A SNEAK PEAK of A Side of Hope

I don't normally do this.

But I saw the doctor today for a problem I'm having with my hand, and the meany is making me wear a brace on my right hand for 2 weeks to see if it helps, on top of some medication.

While I can type with it, it isn't the most comfortable thing to do for a very long period of time (and honestly, my hand is throbbing, woe is me!) And since I'm a writer, I'm trying to preserve my typing time!

I was going to just do a repost of an old blog post, but thought of something else I could do with minimal typing

In just a week and a half *gulp* my newest novella, A Side of Hope, is releasing! So I thought I'd give you all a sneak peak at the first chapter....

Hope you all enjoy it! Release date will be March 31st!

Chapter 1

What a cruddy day.

Slamming the door of her Chevy coupe, Tilly Davis wanted nothing more than to go inside, take off this stupid outfit, throw these heels in the trash, and soak in a nice, hot bubble bath.

Yes. That sounded just about perfect.

How stupid could she get? Everyone had dropped hints about her birthday for weeks, and every time, she’d reminded them how she did not want a big production made out of her fortieth birthday. She was turning thirty-five for the sixth time. That’s all. No big deal.

But as much as she did not want a big fuss over this day, never in a million years had she imagined they would actually listen to her—especially Beth, Maddie, and Allie.

Because of her love for her friends, she'd decided to be a good sport about whatever they were planning behind all their whispers and conversations that quickly changed when she entered a room. She’d taken a little extra time with her clothes this morning. Worn a skirt instead of dress slacks. The only skirt in her closet, actually. And heels. Yes, she had walked around the Sandwich Emporium, schmoozing with customers, helping frazzled waitresses, talking a few of the kitchen staff out of spitting in irritating customers’ food, all the while wearing stupid, stupid, stupid cursed heels. She almost broke her ankle on three occasions, too.

And all that misery, for what?

Beth, her best friend and bowling partner extraordinaire, had dropped off a card this morning and hugged her, then rushed off to do a showing with one of her clients. Reuben had waved and called “Happy Birthday!” as he headed home for the day, and reminded her that she could take off at seven. His “gift” to her or something. Maddie, Reuben’s wife, had called to let her know she couldn’t have lunch with her as planned because the babies would not stop rolling around and kicking each other in her belly, causing some not-so-stellar digestive issues. Tilly had stopped her before getting a graphic play-by-play of the issue.

Her mom and stepdad mailed her a sweater that looked like it’d come from Martha Stewart’s closet, and her dad had wired her his annual $1,000 and sent a postcard from some Caribbean island she’d never even heard of. It was signed from him and Brandi—the "i" dotted with a heart—whoever that was. One would think at sixty-five, he’d have settled down by now. Yeah, not-so-much.

There had been no other phone calls or well-wishes.

Even the other girls on the bowling team had been quiet.

So yes. Here she was. The Big Four-Oh. Her birthday. All alone. With feet that probably had bunions on them. That’s what old people got, right? Oh, and gray hair. Then again, she’d taken to dying her hair various colors for years. She’d recently ditched the red, cut off and straightened the curls, and opted for a layered, chin-length dark brown. She wouldn’t know if she had a gray spot unless her hair stylist told her so.

And Cheri was much smarter than that.

This was not where she had envisioned herself being at forty. At twenty, she'd had dreams of spending this day with a husband at her side and a couple of kids. Settled. Happy.

Most days she'd argue that she was exactly where she wanted to be in her life. But a little voice in the back of her head screamed at what could have been if she'd only spread her wings a little all those years ago.

But she hadn't, and no amount of wishful thinking could change the past. She wasn't even sure she wanted to change it.

Making her way to the back door, she shivered at the November wind that bit at her skin. A weary breath escaped her lips. This day was almost over. She’d sulk for a few more hours in her “early” inherited house, then wake up tomorrow, fully forty, and take on the world.

Only a few more hours….

She put her key into the back door and let herself in. The house was dark and quiet.

Like it is every day. A tinge of sadness gripped her heart, but she quickly brushed it away.

Shedding her shoes, she tossed the evil things into the trash. She would tear off her skirt right there in the mudroom and trash it too, but that would mean having to buy another one the next time there was a wedding or funeral to go to. And considering her idea of a shopping spree was cuddling up on her bed with her laptop and credit card, the thought of having to go to a store to clothes shop was enough to keep her skirt on.

Stepping into the kitchen, she flipped on the light.

“Surprise!” Party horns tooted and black streamers fluttered across the room.

Tilly clutched the door jam, praying her aged heart wouldn’t completely give out on her. Everyone she could possibly think of stood around her kitchen, breakfast area, and even into the dining room. Her bowling girls—Beth, Lena, and Lauren. Reuben, her boss, and his wife Maddie. Allie, Stew and their crew. Pastor Greg and his wife. Rachel and Cam, a few waitresses from the Emporium, and some familiar faces from the singles group at church.

