Come to the Arcadian Delights

Spending a night on the tiles is an old reference to cats prowling the neighborhood roofs and getting up to no good. When a human spends a night on the tiles, we don’t think of them as literally prancing from rooftop to rooftop, unless one lives in the Hellion House universe. There, anything can and probably does happen, sometimes with unexpected consequences.

In the walled city of Londria, space is limited and wandering beyond the city gates is likely to get one eaten by monsters. Rooftop gardens connected by aqueducts that supply the domestic needs of many citizens. In turn, the aqueducts supply the needs of characters in need of high stakes acrobatics, but more on that later.

Gardens can be for more than food production. There are those dedicated to medicines (and poisons), those that cultivate the rare and the beautiful, and there is plenty of historical precedent for pleasure gardens.

Readers of historical romance will know all about Vauxhall Gardens, which was established before the Restoration and reached its commercial peak in the late 1700s and early 1800s. It offered music, entertainment, food, and endless rambling pathways where one could see and be seen in the latest fashions. There was a whiff of scandal, too, as it was the perfect setting for secret assignations amongst the shrubberies, especially since it was famed for its nighttime displays.

Londria has its own version of Vauxhall, the Arcadian Delights. As an outdoor entertainment, it as many of the same features, with the added hazard that those shrubberies end in a very long drop to the pavement below. This adds a soupcon of excitement to any heated disputes that arise between rivals, not to mention a cautionary tale for those who like their wine a little too much.

Naturally, without hundreds of acres to work with, the architects of Londria’s garden had to get creative. It spreads over numerous rooftops in the prime shopping districts, spanned by ornamental foot bridges. The irregular rooftop levels are thoughtfully harnessed into the design, providing a platform for aerial acrobats, exotic aviaries, and artfully framed spreads of flowering trees. Platforms of ornamental ironwork are worked with jewel-like lights, the better to enjoy night vistas of the city.

Of course, gardeners can’t just replicate a regular garden. This is essentially container gardening on a grand scale. And, although most species could flourish many stories up, not all pollinators fly so high. Nature has adapted for such issues before—magnolias have existed longer than bees and butterflies and developed thick petals to accommodate beetles as their primary pollinator. However, given a much shorter historical timeline, species adaptable to heights are selected. The gardeners keep bees and bats as well as vivariums for the butterflies, thus establishing an entire ecosystem far above street level.

Given the views, and the safety of the rooftops, the Arcadian Delights are particularly popular at night. Besides the entertainment and lighting displays, night blooming plants are on display—moonflower vines, night phlox, and a variety of succulents brought by airship from far-off lands.

It might seem odd to think of such an extravagant pleasure garden in a city constantly battling for survival. And yet, there are those who always put their own enjoyment first, and ensure that they are seen doing it. Historically, such places were made by and for kings—think of the Sun King and Versailles. For all their loveliness, ornamental gardens have a meaning beyond beauty. Their very existence is a symbol of ascendancy, of creating a playground for those who can afford power.

And where there is power there is implicit danger for the unwary. Not just anyone takes the steam-powered lift to reach the Arcadian Delights. There are gatekeepers, and there are rules one is wise to obey. Putting a foot wrong could mean a long and literally fatal fall from grace.

Endings and Beginnings

I’m not good at bidding farewell to things—worn out clothes, mementos, old china, or raggedy stuffies. If I truly like something, I tend to embrace it as part of my mental domain, to have, hold, and protect forever like a lioness with her cubs. As you can imagine, the sort of cleaning that empties closets and tidies basements does not come without inner trauma.

Ending a book series is even harder. Bidding farewell to the world, the characters, and the excitement of weaving those stories can send authors into a kind of depression. That’s not to say there isn’t also relief. Wrapping up a long-running narrative is hard work. And, probably, there’s also a joyous recognition that new stories beckon, and the necessity to write another book to keep income flowing. All these things can be true at once. For me, though, the goodbyes are hard.

