Creativity

Understanding Point-of-View

KWhipkey 7 Comments

POV. Love it or hate it, this is one of the most crucial decisions a writer makes. And yet, it often seems like writers overlook that fact, defaulting into whatever format they tend to read most. True, there’s something familiar and comfortable about mimicking a style you spend a large portion of your reading time in. But we’re not parrots, and choosing the right POV can make or break a story. It’s like the cinematography of literature, unseen and yet so incredibly crucial to the way you convey your tale. An invisible camera, it translates your ideas into images your viewers (readers in this case) can imagine. Whether it’s a sweeping panorama of landscape, or a close-up of your character’s soul, each style is specifically built to capture the mind’s eye in a variety of ways.

Why wouldn’t you want to put thought into how to wield a tool that powerful?

So let’s take a quick look at the various options, as well as their strengths and weaknesses, that way you can make educated choices about your next WIP: (Note, these will not talk about tense choice, as that opens a whole other can of worms. This is just the basic format for whose eyes we see through.)

First Person

May as well kick it off with the one that currently dominates a lot of genres. This one should be familiar to all of you — it’s the self-centered diva of the ball. In cinematography, this would be the camera that’s tethered to your character, perched on their shoulder like some kind of weird growth. It faithfully follows their every move and puts readers firmly in their heads. We experience what they do — their thoughts, their physical sensations, their fears and emotions, all of it.

The downside to using this format? Well, you’re stuck with that one character. Literally. The point of this POV is to let readers live vicariously as someone else. When you do your job well, they figuratively step into your character’s skin. Which means that they can only know what your character does. Want to show us what their potential lover is thinking when they stare at your MC? Too bad, you can’t. Want to clue us in to the nefarious plotting of your villain that’s taking place halfway across Fictitious-land from your leading man? Sorry. No can do.

Don’t get me wrong, First Person is a very powerful POV, but it’s limited. When deciding whether or not to use this one, look at the way your story is structured. Is it most effectively told from inside your character? Or do you want to be able to pull the camera back a little bit and show us more than just that character’s inner emotions?

Second Person

This is actually a fairly unusual POV, but you will occasionally stumble across it, more frequently in short stories than novels, though there are a few of those out there too. The cinematic version most akin to this would be a GoPro camera attached to your character’s head, where you’re literally shown the story through the character’s eyes. But not like the version seen in First Person. No, here, you never see the character’s face, because you are the character. This is my least favorite style of fiction because it always comes across as bossy. If First Person is the self-centered sibling, this is the bossy older sister who never lets you get away with crap.

Populated by an abundance of “you did this, you did that,” Second Person strives to get you to experience the story as if it were truly happening to you. The problem I have with it is a) I don’t like being told what to do, and b) it’s heavy-handed use of breaking the fourth wall (talking directly to the reader) actually makes immersion into the story that much more difficult. At least for me. I have seen it done well, but trust me, if you’re going to try this one, you better be a master storyteller. Not only is it extremely limited, but it takes a brilliantly light touch to achieve the escapism people are looking for when they read.

Third Person Limited

Another common one, this is the popular, people-pleasing twin to First Person, most frequently abused by those just starting out and often unappreciated for its generous gifts. The camera equivalent is the film style most often seen in video games. It follows a select character around, but at a slightly more respectable distance than that seen in First Person. Where First Person is all up in your character’s business, Third Person Limited is the quietly observing stalker in the bushes. You’re allowed to showcase more of the world outside of the character’s head, but also still allowed to show us their thoughts. But only their thoughts.

The key here is that “limited” tacked on to the end. Often, writers confuse the fact that they get to say things like “he did this” and “she said that” for the ability to jump between characters. But that’s incorrect, and is the biggest danger in using this style — head-hopping. Though you are most definitely outside of your character, you’re still tied to their movements. It’s a tight close-up or medium shot, not a free-roaming scenario that can pan across whatever part of the story you feel like. For that, you need . . .

Third Person Omniscient

Poor Third Person Omniscient is the wicked step-child. Once the favored style of fantasy and sci-fi authors everywhere, it now frequently falls beneath the mislabeled sword of head-hopping and is swiftly nixed from every manuscript. Except for a few stalwart authors in the know. Why the confusion? Because of the definition of that lovely “O” word in the title. “Omniscient” means that the narrator knows everything. This is the free-floating camera, disconnected from any one character and free to weave in and out of everyone’s thoughts at whim. This is actually the most versatile of the POVs, which also makes it the hardest to do effectively.

The trick to using this one is understanding the fine line between head-hopping and omniscient narrative (if you’d like me to go into further detail about this specifically, let me know in the comments, and I’ll do a separate post about it). Namely, you need to have a firm grasp on your characters and how to move the camera around effectively. The most visual example I can think of is where you watch a conversation between two or more characters in a movie and the camera switches back and forth between close-ups of each speaker.

Objective

Who here has never heard of this one at all? It’s okay. It’s not often talked about for some reason. To keep with our family analogy, Objective POV is the distant fourth cousin three times removed that you never knew you had. And there’s a reason — it’s hard. In Objective POV, you’re only allowed to impart the facts. That means no access to any of your characters’ heads. At all. No telling, no inner monologues, only observable details.

Have a bad habit of telling instead of showing? Try writing in this for awhile — it’ll break that habit real fast, because all you can do is show. Facial expressions, body language, physical details in the environment and characters’ appearances, these are the only tools you have to convey what your characters are thinking and feeling. In short, this is the literary equivalent of film. That same distance you feel between yourself and a movie? Yep, you’ll run into that here too, which is its biggest downfall — a lack of intimacy. But, when done well, this can be one of the more powerful writing tools.

So, there you have it, the five main POV choices. I’m sure some of you are wondering, if there’s an Objective POV, shouldn’t there be a Subjective one? You’re right, there is. It’s called the other four I listed. They’re considered subjective because all four allow you inside at least one character’s head. Satisfied?

This is by no means a detailed tutorial on how to wield each style effectively, but it does give you the basics of what each is good for, as well as what pitfalls you should be aware of. A good writer will experiment with all the tools at their disposal. Not every story will be best told in First Person, and not every character will shine in Third. So spend some time exploring the different techniques; the only thing it will do is increase your skill set. Make POV a conscious decision and gain one more level of control in your work. Understand how the camera moves, and you’ll gain a firmer grasp of storytelling in general. Humans are visual creatures, so use POV to help us see your story the way you do.

Any questions?

 

Short Story Feature: Spinning

KWhipkey 2 Comments

Today is a holiday here in the states (Happy 4th of July everyone! Hope it’s fantastic and safe!), so I wanted to do something different from the norm to celebrate; something that is both unprecedented here on Nightwolf’s Corner and potentially a new post series, depending on how you guys like it. It’s an idea I’ve been toying with for a while, but that I haven’t had time to implement. And, unfortunately, that’s likely to remain the case for some time. However, nothing starts without taking that first step, right?

I’ve featured a lot of advice/opinion-based posts over the years (and that will continue), as well as a spattering of artwork and, more recently, book reviews. But I’ve never featured writing, in the sense that I post an entire piece of work for your perusal. That’s something I’d like to change, though. In the coming months (okay, more like years), I’d like to start featuring some shorter works of mine, scattered periodically among all the other goodies I bring you. And today seems like the perfect day to kick that off with a bang (pun intended).

