Are you a Creator or a Discoverer?

So I’ve bee wondering, lately. Is writing really an act of creation, or is it actually an act of discovery? My hero and heroine, Rob and Marguerite, in The Lady and the Minstrel caused me to ponder this as I struggled to write their second kissing scene last week. I have a sparse draft of the scene from the original novel. All I thought I needed to do was to punch it up a bit. Easy, right? So this was my original, punched up version.

He lowered his head very slowly and saw her eyes drift shut just before his own did the same. The trap did not slam around him until his mouth found hers. This time her arms did not creep, but flung about his neck. She kissed him back with a desperate fierceness and he sank helplessly into the swirling tempest of pleasure that stormed through his veins. One kiss. Just one. But he could not keep this vow any better than he’d kept his first. Again and again their lips snatched together until she finally pulled away with a gasp. He darted a quick kiss to her forehead before she hid her face against his shoulder.

Her voice came muffled against the cloth of his homespun. “So this is what it is like, then.”

He moved a hand to stroke her dark curls. “What, my heart?”

“Love.” And her arms tightened around him.

I wrote the rest of the scene that followed and went to bed convinced that all was well and that I would be ready to move on with their story the next day. But when I sat down to write again and reviewed the above paragraph, a strong feeling came to me: "No, that’s now how the kiss happened."

Now, there was nothing really wrong with the paragraph. It didn’t make what followed any more or less effective. Why did I need to rewrite it? Nevertheless, my characters were stubborn in their insistence that I do so. So after some wrestling, I came up with this instead:

Her smile was the final nudge he needed. He saw her eyes drift shut just before his own did the same. He did not hesitate as he had in her chamber, but settled his mouth warmly and firmly over hers. Her arms slid around his waist and her body leaning into his reminded him how small she was. Just once more? How had he ever thought one kiss could be enough? He had lied all these weeks to himself. It had not been enough that night in her chamber, and it was not now, not when she met his lips again and again with this snaring fervor. Because Robert had chosen to tamp down his passion with the many women who had tried to entrap him through the years did not mean his hot nature was immune to temptation, and this little ball of fury tempted him as no other ever had.

How long he would have stood there drinking from her nectared lips like a man parched he did not know. When she finally pulled her mouth away, gasping, he continued to press kisses to her cheeks and brow until she hid her face against his shoulder.

Her voice came muffled against the cloth of his homespun. “So this is what it is like, then.”

He moved a hand to stroke her dark curls. “What, my heart?”

“Love.” And her arms tightened around him.

Again, there was really nothing wrong with this. The rest of the scene would have worked just fine with this scenario. And yet this time, even before I shut down my computer for the night, again I heard Rob and Marguerite say, “That was not our kiss.” And I knew I’d have to tackle it again yet a third day.

After more mental and emotional gyrations, the next day I came up with this:

He cupped her face in his hands and lowered his head very slowly. Her eyes drifted shut and she leaned her body into his, leaving him no doubt of her anticipation. The hesitation that had checked him in her chamber, the fear of how she might react to his kiss felt like a distant, illogical dream. His mouth settled now over hers with warm confidence and found an eager welcome. He felt her arms weave around his waist, reminding him how small she was as she nestled still closer against him. Small, but surprisingly vigorous, for her mouth quivered swiftly from candid acceptance to a clinging fierceness. His blood surged and his kiss deepened. All the careful caution that had guided him o’er the last five years swirled away as he sank hopelessly into the eddy of pleasure.

How long he would have stood there drinking from her nectared lips like a man parched he did not know. She pulled away at last with a tiny gasp. He caught one more snaring kiss before she hid her face against his shoulder. Deprived of her lips, he took what comfort he could in pressing his mouth into the soft cloud of hair atop her head.

Her voice came muffled against the cloth of his homespun. “So this is what it is like, then.”

He moved a hand to stroke her dark curls. “What, my heart?”

“Love.” And her arms tightened around him.

“Ah, yes,” Rob and Marguerite said with beaming smiles. “Now you have it.”

Again, what amazed me was that technically, any of these versions should have “worked”. And yet, my characters insisted that only one of them was “right.” As fanciful as it sounds, it was as though somewhere out there in the ether, their “true” kiss existed. My challenge, after all, was not to “create it”, but to “find it” as it had already occurred.

So I’m curious. Am I the only one who has experienced this with their characters? I would love to hear from you! When you write, do you feel like you are creating a story out of thin air? Or like you are “discovering” a story that somehow already exists and you only have to find it? 

What Am I Writing Now?

Yes, that’s “writing”, not “reading”! The rumors are true. Acelet is going on hiatus for awhile. I’m a little sorry to see him go, as I was especially looking forward to introducing you to his new friend, Bricot the jongleur! But that will have to wait. For a little while, anyway. I do intend to come back to the story and finish it someday.

