No, not those buttons. The other buttons. The hot ones.
Okay, not those hot buttons, either.
What I'm talking about are the little things that you find utterly maddening, and which anger you beyond any kind of rational level compared to whatever sets them off. For instance, if I've gone to extra effort over something for someone, and that person inconveniences me, I go from calm to nuclear between one heartbeat and the next. Another one that gives me issues is when I'm expected to follow the lead of someone who - in my highly expert and infallible opinion, of course - couldn't organize a piss-up in a brewery. I'm sure you have a few of your own little glitches like that, probably including some you don't want to admit to.
Characters need hot buttons like that, too. And stories need to push them - because that's when your lead, or your villain, or whatever, is most likely to do something irrational which triggers off the cascade that makes things worse. It helps, of course, to establish the hot buttons early, so that when they get used later readers don't wonder where the heck that came from.
I'm going to use - carrying on the theme from Sarah's post - Darkship Thieves as an example. One of Thena's hot buttons is being physically restrained, so much so that she's prepared to commit murder and mayhem, not necessarily in that order, on the person who dares tie her up. We see this in the first few chapters of the book, so it doesn't seem at all out of place when Thena goes nuclear later in the book. Of course, she's got a few other hot buttons as well, and Kit isn't exactly the most level-headed person ever, either.
Who and what else uses character hot buttons well?
p.s. Apologies for being kind of scarce and not entirely with it. It's now a week since the layoffs, and work is totally batshit insane busy. I'm not sure when things will settle down, since the backlog was impressive before this happened. Now it's more like a cliff about to land. Such is life.
Showing posts with label Sarah Hoyt. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Sarah Hoyt. Show all posts
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Sarah's Off --
to Portugal this morning. Knowing how much she loves to fly -- NOT! -- I'm sure Dan and the boys are dragging her kicking and screaming onto the jet. She's promised to do her best to keep us updated on how the trip is going and will try to post next week at her regular time. In the meantime, something she said yesterday started me thinking (quit snickering in the back. I do think at at times. Yes, I know, it can be dangerous. But I promise, this time it's okay -- I hope.)
In case you guys haven't figured it out yet, Sarah and her metal tipped, pointy-toed boots are responsible for dragging me kicking and screaming out from under the bed and actually admitting to the world that I'm a writer. She's pushed me into submitting -- and selling -- and writing things I never would have imagined myself writing. Short stories have always scared the heck out of me as a writer because -- duh -- I don't do short. But my first pro sale was a short story. A romance/mystery -- EEP! -- historical fantasy and now I've just started a steampunk novel set around the time of the Jubilee Plot in England.
As a result of her prodding and pushing and reminding me that I am not a hack -- although I'm still not convinced of it -- I've had to pay more attention to the actual structure of my stories. One of the best sites I've found for an explanation of what a makes a technical aspect of a story successful is http://aliendjinnromances.blogspot.com
Recently, Jacqueline Lichtenberg has written several posts on the 6 Tricks of Scene Structure. She analyzes the scene and then gives examples. I highly recommend both posts. You can find the first here and the second here.
Now here's my question for you: what makes a scene work for you? Tell me your favorite scene and why. If there is a scene that had you wanting to throw the book against the wall, tell me why. You don't have to tell me the name of the book. But tell me what it was about that particular scene that had you wanting to tear the author's hair out.
In case you guys haven't figured it out yet, Sarah and her metal tipped, pointy-toed boots are responsible for dragging me kicking and screaming out from under the bed and actually admitting to the world that I'm a writer. She's pushed me into submitting -- and selling -- and writing things I never would have imagined myself writing. Short stories have always scared the heck out of me as a writer because -- duh -- I don't do short. But my first pro sale was a short story. A romance/mystery -- EEP! -- historical fantasy and now I've just started a steampunk novel set around the time of the Jubilee Plot in England.As a result of her prodding and pushing and reminding me that I am not a hack -- although I'm still not convinced of it -- I've had to pay more attention to the actual structure of my stories. One of the best sites I've found for an explanation of what a makes a technical aspect of a story successful is http://aliendjinnromances.blogspot.com
Recently, Jacqueline Lichtenberg has written several posts on the 6 Tricks of Scene Structure. She analyzes the scene and then gives examples. I highly recommend both posts. You can find the first here and the second here.
Now here's my question for you: what makes a scene work for you? Tell me your favorite scene and why. If there is a scene that had you wanting to throw the book against the wall, tell me why. You don't have to tell me the name of the book. But tell me what it was about that particular scene that had you wanting to tear the author's hair out.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Oh, baby give me that message!
