Just Joshin

Words on a Page

2009-07-04T22:18:23Z

I learned to read in college. I can tell you the exact story, in fact. It was by James Joyce and it was called "The Dead." It's the last story in a collection called The Dubliners.

Initially, I hated the story. As a matter of fact, I hated that entire course -- and the professor (who seemed to me to be in love with every dark and dreary story she could lay her hands on).

In my own defence I was horrendously depressed and homesick and felt most of the time like I was hanging on by my fingernails. In fact, I remember calling home at one point and just...starting to cry. On a public phone. In the middle of a crowded dorm lobby. To my dad. My dad being a guy who did not cry or get homesick or admit failure. And I will never forget that he said...I could come home. He would come and get me. Now. If that's what I wanted.

And...it wasn't.

Which is neither here nor there, but explains why I wasn't able to cope well with depressing stories about people who made all the wrong decisions and usually died for it. So when the time came to discuss "The Dead" I know you will be shocked to hear that I was somewhat outspoken in my opinion as to why I did not need to be wasting my time reading such tripe. Although even I was not so dense as to suggest that Joyce couldn't write; merely that I didn't know why the hell literature classes had to always be about stuff like that.

I wish I could remember that professor's name because -- despite an inability to look at any noun in a story without assigning it symbolic and thematic importance -- she was both patient and enthusiastic, and in her passionate defence of why I, in particular, ought to be reading stuff like that -- and reading a lot more attentively than I currently did, she managed to get through to me.

And what I learned about reading that day has stood me in good stead as a writer. Because I don't think you can really learn to write well until you've learned to read well. To read critically yet not judgmentally.

The first thing I reluctantly absorbed was that my not liking a book did not necessarily have anything to do with the merits of the book. I had -- and I think it's a very common failing in those who haven't yet learned to really read -- the tendency to judge a story by the criteria of the story I would have preferred to have been reading. So if a story turned out the way I didn't like or I didn't like the characters or I thought it was depressing and pointless, I saw this as a failing of the book or the writer. Maybe that's the arrogance of youth. (Although I think it's pretty common, really.)

Not that there isn't plenty of crap written, but not liking a book or not understanding a book is not automatically the problem of the book or the writer. I'm not saying that I was ever such a literary fascist that I thought such books shouldn't be published, but...they seemed to me, in my infinite freshman wisdom, to be a sad waste of trees.

My professor pointed out the beauty of the writing itself (which hadn't utterly escaped me, by the way, but just seemed to underline what a waste this story was since...it wasn't what I wanted to read). She pointed out that I could perhaps read and appreciate the beauty of the writing from an analytical standpoint (which appealed to me strongly). I could simply relax and absorb the magical crafting of words without having to feel anything about the story as a whole. Oddly enough I had never really tried to distance myself from the fiction I read this way. I was a voracious and passionate reader and I was either loving or hating, but rarely was I simply analyzing and appreciating the skill involved without...taking it personally. Meaning taking the story to heart.

It almost went against the grain to read like that. I was so used to totally immersing myself in fiction. And yet it allowed me to get through the next years without jumping out a dorm window because...Lit Major, here. I read A LOT of depressing stuff.

The final thing I learned that day has probably proved the most useful to me as a writer. I don't know if you've read "The Dead," but the protagonist, Gabriel Conroy, is not a likable man. And I don't mean he has those super flaws that are actually sort of attractive to us. I mean he's selfish and petty and unkind and small-minded. He's not attractive. He's not fun. But the story is about his epiphany, his moment of awakening -- which may, in fact, be too late.

We couldn't have the story if Gabriel was not so flawed. There would be no point to the story.

At that time in my life I wanted to read stories about characters I liked. In fact, I thought good characterization was about liking the characters. I smile as I write this now because...while I do enjoy a story where I find myself liking all the characters, that's not the first or final proof of good characterization or good writing. Good characterization is the result of consistent and cohesive behaviours -- or where inconsistent behaviours have been carefully foreshadowed. It's about making the case for believable psychology -- and that, by the way, isn't proven by me recognizing that behaviour as something I would do or that I've seen others do.

One of the hardest things for writers, I think, is to deliberately create weak and flawed characters. We tend to identify with our characters -- and so it's hard to let them be unattractive. Especially in romance where we tend to think in terms of "heroes." But in order for there to be growth, we have to allow the characters to be flawed. To be weak. To be wrong. Which means not every reader will like them or understand them or want to read that book.

But then a lot of people think reading is turning pages till you get to the last one.

The other thing this nameless professor taught me was that literature can be entertaining and fun too. It was in that class that I was first introduced to Raymond Chandler’s work. And the lesson I took from that was, just because it’s about guns and murder doesn’t mean it can’t be beautifully written. If it’s worth writing, it’s worth writing well.

Speaking of which, I thought I’d finish up with a snippet from “The Dead.”

A few light taps upon the pane made him turn to the window. It had begun to snow again. He watched sleepily the flakes, silver and dark, falling obliquely against the lamplight. The time had come for him to set out on his journey westward. Yes, the newspapers were right; snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, farther westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard o the hill where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns.

Don't Look Back

2009-06-30T16:42:56Z

I've been out of town so I'm running a bit late on posting this, but Don't Look Back went live at Loose Id last night. This one is a little bit of a change of pace (I keep saying that, don't I?) It's a mystery without a murder. In fact, Jenre did a very nice review of it right heyah. Hope you enjoy it!

Blurb:

He was chuckling, a deep, sexy sound as he pushed Peter back on the satiny cushions. Was this for real? Was he going to go through with it? Peter blinked up as his tie was unfastened, tossed aside, his shirt unbuttoned, laid wide. The evening breeze -- scented of smog and jasmine -- felt cool against his overheated skin, like the lightest breath…

Peter Killian, curator at Constantine House in Los Angeles, wakes in the hospital to find himself accused of stealing a tenth century Chinese sculpture. Peter knows he’s not a thief -- but that’s all he knows. Why is hot and handsome Detective Mike Griffin so sure he’s guilty -- and so hell-bent on seeing Peter arrested?

And why is Peter having these weird dreams about an unseen lover who somehow reminds him uncomfortably of Michael Griffin?

Excerpt:

The moon was enormous -- ripe, red-gold, hanging low in the sky. From the flowering jacaranda, the mockingbird was scolding. Chjjjj…chjjjj…chewk.

Peter stumbled up the brick path. His foot caught and he went down, on his knees, breathing hard. His hands were white blurs on the warm stone. He tried to focus, and he could see the ink splotches of blood -- his blood -- running down his face and dripping onto the bricks.

His stomach rose in protest. Swallowing down his nausea, he pushed back to his feet. The black velvet leaves of the elephant ears seemed to twitch, listening, as his footsteps scraped unsteadily up the path, past the sundial and palely glimmering statues, past the solar lanterns fuzzily glowing.