As the chaos and cheers started to die down, Tilly shook her head and scanned the crowd. “What—How—?”

An over-sized Maddie waddled forward, looking all adorable in her belly-hugging black top and maternity skinny jeans. “Did we surprise you? You didn’t guess, did you?”

Tilly pressed a shaking hand to her hip. Thank you, Jesus, for making me keep my skirt on. “I—yeah. You definitely surprised me.”

Reuben walked up beside Maddie and put his arm around his wife, then lifted his other hand that held a fluted glass in the air. “Sorry for all the secrets. I know you wanted low-key, but you know my sweet Maddie.”

Tilly smiled, ignoring the warring feelings inside her—relief that her friends hadn’t forgotten her and embarrassment for such a fuss being made. “You know, a simple cake and card would have done the trick.”

Maddie pulled her toward the kitchen table, clearly ignoring her. “Come on. You have to see the cake.”

On the table stood a two-tiered, zebra-striped cake. On the side was written in hot pink fondant, “40 is Fabulous!”

The cake was so completely opposite of Tilly’s tastes she had to bite her lip to keep from laughing. “It’s—lovely, Maddie. Thank you.”

The young mommy-to-be elbowed her in the side. “Thought we’d bring out your inner diva.”

Yeah right. Back in the day, maybe.

Lately, she felt more “dud” than diva.

She stood up straight, not caring that her 5’9” frame towered over most every woman in the room. Today was her day. Maddie was right. Maybe she needed to unleash her diva just a bit.

Beth, Tilly’s only close single friend, pushed her way through the crowd and squeezed her with a hug. "Happy Birthday, Til. Are you surprised?"

"You have no idea. I never imagined you guys would sneak into my house."

Her friend shrugged. "I have a spare key, remember? Maddie did the rest."

Reuben began to light all the candles, then tossed Stew the matchbox. “Help me. Otherwise we’ll be here all night.”

Tilly looked at the cake again, taking in what she’d missed at first glance. An obscene number of candles lined both tiers of the cake. “Don’t tell me you really put forty candles on there.”

“Of course we did.” Maddie linked her arm around Tilly’s waist. “A girl only turns old once.”

Oh, geez Louise. “You better be glad you’re pregnant right now.”

She winked. “Only reason I knew I could get away with it.”

A few minutes later, the cake stood in a blazing glory of black, white, and pink, and Allie started everyone off in a slightly off-key rendition of “Happy Birthday.”

As the lights flickered on the cake, Tilly stared, knowing that at any moment, she’d be beckoned to make a wish and blow them out.

The background noise and people faded from view, and all she could see were the flames, licking at the frosting, as if begging to consume more than the tiny wicks they were perched on.

Maybe that would be her wish.

For years, she’d been content with her tiny perch. Had fought for it. Refused to relinquish it, grabbing hold with all her might. She didn’t need a lot of extra stuff to make her happy. Stability was what she’d craved and thrived on, anything to avoid the topsy-turvy era of her youth.

But now she was faced with the fact she was no longer a spring chicken. Hadn’t been for quite some time. Maybe—maybe there was more out there for her than just this little box she’d created for herself and taped off long ago.

Eighteen years ago, to be exact.

As a chorus of “blow out the candles” rang in her ears, she inhaled the largest breath her lungs could hold, made a bold wish, and let the air out in a long, slow, controlled whoosh.

Cheers erupted from those looking on.

The cake stood dark, flames completely extinguished.

A blur of commotion followed. Beth ushered her into the dining room, sitting her at the head of the table, and plopped a plate of cake and ice cream in front of her along with a large stack of cards.

Tilly fingered the first card. “You guys didn’t have to do this.”

With a grunt, Maddie lowered her prego self into the chair beside her while Beth went back to serving. “Oh, hush. We wanted to. You do so much for everyone else. It’s exciting to finally be able to do something for you.”

She made her sound like some philanthropist, which she definitely was not. “I don’t do that much.”

“Last week you came over and cleaned my house after I told you I’d been having trouble getting enough energy to do it myself these days. Last year you came up with the idea to donate the leftover bread the restaurant can’t use to the food pantry. Not to mention the fact you singlehandedly created the church’s food pantry a few years ago and do most of the running of it yourself. And then—”

Cheeks warm, Tilly squirmed in her seat. “You don’t have to list my activities. I’m well aware of how I spend my time.”

“But you aren’t well aware of how much we appreciate you. Throwing you a birthday party was the least we could do.”

Tilly scooped up a spoonful of cookies n’ cream and shoved it in her mouth, excusing herself from responding to the over-the-top praise. The cold cream swirled on her tongue, bringing back unwanted memories.