The best antidote to post-series blues is a solid finish. No regrets. No loose ends. If all the plot threads tie up in a good and logical manner, I can move on more easily. That doesn’t always mean a happy ending for every character, just one that makes sense for that person. This approach keeps the accusatory hallucinations at 3:00 am down to a dull roar. There is nothing worse than the Ghost of Protagonists Past.

Plus, if the series is packed away neatly, there’s nothing to say that it can’t be unboxed for another group of adventures at a later date. This is a lovely carrot to dangle when the wrap up gets rocky and I start looking for an excuse for sequels.

I don’t do extra books lightly. There is a significant difference between series with an overarching plot and those without. The latter kind may be related on the surface, as with the “twelve siblings looking for romance” where each character’s book can stand alone and the connective tissue between them is occasional appearances by the other relations. These series can go on forever with the judicious application of loveless cousins.

My series tend to have an overarching plot thread running through the books. In Camelot Reborn, the oncoming war with the fae is the main engine driving the action. It begins with the disastrous results of Merlin’s spell and ends with his attempt to repair the damage he caused. Of course, each book has a fully-realized romance, but also supplies a building block that comes into play at the end. This format takes planning, but ramps up the stakes nicely from book to book until the grand finale.

And thus the series ends. I will deeply miss Medievaland, but I don’t feel anything has been left dangling. That’s not to say I couldn’t come up with something else for Arthur and the boys to do. The round table had a lot of knights, and they only found some of their lost warriors. And who doesn’t love a Grail quest?  But I digress. The truth is, I’m sentimental and after spending so much time with characters, they have become friends.

But the reverse side of the ending coin is beginning something new. Creating a really good arc with meaningful character arcs underneath it—that takes thought, sometimes research, and a fair amount of serendipity. I won’t be rush in unprepared.

But I won’t be timid, either. And I’ve been planning. For now, some story worlds take a well-earned rest. Another is stirring, ready to challenge me and hopefully delight readers. Onwards!

Home on the Strange

One of the choices I’m conscious of when starting a story is the setting, especially the community who lives and works in that setting, and the protagonist’s relationship to it. This is true regardless of the genre: historical, mystery, fantasy, romance and especially stories involving the paranormal. Where do non-human characters fit into a human-centered social structure? Or do they?

The current trend for all things cozy got me started on this train of thought. In case you haven’t noticed, we have cozy romances, cozy mysteries, cozy fantasies, cozy horror, cozy science fiction, and probably cozy serial killer true crime because why not? Everything else that can be bundled up in a cottagecore quilt is being tucked into the guest bedroom with a cup of hot chocolate. It’s as if the reading world opted for a collective hug.

What do I mean by cozy? Right now, readers are craving lighter fare, with more character-driven, humorous narratives and less blood and angst. The focus is on community, with a defined location (often a small town), lots of atmosphere, and a detailed backdrop that highlights who the protagonist is to the people around them. They’re part of the landscape, with a role to play and people to care for. For those craving a sense of home, this is pure catnip.

This is a far cry from the romance of the stranger who rides in, saves the day, and rides out again. The lone wolf figure comes to do a job, but leaves nothing personal behind other than maybe a pining love interest waving a hankie as the hero’s horse carries them into the sunset. This has been a predominant narrative for some time, spawning a zillion Westerns, private detectives, spies, and other action/adventure types. It’s the idolization of the individualist rather than the community. Although the better examples of this narrative will show character development, it’s not always the focus. After all, if the protagonist has an epiphany and wonders why they have commitment issues, the series would be over.

The appeal of the loner has been a puzzle to me (and I fully admit my personal tastes are showing here). Although I love a good action hero/heroine, I do have questions about a main character without a family or friend group, however irregular that might be. Did they experience a life-altering tragedy? Recently moved to another planet? Undiagnosed narcissism? Bad hygiene? They should have connections somewhere or be trying to create some. Even Dracula had his brides.

This is basic survival stuff, and connection means safety in the wild, where life is hard and humans look tasty. Which brings me back to why community matters in paranormal stories, where not everyone is human. If cozy books are at one end of the hearth and home spectrum and Mr. Lone (Were)Wolf Cowboy at the other, there is a lot of real estate in between. Not everything has to be gingham and tea—a gritty urban fantasy can have a strong sense of place and community, too.