For this inaugural post, I’ve chosen to feature Spinning, my personal favorite of the three stories I previously published. Keep in mind that this is still in the (non-professionally edited)condition it was originally published in, and is currently on my list of stories to revise & re-release, so I’m perfectly aware of the typos and stuff. It’s not necessary to point them out (Grammar Nazis, I’m talking to you here). But I do hope that you still enjoy it. After all, it was polished enough to make it into a magazine once upon a time. It’s just maybe not polished enough to pass my Super-Editor standards anymore. 😉

Be warned, though, it is fairly long, so I won’t blame you if you don’t read it all in one sitting. But, should you read it and feel the need to comment, please do. Feedback is always welcome. 🙂
 

Spinning

by Kisa Whipkey

 
“Don’t go,” she whispered, her eyes pleading. I sighed and pulled myself away from the comfort of her arms.

“I have to, Rose. It’s my job. When they summon, I go.” Secretly I agreed with her; I would much rather stay in bed than report to the castle. I heard her disgruntled snort behind me as I pulled on my clothes. When I turned, a pout puckered her full lips but her green eyes were mischievous. She knew how hard it was for me to deny that face.

“Please don’t make this harder than it already is,” I told her. As I expected, her pretend pout became more sincere as she realized she wasn’t going to get her way.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” I promised, leaning in to kiss her goodbye and brushing tangled curls away from her face.

“You better,” she returned, her tone snide, her eyes sparkling.

As she burrowed back under the covers, I left the cottage, grabbing my violin from its place near the door on my way out. The morning was brisk and I paused to wrap my cloak tightly around my shoulders. Slinging the violin to its customary place against my back, I headed for the castle.

A bard by trade, music was more than just my livelihood; it was my gift, my calling. Even so, I loathed having to entertain the King’s court. No audience was as difficult to please as a royal one. Though, somehow, I had managed to endear myself to the listeners at Briara Castle. They continued to summon me almost daily and I continued to go. If I didn’t, I would be executed for disobeying a royal order. Not exactly the life I had promised my beautiful new bride. The thought of my Rose waiting impatiently for me to return sped my steps. The sooner I finished my obligations, the sooner I could return to newly-wedded bliss.

The guards at the castle gates barely acknowledged my presence. I had come and gone so many times in the past weeks that I was sure I was now as familiar to them as the rest of the castle staff—maybe even more so, since most of the castle help lived on the premises, while I still had to walk back and forth from the village. It didn’t matter though. Experience had shown me that very few challenged the comings and goings of a Bard. For all they knew, I could be an assassin, and yet they granted me unlimited access to the innermost chambers with barely a cursory glance. Oddly, this gave me a sense of power that I reveled in — especially when faced with an unappreciative audience.

As I reached my usual station at the back of the grand ballroom, I surveyed the room. The King and his attendants were clustered on the other end; a mass of elegantly garbed women hovered between us. No one seemed to notice as I set-up, taking my seat and tuning the violin quietly. It was already in tune of course, but this was part of the performance. If anyone bothered to watch, that is.

Only three more hours, I told myself. I can get through this.

Taking a deep breath of resignation, I brought the cool varnish of the violin to rest under my chin, my fingers finding their familiar homes on the delicate strings. I closed my eyes and began to play. It was a soft melody, haunting; and probably completely unnoticed by the crowd. I was paid for adding to the ambiance, not because anyone really cared about song choice. I knew that when I took the job, but it still irritated me.

Playing from the back of the room for the stiff upper class was not the image I had envisioned when I began my training. I was talented, and I knew it. Music came to me effortlessly. I wanted the adoring fans, the taverns filled with people completely enthralled by my gift. But while those smaller gatherings were more satisfying to my ego, they didn’t satisfy the wallet. I could have been happy trading my services for the simple necessities of food and lodging, but there was no way I could — would — ever ask Rose to live that way.

As I finished the melody, I opened my eyes. One of the women was staring at me intently. It unnerved me to have one of them finally look at me. And not just look in feigned appreciation at the end of the song; she was really seeing me.

I waited the obligatory few minutes between songs, allowing the crowd to drift into new conversations and different locations. The dark-haired woman glided my way. She moved so subtly at first that I wasn’t sure what she was doing; she paused to speak with several other women before her intentions were finally clear. Could she really have liked the previous song that much? She hadn’t looked particularly moved by the melancholy notes. And why was she so intent that no one saw she wanted to speak to me?

Her blue eyes narrowed as she approached. I gazed up at her warily, sure I was either going to get a nasty critique or a vague request for some song she’d heard once that resembled what I’d just played.

“What’s your name?” she demanded. Her voice was low, musical and authoritative.

“Taylor,” I answered, waiting for the berating to begin.

“Hmmm. You’re very talented, Taylor. More so than you realize I think.” One delicate eyebrow arched appraisingly as her gaze traveled over my frame. I squirmed uncomfortably and internally laughed at myself. Since when did the appreciative gaze of a beautiful woman make me uncomfortable?

“I’m sorry, milady, I don’t understand what you mean by that.”

She smiled, her lips curving in an expression devoid of humor but full of knowledge. “You will soon,” she replied and turned away. “Play something fast for me, will you Taylor?” she called over her shoulder as she floated back to the other women, leaving me staring like a smitten fool.

Thoroughly confused and more than a little unnerved, I tried to focus my thoughts. Play something fast, eh? That was an easy request to fill, albeit not one I had been expecting. But then, nothing about that exchange had been what I expected. I looked up to find the strange woman among the others and met her icy blue gaze. I offered a weak smile and lifted the violin in her direction, the age-old acknowledgement of a request or dedication. Then, swallowing nervously, I brought the instrument to rest on my shoulder again.

I didn’t close my eyes as I began to play an up-tempo jig I hoped she would like.

Suddenly, everything changed. I nearly fell off the stool, the strings squealing in protest at the sudden jerk of my hand. The room was spinning, and not the way it does after over-indulgence in spirits. This was a strange blurring of the action around me. The farthest walls seemed to become a circle of colored stripes colliding, like someone had trapped a rainbow in a bucket and stirred furiously.

I could still clearly see the people around me, but they were moving at speeds that shouldn’t have been possible. No one was dancing, no one was running, they were simply continuing their day–accelerated. I sat frozen, watching the jerky blur of people meandering throughout the room, talking for the blink of an eye and moving on to the next conversation.

And then, abruptly, it was over. Everything returned to normal. Almost.

Everyone was staring at me. Finally it dawned on me that they were waiting for me to leave. Somehow, my time here was done after only two songs. I rose stiffly and bowed while applause filled the air. As I bent to put away the violin, I scanned the crowd for the blue-eyed woman. I needed to get her alone and ask her what the hell just happened. But she was nowhere to be seen. My one possible link to answers, and she had vanished.

Hurriedly, I left the ballroom, searching for some sign of the mystery woman. But she was gone, and I would probably never know the answer to her cryptic warning. I shook my head, trying to dispel it of the panic I felt digging its claws into my mind. How could three hours be condensed into a matter of seconds? Was I losing my mind? Had I contracted some rare disease from the chalk on the violin bow? I grasped at that last thought like a drowning man to a piece of driftwood. That had to be it — the delusion had been caused by inhaling too much chalk.

I sucked in deep gulps of air, trying to clear my head and lungs of the poisonous dust. What was I going to tell Rose? How was I going to explain being home so early? Because that was the only explanation — that I had been dismissed early. I was only imagining that time had somehow sped up.

As I walked, I continued trying to convince myself. Before long, I was within view of the cottage, and had almost managed to dispel the fear. I smiled as Rose came into view. Her slim figure was wrapped in a simple dress, an apron cinched around her tiny waist. Her blond hair was piled in an unruly mess on top of her head. She beamed as she saw me and came running out, bouncing like a little girl. She threw herself into my arms, kissing me with fervor. I lost myself in that kiss, letting it chase the last shadows of panic from my mind. I shifted until she was cradled in my arms and carried her into the house, grateful that she hadn’t seemed to notice I was home early.

