D. Hart St. Martin

I make female heroes badass AND believable

writing tools

The Build–Writing a Worthy Ending

by 1 Comment

I am not a Led Zeppelin fan. In the 70s and 80s, whenever a radio station would present the top 300 or 500 of the entire history of rock-and-roll on Memorial Day or Labor Day weekend, I’d cringe as they approached #1. It was always, inexorably, inexplicably, inevitably “Stairway to Heaven.” I hate “Stairway to Heaven.” I do, however, have a Led Zeppelin guilty pleasure. “Kashmir.” I crank it up on my car radio when it comes on. I’ve even downloaded it from iTunes and am listening to it right now as loud as my Walkman will allow me.

What, you may ask, intrigues me about this song? The build. The slow build of drums  and bass into brass and other orchestral wonders. And that relentless beat. My body moves with no conscious participation on my part.  And then the lyrical pauses with the taste of Eastern  delights.

As writers, we can learn from “Kashmir.” At the moment, I am in the middle of what could be a powerful ending to my latest novel, but that power, I realized last night, lies in the build. Don’t go too fast. I’m tempted to just rush in and then leave myself with nowhere to go because I’ve already crescendoed to the peak. I know where we’re going, and I want so badly to get there because it’s going to blow the reader’s mind. But I must slow down, allow fate to tickle at the reader’s heart but leave as little trace as possible until the fullness is revealed. This is a delicate balance which must be respected. Nuance is everything. I’ll let you know how it turns out.

Give Me an Inch, I’ll Make You a Book

by 1 Comment

I went onto the web site of a prominent office supply chain the other day and ordered a thousand 4 x 6″ index cards. I love my 4 x 6 cards. They are, perhaps, the most used tool in my writing arsenal, and I utilize one for each scene in my books. I usually start out with 20 or 30 of them, with such details as “Battle Day 1” or “Lisen in bath” or “the reunion” and build the stack from there.

That’s how the story unfolds for me—little vignettes in time with rarely any details at all. Just a moment carved out. And as I near that scene, what has led up to it begins to take on meaning, and I jot down pieces of action and dialogue and plot points that I intend to get into the composition of the scene. In addition, I note the day (numbered sequentially from the beginning of the book) and the date as well as the number of the scene. (I don’t break my books into chapters until I’m on my final draft.) I also finalize whose point of view will best tell this bit of the story. For instance, under “Lisen in bath” I wrote a brief exchange of dialogue between Lisen and her companion in the bath. What they say isn’t relevant to the plot, but it is relevant to Lisen’s state of mind at that moment. On the other hand, “the reunion” is blank save for the POV and the day/date.

I play with these cards as their numbers increase. By the time I was through the first draft of the third book in my Lisen of Solsta trilogy, Blooded, I had 94 scenes and, hence, 94 cards. That’s basically an inch of cards, and I still pull them out every once in a while and fondle them. Yeah, I know, I’m weird, but I’m a writer, okay? In my defense, I often refer to them if I’m trying to find the part where such-and-such happens. How many members were there in the privy council? And where did they all sit around the table?

4 x 6 cards become Blooded
4 x 6 cards become Blooded

I do have a scene outline for each draft—as scenes do sometimes appear in subsequent drafts, disappear completely or move around—but that outline doesn’t hold the precious notes that remind me what my intent was for that scene. And where people were sitting around the table in the privy council, of course.

So, there you have it. How an inch of 4 x 6 cards became a novel. And I’m at it again. I have 22 completed scenes and 22 cards. About 20 cards with scenes awaiting writing lined up, but those will likely double to triple in volume before I’m done. After which I will have enough cards to write ten more books. Goodie!

In the Beginning

by 1 Comment

What a few weeks it’s been. After avoiding the holidays entirely (except for the incessant ads on the television), I’ve managed to begin my new book in earnest. Even took the first scene into my writing group last week. The verdict? Well, that’s what I’m here to discuss today.

“Beginnings are such delicate times.” Thus did Frank Herbert write in his SciFi classic, Dune (p. 441, Kindle edition). And, oh, how very right he was. Where and how to open the story is one of the most critical decisions a writer must make in any writing endeavor, whether it be a novel, a memoir or an essay. In my case, it’s a novel, and although a great deal of the setting is well established, years and many events have intervened.

So, where did I begin? Did I begin with a moment of movement and the near-immediate introduction of conflict? Did I hand the reader as little back story as possible in order to avoid confusion as I have often cautioned others in the group to do? Hell, no. I wrote a scene with too many names, too many explanations—in short way too much detail—and not a hint of conflict. And boy, did my workshop come down on me. Hard.

They didn’t actually say, “This is not where the story begins,” because they don’t know what the story is. But they knew I’d dropped them into a maelstrom of TMI and not enough story, and they were none too happy about it.

