blairmacg: (FeatherFlow)

Now that Serpent Heart is up, my attention turns back to final revisions for Sand of Bone.

Celebrations—when, how, and why—are fantastic worldbuilding tools that can give depth to a culture, move the plot, and reveal character.  The longevity of the celebrations, and how the celebrations have evolved over the years, inform us of the culture's values.  Whether characters partake in, shun, or are indifferent to the festivals tells us how well characters are integrated into the larger culture.

In the desert and delta of SheyKhala, where the upcoming novel Sand of Bone takes place, festivals mark the turning of seasons primarily through focus on close kin, neighbors, and the greater community.

The year ends and begins with the Feast of Kin -- the midwinter festival of family. Though jokes are often made about the different ways one could serve one's family members at a feast, the festival is critical for maintaining good will among kinship groups as they head into that time of year when close quarters and limited food supplies can raise tensions. For the days leading up to the feast, family members do favors for one another, and the most secret favors are considered to be the ones performed with the deepest love and respect. The feast itself, though, is geared toward indulging the children in all possible ways. Grandparents say the focus on children ensures young adults consider carefully what their nighttime cold-weather activities might engender.

Promise Days happen in the spring, when the seasonal rains provide the low desert just enough moisture to coax short and spiky grass to cover the sands between brush that blooms but once a year. The notion of promise-keeping is incorporated into the river levels as well, since the season's rains promise to flood the delta once the water rushes down from the high desert. It's also the time of year consorts decide to make new vows, renew their existing ones, or part ways. It's one of two festivals that include the ceremony to brand women and men as full Blades in service to the ruling Velshaan. (The other branding takes place during Shades.)

In midsummer, everyone takes part in Givings, which the cold-hearted and tight-fisted call the Mis-givings. Able-bodied folk provide service and work for the neighbors, preferably those less fortunate. (As you can imagine, there can be a snark-fest in determining who among one's competing 'friends' is more or less fortunate.) In larger settlements, Givings is the day set aside for civic duties such as field maintenance, road and wall repair, and sewage care. Moreover, every person must pass their evening meal to someone less fortunate, and will not eat unless someone more fortunate takes pity on them. The two groups most likely to go without an evening meal are the middling poor and the ruling Velshaan bloodkin. In fact, the Velshaan absolutely refuse to eat on Givings Day because they have only the gods above them.  Why the gods don't provide the Velshaan with their own meals is a subject of speculation only among those who wish to live a life of hard labor in Salt Hold.

Lastly, the welcome cooling of autumn leads up to Shades -- three days and nights of honoring and remembering the dead, and (supposedly) spiritual visits from dead ancestors or notable figures. It's understood ghosts don't really show up every year to everybody, just like we understand Santa Claus doesn't really visit every child's home on Christmas Eve. Shades is instead a time to reflect on past losses. It's considered wise to think of what you'd say to loved ones if you were a mere ghost able to communicate but once a year, and wiser still to say those things while living. But, as with our Christmas traditions, parents take advantage of the festival to instill behaviors and beliefs in their children. Parents will sometimes leave small notes or symbolic gifts from "ghosts" for children to find, and the final night of Shades is marked by costumed folk going door-to-door masquerading as prominent figures from SheyKhala's history dispensing advice and warnings.

In addition to the large festivals, smaller celebrations are more often either observed within families or smaller groups, or confined to certain occupations and such. There are feasts on the Dark Moon, when the nightsighted folk see the undimmed beauty of the stars. (It's a favorite among young people looking for excuses to spend the night away from family.) More ritualistic celebrations occur around the first pressing of olives for oil, the training of horses, the welcoming of new Blades into the ranks, and thanksgivings for salt and iron.

In more recent years, remembrances for the Woes have been added to the festival calendar. Officially, they are held to acknowledge the losses and destruction caused when the Velshaan warred among themselves. But they are really intended to both remind the people of what power the Velshaan can (or, more accurately, could once) wield, and remind the Velshaan bloodkin of what fate they could meet if they stand against the wishes of their family.

How much of this will make it into the final version of Sand of Bone? Only bits and pieces mentioned mostly in passing. Half the story takes place in settings removed from the usual cultural constructs. The sequel, Breath of Stone, more tightly entwines the cycle of celebration and remembrance, and the third (yet unnamed) novel downright depends upon them to trigger... well, to trigger happenings. (Shh, can't tell!)

