A great writer shows discipline; she adheres to a plan
She’s seldom distracted by the presence of man
She embarks on a mission with an outline in hand
Ignoring the dishes, the mop and dust pan
Her coffee gets cold while she’s pecking away
Till wee hours of the morning at her laptop she’ll stay
I think she’s fictitious, this goddess of pens
She exists in the mind of imaginary friends
Too many distractions that get in the way
Too many expectations in the course of a day
Like Smartphones and Ipads, tv and much more
The children and shopping and knocks on the door
And even at night when the rest are in beds
Temptations invade us and dance in our heads
There’s red wine, dark chocolate, tidbits of cheese
Sudukos and novels, guilty pleasures to seize
Procrastination some call it; excuses others say
But a writer who avoids them? I don’t believe it. No Way
by dianemhow
writing
No blood and guts, please
I confess. I have never read the Twilight series http://www.stepheniemeyer.com/twilightseries.html. My remote control would never stop on a channel airing The Vampire Diaries http://www.stepheniemeyer.com/twilightseries.html. I’d rather go to the dentist than be forced to watch a blood and guts movie.
The ability to create fantasy escapes me. In fact, I have a difficult time closing my eyes and imagining that I am someplace I’m not. Perhaps my DNA makeup does not include much of the imagination gene.
My interests focus on real life stories, not the reality shows aired on television today, but the slice of life stories of everyday people. Humor often serves as my crutch in difficult times and I make light of challenging situations rather than defer to the martyr syndrome, as evident in my book, Peaks and Valleys http://www.amazon.com/Peaks-Valleys-Mrs-Diane-How/dp/0967490170.
While my imagination may be limited, I still love to write and my dream is to write other people’s stories. I firmly believe everyone has a story, although I find most people think no one would be interested in hearing about his or her life.
It doesn’t require imagination to write someone’s life review. It does take time to listen and ask open-ended questions and it takes honesty by the person who is sharing their story. The end product can serve as a legacy for younger generations who will someday want to know about their ancestors’ journey.
The Missouri Humanities Council and Warriors Arts Alliance http://www.mohumanities.org/proud-to-be-writing-by-american-warriors/ recognized that the unembellished stories and poems written by veterans do not need props or imaginary characters to be worthy of inclusion in their anthology of remarkable and inspiring stories. In fact, they currently are accepting admissions for their next book.
At a recent writers meeting http://www.saturdaywriters.org/, I listened while four American veterans read excerpts from the recently published book Proud to Be: Writing by American Warriors. Their tales brought tears to my eyes and stirred intense feelings from years of reading similar letters while working for the Department of the Army.
Although the painful process of writing the story reflected in the quiver of each voice as the scripted words were read, there was a therapeutic benefit for each of the veterans. Each shared his reason for having done so during the question and answers period that followed.
Having listened to the veteran’s stories, I realized that not all writer’s need to have a vivid imagination. While my reading material and viewing time is limited to less imaginative works, there are many possibilities for me to suceed in my writing efforts.
How about you? Do fanciful characters dance in your head? What stirs you to pick up paper and pen and write?
I Dream of Genie Writing Room
My hands tremble slightly in anticipation as I gently press my fingers on the electronic detector and wait for it to read my prints. I glance over my shoulder making sure I have not been followed then quietly slip past the soundproof door that will separate me from a world of interuptions for the next few hours.
A dark mahogany desk serves as the command center for my oasis. I walk past it to the supple leather lounger where a freshly brewed cup of hazelnut coffee awaits me. With my favorite pen and notebook, I settle down and announce “Maui”
The LED wall illuminates and I’m on Kaanapali Beach in , listening to the swoosh of the ocean as I watch a magnificent sunset.
From the rhythm of my pen a poem spills forth.
Come walk with me on shifting sands
Along my Maui shores
Come find the peace within yourself
That leaves you wanting more
The gentle flow of crashing waves
Will mesmerize your heart
The azure skies, the gentle breeze
You’ll never want to part
The tide will rise to greet you there
To cleanse your weary soul
The lofty palms will wave to you
And whisper “Please don’t go”
I recite it to Margie, my faithful genius who resides somewhere within the black laptop, and she records my words with precision.
