Excerpts

As I've been catching up on a belated editing assignment, a manuscript I've read and re-read over the last few years, I've been working on a couple of my own projects, a sequel in a fantasy cycle and a modern urban something-or-other. Some might call it "paranormal", some might call it "dark fantasy", but it doesn't really have a category yet. 

Anyway, as I was editing the fantasy, one part made me laugh, as if someone else had written it and I was reading it for the first time. It's dark humor, and told from the point of view of a captain who is going mad; although he doubts the crazy things he sees, they are—unfortunately—really there:

Nelek stepped forward, but a flicker of warning—perhaps the tug of his own imaginings—pulled him up short, and he stood, uncertain.

It was an uncomfortable thing, uncertainty.

He did not have to endure it for long.

A ghost stood before him. “You look well, Captain Nelek.” The familiar voice was strong and mocking, scarce to be expected of an apparition. “Would you not say the same of me?”

Nelek tightened his grip on the hilt, wondering if his sword was any defense against a phantom. He had already dispatched the man once with a blade.

Perhaps a pike this time? Flail? Battleaxe?

“You are but the fabric of nightmare,” Nelek declared, shaking off fear with laughter. “I see you not.”

“Oh, but you do. You do.” The ghost smiled. “I am solid as your own flesh, though no longer as mortal.”

It touched a livid slash across its cheek, and the corresponding cut on Nelek’s face pained him anew. The cold wind of foreboding blew across his skin. “You are dead. I killed you. Your soul escaped with your breath. You abide in the Otherland now, or howl in the Highlands. The Dragon has conjured you to frighten me.”

The shade replied, “On the contrary. I still draw breath. And will continue to do so after you are long sped to the Otherland.”

Beyond this point, Nelek's madness increases, but his "faithful" sidekick, Teague, is with him all along the journey, exacting a measure of revenge merely by being alive. I hope to play up some of their conflicts, as long as the story isn't sidetracked or bogged down as a result.

This re-read / edit has not only helped me tighten up the story, it has also reoriented me regarding plot threads that need to be followed. I'd forgotten, for instance, that a major character had started on a journey that was sidetracked in a big way; although all of that wandering played to the plot, he needs to get back to his original journey, which is also important to future events.

In this scene from the as-yet-unclassified manuscript, Brygid and her adoptive brother Yasha are taking an ancient truck for maintenance at a "classic car" lot—not exactly the grand stuff of literature, but it plays to character and plot, and made me smile when I wrote it:

A man in blue coveralls and only slightly taller than me wipes his hands on a red grease rag as he approaches. "What can I do for ya?"

Yasha offers the crumpled slip of paper, and the man hesitates before plucking it from between my brother's bandaged fingers, but he doesn't ask the question that raises his eyebrows.

"Hey, you on the Benz, knock that off and come over here. Priority customer."

The kid under the Benz rolls out and gives the truck a doubtful look.

"It's a classic, kid," says the man I take to be Carmine. "Don't knock it."

Then he gestures at me and Yasha. "Come in, have a soda, put your feet up. You can watch the whole thing from the lounge." He grins, and his teeth are a brilliant white in his black-streaked face. "Windows. Only way to keep some of these boys honest."

Not exactly inspiring. I nevertheless accept his offer for a cold soda and the shade of "the lounge", but not even the promise of air conditioning can compete with spectacle of cars with fins or sideboards or rumble seats. Yasha drinks his soda outside, and peppers the mechanics with questions, peers under hoods, then uses an abandoned dolly to roll underneath an impeccable Mustang. Carmine sees his legs sticking out from under the car, pulls on his feet, slaps a wrench across the gauze-wrapped palm, and—I interpret from the gestures—tells him to loosen something under our truck. Then Carmine kicks the dolly backward. My brother sails across the concrete, one hand over his head, catches the front tire then guides the dolly under the truck.

I shake my head. Boys.

It's after four o'clock when we pay the bill and leave. The truck is washed, the oil changed, the tires checked, wiper fluid topped off, new spark plugs installed, as well as a fresh oil filter and windshield wipers. I lose track of the other maintenance. All I know is that, compared to the way it sounded when we first arrived, the truck almost purrs.