But I know the festivals are there -- why some people choose to ignore them, why others anticipate them, and why still others will seek ways to use them. It's another valuable tool in this writer's Swiss Army Knife.

blairmacg: (FeatherFlow)
The changes made to Sand of Bone were extensive enough I didn’t bother editing an existing digital version. I opened a new Word doc, set my handwritten scribbles of chapter overviews and notes and index cards on one side (more on those later) and a well-flayed printout covered in black Xs, arrows, and circles on the other. Then I started typing from word one.

To my great happiness, past feedback on the partially-revised chapters I’d sent to beta readers months ago was mostly positive, though some of the same going-forward questions were asked by more than one reader. First was the concern for the number of viewpoint characters. Second was my choice to open the novel with a certain viewpoint character.

Both are quite valid. I use seven viewpoints to tell this story. That’s plentiful indeed, and took much shuffling of Magic Index Cards to balance timing and interactions. But with a story that has five factions trying to meet different goals—and with those five factions rarely in the same place at the same time—five viewpoints would be the absolute minimum. A sixth viewpoint better defines what is at stake overall. And the seventh? Well, I could make an argument to cut it, but that’s the viewpoint bridging Big Plot with Internal Plot. And that character becomes very important in the next book, and the character is one of my favorites ever.

I think I made all seven work together. I think the story is better for each one. If I’m wrong, I’d rather work to find solutions than cut any one of those viewpoints.

That second concern… I struggled with it. I really did. Then decided to leave it as-is for this round of beta feedback. I’d like for it to work for readers because I like the way it works. But I’m probably the odd one out. We’ll see.

My real challenge in this round was integrated changes in world building. To me, some of those changes look as obvious as neon green patches stitched onto lavender calico. Is it because I’ve lived with previous versions so long that any change sticks out, or is it because my revisions skills are inadequate for the task?

And, of course, as I was falling asleep last night, I came up with a couple tweaks I could have made before sending for beta feedback. Notes have been written, but I’m determined to leave the danged thing alone until I hear from readers.

So… now what? Notes for the next book! Unlike Sword and Chant, which works as a stand-alone (though I’d like to write its sequel someday), Sand of Bone was always meant to be at least a trilogy, if not a five-book series. Plot and revision changes make it simple to edit and squish what was Book 2 and Book 3 into a single volume, but those same changes opened up the what-comes-next possibilities. Ideas I’d long ago set aside are now in play—not only for this set of characters, but other characters in the same world. I have my son to thank for that. He’s very good at listening to me lay out complicated plot and world building issues, then tossing out a simple, “What about this?” solution.

But first, I’m going to do the spring cleaning, and the spring seedlings, and the spring garden prep. After the winter we’ve had, I’m ready to air out the house and grow things.
blairmacg: (FeatherFlow)
By the time I head off to bed tonight, I’ll have completed upwards of a third of the revisions for Sand of Bone. Other than a thousand words or so of a new scene I’ve decided to add, the rest of revisions should move more quickly. Fewer alterations, fewer reorganizations, fewer new elements to entwine. That’s a symptom of how I wrote this novel: it took me fifty thousand words to figure out why certain pieces of the plot could and should happen the way I wanted them to, so I had to go back through to make the beginning a better set-up for the middle and end.

It’s a tedious process, incorporating all the little pieces I missed the first time around. Certainly I could just dump in a new scene to introduce and explain most of the pieces I want to slip into place. But taking plot points and worldbuilding from mere scaffolding to breathing story requires a more holistic approach. A shift in cultural expectations affects not only the plot, but what idioms characters toss into conversation. Historical references carry different weight and meaning. One assumption about another’s motivations will alter every subsequent interaction in ways large and small.

Despite the tediousness (and I’ll spare you the logistical process of making and tracking those changes!), I’m enjoying revisions immensely. The world and its characters have always felt real to me, but now I can see it gaining substance others can experience. And as much as I love being a storyteller, I get the biggest kick from knowing my readers are looking forward to turning the next page.

So. I’ll be wrapping up revisions by Friday, then sending it out to my fabulous beta readers. We shall see if my opinion of revisions translates into an enjoyable reader experience. Then I’ll make changes based upon beta feedback, and get the whole thing off to an editor. Based on the last year’s ups and downs, I’m hesitant to give a definitive publishing date, but I’m shooting for the first week of June.
blairmacg: (FeatherFlow)

I don’t talk about process as much as I think about process, mostly because I’m fairly certain everyone would respond with, “Well, duh, Blair.  We all know that.  Where have you been?”  But now and again, I find writing about process helps me better understand it.  And once it’s written, it seems silly to leave it sitting about with nothing to do.