“Bryce” I command and the wall changes to reveal the colorful hoodoos in the Utah National Park that appeared like chess pieces throughout the massive canyon.
Once again the movement of my hand results in words spread across an empty canvas as a creative piece takes form. Nearly an hour has passed and I realize I must move on, lest I will fail to complete my journey.
“Colorado” I sigh as I think about the recent trip. There were not enough hours to journal my adventures while at Keystone. Perhaps a glance at one of the magnificent mountain scenes will refresh my memory enough to capture some lingering thoughts
Oh, to have a perfect writing room. Must I leave?
Bountiful Baskets
It’s funny how a thought sticks in your mind until it finds its way into a post. This weekend, my daughter and I made baskets while at Girl Scout Camp Tuckaho http://www.girlscoutsem.org/Programs/Camp/Camp-Tuckaho.aspx. We’ve both been involved in Girl Scouts since 1977 and as a treat, each year about nearly 100 adult volunteers from two districts come together to share talents, laughter and treasured memories with one another.
One of the many baskets displayed by our instructor, Pat Vogel, http://www.bittersweetbasketsandsupply.com/ was titled Bountiful Basket and it made its way into our conversations enough times that it settled in my brain. I returned home late Sunday evening and dragged myself into bed. (Hey, weaving baskets for hours on end and walking across icy fields to get from lodge to lodge was hard work!) Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the laundry basket bursting at the seems with clothes that needed washing. I smiled and decided to wait until morning to tackle that chore.
My thoughts continued to turn to bountiful baskets as I rested my still tender fingers against my disgustingly bloated stomach. Seemed I overfilled the bread basket that occupies the area where I used to have a waist. One thing for sure, we always eat well while at any Girl Scout function; it goes hand to hand, or maybe I should say mouth, with a bunch of women and fresh country air.
As I tried to fall asleep, I realized that although my body was worn, my mind was traveling at a high rate of speed. It wasn’t long before I found myself sitting in front of my laptop. Why? I had recevied the most bountiful blessing on Friday when my last post, Rock, Paper, Laptop, was Freshly Pressed. It was the first time for me and I was overwhelmed by the response. By the time I returned on Sunday, more than 1500 fellow bloggers had viewed my post and many of them took the time to hit the “like” button and/or leave a comment. What an extraordinary event!
To all those who took the time to read my post, write a comment, put a smile on my face with the click of button, or follow my blog, thank you, thank you, thank you! I hope all of you have bountiful baskets filled with great things this week.
Rock, Paper, Laptop
Ancient Egyptian writers depended upon chisels and stone as the medium for their hieroglyphics. I’m sure many of them embraced the advances in technology that introduced other resources for their passions. Yet, I imagine there were some who struggled to move forward gleefully.
There was a time when pads of yellow paper graced nearly every table top of our home, patiently waiting for any random thoughts of gibberish to find its way onto a meticulously clean surface. With my companions, a smooth writing pen and lined paper, I delight in sitting cross-legged on my couch or out on the deck, scribbling away with the security of knowing I can rip off a page, crumble it and have a clean slate ready for my next attempt.
Much like reminiscing through old photographs, I can pick up a journal or notebook stuffed with pages of deep thoughts, easily revisiting my attempts to imitate Robert Frost http://www.poemhunter.com/robert-frost/ or Erma Bombeck http://www.ermamuseum.org/home.asp. Sometimes, the words I scripted are buried so deep in the recesses of my mind I don’t recognize the words, yet I always know they are mine because of the handwriting.
It isn’t that I don’t know the capabilities of the black box that had been assigned its own room in the house for many years. My job required extensive knowledge of numerous, ever-changing, complex programs, including the infamous MS Word. Perhaps the challenges forced upon me daily formed a callous on my brain that makes it too painful to imagine drafting my work on my computer.
Seldom did I take the time to store my creations electronically. The few that made it through the final stages of editing onto the complex contraption were lost when the hardware failed. (Thank goodness for my archaic backups!) The thought of composing something while sitting at the keyboard was as foreign the thought of writing a romance novel.
My daughter frequently reminded me of the century we now live in and the advances in technology that she believed would make my life easier, if only I would try something new. The way she rolled her eyes when I’d pick up a tablet and began writing reflected her frustration in my failure to listen. Bless her heart. Instead of nagging endlessly, she generously provided me with a laptop upon my retirement. “You can use it anywhere, mom. You’ll love it.”