Feeling a little defensive, I dutifully took notes, then started adding a few of my own as the light began to dawn. This was not the beginning. In fact, this particular scene had no place in the story at all. It turns out my tale begins with what was the second scene, with the addition of one character in order to complete the establishment of the moments I will call up for remembrance at the end.

And when I rewrote the new opening and the scene that follows it, everything came together like a piece of Ikea furniture when you finally figure out what that one diagram actually means. All the building blocks of a delicate but powerful story lay before me eagerly awaiting assembly. Now, the story begins. Let’s see what my workshop has to say about this.

The Big V in the Sky (a rant)

by Leave a Comment

I write because I can’t not write.  I transcribe radiology reports from home because I can’t not eat.  Both are independent pursuits, and both depend to one degree or another on the internet.  The former not so much; the latter, very much.

So last week while downloading jobs to transcribe from my employer, I discovered that my download speed had reached the point of sloth.  (Don’t get me wrong; I think sloths are cute, but they do move awful slow.)  Finally on Monday, I called tech support at work, and the IT guy ran several tests, cleaned out my cache (cookies, history, etc.), ran more tests and pronounced the problem not with them but with the connection between my computer and my ISP (internet service provider for those not computer savvy.)

My ISP shall remain nameless, but its signature color is red and it used to have a guy who’d ask if the person on the phone could hear him now.  I dreaded having to call my ISP.  I had very good reason to believe the tech guy from work; he had logical explanations for why the data he’d acquired in his testing pointed in the direction of my provider.  But would my ISP agree?

Today I made the call and reached a woman with a name which led me to believe she couldn’t have been over 30 and was more likely under 25.  (You know, “Jennifer” became popular in the 70s, “Tiffany” in the 80s, this name probably in the 90s?)  She ran a speed test.  Everything looked fine to her, but I pointed out that 30 Mbps did not reflect the actual download speed I was experiencing, like 55 Kbps or about 0.18% of 30 Mbps.  That’s less than one-fifth of 1%, people.

She ran another speed test.  And another.  She tested the line, continued to find nothing wrong, then asked me if I had any other equipment drawing on the WiFi.  Laptop turned off, phone turned off, Kindle turned off, smart phone turned off.  Only other draw was the cable box they also are in charge of.

“Is your phone off?” she repeated.

“The phone I’m talking on is wireless but is a landline.  Do I have to turn that off, too?  Because I already told you the cell phone is completely off.”

“Oh, no.  You can stay on the phone.”  Duh.

She never even had me do anything with the router/modem.  I asked her if it might be the modem.  Or that stupid box for the fiberoptics in the closet.  I guess there wasn’t a page on all of that in her reference manual.

Eventually she pronounced that it had to be my computer.  I protested.  My computer isn’t even a year old.  No excuse for the computer.  What was I supposed to do?  Pay premium price for 25 Mbps and get 50 Kbps forever?  She had no answer except to offer me the increased speed of 50 Mbps they’re currently offering at the cut-rate price of $10 more per month.  I thanked her, sarcastically of course.  Told her I appreciated “all her help” and hung up on her.

Ah, but it doesn’t end there.  Contacted tech support at work again.  By this time I was crying.  “What am I supposed to say to these people?  I can’t go on like this.”  Nice lady in support got me connected with a very knowledgeable techie by the name of Joe (yeah, his name I’ll give you because he was great).  Before he got on the phone with me, he talked to the guy I’d worked with on Monday so he had all the back story.  He ran some tests, did some pinging, and lo and behold, there it was.  A time-out in the pings.  And that’s the rub.  The answer.  And it has nothing to do with my computer.

Short story.  Rebooted the modem/router per his instructions and have much improved (though not as good as they should be) speeds.  If at any point I take on the big V in the sky again, I can count on my employer’s tech support to make it a 3-way call if I can’t make the V “hear me now.”

Oh, and one more thing.  The big V called me twice this afternoon, but when I picked up the phone, their system hung up on me.  First time they woke me up from a much-needed nap.  I hate that.  The second time, I dialed them back, went through their impossible system yelling “I want to talk to someone now” each time the lovely computer-lady voice asked me to punch in numbers for what I needed.   Spent another 20 minutes on the phone with some Bozo who had NO idea why I’d been called.  All I wanted was for them to stop calling me, and when he said, “I haven’t been able to determine why they called you yet.  Can I call you back?” I lost it.  “I don’t want a call back.  I don’t want any calls at all from you people.  Don’t you get it?  Good-bye.”  Bang.

While talking to a friend a short time later, the V called me again (go ahead, drag out your lizard tongues and eat me raw; I don’t care anymore).  I let it go to voicemail.  And when I listened to the voicemail later, the computer-lady actually spoke.  I guess when a machine answers, especially one of their own (those V are such a closed society), they don’t hang up.  Turns out they wanted to know if the person I had spoken to earlier had solved my problem.  “Press 1 for yes, 2 for no.”  It was a message; I could press nothing.

Be afraid, be very afraid.  They don’t hear us anymore.