T is for Thermopylae

One of my favorite movies based on history is '300'. First of all, King Leonidas? #drool. But that's not the main reason. I knew when I was watching it that it was fictionalized. I mean, duh, but it's the feeling of the story. Xerxes is larger than life, Leonidas and that hunting trip when he was a child is all sorts of dark and glorified.

From the moment the film started, I know it was not just a dramatization, but a comicization of the most fantastic kind. It picked the most fantastic elements of the battle at Thermopylae and cranked them up ten more notches. Forget the Greek ships that kept more Persians from reaching the shore. What's amazing, and fascinating, is that 300 men held of hundreds of thousands. Oh, and that treachery, and sex, and government corruption were involved.

Tasty eye and brain candy.

Which is why I also loved 'The Social Network'. Forget that this guy created this phenomenon and grew it into a multi-million dollar empire before it had ever earned back a single dime. That's boring. What's amazing, and fascinating is that treachery, and sex, and corporate corruption were involved. Not only that, but they were involved in this viral epidemic that we're all familiar with. It means in some way, we were a part of that journey. Even if you're not a Facebook user, you know what it is. You do, right?

That's what keeps people coming back for more. That's what makes people not get up and walk out of the theater ten minutes in. Conflict. Watching (metaphorically speaking) 300 sexy, underdressed well-trained men defend Thermopylae against an army of thousands. Even in a more intellectual film like 'Little Miss Sunshine', it's all conflict driven. We're glued to our seats because we want to know how the hero is going to get out of each mess.

This isn't a reminder so much for the rest of the world as it is for me. I've pulled back from conflict in my own writing recently and it continues to fall flat because of it. I need to figure out how to force myself to send those tens-of-thousands of Persians knocking on the hot gates. I need to remind myself that it's okay to live a different life through my writing, and that sometimes pain is the best reminder that we're alive.



What story conflict stayed with you long after it ended because of the drama, the emotion, or the raw reality of it?

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S is for Seduction

You park the car, feeling butterfly wings against your ribcage as your heart whispers promises of what's to come. Shaking hands shut off the car and pocket the keys, but a few deep breaths help to calm you. Or maybe that calm is just an illusion.

There are so many people. You expected a few, but you hate moments like this being public. This is such an intimate experience for you. You rake your fingers through your hair, feeling it fall back against your scalp. All of your nerve endings are alive. The damp chill in the air smells like spring, even though it's July, and it fills your lungs.

If you focus, you can block out the chatter. Why is it taking so long? You're only there for one thing. Nervous anticipation hums across your skin, mingling and caressing in conspiracy with your cotton Tee. Another couple of deep breaths, these not as soothing. The sun is dipping below the mountains, leaving more chill around you.

You shove your hands in your pockets, trying to tell your whispering heart to just shut up. You shouldn't have come. What if someone recognizes you? Are you okay with people seeing you in this kind of place? Maybe you should leave. Come back when it's less crowded. But the gnawing in your gut won't let you. You want this. You need it. Ever inch of you tingles with thoughts of the journey ahead.

Finally, after what seems like an eternity, the line begins to move. Has it really been four hours? It seemed like less, and at the same time so much more. You shuffle along with the crowd until, wishing you could cage your hammering heart. It's been so long.

You brush the cool brass of the door handle for support and comfort. The air pressure shifts around you, an electric breeze replacing the subdued scent of pre-rain from outside. It brings something tantalizing with it as it caresses away the sheen of humidity on your arms and cheeks. A new smell. A friendly smell.

You close your eyes and inhale, chest rising and falling as your lungs fill with the scent of ink and paper. It doesn't sooth your screaming anticipation, but it adds a layer of excitement to it. You're finally here. You were starting to wonder if it would ever happen.

The crowds carry you through the bookstore, jostling and jarring. You don't mind. Your mouth pulls into a smile as you approach the large display in the middle aisle, and then walk around it. You don't have to pluck one of the manhandled copies from a cardboard shelf. You pre-ordered.