The shadows cast by the jacaranda stretched chill and dark in the warm summer evening, but the darkness edging his vision had nothing to do with the deepening night. There was blood in his eyes now; he wiped at it uncertainly.

Peter reached the top of the long, shallow garden steps. The back entrance of Constantine House loomed before him, and he staggered forward, feeling for his keys. He leaned against the door, resting his head on the painted surface, fumbling in his pockets. He pushed a key into the lock; it turned, and the door swung open, spilling him into the hallway.

Half blind with blood and pain, he wove his way down the hallway toward the main exhibit room and his office. His foot caught on the Oriental runner and he went sprawling. Somewhere in the distance an alarm bell was clanging. He opened his eyes. Dimly, as though looking through a telescope, he could see the cool white marble face of Kwan Yin gazing down at him. She held a little vase, pouring nothingness out over his pounding head. But it wasn’t nothingness. It was nectar. Invisible nectar to feed the hungry ghosts.

Far, far at the other end of the telescope, the serene face of Kwan Yin receded, grew tinier and tinier…until at last it pinched out like a match spark in the night.

GLBT Bookshelf -- it's getting closer!

2009-06-20T15:41:31Z

Just a reminder that if you haven't set up pages at GLBT bookshelf, the time is nigh.

NIGH. Not night. It's eight in the morning. Although if you prefer to work at night, be my guest.

Listen, seriously, GLBT Bookshelf is quickly turning into your portal for GLBT books, essays, reviews, and discussion.

Yes, there are a few discussion pages.

This is going to be a major fiction resource -- and speaking of which. May I thank Julia, Eve and Andrea for making my own pages a reality? Thank you very sincerely. I do appreciate it. (And will be proving it with the first copies of Don't Look Back.)

The cool thing about getting in on the ground floor of an endeavor like GLBT Bookshelf -- have you seen how that thing has grown in just a couple of weeks? -- is that you get to help shape it. Keegan and the gang keep asking for input, so if you have some thoughts, please share them with them.

As for me...back to the White Mountains. Is it still called the White Mountains? I don't even know. But it's really taking shape now. Whatever the heck that shape is.

Blogging at Jessewave's today

2009-06-15T14:09:32Z

I'm guest-blogging over at Jessewave's today on the topic of series writing -- seems timely as tomorrow sees the ebook launch of Somebody Killed His Editor from Samhain publishing.

Gulp.

Anyway, not necessarily one of my most inspired posts, but perhaps the comment section will prove of interest -- it's usually the best part. Drop by if you have a chance and share your thoughts on series writing/reading.

Partners in Crime - Interview

2009-06-08T18:03:46Z

The deliciously terrifying Miss Doreen interviews Jordan and I over at The Thrillionth Page.

Be very afraid.

GLBT Bookshelf Needs YOU!

2009-06-04T13:54:51Z

If you've known me for any length of time -- or followed this blog -- you know I'm quite a fan of Mel Keegan's work. Anyway, a couple of weeks ago I got an email from Keegan regarding a brand new Wiki enterprise called GLBT bookshelf. I was buried in edits at the time (What. A. Surprise.) and didn't have a chance to really check it out until this week (although I knew I was in, just given the fact that it was Keegan's brainchild). I was delighted to see that GLBT Bookshelf is already turning into what I think is going to be an incredible resource.

So what exactly is GLBT bookshelf? Here's Keegan's blog on it.

I was kind of waiting to do my own post and summoning of the troops until we had more author pages up and running, but...that could take a while (specially in my case ). So...if you're a GLBT writer, publisher, reviewer, artist...get over there and start building pages for yourself. I guess my only word of caution would be that the focus here is on promoting books and selling books, so...content needs to stay positive and supportive of that goal.

There are not a lot of reader forums yet, and that's something I'd like to see happen soon -- but that will depend on you readers. I think Keegan and the gang are looking for some input in that direction so...give us some input!

(And if there are any fanyons with time on their hands up to the alarming task of putting together a JL central bibliography page...I'll figure out a really nice reward for you. My skills at this kind of stuff are rudimentary at best. )

Anyway, go check it out! See what you think. They just put up new publisher and artist pages.

Interview at Jessewave's

2009-06-01T16:52:37Z

Finished the first round of edits on Don't Look Back last week and now I've got a short story due today for a military anthology from Aspen Mountain Press -- I'm really starting to like this story, and I'm not even sure what it is about it that suddenly clicked. Weird how that sometimes happens. I believe the story will be called "'Til We Meet Again." More on that later.

Anyway, I did a recent interview with Jessewave. She's giving away (well, I'm giving away through her website) a couple of books for those who stop by and comment.

Also, the Josh Lanyon Collection (volumes 1 & 2) is now out. The price on volume one still appears to be wacked though the publisher has asked them to fix it. Anyway, the collection is available through B&N and Amazon and mega booksellers everywhere.

Finally, if I could ask for a small favor? When you're browsing my titles at Amazon, would you be kind enough to click those little tag buttons about a third of the way down the individual book page? Apparently they make a difference when readers are searching for content and subject matter. Who knew? I'd appreciate it, anyway. You don't have to buy anything. Not that I wouldn't appreciate that too!

The Eyes Have It

2009-05-25T16:07:13Z

Today's Line of the Week is contributed by a regular listener in North Dakota.

Hard to tell, because Noel had eyes like mice; they ran away as soon they caught your attention.

I like an imaginative simile as much as the next writer, but...no.

Really.

No.

Partners in Crime - THE ART OF DYING

2009-05-21T17:55:17Z

Just a very quick note as I am deep in edits for The White Mountains. (I am, Nikki. Swear to God.)

Partners in Crime 4 - THE ART OF DYING is now available on Amazon and Barnes and Noble. True, B&N still has Sarah listed as my compadre in all things criminous, but...that's being corrected even as we ~~gnash our teeth~~ speak.

So buy it, read it, say nice things about it. It's our first try so we've got opening night nerves.

And I will talk to you laaaaater.

Bigger and Better: The Writing M/M Romance Workshop

2009-05-13T14:06:58Z

Calling all cars. Be on the look out....

So a month or so back I was contacted by the lovely Jennifer Leeland of Romance Divas to kick off the first day of their online Not Going to Conference Conference with an M/M Writing Workshop. The conference begins on July 14th and runs through the 18th. I can only be there (online, that is) on the 14th but the M/M workshops will continue with other talented purveyors of our genre.

Anywhoooo, the topic is pretty much open and God knows I'm happy to babble endlessly on any aspect of M/M writing, but what would some of you like me to focus on? Any preferences? I'd like the workshop to be be as helpful as possible -- and any angles I don't cover can probably be picked up by the authors who take the following days of the workshop.

What are you interested in discussing in workshop format? What can I do to make the online workshop experience more useful for you?

First Lines Revisited

2009-05-08T18:44:13Z

This is how those first lines read with the following paragraph. Makes a big difference, yes? For good an ill. Though I'll leave you to determine which is which.

