Artistic Grammar

When my manuscript for Dissension was in its early stages, I had a friend of mine read it so she could give me some feedback. She wasn’t adept at critiquing novels, but had a good amount of experience with copy editing essays and such.

So when she finished reading it, she first told me how much she loved it. (Thank you!) Then she went on to tell me about all of my grammatical errors that needed fixing. When she said that I should never, ever begin a sentence with the words “and” or “but”, I had to disagree with her.

I mean, sure – I went to school and I really do know all of those kinds of basics in the English language. However, when it comes to writing fiction, I feel like we authors have the right to word things in a more artistic manner. I have read plenty of novels that have a lot of sentences beginning with the words “and” or “but”. I also will have a sentence break with “then” instead of the proper “and then” every once in a while just because it sounds like the sentence will flow better that way.

I believe this should especially apply to dialogue. People do not go around saying things like, “Jimmy and I are going to get ice cream. Would you like to join us as well?” Don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing wrong with someone saying something like that. But realistically, the average person would say something more along the lines of, “Hey, we’re gettin’ some ice cream. Wanna come?” The more unique you can write a character’s dialogue to their talking style, the easier it will be for your readers to understand who is saying what. A good example is the dialogue I used above. You can easily make a guess about the kind of characters with those two different sentences. One might say the first quote is by someone who is more educated/sophisticated. The second could be by someone who’s more down to earth/easy going.

We had a little debate in my critique group the other day about something grammatical.  Person 1 said that person 2’s paragraphs weren’t correct. Person 1 thought that person 2 should turn a three sentence paragraph into two paragraphs because the context shifted slightly in those sentences. Person 2 didn’t agree, and both turned to me to see what my take on the matter was. I simply shrugged and said that I thought it was a fine enough detail that it should be the author’s prerogative to choose what they liked best. That seemed to satisfy them. They agreed with me that it is part of an author’s artistic style in how they use grammar.

With all that being said, do understand that I’m not saying anything goes here. You can’t write a novel without basic spelling and grammar used correctly. I have looked at some people’s work that they’ve posted online and been appalled by some of the things they wrote. So please, don’t read this and think that you can have your manuscript looking like it came straight from texting or from Twitter! 🙂

The point that I am trying to make is that there are certain areas in fictional writing that can be altered to match an author’s writing style. If I were trying to write my work to be perfect in the grammatical sense, I wouldn’t sound like me. I would sound more like a text book or like I was trying to write an essay instead of describe characters and plot.

Convoluted (part 1)

The following is a short story I wrote. It’s not my usual style, but I think you’ll love how it ends! The rest of this story will be posted every Friday. Enjoy…

Alexa wandered to the forbidden area, hoping to have a few moments to herself at the previously mentioned waterfall. Her boyfriend, Clint, had suggested this romantic trip to the Grenada islands. She had been delighted to accept, then soon learned why she and Clint would not be engaged in any long-term relationship. He had appeared to want all the same things as herself: successful career, great home, fabulous car, living in the lap of luxury and corporate glamour.

The trip was a wake-up call to her. She had enjoyed Clint’s good looks and designer clothes too much to notice the front he had put on for her. The guy was far from successful. It became evident as they toured the six small islands of Grenada that, while he had paid for their trip over, he was expecting to mooch off of her income. She wasn’t even sure if the man had a job.

As she walked along a rarely tread trail that was surrounded by lush greenery, Alexa admitted to herself that she had allowed her shallow side to be duped. This experience was an eye opener to her in more than one way. Though she knew Clint to be real scum, she also knew that she had to take responsibility. She had let herself be blinded. In retrospect, she saw plenty of signs that Clint was using her as a free ride.

Alexa sighed and wiped sweat off of her brow with the back of her hand. The climate was hot and humid, making her skin feel sticky. She couldn’t even identify all the scents of flowers and plant life around her, but it was soothing. She was glad to be away from Clint and the others in the tour group. They were at the beach, absorbing yet more rays from the sun. Alexa had claimed a headache and stayed in bed until they had left. Then she had donned a comfortable, razor-backed tank top and a pair of khaki shorts. She didn’t have hiking shoes, but the runner shoes she wore sufficed.

The trail was somewhat difficult, especially since Alexa wasn’t used to this kind of exercise. She was a die-hard gym guru, but rarely spent time outdoors. She found it pleasant at the moment, but that had more to do with her solitude than her surroundings.

Their tour guide had pointed this area out when they had first arrived to the small Diamond Island, saying that the grounds were considered sacred and trespassing was a serious offense. Obviously, she didn’t care enough to heed the warning and found she was glad she’d followed her impulse to explore out here.