The original Frankenstein’s monster was a wonderful illustration of how the uncanny tried to cope in our world, and how that world pushed him into the monster role. All those found family narratives—so incredibly popular in YA—exist for a reason. Misfits dream of being understood every bit as much as (or more than) the rest of the kids. The relationships we build or fail to build—frustrating, silly, joyous, or painful—ultimately define us. Our refusal to provide love and community defined Frank’s creation until it turned on its creator.

Poor monster. While I’m glad to have read the book, it made me sad. No wonder readers love to return to places and characters that lift their spirits. It’s the same for authors. I like to know that Joe is at his bar, that Lore can outfit the guest bedroom with reasonable furniture, and that Holly will pick up the phone to help with more esoteric problems. I want to know my friends are there and that their world is ultimately in balance.  Until, of course, I toss a problem their way just so things don’t get too dull. The best kind of story world is not always perfect, but it’s welcoming once you’re an insider. Even on a bad day, you have friends who have your back—even if they’re a swamp monster. And really, what more could you want?

Useless (or not) to a Degree

Debate abounds around careers and jobs and the correct educational path to achieve success. This isn’t new, nor is philosophizing about what success actually looks like. I’m a writer. In my case, success is gathering enough minutes into uninterrupted hours to actually get some work done, and there’s no certificate that can make that happen.

On that note, I am occasionally asked what degree one should take to be a writer. Honestly, that depends a lot on one’s tastes and the options available. A degree is a fabulous achievement and a worthy end in itself, but is not to be confused with a career destination. Put another way, what it says on the box isn’t always what it will mean for your ambitions. This is especially relevant when it comes to the ambiguous domain of the arts.For instance, when I attended university, the Creative Writing department was having a good existential wallow. Anything with a linear plot and clear resolution was shaken from the soles of their Birkenstocks with scorn. They published a well-regarded literary magazine that left me bored and confused. For me, who wanted to write classic adventure stories, it wasn’t a good fit.

I took myself to the English Literature department and signed on for four years spent reading books, which is what I did everyday anyway. It was bliss. Plus, it taught me things I wanted to know. We studied plot structure, literary technique, the use of language for effect, and how great works both reflected and changed societal attitudes. We studied comedy and drama and how plots with a bit of each weaved together to keep the audience’s appetite engaged. And, we studied characterization, from Homer to Shakespeare to Dickens and Austen. The material ran the gamut from antiquity to living authors to romantic poets and Victorian gothic fiction. Nothing was off the table, and it was up to me to decide where to focus. What a banquet!

Not every new author would be as besotted as I was, but I loved learning how to break down a work of literature and analyze what made it tick. More than that, I loved the autonomy to like what I liked without apology. I spent my time between semesters workshopping a series of totally unpublishable novels using what I’d studied. Those books will never see daylight, but they formed me as an author. When I graduated, I still had lots to learn about specific genres, but I came away with a voice and a respectable toolkit of techniques.
Today, universities have more options. There are degree programs in popular fiction. There are also tons of on-line workshops and conferences, which is infinitely more doable for most than signing on for four years steeped in literary criticism. I recognize that I was extremely lucky to have scholarships, indulgent parents, and the kind of time that only exists when you’re nineteen.

What I realize in retrospect is that I was operating on a very old method of teaching, which was copywork. Art students used to learn their brushwork by reproducing the masters. I was learning by studying and replicating as well. This method doesn’t need a degree, just good observational skills and a wide appetite. I personally recommend learning a bit of literary analysis, but I’m biased.

The point is, think about what you read and don’t stick to the familiar. Look at poetry, drama, and essays as well as fiction. The real value of my degree was examining a huge variety of material. However you choose to study—formally, casually, with a specialization or ad hoc—it’s about stockpiling your brain with ideas and the skills to make them work. Future you on book 40 will be thankful, because you won’t be repeating yourself.