Memories of being so poor that dinner had consisted of a shared scoop of ice-cream—and that was it.

It was a good memory, though. One of the rare ones she still held onto from that brief time in her life.

The party guests all squeezed into the dining room, some sitting, most standing. Reuben instructed her to start opening cards.

One by one, she complied.

They each held gift cards to various stores, including one to a nail salon in Chicago from Rachel and Cameron, friends of Reuben and Maddie’s, and by default, friends of Tilly’s. She’d never drive that far, period, much less to get her nails done, but it was the thought that counted. She smiled and thanked them.

One card left. She opened it, but no gift card sat inside. Instead, a handwritten message.

“Your gift is an extra vacation day with pay and three escorts to Chicago to spend all your loot! Yup, a day of shopping and pampering with Maddie, Allie, and Rachel! HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!”

Nervous prickles bounced on her skin at the thought. Suddenly, she was regretting her birthday wish. Not that she didn’t love these crazy women. But shopping with them for a whole day was almost akin to punishment, not a birthday gift. Especially in the city. She hadn’t been farther than Yorkville since she was a teenager and intended to keep it that way.

But still, she wouldn't hurt their feelings for the world. She’d figure out a way to beg out later, although she’d happily take the vacation day.

She stood, card in hand, and surveyed the group. All friends. People she loved and would do most anything for. Some days she felt so alone, but at this moment, she couldn’t remember why. “Thank you, everyone. You have no idea how surprised I am and how much I appreciate all of this. I’m overwhelmed.”

Maddie clapped her hands. “Okay, game time!”

Games? Planned by Maddie? Oh no. Tilly opened her mouth to protest, but the chime of the front doorbell interrupted her. She glanced at Maddie. “Were you expecting someone else?”

“Nope. Everyone who said they were coming is here.”

Reuben squeezed in behind her and nodded toward the front TV room, known as the “porch” to most who came here. “I’ll see who it is.”

Glancing at the clock on the far wall, Tilly frowned. It was a quarter ‘til nine. Too late to start crazy Maddie birthday games, and definitely too late for uninvited guests.

She turned to thank Allie and Maddie again and find a way to delicately suggest they forgo “birthday games,” but a hush from the crowd brought her gaze back to the doorway.

Air lodged in her lungs. Her body refused to breathe. Blood rushed to her head, and the world tipped on its side.

Her hands grasped for something to hold her up and fell upon the back of the chair. It didn’t make sense. Why was he here? Today? After all these years? “A—Adam?”

Reuben stood, arms folded across his chest, giving the new guest a fierce look. “Tilly, you know this guy?”

The man with dark hair and sharp gray eyes fiddled with his hands for a moment then shoved them into his pocket. He looked—older. Age had only agreed with him, though. Light lines creased his eyes. His jaw was still strong and solid, covered by short stubble that begged for a razor. Gone was the immature “boy” whom she’d once thought she would love forever. In his place was a man whose presence threatened to destroy everything. “I—I didn’t realize you had this much company.”

Words jumbled in her brain. “It—it’s my birthday. I didn’t know—I mean, they surprised me.”

Stew, Allie’s husband, flanked Adam on the other side. “Tilly, who is this guy?”

She blinked and swallowed. What should she say? Most people—those few who even remembered him—probably thought Adam a good-for-nothing guy who was long gone years ago. No one had even mentioned him for well over a decade, and no one, not even her best friends, knew her secret.

Her eyes set on Adam again, and suddenly the years slipped away. She was twenty-two and facing the man who chose a career over love and shattered her heart into a million pieces in the process. Words stuck in her throat, hollow and lifeless. She blinked. The only thing she could think to say was the truth. “I’m sorry. Everyone—” She looked around, her eyes touching on confused and bewildered faces. “This is Adam. My husband.”

*************************************************

Krista is a follower of Jesus, a wife, a mother, and author of Sandwich, With a Side of Romanceand A Side of Faith. She blogs about finding JOY in the journey of LIFE at http://www.kristaphillips.com. She is represented by Sarah Freese of Wordserve Literary.

How to Write the Perfect Ending

Photo Courtesy - Photo modified

One of my all around favorite series to read as a kid was the Choose Your Own Adventure. Stories came in all sorts of genres. I loved the concept so much I wrote one for my third grade students using them as the characters! 

I split the class into halves then quarters then eighths and so on until only groups of two took adventures to each location we'd studied: deserts, oceans, mountains, etc. 

We read the story on the last day of school breaking into the groups for each student's character. They loved moving around the room with their own copy of the book, splitting into smaller groups as their story progressed. They had a blast. And in the last hour of the party, instead of playing games, the kids sat in corners reading each other's adventures. How awesome is that?



Readers enjoy participating in a story.

