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Joseph E Bird

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Knowing when to end the story.

I said recently, “I just found out how the story of Trevor Larson ends.”

I was referring to the novel I’ve been working on for the past year.  Faithful reader Lee Anne asked, “Do you not begin with an ending in mind? I thought writers had a whole outline of the story complete before starting the words. How do you know when you’re finished?”

Many of you won’t be interested in this discussion, but some of my internet friends are writers or are contemplating writing a novel, so I offer this as a case study.

I’ve heard it said that novel writers are either “pansters” or “plotters”.  The panster being one who writes by the seat of the pants with little or no thought to plot or where the story is going.  The plotter, of course, plots out the story from beginning to end.  I have a hard time understanding how you could be a panster and create a coherent novel that meets the expectations of the mainstream reader.  Many writers succesfuly take this approach, but it would be hard for me to do without wandering down every side street available.  So I guess I’m a plotter.

In fact, here’s what I did with the Trevor Larson story.  I had an idea.  A “what if” scenario.  That’s the seed.  So I think about the scenario and and whether or not there’s enough meat in the concept around which to build a novel.

If the answer is yes, then I think about character arc.  In the case of Trevor, he encounters challenges early in the story.  And the challenges keep coming. The arc is completed when he learns how to handle the challenges. When the novel ends, he has to be a changed person, for better or worse. Again, this is early in the concept stage.

Then I think in terms of three acts and the arc becomes more defined. My target word count is 80,000 words and for me, I average around 4,000 words a chapter.  That would be 20 chapters, more or less. But if I’m thinking three acts, that would be roughly 7 chapters per act. Then I think in even more detail about the story and and will try to write a few sentences about what will happen in each chapter.

For me, that’s pretty serious plotting.

Except…

Things happen along the way. Characters that I thought would be minor rise up into a major role. Dani, for example. Characters that I thought would be significant fall away or even die. In Trevor’s story, it’s Jackson Little. And the characters go off and do something that wasn’t foreseen.  I didn’t know Trevor was going to be such a gifted songwriter when the story began, but that ends up being a key plot device.

That’s the fun mess of writing. The characters come alive and tell me what’s going on.

Yes, Lee Anne, I had an idea of how the story was going to end, but the last couple of chapters were agonizing. My novels are low-key so there’s no final heoric scene or anything like that.  I have to see how relationships develop and how and where to stop the story that gives the reader a sense of satisfaction. It’s pretty much where I thought it would be, just not exactly. But all along, it was entirely possible that Trevor could have gone off script. He has a habit of doing that. That’s what makes him interesting.

 

 

A Prayer for Rain

He didn’t know her name.  They never exchanged words, though they sat side by side on a three-hour flight.  He would never see her again.

He saw her pain.  The source of her pain?  No, he didn’t know.  But he felt it in his own heart.

Trevor Larson wrote this for her.

Hear me, Lord.

Give me gentle rain.

Heal me, Lord.

Take away the pain.

Love me, Lord,

I just need a friend.

Hear me, Lord,

and be there till the end.

Love and Hate

Frank Sinatra has a cold.

Brilliant writing.

Frank Sinatra has a cold.

 

Laundry Room

I woke up today with this song in my head.

groovy groovy jazzy funky

US 3 – Cantaloop (Flip Fantasia)

Out of Sight

What’s a Funky Friday without James Brown?

Wheel Hoss

Another excerpt from my novel in progress.


Trevor looked around and saw that all the seats in The Empty Glass were taken. Quite a few were tables were singles, mostly young men, a few women, all unable to keep their eyes off their electronics for more than a few seconds. Producers, maybe. Or executives scouting for the next big thing. There were also a few couples and small groups, obviously out for dinner, but no wide-eyed tourists.

“Is that him?” Dani asked, nodding toward the stage.

“Yeah.”

“They look very country.”

“Well, it is Nashville, baby.”

On stage, they continued to tune their instruments, but Maxfield Martin finally seemed satisfied and sat behind his instrument, his arms crossed as he looked out across the restaurant and smiled. The guitar player also stopped, leaving only the bass player plucking on the heavy strings. He played a note, then another, lower note. He played them again. And again, increasing the tempo each time, until he it was obvious he was playing in an up-tempo four-four time, like a train moving over railroad tracks. Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump. Then came the train whistle from Maxfield Martin’s slide guitar. Waaaaa-waaaa. Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump. Faster. Waaaaa-waaa.

Trevor looked at Dani. She was smiling. He was smiling. Everyone in the place was smiling, their eyes glued to the musicians.

Then the guitar player with the embroidered jacket began playing an even faster rhythm, the sound muted by his hand.

Clackety-clackety-clackety-clackety. Waaaaa-waaa. Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump. You could almost see the train.

And then they stopped without warning.

“One, two, three, four,” the guitar player counted in perfect time.

They started up again, keeping the same rhythm, but now the guitar was in full voice and after a few measures of introduction, he went off on a bluegrass, rag-like solo that showed his amazing guitar skills. There were whoops and hollers from the audience. As his solo wound down, a fiddle could be heard taking the lead. And from behind a curtain came Janelle Hylton, all of five-foot two, her long black hair pulled back as if to highlight her dark brown skin. She moved slowly in black jeans and a red oxford shirt until she hit center stage, and as her solo reached its apex, she moved in time with the bow as it screamed across the strings of her fiddle. The room filled with applause as she finished and stood tapping her foot and nodding her head in time with the music as she turned toward Maxfield Martin.

He started with the train whistle but after the third blow, he moved the slide toward the left of the guitar and slowly slid it to the right, creating a steadily rising pitch as his right hand plucked the strings until it reached the crescendo. Then it was as if all restraint was tossed from the window of the engineer’s cab. His left hand flew up and down the fretboard, at times bouncing on the strings creating percussions that accentuated the pulsing rhythms.

When he finished, everyone jumped into a perfectly executed instrumental union, driving the song to its conclusion. The applause was loud and long. Trevor glanced at Dani. He had never seen her so animated.

“Thank you so much,” Janelle said from the stage. “That was our take on the Bill Monroe classic, Wheel Hoss.” She introduced the musicians, each of whom garnered their own well-deserved applause. “And the gentleman on the steel guitar, the legendary Maxfield Martin.” He stood and waved to the crowd, then joined in the applause before he sat back down.


copyright joseph e bird, 2015

Dig the funk.

Pandora : Rare Groove Radio : Hook and Sling by Eddie Bo.

Dig it, if you will.

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