Sarah's post yesterday got me thinking about messages in prose. Yes, I know this is a scary place for me to be going, because if anyone's golden gun or glittery hooha starts sending messages you'll all blame me.
That said... Probably the one truly outstanding feature of the human mind that no machine or computer has been able to match is our ability to find patterns in seemingly random information - and in real random data where no pattern exists. Elvis in a slice of unevenly cooked toast? Yep, that's the human pattern matching at work.
Of course it overflows into our writing and our reading. The novel awaiting a publisher's decision right now started life as a total romp with no message whatsoever. I can guarantee there will be people who find meaning in it - I found that meaning had crept in there without me being aware of it.
I should probably mention at this point that I write on autopilot. I put on the headphones, the right music (each book demands something different - although thankfully unlike some of my writing friends I haven't been infested with a book insisting on ABBA), and relax. The subconscious does the work for me, and I read over the results the next day and agree with my friends that yes, I am a scary person. There are things buried down there that find their way into the most lighthearted piece of piss-taking and give it extra layers of chocolatey goodness... Um. Sorry. That was Tim-Tam envy.
In short, where conspiracy theorists see the hand of the hidden manipulator in everything, literature analysts (I'm sure there's a reason that word starts with 'anal') see themes and messages in everything, regardless of whether the author put them there.
We're all primed to see messages in stories, whether it's that the prince on his white horse will find you and carry you off for a happily ever after hinted at only by the clouds of rosy pink - but only if you're a good girl and never complain about anything - or that white people have oppressed and murdered their way through history, even in places where no-one has ever seen anyone with skin lighter than dark tan (yes, there are a few of them even now). Depending on our upbringing, we might be primed to see messages from the Devil in anything remotely unfamiliar, or possibly messages from any other supernatural being up to and including the Big Guy Himself (Yes, I do mean Elvis).
Where a lot of authors drop the ball (no, not the golden gun, and not that kind of ball either) is in thinking that their story is about whatever the message ends up being. That's when they stop the action to beat their readers about the head with some great Message or other. This is a summary defenestration offense in my opinion. If that book can't learn to fly between the window and the ground, too bad. And no, bouncing doesn't count.
Some of the authors I read who have strong messages in their books and don't preach are (of course) Pratchett (drat. Another goat. The landlord is going to be so pissed about the state of this carpet), our very own Dave Freer (don't worry, Dave, I'm not sacrificing coconuts. Yet.) and another of our Mad Geniuses, Sarah Hoyt (And no, nor am I sacrificing Officers Hotstuff. Not unless the sacrifice involves their golden gun and a willing... ahem).
Who else do you like that doesn't preach? Who do you like enough to put up with the preaching, and why?
That said... Probably the one truly outstanding feature of the human mind that no machine or computer has been able to match is our ability to find patterns in seemingly random information - and in real random data where no pattern exists. Elvis in a slice of unevenly cooked toast? Yep, that's the human pattern matching at work.
Of course it overflows into our writing and our reading. The novel awaiting a publisher's decision right now started life as a total romp with no message whatsoever. I can guarantee there will be people who find meaning in it - I found that meaning had crept in there without me being aware of it.
I should probably mention at this point that I write on autopilot. I put on the headphones, the right music (each book demands something different - although thankfully unlike some of my writing friends I haven't been infested with a book insisting on ABBA), and relax. The subconscious does the work for me, and I read over the results the next day and agree with my friends that yes, I am a scary person. There are things buried down there that find their way into the most lighthearted piece of piss-taking and give it extra layers of chocolatey goodness... Um. Sorry. That was Tim-Tam envy.
In short, where conspiracy theorists see the hand of the hidden manipulator in everything, literature analysts (I'm sure there's a reason that word starts with 'anal') see themes and messages in everything, regardless of whether the author put them there.
We're all primed to see messages in stories, whether it's that the prince on his white horse will find you and carry you off for a happily ever after hinted at only by the clouds of rosy pink - but only if you're a good girl and never complain about anything - or that white people have oppressed and murdered their way through history, even in places where no-one has ever seen anyone with skin lighter than dark tan (yes, there are a few of them even now). Depending on our upbringing, we might be primed to see messages from the Devil in anything remotely unfamiliar, or possibly messages from any other supernatural being up to and including the Big Guy Himself (Yes, I do mean Elvis).
Where a lot of authors drop the ball (no, not the golden gun, and not that kind of ball either) is in thinking that their story is about whatever the message ends up being. That's when they stop the action to beat their readers about the head with some great Message or other. This is a summary defenestration offense in my opinion. If that book can't learn to fly between the window and the ground, too bad. And no, bouncing doesn't count.