***

By the next morning, I had almost convinced myself that the episode in the ballroom had been nothing more than wishful thinking. I had wanted so badly to be anywhere else that I pretended time accelerated. I thought my attempt at rationalization was pretty good, but there was still a nagging voice in my head that disagreed; that parroted back the words of the strange woman, growing louder and more insistent with every passing hour.

I wasn’t requested at the castle, so after a rousing morning with Rose, I took my violin and headed into the forest outside our cottage. There was only one way to quell the last suspicions, to prove to myself that the incident had been nothing but a daydream.

The ground crunched beneath my boots as I trudged deep into the forest. When I was sufficiently away from the civilized world, I found a clearing conveniently littered with stumps and fallen trees. I didn’t waste time pretending to tune the instrument. It was played often enough that it rarely lost its perfect pitch. Instead, I brought the violin to my shoulder and began the same jig as before.

Nothing happened.

The sound filled the clearing with a happy bubbling, but all the trees stayed stationary as ever. Relief flooded through me, pushing the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding into existence. So it had been the dust, nothing more.

I settled onto a nearby stump and began a different song. This time I chose a smooth waltz, something with intricate, eerie harmonies and a soothing undertone. Again, the world stayed as it should. Reassured, I closed my eyes and lost myself in the music.

I don’t know how long I played, the composition swelling around me like a sea, but finally the song was over. Satisfied, I opened my eyes.

The forest whirled around me. I fell from the stump, the violin flying out of my hand. The greens and blues of nature spun into one indistinguishable mass above me. Oddly, the ground seemed as stable as always.

I stayed where I was for several minutes, but the spinning didn’t stop. I tried closing my eyes and reopening them, but nothing worked. Why wasn’t it stopping? What had I unleashed? Fear and uncertainty choked my breath into ragged, shallow gasps. I knew I couldn’t lie on the ground forever, but I was scared to move.

Finally, I tried to rise. The spinning continued, but I had no trouble gaining my feet. I had expected some sort of vertigo, the rush of wind, the pull of gravity, something. But everything felt normal–it just didn’t look that way.

I ran, forgetting the violin, bolting for the comforts of home; the comforts of Rose. I didn’t understand how I wasn’t falling; the greenery was a blur, but somehow, I could see clearly within a small radius, enough that I could find my way through the trees.

It wasn’t as long as it should’ve been before the cottage came into view. I stopped at the edge of the forest, watching as the sun trekked its way across the sky in a matter of moments. This wasn’t possible! Why was this happening?

I shook my head, trying to dispel the vision, but it didn’t help. The world continued to move faster than it should.

“Taylor!”

The shrill cry caught my attention. I looked up to see Rose. She separated from the blur of the background, moving as if she were searching for someone, her actions jerky, like a bird hopping after worms. She called my name several more times, sounding more and more worried. Yet she was staring directly at me.

“It’s ok, Rose. I’m right here,” I answered, confused. But it was as if I didn’t exist. Her frenzied green eyes looked through me, and my voice landed on deafened ears. It had only been a few moments, but already the sun was setting, the sky darkening at a rapid pace. And still, my world refused to slow. How long could this possibly last? The song I’d played hadn’t been that long.

Rose started to cry, and each tear seared through me. I tried to reach her, but nothing was working. No matter how loud I screamed, she didn’t hear me. Every time I tried to grab her, to wrap her in my arms, I couldn’t catch her. She flitted away like a hummingbird.

Finally, she stopped and sank to the grassy floor. It was fully dark now, the stars watching our painful dance with flickering eyes. Seeing my beautiful Rose crumpled and sobbing was unbearable. I had to reach her. To let her know I was all right.

I moved toward her. The world shivered around me, but Rose stayed within my bubble of clarity. In fact, the harder I concentrated, the slower her actions seemed to become. Her sobs changed from the rapid pace of a newborn’s heart to the regular shudders of someone in agony. Feeling the first flicker of hope, I advanced cautiously.

Her voice had dropped from the high-pitched sounds of a squirrel to her normal range, but as I got closer it began to lower, her sobs turning to a frightening wheeze. She was moving in slow motion now. She’d gone from one extreme to the other. Why was I the only thing that moved at a normal pace?

I stood over her, confused, watching her pain in heightened detail, trying to decide how to reach her. I couldn’t let her continue on broken like this — I was okay, and she needed to know that. I bent down, reaching out slowly, afraid she’d jerk away again before I could wrap her in my arms.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

I froze with my hand outstretched and turned to find the voice. Standing on the edge of the forest was the blue-eyed woman. She stood calmly, her dark hair fluttering in the light breeze, her sinuous frame relaxed in hunting garb, her piercing eyes serious.

“You!” I cried, staring in shock. What was she doing here?

“Step away from the girl, Taylor.”

“Why? I have to comfort her, tell her I’m all right!” My gaze fluctuated between Rose and the strange woman. Uncertain, I lowered my hand, but remained crouched, waiting.

“When you touch her, her life will be forced outside of time and she’ll become part of the blur around you. Except that when you stop Spinning, she won’t. She’ll be trapped in the Spin. Forever,” the woman explained, looking at me gravely. Completely lost, I shook my head.

“What? I don’t understand.” I felt thick-headed, but the woman’s vague words made absolutely no sense and didn’t explain why I couldn’t comfort my wife.

“If you touch her, she dies. Simple enough for you?” she said condescendingly, her blue eyes flashing with annoyance.

I stared at her while her words sank in. Looking at Rose in horror, I scrambled quickly away. I still didn’t understand, but I didn’t want to risk that what Blue-eyes said was true. No one spoke for what seemed an eternity. I watched Rose’s shoulders rise and fall in painful heaves and felt powerless. Helplessness was a new sensation, and I didn’t like it.

“If you know so much, then you fix this. Make it stop so I can comfort my wife!” I yelled at Blue-eyes, frustration boiling over into anger.

“Come on, you have a lot of training to do,” Blue-eyes answered, turning away and moving into the shadows of the forest.

“No . . . wait! What do you mean? I’m not going with you. I can’t leave Rose like this!” I couldn’t believe she had completely ignored me. I stood, my hands clenched into fists. My rage needed an outlet, and the only thing I was certain of was that this was somehow her fault. I advanced on her, planning to intimidate her into doing what I wanted. But she just gazed at me, unconcerned, her hands on her hips. The lack of response doused my fury, withering it like a fire sputtering without oxygen.

“Please, I don’t understand what’s happening. Can’t you give me something? Some sort of explanation? Can you stop this?” I begged, the embers of my anger cooling into despair.

“I’m sorry for your confusion Taylor, but I can’t give you any information,” she said, her voice softening, “You need to come with me; I’ll take you to the one with answers. And no, I can’t stop another’s Spin. Only you can make it stop, but without training, it will have to play itself out. Now, shall we?” She offered her hand, her body angling away toward the forest.

“But Rose,” I said, looking back at the crumpled figure in the grass. I didn’t want to leave her this way — couldn’t leave her this way! She was everything to me, and I’d promised her. I wanted so badly to go to her, but the woman’s warning held me back. I felt a black hole forming in my chest; subconsciously, I was accepting the inevitable.