So.  Here it be.

I’m working on a pivotal chapter near the end of the arc’s Act I.  It’s a point of decision that’s been set up by previous events, the turning point on which the rest of the novel depends, where secrets are revealed, lines drawn, and action chosen.

As is usual with these scenes of mine, it needs a great deal of work.

My pivotal chapters tend to get chatty.  Very chatty.  The characters discuss options and ideas and reasons in detail, debating the sticking points and questioning their predictions.  It took me awhile to realize the characters spent so much time talking things through because I, the writer, was still trying to figure out motives and consequences.  It took me awhile longer to properly edit out (most of) the extraneous conversations because I do love me my dialog.

I’ve also realized my pivotal chapter problems–which I try to solve with dialog–stem from a weak foundation, and that weakness is a byproduct of pantser style coupled with my penchant for writing to That Scene at all costs.  (That Scene being the seed the novel originally grew from.)  Now, in Sand of Bone, I have a better grasp of the story, and new worldbuilding pieces are properly in place.  The pivotal scene no longer needs all the words it currently holds.  What was once required to make the characters’ decisions understandable and acceptable can be set aside, with proper preparation.

Every few paragraphs or so, I find myself flipping back to previous chapters for a spot of editing.  Usually it’s a single line or a quick dialog exchange, defining a small piece of the world or establishing a minor character before I put either one to use in the pivotal chapter.  The purpose of those little tweaks and tightenings is to remove the need to explain reasons and motives during the pivotal scene.  In other words, if I know I’m going to need the rifles to set Act II in motion, I’d best make sure everyone knows where the mantles are and why the rifles are hanging there before we’re praising God and passing out ammunition.

A decision-process is an exchange of information—explanation, consideration, comparison, justification.  It’s tempting to include that in pivotal scenes because the decision is so important, right?  After all, I want the reader to accept the decision.  Not like it or agree with it, but see it as a realistic choice based on available information and character goals.  And no writer wants the reader to toss the book across the room because the character makes consistently inexplicable choices.

But you know what’s worse?  The reader who quietly sets the book aside and forgets about it because the pivotal scene was so filled with stray facts and character asides and tidbits of backstory that it bored them completely.

My revelation is this: the pivotal scene isn’t about the decision.  That’s the job of everything that comes before.  The pivotal scene is the emotion of having decided, the fear of the consequences ahead, the terror of being wrong, the desperation to have others agree.  When we make a big decision in real life, we certainly agonize over it.  But the moment of sharing and acting upon that decision is just as terrifying.  Sometimes, it’s more terrifying.  It’s what happens in those moments, hours, or days that makes or breaks the decision.

That’s the pivotal scene.

So my reminder to myself today is this: new information should rarely—and I do mean rarely—be given to the reader during a pivotal scene.  Characters in the scene can get some new information, but then the exchange is about the impact of the fact not its explanation.

This is not to be confused with climactic revelations of the I-am-your-father type.  But even then, if the temptation arises to explain–right after the revelation–just how that connection could possibly be so, some quite critical pieces of backstory and foreshadowing have been neglected.

blairmacg: (FeatherFlow)
The conversation that took place in my head during revisions:

Dang it. I've established it's cold in that stronghold corridor, but Syrina is just standing there. Maybe she's distracted from the cold by the talk she's about to give.

No. I've been cold. Really cold. If anything, the cold would distract her from the talk.

Okay, let's give her a blanket. That works! She hugged the blanket over her shoulders...

No, wait a minute. She can't walk into this talk wrapped up in an old blanket! Wouldn't happen. So maybe she drops it in the corridor before she walks into the dining hall.

No. Blankets are too valuable in this quasi-prison.

Maybe she could hand it to someone.

No. That's a silly bit of business.

Maybe she could—

Okay, Blair, stop right there. You're creating a massive problem over a stupid blanket. Do you really want to waste the reader's time explaining this whole cold-so-need-blanket thing?

No! But now that I've thought about the cold, I just can't let it pass. I wish...

Huh. That'll work.