Some of the authors I read who have strong messages in their books and don't preach are (of course) Pratchett (drat. Another goat. The landlord is going to be so pissed about the state of this carpet), our very own Dave Freer (don't worry, Dave, I'm not sacrificing coconuts. Yet.) and another of our Mad Geniuses, Sarah Hoyt (And no, nor am I sacrificing Officers Hotstuff. Not unless the sacrifice involves their golden gun and a willing... ahem).
Who else do you like that doesn't preach? Who do you like enough to put up with the preaching, and why?
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Can You Hear Me Now?
First of all I want to apologize about my repeated absences from this blog. After the horrible feather allergies at Opus, I seem to have been destabilized enough to catch anything that came by and – obligingly – my younger son brought home a horrible bug. In a sort of poetic justice, he got walking pneumonia out of it, while I just got very ill and unable to string two words together, which has me even later on my late deadlines.
Now the kid is better and I’m just getting back into working shape and it’s time to resume my ramble on voice.
If we all remember – I barely do :) – when last we saw our heros, we were discussing – or at least I hope we were – how good voice can cover a multitude of sins. A convincing voice will make you believe the character exists and thereby glide all sorts of inconveniently awkward world building behind its all-pervasive authority. A really good voice is the sort of thing that if you say "The sky is green and the moon made of cheese" the reader will believe it, even if they’re looking out the window and seeing it otherwise.
So how do you acquire this mysterious elixir of "a good voice."
Well... easier said than done. For one, if you’re a normal writer – yes, unlike me, but even I have this when I’m not writing as someone completely different – you can’t hear your own best voice. You’ll be writing, and it’s easy – this is one of the clues you’re doing it right, actually. You’re not fighting it – and it’s flowing, but you keep thinking "Heavens, this is blah. There’s no art to it." Then you give it to your beta readers and they go "Oh, wow. It sang. It danced. It did dishes." This usually means you’ve hit your natural voice and that because it’s natural to you you can’t "perceive" it.
So what am I talking about on the "writing as someone completely different" above? Well, while my natural voice might sing, dance and do dishes, it has some issues. One of them is that it tends to be a little dry and over-intellectual. Look, it’s how I was brought up. My inner self is eighty years old and wears half-moon glasses. My other issue is that unless I’m writing far future or foreign my voice can seem "odd" to native speakers. Nothing bad, mind you, but enough to have someone put a book down.
Fortunately I’m not a normal writer – and you’re all warned, right now, that if you reach for the phone to call the men in white coats on this one, I shall be MOST seriously displeased – and seem to suffer from a form of self-induced multiple personality disorder. I’ve been heard to say that my books start with a character who wants his/her story told. This is true. What I don’t normally reveal is that this is no half-formed wraith, but a definite voice. Oh, not in my ears – at least not yet – but in my mind. It’s a voice with a personality and his/her own word choices and attitude. I will usually get one or two paragraphs, sometimes if I’m lucky a whole page. I have only once, so far, got three chapters and only once – differently – a whole book.
If anyone else is afflicted with this – I honestly don’t know if this is normal – the first rule is to trust that voice. Write down however much you’re given and trust it as you build the rest of the novel, then trust it as you resume writing. This is harder than it seems. I always have an almost unbearable temptation to go back and edit those "given" sentences and make them more grammatical or more whatever. This is always a mistake.
Also, when writing after that, it is important to try to keep the voice consistent with those first sentences. Weirdly, if the book is going well, after a while it’s not an effort.
So, what if the voice isn’t there? Well... I also experience this. Note above "most of my books" but not all of them start with the character and the voice. Sometimes I have a great idea. Or worse, an idea that sold, but the voice won’t come.
Again, my advice will sound at best silly and at worst useless, but it’s what I do – cold comfort though it is, I advise you to seek the voice. Try it out. Give it some time, then try it out again. Think the book, immerse yourself in it. Think of the character, the character’s situation, what the character wants. Then try again. My record is two hundred and some first pages, but the voice did eventually come. Sometimes – again at the risk of being silly – it helps if you use a different medium to write those first two pages. Like, take a notepad and pen and try it long hand. Something about the shift jugs your subconscious lose.
But above all remember the important thing about voice is confidence. Your confidence in the voice translates to the page which in turn translates into reader confidence in what you are saying. So work on it, but don’t over think it and don’t doubt it.
Curiously, for those three people who aren’t tired of hearing about my art-class experiences, this translates to art. My art teacher says confidence and a distinctive, self-consistent style will carry the day over accurate technique and careful execution.