So I tried sitting cross-legged on the sofa with the slim blue device balanced on my lap. That lasted about ten minutes before the phone rang and I had to untangle my legs from the wire to get across the room to the phone. What wires you say? The one attached to the mouse of course. Yes, I know others may use the one built into their machine, but using the touch pad doesn’t work for me because I keep resting my thumbs as I ponder my next line. If you have never been gifted in this ability, let me describe what happens next. The perfect words you struggled for fifteen minutes to compose transform themselves into paragraphs and sentences for which they were not intended. The time it took to find and edit them is just long enough for the thought to pass and there you sit staring at the screen again. I fixed the problem by disabling the gizmo – ok, I had to have help with that too.
I often found myself reverting back to paper and pen. It wasn’t until I decided to write my first novel that I considered the time-consuming effort it would take to write a 50,000 word manuscript and then transpose it onto the computer. One day, after much deliberation, I relented and established a work zone in my dining room where I began typing and editing the dozens of pages I had written before coming to my senses.
I opened the French doors leading onto the deck and felt a delightful breeze drift in. The chirp of a nearby cardinal provided for an opportunity to procrastinate and it wasn’t long before I ventured out onto the deck with all tools in hand. My fairybook visions of spending the next few hours accomplishing great things dissipated in seconds. The gentle wind turned into a gust and blew my stacks of paper high into the sky. With arms flailing, I scrambled urgently to retrieve the papers in flight for fear of a neighbor stealing page 10 of a best seller.
Once I even tried taking my laptop on a daytrip to the river where my husband docked his boat. He often liked to visit for hours with a friend who lives there. What a great opportunity, I thought. I’ll be inspired as the river carries barges through the lock and dam. Surely a poem or some type of masterpiece was waiting to find its way into my laptop. I proudly headed to the lovely swing where I had often written in my small journal.
I shifted the mouse and pad from my leg to the bench of the swing. I tried numerous positions to no avail. I decided to remove the accessory and use the touchpad. Try as I might, I could not remember the sequence of steps my friend had shown me to reactivate the function. By the time I successfully retrieved the info from my wary brain, the battery died on the laptop. I bit my lower lip to keep from screaming and quietly closed the lid and stood up, dropping the mouse and pad at my feet. Anger turned into tears as I gathered all of the pieces and headed back to the car.
My frown turned into a smile when I opened the door and glanced down at the yellow pad and Cross pen that patiently waited for my attention. In one hand, I tossed the laptop on the seat and with the other, I embraced my faithful companions, hugging them close as I strolled back to the wooden swing and settled in for a lovely afternoon.
The transition from rock to paper to laptop has not been easy for some of us. Still, there are benefits to each. Had it not been for the stones that ancient Egyptians carved, much of history would have been lost. Yet hieroglyphics presented many challenges, especially in portability. Paper is readily available, portable and can be treasured for many years, yet it is fragile and fades in time. A laptop stores immense amounts of data, offers unlimited features that transform the written word into works of art, and advances nearly daily in new technology, but with the touch of a delete key, a year’s worth of work can be forever lost into space.
I’ve taken small steps to embrace the wonders of digital technology, but I doubt I will ever relinquish the comfort of paper and pen.
Can you relate?
Facing the truth
It’s mid January and the first time in nearly 50 days that I’ve tried to compose a post for my blog. My yellow pads of paper are blank, much like the white space in my word documents. The craziness of the holidays, winter blues, lack of inspiration – any of those excuses could be supported using a little creative writing. Yet, my writer’s block is something much more than procrastination; something I have not been able to clarify in my mind or on paper until today.
A good friend and fellow blogger, Amanda Bretz shared something on her blog, http://authoramandabretz.wordpress.com/2013, that was beautifully written, but took great strength and courage to publish. She is an accomplished writer who is forging her name in the publishing world with her third book and many other accomplishments. Without realizing it, her inspiring words helped me put my problem into perspective.
So what could be so terrible that would freeze my pen and keyboard too? A four letter word sums it up. FEAR.