While reading the Choose Your Own Adventure stories, I thought I'd picked the best route at every turn. I flipped pages back and forth through the maze of the most adventurous, thrilling, believe-it-or-not choices. What I didn't realize, is that the intelligent author knew which ending kids would most likely choose. How do I know, now? It had the longer ending. The easy solutions had short endings. I was hooked by the most satisfying story conclusion and loved reading the longer version.

As an adult writer, and now a smart person, I understand the HUGE importance of a perfect ending.

Here is what I've learned:

There are are three basic endings that can be morphed, tailored to your story:

Photo Courtesy-
Frozen with Hans of the Southern Isles and Anna

1. The neat and tidy...happily ever after story. These stories are sweet reads. All the issues are resolved. The characters are content in the end--at least the main character is. The reader is content. He/she closes the back cover and sighs. "What a nice story."

Think of Disney stories. She chooses the nerd over the rich guy, he is intrigued with the fun-loving gal behind the counter of the general store instead of the home coming queen. And they all live happily ever after....the end.

There have been some books written to answer the question: What happened next? Like: What was life like for Cinderella in the palace. What did the dwarves do after Snow White left with the prince? Was Beast accepted in the community after Belle saved him? What happened to Prince Hans of the Southern Isles after he was sent home? But none of these stories have stood the test of time. Why? Because we the readers were satisfied with the first story and its ending.

2. The expected ending. Terrible events have happened during the story. Some favorite characters have been injured, killed, or put in other dire straights. The story has basically let the reader know this would be. The reader's tissue is soaking wet at the beginning of the last chapter. And although it saddens her, she read the last pages, consoling herself through the expected ending. She closes the back cover and sniffs. Satisfied.

Think of Titanic, Cast Away, Poseidon Adventure, etc. There is no happily ever after ending, but we are satisfied. We've been prepared throughout the story, and although we held a glimmer of hope--the ending still came. In a way, we hope for a sequel that undoes the unfortunate events, after all, soap operas can get away with it. But deep down we know to add or undo would take away the satisfying ending.

On the flip side, romance and other stories can have expected endings. In The Fault in Our Stars Augustus, the wonderful, sweet, heroic Augustus, still dies.  We knew he would, but we cried when Hazel got the phone call that her love had, in fact, died before she did.  Romeo and Juliet both die. We knew this would happen. A well crafted story will lead the reader to expect the ending even if she hopes it doesn't. This produces a satisfied ending.

3.  What readers know in their heart to be the right ending but assume the author does not have the guts to really end the book that way. This is the type of ending I love to read. I'm a radical. I love to push the envelope. 

Remember when Rhett from Gone With the Wind said his famous line then walked away from Scarlett? Oh, yeah. I snickered and closed the book--SO satisfied. 

In the True Confessions of Charlotte Doyle, on the very last page, Charlotte tells her wealthy parents she is leaving, giving up her proper Victorian upbringing to become a deck scrubbing, ratline climbing, and if necessary, mutiny siding seaman. Oh yes. Another unsuspecting-immensely satisfying ending. 

And one last example, from the Batman movie series: Dark Knight Rises. My daughter warned me to wait for the end. She promised I would be satisfied, and she was right. Bruce Wayne lives.

This type of ending works only for some books. I don't think I would have liked Tom Hank's character in Cast Away to have found a way to win back his girl, Kelly Frears. The expected ending had to be. Or, can you imagine, how the ending of Titanic would have been diminished if Leonard DiCaprio's character, Jack Dawson hadn't died? Again, the expected ending had to be. 

I also would not have liked to see Beast from Beauty and the Beast kill Gaston when he had a chance. The neat ending was necessary.

Each story needs the perfect ending. Only you, as the author, can know for sure which ending is appropriate.  But you must satisfy your readers. Insure that the ending of your story is the one and only one that best fits. 

Take a moment and consider your WIP. You probably have an ending in mind. What would happen if--you changed it? 

Would the ending be better with everything neat and tidy? 
Should the ending be the expected one? 
Or do you need to pull the rug out from under the readers feet and go for the gutsy ending?

What would happen if you changed your ending? 

This whole topic came up at our recent Writer's Alley Retreat. I shared my WIP with the group. Julia came to me later and said, "I've been thinking about the ending. What if you did something different?" She had an amazing gutsy ending idea that I totally loved. It took a little time to adjust a few things in the manuscript to allow for the new ending, but it was worth the time.

 *****************************************************************************************

If you found any typos in today's post...sorry about that. 

Mary has moved to Michigan with her husband, closer to her three college kids. She misses the mountains of Montana, but loves seeing family more often. She writes young adult mystery/adventure Christian fiction, is honing marketing and writing skills, and loves to pen missionary and Bible adventure stories on her ministry blog, God Loves Kids.