So, go forth, be confident, and have the courage to trust your words. PARTICULARLY when you’re telling made up stories.
Now the kid is better and I’m just getting back into working shape and it’s time to resume my ramble on voice.
If we all remember – I barely do :) – when last we saw our heros, we were discussing – or at least I hope we were – how good voice can cover a multitude of sins. A convincing voice will make you believe the character exists and thereby glide all sorts of inconveniently awkward world building behind its all-pervasive authority. A really good voice is the sort of thing that if you say "The sky is green and the moon made of cheese" the reader will believe it, even if they’re looking out the window and seeing it otherwise.
So how do you acquire this mysterious elixir of "a good voice."
Well... easier said than done. For one, if you’re a normal writer – yes, unlike me, but even I have this when I’m not writing as someone completely different – you can’t hear your own best voice. You’ll be writing, and it’s easy – this is one of the clues you’re doing it right, actually. You’re not fighting it – and it’s flowing, but you keep thinking "Heavens, this is blah. There’s no art to it." Then you give it to your beta readers and they go "Oh, wow. It sang. It danced. It did dishes." This usually means you’ve hit your natural voice and that because it’s natural to you you can’t "perceive" it.
So what am I talking about on the "writing as someone completely different" above? Well, while my natural voice might sing, dance and do dishes, it has some issues. One of them is that it tends to be a little dry and over-intellectual. Look, it’s how I was brought up. My inner self is eighty years old and wears half-moon glasses. My other issue is that unless I’m writing far future or foreign my voice can seem "odd" to native speakers. Nothing bad, mind you, but enough to have someone put a book down.
Fortunately I’m not a normal writer – and you’re all warned, right now, that if you reach for the phone to call the men in white coats on this one, I shall be MOST seriously displeased – and seem to suffer from a form of self-induced multiple personality disorder. I’ve been heard to say that my books start with a character who wants his/her story told. This is true. What I don’t normally reveal is that this is no half-formed wraith, but a definite voice. Oh, not in my ears – at least not yet – but in my mind. It’s a voice with a personality and his/her own word choices and attitude. I will usually get one or two paragraphs, sometimes if I’m lucky a whole page. I have only once, so far, got three chapters and only once – differently – a whole book.
If anyone else is afflicted with this – I honestly don’t know if this is normal – the first rule is to trust that voice. Write down however much you’re given and trust it as you build the rest of the novel, then trust it as you resume writing. This is harder than it seems. I always have an almost unbearable temptation to go back and edit those "given" sentences and make them more grammatical or more whatever. This is always a mistake.
Also, when writing after that, it is important to try to keep the voice consistent with those first sentences. Weirdly, if the book is going well, after a while it’s not an effort.
So, what if the voice isn’t there? Well... I also experience this. Note above "most of my books" but not all of them start with the character and the voice. Sometimes I have a great idea. Or worse, an idea that sold, but the voice won’t come.
Again, my advice will sound at best silly and at worst useless, but it’s what I do – cold comfort though it is, I advise you to seek the voice. Try it out. Give it some time, then try it out again. Think the book, immerse yourself in it. Think of the character, the character’s situation, what the character wants. Then try again. My record is two hundred and some first pages, but the voice did eventually come. Sometimes – again at the risk of being silly – it helps if you use a different medium to write those first two pages. Like, take a notepad and pen and try it long hand. Something about the shift jugs your subconscious lose.
But above all remember the important thing about voice is confidence. Your confidence in the voice translates to the page which in turn translates into reader confidence in what you are saying. So work on it, but don’t over think it and don’t doubt it.
Curiously, for those three people who aren’t tired of hearing about my art-class experiences, this translates to art. My art teacher says confidence and a distinctive, self-consistent style will carry the day over accurate technique and careful execution.
So, go forth, be confident, and have the courage to trust your words. PARTICULARLY when you’re telling made up stories.
Friday, November 7, 2008
Small World by Laura Resnick
Welcome to our newest additions to the Mad Genius Club (Writers Division): Pati Nagle and Jennifer Stevenson! Jennifer will be blogging on alternate Sundays. (And I gather that on the other Sundays, we'll have naked dancing boys. Or possibly just guest-bloggers if we can't book the dancers.)
And Pati and I will be sharing this slot, i.e. each of us will blog alternate Fridays from now on. It took me only two Fridays in a row as a Mad Genius to realize I couldn't possibly do this every Friday.
