"Wake up. We're here. Why are you shaking? Wake up. Stand up. There you go. What's your name?"
An oaken hull, sacks of grain draping over the beams of the lower deck's closet, and a cold, harsh voice speaking to you. A bare-chested Dunmer stands before you, steel-grey skin and a long scar running right through one of his bright red eyes. His voice grinds from his throat.
"Well, not even last night's storm could wake you."

And, in ten seconds, we are engulfed in Morrowind.

That's the opening scene of the game -- the third of the Elder Scrolls series which I so openly declare one of the prominent inspirations for my work in the fantasy genre.

Today, we are going to be talking about world building and how you as an author can create an immerse, believable, intricate world through your writing. A topic of paramount importance to fantasy and science fiction writers especially, I'm going to show you 5 elements of your world that need to be developed and capitalized upon in order to surround your reader in a place they won't want to leave.

Katniss has this "deal-with-it," attitude. I live in Panem. Here are the facts. I've dealt with it. Now you can. Let's go not kiss the really hot guy I'm ALONE IN THE WOODS WITH EVERY DAY.
Make sure your narrative and your characters adopt callous attitudes towards the world they live in. They can have opinions. They can have memories.They can describe details. But nothing should be new to them. Yet.

2. Government
How is your world governed and, most importantly, how does it affect your character? Is it a kingdom? An Empire? Dictatorship? Republic? Democracy? Theocracy? Anarchy? If it's an empire, what are its diverse provinces? If it's a monarchy, who are its allies and enemies? If it's a dictatorship, whose the leader with absolute power? And WHY? And no matter WHAT you choose, make sure you have history behind it that YOU are aware of (not that you dump in the first two pages) that can be referenced throughout the book and explain WHY things are the way they are and what sort of repercussions it has on the story.

(Look! I painted Talos myself!)

Determining the religion in your book should tint everything else about the world you created in subtle ways. With my fantasy book, religion revolved around fire not existing; heralded as demonic. Therefore, what, can you guess, became the theme of righteousness?

Yep.

Water was dripped over foreheads in churches, painted in stained glass, injected into architecture, drizzled throughput entire cities on man-made waterfalls, locked in the Emperor's very desk. 

Religion should be as prevalent in your story as it was in mine -- or NOT prevalent, if that IS the religion. Maybe most of your people are atheists. Why? And how does that affect the world? Less reverence for life? More? This is your chance to subtly and naturally (the ONLY way allowed in writing) to seep in your own faith.

We all believe we'll see something the moment when die, whether that be light or darkness.

What does your character believe they'll see?

It's a complex challenge. We want to constantly dazzle our readers with ingenuity and originality, and yet we need them to feel accustomed in this world, and eventually to feel a kinship towards it. Going back to #1, approach your style in a direct way, so that they don't feel they are being toured around your world; rather, they feel like they are apprenticing citizenship, falling so deeply entrenched in the wonderment and intrigue that they will want to call THEMSELVES part of the ring's Fellowship, they will be desperate for THEIR Hogwarts letter. And the sole purpose of this task is so that when they feel an allegiance to the world, they will be shocked and will care when that world starts to change.

Sometimes, this happens upfront. Good. That's called initiating event. For me, I plunged the reader into the world immediately and clearly established fire's extinction. Then I barged it back into reality. If we're successful, it is then that our efforts pay off. The reader CARES that fire is back (...hopefully. Oh Lord). The reader UNDERSTANDS the magnitude of what it means. Of what dragons soaring back into the present from ancient history meant in Skyrim. That care and surprise is what will have their eyes riveting over the lines of your manuscript.

Am I missing a number here? Anyone have a #6 for me? I can never learn enough from the real pros out there now reading this page.

Anything to add, Laura?

Fantastically yours,

S/

How did you get started in authoring?

I think writing itself is a craft of both nature and nurture. It would be attractive to say writers are "born," but I think its more complex than that. I think storytellers are born. Those with natures of the DESIRE to express and illuminate what burns inside them are born. Some people quench that desire with writing, others with art and music. Film, too. So Young Shea was not born with a quill in her hand, although the folding wheelchair did come out first. I'm still searching my feelings about this.

Before I wrote, I was always telling stories. I'd have complicated little plots going on in a simple game of Pet Shop (little furniture pieces and characters), in which my friends and I would adopt a single character and impersonate it for hours as the story unveiled, improv style. I'd play in the backyard under the same theme of designing a character and, like a stage actor, staying in-character for the entire duration of the game. It was the liberation of this kind of play that nurtured the author in me. After that, when I really started writing, I could knock out page by page of the little stories I created, all with very serious undertones despite the amateur experience, and was fascinated with how the writing filled up the page like a real book. The first time I ever printed out a story was at my Great Aunt's house -- one about a polar bear -- and I cut out a Cap'n Crunch cereal box to use as the cover. I was so proud and made my mom read it to me. Poor Mom. So that's really how I got started. I was nurtured by the nature. I was engrossed in the desire, and kindled by the burning of what was needing to be told inside me.