And speaking of “somedays”… Some of you know that Gunthar and Heléne, the hero and heroine of Loyalty’s Web, had their origins in an early college novel of mine. They were an elderly couple in that unpublished story who helped my much beleaguered younger hero and heroine achieve their “happily ever after”. I called that early novel—the first novel I ever wrote—The Lady and the Minstrel. I loved the characters. I loved the plot. I even have a few nicely encouraging personalized rejection letters (if rejection letters can ever be viewed as “nice”) from some major New York publishing houses for it. Here’s a little sampling:

Dell Publishing: “This is an intelligently written novel with well-drawn characterizations, but ultimately it lacks the passion and romance—despite the protagonists’ enduring love—required in a historical romance.”

Bantam Books: “The novel is well written and the author shows a nice feel for time and place.”

Avon Books: “While the historical plotline is very interesting, I’m afraid the romance theme does not figure largely enough in the story to make it appropriate for our list.”

Berkley Publishing Group: “Thank you for sending [The Lady and the Minstrel]…it’s a good read, a notch above most published historicals, but just not totally spectacular enough for us to take on.”

Only one publisher actually came out and admitted that the biggest drawback was that my heroine wasn’t “lusty enough”.  (Although perhaps that’s what Dell was hinting at with their “lacks passion and romance” remark?)

Yes, even then I was writing "sweet" romances in a not-so-"sweet" romance world. And even then I had trouble sticking to the romance “formula”, because although at the time I thought I was simply writing a love story, in hindsight I can see that I had some other “non-romance” themes going on that probably ultimately shot me in the foot with romance editors. (In other words, yes, it was about the hero and heroine falling in love, but it wasn’t all about the hero and heroine falling in love.)

The point of my sharing the above comments with you isn’t to boast. It is simply to explain why I have always continued to have faith in this story. I’m actually grateful to those editors who rejected it at the time. Yes, it’s true! Although utterly heartbroken at the time, in later years I have in very truth often thought that they did me a huge favor. Why? Because if The Lady and the Minstrel had been published in its original form, I would very likely have thought my writing abilities were “good enough” and become trapped in a truly inferior writing style. Honestly, I write much, much better today than I did then! (I’d give you an example, but I’m too embarrassed.)

I have always told myself that someday, when my writing skills had improved, I would go back and rewrite The Lady and the Minstrel (along with its sequel, Knight’s Folly). I have told myself, and even a few other people, that for years and years. So when for reasons I won’t go into here, I crashed and burned with Acelet’s story at the end of 2010, I found a little voice whispering to me, “And just when is ‘someday’ going to come around for The Lady and the Minstrel? When you’re 70? 80? 90???” (Or in other words, “You’re not getting any younger, you know!”)

And so I’ve once again pulled out The Lady and the Minstrel. I still love the characters. I still love the plot. I’m keeping the story’s roadmap. But the scenes themselves…oh, my! The scenes themselves I’m rewriting from the bottom up, using all the improved, matured skills I can muster. (We're talking something like 98% "new" writing. Though compared to a book I’m currently reading “for fun”, my "improved, matured skills" still seem sadly lacking. :::sigh:) Still, I promise the end result will be MILES above the original version!

Now the question: Once finished, will anyone really want to read this book except me? It’ll still be "sweet". I hope it’ll be better written. But it still won’t be a “totally spectacular” story and the “romance theme” still may not “figure largely enough in the story” for many readers looking for a traditional romance. I don’t know that answer, but I do know this one: Since I’ve begun my rewrite, I feel at greater peace with my writing than I have in a good long while.

And so, at least for now, it’s The Lady and the Minstrel…and me!

An extract from "The Kiss", by Francesco Hayez (1859)

Some of the clothing is wrong, their hair isn't quite right (though both are the right color), and yet this painting has always made me think of Rob and Marguerite, the hero and heroine of  The Lady and the Minstrel

Guest Blogging at LDS Writers Blogck

I was a guest blogger today over at LDS Writers Blogck. Click here to read my reflections on the relationship between writing and faith.

And Let That Be a Lesson to Myself!

So on Monday, I didn't want to write. I mean, I really didn't want to write! But I had just finished being interviewed by Cindy R Williams for The Writer's Mirror where she'd asked me (basically) how I got past writers block, and I replied that the only way to get past it was to "write anyway". With my own words ringing in my ears, I said to myself on Monday, "If you don't sit down and write tonight, you'll be a hypocrite, Joyce! Telling other writers to 'write anyway' and then you don't do it yourself?" So I set my little timer, plunked myself down on the couch for an hour with my laptop, and whined my way through a writing session. And yes, at the end of that hour, I hated every word I had written.

So tonight, with only slightly less reluctance, I set my timer and plunked myself down on the couch again. (I'd known in advance I wouldn't have any writing time on Tuesday.) This time, the words not only came easier, but you know what? That stuff I wrote on Monday wasn't nearly as bad as it looked on Monday night! I mean, I'm not saying it was spot-on perfect, by any means. But it wasn't horrible, and I'll probably end up keeping almost all of it in one form or another. Time wasted Monday night? Definitely not! It might have been painful (it certainly felt so at the time) and my perspective wasn't what I would have liked (some of those words I hated actually made me laugh when I read them back...and I mean laugh in a good way). But was it worth it to "write anyway" when I didn't want to? Looking back on it from where I sit tonight, I'd have to answer with a resounding "Yes!"

