlo and I are going to the club. Care to come with?” Uggghhh. Come with what? Your new nine iron? Extra grapes? A swimsuit? All of your other friends who want to go to the club?

            This also depends upon context of genre. Using this phrase in an epic novel about culture conflict in the 1940s is far different from using it in a contemporary piece of erotica. Think about it. Then finish the sentence, for heaven’s sake. Especially if you’re inviting me somewhere. I want to be prepared.

“sucked in a breath”: Why oh why do so many writers use this phrase? And why, once they’ve used it, do they think it’s okay to use it twenty or thirty times in the same 300-page book? What does it mean, exactly? Try it: “She sucked in a breath at the sight of ….” Careful here. What did she see and what did it do to her? Did whatever she see make her gasp in shock, or deeply and slowly inhale in awe? Did she gulp in a breath because she’d been struggling beneath rough waves at sea and was finally able to surface? Did she need to actually suck in a breath, in case she was trying to siphon something out of a tank? Maybe she just inhaled, after having stopped breathing from some surprise. Take a deep breath yourself, consider your event and the emotional or physical manifestations it would cause, and fit the form of inhalation to what’s happened.

Finally, this week’s un-favorite: “Hot Mess”. Here’s the deal with Hot Mess: You have to make up your mind. A hot mess is either a woman who’s been through some really fantastic lovemaking, pretty much sprawled out naked with her hair in her face and her lipstick happily smeared to her ears; or someone who really looks terrible and can’t seem to get their act together no matter how much they try; or it’s what happens when you leave an 8-year-old alone with a glue gun for too long. Potentially it could be all three of these things – only please, not all in the same book, even if your leading lady is a single mom who’s finally found love again despite the fact that her shoes never match and her kid’s teacher’s calling for the third time that week over yet another art project gone really, really wrong.  In my house it’s what I could call the kitchen during holiday meal preparations, so maybe your heroine also creates a disastrous environment when she’s stirring up a batch of chili. I know some writers like the term and think it’s fresh and to the point – unfortunately so do many other writers, making it not so fresh anymore. It will make your book dated. Rather than just using the lazy phrase, use more descriptive terms that will really give someone a sense of the character – or your best friend, even if it’s affectionately said – than those two overused words. Plus, you should probably stop referring to your best friend that way. It’s just not nice.

 That’s it, I think, for the time being. Can you come up with other Lazy Phrases? What terms have you encountered that made you grumble and scowl?  

"Lazy Phrases" (c) 2015 Various Milliner, Ltd. Publishing Services. Protecting the English language one semi-colon at a time. All rights reserved. 

Words for My Darlings

I have been away for a little while. Events, transitions, gatherings, farewells, happened. Some are still in the process of happening.

This is for my children, for their friends, for anyone who's embarking upon an uncertain future. I wrote it for Jules, Bear, Manda, Jax, MK, myfavoriteCaitlin, Baco, James, Dan, Quinnessence, Mish, Myfavoriteniece(don'ttellanyone), Eric, Squyd, Emma, ... the list continues.

I wrote it and showed it to my sister, who said it was going on her fridge, which -- if that isn't a place of honor, I don't know what is. I wrote it and showed it to a friend, who asked if she could share it with another friend, and I thought -- if that isn't a compliment, I don't know what is. I wrote it because of these people, most of whom I have known for a long time, and for how they have been a most joyful part of my path. I love you all.


Words for My Darlings

Do not ever let anyone tell you
   you can't.
Do not ever let anyone tell you
   there is one route to follow
   and you need to know exactly
       where you are going
       and you'd better get there on time.

Have a passion:
   complex as being happy
   or simple as saving the world
but yours and yours alone.
Nobody is going to
   or should
   live your life for you.
Keep your goal in mind
   and the path you take
   the path you choose
   should give you
      an adventure
      a story or two
   your destination.

Just remember you can learn
   or change the route
   or make other plans
      you can even rest
      or dance, for a little while.

And that might be even better
   as long as you take the best you can from it
   and give the best you have to it.


Happy New Year, everybody -- next month I'll go back to talking about writing, instead of just doing it.

lynne


(C) 2015 LynneRose Cannon. All rights reserved.

Who Do You Lo-v-v-v-ve... And Why

Much as I've had George Thorogood shrieking this refrain in my head for days now (oh that sleep deprivation is so much fun), this is not a blog about late twentieth-century rock and roll. This is a blog about what it means to love.

A close relative and I got into a bicker recently. There's always been a sort of rivalry for attention between her and another of my close family relatives. She said, "You love her. You have to love her. She's family."