What motivates you to write?

Emotion, dignity, and passion were all covered in the previous question. Let's get a little more practical.

The force that physically motivates me to sit down (that's hilarious) and write is Laura. I constantly watch the clock to make sure I am maintaining a durable pace that she won't fall asleep on and fulfill the obligation I feel to provide her with one chapter every night, allowing for at least a 20 minute discussion window afterwards. Without her, I am sure I would have written half the books I've done now, as there would have been no one waiting for an attachment, no one to inform were I to put it off for a night if I wasn't in the mood. Words don't tumble from a writer's hands in ecstasy all the time. Often times I stall on the computer, write a sentence and stall again, stare at a blank page, and just feel stuck. But the longer I'm stuck, the stucker I get. Laura helps me through that.

Another motivation is my dad, who calls almost every night so I can read him a chapter over the phone. I speed things up as I could never tell him I don't have one for him.
 

Would you please explain cookies to the world at large? Maybe that way people will start giving them.

Cookies are compliment tidbits given to an author which the author nibbles on like Morph from Treasure Planet  and becomes entirely, contently absorbed in, permitting you to throw whatever abuses and criticisms you need to at anything else in their work.

 It is entirely forbidden to administer criticism to a writer on something so precious to them without supplying said cookie. Laura is excellent at proving Marty-adamia nut Cookies and Peanut Benner. Chocomir Chip is another favorite. (Really people, you need to read my books to get these AWESOME inside jokes. What more convincing could you possibly need?)

Tell us something surprising and unexpected about writing!

I like the little exclamation point, Laura. I'm feeling the excitement. Something surprising and unexpected? Not all authors are dashingly arrogant. NO REALLY, IT'S TRUE.

Kidding. What I think might surprise you is that, contrary to popular belief, authors do NOT need to travel to foreign countries to "study" for their next book. This is a lie you have been charmed into believing. I wrote about the arctic, Africa, Egypt, Australia, Persia, India, Turkey, mythic-Ireland, and England. I have not left this cramped, cozy, tiny little shnook (Shea nook) in the entire time I wrote that.

That's right, John. I know that cruise to Istanbul was NOT necessary to your next Brotherband book.

What helps you get writing? Please discuss your doubtlessly awesome process.

Gosh I mean...what's a rainbow's process? How does a flower bloom under the morning dew? How does a UNICORN assert its grace into every fable and tapestry? What is a unicorn's process, Laura?

I usually have to gear up a little before I write or whenever I get stuck, and this persists of my iPod -- usually book-related songs that can be found in the Fun Stuff tab -- and an ample area to pace. I have to pace. I have to be moving. Even when I am mentally plotting to music in the car, I will pause my iPod when we stop at a red light and resume when the car moves. I need to see the world moving by and propelling my thoughts. The movement is what makes me feel I am a part of it.

Would you like more done with your stories after publishing? Fanfic? Movies?

 It is all I think about when the colors flash on me in a movie theater. Film is such an astounding pulse on the world and on us as a people. It's like I said before -- humanity has a pulse as it is. Writers are the ones who press down two fingers and feel it. I am quite certain, however, that I would be the film industry's most loathed author as I would be on set every day, possibly sleep there, be a part of every audition, and give the actor(s) portraying Marty, Ben, Caz, and Xander private lessons. I'm THAT dedicated.

For fanfic, I encourage it. I encourage anything that gets people writing. I would be honored and would most certainly peruse the work and smile, laugh (warmly), or -- yes, we all know it's true -- cringe upon occasion. But I'd love every minute. Perhaps there's have to be a Fanfic Friday christened in my future.

I also hope my stories could be used for good post-publication in the areas of charity and influence with whatever meager celebrity they garner. Emporium could have a great affect for animals, environmentally, and another crusade I won't mention for spoiler reasons. Along with Breakers and Fantasy (AND Ridley), I hope, in my humblest of desires, that the love in the characters could be refuge for those who need it. That is what it is meant for.

What is the hardest thing you do as an author?

In my third novel, a protagonist held the dying character in his arms. The dying character was shuddering, trying to mouth his last words as the protagonist gagged his name, clamped him harder, tried to keep him here. He knew he couldn't. Knew he had to respond to the last words. "I know, man. I know."