1 - Joel Passaro wasn’t sure what constituted a better birthday present: the boat ride or the blowjob.

Truthfully, it didn’t matter which won out, since he enjoyed both at the same time. The sailboat rocked with melodramatic exaggeration as Joel’s boyfriend, Charlie, enthusiastically went down on him. Charlie’s eyes glinted as he pushed Joel’s legs farther apart, as he changed the angle of his mouth to pull Joel down inside of him.

2 - The bell rang out twice, unbearably sweet.

The drums rolled and were silent. As a wind from the sea ruffled the hair of the assembled company, Joshua Andrews looked to one side of the gallows, his eyes unfocused. There was a thunder and rattle as the trapdoor fell open and then, just on the edge of hearing, the snap of a neck and the collective intake of almost five hundred held breaths, as the Nimrods instinctively inhaled to make sure they still could.

3 - Gareth's boots thundered against the stone floor of the corridor as he approached Tristam's private chamber.

The noise was deafening in the silence of the hall, but Gareth ignored it and kept going. Something was brewing, and he meant to find out what. He gave the door a solid knock and then waited.

4 - In the cargo pit of the shanghai-taxi, Nickerson’s gen-stimmed olfactory sense detected the aromas of hot oil, metal shavings, and sweat-dank desperation.

A catjob’s sense of smell, catjob hearing, catjob reflexes. He had also the enriched visual capacity of a feline; that leg of the transformative procedure had given him the telltale vertical pupils that identified him as the product of gen-stimming. This hardly made him an abnormality. Many people had undergone the change. It was how catjob had entered the language. But Nickerson’s enrichment was prime quality, state of the art. Those who had recruited him from the urban wilds of Earth had wanted a master assassin, which was precisely what he had become.

5 - Cade squinted at the travel alarm clock on the coffee table.

Years of familiarity didn’t do shit to ease the jolt of panic and the sinking sensation he got from being late. Again. He rolled off the couch and bounced off the walls on his way to the shower. It was probably a really stupid waste of time to shower before going to pick through garbage, but he couldn’t face even the world of community service without one.

6 - An ear-piercing screech echoed through the castle followed by the slap of bare feet on marble floor.

The sound of skin hitting the polished stone in the entryway suddenly muted into a soft thud. Aiden looked up from his sketchscreen.

7 - As Tony Bianchi sat in on yet another business meeting his mind began to wander to Daniel Willis.

He looked at his watch again. It was another three hours before he could pick Daniel

up at the hospital and take him home.

8 - The smell of cheap motel rooms was comforting to him, like his oldest, rattiest T-shirt.

Lysol, unwashed feet, and that sour tang of grime and desperation that tried to dress up

and look nice with laundered sheets and those stiff bedspreads that felt like sandpaper on

your ass, bargain basement art on the walls and the cheap paper-wrapped chits that

weren’t so much soap as a suggestion of what soap might be like.

9 - Finally, the night I had waited for all my life was here.

I had just completed fourteen weeks of intensive police training, graduated from the Maryland County Police Academy and was reporting for my first shift. At 23, I was in better physical condition than at any other time in my life. All of the rookies drew lots, and I drew the midnight shift for my first time out of the station house. It was time to walk the dangerous tightrope of being a gay man in the ultrahomophobic world of the police.

10 - He’s nothing but another slave,” I said, sourly.

My head hurt from the night before. There’d been heavily spiced food at

the Council festival and excessive wine, rich as bull’s blood. I’d felt lethargic all

day, though that was to be expected after the overnight attentions of an enthusiastic

bedmate"or three. The sun had passed the mid-day point hours ago, and I had a graintrade

meeting set for early evening, but at the moment I doubted I’d bother to turn up. It

wouldn’t be the first time I’d skipped my pompous Council duties as Chancellor.

11 - I stormed into St. Joe’s at the height of the Noon Ash Wednesday Mass.

Still dressed in my scrubs, I pushed through the massive arched chapel doors, bringing with me a gust of cold February wind. Seeing Jamie’s pretentious car parked in front of the church, I lost my shit. I figured Jamie was expecting some kind of absolution by

appearing at this penitential mass. He was seated in the third row, his head bowed, that

gloriously tousled mass of golden hair gleamed like a beacon of innocence next to the

shining helmeted up-do of his repressed, miraculously blond mother.

Authors:

1) Astrid Amara, The Valde: Water (Loose Id)

2) Alex Beecroft, Captain’s Surrender (Linden Bay)

3) Sara Bell, The Devil’s Fire (Torquere Press)

4) Eric Del Carlo, Blood in the Water (Loose Id)

5) K.A. Mitchell, Hot Ticket, (Samhain Publishing)

6) JL Langley, My Fair Captain, (Samhain Publishing)

7) Carole Lynne, Broken Pottery, (Ellora’s Cave)

8) Jane Seville, Zero at the Bone (Dreamspinner Press)

9) John Simpson, Murder Most Gay (Dreamspinner)

10) Clare London, Masquerade (Eternal Press)

11) LB Gregg, Gobsmacked (Aspen Mountain Press)

You never get a second chance

2009-05-07T16:45:31Z

To make a first impression.

And other things your mother told you. So I'm watching Steven Seagal yesterday (part of my health and fitness program) and I hear this line.

We're not here to decide who is wrong or who is right. We're here to decide who lives and who dies.

Now...is it just me or is that not one of the funniest lines of the week? I'm convinced he (the writer?) really was trying to say something there. And the scariest part is...I sort of get what he was trying to say. Or maybe the wine and dark chocolate is getting to me. Anyway, I admire Steven for trying something new (a horror flick in this case) but the film was not a success. Not even by the standard of Steven Seagal flicks.

Anyway, I've been reading -- and enjoying -- and I'm thinking about first lines. There's nothing like a great first line to hook reader interest. Granted, a catchy or quirky first line that is not in keeping with the rest of the book...that is not relevant or is merely quirky for the sake of quirky or doesn't match the tone...isn't going to do you any favors. By the same token, it takes a lot more than a catchy first line to sell a reader on a story.

And there are first lines that...in themselves aren't that catchy, but as the paragraph builds, they're part of a clever whole.

So I went through my ever-expanding ebook file and I chose some first lines at random. Some are good. Some are bad. Some, as I said, don't seem impressive on their own, but work well within the context of the first paragraph.

See what you think. I'll leave the author's names and works off till later. I'd just like your thoughts.

1 - Joel Passaro wasn’t sure what constituted a better birthday present: the boat ride or the blowjob.

2 - The bell rang out twice, unbearably sweet.

3 - Gareth's boots thundered against the stone floor of the corridor as he approached Tristam's private chamber.

4 - In the cargo pit of the shanghai-taxi, Nickerson’s gen-stimmed olfactory sense detected the aromas of hot oil, metal shavings, and sweat-dank desperation.

5 - Cade squinted at the travel alarm clock on the coffee table.

6 - An ear-piercing screech echoed through the castle followed by the slap of bare feet on marble floor.