A certificate in a frame is nice, but its real value is whether or not it contributes to your artistic survival skills. That’s up to you. Keep bringing new content to the table. Don’t get stuck in a genre echo chamber. Keep readers engaged by offering them something fresh. In the end, serving your audience is what matters.

Once Upon a Time is Now

It’s not often that I can pinpoint a specific inspiration for a story. Usually, it just lurches from the swamp of my brain and lands on the page with a muddy splat. But the spark of the Camelot Reborn series had a very clear beginning, even if it sat dormant for a very long time.

I remember standing in Salisbury Cathedral when I was about twelve, staring down at the stone face of a knight. Although it was August, the medieval building was cold, the only light filtering through towering windows of stained glass. The vaulted ceiling created echoes that went on for days, and my imagination went into overdrive.

The statue was life-sized and in full armor, an effigy stretched in eternal sleep upon his tomb. He grasped a sword against his chest, and a lion curled protectively at his feet—a symbol of courage.

Who was he? Could I wake him with a kiss, Sleeping-Beauty style? Would he sit up and look around at the new modern world? Of course, he would be devoted to twelve-year-old me, infinitely grateful to be revived. And, naturally, there would be an equally interesting villain just waiting in the wings. What fabulous adventures would follow!

I’ll pause to add that I knew very little about knights when I was twelve. If Sir Whatever had awakened in good health and sound mind, I doubt he would have been happy to learn his estates were now a warehouse grocery emporium. Furthermore, no, he could not use the longsword to emphasize his opinion on the matter. And even further furthermore, I doubt he’d understand a word anyone said. The English language has changed dramatically since the Crusades.

But I digress. My tender tween heart was an innocent thing.

When I began the Camelot Reborn series, I remembered my knight in his lonely sleep. What if the Knights of the Round Table—enchanted into sleeping stone—had been scattered to museums and private collections? If they had to be awakened one by one to reunite with their brothers and defeat a threatening enemy? What if Sir Gawain, a hot-tempered, dangerous, and devastatingly handsome knight, was roaming about town, eager to fight or carouse or sweep my heroine off her feet?

Apparently, I liked that notion and stuck with it. My heroine is a thoroughly modern historian named Tamsin Greene. She’s the key to finding the other knights, but she’s also a powerful witch—and if there’s one thing that Gawain refuses to trust, it’s sorcery. But he’s not going to get the maid without her magic, and little does Tamsin know that Gawain holds the key to an ancient secret that changes everything she believes about her own past.

Not even Merlin can prevent these fireworks and, yes, he gets a few of his own.

Want to learn more? Check out Enchanted Warrior here.

Happy book birthday, Flicker!

Happy book birthday to Flicker, a prequel novella in the Crown of Fae series.

Wait? Why release a prequel halfway through the series? Well, I wanted to tell a story about Fliss, Ronan’s charming little sister and how she met Laren, the dashing water fae. She’s been a supporting character until now deserved a tale of her own. And, that largely happened.

What I wasn’t expecting was that these were TEENAGERS. Whether I liked it or not, my characters were crazy, wrong-headed, adorable, and insane—rather like most of us are at that age. As a result, this book has action galore, school problems, scary teachers, and a dash of sweet romance. This makes it more YA than the rest of the series, but (I think) in a fun way.

What was intended as a short story became a novella. In amongst all that youthful drama, I was able to set up some characters and circumstances that shape the next few books. Keep an eye on that enchanted bird. There might even be a clue to an Easter egg buried in one of the books already out.

For those who’ve read the books so far, the timeline between Flicker and Shimmer is as follows (no real spoilers here):

• In the prequel, Fliss is thirteen.
• The Shades arrived a hundred years before.
• The battle of Ildaran Falls, after which many of the fae fled Faery, was twenty years before.
• After the events of Flicker, Laren joins the older dragons in some of their exploits, becoming friends with Ronan. Ronan and Fliss, however, don’t see much of each other until Shimmer, where she is a fully adult fae.
• Ronan’s journey begins in Faery, but when Shimmer begins, he’s been in the human realms for some time. Since time runs differently in the human and fae worlds—and wherever else he might have been—It’s difficult to measure exactly how many years pass between the two stories, but to Ronan’s perception it is centuries.