You're barely aware of your own name passing your lips as you speak with the harried woman behind the counter. Merchandise and money exchange hands, and you feel a new weight against your palms. Finally, the next book in the series, and its yours. Your soul screams with delight and it takes all of your control not to plop down in the middle of the bookstore and devour the words right there.

The seven-hundred pages in your hands are magical. They block out the dull roar of the crowd around you, repelling them as you make your way back to the car. The nervous energy from earlier is something much more positive now. It speaks to you in the narrator's voice. That sexy, sultry sound that envelops you in its world for hours on end when you're reading those typed words.

You don't remember climbing in your car, but there you are. Staring at the shiny letters on the cover. You want to slide off the dust-jacket right now. Feel the pages against your fingertips and caress the words with adoring eyes.

But not here. This is too public. Your moment deserves more. Summoning the remainder of your self control, you set the book aside. You start the car and put it in gear, struggling to keep your eyes on the road and not on the sexy story in the passenger seat.

Maybe you could hold it in your lap while you drive. But no, that would be too much temptation. Home is only ten minutes away, and the anticipation will make the actual reading moment that much more sweet. You've waited years for this sequel. You can wait just a little longer...

When was the last time you felt this way about a book?

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R is for Rahne

There's something I don't talk about much in my writing, but I really should mention more often. My stories are not a solo effort. I mean, obviously since I have these awesome critique partners, and this amazing reader who help me muddle through all the flaws in my drafts, but I mean even before that point.

My spouse, my muse, my sounding board, is an equal partner in this whole writing thing. My story ideas all get bounced off her, and a large number of my stories were her idea to begin with. My favorite character in all of existence (not Scott or Loki, believe it or not), Conner, came about because she and I were talking about Lestat (yes, 'Interview with a Vampire' Lestat). The conversation was how every writer probably had a similar character, and I said I wanted one, and kind of had one, but not quite.

I remember the evening well, because like I said - favorite character. I live and breath and die for Conner. Well, sort of. So the night he came into his own is like remembering a first date. We were at McDonalds, we were on the tall stools by the bar-like counter, and I had french fries and a hot fudge sundae.

She has one of these as well. The single character that is everything, that defines so much, that is an outlet for hopes and dreams and destroying them and creating them. Hers is named Rahne Ishoto.

Picture a petite woman with straight black hair, and a young build. Rahne's favorite outfit is a sundress, and no shoes. She's sweet, hospitable, and a little sarcastic. Oh, and she can tear the limbs from hoards of invading demons and be back by your side before you can blink.

We've had discussions over the years about whether or not Rahne is a Mary Sue. I mean, that kind of power, and adorable on top of it? How much more epic could it be? Unless all you want is a quiet life and your destiny prevents you from living it.

Some day I may write Rahne's story. When I've polished my style and writing enough to do her justice. Until then, she'll continue to save the universe from those demon hoards in our after-dinner discussions and on weekends.

Do you have any characters, either in your own work or someone else's, who just sticks with you in your thoughts? Who you feel an overwhelming bond with despite their being fictional? And how does that impact your imagination?

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Q is for Question

Sorry for the very late post on 'Q' day. I stared writing this post yesterday, and life got in the way. I slept in this morning. Until seven am. If you're looking for a point of reference, I don't wake up with an alarm clock. I pretty much am conscious between five and six am. Always. It's just the way my brain works. But this morning, seven. It was awesome ^_^

And before eight, I had an e-mail from the most amazing recruiter in all of history, giving me final confirmation that I had an awesome job offer. And the rest of my day was spent running around filling out paperwork and getting my fingerprints taken.

But now, I'm back with my Q post. WOOT ^_^

We're watching the 'Star Wars' movies right now. The OT (original trilogy), no the new ones. For some reason, we're watching them backwards, which isn't really relevant, but is still a little odd and unexplainable.