I owe books to three publishers, I owe short stories, I owe a monthly opinion column, I owe a master's thesis, I have my own website, I blog monthly on Ninc.com's blog (which blog Pati and I helped create), I'm still president of Novelists, Inc., I travel a few times a year to do public speaking, and—oh, yeah, I almost forgot--I actually have a personal life, too (which also includes traveling). So I can't also blog weekly here. I'm not Super Woman. (I'm not even Adequate Woman. I am Befuddled And Overwhelmed Woman.) But rather than drop out, I asked Sarah Hoyt a.k.a. She Who Must Be Obeyed, if I could share my Fridays with someone who also can't participate every week. Enter, La Nagle!
I know Jennifer Stevenson from an sf/f e-list that I founded a few years back, and which she joined. I subsequently turned over ownership of the e-list to someone else and left, after belatedly remembering that I can't stand writers. Jennifer and I finally met in person when we were both at the same mass-signing for authors at an RWA National conference in Dallas. I don't really remember anything, though, after Jennifer told me that there was a margarita in her travel mug. I instantly became obsessed with also getting a margarita and don't recall anything else we discussed that day. I think that the same sf/f writers e-list may also be where I originally know Pati from... but I know Pati from so many places that memory fades. I also know Pati because we were signed with the same publishing house for a while, and working with the same editor for a while. Pati's former literary agent represents a friend of mine, and I've known Jennifer's former literary agent (which agents are not the same agent) for years. I myself am way ahead of these two writers, as I have four former literary agents. (As much as I can't stand writers, it turns out I can stand agents even less.) But I digress. I know Jennifer's current editor, and Jennifer and Pati are currently at the same house, though I can't remember if they have the same editor. One of my current editors at another house used to work at the house where Pati and Jennifer currently are, and my dad was under contract at that house for a while (where his editor was the ex-spouse of an editor who acquired some of my old reprints for another house).
I also know Pati and Jennifer from Novelists, Inc. (Ninc), which I'll blog about next time. I'm the 2008 president of Ninc. Pati Nagle is co-chair of the website committee and therefore in co-command of Ninc.com, the organization's website (which we have recently launched after a massive redesign, restructure, and update of the old site, so go check it out). Jennifer is a member of Ninc, though I don't think I've yet got around to roping her into any volunteer duties there. (But, again, memory fades. I've wrestled so many people to the ground in Ninc, their names and faces have become a blur by now.)
Sarah a.k.a. Queen Of The Mad Genius Club is also a member of Novelists, Inc. But that's not where I know her from. I think I originally know Sarah from another sf/f writer e-list, which was founded years ago by Dean Wesley Smith and Kristine Kathryn Rusch. But I know Sarah from sooooo many places, I'm not really sure. I also know Sarah from the sf/f writers e-list which I founded and then abandoned. I know Sarah's former agents and her current one. I know several of her editors. She and I have a number of mutual friends (and probably a number of mutual enemies). I know her from Colorado Springs, where I've spoken a couple of times (and where I am returning to speak again, in April/09), and where she and her esteemed spouse have taken me site-seeing. I know her from the short fiction anthology she edited and was kind enough to invite me into, Something Magic This Way Comes. I've also been in a couple of anthologies that her talented and handsome husband, whose taste and judgment are above reproach, invited me into: Fate Fantastic and Better Off Undead. And I know her from the various late-night emails we exchange.
Writing is kind of a small world, as you may have gathered.
And now, thanks to Sarah, I've also made contact with the other Mad Genius clubbers: Dave Freer, Louise Marley, Rowena Cory Daniells, and John Lambshead! Laura Resnick www.LauraResnick.com
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Wednesday Update
Sarah is still fighting the creeping crud, so she won't be posting today. But she said to tell everyone she'll be back with another blog entry next week.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Do You Know Who I Am? Sarah Hoyt -- Miss Wednesday
No, no, don’t panic. That title above is supposed to be cute. Most people don’t know who I am, really. Heck, sometimes – particularly early of a morning, at the end of a novel – I’m not totally sure myself. However, today, I’m almost absolutely sure and I figure I might as well share my knowledge before it vanishes. So sit back, enjoy, and do take notes. There might be a quiz later. (Oh. Never mind. Used to be a teacher. Old habits die hard.)
My name is Sarah A. Hoyt – or in its long form {nods to Pterry’s vampires} Sarah Marques de Almeida Hoyt -- which is considerably shortened (not to mention changed) from my birth name (which is on my web page somewhere at the bottom of this.)