She had been hiking for a while and was starting to get tired. She chided herself for not bringing along any food or water with her. She was thinking of turning back when she heard the thunderous sound of a waterfall. She pressed forward, her goal close at hand.

When she finally emerged from the brush of long leaves and trees, she stared. It was spectacular, but she couldn’t place how this waterfall seemed so different from the others she’d seen in her lifetime. Maybe it was because it was so isolated, making it a peaceful spectacle of wonder.

Whatever the reason, she trudged forward through the mud, took off her shoes and socks, then waded into the knee-deep waters to sit on a large boulder standing above the surface. The water was cool on her legs, the sun shining on her back. The rhythmic pounding of the fall was mesmerizing. Alexa felt completely at peace for the first time in a long while. She’d definitely be breaking up with Clint when she got home, but this one moment made the hassle of the whole trip worth it.

She wasn’t sure how long she’d been sitting in the remote sanctuary when a noise alerted her. Alexa didn’t know exactly what the sound was, only that it wasn’t conducive to the nature around her.

She gasped and stood in the water, looking around her. Nothing. Trying to gain control over her erratic heart, she swished her way to dry ground and put her socks and shoes back on. As she stood, she saw the leaves shaking and wavering on the opposite side of the river.

Suddenly, a tall, strikingly handsome man appeared out of the foliage. They made surprised eye contact for more than a minute before the man blushed. He had black hair and icy blue eyes that were framed by dark lashes. His build was fit and trim, and he was wearing black slacks with a white, long sleeved shirt tucked in. The suspenders over the shirt stuck out the most.

He turned his head to the side and spoke over the noise of the waterfall. “Forgive me, madam. I was not aware there would be a woman bathing in this area.” He looked around. “Is your dress nearby? May I fetch it for you?”

Alexa’s eyebrows puckered together in a frown. “I wasn’t bathing. I was just getting my feet wet. And I’m not naked, for crying out loud.”

His flush deepened, but his gaze went back to her. “I assume the rest of your party is close by. Shall I escort you to them?”

Though he was acting strangely, she felt a surge of warmth at his concern. “They’re on the other side of the island. I’m sure I can find my way back.”

He looked at her as if she’d said her group was on Mars. “You cannot go back that way. There is nothing but dangerous animals and serpents.” He appeared to debate with himself then said, “You may come with me to my plantation. I will give you aid there.”

“Look, buddy, I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I can certainly take care of myself.” As she spoke, she looked up to realize that the sun was already beginning its descent. Her hike had taken more than two hours and it would be dark in about forty minutes.

Alexa didn’t catch exactly what the guy said, but thought she’d heard him say something about a bluestocking. “I don’t know much about birds.” She gestured to the sky. “It’s later than I thought, so I guess I’ll take you up on your offer. I’ll just stay at your place for the night, then go back to my hotel tomorrow.” At the disdainful look on his face, she added, “If that’s okay with you.”

In response, he beckoned for her to cross the river. As she sloshed her way in the water with shoes on, he said, “The name’s Benton, by the way. James Benton.”

“Sounds like James Bond.” She stood next to him and noted that he was about six feet tall. She was five nine herself, so wasn’t intimidated in the slightest by his height.

“Who?” He stared at her strangely.

It was her turn to look at him like he was insane. “Forget it.” She waved her hand in the air. “My name’s Alexa. Why don’t you just lead the way, hmm?”

James shook his head and pivoted on his foot. Though he was handsome, she felt no attraction to him. He seemed too arrogant. Besides, she was on the island with another man. It would be poor taste to ditch Clint now, even if she was planning to break up with him.

The hike down wasn’t too much trouble and it was only thirty minutes before they approached a large house that was surrounded by farmland. It looked like James harvested sugarcane or something similar.

A black woman opened the door before they reached it. She held a gas lantern against the nearly dark sky. Alexa smiled at the lady who looked to be in her mid-thirties. “Is this your wife?”

Both the woman and James stared at her as if she had an extra head. “Okay,” she said slowly. “Sorry I was being presumptuous.”

James shrugged it off and brushed past the woman into the house. Alexa followed, noting that the woman bowed her head as James walked by.

The woman looked at Alexa disapprovingly. “I be Tessa, the ‘ousekeeper.”

Alexa nodded politely. James had wandered into the front room and Tessa told her to join him in the parlor. Alexa took in Tessa’s ragged dress that looked like it was made out of curtains, looked around the house made completely out of wood. There was no wallpaper or plaster or even a light-switch. The entire interior was lit by candlelight.

“Forgive me for being rude,” Alexa said to James as he lit a pipe, “but are you Amish or something?”

He looked puzzled. “I’m Presbyterian. I’m from England originally.” She didn’t know how to respond, so just sat on a settee and pulled her sodden shoes and socks off to dry. “I’ll be having company over in a few minutes. Shall I see if Tessa has an extra outfit for you?”