7 - As Tony Bianchi sat in on yet another business meeting his mind began to wander to Daniel Willis.

8 - THE smell of cheap motel rooms was comforting to him, like his oldest, rattiest T-shirt.

9 - Finally, the night I had waited for all my life was here.

10 - He’s nothing but another slave,” I said, sourly.

11 - I stormed into St. Joe’s at the height of the Noon Ash Wednesday Mass.

Feel free to share your own favorite first line. Or your treasured worst first line.

Somebody Killed His Editor

2009-05-04T15:10:10Z

So the lovely and talented K.A. Mitchell was kind enough to point out that Somebody Killed His Editor is now up on the Samhain Coming Soon page (with a release date of June 16th. I haven't talked a lot about this one, but it's the first book in a new mystery-romance series, with an emphasis on the funny (I dearly hope). So if you don't like the funny or you don't like classic gay mystery, this will not be the book for you.

I have to say that I'm really, really happy with the way Somebody Killed His Editor turned out. It was one of the easiest books I've ever written, frankly. And as we get closer to the release date, I'll be sending out a few ARCs to reviewers, and perhaps run some kind of contest here?

In other news, Teddy Pig reviewed (and interviewed me a bit) Man, Oh Man: Writing M/M Fiction for Kinks & Ca$h. If I had it all to do again...well, it would be the 2nd Edition. Seriously, I'd interview more folks -- as I now have a better understanding of who the real heavy hitters are in our industry -- but I'd wait to put out that 2nd Edition 'til we see what happens with the Running Press historical romance line. Granted, I think we're all waiting to see what happens there (in line, historical manuscript proposals in hand).

The taking a break thing is going well. I've watched two Woody Allen movies, worked in the garden, eaten some dark chocolate and drunk excellent red wine...read over my notes for The White Mountains...answered emails... I've not read as much as I'd like, but I've restacked the TBR pile. That's a start, I think.

Ah, Spring!

2009-05-01T17:59:52Z

I'm celebrating.

Last night I turned in the rough -- as in the shortest, meanest, ugliest sonofabitch you'd ever want to meet in a dark alley -- draft of The White Mountains to my dear editor Nikki Kimberling at Blind Eye Books.

What humbling experience. And yet...what a freaking delight to be so entirely and fumblingly out of my element. I've been longing for a challenge, and by God, I got it. I love and hate and fear this book.

But the agony of the rough draft is done, and...I'm going to do something I haven't done in years. I'm going to take a break for a week. No writing for a week. At least, no writing fiction. Just the idea of this is already making me nervous and fidgety. No fiction? But no. Doctor's orders. Non-fiction, yep. I will essay to my heart's content, and file and read and...shovel out this pigsty we call Chez Lanyon. I will dig in the garden and maybe even cook something. Although there's no need to punish the SO, really. Not his fault.

I will rest The Brain.

It's May and I've already done 200,500 words. Most of them pretty decent ones, if I do say so myself, although I believe I overused "apparently," "just," "some," "moment," and "little." You mostly didn't see that because I check myself for those. A lot of the same themes and motifs, but I won't apologize because that's what I like to write. Don't like it? Don't read it. Plenty of other stuff to read out there. First and foremost we've got to make ourselves happy with the words we lay down.

I've got a lot of reviews I want to do. Not...A+ or ***** kind of thing. I mean where I just informally talk about what I like in this ginormous stack of books (and bulging ebook file) I've been meaning -- and longing -- to read for over a year.

Wow. I'm just doing it. I'm just going to give myself a guilt-free break. And then maybe I'll be able to face the next long, brutal stretch with grace and patience and fortitude.

It's spring. The bees (killer bees, it looks to me) are humming, the baby birds are singing (off-key) and the rats are dancing (badly) in my garden. Ah, spring.

Talk to you soon.

And what a ride it was!

2009-04-25T17:03:50Z

When we last left Major Valentine Strange he was in a small Indian -- sorry, Indusian -- shrine in the White Mountains shooting people in the face.

I like the major. I also like the minor, Master Aleister Grimshaw. He's a witch. He has Issues.

So...the fantasy thing. It's even more difficult than I anticipated. Hats -- pith helmets -- off to those of you who write fantasy and paranormal. 'Cause...it's bloody difficult, isn't it? The world building -- I find myself getting lost for days in research, and this is not a good thing. The research is good, the getting lost, no.

Did you know that in the Indian Mutiny...well, no. Never mind. Not pertinent.

None of this is really pertinent to the topic of today's sermon. Today's sermon is Who the Hell Is Driving This Thing?

I was out early this morning flogging my wares and I happened on GLBT Theme day at Love Romance Cafe. One of the questions was Do your characters tell you what they want you to write in the story?

I always have trouble with this question. Curmudgeon that I've become, I bridle at the bright young things popping in with enthusiastic responses like...My characters are driving and I'm just along for the ride! It offends me on so many curmudgeonly levels.

Okay, not really. But it does seem like a very naive way to view the process. The creative process that you, the writer, are in fact in charge of. It's okay if you don't want to outline. It's okay if you don't want to know the ending before you begin. It's okay if you haven't worked out all the plot twists. It's okay if you're not even sure who your characters are when you start writing. But please don't tell me that your characters are telling you what to write.

Did they also tell you to put those jeans on? Because, baby, take a look in the mirror.

See, here's how it works for me -- and I just can't imagine it's that different for everyone else (and I'm not talking about fan fiction here because characterization in fan fiction is a whole very different thing with very different restrictions and requirements). I start with a rough idea of my two main characters -- I basically know who they are and what they want -- and I start writing.

As I write, I make up adventures for them. I create challenges and obstacles. I create dialog for them and in the course of the dialog they begin to reveal their backgrounds and histories and motivations.

Sometimes it changes and refines what I thought about the character, it always adds layers and texture. But if that stuff I've written isn't working, I go back and change it because...hello? They aren't real and I -- me, the author -- I'm actually in charge of this process. I'm Making It Up As I Go.

It's called writing.

It's called fiction.

If you're relating your own life experiences, well, that's not fiction. That's autobiography (and it's probably more than I want to know about you). And if you tell me something about being the vessel for your Muse, I'm going to have to smack you. Hard. Maybe repeatedly. Just be glad Major Strange isn't in charge here.

I will concede that as I put my characters through their paces, they begin to develop, and that's a cool thing. It's organic creativity, I begin to see possibilities for the characters I didn't hitherto see. I begin to shade them, see the nuances, refine them in ways I couldn't have previously anticipated. But...it's all coming out of my brain.

I, me, I, my. You see a pattern here? It's all about me. And it's all about you. Character development is all part of the intricate process of creativity. Your creativity. Not your characters' -- not the people you made up. It ain't magic, although it sometimes seems like magic -- when it's going right.