And handsome Telkoram? Why yes, we will see him again.

For more about Flicker and to read an excerpt, click here.

Or simply buy it here.

Five editing tips to save a sinking story

Editing advice is depressingly easy to come by, especially when our work in progress is circling the drain. That’s when the armchair editors come out to play, usually with a sympathetic shrug and sad eyes. Then they gingerly toe our story as if it were a roadkill raccoon.

Once we get past the impulse to bash those know-it-alls over the head, we are at the point of autopsy. That’s when we survey the wreckage with an ache in our chests, wondering whether to draw the sheet over our darling, or make one last heroic attempt at rescue.

I’ve had my fair share of emergency room moments. Deciding whether or not a book is salvageable is tough, but I’ve come up with a diagnostic test I use when I get to about the five-chapter mark, then half way, and then again at the end. This doesn’t cover every possible scenario (I’m always finding new ways to make a mess) but it does hit the probable pitfalls.

Consider these issues before you pronounce time of deletion. Everything here can be fixed in a thorough edit.

One: Are your characters acting like real people?

I’ve read books where characters seem to experience a story in isolated episodes, as if they’ve had a brain wipe between page turns. It’s hard for the reader to engage with a protagonist in this detached state. Characters should come across as individuals with complete interior lives.

Take a moment and think about what it would be like to be your protagonist, an ordinary person, shoved into an exciting adventure. Imagine going through events as the chapter progresses as if it were happening to you. What does your character feel? Where in your body does that emotion show up? A clenched jaw? An aching stomach? How does your protagonist continue to function despite those emotions? Now put those feelings on top of the feelings from the last chapter, and the one before that. A writer needs the cumulative impact of all those layers to make character change realistic. It’s okay (and probably useful) for your protagonist to cope badly from time to time.

This is one of many reasons that it’s useful to construct a plot timeline. If your character’s parent is hit by a truck on Monday, they will still be reacting to the incident on Tuesday. It doesn’t hurt, when starting a fresh chapter, to make a few notes about the character’s state of mind going in. This is especially helpful if there are breaks between writing sessions and the material isn’t fresh in your mind.

Two:  Are you keeping secrets?

This is related to the point above. I have occasionally questioned one writer or another about why a character does XYZ and been given a long monologue about the character’s thoughts, feelings, family dynamics, ambitions, grade school experience, etc. Note to author: it doesn’t count if I can’t read it on the page.

Check when you are revealing information, especially where it reinforces motivation. I know we’re all afraid of the infodump, but being coy is just as harmful. It annoys and confuses readers and frequently makes the characters appear to require strong psychiatric medication.

The Ubiquitous Plot Bunny

Three:  Do you have the right amount of story for the length of your work?

A well-written story can come in any length, but sometimes that short story we think we’re writing turns out to be a surprise novel. That’s okay, as long as we don’t try to squish it back into a short story-sized container.

To figure out if your story is too short or too long for your chosen format, here are some questions to ask:

• Does every section (chapter, scene, or whatever unit you’re using) relate to the main conflict in terms of action, character, or theme?
• Does every section contain enough of its own conflict to be interesting?
• If you left the section out, would it matter to the overall story?
• Are any important events happening off stage? Does the event take more than two sentences to explain? If so, cut it out or …
• Would it raise the tension in the story to show those events on stage in real time?
• Can any other exposition be turned into action or at least a conversation?
• Is there enough rising action and setbacks to make us doubt the outcome of the story?
• Are all important character traits/relationships demonstrated on screen?

Four:  Is your climax in the right place? Are the right people participating in it?

Go ahead, think about the sexual double entendre. It fits.

We all know the big finale should happen close to the end of the book. Romance has a climax for the exterior action (the villain is stopped) and then one for the interior conflict

High points need to come in the right place

(the romance receives its final test). I would argue that most character-driven work has this double climax in which the action resolves and then the protagonist(s) gain final insight. It’s the best way to iron in a satisfying character arc. Although there are always exceptions, to put these peaks too soon or in the wrong order can make for a less than satisfying end.