“Ah…no, thanks. I’d prefer wearing my clothes, and they aren’t very dirty.”

He sent her a curious glance but didn’t say anything. They sat in awkward silence for some time, and then a knock sounded at the front door. Alexa heard Tessa shuffle over the creaky wooden floors and greet whoever was there. Tessa stood in the doorway to the parlor and announced, “Yer friends be here, mastah.”

“Send them in.”

Three gentlemen who appeared to be the same age as James came in and stared at Alexa. Before she could say anything James stood. “Gentleman,” he greeted. “This is Alexa. I found her stranded by the falls and brought her home.”

“Just for one night,” Alexa stated as she stood and smiled at the men who were still staring.

What Kind of Writer are You?

There have been so many times that I will read a classic, like something from Jane Austin or Alexandre Dumas, and just think “How did they do it?”

It might be a horrible thing for a writer to admit, but I think if I had been living in those times, I wouldn’t have pursued a writing career. I am not a great writer off the top of my head. I can get a great idea and start to write it, but the book just doesn’t become fabulous until it’s been through at least five revisions. So when I think of Jane Austen writing by hand, I wonder how many drafts she had to write before she sent it to the publisher. (I should also mention here, that I have horrible handwriting and I’m not sure if I would have been able to read all of my own work. Sad, but true!)

So first off, kudos to all those authors that used to write with a quill, pen, and even a typewriter. I’m of a spoiled generation where I get to use my computer with spell check, copy and paste, etc. I really don’t think I could make it happen without these wonderful tools at my disposal!

Anyway, that was a really long rant, but while I was thinking about this, it also brought my mind to a fun question: what kind of writer are you? Everyone has a different writing process. Some have to write an outline of their story before they can start. Others just start writing and see where the story is going to take them.

I’m a little more like the latter, with a small exception. While the story isn’t concrete before I begin typing away on the computer, I do like to have detailed bios of my characters before I begin. For me, the characters are the ones who make the story move along the way it does. Sometimes I’ll have an idea of where the plot is going, but once I get there, I just know that my character wouldn’t do X. Therefore, X won’t lead to Y, then Z. Instead my character would do A, which will take the plot to B, and so on. It’s amazing how many times I have changed my story around just because I feel like my character wouldn’t take a certain action. But it always seems to work better than how I had originally thought it, so I stick with this method.

Feel free to leave a comment and tell me what kind of a writer you are. I know one person that draws a picture of each scene before he begins writing a story. I’m crap at drawing, and so could never adopt that one. However, I do like to write diagrams of the setting so I can better describe it. I don’t usually do that until my first revision. I know another author who embodies the word of organization. She will make an outline, draw pictures of the settings she’s planning to use, has notes of research about the settings, and complete character bios before she ever types the first word of her story. That’s probably the method I would have taken if I was living in the eighteen hundreds.

I should note that most authors are very good at doing research, but a lot of them tend to write as they do research or will write the story first, then do research to make sure it’s as realistic as possible.

Anyway, what is your method? I’d love to hear it!

Making the Time

I’m a writer. My debut novel, Dissension, is coming out in February. It’s book one of a trilogy and I haven’t finished book two or three just yet. My publisher has me on a schedule to have each book come out on an annual basis, so the other books will be finished soon enough. But is writing my life? I wish! I would love to be a full time writer and have nothing else on my plate. But I come from a world called reality, and things generally don’t work that way.

I have been blessed with my loving husband and two beautiful children. My husband makes enough that I get to stay home and take care of the kids while he works, so in that regard – I’m very lucky! However, staying home and taking care of young kids who aren’t old enough to go to school does take up quite a bit of my time. I’m also involved in helping out in my community through my church and I am working really hard to lose weight. So the majority of my time goes to my children, I make it a priority to workout Monday through Friday, and once a week I am doing something for my community.

So where do I find the time to write? I make time. My schedule is just one of many examples of writers and their busy lives. For those who don’t have a sugar daddy (just a joke, hubby, I promise!), they have a day job that takes up plenty of their time along with other commitments. But we all have one thing in common: we’re busy, and yet writing is a priority to us so we make time for it. I can’t give specific examples on other writers, but I can tell you little things that I do.

First off, nap time. When my toddler takes her nap, my older son has quiet time in front of a movie and I get some writing done. Sometimes, my son will require me to attend to him here and there, so it’s definitely interrupted, but it’s something. Even if it’s just fifteen minutes a few times a day – it does add up and you will benefit from trying. I also have my kids on a tight sleeping schedule, so they’re in bed by eight o’clock at the latest every night. This gives me at least two hours of work. You have to keep in mind that it’s not just writing that I’m doing. I also need to do quite a bit of social networking, writing content for this very blog, and other things like that. It’s pretty fun to do, but it does take up time, so it must also be factored in.