Now why am I being such a prick about this? Because you need to understand that good writing is not some magical, mystical thing, and when you're having problems with your characters...it's not the fault of the characters. Puh-leeeze. Please don't tell me you can't write because your characters won't tell you what they want. Sure, if you're having problems with a story, it could very easily revolve around the characters, but don't expect them to cure themselves. You're the doctor. You delivered them out of that lump of gray matter in your skull. It's up to you to figure out where you went wrong.

Where you went wrong.

And here's some basic questions to ask yourself when your characters don't seem to be gelling.

1) What does this character most want?
2) What does this character most fear?
3) What does this character eat for breakfast?

I'm kidding about the last one. Sort of -- although you should know your characters well enough to know whether they have a sweet tooth or how old they were the first time they had sex.

Okay, that's all I have to say on the topic. Feel free to jump in and tell me how magical and mystical it all really is, and how I just don't understand the way it works. Feel free to tell me I'm wrong and that your characters have the license and you're just a backseat driver.

So Theseus Says to Hippolyta...

2009-04-13T16:12:42Z

By now you've probably heard something of the brouhaha about Amazon removing the sales ranking numbers of GLBT "adult" works.

In other words, m/m romance novels like Alex Beecroft's False Colours or Erastes' Transgressions are getting the bum's rush right out the door of the historical fiction bestseller lists because of the -- coincidentally gay? -- erotic content of the novels. You've also got gay mysteries like The Ghost Wore Yellow Socks -- with minimal erotic content -- losing its sales ranking. That one has me scratching my head since a handful of readers bitched that the book wasn't...as we say...hawt enough. I mean, I've read Harlequin Intrigues that have more adult content than TGWYS.

(However, I know you will be relieved as I am to see that Death of a Pirate King continues to hold its own in the HORROR and EROTIC bestseller category)

I'm not going to rehash the whole story, basically you can find out pretty much everything you need to know at Mark R. Probst's blog. Aside from the obvious problems of blatant discrimination, the thing that really bothers me is the lack of logic. If the sales rankings and bestseller lists no longer accurately reflect what Amazon customers are buying, then...what use are they?

In effect, Amazon has made their own lists and sales rankings meaningless, obsolete. I mean, the accuracy -- and long term significance of these numbers -- have always been debatable, but now...now they're truly pointless.

Anyway, if you were in the mood to buy books, this might be a good week to give your indie booksellers a shot. And there are various contact numbers where you can make your displeasure known. You can start here at Amazon Connect connect -help @amazon. com (obviously you would remove the spaces in the email address.)

There is also a petition that you can sign.

I now return you to your regular programming -- and reading.

Well Read Interview

2009-04-06T15:01:54Z

Jenre over at Well Read was kind enough to interview me last month. I'd forgotten how much I enjoyed her questions which took a different slant than perhaps the usual. Or maybe it's just been a while since I stopped to think before answering. *g*

Anyway, if you're looking for any excuse to avoid working on a Monday morning, pop on over and say hi.

Read Responsibly

2009-04-02T18:42:22Z

I really AM working. My hand to gawd. But I stopped off at the DIK island to keep my l'il pal Lisabea company since she's hanging out there juggling cocoanuts and finding excuses not to finish her third (yes, she's up to three, count 'em THREE) book.

Anyway, I put together a mini bar exam. You have to be a good guesser or really know my work -- in which case, why would you need a copy of The Dark Horse and The White Knight? Dunno. But I am giving away a copy or two of said works (you can always have me email them to a friend if you manage to pass my fiendishly clever quiz.).

Come on, if it's Thursday we must be on DIY Island!

The White Knight

2009-03-31T15:10:47Z

The White Knight -- prequel and sequel to The Dark Horse is now available.

There were obvious challenges to writing something like this -- not least being the fluid time line. Why did I decide to combine a prequel with a sequel? Because, while I could see there was a bit more story there to justify a sequel, I had so many requests for the prequel. So many readers wanted to see when Sean and Dan met. Which presented a dilemma for me as a writer because everyone who read Dark Horse already knew the outcome of that meeting. Also, the most important emotional revelations -- well, even plot revelations -- took place in Dark Horse.

There did not seem to be enough story or suspense to justify a prequel on its own, so I combined the two...but is it a bit complicated for this genre? Dunno. Could be. You decide. I glanced it over last night (which I generally don't do), and I thought it worked pretty well all things considered. But then I would, wouldn't I?

It was a real challenge avoiding an early reveal on the big emotional moments in The Dark Horse, making sure the relationship didn't progress in a way that would make The Dark Horse obsolete. Dark Horse does need to be read first, followed by The White Knight -- White Knight is meant to supplement and continue the original story.

So I guess...another snippet?

The first time I saw Lt. Daniel Moran was in his office at LAPD’s Operations -- West Bureau on Venice Boulevard. I didn’t pay much attention at the time, but I remember now that the building was crowded and busy, and the office was small and neat as a military barrack. There were a couple of photographs on the wall of Lt. Moran shaking hands with higher-ranking police officials or celebrities. In every picture, Moran was the person you noticed.

When you’re shy, people often mistake it for being stuck-up, and I knew Lt. Moran probably thought I was stuck-up, because I let Steve do all the talking while I slouched in my chair and stared mostly at the tidy blotter on the lieutenant’s desk and the stack of outgoing mail. He was not a guy who wasted time, and I knew he thought we were wasting his.

I thought we were probably wasting his time too -- plus, after that first shocked meeting of eyes, I had trouble holding Moran’s gaze. And I sure as hell didn’t know what to say. I already felt stupid and incompetent for getting myself into this situation, and he was so…good-looking. I mean really good-looking. Like the hero in the kind of movies they don’t make anymore, like the knight in an N.C. Wyeth illustration. He was taller than me -- and I’m six feet. He was lean and broad-shouldered, his hair was dark and unruly, his eyes were blue as the Pacific Ocean. He wore tailored slacks, a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled to reveal muscular, tanned forearms, and a navy tie with diagonal red stripes. He did not wear a wedding ring.

I was thinking about that when his gaze moved from Steve’s face to mine and our eyes locked. Hot color rushed up under my skin. The corner of his mouth quirked a little -- not a smile exactly -- and he tuned back into Steve. I stared at the celebrity pictures on his walls. All of them were of people a lot more famous than me, but that was how he’d got landed with this gig. When he wasn’t serving and protecting, he was a technical consultant to the studios. That, and he was, apparently, openly gay: as in the official poster boy for the new and improved -- read: sexually, racially diverse -- LAPD.

“There’s a security system,” Steve said, “but Sean forgets to turn it on.”

And when I did remember to turn it on, I forgot to turn it off and had a habit of triggering it when I opened the back doors to the deck.

Moran’s eyes flicked back to me. This time he didn’t even quirk his mouth. He was polite, but he obviously thought I was a fucking idiot -- and a double fucking idiot for not immediately calling the cops, for waiting nearly a year before getting the professionals in. Although, being a professional, he didn’t say that in so many words.

He looked at the letters Steven had brought. Exhibit A, just in case the cops thought this was some kind of publicity stunt.