Here, more than anywhere else (and there were other occasions), I spilled silent, poised tears, hammering away at the keys with equal focus as my face and shirt were drenched. The hardest part, for me, will always be the reality of what we must lose. What we can never keep. Even the things we create, the things that should be untouchable. The hardest part is having to accept, as someone speaking that pulse, how painful the world must be. To ignore this, to fantasize everything in our work, is to dishonor the courage and endurance we weather, the same our characters must, as they are as real as you and me. Luckily, for me, they will always live. One went on before he was even born on the page, I believe. They are like spectral guardians to me, but to you...I only hope they are the same. Otherwise, I could not be you.

As far as the business, beyond the craft itself, the hardest part of writing is reading the lines of print that strip your dreams, the rejections and trying-to-be-gentle criticisms that pierce past any cushion. We work hard every day, breathe, dream, laugh, live, and cry our stories but get little to no recognition for it. After 7 novels, I arrogantly proclaim that I feel like the rocket scientist forced to be a janitor. All my fellow writers reading this understand that devastation. But with every rejection I got, the fiercer I believed in my story. Even J.K. Rowling and Ernest Hemingway got harsh rejections. One day, they'll say, even you got rejected. And you'll be the one making some young dreamer smile, thinking maybe their rejection isn't all that bad.

Do you have a favorite character? Who and why? :)

I have an idea! Why don't you ask me an easy question like which family member I would save in a scorching house fire! It's like Sophie's Choice except I wasn't taken into custody yet for being disabled.

I know and love every character like God knows and loves all His children -- even the villains. Likewise, I believe some part of me is stolen by, or absorbed into, the characters -- even the villains. I see a part of myself in every one of them, extension's of my spirit. In each one, I find a different sort of sanctuary. In Marty there is my comfort and assurance that being disabled does not hinder me from being strong, capable, cool, confident, smug, and devilishly good-looking. In Xander, I am flooded with the relief of his carefree, "she'll be right" attitude that reminds his author to brush off my problems and make Shea-be-alright. In Adam, I find my father and a fairy-tale-like, firefly-lit tenderness. Sandra offers...certain exposure to certain parts of my brain. Tyber is beautiful; the manifestation of my romance and sentimentality. Cazimir -- what DON'T I find in Cazimir? And Peter is the one I miss writing the most, as his spareness, humility, and goodness were so organic and entrenched in my soul (he was my very first main character), I feel like his hands are mine, his breath stops when mine does. I could go on and on.

There is...one, though.

I still don't have a favorite. That is impossible. But...one has become a little more.

I knew this character would die before I even wrote him. He is the one who started it all. It is almost as if he appeared intentionally, as if he needed to stand there before me and make me the writer I am today. I met him in a dream, the one that became my first novel, and since, he has hovered in my life like a guardian. In some ways...I wonder if he is.

I'll let the readers guess which character this is. In my acknowledgments to him, also ambiguous, I wrote, "Though I wrote how you led...you led me."

(I really want to know this one!) What do you look for in an editor? Name some of the most helpful things a great editor can do.

An editor is your FAN first, editor second. In an editor, I want dedication, attentiveness, and engrossment. No, not that the editor is grossed out. But your editor needs to be almost as absorbed and enthusiastic as your story as you. Otherwise, you'll run into frustrations where the author finds the editor is making suggestions that show they were not paying attention to the story, and the author will become defiant and resistant like this:

I know that seems like a tall order-- who can love your book as much as you, right? But if an editor loves literature and loves throwing in their two cents, they'll get excited about a project too. Just make sure you trust and admire their opinion enough to not flick those two cents right into the well. 

Once you achieve this in-sync relationship, an editor should be able to tell you when something is amiss in the story before it gets too late; when something doesn't feel right. They need to be the ones who make you re-examine when you need to, in all subjects of character, plot, presentation, and yes, even petty grammar. A lot of times, I'll get an inkling something isn't quite right, but need my editor to check me and make sure -- if not entirely address the problem. Editors are doctors who must treat their author in both conditional and preventative medicine, using their skills to pave the way for yours. They will speak for every reader the author will face and are responsible for not letting the author step out that door without his/her hat on, if you catch my drift. Except neither Laura nor I can reach each other's heads to put on a hat.

To end with: What's the funnest part of your job?

The funnest part of my job is that it is not a job. It is a calling and a part of who I am. Therefore, it is what makes me sigh in a here-we-go way every time I plop down in my wheelchair. It is what grants me the life-sustaining necessity of dignity and identity. Crafting Tyber's compass from cardboard and beads (thank you for your tireless support of the arts, Mom), dressing up as characters, sketching maps and emblems, ordering Ben's dog tag and wearing it around my neck every day, that is all fun. But perhaps the greatest fun is overhearing my dad ENTHUSE about the novels and pore into every detail of the plot, correcting ME sometimes. 

Or maybe it's those late nights. The ones where I ignore the clock, pace the tile because I am happy, and grin down at my phone as it lights up with Laura's name vibrating on the top of the screen. Sharing things with her that I will only be able to with her. Letting the stories weave us, and all those who have encountered them, eternally together.