I was born a long time ago in a galaxy far away. My father, realizing our world was in peril... um. Never mind. I was born a long time ago in Portugal. I know I have hyper literate readers and that you are not either – almost certainly not – leafing through your Atlases trying to figure out where Portugal is. However, for those people who aren’t my readers or the readers of the rest of the writers here – yes, you, sir, in the back, who just came in to get out of the rain – Portugal is as far west as you can get before falling off the coast of Europe. It’s crammed between Spain and the sea and – as has been said of the Scots – has been locked throughout history in a tragic battle with its traditional enemy, the Portuguese. Of course, not being Scotland, Portugal is more subtle about it. It’s a cold war of attrition and interference, of sabotage and resistence. Each Portuguese is – in his heart – convinced that the country would be a fine place if only all of those other mugs would leave.
Sometime when I was about six I decided they were right, and I was one of the mugs who should leave. Not that I have anything about the country in general (or even in particular. Okay, okay, there was that teacher in ninth grade, but that hardly counts.) It’s rather that it felt like an ill fitting suit of clothes on my mental structures. Of course, being six, there wasn’t much I could do about moving. I tried. I was always very trying. I packed my books, grabbed my siamese cat under one arm and struck out for the nearest train station – regional trains only, the kind that stop at every hole in the wall. Note my practicality and selection of the important things in life. No money, no food, no plan. But I had books and a cat. For some reason, though, this carefully carried out escape failed and I was intercepted before I boarded the train. Again, just as well, as I had a vague idea that I was headed for Denver, which in my mental map was somewhere on the train line and, incidentally, right by the sea. (I said my readers were literate, not me.)
Needing to delay my escape, and having acquired some knowledge of the world – like, that money was needed -- To buy a bigger bag, so I could hide the cat in it. I mean, he was at least sixteen pounds. Stuck out like a sore thumb – I turned my mind for what I would do for money.
Here I should explain that at the age of six I was already a failure at the first two professions I’d set my heart on. The first one – probably not unreasonable for the only child in a household of adults – was being a cat. By the age of four or five it had dawned on me I was never going to be a cat, no matter how hard I tried and how much I practiced my purring. (And we won’t go into what Mom said when she caught me licking my arm. Let’s just say a bath was involved.) At this time I turned my ambitions towards being an angel. It seemed like a perfectly reasonable ambition. I’d get the pretty dress, I had a vague idea I’d become a blond and much, much prettier, and I’d float around on soft clouds all day. This was very cool. The fact that I couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket, much less an harp, was compensated for by having gleaned from movies – and comic books – that I could come to Earth now and then, mess around with innocent mortals and perhaps ring bells. (Never figured out what the bells were all about, but since ringing bells and running away was right at my level of humor at the time, I was cool with that too.)
Giving that one up was much harder and it involved several lectures from mom on the subject of how, if I were an angel, my wings would be black and smell vaguely of sulphur.
If you’ve read this far, you know how practical and rational I can be. So it should not surprise you at all that after my grand failed escape I settled on the perfect profession – I was, by gum, going to be a novelist. Unfortunately by this time I’d also acquired a heavy veneer of stubbornness.
So despite several rational – and a few irrational – people pointing out that writing is for those who know grammar, have a passing acquaintance with the real world or even an understanding of what people might want to read, I stuck it out. I stuck it out even when mom pointed out that all writers starved in the gutter, except for those who drowned in the gutter while drunk, and even though dad went all gray and stoic and pointed out they still had my brother, after all.
In fact I stuck it out through (by that time, frankly, I really wasn’t planning on it) moving to another country (my husband didn’t speak Portuguese. I spoke English. And also, Portugal was full of these bewildering people, the Portuguese) learning idiomatic English (yes, I’m sure my first submissions had the editors rolling on the floor. Laughing or crying or looking for a dictionary or something.) And then I stuck it out through several hundreds rejections – including the one where I got the rejection before I submitted to that house. (I have the greatest respect for that house. The sleuthing abilities involved, alone, ought to astound. I wonder if they send these in advance to anyone they suspect might be trying to write, or if they identified me as a unique peril. In either case, they were, of course, entirely justified.)
More difficult, I stuck it out through the realization that I had clue zero clue how to write a novel, and that my degree in modern languages and literatures was in fact an hindrance and I had to unlearn everything I thought I knew about what made great literature.
In movies or books this would mean I would by now be a mega bestseller, a household name and known – and possibly feared – in every corner – and some rounded parts – of the world.
Alas, though I keep pointing this out to the air at large, speaking in a stage whisper, with the vague hope that it might be taken note of – in his heart of hearts, every writer knows that G-d is an author – I have yet to see any difference. (Yes, I mean You, up there, at the eternal computer. The plucky character gets rewarded! Trust me. Would I lie to You?)