Smushing

Some days when I write, I feel like I’m back to finger painting in kindergarten. Sticking my hands in a bowl of paint—or in this case, words, and aimlessly smushing them around on the page. The whole process just feels downright messy. No matter how I try, I can’t manage to stay within the lines or draw forth any sense or shape from my efforts.

Other days, I pick up a wide bristled brush and succeed in painting a few broad strokes to a scene. On these days, a form begins to emerge, blurry around the edges, lacking anything remotely resembling style or elegance, but if the lines are smudged, at least on such days as this, there are lines.

On a really good day, a fine bristled brush appears in my hand. I dip the delicate, tapered tip into my bowl of words and dart clear, sharp images onto the page. This is better than staying within the lines. This is creating the lines…the fine threads of a woman’s hair, the scrolling pattern etched into the hearthstones of the fireplace, the shattering discovery of the true reason one’s fiancé inexplicably abandoned one at the church door. This is a scene so keenly focused in my mind, that every dart of my brush’s point leaves in its wake a finely honed detail.

Last week was a messy, smushing kind of week for me. The kind of week that makes me question whether I still have a single drop of writing talent left in my veins. I find myself facing a new week with considerable trepidation. Will it be another finger painting week, a broad stroke week, or a focused, detailed week? I’d be encouraged just to have some combination of the three. Because as fun as finger painting might have been in kindergarten, I’ll never translate the story in my head by smushing words around forever.

(Originally posted on ANWA Founder & Friends)

Alligators and Me

(Originally published on ANWA Founder & Friends, 1/19/09)

A week ago today, I finally decided to stop fiddling with old writing projects, and start work on something new. Well, “new” is a bit relative. I pulled out a story I’d begun several years ago, but with only a few chapters completed, with the intent of finally tackling and finishing this far-from-finished story.

So last Monday, I got up two hours early to review various notes I’d made on the subject, all of them several years old, as I said. To my dismay, I discovered that I had written three different “beginnings”, with a potential of three different “heroines” (at least I knew who my hero was!), and two to three different potential plot lines! For two hours, I stared at my computer screen, trying desperately to make a decision as to a final direction to take the story and commit myself to which heroine my hero was destined to fall in love with. Each potential plot line and heroine seemed to have as many weakness as strengths, and by the end of the my two hour stare-a-thon, I had neither arrived at any decisions nor typed a single new word to get the story moving again. By bedtime, I was still in despair, not knowing whether to take the story “this way” or “that way”. I felt absolutely numb with indecision.

Then as I lay in bed that night, my mind still in turmoil, I remembered a book of writing “inspiration” I’d bought well over ten years ago. The title, Walking on Alligator Eggs: A Book of Meditations for Writers, had intrigued me, but it was flipping open the book and reading the first meditation as I stood in a Borders bookstore, that sealed the deal to buy the book:

The author, Susan Shaughnessy, had written:

Writing can feel like stepping off into thin air. Some of us can write no other way. Not for us, the well-thought-out outline, the step-by-step recipe that brings the project to success. When we try to apply ourselves to such a well-mapped course, we stall out.

We are the writers who start every day walking off a cliff, fearing there are alligators below. Yet somehow we write; and most of the time, we like what we write. The dark place seems less dark when we get there. It was only the journey that was fearful. We emerge back into the light with something precious, something really worth sharing.

Join us as we take the less-lit road, the road that curves into the unknown places.

See what you bring back.

That essay spoke to me then because that’s exactly how all my manuscripts had worked thus far: feeling like I was stepping off a cliff every time I sat down to write, never quite knowing where my characters were going to take me, terrified of the dark place I was walking so blindly into. But Susan Shaughnessy was right. It was rare that a light didn’t appear along the way, and yes, by the end of my writing session, more often than not, I liked what I had written.

So on Tuesday last week, I decided to take Susan’s advice to heart once more. I decided to step off the cliff and ignore the alligators below. I gave up on outlines and road maps, and just started typing, without worrying about where exactly I was headed. On Wednesday, I did the same. By Thursday, I knew who my heroine was. I knew a little more about her motivation and goals. I know her background and how her family wants to manipulate her and why. But there are still cliffs and dark spaces ahead. I don’t know exactly how she and my hero are going to meet up in the story’s time line. I don’t know what will cause them to fall in love. I have a Point A and a Point B I’d like to get both characters to, but I don’t know how I’m going to get them there.

But unlike last Monday, I’m now trying not to let these questions paralyze me because I don’t yet have the answers. Instead, my goal is simply to get up every morning and step off that cliff, trusting that I’ll escape the alligators below and that a light will appear in the darkness to guide me.