Like all respectable bloggers, I took the unannounced, unplanned recess from my site from October-the end of the Christmas holidays. That means I better start back strong.

Unfortunately, while I knew I had tucked away two draft blog posts, I opened this one, meaning to embark with a philosophical  update, but realized I'd forgotten what my intent with this topic was to be.

The origin of the name.

I'm sure I had some deep itinerary for this, but, in a beautiful spin of irony, I am rendered as breathless and bare as you, looking at this picture. The stamp of humanity, screaming its worth even long ago as then.

The picture, whether consciously or subconsciously, inspired this latest excerpt from my current work, the sequel to Emporium.

                Once enveloped in the reddish stone, once trapped in the surreal earthen realm, I breathed, almost inaudible, “Oh my God.”

                It was small, worlds and worlds infinite, voids into thousands of lives. Aborignal artwork surged up the wall, domed us like Xander’s favorite ocean tube – beneath the wave he surfed. Vibrant patterns; natural colors, swirls of tan and brown, boomerang images, kangaroos, all outlined in bold, precise white. And between everything, filling up every space, handprints. Each like a name. A brave statement. A daring stamp to say they existed, were here before us; a life lingering as it fades into somewhere else.

                Xander studied them all. Hands on his belt. Quiet. That sensitivity, the depth often overlooked touched his face. This place was important to him.

                He turned to me, slowly, taking me in. But I was speechless. Really. I was.

                “Xander…” was all I could whisper.

                Rather than replying, Xander stared at a handprint for an immeasurable amount of time, as if trying to see right through time the flesh that once covered it and the fingertips as they pulled away. Then, a peaceful, decided expression softening his face, he undid the canteen at his side, still not speaking, and wrenched off the cap.

                He crouched again, and all I could do was watch as the water gurgled down into the rouge, clay-like soil before him, puddling. He was disciplined, pulling the water up to allow it to sink in and then adding more, pulling up just as it would pool.

                Soon, he had a sloppy patch of raw, slimy mud and he shoveled in his hand, coating it. Entirely gleaming tan, he found a free space upon the cave wall and pressed his palm against it, holding it there for far too long, as if trying to feel more.


I am a lover of history. 

It was never a move of advantage, of stealth, to approach in the hall my then-future history teacher and Breakers editor, Mrs. Williams, and tell her history was my favorite subject. I remember, in the school library, Mr. Bauer -- blonde-grey hair, kind blue eyes -- stood flipping through the pages of an enormous history book on its plinth, and I expressed the same sentiment to him, a teacher I was never to have.
"What kind of history do you like?" he'd said in his caring, kind voice.
At the time, I knew he taught ancient history, and may have been a bit influenced when saying, "Ancient history."
"I like American history," he admitted, turning to me with a sincere, warm regard before looking back at the book.
Looking back now, however, I realize I wasn't lying at all. Ancient history is my favorite to study, although I connect with it all.

I love history because of what I don't know. 

We see the effects of man, but we do not see man. We see the disastrous, the grand, and, occasionally, the frightening. What we don't see is the father pulling the blanket up the ill child, the legionnaire kissing a lover's token in tears. And it baffles me. That there is even the slightest perception that these people were one bit less intelligent than us. Given their accomplishments with what little they had to work with, they may have ever been smarter. A shower, a shave, and a tie and the homo sapien-sapien caveman will have looked like anyone we see walking head-down over the pavement of Manhattan. 

I love history because it is God's story. How humanity has lived with him, without him, lived in pain and in sobbing prayer, lived with the same desires and fears we do to this day. I am amazed at how He has caught all of our last breaths as they sigh from our bodies. 

Most of you don't know (actually, that's not true. Hi, Laura. Hi, Shannon. The possible only ones reading this -- if anyone else looms, show yourself to assert my authorly little confidence) that I collect old safari photos. The safari theme, of course,
 is in the spirit of Emporium, but the photos...

I don't have an enormous amount of money. My only real job was with a vet's office, where a dog bit me on my first day because I was nuzzling it affectionately. And I only spend my own. But to me, besides spending it on my friends and family unexpectedly, almost nothing is more worth the price than these old photos. I will sit there for hours, collectively, with a magnifying glass studying the photos, wondering their names. In my hand I hold a piece of history no one will ever see. A window into the eyes of those who are almost certainly not with us any more. That is also why I collect antiques. Not for the oddity of the item itself, but for the fact that someone actually touched it.  A glimpse into someone's life no one will ever know.

That is why I love history. For what I don't know. 

So, what is the origin of the name? What inspired us, before we could even forge a sword in flame, to christen a calling to someone? To recognize the worth in a soul and give it a name? 