Visit Mary at her website and her ministry blog to families: God Loves Kids. Or chat on Facebook or Twitter

Avoiding Melodrama in Your Story

Background image: BettyCrocker.com

There’s a reason chocolate chip is the king of cookies. Buttery batter with a touch of salt, dotted with rich chocolate in every bite. Amen.

Just like with writing, the secret is in the right balance. For me, the perfect chocolate chip cookie is made with Kerrygold Irish butter, a pinch of sea salt, and mini semisweet chocolate chips: A perfect amalgamation of richness and sweetness. And the best novel has just the right recipe of tension, characterization, romance, conflict, etc.

Today we’re going to talk about that fine line between drama and melodrama. Don't get me wrong -- there's a time and a place for a sprinkle of melodrama (CW primetime television, I'm looking at you). But in most genres of fiction, it’s a delicate tightrope to tiptoe.

If you’ve been following my posts here, you know I’m a big fan of a craft book called Make a Scene by Jordan E. Rosenfeld. She identifies melodrama as excessive, over-the-top emotional intensity that can make a reader feel bullied. While most can take tragedy and emotional turmoil in stride, there’s a certain unspoken trust in the limits of drama within a given story.

And when that line is crossed, trust is broken and the reader can feel violated.

For example, Nicholas Sparks is perhaps the king of drama in today’s romance market, and I was the girl who devoured A Walk to Remember and The Notebook. But his latest releases have felt incredibly unrealistic with long strings of events that seem to exist for shock value more than anything else. And I get what Jordan Rosenfeld is saying exactly because I've felt a little violated when I leave his movies (or throw his books across the room). 

See what I did there with the whole throwing books across the room? Melodrama. I recognize it. But how can you tell if your own work is melodramatic? Rosenfeld says the typical markers include:

• cliche or cheesy “greeting card” sentimentality
• character hysterics that last a few beats too long
• larger-than-life romantic gestures or uncharacteristic overreactions
• unrealistic dialogue
• overdone descriptions

Critique partner and beta reader reactions can be a good indicator if any of this is going on in your work. Sometimes it’s hard to recognize in your own words. But here’s how you can check yourself:

Make sure pacing is executed correctly. Is drama portioned strategically so it has the most impact? Do your plot and scene intros build to the drama instead of dropping it into a reader’s lap like scalding coffee? This is where Nicholas Sparks has gone a little wayward, in my opinion. Too much and too strong to take it all at once.

Does the amount of emotion last an appropriate amount of time? Readers might be less sympathetic to a character who seems immature or unwilling to move past heightened emotions toward healing/resolution.

Would a “less-is-more” approach work better in your scene? Sometimes stunned silence, numbness, and a softer approach can communicate much more powerfully than bold emotions. You'll know when it's right, and you might not even have to do that much work because characters tend to show you for themselves in these situations. You don't even have to be tempted to tell what's going on.  

Do your dialogue and emotional reactions fit the characters you’ve built thus far? You’ve spent your story laying the groundwork for this moment, but if readers don’t have a hint of the impending eruption, it might end up leaving their tastebuds burned so they can't enjoy the smooth, velvety hot chocolate you intended to create for them.

Is your writing grounded in reality? On the same note, character dialogue and behavior should be realistic (assuming you’re not writing fantasy) to human nature to avoid being over-the-top. Reactions should be the result of a plausible cause-and-effect scenario, warranted by the actions and decisions that set them off. So resist the urge to skimp on reality or create unrealistic coincidences just because it's convenient.

Hopefully asking yourself these questions will give your story a good balance. Because just like something sweeter or spicier than expected can send people scrambling for relief in a cold glass of milk, melodrama that crosses the line can quickly get a story abandoned.

Do you have the tendency to lay it on thick sometimes? You can admit it here! No judgment :) Have you ever put down a book because the melodrama was off-putting?

---

Laurie Tomlinson is a wife and mom from Tulsa, Oklahoma, who is passionate about intentional living, all things color-coded, and stories of grace in the beautiful mess. Previously a full-time book publicist, she owns a freelance copywriting, editing, and PR consulting business. 

She's a member of the American Christian Fiction Writers and two-time Genesis Award winner in 2013 (Contemporary) and 2014 (Romance). 

Her work is represented by Rachel Kent of Books & Such Literary.

You can connect with Laurie here:

Twitter - @LaurieTomlinson
Web - www.LaurieTomlinson.com
Facebook - AuthorLaurieTomlinson

Heroes - To Flaw or Not To Flaw

Pepper here and today I'm talking about one of my favorite topics.

Heroes.
Of course you know, not all heroes are created equal, though there is a brand of hero-stereotype out there.

You know the ones-

The Superman hero: Kind, generous, honest, gentle, strong, handsome, smart, noble…. The list goes on.