Carmine puts his hand through the open window, and I shake his grubby paw. He slides a folded piece of paper into my hand. "Next time you see Vinny."

"Might not be for a couple weeks, maybe longer."

He shrugs. "Next time."

"I'm not running something illegal."

"I wouldn't insult Vinny like that."

All right, then. I push the note into my jeans pocket.

Carmine waves as I back out of the space and into the street.

With a grease-blackened bandage, Yasha tosses him a wave and calls a good-bye, then sits back against the hot vinyl seat and sighs. "Did you see all those cars?"

"Maybe I'll call Carmine next week and arrange a play date."

"Really?"

Boys.

I hope to have both manuscripts ready to submit soon. If life permits.

all material c. 2010 Keanan Brand

Quest for the Missing Photographers

Awesome story, awesome photos.

Oooh, Exciting

My characters tend to do dangerous things, but I live a very ordinary and quiet life.

Lately, however, I've been spoiling for excitement. So I decided to do something really dangerous: take photos while driving.

I know, I know. But it's the adrenaline rush, y'see.

Some of those photos can be seen in my Facebook album entitled "The View from My Truck", and a few snow-less December shots can be seen below.

As you can see, there's a touch of Norman Rockwell around my town, and that suits me right down to the ground, as the old saying goes. After all, American flags line Main Street -- yes, Main Street -- and even adorn the front of the funeral home. Small-town America is my kinda place.

Pickiness = Slow Going

I went looking along my own shelves yesterday for reading material, and picked up an old favorite that's been sitting idle for a long, long time. Sure, the writing doesn't rise to the level of classic literature, but the story keeps my attention, doesn't seem as long as it really is (a few hundred pages), and is one of those stories that generates discussion. That's what I call a good book.

When it comes to actual classics, there are a few I cannot read no matter how many times I try, but then there are those novels that have been around for centuries but feel fresh in their stories or their language, and are perennially readable.

Problem with my own stories: I keep tearing them apart and putting them back together, and little progress is being made at the moment. I want them to be fresh, well-written, move along at a good clip, make people think. Dagnabbit, I'm a perfectionist. That's anathema to production.

So, despite my ambitions, I'm gonna move this process along, and send out a less-than-perfect piece some time this coming weekend.

And maybe I'll read some more in that old favorite. But only after the writing is out the door.

Yeah, I know I said I would be posting a review of C.S. Lakin's The Wolf of Tebron later this month, after the CSFF Blog Tour was finished, and one should always strive to keep one's word, but -- in this instance -- I have decided against posting a review.

1) Other bloggers on the tour have echoed my thoughts, and have probably stated them more clearly and professionally than I can at the moment;
2) Lakin can use words well, and write intriguing paragraphs or well-crafted sentences, but the story never grabbed me and compelled me to sit down and read it -- rather, I had to force myself to open the book;
3) Although I subscribe to the goal of the blog tour -- to promote works of speculative fiction that have a Christian worldview or influence behind them -- the fact that a book report is required has robbed my enjoyment in reading;
4) Life happens, and I'm not in the proper mind to give a balanced perspective. In other words, the compartments aren't functioning at full capacity.

Therefore, no review.

However, since the publisher did send me a free copy on the basis that it would be reviewed, that copy will be returned. And, since I'm such a stickler for clean pages, uncreased spines, and generally treating one's books with care, this paperback looks untouched. That's not an anomaly: even books I've read many times can look almost pristine. Like I said, I'm a stickler!

It probably accounts for my reluctance to loan certain books to certain people, knowing the books will be returned in shabbier condition than when they left my library, but that's a discussion for another time.

And if this post has a touch of the crotchety old codger about it, well, I'm still working on the developing a Wilson v. House approach, so bear with me.

Modern Mentoring and Where I Find Story Ideas

When I was a kid and discovered writing -- not as an exercise in penmanship, but as the art of storytelling -- mentors were few but encouraging. Despite my peers' lack of interest, mockery, or strange awe, I persevered, due in large part to the adults who pushed and applauded and guided my first tottering efforts.

Back then, hanging out alone with a grownup who was a stranger to my parents didn't seem like a danger. After all, that grownup was a writer who was interested in my manuscript. The help I received is remembered today.

