Have You Ever Fallen in Love with One of Your Characters?

Something strange happened to me as I was writing my third novel, Dancing King. I fell in love with one of the characters.

Perhaps “fell in love” is too strong. “Became fascinated with” might be more apt. It was a character who came seemingly out of nowhere, a minor character, in fact, one whose presence wasn’t crucial to the story.

The character was born out of the need to plug a hole. The main characters were trying to fill a position and not having much success. Their problem was actually the author’s fault – it was the author who wasn’t having much success figuring out what to do. 

The problem didn’t solve itself; I had planned on this minor character, but it was going to be a tiny, short-lived role, unrelated to the unfilled position. And then, for his short scene, he wouldn’t leave the page.

To continue reading, please see my post today at the ACFW blog.

Photograph by Karl Frederickson viaUnsplash. Used with permission.

Make a Little Plan, Stan

I’ve talked before about how my two novels, Dancing Priest and A Light Shining, came to be written. Inspired by a song, the story for both was written in my head for four years. When it came time to write it down, it poured out – gushed is the operative word – for almost 250,000 words. Ultimately, I cut the equivalent of one novel from two. The editing and rewriting process essentially lasted for six years.

Along the way, the outlines, drafts, and ideas for six more novels using the same characters came into being, ranging from a 4,000-word treatment to a 70,000 word manuscript. And somewhere in there came two entirely different novel ideas, one becoming a 60,000-word manuscript and the other a 1,000-word summary. And wouldn’t you know it, but the ideas for three more novels in the Dancing Priest series have been rattling around my head, following the same process as the original – creation in my mind as I go to sleep at night.

And did I mention the 30,000-word novella?

This is not exactly what I would call a deliberate writing plan. Including the two that are published, this would mean a total of 14 books.

It makes my head hurt just to think about it.

I think of these manuscripts, these words, the characters waiting in the wings, so to speak, and I’m not sure if there will even be another play. I’m working on the third novel in the series, but I’m plagued by all the usual doubts.

My plan will likely be something like “just plow right on ahead.”

I work in a company where this absence of planning would be anathema. Planning means control, and whether they realize or not, all corporations were created with the idea of control. Control your market. Control your environment. Anticipate anything and everything. Everything is a process and everything has a plan. Measure the results of your plan.

Corporations take a function like mine – communicating with the great, messy, unruly, uncontainable, obnoxious and unwashed public out there, and especially these days with social media  – and expect it to control that environment. Result: #totalfail. The communications revolution we’ve been living since the creation of the worldwide web has, if nothing else, proven that no one can control anything. In fact, it’s not about control any more, if it ever really was. (Watch what happens when you tell big company executives that it’s not about control; it’s about letting go of control.) (Result: #careerfail.)

The way I’ve written all of my manuscripts may very well be compensating for the writing rigidity I’ve experienced at work. I’ve let inspiration move me. In one form or another, there are likely some 500,000 words of published and unpublished manuscripts, with at least that many words to go if all of these books ever see the light of day.

Yes, I need a plan. And I need to take to heart some words I just read about planning your writing.

“Some stories can’t be written now” says Charity Craig in On Being a Writer: 12 Simple Habits for a Writing Life That Lasts  (co-authored with Ann Kroeker). “They don’t fit together, or they compete…Or maybe the stories refused to be written. Either the story is not ready, or I’m not ready to write it…having a plan doesn’t mean having all the answers.”

Having a plan doesn’t mean having all the answers. That may be one of the most encouraging things I’ve read about writing. Ever.

For the past several weeks, I’ve been discussing On Being a Writer. This chapter is entitled “Plan.” I can’t recommend the book highly enough – it’s filled with wisdom for any writer at any stage of their writing career.

Illustration by Francisco Farias Jr. via Public Domain Pictures. Used with permission. 

It’s just a song

I’m listening to a Michael W. Smith CD Wonder, and the last song is “Take Me Over.” Most of it is like a contemporary worship song, until the 3:15 mark or so, and it moves into something almost classical, a building and swelling theme that peaks and then subsides, followed by a final chorus.

I play the song again, keying on that section again. And again.

I listen to the music, and images begin to form. The more I listen to the song, the clearer the images become. And then at some point, usually days later, the story begins to emerge.

Two people, a man and a woman. They’re young. She’s walking with her mother on the lawn behind a large house (similar to what’s pictured above, but not as big). He comes down the steps from the house. He’s limping, and using a cane. He begins a running hobble toward the two women on the lawn. The older woman puts her hand on the younger woman’s arm. The young woman sees the hobbling figure. She begins to walk fast, and then breaks into a run towards the young man.

That’s the central image, framed by the music. I begin to build out from there. How did they meet? At the theater. She was on stage, in a play. There’s something slightly scandalous at the idea of her being in a play. He’s not limping when they first meet, so where does the limp come from? And who is he? He’s in a kind of exile, something of a black sheep. Why? He gave a speech, telling the truth.

Still, where does the limp come from? I play the song again, and the answer becomes clearer. An explosion. On a road. He’s in a jeep with three others, sitting in the back. No one realizes the road is mined. The jeep hits a land mine and is capsized in the explosion. Stories filter back, but communications are difficult – all phone and internet service has been taken down, and most cellular towers disabled.

For three months, they will not be able to communicate with each other. She will hear rumors but nothing can be confirmed. She’s in London, out of harm’s way. And where is he? I listen to two more songs on Wonder, and then return to “Take Me Over.” And the rest of the story falls into place.

I didn’t expect this when I listened to the CD. In fact, “Take Me Over” was not my favorite song (it still isn't; there's another one I like more). I’d often finish listening to the song before it and switch to something else. Until the day I let the CD play through, and found that wonderful two minutes of music.

My novels Dancing Priest and A Light Shining originated in a song, heard on an in-flight program while I was flying to San Francisco. I worked the story in my head for three years before I began to write it down. I’m still working this story in my head, and I know who the characters are but I’m not ready to write the story down. Not just yet.

I play the song again, and listen.