I spend my time with my online critique group on Saturdays. My husband gets to have special play time with our kids while I send out my work to be critiqued and then critique other people’s work. I also have a critique group that I meet with in person once a month and a writing group that has monthly meetings. So those nights that I am away, I just call my days off from writing. This usually works well, because after going to those monthly meetings, it gives me a lot of ideas and motivation to keep writing.

Of course, I still need to spend some time with my husband. I love him and like having quality time with him, so we always make sure we can spend Saturday and Sunday nights together (after the kids have gone to bed). There are times when I can’t stick to this schedule due to extended family commitments and whatnot, but as long as I stick to this as much as I’m able to, I am productive enough to generally meet my writing commitments.

I’m not saying this kind of a schedule works for everyone. Some people are a lot more busy than I can imagine, and they still find a way to sit down and work on their novels. The point of this blog is not to tell you what to do or how to find time to write. It’s just to simply say that if you want to write, you can make that time to do it. You can be successful in whatever writing goals you may have in mind for yourself. There may be some sacrifice involved – maybe you will have to lose an hour of sleep each night to get your writing in. But you can do it.

England, 1816 (Part 2)

Leisha woke with a startled gasp. The intake of air immediately drew dirt into the back of her throat. Realizing that she was covered and surrounded by earth, she forced herself to not give into the reaction her body wanted. Instead of coughing, she held her breath. Feeling the dirt invading her lungs made her eyes tear up with bloody tears. Trying to ignore that discomfort, she took an inventory of the rest of her body.

She could feel residual pain coursing through her stomach and limbs, but it was manageable. More than anything, she felt weak and shaky. Keeping her eyes closed, she pushed her hands up into the dirt. Pressure from the soil increased on her face while she tried to dig her way out. As fatigued as she was, she had to take several breaks before her hands finally reached air. The excitement helped her to use what little energy she had to pull her torso above ground. Once there, she fell forward and coughed out as much dirt as she could from her lungs. It had been painful to hold in, and just as painful to discharge it from her body.

Just as she was pulling the rest of herself from the fresh grave, she felt the hunger pouncing within her mind. “Not yet,” she murmured to herself. She forced herself to stand and move through the gardens toward the large estate that the Baron owned. Her body felt heavy and it seemed a long journey before she made it to the french doors that she knew lead into the library. Of course, the doors were locked. Leisha had no patience for stealth and with an aggravated grunt, kicked the doors open. The glass shattered as the doors caved in the wrong direction.

Leisha stepped through and walked through the library to the hallway. She heard the servant’s heartbeat long before he entered the corridor with a pistol in hand. The scent of his skin and the sound of his heart brought the hunger forefront to her brain. Leisha grabbed her head and gave a small cry. Using breathing techniques she was able to quell the overwhelming urge to rush at the elder man and devour him. “He’s not the one we want,” she whispered.

Once she felt in control of her body again, she opened her eyes to see the servant pointing the pistol at her. His hand was wavering and he had a look of uncertainty on his withered face. One look into her eyes and the blood drained from his face. He seemed to be paralyzed as she moved past him and up the main stairway. It took all the control she could muster to not reach out at him when she came near him, but she was able to do it.

One agonizing step at a time, she made her way up the stairs. She had a general idea of where the baron’s rooms were, but still had to peek her head in some doors before she found it. His antechamber was immaculate, but she took no time to look around. The knowledge that her victim was so close and breathing deeply in the next room pulled her like a magnet. Laurence Chadwick didn’t stir when she entered. He slept on as if there were no worries in his world. That would change soon enough.

The hunger lashed out within her mind and before she knew it, she was straddling him. Leisha forced herself to take control again. Even if for just a moment, she wanted to be aware of his fear and his pain.

The baron started at her weight atop him. “What the hell?” he muttered and tried to rise.

Grabbing his hands and pinning them beside his head, Leisha leaned down into his face. “I came back for the honeymoon, dear husband.” The dirt and thirst made her voice sound scratchy, but it only helped with her desired effect.

Laurence could not see in the dark, but Leisha saw his face. It was utter terror and panic shaking his cheeks, making his lips quiver. A cruel smile formed on Leisha’s face. She’d never allowed the hunger to rule her body. It seemed too cruel and inhumane. But Laurence made her more irate than any human had ever managed.

“You got to have your day with my fortune,” she crooned. “I hope you celebrated, because now is the time to pay the devil his due.”

Leisha could hear him whimpering, begging for her to let him go, but it was too late. The hunger was taking over her body and the only thing she was aware of was the distant sound of a man screaming and his flesh tearing.