“How many letters all together?”

Steve, who had done most of the talking while Lt. Moran listened and observed -- and probably caught me stealing looks at him -- said now, “We’re not exactly sure. Sean threw them away at first. I’m not sure he ever accurately kept track.”

“How many letters, Sean?” Moran asked me, and I blinked. I’d been so used to being referred to as though I weren’t present, it caught me off guard.

“Over two hundred letters and postcards,” I said.

Steve sucked in a sharp breath at that, but Moran didn’t blink.

“And the tone of these letters is…?”

Steve said, “It’s changed. At first they were friendly. Creepy but friendly. Dude kept asking for a job or money or gifts.”

“What kind of gifts?”

“He asked for an espresso machine and a BMW. We ignored those. We ignored everything. But he got more aggressive. The tone of the mail changed and he started approaching Sean in public. Then he started threatening him.”

“What kind of threats?”

Steve gave me a quick, uncomfortable look like he’d rather I didn’t hear this, which was a little pointless given that Hammond had shouted right to my face he wanted me dead.

“He’s threatened to make Sean pay, that kind of thing.”

Moran said patiently, “What kind of thing?”

“He’s threatened to kill him.”

Something altered in Moran’s posture, as though he were loosening his shoulders, readying for a fight. “Okay. In that case we can arrest him on making criminal threats and stalking. I see he’s already violated the three-year restraining order you had slapped on him.”

“Yeah, see the problem is it’s more complicated than that. He’s disappeared,” Steve said a little impatiently. “We hired a PI to get all the information on him we could, and he’s dropped out of sight. If it was just a matter of picking him up, we’d have hired a couple of bodyguards and let you get on with it.”

I started, “I don’t want --”

We’d been over it a couple of times and Steve interrupted. “You don’t want bodyguards. I know. You do want to live, though, and that’s why we’re here now. We should have been here nine months ago.”

He was right. I had no answer to that. Moran said, “Sean, just out of curiosity, why didn’t you come to us when this started?”

Because it was embarrassing. Embarrassing to have it happen at all, and embarrassing not to be able to handle this on my own, to have to run for help, to have people poking and prying into my private life. Because I’d hoped if I ignored it, it would go away on its own.

I said, haltingly, like I didn’t speak English very often, “I didn’t want to get too aggressive in case it made it worse. It could have been a onetime thing. Sometimes it is.”

The blue eyes rested meditatively on my face and then Moran asked, “This has happened before?”

Steve said easily, “Not this. Last year two teenaged girls were caught trying to break into his house. It wasn’t a big deal. And occasionally he comes home to find someone camped out on his deck wanting an autograph.”

I could see that Lt. Dan Moran thought this actually was a big deal.

Steve said, “So…how long do you think it will take?” He didn’t check his watch, but it was clear he was thinking we were on a timetable, and I had to bite back what was probably an inappropriate laugh.

I glanced at Moran and he was watching me, and he smiled. It was a nice smile, reassuring -- and like he knew exactly what I was thinking. He said, “That depends partly on Mr. Hammond, but we’ll try to make this as painless as possible.”

I said, “Thank you.” Practically the first words I’d offered of my own volition, and he said -- his eyes grave and blue as they met mine, “It’ll be okay, Sean.”

It wasn’t, though.

Making History Sexy

2009-03-24T17:52:45Z

I'm coming down with the flu -- and the first person who says you seem to get sick a lot dies a horrible death, right?

Anyway...deadlines wait for no man. One cannot call in sick (often) to one's own freelance livelihood. The hood being less lively today than at other times.

I did a blog about writing historical novellas for the m/m market. Not one of my briliant efforts, I freely -- stoned on cold meds -- admit. I plead...well, pretty much anything and request that you chime in with your own insights and tips because mine are lackey. Lacking. And you all have excellent ideas on this kind of thing. Perhaps you could chime in over there and make me look popular so they have me back. Although it does seem like a lot of effort at the moment. For all concerned.

Oh. And...there was another very interesting post over at Hayden Thorne's site about historical accuracy in m/m romance. Is it necessary?

I posted to the SpeakItsName list on this topic. I think I must be getting cynical in my old age. But I was thinking thisaway...

Maybe it's really more of a marketing dilemma?

Maybe these kinds of fantasy historicals should simply be marketed as such? I
think that in many instances, and for a number of m/m readers, it's more like
costume sex. The kink of dressing up like Paul Revere and having sex with George
Washington...rather than attempting anything like historical accuracy.

The problem arises when it's passed off as genuine historical romance. Because
romance readers who are also history buffs or academics are going to be
irritated and incredulous, but -- and I mean no disrespect to m/m readers in
general -- a lot of m/m readers would just as soon read something called
history-lite. For these readers I think a lot of the painstaking details
historical writers agonize over might just as easily fall in the
too-much-information category.

There's nothing wrong with these readers or with wanting this kind of
history-lite romance -- or even writing this kind of fantasy -- but it might
take some of the strain away if they were marketed differently.

Anyway, I hope someone will say something really interesting because I need to be distracted, and nothing distracts me like a good ~~brawl~~ discussion about writing and history and...I believe I shall go lie down now and watch The Professionals on DVD because, as I have often remarked, these lads do contain miraculous healing properties. Something in the water (for tea), I expect.

Top o' the Morning to Ye!

2009-03-17T15:55:41Z

I know. That is one scary accent. Why is it that Irish accents are some of the hardest for Hollywood to get right?

Happy St. Paddy's!

Some various bits of news. I've sold the ebook rights to the WWI flying aces novella Out of the Blue to Liquid Silver Publishing. I've been interested in doing something with them since I interviewed Tina Burns for Man, Oh Man: Writing M/M Fiction for Kinks and Ca$h. So I finally had a story that wasn't already contracted...and I'm delighted to say LS accepted.

Also Mexican Heat is in some kind of contest at DABWAHA. I don't know how it works but, hey, check it out.

Mexican Heat has finaled in the Lambdas in the GLBT Romance category. I just want to take a moment here to thank the editor on this project, Judith David. Judi is -- hands down and no contest -- one of the best, if not the best, of the editors I've worked with. I would follow her anywhere.

(Although I admit MLR's Kris Jacen comes in a close second -- and not just because she bribes me with coffee, chocolates and macadamia nuts.)

Finally, we've got the nearly complete line-up on The Josh Lanyon Collection. Just waiting to hear on one more story. There was one definite change in the lineup. I pulled the paranormal novella The Darkling Thrush. I didn't think paranormal really worked thematically with the rest of the collection. So I'm saving that one for a rainy day. Instead I wrote a sweet little short story (romance, no mystery) -- unique and exclusive to the collection -- titled "In Sunshine or In Shadow."

And because it's about a guy who takes his broken heart to Ireland, I'm offering a wee unedited snippet for today. ...

In Sunshine or In Shadow...