Who can argue with the dashing, determined, and darling hero whose kind heart propels him forward into good works to save the damsel, kill the dragon, defeat the bad-guy. It’s the noble guy. The Captain America or Luke Skywalker. Yes…that’s ONE type of hero – but I want to start a discussion today about the OTHER kind of hero. The one who USUALLY takes the lead role in a movie and sets our Mr. Good-Guy to a complimentary supporting character place.

In a massive cast like Lord of the Rings, there are bound to be a whole group of heroes.

Wholesome, good, and FANTASTIC archer, Legolas, stands out in this group – or Gandalf the white.

Let’s look at a few of the BEST movie heroes of all time and see how they rank with the above definition.

Here’s what I found:

• James Bond
• Indiana Jones 
• Captain Jack Sparrow 
• Rhett Butler
• Han Solo

Hmmm….as Jack would say, “Interesting”

Can this motley crew be a group of heroes too? Of course they can. Some of the BEST heroes are the most flawed ones – and I think that’s what makes them the most interesting. I guess that's why Wolverine has his own movie and Cyclops doesn't.

It’s why James Bond is an icon and Han Solo gets a higher ranking than Luke Skywalker.

Superman vs Batman? The difference is visibly obvious. But they’re BOTH heroes. Flaws. Flaws (and I daresay, humor too :) We want to see a flawed guy reach beyond his flaws and become something greater for the woman he loves.

 Let’s pit Mr. Bingley against Mr. Darcy (no offense Jane Austen) What makes us fall in love with Darcy? (besides wet shirts and ‘almost kisses’….uh hem) Complexity of character. A flawed hero. An opportunity for love to change a man to be better.

 And I’m a BIG Captain American Fan- especially played by Chris Evans – but I like Chris playing the Human Torch in The Fantastic Four better because he was so daggone flawed, it was relatable. He needed rescuing. He needed to push beyond his flaws to become something greater. It’s how Jack Sparrow became the icon of Pirates of the Caribbean. A good-hearted pirate? (mind you, I’ve never gotten past the eyeliner)

And let’s not even mention Edward Rochester. Flawed? Let me count the ways.

My oldest son added the teen criminal mastermind, Artemis Fowl – who becomes the HERO! Some more? Flynn Rider? Sherlock Holmes (the newest BBC edition is FAB)

So – what say you? Flaws or no flaws? What do you write? If you could claim any hero as your creation, who would you have picked and why? Inquiring minds want to know!

How Research Can Strengthen Any Story

One of the reasons I love writing contemporary romance so much is that I don't have to worry so much about period-specific clothes, customs, sayings, etc. because I'm already living in the time of the story. I really enjoy reading historicals, but the idea of all that research in my own writing makes me a nervous wreck! What if I get one detail wrong and mess up the credibility of the whole thing?

But does that mean contemporary writers are off the hook when it comes to research? Not even a litte. We just do a different kind of research. We still need to know all about our settings, how the characters would really speak to one another in their home environments, and cultural normals, which can vary from one city of a city to the other, let alone from one side of the country to the next!

Doing strong research can benefit any story, and though I know it's easy to shrug off the research stage (especially as a contemporary writer or as a historical writer already familiar with a particular time in history), doing so can be detrimental. Just think of all the editing you'll have in store for you when you realize, for instance, only half of Florida uses the phrase "y'all" and drinks sweet tea! :)

A couple weeks ago, I had the chance to go on a short trip to Charleston with my husband for our babymoon. We chose Charleston because it was the perfect pace for my seven-month-pregnant-self and because we both adore the city. But, an added plus is that Charleston is also the location of my new work-in-progress. It is amazing how doing a little story-related research can energize you and get your creative wheels turning!

So, what are some ways you can dive in?

• Plan a visit to the town/location your story is set in. Maybe your story is set in England, and this is unrealistic. Well, be creative! You may not be able to afford airfare to Europe, but I bet you can find an English teashop somewhere in driving distance! Or maybe a particular kind of house, tree, barn, etc. plays a key role in your story. Even if you can't visit the real city your story is set in, find a similar object and spend an afternoon near it. Let it really sink into your senses, and take notes. What are the sounds, sights, smells? How do people react to it? If you can visit the location of your story, even better! I guarantee the trip will be worth your while!

• Talk to/interview someone who relates to your story. While in Charleston, I had the privilege to interview a woman who does walking tours and knows some extensive history that directly relates to my characters' genealogy. Your interviews could be with someone who knows a lot about your setting, or could be with someone who has the same career as your hero/heroine. Rene Gutteridge was the first one to give me this advice, and it really does make a difference. Something comes alive when you speak with people firsthand.