I believe this phenomenon was more than convenience of achieving someone's attention. I believe humanity craved names. When we were first aware of ourselves on the earth, just like every other natural thing, we had no REASON to question the wind and the rain and sun, despite the fact that we are intellectually complex creatures. As I said in my previous post, animals don't. But yet we still felt a calling of a Purpose. Still felt a desire for spirit. Before we even knew of God, we knew Him. Just like before we were born He knew us. We knew there was more. Worth. 

Maybe that's why those hands were stamped to the cavern wall. Because they deserve to have been.

Well. I still think I had a better post planned before I forgot about what I was going to say, but I hope this one did a decent job on its own. The mystery of the name -- when the practice began, why, how we adopted sounds and vowels into claiming it as our own -- will remain something we may never know for sure.

But like I said. I love what I do not know.


Historically,

S/


P.S. The last of the photos which I could not elegantly drizzle throughout my post:

And lastly, this polar bear, who I owe to an amazing stranger who agreed to send me one of the polar bear -- without accepting any of my money. Whoever this stranger is, I nearly teared up from your kindness and the restoration of faith in humanity. He literally didn't think twice. It will be cherished, and I love him from the bottom of my heart. AND if you take a look at the excerpt of Emporium, you'll realize why this photo, and all the photos, are so important to me....*clears throat.*

Happy Hunting.

Welcome, loyal Shealets, to my latest blog post. Please, no cinematography and turn the flash OFF on your cameras. Thanks. Today, the floodlights are on, the cream-colored armchair is in place for the interview, and I'm ready to bulldoze it over and thus scrape the wood floors in just a few seconds. That's right. We won't be needin' no chairs. Today, I give you the honor and priviledge of meeting and learning from my editor, Laura Bairett.
 
For all you writers out there, this is an opportunity to examine your book
from an editor's eye, discovering and taking into account the guidance of a
skilled reader, editor, critiquer, and cookie-baker (believe me. I KNOW). But
first, I want to talk about the importance of choosing your editor. It's a much
more serious decision than tossing around your manuscript to various beta
readers, which is also very important but not nearly as crucial. The first rule
of critique is to be open to all of it -- get any and all suggestions you can.
Let people read the darn thing! I know how big a deal that is. For me, it took
amost half a year of writing before I showed Breakers to my first editor, Mrs.
Caren Williams (who we'll also get to :)). But if you're a writer, you need to want a reader, or else there will be a snowball effect occuring. Simple as that.
 
Now then. Laura has edited all six of my novels and I've had the blessing
of sharing the enthusiasm, fanatic love, and sheer fun of living these stories
and characters together. Remember, the best editor is the one who randomly drops references to your books through text messages and who draws out maps, insignias, and other cameos from your novels, sends them to you by mail, and you paste them to your wall to look at every day.
 
In other words, the best editor is your first fan.
 
My first editor was such an amazing choice, I'm proud to throw her under the bus and drop a name. My first editor was my sixth grade teacher, with whom I
share a cherished, beautiful friendship with ever since I sent one fateful email
to her in sixth grade, hysteric with a problem. Forever since, she's been like
another mother to me.
 
Which made it difficult when we clashed heads on editing disputes.
 
But if anything, it brought us closer together. She not only taught me how
to take criticism and work with suggestions, building up a hard armor, but also
worked through an entire 300 page novel, chapter by chapter, and has stuck with me to this day, keeping well involved on the latest publishing-attempt
endeavors. So good choice. 

"You write to communicate to the hearts and minds of others what's burning inside you. And we edit to let the fire show through the smoke." -- Arthur Plotnik 

  
Now let's move on to our guest of honor.
 
Laura is a straight-A student, especially in English. She is adept at sentence structure, vocabulary corrections, and VCD treatment (Verb Confusion Disorder. There's only one known case in th entire world, it's that rare) in my books. But mostly, she is an incredibly insightful and informed sounding board. We hash out, debate, and analyse almost every plot turn and character decisions in the books to the point where I fear I may very well be dependent on her judgment. Laura and I met online...and never in person. And yet I can confidently say we've become closer than maybe even a few real-life friends. I'm constantly alarmed still by how much I love her (and how my sleep is rather reliant on our exchanging of goodnights, allowing a brilliant excuse for swatting Father or Mother away in the morning). That's the amazing gift technology has given us today.
 
Laura, thank you for agreeing to do this. Be inspiring to all the editors
and writers out there. Teach them much. And give them Something to talk
about.

So. See why I love her? I pick good editors. This one's going places. Maybe she'll remember me when I'm...*imagines the chink of change rattling in an empty, rusted tin can* RIGHT, moving on.

However, besides saying to my fellow writers love and work with our treasured editors, who are only trying to make your manuscript a better book, I would like to add in my closing statement that 1) I've heard "Your book." Many times.