Blue-eyes was beside me then, her hand on my shoulder. “There’s nothing more you can do for her. You have to let her go.” I stared into those blue eyes, feeling their ice seep to my core. I nodded silently, giving up.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” she murmured sympathetically before moving away to the edge of the forest. “It’s time Taylor, we must go.”

“I love you Rose,” I whispered, refusing to concede defeat by saying goodbye. This wasn’t the end — couldn’t be the end. I would find my way back.

I turned and followed the blue-eyed woman into the darkness of the trees. Each step was more painful than the last, and though Rose’s sobbing was fading as the distance between us grew, I knew I would always hear it.

***

From that day on, I was a man imprisoned, serving a sentence for what? Having been too happy? I wasn’t sure. The only thing I was sure of was that I wasn’t the same. I was still alive, but only just.

The blue-eyed woman, Amelia, introduced me to my new family, the Spinners; all of us were bards and all of us possessed the curse of being able to manipulate time. Ironically, we were generally hired as assassins, a fact which caused me to laugh hysterically for hours when our leader, Brenton, told me.

The following months were spent in training. I learned to control my power, to start and stop the Spin at will. I learned how to kill with a single touch. The warning Amelia had given me that day had saved Rose’s life. I was thankful that I’d chosen to believe her. It still unsettled me how close I came to inflicting the worst pain I could on myself. I may not have been able to be with Rose, but at least there was comfort in knowing she was alive. As long as she was safe, there was still hope that I would find my way back to her.

They explained to me that once in a Spin, we were outside of time, existing in a limbo world where time became a tangible object, like smoke. We were invisible in this state to the normal world, and though we did age, we did it differently. Time no longer constrained us, and because of that, we were nearly immortal, living for hundreds of years before gaining our first wrinkle. Brenton was going on a thousand years, and as far as anyone knew, he was the first Spinner.

The one thing no one seemed able to explain is where the curse came from. Why were we capable of warping time while others weren’t? And why were we all musically inclined? They did explain how Amelia had known I was one of them — she was a Recruiter, gifted with the rare talent of feeling another’s Spin before it began. There was much about the Spinners that I questioned, but since none of my peers seemed to have the answers, I resigned myself to their life. Secretly, I vowed to discover the source of this curse, to find a way to reverse it if I could.

 

Throughout my training, I never stopped thinking about Rose. I was certain I never would. But my new life was not one she could be a part of. We were sworn to secrecy, kept mostly to ourselves and never stayed in one place too long. People became suspicious when you didn’t age. Still, I needed to see her. I knew I couldn’t talk to her, but I needed her. To hear her laugh, see her smile. I was an addicted man, and it had been far too long since my last dose.

Finally, my training complete, I was given my first assignment. I was being sent to the very court where I’d once played. The Spinners had provided a replacement during my absence and secured the invitation for my return. This time as I passed beneath the gates, unnoticed by the guards, I smiled to myself. What could they do anyway? We weren’t carrying any physical weapon, and no one would see the assassination. There would be no way for them to identify me.

After I successfully finished my mission, I could detour past my former home. That thought was more thrilling than anything else and I hurried to my place at the back of the ballroom. I scanned the crowd as I set-up, catching the eye of Amelia. She was clothed in a flattering cobalt-hued dress that hugged her assets to perfection. She blinked, the only acknowledgement she could give me without risking her cover and turned away, mingling effortlessly with the other women. It was comforting to know she was there. I knew I was ready, that I could do this, but having back-up in case I failed was reassuring. While one Spinner had no control over the Spin of another, we could operate within it. So if for some reason I froze, she would be able to finish the job.

I looked over the mass of female heads to focus on the King reclining on the other side of the room. In all the time I’d spent performing here, I’d never bothered to really examine the man paying my fee. A man who enslaved his people, I had since learned, gleaning more than necessary from the hard working peasants and doing nothing to improve the life of anyone but himself. This selfishness was what had made him a target for the Spinners. When he was gone, his eldest son would ascend the throne — a man more dedicated to growth and the success of the kingdom as a whole.

Even though I knew the old man seated across the room from me was corrupt, I was still having a hard time reconciling murdering him. It wasn’t right; there should have been other ways. But until I found the cure for my ailment, I was forced to live by the rules of the Spinners. And that meant killing those I was sent to kill. There was some consolation in the knowledge that his death would be painless; that he wouldn’t even see it coming. But I still didn’t relish the thought of being the one to end his life.

I took a deep breath to quell my reservations as I brought the violin to my shoulder. I locked gazes with Amelia and nodded ever so slightly. Then, closing my eyes, I began to play, calling forth the Spin with the first sweet notes.

I was no longer unsettled by the blur around me. Instead, I rose swiftly, setting the violin down behind me. The Spin would continue until I ended it, the people in the room oblivious to anything but the music that still filled the air around them. I moved calmly through the sea of women, stopping when I reached the King. He sat frozen before me, his eyes locked on the crowd and his lips curved in a smile I was certain he faked. I stared at this man who was old enough to be my grandfather, searching his wizened face for signs of the evil I’d been told he embodied. But I couldn’t see it. To me, he was just another old man.

A flicker of normal motion alerted me that Amelia had entered the Spin with me. She was waiting off to my left, watching intently. I wasn’t sure how long she was going to wait before stepping in. If I failed, if Amelia had to finish the assignment, I would have to return to my training, losing my chance to see Rose. That was something I couldn’t allow, not again.

“I’m sorry,” I breathed. Reluctantly, I placed my hand against his chest. Immediately, I felt the ribbon of his life flicker against my palm like a flag in the wind. When I withdrew my hand, that ribbon would follow, leaving his body and joining the whirl of time around me. Frowning, I closed my eyes and pulled my hand away. I couldn’t watch life leave his eyes; couldn’t gaze into those deadened orbs and know it was my doing that made them that way. I flicked my wrist to rid my hand of the Life Ribbon attached to it, and felt the old man’s spirit disappear into the Spin.

It was over. I’d done it. The old King was dead.

Feeling sickened, I walked back to my place, barely noticing the jerky activity around me. I didn’t even try to find Amelia, though I knew she would be waiting nearby to congratulate my success. Dully, I picked up the violin and sat. Bringing it to my chin, I closed my eyes and played, feeling the Spin dissipate like smoke cleared by a wind. I didn’t stop playing or open my eyes until the scream sounded.

I looked up to see the attendants clustering around the lifeless body of their ruler. Sobs and hysterical voices filled the hall, calling futilely for a doctor. In the confusion, I calmly put away my violin and left the room. No one would even notice I was gone. Amelia met me in the foyer and we walked silently into the fresh air of the courtyard. Once beyond the castle gates, she turned to me and smiled.

“Good job, Taylor. I wasn’t sure you could do it, but you pulled through. Welcome to the Order.” She held out her hand and I shook it without returning her enthusiastic smile. I hoped she would attribute my silence to shock, but her shrewd blue-eyes implied otherwise. Without another word, she turned away and melted into the shadows, finally giving me what I needed—solitude. I was alone for the first time in months, and I knew exactly what I was going to do with my freedom.

I sprinted down the familiar road to my old cottage, praying to a god I didn’t believe in that Rose would still be there. I stopped at the crest that afforded the first view of the house and nearly sobbed with relief. It was clearly still inhabited, laundry was swaying gently in the breeze, and the garden was a profusion of colorful roses, obviously tended by their namesake. No one else would have that many in one place. As I stood there, her laugh chimed through the open window. It was the most beautiful sound I’d ever heard. I smiled for the first time in months and let its joyful notes wash over me.