There is fear of failure; fear of no one caring if I ever posted another thought; fear that my writing does not deserve to be read; fear that if light touches the darkness of my heart, the walls will crumble and expose the stifled hopes and dreams buried so deep that they no longer have have form.
There it is. Now, what do I do about it? Like eating an elephant – it will require one bite at a time. Surely it is possible to find a balance where honesty does not cause pain for others yet allows for fulfillment of needs.
Have you found a way write the truth? Any suggestions would be appreciated.
Daily Post – Fight or Flight Black Cloud Theory Part II
Here’s the rest of my heart thumping weekend.
By my third cup of java, the August sun began to peek through the blinds. The plan for the morning was outlined in my mind. I would surprise my husband by mowing the lawn, then take Laura to her swim lessons at the Boys and Girls Club. I waited until eight-thirty a.m. to drag the mower out from the shed. It took a few attempts of priming the bulb and pulling the cord, but I was finally able to start the push mower. I was quite proud of myself.
I had trimmed a mere twenty feet of grass before I found the discreet copper water line that was buried below the tall blades of grass. In seconds, I thought I had been transported to Yellowstone National Park as I watched a magnificent geyser erupt in front of me. I stood dumfounded, unable to move. From shock to frantic, I tried to remember where the shutoff valve might be. My husband had shown me the one in the house, but that would not help me outside. I visualized the man poking his rod down into a hole each month as he read the meter and it dawned on me that it was below ground. I looked around and spotted the deep, spider-filled opening which was barely visible through the overgrown weeds.
I dropped down to my knees, reached in and tried to find the handle. There was nothing but webs. The only way to reach the meter was to lay flat on the ground. I sprawled out, face first, and reached my arm into the hole as far as I could, trying not to think about the crawling creatures that would soon attach themselves to my skin. There was no handle. I jumped to my feet and dashed inside to call for help.
“Bill, I need your help now!” I shouted into the phone.
“Who is this?” Bill Kramer, the trailer court manager, replied.
I could have said it was the crazy, dumb blond from down the street, but instead I identified myself and gave a brief explanation of my crisis. Bill agreed to come to my rescue. When he arrived, he took one look at me and burst into laughter. There I stood, saturated from head to toe with grass clippings clinging to most of my body. He proceeded to take his wrench and stop Old Faithful as if it was another daily routine. I thanked him, knowing I would never again be able to have a conversation with him that did not involve my humiliating call.
There was just enough time for a shower and change of clothes before taking Laura to her swim lessons. An hour of watching her thrash about in the water with her friends would help me relax, I told myself optimistically. I found a place on the stadium-type bench and tucked my daughter’s shoes and towel and my purse in the space underneath.
I offered a hand to the young mother who came up behind me as she struggled to unload a large diaper bag, purse, towel and an infant in a pumpkin seat. We chatted a little about her newborn. She related that she was stressed about the weather report and thunderheads she had seen building on the horizon. I assured her we were safe inside the sturdy concrete building.
After a short while, she could no longer ignore her concerns and decided to get her daughter from the pool and leave. I kept an eye on her sleeping baby as she dried off her daughter and gathered all her bags. Once she had everything balanced over her shoulder or under an arm, she picked up the pumpkin seat and left.
About thirty minutes into the lesson, I reached down to get a piece of gum from my purse. My hand grasped anxiously from side to side, but couldn’t feel anything that remotely resembled a purse. I stood up and looked underneath the bench. Laura’s shoes and a towel were the only things on the floor. My purse, oh my God! My purse is gone.
Panic sank in as I remembered my husband was out of town and no one else had keys to my car or house. I dashed to the check-in desk seeking help. My voice was quivering as I tried to get someone’s attention, but the staff was too distracted by the impending storm that blackened the skies overhead.
Just as I thought I would burst into tears, the young woman who had sat next to me came rushing through the door with my purse in hand.
“I’m so sorry! I grabbed your purse when I left. I didn’t realize until I got home that I had it. I left the kids with my husband and hurried back as fast as I could.”
Overwhelmed with gratitude, I thanked her and headed back to the bench to once again get my blood pressure under control. The moment my derriere hit the bench, a large clap of thunder shook the building and all the lights went out. Fifty blood-curling renditions of “MOM!” were shouted from the pool. A staff person tried to announce the emergency instructions, but could barely be heard above the shrill screams. The only back up lights available were BIC cigarette lighters held by a few shaking hands.