As we watch the movies, we keep coming up with these questions. "Why did he do that?" "Why didn't they think of this?" "Where did that come from?"

Not the best way to keep a viewer engaged in your film. Suspension of disbelief is so key in any good story, and if you can't suspend it...you lose your audience.

So how do you keep it intact? This is a question I used to ask myself. If you have an element you want to introduce to the story, and its an obscure idea that you're not ready to explain yet for plot reasons, how do you keep the reader from losing interest before you get there?

And then someone explained it to me. I thought it was brilliant and it's a piece of writing advice I very rarely see anywhere.

If you think the reader is going to ask the question, have one of your characters ask it at the same time. You don't have to have it spoken aloud, it can be a musing. And you don't have to give the answer right then. But if you ask the question at the same time as the reader, they know it's not just a plot hole that you forgot to fill. An inconsistency missed in your editing. They'll realize it's there, and possibly even gloss over it until it becomes important again.

Any other suggestions for how to avoid losing suspension of disbelief in storytelling?

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P is for Puppet, Premise, and (self) Promotion

As in An angel without a god is a like a puppet without strings.

Today, Slice of the Blog Pie is hosting an awesome and amazing blogfest. If you've stopped by for the A-Z challenge, maybe you'd like to take a break from the letters and go check out all the up-and-comers in the fiction world ^_^. Just click the link, it'll be fun.

The basic premise is simple. Below is the query for my novel. I'm hoping for feedback to make it sparkle and shine. I'm wearing my big-girl eyeballs so I can take the critique - give it to me straight.

From what I've been able to determine, a query should do one thing: tell what the book is about.

But it's never that simple. Because it also has to make that story sound interesting enough to want to read more, and not sound like all the other stories out there in the same genre, and oh yeah, if it had some of the author's voice in it, that would be pretty epic, too.

I won't get into the other things a query letter should or shouldn't be. Other people have beat that Twinkie to death already. Keeping all of that in mind, below is my query letter. *deep breath*. Have at it.

Update 1 (10:45 AM MT): After the first few bits of feedback, I've tried to tweak this. Y'all are awesome, keep the notes coming, please :-) (and to my awesome CP - yeah, think...rewrites are coming in the near future...)

Dear Agent:

The old gods never died, they just faded into less conspicuous day jobs.

As an assassin for one of the most powerful gods around, the archangel Uriel just has one teensy problem with her job: she's not so keen on killing. She gets that other pantheons detract from her own deity, and that faith equals power. But after she falls for her first target and has to off him anyway, none of that holds as much weight.

Enter the Norse god, Loki. He's found a loophole in her employment contract and is happy to help her exploit it. All he's asking in return is for her affection. She sees no reason to turn down the attentions of a god offering her indulgence, glory, and a kick-ass wardrobe. Never mind the threats to banish her to oblivion every time she pisses him off.

Uriel thinks she’s going insane when the voice in her head – her conscience? – starts bad mouthing her man. Turns out someone forgot to tell her she was made from recycled angel parts, and the original owner wants its life back. It's promising power. Not the kind that stops traffic or rules countries; the kind that will ensure she'll never have to kill again.

When she examines her choices, Uriel realizes picking infatuation means her destruction, and siding with power means losing her sanity. Tired of being controlled, she must question everything she knows if she's going to become her own angel.

The urban fantasy, URIEL’S FALL is complete at 70,000 words. My short story, APATHY’S HERO, which appeared in the Winter 2010 issue of ‘A Thousand Faces’, is the inspiration for the universe housing URIEL’S FALL. My work has appeared in several other anthologies including books from Pill Hill Press and Wicked East Press.

On a personal note, I enjoy URL/site name and always look forward to your (thoughts on, segments on, weekly short stories, etc).

Thank you for your time.

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O is for Olympia

Picture a world covered with crystal. It spans as far as the eye can see, and only stops when it hits salt. The only places on the planet unmarred by this plague are the oceans, isolated islands, and the floating counties in the sky.