Suddenly, another laugh filled the air; this one the rich baritone of a male voice. Rose wasn’t alone? I’d had no plan to begin with, but somehow none of my possible scenarios had prepared me for this. Without thinking, I called up the Spin. I had to get closer, to see who was in there with my wife.

Once I was safely invisible, I crept up to the open window of the cottage. Rose was languishing in bed, the covers barely concealing her ivory skin and tousled hair. I knew the glow that suffused her cheeks and instantly felt ice burn through my veins. As I watched, a half-clothed man returned from the kitchen, carrying a glass of water. The sheen of sweat on his torso and the way he grinned at her said it all.

Shattered, I sank down against the wall under the window. I don’t know what I’d expected, but not this. Never this! Rose, my Rose, had moved on; had forgotten me in a few short months! I felt like my lungs would never expand again. I heard their laughter inside, and each note pierced like a dagger until finally I couldn’t take it anymore. The only thing that had gotten me through the previous months had been the thought of seeing Rose again, and now . . .

Fury surged through me. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to play out. She was mine! Forever! Those were the promises we’d made each other. The words she’d said and then tossed aside like so much garbage. It wasn’t right! And I wasn’t going to let them get away with it.

With a primal growl that surprised even me, I rose and stormed through the door. Neither saw me of course, their motions slowing to a complete halt as I came to stand before them. I glared at the dark-haired man in bed with my wife and felt rationality shrink away like a frightened mouse before the owl. He had to die. He had taken everything from me, and now I would return the favor.

I lunged and was knocked off my feet. I slammed into the floor, wrestling with the weight on top of me and snarling like a caged wildcat. At first, I thought that Rose’s Adonis had somehow come to life, attacking me before I got to him, but I soon realized that the person straddling me was too lithe to be male. As soon as that realization sank in, I forced myself to focus on the features above me.

“Amelia?” I asked, surprised that she was strong enough to pin me. Her blue eyes were glaring down at me, and her mouth was set in a firmly disapproving scowl.

“Are you in control of yourself yet?” she snapped, slamming my hand against the floor as I tried weakly to knock her off me. She cocked an eyebrow and I mumbled my assent. Reluctantly, she released me, standing and readjusting her clothes. When I didn’t rise immediately, she offered her hand and pulled me to my feet.

“What are you doing here?” I asked mildly. All the fury of seconds ago had disappeared — knocked out of me along with my breath in that first impact. It occurred to me that Amelia often had this soothing affect on me, and I vaguely wondered if she possessed other talents than Recruiting.

“I could ask you the same thing,” she answered, the scowl still distorting her delicate features. We glared at each other in silence for a moment, neither wanting to explain ourselves. Finally, she sighed. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist the lure, so I followed you when you left the castle. I was afraid you might do something stupid, something you’d regret.”

“I knew what I was doing,” I snapped, anger starting to flare again. Who was she to tell me what I’d regret?

“Do you Taylor? Look at her,” she commanded and when I refused to look toward the bed, she grabbed my face and forced me. “See how happy she is? Would you take that away from her?”

I stared at Rose smiling lovingly at her new partner and felt tears pool in my vision. She had smiled at me that way. Amelia was right. Rose was happy. Killing her lover would have made me feel better–but only momentarily. Stripping Rose of her happiness—again—would have haunted me longer than the satisfaction of revenge would have lasted.

Amelia must have felt my revelation, as she let go of me and her features softened. “I know it’s hard,” she said softly. “You say you love her. If that’s true, you have to let her go. Let her move on. You can never have the life you thought you would, and revenge will only make you feel worse. Trust me.” A shadow of something — pain maybe? — flickered in Amelia’s eyes, but she blinked quickly and turned away. I wondered what she was hiding.

“I don’t know how to do that, Amelia. How do I just walk away and never look back?”

“I didn’t say you couldn’t look back, but you have to give up the idea that you and she will ever be together again. We can do a lot of things with time, but going backward isn’t one of them.” Amelia offered me a sad smile before turning away. “I’ll leave you to say your goodbyes.”

“Wait,” I said. Amelia paused in the doorway, her expression questioning. “Thank you.” I was embarrassed by the hitch in my voice as emotion threatened to overwhelm me, but she just smiled and nodded in acknowledgement.

“Do the right thing, Taylor,” she said quietly and then disappeared. I sighed and turned back to Rose and her lover. Jealousy flared, but this time I didn’t let it take control. I knew what I had to do. Swallowing the lump in my throat, I leaned over Rose, lightly kissing her forehead. Her life ribbon flickered against my lips like a feather. I concentrated, using an ability none of the other Spinners knew I had learned. I sifted through the threads of her life, grabbing anything that pertained to me. When I broke the kiss, I would take only what I chose; I would take away her memories of us. It was the last gift I could give her.

“Be happy, my Rose,” I whispered. Then, before I could change my mind, I left the cottage, letting the Spin stop once I was out of eyesight. I walked away from the cottage, from my past and what I had thought would be my future without looking back.

***

I stand silently, holding the purple rose gently. I look down at the grave stone and feel the familiar remorse flood through me. If only. Two words I’ve said often, but that never change reality.

It’s been years since I was first cursed with what I now view as a gift. I have been responsible for the deaths of many, but also the improvement of much. I watched from the sidelines as Rose remarried, created a family and grew older. All the while, I remained the same. Mere months for me equaled decades for her. Her children grew and had children of their own. And none of them ever knew I existed.

Over time, the pain of her loss dulled to a bittersweet memory and sense of regret. If only I had never become a Spinner, our lives would’ve been much different. If only I could’ve found the cure in time. But, as Amelia had pointed out all those years ago, we can do a lot to time, except change the past. And while Rose moved on, I never did. I loved her from afar; I love her from afar still.

I kneel before the grave and place the rose on the slightly raised soil. The purple ones had been her favorite. I look at the beautifully engraved head stone, my eyes lovingly tracing the letters of her name. I kiss my hand and place it against the cool stone, closing my eyes for a moment before turning away.

More missions await and there are still answers I need to find. I promised Rose that I would make things right, though she never knew it. I will be the first Spinner to go backwards through time. If it kills me, then so be it. But I am determined to change the past. Only then can Rose and I be together the way we were supposed to be.

I pause when I reach Amelia at the entrance to the graveyard. “Ready?” I ask.

“Are you?” she returns, eyeing me intently. I look back at the grave, sigh and nod.

“Let’s go,” I tell her. Together, we disappear into the forest.

The End

Copyright © 2009 by Kisa Whipkey. All Rights Reserved.

 

From the Editor’s Desk: The Rose Master by Valentina Cano

KWhipkey 3 Comments

I wasn’t going to post this one yet, but I’m just too darn excited about it to hold back. This is the last one for a while though, so next week will return to my snarky, information-filled posts. (Was that a sigh of relief I heard just now?) But first, the blurb, for those who are uninitiated into this series of posts:

As an editor, (both freelance and under REUTS Publications), I have the wonderful opportunity to see amazing novels during their developmental phase. And I wanted to find a way to share them with all of you as they became available. (I also wanted to find a way to help support the authors that trusted me with their manuscripts.) So think of these posts as my own personal book recommendations, straight from the editor’s desk.

Today’s edition brings you the latest release from REUTS Publications (and I do mean latest — it just dropped on Tues):

The Rose Master

by Valentina Cano

 

The Rose Master by Valentina Cano

 

 

The day Anne Tinning turns seventeen, birds fall from the sky. But that’s hardly the most upsetting news. She’s being dismissed from the home she’s served at since she was a child, and shipped off to become the newly hired parlor maid for a place she’s never heard of. And when she sees the run-down, isolated house, she instantly knows why:

There’s something wrong with Rosewood Manor.