Syrina wished she'd brought down a blanket, but...
blairmacg: (FeatherFlow)
The novel makes sense again!

And it doesn't suck!

Today I went from "Why did I ever think I could be writer?" to "Woohoo! Let's have some fun with this story!"

The index cards are my personal magic. Someone--anyone--feel free to remind me the next time I start stalling out and/or whining about my writing process. If I need to get out of a funk, it's index cards all the way. For some reason, it's those scribbled-upon cards that give my brain a complete picture of the novel. I can spread them out, and suddenly the entire outline makes sense and can be manipulated.

Does it sound a little silly? Probably. But it works!
blairmacg: (FeatherFlow)
A couple months ago, I put out a tweet something like, "If you can't fix it in plot, alter the worldbuilding." Y'see, I'd just shifted inserted a huge change in Sand of Bone's world in order to give a character the reason and ability to perform an act that the remaining 60% of the novel depended upon. The change made me happy because, even though it had a huge impact, it required so little in actual text changes.

Not long after I put up that tweet, someone else wrote under the same hashtag something like, "Worldbuilding is the story's foundation and shouldn't be changed lightly." (That's a paraphrase based admittedly on memory, but contains the general idea.)

And I was reminded why worldbuilding checklists and such never worked for me.


Here's Where I Try To Explain )

Until I've decided to publish a story, worldbuilding is just as fluid as word choice. Everything--from religious tenants and historical perspective to the cut of a cloak and what gets eaten for a midnight snack--is open to change. If a character's choice in Chapter 25 seems unreasonable, but changing it would require extensive plot and character alterations, I'd rather drop a paragraph in Chapter 3 about a culture's familial obligations and a line in Chapter 7 about a their god's expectations that will make the character's choice seem not only reasonable but unavoidable.

And if a worldbuilding change I want to make conflicts with a work already published? I'll find a way to explain the contradiction. (I can, for example, explain clearly why it's acceptable for an Amish man to drive a tractor in my fields, but must use horses in his own.)

I want to hit That Scene. I want to tell the story. My worldbuilding exists to serve those ends.
blairmacg: (FeatherFlow)

Amazing Stories columnist and fellow VPXV alum Chris Gerwel talks this week about The Care and Feeding of Chapter Breaks.

Chapter breaks are one of the tools writers use to form and direct the reader’s experience, and every break does, as Chris says, “bridge our emotional engagement with the chapter that follows.” That “bridge” is a role often overlooked, as the focus of chapter creation tends to be on its individual arc. But the ending of a chapter is the writer’s means of influencing how the reader feels beginning the next chapter. While chapter breaks in general are what controls a story’s flow, it is the chapter’s final paragraph, sentence, and word that control the story’s pull.

It’s easy to think of the chapter’s end as the conclusion of the action. Truly, that’s the sort of ending that should be used most sparingly. Instead, chapter endings should happen in the middle of movement, before the final actions, near the moment of revelation. Those can be expressed with a bang or a whisper, with speed or caution, but not a neat wrap-up of all that has gone before.

Before I thought to be a writer, I worked as an actor and educational outreach performer focused primarily on the works of Shakespeare. I spent five years performing, assisting, or directing Shakespeare–everything from a few scenes for prison outreach programs to full length productions with regional theater companies. Before that, I performed in community theater and semi-pro productions for ten years. What that gave me is a writerly mindset that wants to structure stories as scenes and acts.

I often advise beginning writers to read and watch plays as a means to studying story structure. Plays are structured in deliberate acts as well as scenes–giving the director/actor/reader concrete cues as to where emotional highs and lows are to be placed, even inserting an intermission when the audience is intended to consider and discuss how what has already happened will control what is yet to come. Internalizing the successful flow of one scene to the next, feeling the difference between scene and act, improves one’s ability to pull the reader along chapter to chapter.

Watching plays–particularly the same play performed by different companies–gives a range of ideas about transitions between scenes. Has the director chosen a full and silent blackout, as a writer might choose an abrupt ending for a chapter? Did another director choose the end the same scene with a slow fade, a lingering gaze between the actors, and few sad notes from a flute? How did you, the audience member, experience the next scene differently?

Watching movies… Okay. If you’d rather. But there are so many advantages to be gained from live theater, I wouldn’t call it an even trade-off. I’ll talk about what I see as those advantages in future posts. Am I biased? Probably. I’ll accept that.

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