Not that I’m complaining exactly (of course I am. Yes, You, do You know the expression ‘covered in gold’? I’d really like to try that, in a non-literal sense) after all, I’ve now sold – counts on fingers and toes – eighteen novels all but four of which have now been delivered. Of those four, two – the first one in a new mystery series centering around furniture refinishing and DarkShip Thieves, my first space opera are now on the point of delivery (well, in a week or so, once I’ve beaten them into submission. Some characters are more refractory than others.) And I make a reasonable amount of money, though the last time I tried to spend it, the store told me they didn’t take that kind of money and no, I couldn’t buy Park Place at that store.
My most recent novels out are Soul of Fire – the second one in an alternate-history fantasy set in a British Empire that never was, where magicians and proscribed were-creatures control and change the fate of humanity – and Gentleman Takes A Chance – the second one in my Baen series about shape shifters who gather at a diner called The George and save the world from itself. (I like diners. Diners are inherently cool. If you are, say, running away from home at six in the morning, with a bag of books and a cat, you can always get food at a diner and usually for the change you can find your pocket. If there had been diners in Portugal, I’d still have been caught, but I probably would have had pancakes first.)
Next month the third one in the Alternate British Empire series – Heart and Soul – comes out. Coming out in December is Dying By The Sword, the fifth in my Three Musketeer Mysteries series. (I do NOT keep ghost writers chained in the basement. They couldn’t type while chained. I just have a really good lock on the door. – actually, the sad truth is I really like writing, so I do a lot of it. As you can tell by this introduction of my meager accomplishments.)
Oh, as a final note and ironically, I now live as close to Denver as makes no difference. Which goes to show that the Author might not have an understanding that The Plucky Character ALWAYS Gets Rewarded but He DOES have a sense of humor. And yes, I’m surprised anew every morning that it is not in fact by the sea.
Without further ado, you can read samples of my work at http://sarahahoyt.com/ and this will probably be posted late, due to technical difficulties (most of them residing between chair and Keyboard.)
And that’s it – I am Sarah A. Hoyt, your Miss Wednesday at Mad Genius Club, writers division. Now sit back, buy a drink and don’t throw peanuts at the performers.
My name is Sarah A. Hoyt – or in its long form {nods to Pterry’s vampires} Sarah Marques de Almeida Hoyt -- which is considerably shortened (not to mention changed) from my birth name (which is on my web page somewhere at the bottom of this.)
I was born a long time ago in a galaxy far away. My father, realizing our world was in peril... um. Never mind. I was born a long time ago in Portugal. I know I have hyper literate readers and that you are not either – almost certainly not – leafing through your Atlases trying to figure out where Portugal is. However, for those people who aren’t my readers or the readers of the rest of the writers here – yes, you, sir, in the back, who just came in to get out of the rain – Portugal is as far west as you can get before falling off the coast of Europe. It’s crammed between Spain and the sea and – as has been said of the Scots – has been locked throughout history in a tragic battle with its traditional enemy, the Portuguese. Of course, not being Scotland, Portugal is more subtle about it. It’s a cold war of attrition and interference, of sabotage and resistence. Each Portuguese is – in his heart – convinced that the country would be a fine place if only all of those other mugs would leave.
Sometime when I was about six I decided they were right, and I was one of the mugs who should leave. Not that I have anything about the country in general (or even in particular. Okay, okay, there was that teacher in ninth grade, but that hardly counts.) It’s rather that it felt like an ill fitting suit of clothes on my mental structures. Of course, being six, there wasn’t much I could do about moving. I tried. I was always very trying. I packed my books, grabbed my siamese cat under one arm and struck out for the nearest train station – regional trains only, the kind that stop at every hole in the wall. Note my practicality and selection of the important things in life. No money, no food, no plan. But I had books and a cat. For some reason, though, this carefully carried out escape failed and I was intercepted before I boarded the train. Again, just as well, as I had a vague idea that I was headed for Denver, which in my mental map was somewhere on the train line and, incidentally, right by the sea. (I said my readers were literate, not me.)
Needing to delay my escape, and having acquired some knowledge of the world – like, that money was needed -- To buy a bigger bag, so I could hide the cat in it. I mean, he was at least sixteen pounds. Stuck out like a sore thumb – I turned my mind for what I would do for money.
Here I should explain that at the age of six I was already a failure at the first two professions I’d set my heart on. The first one – probably not unreasonable for the only child in a household of adults – was being a cat. By the age of four or five it had dawned on me I was never going to be a cat, no matter how hard I tried and how much I practiced my purring. (And we won’t go into what Mom said when she caught me licking my arm. Let’s just say a bath was involved.) At this time I turned my ambitions towards being an angel. It seemed like a perfectly reasonable ambition. I’d get the pretty dress, I had a vague idea I’d become a blond and much, much prettier, and I’d float around on soft clouds all day. This was very cool. The fact that I couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket, much less an harp, was compensated for by having gleaned from movies – and comic books – that I could come to Earth now and then, mess around with innocent mortals and perhaps ring bells. (Never figured out what the bells were all about, but since ringing bells and running away was right at my level of humor at the time, I was cool with that too.)