Staffed with only three other servants, all gripped by icy silence and inexplicable bruises, and inhabited by a young master who is as cold as the place itself, the house is shrouded in neglect and thick with fear. Her questions are met with hushed whispers, and she soon finds herself alone in the empty halls, left to tidy and clean rooms no one visits.

As the feeling of being watched grows, she begins to realize there is something else in the house with them–some creature that stalks the frozen halls and claws at her door. A creature that seems intent on harming her.

When a fire leaves Anne trapped in the manor with its Master, she finally demands to know why. But as she forces the truth about what haunts the grounds from Lord Grey, she learns secrets she isn’t prepared for. The creature is very real, and she’s the only one who can help him stop it.

Now, Anne must either risk her life for the young man she’s grown to admire, or abandon her post while she still can.

Where do I start? This book is amazing! A blend of Gothic literature and fairy tale with a splash of horror, it can best be described as Beauty and the Beast meets Jane Eyre. And since those are two of my all-time most beloved stories, it’s no surprise that I fell hard for this one.

The Rose Master starts with Anne, a parlor maid in a prominent London estate, being surrounded by falling birds. But that’s only the beginning of the strange events that mark her seventeenth birthday. She’s soon summoned by Lady Caldwell and informed that she’s being shipped off to one of Lady Caldwell’s distant relations in the middle of nowhere. Dismissed from the home she’s grown up in and torn away from the servants she views as family, Anne has no choice but to embark on the journey to Rosewood Manor.

She can tell instantly that there’s something wrong with the place. Silence cloaks its run-down exterior, and a profusion of roses covers everything, stifling the winter air with their pungent scent. The staff is small — only three others — and covered in suspicious bruises and scratches, the manor is colder inside than the frigid air without, and the Lord of the manor is nowhere to be seen. Confused, Anne tries to settle into the house’s routine, which can only be described as unconventional. She knows there’s something her fellow servants aren’t telling her, but she has no idea what.

When strange noises start following her around and eerie scratching haunts her door at night, she begins to realize that the manor is haunted. But it’s not until she finally meets Lord Grey and demands answers that she learns the truth — she’s the only one who can help save the manor from the creature roaming its halls.

The description sounds fairly benign, but don’t let that fool you. The Rose Master is definitely a horror; it will leave you creeped out and questioning what the heck is going on as surely as Anne herself does. Written in a style reminiscent of the Bronte sisters and Jane Austen, it’s lyrical prose is well-crafted, with some of the most beautiful analogies I’ve ever come across. A modern fairy tale, set against a Victorian backdrop, it’s sure to become a classic and would be perfect for adaptation to the silver screen (Disney, if you’re out there, this one has you written all over it!). Whether you’re a fan of the romantic, Gothic stylings of the Bronte sisters, or are simply looking for a creepy take on the fairy tale genre, I can’t recommend this one enough.

It’s currently available in eBook form via Amazon (with additional retailers coming soon), and will be in paperback on 7/8/14.  To find out more about The Rose Master, be sure to check out Valentina’s official website or the REUTS Publications page.

Happy reading! 🙂

Featured From the Archives: The Different Types of Critiques

KWhipkey 3 Comments

This has always been one of my more popular posts, and I’m sure a lot of you still remember it (or are still stumbling on it — internet crumbs are awesome, aren’t they?). But there’s a reason I’m dredging it up from the archives this week — I have a similar post planned for next week that will expand on the ideas contained in this one, with a slight twist. So what better way to prep for that post, than to revisit the foundation for it?

Since this also happens to be one of my longer articles, I won’t waste too much time with an intro. I think the information contained below pretty much speaks for itself, no?

The Different Types of Critiques

By Kisa Whipkey

(Originally Posted on 6/14/13)

(Yes, I realize that’s frighteningly close to today’s date, and no, that was not done on purpose. 😉 )

Every writer knows there are varying levels of quality in the critiques they’ll receive. Some will be extremely helpful, offering ideas for fixing particularly troublesome areas, or finding plot holes/inconsistencies you missed during your 142 times reading the manuscript. Others will be glowing, fluff-filled ego strokes that feel amazing, but offer virtually no help. Still others will be harsh, brutal, and make you want to curl up in a hole, never to write again. And the worst part is, you can never predict which type you’re going to get. Sometimes the horrible, hate-filled ones come from the people closest to you, and the fluff-filled ego strokes come from the professionals you’d expected to tear it to pieces. So how are you supposed to deal?

The most common advice you’ll receive is to simply “grow a thicker skin.” But that’s right up there with “show, don’t tell” and “kill your darlings” in terms of prosaic, vague responses that ultimately provide no help at all. Instead, I suggest learning the various categories of critique, that way you’ll know instantly what you’re dealing with and whether or not to pay it much mind.

(Disclaimer, these are not official categories. They are completely fabricated by me, and therefore, contain the appropriate amount of tongue in cheek — lots.)

The Fanboy/Fangirl

These are the ego-flatterers. The “OMG!!!! I LOVED IT! SQUEEEEE!” type critiques we all secretly want to receive by the millions. But as much as they puff our chests with pride, they actually aren’t very helpful. Once you come down off your pedestal of hot air and strip away the loudly screamed outpouring of emotion, you realize that you’ve learned absolutely nothing of value. Except how awesome you are, and you already knew that, didn’t you?

A helpful critique, even a glowing one, should tell you why — why they loved it, what they identified with, what the strong points were. But the overwhelming, star-struck gushing of love from a Fanboy/Fangirl doesn’t usually contain a shred of this. You have their reaction to your work (and probably a new stalker), but you don’t have anything you can take away and replicate in your new project. So at the end of the day, soak up the adoration, but know that these kinds of critiques are fairly worthless.

The Thinly Veiled Swap Request

Similar to a Fanboy/Fangirl critique, these will include a generally positive diatribe of how brilliant you are and how you’re the best author they’ve ever read ever, and oh, by the way, would you read and critique their story now too, please? Yep, the Thinly Veiled Swap Request is really just a bait and switch. A cleverly positioned “I scratched your back, now you scratch mine, because you owe me.” You’ll usually see these kinds of critiques on public writing sites like Wattpad, Figment, and Authonomy, where the popularity system relies on the number of favorable reviews (or hearts) a story gets. These requests are vaguely insulting and usually best ignored. Upon close inspection, many will reveal that the person asking for a return critique hasn’t truly read your work at all. So be careful with these ones. Don’t fall for the fluff.

Your Mom (a.k.a. Friends and Family)

No, that’s not meant to be a badly worded “Your Mom” joke.  (I can’t believe you would think that of me! 😉 )

One of the scariest groups of people to share your work with are those closest to you. I’m sure it stems from the fact that they are close to you, and we tend to trust them over strangers. But that’s a double-edged sword. How many people really believe their mom won’t wax poetic over everything they’ve created, even if it’s the worst thing on the planet? She loved your stick-figure blobs and macaroni/toilet-paper-roll art, didn’t she? Yeah, exactly. Now, tell me again why you’re worried she’ll hate something you’re hoping people will pay for?

This category is its own special blend of helpful and unhelpful. Chances are good that even though you’re more terrified of showing your friends and family your work than having your wisdom teeth removed, these reviews will generally come back positive. Even if they hate it, these are the people that love you, so they’ll pull their punches. Which is also what makes this batch of reviews hard to trust. Instinctively, we do, because we value their input, but that can lead to a skewed perspective if we’re not careful.