No one alive remembers the wars that divided the land and they sky. All they know is the sky people can't survive without the crystal on land that fuels their ships, and the land people can't survive without the mechanics on the floating cities to fix their power generators.

The largest of these elevated islands is the Olympia. If the sky-dwellers had a capital city, she would be it. The Olympia carries the secret to removing the divide between the earth and the sky. But only one person knows the truth about what that means, and she's not talking.

(My newest WIP, Flowers from Olympia)

He watched her from his hiding place as the sun caught her hair, glinting off the copper highlights of the piled tresses. She glided across the courtyard, her turquoise, silk skirts ruffling only with the breeze. Visible to the practiced eye, a faint red glow radiated an inch from her form.

He flipped the snap off the holster attached to his wrist and the familiar warmth of his knife’s pommel slid into his waiting hand. Biting back a smile, he approached, certain that she had not seen him. An aura similar to hers, but blue, snaked across his skin. In one swift movement his left arm pulled both of hers back, drawing her to his chest and pressing his blade to her throat.

“You should learn to be more cautious, my lady,” he hissed in her ear. A line of red formed along the sharpened, steel edge.

In the blink of an eye the light around her flickered to a vibrant yellow, electromagnetic magic striking temperate ice water and causing him to hiss in pain. The momentary distraction was enough. Her hands moved to the small of her back and her head whipped back, skull catching him in the jaw. Dropping to the ground, her leg struck from beneath her skirts and knocked his feet out from under him. She stood with a twirl, her hands bringing two well hidden daggers into view.

Pushing back to his feet the moment he hit the ground, he mentally chided himself for thinking he had her this time. His long blade left its scabbard at the same time the sunlight glinted off her shorter pair. “Lightening? That’s new.”

“Only to you.” A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. She struck first, stepping inside his reach and slicing from the side.

The feint to get him to guard his left arm was familiar and he moved into the blow rather than deflecting it. He brought his dagger up from the right to block what would have been a wicked puncture to his kidney. The blade missed his skin, but sliced cleanly through his orange waistcoat.

She twirled with his dodge, jumping back to avoid a sweep kick when he dropped to one knee. Bouncing on the balls of her feet, she taunted him with a smirk.

A lock of hair pulled loose from its restraint at the base of his neck, falling across his eyes and obscuring his vision. He tucked the midnight blue curl behind an ear and sprang toward her, coming up inside her reach.

Her eyes widened in surprise at the new tactic; most of the time he preferred to use his longer arms to his advantage. She didn’t falter for long, but it was enough for him to extend his blue glow, bathing her in the light.

She jumped back, more sluggishly this time. “So I’m not the only one with new tricks up my sleeve.”

He grinned in response, moving into a ready position, sword in front of him, dagger at his side.

She mimicked his pose.

His brown eyes searched bright green, trying to anticipate her next move.

As her weight shifted he was on the move again, his blades meeting hers with a loud clang. She caught him off balance, putting him on the defensive and only giving him enough time to block each blow.

She smirked, an arrogant gesture.

When she swung wide he saw his opening. He blocked the downswing, her leading hand striking the outside edge of his blade and knocking her own to the ground. Catching her left wrist, he brought it to meet her now empty right. He locked both above her head, pushing her until her back was to a nearby wall. “Submit.”

She pouted and a weak whimper escaped her throat. She leaned forward, only having to reach up a few inches to accomplish her goal, and pressed her mouth to his, startling him.

He closed his eyes when she deepened the kiss, her tongue running along his lower lip. Another whimper floated into the air and he realized it was his own. His eyes flew open when he felt her weight shift, but he realized too late.

Her dagger was in her right hand now and pressed to his throat. She blinked at him, her face a picture of innocence. “You need to learn to be more careful, my lord.”

He grinned. “I yield. Dirty trick though, both of them.”

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