Giving that one up was much harder and it involved several lectures from mom on the subject of how, if I were an angel, my wings would be black and smell vaguely of sulphur.
If you’ve read this far, you know how practical and rational I can be. So it should not surprise you at all that after my grand failed escape I settled on the perfect profession – I was, by gum, going to be a novelist. Unfortunately by this time I’d also acquired a heavy veneer of stubbornness.
So despite several rational – and a few irrational – people pointing out that writing is for those who know grammar, have a passing acquaintance with the real world or even an understanding of what people might want to read, I stuck it out. I stuck it out even when mom pointed out that all writers starved in the gutter, except for those who drowned in the gutter while drunk, and even though dad went all gray and stoic and pointed out they still had my brother, after all.
In fact I stuck it out through (by that time, frankly, I really wasn’t planning on it) moving to another country (my husband didn’t speak Portuguese. I spoke English. And also, Portugal was full of these bewildering people, the Portuguese) learning idiomatic English (yes, I’m sure my first submissions had the editors rolling on the floor. Laughing or crying or looking for a dictionary or something.) And then I stuck it out through several hundreds rejections – including the one where I got the rejection before I submitted to that house. (I have the greatest respect for that house. The sleuthing abilities involved, alone, ought to astound. I wonder if they send these in advance to anyone they suspect might be trying to write, or if they identified me as a unique peril. In either case, they were, of course, entirely justified.)
More difficult, I stuck it out through the realization that I had clue zero clue how to write a novel, and that my degree in modern languages and literatures was in fact an hindrance and I had to unlearn everything I thought I knew about what made great literature.
In movies or books this would mean I would by now be a mega bestseller, a household name and known – and possibly feared – in every corner – and some rounded parts – of the world.
Alas, though I keep pointing this out to the air at large, speaking in a stage whisper, with the vague hope that it might be taken note of – in his heart of hearts, every writer knows that G-d is an author – I have yet to see any difference. (Yes, I mean You, up there, at the eternal computer. The plucky character gets rewarded! Trust me. Would I lie to You?)
Not that I’m complaining exactly (of course I am. Yes, You, do You know the expression ‘covered in gold’? I’d really like to try that, in a non-literal sense) after all, I’ve now sold – counts on fingers and toes – eighteen novels all but four of which have now been delivered. Of those four, two – the first one in a new mystery series centering around furniture refinishing and DarkShip Thieves, my first space opera are now on the point of delivery (well, in a week or so, once I’ve beaten them into submission. Some characters are more refractory than others.) And I make a reasonable amount of money, though the last time I tried to spend it, the store told me they didn’t take that kind of money and no, I couldn’t buy Park Place at that store.
My most recent novels out are Soul of Fire – the second one in an alternate-history fantasy set in a British Empire that never was, where magicians and proscribed were-creatures control and change the fate of humanity – and Gentleman Takes A Chance – the second one in my Baen series about shape shifters who gather at a diner called The George and save the world from itself. (I like diners. Diners are inherently cool. If you are, say, running away from home at six in the morning, with a bag of books and a cat, you can always get food at a diner and usually for the change you can find your pocket. If there had been diners in Portugal, I’d still have been caught, but I probably would have had pancakes first.)
Next month the third one in the Alternate British Empire series – Heart and Soul – comes out. Coming out in December is Dying By The Sword, the fifth in my Three Musketeer Mysteries series. (I do NOT keep ghost writers chained in the basement. They couldn’t type while chained. I just have a really good lock on the door. – actually, the sad truth is I really like writing, so I do a lot of it. As you can tell by this introduction of my meager accomplishments.)
Oh, as a final note and ironically, I now live as close to Denver as makes no difference. Which goes to show that the Author might not have an understanding that The Plucky Character ALWAYS Gets Rewarded but He DOES have a sense of humor. And yes, I’m surprised anew every morning that it is not in fact by the sea.
Without further ado, you can read samples of my work at http://sarahahoyt.com/ and this will probably be posted late, due to technical difficulties (most of them residing between chair and Keyboard.)
And that’s it – I am Sarah A. Hoyt, your Miss Wednesday at Mad Genius Club, writers division. Now sit back, buy a drink and don’t throw peanuts at the performers.
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