Also, please ensure the main character is a participant in the climax. Not an observer. Not hearing about it from a friend. Not using a peephole. They need to personally impact the outcome of events or the reader feels cheated for spending so much time with someone who clearly doesn’t matter.

Five:  Do you have too much beginning?

This tends to be an issue with bigger books or series, but it can happen with short ones as well. This is a good moment to consider whether the overall work is the right size (see above) because the beginning sets the expectation of how the whole story will be paced. If you whitter on at a leisurely trot and then sprint through the last half, the book feels lopsided.

If you’re already at novel length but need five chapters of exposition to get out of the gate, the best advice I can give is to start with a corner of your universe and build out as you go. Give us ONLY what we need to make it through the first scene. Show us the mud, the castle, the village cow. We don’t actually need the name of the town to know what kind of place we’re in. If you need to add a little something for scene number two, then dribble it in when we get there, and so on. Consider that your character doesn’t think about his or her environment all at once. They’re dealing with what’s in front of them, just like we do when we walk out the front door.

Think about the reader experience like vacation travel. Once we’ve checked our luggage, seen the hotel room, and had something to eat, we’re ready to see the sights. That’s when it’s okay to start giving more detail, because the reader has some way to relate it to what they already know.

Good luck!

Superior Procrastination Techniques

Most of us experience procrastination at some point in our lives. I’m guilty of some very late night submissions, study blitzes, and (ahem) blog posts that barely slide under the wire. But rather than focus on the less attractive aspects of dilly-dallying, why not embrace the creative potential? Don’t settle for any old delay—go for the procrastination gold!

How to begin a book (or not)

How to begin a book? Book beginnings tend to go two ways with me: either out of the gate like a shot or in a dithery fashion that means I begin chapter one about twenty times, erase it, make it chapter three, erase it, then go back to whatever it was I wrote the first time.

Some people would say that the latter method results from a failure to plot and/or I didn’t understand the story well enough. This might be true. Most of storytelling is a mysterious process and though people throw theories at it, I doubt it will ever become an exact science. The story might be stalled because my tea was the wrong temperature and/or one sock was inside out. More likely is that I used up my allotted number of story beginnings early on in my writing career, since I started ten stories for every one that I finished.

Half the theorists say the story should begin in the regular, everyday world of the protagonist. The other half advocate for a major explosion. One wonders about the protagonist’s propensity for bomb-making.

The best way to connect these dots (at least some of the time) is to consider that there is exterior action (incendiary vampires, or whatever action you are proposing) and interior action (whatever character growth the protagonist will undergo). What we’re looking for to launch the story is conflict. It could be the start of the action plot (kaboom!) or it could be a high point of conflict for the interior plot (or both, if you can make them realistically coincide).

I’ll throw my advice into the mix: If in doubt, start with the interior plot, but make it a big moment. Show the character sweating so we like that person but understand how he or she desperately needs to change.

Examples of a high-conflict interior plot opening could be a fight, the character getting fired, or the character doing something else high-risk. Whatever flaw they have, demonstrate it to the max. This makes a nice bookend with the end of the novel, where you can show them reacting a different way to the same situation. That’s a straightforward demonstration that they aren’t the same person they were at the start.

Chapter one: Billy gets in a bar fight

Chapter thirty-one: Having developed people skills, Billy de-escalates a similar situation.

This is a stupid-simple example, but you get the point. There is a difference between flashy and important. Billy might win NASCAR and that might make up the bulk of the exterior plot, but it’s important on a personal level that he is a functional human being so that he stays out of jail and weds Mary-Lou.

Put another way, remember that HIGH STAKES are important to open the story, but the HIGHEST stakes are those the protagonist carries inside them. If in doubt, start your story there.

Blood, Sweat and Words Podcast

I was asked to do a spot on Blood, Sweat and Words, so I chatted about writing about a paranormal Christmas–check it out here.