Now, I get to be that mentor to younger writers, most of them members of the youth organization where I work. It's a public environment, and nervous parents can check in at any time. E-mail contact is kept to a minimum, and is on-target. Not a lot of chitchat. After all, the innocence of my growing-up years has been replaced by fear and predators. I need to protect myself as much as I need to protect the children.

A teen writer recently contacted me because of a book review she'd read on this blog, and that prompted an intermittent e-mail conversation. If her messages are any indication, she's enthusiastic and eager to learn her craft. It's a tightrope for me, encouraging her efforts without saying anything that might be misconstrued.

She asked a question about where story ideas come from, and thinking that something in my reply might be helpful to other writers, I've included the excerpt below (edited to protect her identity):

This time of year has been absorbed with family for Christmas, end-of-year projects at work, and so forth. Not as much writing as I would like, but I've made a little progress. Some writers schedule time every day to write, and I've tried that -- in fact, I do it when I participate in National Novel-Writing Month in November -- but it's not something I can keep up forever. Rigid schedules are not for me; unfortunately, perhaps, because following a schedule would very likely make me more productive.

I'm also easily distracted by the stories that others tell: movies, books, TV series ... I love stories! But I need to write my own.

In your previous message, you wrote: How do you go about discovering new ways of writing other than through reading?

Ever write down your nightmares? Your good dreams? Your crazy dreams? I generally keep a notebook and pen beside the bed for just that reason, or to record the fantastic ideas that often come just as I'm drifting off or waking up. There's a scientific reason why our brains do that -- make connections or operate creatively at those moments -- but I can't recall the precise details. Suffice to say, be prepared to record whatever your subconscious mind decides to bring to forefront. Some stuff may be totally wacked out, some of it may be brilliant -- write it all down.

I  can get story ideas from just about anywhere:

1) visiting historic sites, museums, galleries (ruins, exhibits, paintings -- all good story material);
2) walking around town or in the countryside while taking photographs;
3) catching sight of something while I'm driving down the road:
4) listening to an old song, an interview, a news story, etc., on the radio;
5) looking at book covers in the store or at the library;
6) observing people in the park, the mall, an event (listening to their conversations or watching their expressions and interactions can help with character creation and/or conflicts);
7) hearing or remembering old family stories, with their mix of fact and fiction, and shaping them into something new (I did that with an award-winning short story once);
8) using Bible stories as the framework or inspiration for a modern-day version (you might check out some of the historical fiction by Liz Curtis Higgs -- I know she's done that);
9) using my own life -- but sometimes years have had to pass before I could write about troubling events;
10) talking to my brother, his wife, my dad or mom, friends, people who are experts or know about certain topics (bouncing ideas off trusted people or gleaning ideas from people who are pros in their fields can lead to good stories).

There are probably many more ways stories have come to me over the years. You'll have your ways, too.

I recall visiting a nearby Civil War battlefield on a Sunday afternoon with my family. A friend had come with us, and we we'd eaten dinner after church then went to the battlefield. There are some cabins on the grounds, and they house museum exhibits, etc. I was fascinated. My friend was bored. This person thought I was morbid and weird because I kept staring at a blood-stained, bullet-hole-riddled uniform while imagining the terror, the pain, the soldier must have experienced. And then there's the vast silence of the battlefield -- just looking at it, listening to the wind through the wooden fence, seeing the tall brown grass bend, can bring tears to the eyes. How many dead are still buried there? What carnage did this land, that forest, see? I stood, overwhelmed, on the edge of the battlefield. Behind me, my friend complained.

I don't think that person ever hung out with me again!

But that experience, more than all the historic books I've read or war movies I've seen, brought home the bigness of war.

I've never been in the military, but my father is a Vietnam veteran, so I'd heard his stories and seen the effects of war on his life. That has helped when I write about men involved in war.

So, whaddya think? Encouraging and informative?

One of my writerly resolutions for the new year is to improve my approach to editing and critiquing the work of other writers. If you follow television, you'll understand when I say I'm more House than Wilson, which is not exactly encouraging to old hands let alone new writers. But I'm trying.

Just as one becomes a writer by writing, I hope to become a better mentor by simply mentoring.

(lifting my favorite pen) Here's to a new year of words, stories, and crazy imagination.