• “The smartest historical sci-fi adventure-romance story ever written by a science Ph.D. with a background in scripting 'Scrooge McDuck' comics.”—Salon.com
  • A time-hopping, continent-spanning salmagundi of genres.”
    —ENTERTAINMENT WEEKLY
  • “These books have to be word-of-mouth books because they're too weird to describe to anybody.”
    —Jackie Cantor, Diana's first editor

How I Write – Part I

Sorry to neglect y’all. I hadn’t much heart to write for a bit, and then was overtaken by the usual fierce rush of events. Haven’t forgotten you, though. [g] I had in fact just been about to answer Midge’s questions about how I write, so figured I might as well resume with that:

It’s almost impossible (I know from experience) for me to describe coherently what’s going on my mind when I write–but fwiw, both sides of my brain seem to work at once.

No, I don’t plan out the structure–of a sex scene, or any other kind of scene, let alone the book. [wry g]

I start with a “kernel”–a line of dialogue, a sense of emotional ambiance, an object whose details I can “see”–anything that I can sense concretely. Then I write a line or two describing that, as best I can.

Then I sit and stare at it for awhile.

I put words in and I take them out. I divide the sentence in half and insert a new clause. Decide I don’t like that one entirely, but don’t want to throw it away, so drop it down a line or two and try something else. Move the gerund phrase from the beginning of the sentence to the middle. Etc., etc.—just trying to cast this “kernel” (whatever it is) for maximum clarity and elegance, just in terms of the craft.

OK. While this sort of mechanical work is going on, the back of my mind is busy throwing up a shower of little questions, like a dog digging in sand: Whose viewpoint is this? Where are we? What time of year is it? Are we inside or outside? How is the light falling? Is a storm coming? Am I hot? What am I wearing? Why is my foot tapping? Did someone just say something? What’s that in my hand? I see a face…

And the scene begins to take shape—slowly. Sometimes I have a specific purpose in mind for a scene—I know that William, say, is doing intelligence work, so we need to see him doing a bit of it. So I may think that’s what’s going to happen here…but not necessarily.

Having that rather vague notion in mind, I began looking for a kernel with which to start the writing (the kernel is where I start writing; this doesn’t mean it’s the beginning of the scene; sometimes the writing goes backward as well as forward from the kernel). I know where Willie starts—North Carolina—and I sort of know where he’s supposed to end up–with General Howe (if he gets there. Will he? I have no idea), but I don’t yet know where Howe was at this specific point in time—because I have no idea what the date is when this happens.

Meanwhile, however, I’ve wandered over to my giant built-in bookshelf (where I keep the five or six hundred books of my central reference collection plus the two or three dozen most important references (so far) for this book) to stare blankly at the collection of Interesting Objects scattered along the shelves (lots of crystals, mineral spheres, psychically active (supposedly) stones, a miniature cannon, a tiny crystal castle, a hand-blown medicine bottle with a glass snake wrapped around it, an antique bronze mortar (full of pens), a reproduction 18th-century inkstand with quills, a (real) powder-flask from a set of 18th-century dueling pistols, six pocket-knives, a beanbag octopus, the dried jaws of a small shark…and I happen to spot one of the books, titled THE FABULOUS HISTORY OF THE DISMAL SWAMP COMPANY.

Well, I read this book some time ago, and frankly, it’s not all that good—not well organized, and the writing is tedious—but just the name “The Great Dismal Swamp”…well, there’s a thing to conjure with.

And I have my kernel—almost. OK. Willie’s riding into the Great Dismal Swamp. I have no idea why, mind you, but we can figure that out as we go. What I need now, though, is a concrete image that I can write down in a sentence or two.

Rather than read the tedious book again (at least not yet), I go and google “Great Dismal Swamp natural history”—and pop up an entertaining article with a lot of detail regarding the flora and fauna of the swamp (and a bit of historical detail concerning Lake Drummond, which is dramatic, so I tuck that away in a spare cerebral recess for future reference)…from which I choose the image of swarms of “tiny yellow horseflies, whose eyes reflect rainbows when you get close to them.”

Now, I do recollect from the tedious book—and check it to be sure—that during one or more of the attempts to drain the swamp, a road was built. Excellent. And so…

“ William marveled at the road. True, there were only a few miles of it, but the miracle of being able to ride straight into the Great Dismal, through a place where he vividly recalled having had to swim his horse on a previous visit, all the while dodging snapping-turtles and venomous snakes–the convenience of it was astonishing. The horse seemed of similar mind, picking up its feet in a light-hearted way, outpacing the clouds of tiny yellow horseflies that tried to swarm them, the insects’ eyes glinting like tiny rainbows when they drew close. “

Now, mind, this is what the paragraph looks like now. It took me probably fifteen or twenty minutes of fiddling before it got this way—and I may yet mess with it more later, but for now, it’s the best I can do.