• Take time to imagine yourself in that situation. I know for me, at least, it's easy to get a few location details at place in a setting description, then rush forward with the story. Instead, push yourself into the living, breathing story. Imagine life for your characters. Imagine how you would feel to walk the cobblestone streets or pick cotton or hide under a desk for an air raid drill. These are the types of details and emotion that set a great story apart from a good one.

• Don't underestimate the power of reading, Pinterest, and Google searches. Yes, I know it's old fashioned and sometimes boring to pick up a biography or non-fiction book about your setting or someone who lived during that time period. But history is chalk-full of wonderful stories just waiting to be a springboard for fictional ones. Try going to your local library or bookstore, and you may be surprised how inspiration hits!

What about you? What steps do you take when researching a story? Do you enjoy the research process?

###

Ashley Clark writes romance with southern grace. She's dreamed of being a writer ever since the thumbprint-cookie-days of library story hour. Ashley has an M.A. in English and enjoys teaching literature courses at her local university. She's an active member of ACFW and runs their newcomer's loop. When she's not writing, Ashley's usually busy rescuing stray animals and finding charming new towns. You can find Ashley on her personal blog, Facebook, Pinterest, and Twitter. She is represented by Karen Solem.

William Peak, Debut Author Guest Interview, Part II

Thrilled to have a part II of my interview with William Peak up today. If you missed the first installment with nuggets on his writing rituals, research, and favorite writing advice, here it is. Today, thoughts on organization, a writer's journey, and an excerpt from William's novel, The Oblate's Confession based on the Dark Ages of the church. 

Q: Do you have any particular methods of organization for all your historical research?

A: I'm afraid I really don't. A novel is a big, unwieldy organism, and the subtext and background that undergirds its world, the hidden scaffolding the reader never sees, must be even larger still. To put all that in motion and make it take form and life you have to really love your subject; you have to be obsessed with learning everything you can get your hands on about it. 

And then, learning all that, living it yourself day in and day out, month in and month out, you begin to dream and wonder another world into existence. It's all a bit of a mystery how that works, but when it does, oh that is a rush like no other!

Q: Do you have a favorite character in The Oblate's Confession? Who and why?

A: Hard question. In a way, if you want them to succeed as characters, to appear on the page as living breathing people, you have to love all your characters, even the really wicked ones. You want your readers to believe in them, to feel that they know them, understand them to a degree, and to achieve that, to give them motive and a credible personality, you have to get into your characters' heads a little, become them, walk for a while, in their shoes. 

Still if for the sake of discussion, you told me I had to choose one character from The Oblate's Confession to spend an evening with by the fire, there is little doubt in my mind that I would choose the old Celtic Catholic hermit, Father Gwynedd. I know he would have a lot to teach me, and probably some funny stories to tell as well.

Q: Do you have a favorite book on writing craft?

A: You know I really don't. There have been writers who have written about the writing life that I have admired--Wallace Stegner, Virginia Woolf, Henry Miller, Annie Dillard, James Joyce...But when it comes to the craft itself, I think we learn from every book we read, every sentence we read...and then, of course, there is the struggle each writer must undergo on his or her own to remove the dross, refine the silver. I think that struggle must be different and unique for each writer. And so I've always been a little distrustful of books that claim to understand (and to teach) the mystery by which the art of writing occurs.

Q: Who inspired you the most in your journey as a writer? 

A: Probably my father. Of all the arts, he thought the writer's the most beautiful and the most affecting. I looked up to Dad as one might look up to a minor god, and so it was only natural that I should want to become what he most admired.

Q: Who are your favorite historical authors?

A: I would be hard-pressed to name all my favorite historical authors and works, but just off the top of my head and in no particular order: 

-Graham Swift's Waterland

-Kazuo Ishiguro's The Remains of the Day

-Alice McDermott's After This

-Wendell Berry's A Place on Earth

-Iain Pears' The Dream of Scipio

-Andrew Doerr's All the Light We Cannot See

-Willa Cather's Death Comes for the Archbishop

-Wallace Stegner's Angle of Repose

-Twang Eng Tan's The Garden of Evening Mists

-C. S. Lewis's Till We Have Faces (an often overlooked beauty when this author's name comes up)

The snow makes a sound as it falls. It is a slight sound, as if the air the snow is falling through were muttering to itself, but it is a sound. And there is something else too, another sound, muffled, distant. Practice? Are they practicing? But it is gone now. Whatever it was, the sound is gone now, the cloister silent. Except for the snow. The snow falls and falls. Like sleep it settles around the figure of a man and holds him there, as in a dream, silent, still. It is Father Dagan. Father Dagan. Father Dagan is standing in the middle of the cloister, hood up, arms at his sides, a gray and silent figure surrounded by falling snow.