The best approach is to bask in the positivity, but then cull the review for anything valuable. Surprisingly, this is where you’ll get your first truly helpful tidbits, as these readers are comfortable enough with you to point out potential plot-holes or problems with your story. Just make sure you keep your ears open and take the criticism graciously. You do have to live with them, after all.

The Critique Partner

Every writer should have at least one of these. Seriously! Every. Writer.

Critique Partners are an amazing blend of friendship and writing ability. Typically writers themselves, these are the people you can be your absolute strangest with. The people who won’t just smile and nod when you start talking about your characters like they’re real people, but actually join in! They understand all your writerly eccentricities because they have them too. But the best part about a critique partner is that they’ll give you brutally honest, valuable feedback. Of all the critique categories, listen closest to this one. Critique Partners are a step away from the professionals, and their suggestions are usually right. They can be the difference between handing an editor the equivalent of dog-poo and a beautiful, ready-to-publish masterpiece.

The Aspiring Writer Knock-down, Drag-out

All right, on to one of the less happy styles of critique. The Aspiring Writer Knock-down, Drag-out is a particularly nasty one. Stemming from insecurity and a fear that success is a limited resource, this critique will unfairly rip your work to shreds in an effort to beat you to the finish line. Most writers don’t fall into this category. Most of us are genuinely friendly and want to help our fellow authors succeed. But there are those out there with superiority complexes that thrive by tearing others down.

The worst part about these is that they come from people who sound knowledgeable. These insidious, evil creatures are armed with an intimate familiarity of the writing process, and they’ll attack your work at its core. The key to surviving one of these critiques is to see past the intentionally hurtful language and look for something positive you can use to grow. Don’t listen to the individual words, but look at the overall viewpoint. If they’re going after your character development with a butcher knife, consider that might actually be a weak spot in your story and use that clue to improve. The best way to defeat a bully is not to give them any power, so turn their negativity into something good that helps you, or ignore them completely. (Easier said than done, I know.) Politely thank them for their feedback and then go home and stab the voo-doo doll you made of them in the eye.

The Editing Writer

This is another insidious type of critique that masquerades as helpful. These reviewers assume that because they’ve written some drafts of novels, or some short stories that were well-received in school, they’re qualified to offer feedback as an editor. But that’s a slippery slope to go down. Not every writer is a good editor. And not every English degree equates to mastery of storytelling. Writing and Editing really are two completely different skill sets. Some writers, like me, genuinely do possess both. (You’ll be able to tell by the solid feedback that can be easily verified against known writing rules.)  But it’s not as common as you would think.

Usually, these critiques will try to rewrite your work. They’ll be couched in personal preferences and will try to get your writing style to conform to theirs, citing made-up rules and questionable storytelling approaches. A good editor will preserve an author’s voice, offering suggestions that strengthen it rather than try to replace it with their own. Take these critiques with a grain of salt. Likely there will be some beneficial morsels regarding areas that need work, but find your own path. Don’t necessarily take theirs.

The Grammar Nazi

Who doesn’t love a good Grammar Nazi? These people go through your work and pick it apart punctuation by punctuation. Their review will consist entirely of technical suggestions and pretentious gloating over every mistake you made. It will feel like you’ve suddenly been sent back to your least favorite English class, with dangling participles, evil adverbs and misplaced commas haunting your every move. But as horrible as it can feel to be schooled by a Grammar Nazi, these critiques are actually helpful. They did just flag all the really technical stuff that needs fixing, after all. So, as painful as it is, listen to these people. Someone has to be the Grammar Nazi, and thankfully, now it doesn’t have to be you.

The Beta Reader 

Next to the Critique Partner, the Beta Reader is probably the most hailed tool writers turn to. However, they are not the same as a professional editor. Don’t be fooled by their lengthy reports and the marked-up manuscript they hand you. These critiques fall under a wide range of possibilities on the helpfulness scale. A conglomeration of every category I’ve listed above, their feedback can range from exceedingly helpful, to downright missing the mark. So your best strategy is not to rely on any single one.

The beauty of Beta Readers is that they’re most valuable in groups, like a pack of wolves or a pride of lions. (Yes, those are meant to be slightly ironic choices. Though Beta Readers are best in large numbers, they’re also more likely to corroborate the things you didn’t want to hear when in a group, tearing your book apart limb by limb.) Take the feedback provided by one and compare it with that from others in the group, looking for the recurring things that consistently pop up. Those are the problems you might want to consider addressing. The rest? Well, that could be anything from personal preference to Grammar Nazi, Fanboy/Fangirl to the Editing Writer, or even, God forbid, the Aspiring Writer Knock-down, Drag-out. In other words, take it with a grain of salt.

The Structural Editor

Now we start to get to the really meaty types of reviews. The ones you’ll receive from the professionals if you’re lucky. And from the freelance professionals if you’ve got money. 😉

Structural editing focuses on the actual elements of storytelling, the underlying framework of your story. Critiques of this type will talk about things like character/world development, pacing, dramatic tension and suspense, to name a few. They won’t go into detail on the mechanics of writing, but will go into heavy detail about what’s working and what isn’t, and most importantly, why. This is one of the most valuable critiques you’ll receive during the pre-publication phase. Often, your book won’t go to press until the issues found by a Structural Editor are taken care of. So they’re definitely good people to pay attention to.

The Copy/Line Editor

Right up there with the Structural Editor is the Copy/Line Editor. Where the Structural Editor’s domain is everything storytelling, the Copy/Line Editor lords over all things technical. Similar to the Grammar Nazi, but with a bit less pretension, the Copy/Line Editor will go over your manuscript with a fine-toothed comb (and this handy little thing called a Style Guide — an editing bible, so to speak), providing valuable suggestions on everything from word choice to sentence phrasing to punctuation usage. These people are masters of the English language and will help you refine your work into it’s most clarified form. Also similar to the Structural Editor, they tend to stand between you and your final goal of publication, so it’s wise to listen to their advice.

The Reader Review

This is the holy grail of critiques. Ideally, the Reader Review is a coveted blend of Fanboy/Fangirl, Your Mom, and the Structural Editor. The best ones will go into detail about what they loved and why, convincing other readers of your awesomeness without you having to lift a finger and providing insight into what you should include in your next book. But, though these are the reviews that matter most, they can vary widely in quality. Readers are just that, readers. They won’t have the expertise that some of the other critique categories do, nor will they try to sugarcoat their thoughts. You can get everything from a Fanboy/Fangirl reaction, to the complete opposite — the Hateboy/Hategirl (Yes, I totally made that up, but it could be a thing, right?) — to everything in between.

A lot of writers recommend not even reading these reviews, as the negative ones will undermine every shred of self-confidence you have. But if you don’t know why your book is bombing, how will you know what not to do in the next one? I think you should periodically check up on what people have to say, just don’t obsess over it. (Again, easier said than done, right?) Negative reviews happen, and the internet allows people to be far less civil than necessary, but regardless of whether it’s good or bad, the Reader Review trumps everything else. So it’s smart to pay attention to it.

The important lesson here is that feedback of any kind is good. Even the worst review can be helpful, once you learn how to see past the negativity. (There’s that darned thick-skin requirement again.) No matter what, thank the person for giving their time to your work, and for bothering to review it. Receiving a bad review hurts, but I can imagine nothing worse than receiving absolutely no feedback at all. I’d rather hear that someone felt passionately enough about my work to voice their thoughts, even the nasty, hurtful ones, than fade away into obscurity to a symphony of crickets. Wouldn’t you?

Featured From the Archives: What’s in a Name?