What happens next? Well, it’s 4:15 AM, so right now, I’m going to bed. [g] Tomorrow, though, we’ll find out (maybe) why Willie’s riding into the Great Dismal Swamp, and how I discovered that.

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Gus is gone

Thanks, guys, for all your prayers and good wishes. I’m more sorry than I can tell you to have to say that Gus is dead. His kidneys shut down entirely, and there was no choice but to euthanize him. Doug and our younger daughter (who lives in town) came down to the hospital, and we spent a good (if tearful) hour with him, petting him and telling him how much he meant to us–what a good dog. Then the kind doctor gave him a shot, and we brought him home and buried him out back, under a big eucalyptus tree, beside old Ajax, our doberman who died a couple of years ago. We buried him with a MilkBone between his paws (his favorite), and a small bouquet of fragrant herbs from my garden–rosemary (for remembrance), lavender, and sage. He always loved to help dig in the garden.

We’re very sad, but relieved that he’s out of his trouble. It’s been a bad few days.

Sick Doggie

Sorry to be so absent for the last bit; out of town for several days, during which our Fat Dachshund, Gus (whom some of you have met in the pages of BROTHERHOOD OF THE BLADE [g]) developed pancreatitis and kidney failure of unknown cause. Our son was watching house and livestock for us, and called to tell me Gus was having bloody diarrhea (sorry for the details), so I asked Sam to take him to the emergency veterinary clinic (this being the weekend). We thought we might lose him at least twice over the last two or three days, and he’s frankly not doing well–but he’s still got a chance, and we want him to have it, as long as he’s in good hands and not suffering. So he’s on “supportive care” at a very good animal hospital, and…we’ll hope he gets better. All good thoughts much appreciated.

I’m going down to the hospital to visit him now (they let you visit 24 hours a day); will give him all your good wishes. Thanks.

Pam’s "Ode to a Penis"

PAM’S “ODE TO A PENIS”

(As in—I did NOT write this—proud though I would have been to do so [g]. No, no—this is the stellar handiwork of Ms. Pamela Patchet, multi-winner of the Surrey International Writers Conference Silly Poetry Contest, Honorable Mention (more than once) in the Bulwer-Lytton Bad Writing Contest, and holder of many other distinguished titles, I’m sure. Many thanks to Pam for giving me permission to post her poem here!)

[ahem]

How does a writer describe the aroused male member in a romance novel without tarnishing the family jewels?

Despite thousands of words used to describe Wee Willy Winkie (Mark Morton lists 1,300 in his book The Lover’s Tongue: A Merry Romp Through The Language Of Love And Sex), none seem to adequately convey the language of love, with its most obvious method of delivery, without giggles. One might argue the biggest organ of love is the brain, but a man’s brain is not the organ which makes its presence most boldly known in the throes of passion.

But how does a writer of romance describe ‘It’ without ruining the moment? There’s no denying ‘It’ is there – its presence is as keenly felt as the relentless prodding of a Labrador’s nose against an outstretched hand.

One might wish to use a soft touch and describe a poet’s Dart of Love. A knight shields his Lance of Love, his Excalibur seeks its sheath. A fighting man thrusts his Hooded Warrier, or if angered, his Bald Avenger. The CEO fires his Executive Staff Member, the chef heats up his Meat ‘n Potatoes, the outdoorsman handles his Rod and Tackle, and the butcher unwraps his 100% All Beef Thermometer.

No, I think for romance to work, allusion is everything. I humbly offer up the following poem:

Ode to a Penis

or

Advice For Romance Writers

I think that I shall never see,

a penis lovely as a tree.

Though both can be described at length,

it’s best you don’t.

Please show some strength.

For ample members are best left

(even when one’s hands are deft)

untouched by writers’ florid prose,

whether roused,

or in repose.

So drop the little one-eyed snake,

of other things you should partake.

Admittedly, they do enthrall,

but after one, you’ve seen ‘em all.

Graphic Novel Update!

Just to let y’all know that I’ve posted a sample page of the graphic novel script–so you can see what one looks like–and a page of Hoang’s layout sketches. Layout sketches are rough drawings, made so that we can be sure Hoang and I have the same vision of what the page looks like; that he has the composition and perspective I was envisioning, and whether there are any small details that I forgot to include that should be present (or that he’s added, but that oughtn’t to be there for historical or plot reasons).

Yes, that _is_ Jamie in the third panel. And yes, he is young [g]–remember, he’s only 22 here.

As always, I’m fascinated to hear what y’all think!