It's terrifying.

And 2) I appreciate her strategic choice of elaborating upon Sandra. Since our manly Darvic Cazimir elaborations (read that slowly, Laura. Caz-im-ir.) might become a bit too complex for this site. A lot of details to cover, you see. Even Laura might jumble that black-hilted sword.

But most of all, I'm endeared and touched to see my Peter mentioned and connected to me with Laura's words. To share in a morsel of his humanity and goodness is an honor.

After all, that is what writing is all about.

Discovering who you are.

S/

P.S. I think, for Laura's defense, I have to state now that she does not edit my blog posts, which are occasionally strewn with mistakes, unless something REALLY annoys her. Anything else is my artistic license to look like an idiot all on my own!! <3

This past summer has been teeming with critters for me. And while I long for the nostalgia of a cold, crisp, supernatural autumn (see the new Ridley page), I must first say goodbye to the aesthetics of summer - fireflies floating in the magic forest that is my backyard, crickets that lull me to sleep every night. And, too, the pond of the tadpoles. It was a hot, sweltering week where not even the wisp of a cloud valiantly sailed through the sky to attack the tyrant sun, and I knew, thumping my staff along the pathway to the stream, that it would be the water creatures that suffered. I'd seen it once before that summer

Long story short, two died from awful circumstances of their water zipping up into the air when too much sun hit them. I blessed them in holy water and tried not to cry. (That was not a joke. This post is about how we treat our inferiors and I declare now that I do not treat my inferiors, I love and emotionally invest and cherish in their little life).
 
And in my genuine compassion to save their lives, I fear I...I perhaps killed more than what nature would have taken care of. While I do feel bad about it, I also feel like any tiny life we encounter was given meaning by our loving it. Or if that's too emotional for you, by our respecting it. Though their lives were short, I hope I gave them meaning by letting another being love in them.

There is something evoked in our depths by loving an animal. It is loving what we are not. Loving what can only be loved by us. I do believe animals can truly, authentically love. Even crustaceans like my hermies. We say they cannot for they are bred for instinct and yet how can we know they do not feel it, or are perhaps so alarmed and uncertain about such feelings they are not capable of reaction? We've all seen the photo of the bird weeping over its fallen companion. Animals love. And having a living creature totter its antennae and stare at you with those blank yet benign black eyes while it crawls over your fingers allows us both the recognition of ourselves and the occasion to champion hand soap corporations.
 
So. What happened to those two remaining tadpoles, you ask? This is what happened:

Why did many of our ancestors worship animals? Why did they arm themselves with talismans in their honor? Did zoolatry (the worship of animals) ever develop for a deeper meaning? I have a theory. In our world and our lives, we are always uncertain. We've never known. We've always wondered and always sought for our meaning, staring at the moon and stars and not only recognizing their gift of light and measurement, but wondering who we are.

Animals always seem to know. They've always come across as if they know what they are doing; their roles are stagnant and confident they seem within them. And, to me...they always seem to know where they are going after this, too. 


So I guess this is where I publicly contradict myself.

...Are they our inferiors? Or are they just another being serving its purpose in this world and waiting to be known?

I came across this recently. And forgive its somewhat crude nature.

And when I read it, I simply had to comment. Simply had to rebuttal. Because while this may be true in some environmental regards (and was offered for a harmless chuckle), I felt it had entirely, unacceptably misunderstood the nature of our world.
To me, just like us, it is the sound of millions of animals, birds, and insects desperately trying to find each other.

-- S/

And by the way. Yes. I'll answer the question. I'll settle the heated debates right now, so stop ignoring the Presidential debates to focus on this topic. While I love ALL animals, since I ADORE and consider THESE as EQUIVALENT FAMILY, I hereby STATE...

I am a dog person.

As an author, you need to realize the single most important thing death does for your writing.

We'll get to that in a second. But first... 

The other day, Father and I shared a special bonding experience. I'd hinted and begged and finally dragged him into taking me to see the Expendables 2 -- buildings exploding, cars flipping, guns roaring out bullets, Sylvester Stallone, Arnold Schwarzenegger, Bruce Willis, Chuck Norris, and....yeah. The only reason I would ever consider seeing a movie like this.

Right up there. Top right corner, people. 

Hi, Liam. (He was really looking in his scope for me, but my camouflage skills are too adept. See that rock on the top left? That's me).

 So we made it a special day. Purchased tickets. Got our popcorn. Sped along into the theater with Dad in my wake, shoving in, to my genuinely angered contempt, the top of the popcorn bag, which everyone knows is the butteriest. 

We get in the theater and find we have it entirely to ourselves. Good. So take Dad's hand, jitter around in my seat in anticipation, and then proceed to commentate, both comically and authentically, the whole movie with him. (If you don't want spoilers for this film, read no further).