KWhipkey 2 Comments

My muse failed me this week. Like straight-up turned tail and ran, laughing maniacally as she went. So I apologize for once more having to cull something interesting from the archives. I promise, there will be new material next week. Even if I have to drag my muse, kicking and screaming, from her beach sanctuary and duct tape her skinny butt to the chair. It will happen.  In the meantime, here’s a snarky look at every writer’s favorite task — naming things. Enjoy!

What’s in a Name?

By Kisa Whipkey

(Originally Posted on 6/29/12)

 

Maybe I’m part Fey, or maybe I’m Rumpelstiltskin’s great-granddaughter, but I believe names are extremely important. Probably because I’ve been graced with a somewhat unusual name myself. Wait, did I say graced? I meant cursed. Doomed to endure countless mutilations, including: “Keisha,” “Kissah,” “Kye-sha”, and my favorite, just plain old “Lisa,” because obviously that “K” has to be a typo. There was even an unfortunate incident where, after explaining the spelling of my name as “Lisa, with a K,” the person responded with, “okay, Ms. Withakay, will there be anything else?” Seriously! No joke. So now, I actually do give my name as “Lisa” at fast food places, or anywhere they’ll be calling it out randomly, because it’s just easier. As long as I remember I’m answering to that. And who knows, Lisa Withakay might just make an excellent pen-name someday. Everyone needs a good alias, right?

For the record, my name is pronounced “Key-saw.” Difficult, isn’t it? But I respond to pretty much any variation thereof, as evidenced above. I think I already mentioned that it’s Russian for kitten, didn’t I? Well, it is, as confirmed by several people I’ve met who actually speak Russian. And no, I’m not Russian, nor is anyone in my family tree that I’m aware of. German, English, a little Scottish, yes. Russian? Sadly, no.

So how did I end up with this charming, pain-in-my-ass name?  Let’s just say this is what happens when soon-to-be parents stumble on those lovely little baby-name books in the bookstore. And trust me, after seeing the other options my parents had circled, I ended up with the best one. As much as it has irritated me over the years.

Anyway, back to the topic at hand — names.

Finding a title for a work can be the hardest part, whether it be a novel, a masterpiece of art, or a choreographed routine. It’s one of the first impressions your audience will get, so it has to accomplish a lot of things: summarize the plot, theme, and overall tone; provide something catchy that will make your work stand out among the masses; create a lasting impression that’s easily remembered; and build a sense of mystery and intrigue about your work’s content. All in just a few short words. No wonder many people find the process of naming a daunting task.

For me, this is a critical part of the creative process, and often, I have a title before I have anything else. Naming something is my favorite part. It’s the moment when whatever I’m working on becomes a thing of substance, its existence clicking into place like the final piece of a puzzle. It’s no longer just a vague concept floating around in my head — it’s a declaration of identity. And I rarely change a title once I’ve found it, whether it’s on a story, an image, or a character.

Others aren’t so lucky, struggling under the burden of working titles or simply leaving something as “Untitled.” And still others completely miss the mark, dubbing their spectacular work with a lame, uninspired title that dooms it to obscurity forever. They say you shouldn’t judge a book (or artwork, or choreography, etc) by its cover, but the truth is, everyone does. And the title is as crucial to your work’s success as the rest of the packaging. How often have you picked a book off the shelf solely for its title and cover art? Or browsed Itunes and found new artists because their album covers looked cool? Or rented a movie because it had an interesting name? And how often have you done the opposite? Scoffing at something because of a lame title, stupid cover, or lackluster blurb? I think you see my point.

So, what’s in a name? Everything!

Which is why you should spend as long as it takes to create the perfect title for your piece, whatever it may be. I’m afraid there aren’t any sure-fire techniques I can share for how best to choose a title, though. I’m sure there are others out there who would gladly try to tell you the correctness of their own process, but I believe creativity is too personal for that, and every artist, dancer, martial artist, writer, musician, has to find their own way of doing things. What I can offer you is a succinct version of how I go about it.

I remember reading somewhere, (and I apologize that I don’t have a direct quote for you), during my research of Disney’s story process, that they try to sum up each film’s plot in a single sentence. Being the complete fangirl I was back then, I thought that was a brilliant idea and adopted it for myself. It’s actually a lot harder than it seems to boil a complicated premise down to a simple sentence, but eventually, you get good at it. How does this pertain to titles? Well, once you can summarize your work with a single phrase (and this generally works best for writing, although it can apply to the concepts of art and choreography too), you can take it one step further and chop it down to only a few words. Something that single-handedly conveys the heart of your piece to your audience. Sometimes, that will be the name of your main character; sometimes, it will be an integral theme central to your work; and sometimes, it will be a metaphor summarizing the subtler messages you’re trying to convey. There are no hard and fast rules. The important thing is that it be inseparable with the larger work.

As an example, I’ll dissect the names of my three published short stories and show you the thought process behind them.

The Bardach was named for the race Amyli (Nameless) comes from. They’re a central key to that world because they have the link to its gods. All the conflict revolves around them fighting against the Mages who want to destroy that link and corrupt the gods for their own purposes. Since they are essentially the heart of the story, it seemed fitting to name it after them. Plus it’s a short, interesting title that might make someone click on the link, buy the magazine, or read the excerpt.

(2014 UPDATE: The rewrite of this story now goes by the name Kindred, as it’s a more character-driven, dual POV version that centers around the main character, rather than the culture. When its released, you’ll see. It’s been completely stripped down and rebuilt into what feels almost like an entirely different story, hence the need for a new name. The thought process I went through to choose the name, however, is the same as outlined above. 😉 )

Spinning has a more complicated meaning. It refers to the sect of people Taylor becomes part of, but it also refers to the ability to morph time that they all have, so named because it literally spins the world around them. It also refers to the emotional turmoil Taylor feels throughout, as his world is completely turned upside down, inside out, and sideways. He’s left with a confusing mess of half-answered questions, and is emotionally off-kilter for the entire story — spinning, as it were. It’s also a subtle tip-of-the-hat to the inspiring song by Jack’s Mannequin of the same name. Most of these connotations a reader wouldn’t grasp until after they’re read the piece (and some they might never know), but it adds layers to the title for them to discover along the way. Plus, it’s short, to the point, and hopefully mysterious enough to draw someone in.

Confessions has a dual meaning. It actually does refer to the characters confessing hidden truths, so it’s perhaps one of the more literal titles I’ve used. The thing that makes it interesting is its mysteriousness.  Its vague meaning hopefully makes a reader want to know what’s being confessed and would get them to buy the story to find out. But it’s multi-layered enough that they’ll get the full meaning only at the end. I can’t disclose much about this one without giving away spoilers, so I’ll just say that the obvious confession (Constia’s) isn’t the only one the reader comes across. Plus “Confessions” seemed like the perfect title for a story about losing faith.

Now, my process may not be your process, and that’s perfectly okay. The goal here was to get you to reconsider your approach to titles. The lesson in the above examples is that what appear to be simple one or two word statements, are actually layered with meaning and perfectly embody the message of the piece. Which is the ultimate goal of a title, isn’t it? (If you answered “no” to that, then I think you seriously need to reappraise your opinions of titles, and why did you bother to read this whole huge novel of a post? Just saying.) However you go about finding your names, the important thing to remember is that they are just that — important. Don’t spend months or years of your life on a project and then give it a half-assed name. You poured part of yourself into that thing! Give it enough respect to name it accordingly. You’ll be surprised how effective a marketing tool a simple title can be. It may just be the difference between massive success and complete failure. And I don’t know about you, but when so much hangs on a single decision, I think it deserves a few extra moments of my time to get right.