“It’s a little awkward,” Keiran said, and his gaze -- a green that was almost gray -- dropped suddenly to the little bowl of peanuts on the table between them. His blond eyebrows knitted together in a little scowl; very important to select exactly the right peanut, apparently.

Rick’s mouth quirked indulgently. They’d been partnered in Homicide for nearly five years, and he could be forgiven for thinking he knew Keir pretty well by now. One of the things he knew was that Keir preferred whole peanuts; he had an annoying habit of cherry picking the perfect peanuts out of any dish. Another thing Rick knew was that Keir had a tendency to over-think things. Not in the field, fortunately. Nothing wrong with Keir’s instincts or reflexes, but get three beers in him and he started brooding, and next thing you knew, he was spouting stuff from some half-forgotten philosophy course he’d taken in college.

Five years was a long time. Rick knew plenty of marriages that hadn’t lasted five years.

“So?” he raised his mug, swallowed, watching Keir over the rim.

Keir’s mouth curled derisively, and he picked out a peanut and tossed it in his mouth, crunching irritably, like he’d caught the peanut in a moving violation.

“It’s just that I’ve been thinking...”

“I warned you about that.”

Keir’s smile was mostly perfunctory twitch.

Rick drained his mug and rose. “Want another?” It was Friday night. After two brutal weeks, they finally had a weekend off, and they were on home turf -- a cop bar in Van Nuys. Decent selection on tap, plenty of Stones on the jukebox, and the knowledge they could let down their guard because pretty much everyone in the place was law enforcement or ex-law enforcement. Home sweet home.

Keir was staring up at Rick with a strange, disconcerted expression. He shook his head, and Rick moved to the bar. The memory of Keir’s expression stayed with him -- like an irritating tap on the shoulder.

At the bar he ordered two Harps, chatted with Bill Suzuki also from Homicide, and unobtrusively watched his partner.

“Good going with the collar on the Martinez case,” Suzuki congratulated.

“Yeah. It’s a pleasure putting that scumball, Olmos, behind bars.”

“What’s eating Quinn?”

“Nothing.” Rick said it curtly, discouraging further discussion on the topic of his partner. He couldn’t help glancing Keir’s way again.

Keir was staring at nothing and chewing his bottom lip, a sure sign he was edgy. What now for chrissake? It had been a good week. A good month. Better than last couple of months, that was for sure. For once the bad guys were not swaggering away untouched, and tomorrow Keir was starting two weeks of well-deserved vacation. So what was there to bug him? Rick sighed inwardly. He was undoubtedly going to hear all about it when he got back to the table.

If anyone should be feeling out of sorts it was him. This was the first vacation they’d taken apart in…three years. Keir had just announced it the previous week -- right out of the blue. No warning, no discussion. Not that he had to talk his vacation plans over with Rick, but…they were best friends in addition to partners, and they usually did spend a portion of their off-time together -- being gay gave them a natural bond, but they’d have been friends anyway. In fact, if Keir wasn’t a cop --

But he was. So no point thinking about it.

Rick collected the sweating bottles and carried them back to the table, hooking the chair with his foot and sitting down. Keir jumped as though he’d been miles away, and Rick studied him before turning his attention to topping off Keir’s half-empty mug.

“So you’ve been thinking,” he prompted.

Keir stared at him blankly before registering Rick’s reference to earlier. His expression changed -- Rick couldn’t read it at all, and that gave him an uneasy feeling. What the hell was going on?

Now that he thought about it, Keir had been acting weird for a couple of weeks. Since the Martinez case had been dropped in their laps. No wonder. Nobody enjoyed it when a kid was the victim. Even if the kid was a gang banger. Suspected gang banger. Gang bangers had parents too. Well, one usually. Some overworked, out-of-touch woman -- but in this case, a nice woman. A woman who loved her kids even if she couldn’t control them, didn’t begin to understand them -- these young, tough, tattooed strangers who lived in her house.

No. The trouble had started before that. Before the Martinez case. Keir had been short tempered, distant, absent-minded -- not at all like himself for nearly a month now. And then this sudden vacation.

Rick asked abruptly, “You okay, Quinn? You’re not sick or something, are you?”

“Me? I’m fine.”

The tone was reassuring enough, but now that Rick examined his partner, he wondered. Keir looked tired. More tired than a Friday night warranted. And he’d lost weight recently -- even for his normal wiry self. There were shadows under his eyes and it seemed a long time since that full mouth had smiled.

Full mouth. Yeah. Keir had a very nice mouth. He tasted nice too. Funny how people had their own taste...

And no way was Rick letting his thoughts stray in that direction. They’d already tried that and it had been a mutually agreed upon disaster.

“You’d tell me if something was wrong, right?”

Keir reached for his mug and said, “Right.”

Rick picked his own mug up, tilted it, pouring beer against the side of the glass. He nearly dropped the bottle as Keir said, “I’m resigning.”

“You’re…”

“Resigning. I have resigned, in fact.”

“What?”

Keir just looked at him.

“Why?”

Keir shook his head -- like it was too complicated to explain?

Rick gave him an easier question. “When?”

“Last week.”

“Last week? And you’re telling me now?”

“I told Captain Friedman I’d think it over for a week.”

Rick stared at him, then gave a disbelieving laugh. “You’re kidding me, right?”

Stone-faced, Keir stared right back.

“What the hell’s going on? You can’t quit.”

Unbelievably, Keir laughed. “Want to bet?”

“You resign and then you go on vacation?” It felt safer to give way to indignation on this score; Rick was still trying to assimilate the other.

“Hey, I’m entitled to my vacation.”

“I don’t believe this.”

“I’m sorry --”

“Sorry? You didn’t even discuss it with me.”

Keir was giving him a strange look. “It’s my decision to make.”

“You’re going to pretend this doesn’t affect me? We’re partners. We were.” Rick kept his voice low although -- shock wearing off -- he was getting angry.

“I know that. I’m telling you now. Before anyone else --”

“Gee, thanks! I feel better already.”

Keir sighed. “Listen, I know you’re pissed. When I get back I still have two weeks. We can talk then.”

“Talk? I don’t want to talk.” I want you to un-resign, that’s what Rick meant. But Keir was looking at him as though this just confirmed a much-contested point. What point? What the hell was going on?

“Then we won’t talk,” Keir said evenly. “Either way, I don’t give a shit.”

What. The. Hell?

And now Rick was angry. Hurt and angry. “What does that mean, you don’t give a shit? What am I supposed to make of that? What the fuck’s going on with you?”

But Keir glanced at his watch and was already on his feet. “I’ve got a plane to catch. I’ll see you in two weeks.”

He turned away, and Rick rose too and grabbed his arm. Keir stood perfectly still. They were the same height, but Rick was broader, bigger. He was by nature cool and low key, relying on his build and obvious strength to get his point across to perps. Keir relied on the force of his personality -- which was considerable. Especially after five years of it.

Rick let go of Keir’s arm. He said, surprised to hear how aggrieved he sounded, “A plane to where? Where the hell are you flying off to?”