The beginning had a great start. Because Liam (AKA, "Billy the Kid") totally BOOMED his bullets and BANGED his extra-attractive sniper rifle atop cliff after cliff as I whooped my approval, uttering, with no sheam I might add, phrases such as "YEAH. This is a GREAT movie. This is DEFINITELY a buy." and "I want to hug him so bad right now."
(Dad, referring to the female Liam was speaking to: "She does too.")

But then, the unthinkable happened. 

Bad Guy: "Drop your weapons or he dies."
 Liam: "Don't do it, sir. You don't owe me anything!" 
*Hits Liam. Shea's heart bangs into her stomach*

Liam: *Falls to his knees after being hit* "I'm sorry, sir." 
*Good guys drop their weapons. Captors about to put him in the helicopter.*
Bad Guy: "Are you afraid of me?"
 Liam: "No. I'm not afraid of you!" 
Bad Guy: "You should be." 
*stabs him. Shea's entire body freezes and silence reverberates in her numbed ears. The elation is wiped from her existence, the room torn of its bliss, ripping the smile off her face to be replaced with open-mouthed disbelief, a pounding heart, wide eyes, and frantic mental reassurance that it is not real, it's not real, it's not real*

And Dad can do nothing but gape at the screen and try not to laugh as he realizes the one reason we came to see this movie has died within the first twenty-five minutes. 

But look. At the effect. It had. On me.

Now, let's subtract the fact that I have a "sincere admiration" of Liam and look at what that death did for the story of the movie. It was, what we authors call, the "initiating event" which propelled the plot forward and forced action to respond, forced a sequence of events to follow. That is plot. And death is a powerful, powerful tool in writing, yet one, too, which has to be treated with the greatest caution.

So today, we're going to talk about using death in books. 

What is the single most important thing death does for your writing?

It lets the reader know you mean business. 

It makes your book real, tangible, and not just some fairy tale that has little substance to be drawn.

Take, for example, Lord of the Rings. (Oh my gosh. Again? I'm such a hypocrite now...). It began as an adventurous and intriguing book but we as readers were really still feeling out the waters. What kind of a book would this be? An enchanting yet rather flouncy fairy tale like the Hobbit? Or am I in for something darker? Tolkien knew what he was doing when he killed off Boromir. He told you you were in for something darker. One of the Fellowship would not survive.

And that is what killing characters is all about. 

It SHOWS your readers NO ONE is safe. ANYTHING can happen in your authorly hands. I've read book series where again and again all the beloved characters make it out alive and it gets to the point where I think...why am I even worried? I know they'll make it out. So the urgency and stakes immediately curdle. 

The opposite, of course, is when an author OVER-uses death, desensitizing the reader and making them numbly expectant of it, as I admit to feeling some at the end of Mockingjay.

So as writers, we need to be careful. 

As we've seen, there is a strategy to death. It can sting, shock, retch, propel, liven, conclude, and devastate. Yet it needs to be contemplated with the utmost care.

When I choose who to kill off in my books, sometimes it is an innate, undeniable knowing. And sometimes, as I go along, I realize abruptly that the story calls for it. No matter how hard I resist or try to imagine the death a different way, in the end, I succumb to this uncanny, untouchable intuition, like the fate was always meant to be. Unchangeable. The character I killed at the end of Breakers was one deeply and insurmountably close to me, one who I owe perhaps my entire novel writing career to. But...I always knew somewhere deep down that he would die. It was his place. So I cried when I wrote his death (it's SO hysterically arrogant I don't even have any sheam about it), but I have never cried writing as I did killing the other character at the end of Breakers 2. Ever. It was one of those moments where I'd seen a flash of his death long ago before the novel's start and tried to resist it. Tried to say it won't happen - the story will change, it's heart-wrenching but I'll never do it. 
But no. It had to happen. And it was such a powerful, personal experience to have the tears literally falling from my eyes as I wrote it. I didn't even know that was possible. 

But that, perhaps, was the greatest deciding factor of all. If you as the writer feel something over this death, the reader will too (though of course, you need to water down your emotions by twice to measure that of what the reader's will be, as a general rule. We're simply in love with our work, brethren).

And other times, like right now, I can't decide if I made the right choice in killing one of the two potential characters I was going to kill off in my latest novel. It's up for debate right now with a maddening sense of non-resolution with the series, but that, my friends, is how drastically important such events are to me.To all of us. These characters are more real and vibrant and...necessary to our survival. Than they will ever be to your readers. With the exception, maybe, a few kindred spirits, such as my editor, Laura. Though she's little understanding of how crazy I truly am, so that statement may be inadvertently inaccurate.