To which I responded -- and I was tired and frustrated at the time -- and therefore less apt to spare feelings, "You don't HAVE TO love anybody. You can care for somebody without loving them."

As much as that might offend some people and much as that might have surprised her into silence, which was, at that moment, a relief-let-me-tell-you, I'm going to stand by that statement. Nobody has to -- nobody is obligated to -- love anyone else. Even family.

I think the thing that made her go silent at that moment was the not-so-coincidental fact that I was caring for her, since she was approaching the end stages of a terminal disease and making it very difficult all around for all of us who had to tend her. So that left open the very real possibility that I might be tending her, but not necessarily out of love.

In the midst of taking care of everything that went along with her dying, I was still working, and the project I had to edit was a particularly shallow romance novel. The characters were thrown together, barely spoke, then awkwardly made love and improbably lived happily ever after. Their secrets were revealed in the narrative but never to each other, and their conversations were kept to a bare bit of snarls and glib replies, but somehow she realized he was a man of strength and caring and he realized she was kind and giving and ....

Oh, who knows. The thing was...all tell, no show. No depth.

So I started thinking about love, and what constitutes love, and what authors should strive to do and by extension real people should hope enters their lives -- and why it's important to recognize and grab hold of and never take for granted.

Love -- love is when someone tells you something they admire or think is great about you without adding "but...". Love is when you can see someone at their worst, know them well enough to realize they can also be dazzling -- and they see the same in you. Love is when you can be together and be silent and comfortable in that quiet, when it's just a matter of holding a hand or saying something intimate or funny or sympathetic. Love is getting each other -- it's about communicating, and not necessarily by talking everything to death. Love is about forgiveness when the other person's being a total pain in the ass, because you know maybe sometimes you are, too.

And it's about listening. About reassurance and discovery and growing together. And valuing that relationship and respecting it. There is no trouncing on feelings or physical or emotional abuse in real love; there's no need to separate the one you love from others or trying to outdo them if they earn more money or draw better pictures or make a better cheeseburger.

We've all seen, or some of us have even experienced -- relationships where people tolerated horrible treatment because they thought it was love, and they thought they had to stay and take it. Sometimes because they thought they would never meet anyone else, or because that person was "family", or because they thought that was the way it's supposed to be when you're in love. It isn't. It really isn't.

So when you write love, you need to be sure your characters show -- in their words, gestures, actions -- what it means to love. Make them sensitive, strong, full of heart. Don't make them cruel, or let them forget to develop their feelings. Let them show them, grow from the foundation that you start with that initial connection, that reason for coming together and maybe staying that way.

And try, really try, to do that in your own life. Seek it out, love with all you've got and value those who treat you with love. Forgive if you can, but remember your own worth, too -- love makes you happy, tender, ever-changing -- but it also gives you strength you might never have realized you had. It grows. It holds but never binds. It lifts you up and fills you near to bursting at the best, and even the worst, of times.

  

When Does It Count As Writing?

"I feel like a poser." 

This came from a friend who is an aspiring author, who's so far had a very difficult time finishing something she's been working on. She's a good writer --imaginative, careful, determined to learn her craft -- and she'll get there, but someone recently told her that unless she sat down every day and wrote a certain amount of words every day she was never going to get published and she wasn't ever going to be a real writer.

So I suppose I am not a real writer, either. At least by that hack definition, that is. Like everybody else, I've been up to a few other things for a while. I've attended weddings, helped one kid lease a car and another get into college. I've sent out one book proposal and one follow-up query letter. I've helped my husband ship out books and volunteered at a health fair (where I lost a kid, but don't worry -- they found him). I celebrated International Turtle Day (May 24) and July Fourth, and done all of the other crap that comes with being the person who works at home.


I did not sit down at my keyboard and write a pre-determined amount of words every day. I did write, but I tend not to be able to force out words on a daily schedule. I tend to mull, research, talk out dialogue, hash out scenes with my husband or with another writer or two, put things down on sticky notes or on my nook or index cards (but not on white board, ever since the stomping puppy debacle). I hear I also stare into space a lot. Then I sit and write about 4 or 5 thousand words at that sitting. In between editing assignments. And they have to be good assignments, since I'm absorptive -- if I'm reading badly done romance I will spout out badly done whatever-I'm-working-on.

What happens to white board plot notes when there's a toddler with fur in the house.

Recently a writer friend said she always expected her first draft to be terrible. That works for her.