There was a door. I remember that. A large door—big, dark, and, as I recall it now, new I think, the smell of fresh-cut oak creating a sort of refuge, a place into which I just fit. I was crying. The men were gone. The dark men in their dark clothes had marched off somewhere else, but I was still afraid. My father had left. It was almost nighttime and my father had left, and the dark men in their dark clothes said he wasn't coming back.

But this man came back. He looked behind the door and there I was. He smiled at me. As if this were part of the game, as if his finding me behind the door had been part of some grand elaborate game, he smiled at me. He held a finger up before his lips which made me like him and make me want to laugh, but I did not laugh. I wondered what he was going to do. He didn't tell me a secret. He took me by the hand, and, gently, he led me outside.

It was snowing. The air was soft with snow. It whispered in my ears and was cold and then wet on my face. I laughed. Again the man brought a finger to his lips. The smile made me shy. Why did he like me? He knelt down. Like a mother checking her little boy's shoes, the man knelt down. Only he wasn't a mother, he was a man, and he should have checked my shoes earlier, before, while we were still inside. 

I held my foot up for the man but, instead of checking the shoe as he should have he began to scrape at the snow on the ground before him. With big red hands the man scraped at the snow, raking it into a pile. A part of me wanted to kneel down beside the man, play in the snow with him, but I didn't. I was shy. I didn't know the rules. When the pile of snow was big, the man gathered it up into his hands and working quickly crushed it into a ball. The man placed the ball on the ground between us.

A second time the man raked snow into a pile and a second time he crushed the snow together into a ball, set it on the ground between us. Then he stopped. Instead of making a third ball, the man stopped; he looked at me. I smiled. The two balls resting side by side were pretty. You could see where the man's fingers had pressed into them. But he wanted something, I could tell. He pointed at the balls and then he looked at me, eyebrows raised. Why didn't he just say what he wanted? Why was everyone so afraid to speak here? Had something happened? Had something really bad happened?

The man's eyes grew large. He smiled at me, shook his head. Like a mother he shook his head, forbade me to cry. Then he reached out as if to comfort me; but instead of patting me or pulling me toward him, he pulled my hand out as if checking to see if it were clean. With his other hand the man now picked up some snow and placed it in the hand he held. He looked at me, looked back at the snow in my hand. I looked at the snow. It was pretty, one or two loose flakes just catching the light. The man looked at me again. He brought his now empty hands together and pretended to make another ball. I knew what he wanted!

I brought my hands together as the man had and crushed the little pile of snow into a ball like his. I was surprised by how cold it was. Something about packing the snow tight seemed to squeeze the cold from it. 

The man took the ball I had made and laid it on the ground between us. My ball looked small next to the ones he had made. Then the man did something that surprised me. He pulled two sticks from his sleeve. Like an uncle pulling eggs from his ear, the man pulled two sticks from his sleeve. Sticks and not sticks: long and pointed like sticks but also shiny, polished, like overlarge needles. The man placed the two needle-stick things on the ground beside the balls. Again he looked at me. His eyelashes and beard were now white with snow but beneath the flakes I could see that he was smiling. I smiled too. He looked funny.

The man's eyes grew large. He smiled at me, shook his head. Like a mother he shook his head, forbade me to cry. Then he reached out as if to comfort me: but instead of patting me or pulling me toward him, he pulled my hand out as if checking to see if it were clean. With his other hand the man now picked up some snow and placed it in the hand he held. He looked at me, looked back at the snow in my hand. I looked at the snow. It was pretty, one or two loose flakes just catching the light. The man looked at me again. He brought his now empty hands together and pretended to make another ball. I knew what he wanted!

I brought my hands together as the man had and crushed the little pile of snow into a ball like his. I was surprised by how cold it was. Something about packing the snow tight seemed to squeeze the cold from it.

The man took the ball I had made and laid it on the ground between us. My ball looked small next to the ones he had made. Then the man did something that surprised me. He pulled two sticks from his sleeve. Like an uncle pulling eggs from his ear, the man pulled two sticks from his sleeves. Sticks and not sticks: long and pointed like sticks but also shiny, polished, like overlarge needles. The man placed the two needle-stick things on the ground beside the balls. Again he looked at me. His eyelashes and beard were now white with snow but beneath the flakes I could see that he was smiling. I smiled too. He looked funny.

It was a man, a little man. We had made a snowman.

_____________________

I have no more memories of that night. Did we go into church afterwards? Was that where the other monks had gone? Did Father leave the little snowman standing as he had created it, out in the middle of the garth? Or did he knock it down? I don't know. I don't remember. All I remember is Father Dagan standing in the middle of the cloister, tall and silent, a gray figure with his hood up, snow falling all around him. At his side stands a tiny form, equally still and mute, white and simple--my first snowman.


To purchase William Peak's novel The Oblate's Confession on Amazon click here.