Another vital department of the death strategy in writing is one we as authors need to be cognizant of:

Not every death is given fireworks and slow-motion sequences like Boromir and his arrows. Even the most amazing person can be killed senselessly, in a split moment, with no final words or hand-squeezes as we storytellers often like to sing out before the moment happens. There is a fine line here. I wrote one character's death specifically for the purpose of showing just how sudden and unsung it can be. One moment he's there -- a character we've gotten to know and respect through half a book -- the next, BOOM, shot, dead. 

But the issue here is to remember that you ARE a storyteller. It is our job to capture the beauty of what others do not see. We turn storms into orchestras, kisses into creeds, smiles into flashes of brokenness that we see in our hearts and never dreamed could be translated to the page. But we do translate it. So be careful with ruthless deaths, as important as their purpose serves. Killing off too soon or unjustly may frustrate the reader. Try for a balance. Trust your gut. Push past your fear. And know that if you really, really, really, really don't want to kill a character...

That means you probably should.

S/

I leave you with this. Because Expendables 2 was SUCH a flippin' gold mine...

Now, what was I saying here? That we have no idea how amazing we truly are as beings. People ask for miracles. The contact of a kindred eye that freezes time, the brush of a compassionate hand in the dark...the loving squeeze of a stranger. That is a miracle.

"...You have never spoken to a mere mortal." -- C.S. Lewis.

So how do you measure the east from the west? How do we measure humanity's faults with humanity's goodness? This is what the scripture is saying. You can't. Because they are not compatible. They do not coexist in the same realm. And while I do believe there is darkness in all of us -- a darkness that we almost need to understand how we feel about it in the world -- we are 100% meant for goodness. We are simply pieces of love, encased by the body. Humanity is a virtue that we ARE. Humanity doesn't have faults. Humanity has sin.

The earth has two oppostie poles, north and south. If you were to travel in either, eventually you would hit one of the poles and change direction. But the east and the west....can it be measured?

I leave you with this. Thanks to Laura for listening to my spiel first. And God bless you all on this beautiful Sunday night.

-- S/

Now, in my experience, I believe Tolkien failed characterization on all accounts in The Hobbit. Forgive me. But I cannot remember even one
character from that book who made a lasting impression and part of that is faulted on the amount of characters he tossed into the pot. How many dwarves were there? And all their names rhymed? When you are authoring a book, EVERY character must pop. A name and a dialogue tag will not do. It is YOUR job to make even the guard -- yes, the guard who is in every single fantasy novel as the typically middle-aged, plate armored, and frighteningly easy to kill off -- stand out as a unique person. Give them a lisp, a limp, a white eye, make them toothless (my most recent effort). There will be no stock characters. But that's how I felt with Tolkien repetitive dwarves.  It came across as more a child's fable than a true fantasy novel.

And that's EXACTLY what
it was. A child's fable.

Here's some Tolkien history for you.

The entire Lord of the Rings saga was intended to be for children. But once he began writing the core trilogy, he realized it was darker than intended and allowed it to mature naturally. THAT is when he hit his mark on characterization.

The Fellowship party teemed with originality. Aragorn, Gimli, Legolas -- all as different as night and day. And then we have the hobbits, of whom Sam is the true hero, I believe. The one who humanizes it all -- in it for Frodo, not for the world. Unsure of himself and yet sure of his devotion. Knowing he will recieve none of the glory, never has, and still carrying Frodo in my favorite scene of book three up Mount Doom. (<-- Tolkien sort of...ran out of creative names when he dubbed that).

 -- Why he was the best hobbit. Also a close recollection (similair, though not inspired by this, I must add) of one of MY favorite lines in Breakers. But you'll have to read it to find out.





My time runs short as I must write my nightly chapter before the hermit crabs need re-hydrating, but I will make one more statement. It may very well be that my impressed attitude towards the characters in Lord of the Rings is solely credited to the actors in the movie, who, in some circumstances, made "good" characters "great." As Michael Caine said, the most important part of a movie is casting. After that, the work is done for you.

So go ahead and check out my "Fun Stuff" tab, actors, and write me with your acceptance letters. There's been a few additions.

Love,

S/

Or that mask -->













Or a weapon. Or a feature. Or even a catchphrase that you can trademark your villain with.
Now, I'm not saying every villain needs to be oozing radio-active waste or having an eye patch and a scar from his ear to his knee. Sometimes, the best villains are the ones you don't expect, like Grandma or a 17 year old, ambitious kid. But DO let the reader make this person real and intense. Otherwise, you have no stakes. Nothing to be afraid of.

Villains, you will never win. You will always be triumped by our heros, the ones who we want to be. The ones we hope we are in some ways. Good will always flood away evil.

But we ARE afraid of you. 

Because in a way, we agree with you.

S/