“Ireland,” Keir replied.

When Good Characters Do Bad Things - Part I

2009-03-06T18:15:38Z

I was talking recently with someone offlist about the difficulty of creating believably flawed protagonists, so I said I'd post on that one of these fine days...

In order to have strong internal conflict in an m/m romance, your main characters must occasionally clash -- they can't get along on every score, they can't be in harmony on every point -- they must occasionally disagree in earnest. No, really. They must. Otherwise, you'll be reduced to having them miscommunicate or, worse, bicker in order to keep them from having their Happy Ever After in the first ten pages.

Bickering is tiresome. People who bicker in real life are tiresome. You don't want your main characters to become tiresome.

Miscommunication can also be tiresome unless the writer is pretty good at making the miscommunication believable and reasonable.

Now, you might be wondering to yourself why you need to have internal conflict in your story -- isn't external conflict enough? Why can't everyone just get along and have a lot of sex?

Good news. You can write that story if you want to. Go right ahead. Maybe your external conflict is such that there really isn't time to waste on internal conflict. Or maybe you just don't like internal conflict. Fair enough. There are writers who concoct engaging and deceptively simple tales about two men in love. James Anson's The Larton Chronicles is a case in point. It takes a skilled writer to pull off that kind of thing, but it can be done and done very well. However, you have to remember that most romances require plot. And plot requires conflict. It doesn't mean the characters have to be at each other's throats, it just means that they want different things.

Here's another way to look at it. Your main character wants something -- and the thing keeping him from getting it is the man he's falling in love with. Sometimes what he wants most is the other man, which is where we start getting into flawed characters. Because if everyone was perfect, we'd all get along beautifully. We'd only make healthy and smart decisions in our lives. And we'd always choose the right people to love.

I don't know about you, but that ain't the way it works for me. Or at least, it didn't back when I was single. And it can't work that way for your characters either. They have to want or need different things. Or think they do. And we often excuse this lapse in judgement by giving these characters flaws. In fact, sometimes it's not even a matter of a "flaw" so much as they the world differently based on their history and experiences. At any moment in time we are our own end product...see?

Which means if your character is "promiscuous" -- which is often a tricky one for a feminine audience (and often means a different thing than it does for a male audience) -- the reader needs to understand why. The reader needs to know (in a way we often can't grasp in real life) what is motivating your characters to act the way they do. In real life other people's hurtful actions often just puzzle us. In good fiction, we have an understanding of why characters are motivated to act the way they do. We don't have to like it -- there are readers who are never going to like Jake Riordan -- but liking a character is not central to good writing. Creating a believable character, is.

Granted, in romance we need the reader to want those characters to wind up together, so likability is maybe a factor here in a way that it isn't for literary and other genre fiction.

What we want to avoid at all costs is the reader reaction of No way! He would never do that! Because, while real people often surprise us with the things they do that seem "out of character," fiction is not real life. Fiction needs to make sense in a way that real life doesn't. Fiction needs to satisfy in a way real life doesn't. When someone dies a pointless death in fiction...that's the point! There are no pointless deaths in fiction.

The most interesting characters to me are flawed characters. Perfection is boring -- perfection is unrealistic. In real life interesting people are often the people who take chances, who fail, who make mistakes -- sometimes on a grand scale. They are the people who often garner a lot of criticism. You think George Washington didn't piss a lot of people off when he decided to become Commander and Chief of the Continental Army? You think the neighbors weren't talking?

There are flaws that readers find acceptable and flaws that readers have a hard time with. Stupidity is hard to accept. We don't like our characters to be dumb. A couple of bad decisions...sure. We can all identify with having punched the wrong button under pressue. But never choosing the right button? No. A character who is TSTL (Too Stupid to Live)? No.

Think of the people you admire or find interesting in real life. Think about your favorite characters in fiction. Who among the real life people that interest you would make good characters in fiction? Seriously -- consider that a bit. The characters who stay with us are rarely the paragons of virtue. Okay, Sleeping Beauty's prince excepted because he is HOT.

(Yes, I'm kidding. Cinderella's BF is much hotter.)

Anyway, child molesters, rapists, and serial killers (in general) don't ring a lot of bells for most of us. Stupidity, greed, cowardice...we don't like these things in ourselves or others, so if they pop up in a protagonist, something has to balance our instant rejection. The key to creating believably flawed characters has to do with flaws and weaknesses a lot of people recognize or identify with. Having one drink too many and doing something stupid...probably most of us have been there. Homicidal mania...probably not.

Not having the courage to say...I love you. We can identify. Betraying your platoon's whereabouts to the enemy...upside down smile.

Not that it wouldn't happen, not that it isn't believable in the right circumstances. I'm not saying you can't do it. I'm saying it takes more work to pull it off. You may not be that good -- in which case readers are going to let you know about it. Maybe you care. Maybe you don't.

The individual reader may not like the choices a particular character makes, they may strongly disagree with the choices the character makes, but the clues to the characters behavior should be there...so that when readers are at their book club arm wrestling this stuff, the trail is there and that naysayer can be loudly shouted down.

You have to sprinkle the bread crumbs, lay the groundwork.

More on this later -- feel free to share your thoughts.

Josh Lanyon on Air!

2009-03-05T19:03:54Z

Well, we all knew he was on SOMETHING.

Enywhoooo, Laaluna laaluna was kind enough to post in the comments section below:

I'm a big fan of Josh's work. A friend offered me the opportunity to present my reading interests during a local literature radio show.

Broadcast date is March 9th 2009, 8 to 9 pm (Berlin time). We will talk about Josh and his work. Josh kindly granted an interview which I translated into German. The talk will be in German too but there are two readings from Fatal Shadows in original language planned. If you are interested, you can listen to the show via livestream:

http://www.bermudafunk.org/stream.html

Hope you enjoy it as much as I had fun to organize this.

Interview at Dark Divas

2009-02-25T16:09:23Z

I am out the door and on my way to my montly ~~therapy session~~ day off with two of my favorite folks. But, should anyone be running low on their daily dose of Josh (and you might want to get that looked at by a qualified physician) the interview I did with the gracious and charming A.J. Llewellyn is up at Dark Diva Reviews.

Never let it be said

2009-02-23T21:18:37Z

That straight guys aren't sentimental. Because I have been sitting in my favorite indie coffee house for the last hour listening with increasing impatience to these two saps at the table next to me going on and on and ON about their damn wives. In a public place for chrissakes! In regular speaking voices.

The first time I saw her...

It's now reached the point where I can't concentrate for my irrational ire.

When my little girl was first born...

I know. I know. The problem here is me, not them. The internet is out at Chez Lanyon and I had to move camp temporarily.

Don't they have jobs? Homes? Starbucks?

Oh my God. No, literally OMG because they have also been going on -- in depth -- about their feelings for Jesus and the church and leadership and...

It's nice. It is nice. It's sweet. I want them to die. Soon.