I once heard Anna Quindlen tell an audience, at a Random House open house, that she sometimes just thought about a book for ten months before she put a word of it to paper. That works for her.

Someone else I know says she writes a certain number of pages every day, with the goal of having a book in six months, based upon her page count.

Some people do NaNoRiMo, which  -- wow, a book in a month. That takes my breath away. But that works for them.

Some people write right through a manuscript indicating where they'll figure out the details later, and some do their research and get their facts straight as they go. Some people need to do their research ahead of time.

The point of this is that it's a process. Writing is Discovery, Invention, Planning, Researching, Drafting, Talking to Yourself, Talking with Others, Journaling, Assembly, THINKING, Typing, Scrawling, Reading, Wondering What the Point Of It All Is, Seeking Depth, Seeking More Depth, Editing, Re-writing, Seeking Even More Depth, Deleting, Inserting, Crumpling Up What Doesn't Work and Yelling "Aha!" When It Does. Writing is having that little idea come from something as simple as a picture in the paper or pulling up a weed or nearly having a car accident or inadvertantly eavesdropping at a restaurant -- taking the inspiration where you find it and turning it into something cohesive and compelling that gives others pleasure or makes them think and feel.

It's a process. And that process is determined by the person doing the work. Having a similar goal to others in your profession doesn't mean you all take the exact same path to get there.

I told my non-poser friend if she wanted me to, I'd lure her judgmental frenemy into a dark alley and give her a talking to. Then I told her to get back to work.

What's your process?

Trouble With the Pitch

In a week my writer's group will have its biggest annual event: a luncheon with over one hundred twenty attendees. Each year several agents and editors are invited, and the many writers there network and acquaint themselves with them, hoping to generate interest in their latest works. You mingle among the crowd and speak with prospective future publishing partners, and during this time you can make your pitch, which is what it's called when you present an extremely brief summary of a project, making it intriguing, coherent, and somewhat memorable. 

I do not do well with the pitch. Anyone who's read any of my blogs or my nearly complete (I swear!) novels will tell you I am not exactly what you'd call succinct. So, in the interest of not going on and on and on, what usually happens is the opposite: Someone asks me, "What do you write?" and I open my mouth and go "uhhhhhh...."

I also do not do well in big groups. I don't think of myself as shy, exactly, but I have never been comfortable with drawing too much attention my way. My favorite colors are grey and blue. If I haven't had at least one gin and tonic and I don't know you, I might just let you do all of the talking. Tell me I've got to speak with a stranger about something I've struggled to write and still feel I could make better -- completely sober and while meeting their eyes -- and basically I'm going to need to pee really badly. Even if I'm already dehydrated from sweating nervously for a couple of hours.

I know what a pitch is supposed to be. I know how long it should take. I've been told it should be something you could present if you found yourself with the agent/editor of your dreams in an elevator. Just hit the main points. Give the hook. Make it interesting. Know your characters. Know your conflicts. To that I say: 

Well, okay. Just how long is this elevator ride? Are we talking small suburban medical building, or Empire State? Am I allowed to hold down the "close door" button if I'm not finished, if I even work up the ability to say something introductory beyond, say, "Nice shoes"?  If only my story had something to do with footwear.

It does not. 

A few years ago I had an assignment to proofread the memoir of a supposed hero, about a horrific event he came through. The book was already out; I was just working on a new version, and I found several disturbing inconsistencies. I wondered if he was lying about many of the episodes he described. I mentioned seven different points to the publisher, who told me they'd fix them, which disturbed me even more. I wondered if the author would be told about my findings, if anything I'd said would make him upset enough to seek me out. He was certainly capable of being dangerous. 

Around that same time, we had a visit from a uniquely outgoing, comfortable-in-his-own-skin guest. He stayed with us far longer than we initially expected. The BHE and I are generally quiet people and this person threw us for a loop. Now we laugh about it but at the time we were at a loss how to handle the situation. 

These were the seeds for Frannie Buckets -- a quiet, slightly uptight freelance editor who simultaneously takes on what initially appears to be a straighforward project and an unexpected visit from her obnoxious half-uncle Walter, in town for a friend's funeral. The project is the memoir of an unsolved murder, and in no time Walter's decided they're going to solve it. He manipulates Frannie into helping him and his ragtag veteran buddies --driving her to distraction while he's at it -- and inadvertently their notes, which tie all the clues together, make it back to the killer. 

Not too bad on paper, right? Now if only I can get past "Nice shoes" or "uhhhhh..." 

Wishing good luck and successful pitches to all of my wonderul, braver writer friends!!