One by one, the children were removed from the water and returned to their anxious parents. With Laura by my side and my car keys securely in hand, we sat briefly waiting for the storm to pass. The thought of going to the trailer and riding out the storm was ruled out. I never felt safe there in bad weather even when my husband was there to calm my fears. Instead, I thought it would be a good time to visit Mom in Florissant.
The skies cleared as Laura and I made the drive to Mom’s house. Mom put on a fresh pot of coffee while Laura and my youngest sister watched television. Mom and I retreated to the breezeway as I narrated a brief version of my nightmare weekend. It was great to finally relax in a secure environment. Of course, it was just a façade.
I took another sip of coffee and my eyes caught a glimpse of something outside. I studied the blacktop driveway. It was parallel to the side street and could hold about four cars comfortably if you pulled in close, perpendicular to the fence. Hadn’t the car been almost touching the fence? An alarm was going off in my head. My white Ford Pinto was inching slowly backwards toward the street. I bolted from my chair, sending the coffee flying everywhere, and dashed down the dozen steps to the bottom landing. I flung open the screen door and headed for the car. I was berating myself all the way. How could I have forgotten to put it in park? Imagine my surprise when I whipped open the driver’s door and found my little girl scrunched down on the floor board of the passenger side!
Once again my heart felt like I had been in a marathon race. Thank goodness the side street had little traffic and was relatively flat. I was able to apply the break and stop the car before it made it into the street. Laura knew she was in trouble, but I knew if I opened my mouth, she would get all the frustrations of the day. Instead, I buckled her in the car seat and pushed the car back into its spot. Mom was standing at the steps by then, so I asked her to keep an eye on Laura while I retrieved my purse and keys from upstairs. I was going home to lock myself away for the rest of the day.
The ride home was uneventful, thank goodness. As I unlocked the door to the trailer, I heard the phone ringing. “How’s it going?” my husband asked on the other end.
“Just fine,” I lied.
Fight or Flight – The Black Cloud Theory (Part 1)
Today’s DP Post challenge reminded me of a story that I wrote sometime ago. It is an excerp from my book, Peaks and Valleys. I’ve divided it into two parts and hope you enjoy my Fight or Flight experience enough to read the second one tomorrow.
I have a theory that there are celestial forces that cause a black cloud to align over my head like a hovering spacecraft on a regular basis. I have no concrete proof of this theory, but it repeats itself frequently enough that I am pretty sure I am right.
I encountered this unfortunate occurrence the first time my husband had to travel without us to Louisiana for a few weeks for his job. Suddenly, I was like a single parent of our four-year-old daughter and sole caretaker of our mobile home. Always the optimist, I believed this would be a great opportunity to show I could manage both tasks successfully. The first few days weren’t bad. I dropped Laura off at daycare, went to work, came home and fixed dinner. Laura whimpered at bedtime when her daddy was not there to tuck in his baby girl. The weekend came and I was oblivious to the unexplainable nebula of darkness that formed in the skies above.
Laura’s blue eyes widened with excitement as she watched me push the nearly immovable coffee table across the room. An innocent look of wonder crossed Laura’s face as I unfolded the full size sofa-sleeper. I had planned our little living room camp-out the night before as I tried comforting Laura to sleep. I hoped she would someday cherish the memory as much as I cherished having a sleep over at my grandparent’s home when I was small. Her long blond braids bounced as she grabbed her tattered flannel blanket and her hand-me-down stuffed dog, Henry, and jumped onto the newly made bed.
I read her a story and soon she was fast asleep. Despite the metal frame from the stow-away bed poking my back and hips, I too drifted off to sleep about midnight.
“BAM! BAM! BAM!” I was jolted awake by what sounded like shotgun blasts which vibrated the wall near my head. It was pitch black when I jumped out of bed and slammed both shins into the anvil of a table. I probably would have paused to tend to my injuries, but my heart was pounding out of my chest with anticipation of the next round of ammo coming through the wall. I stumbled across the room and worked my trembling fingers between the slats on the tightly closed blinds, trying hopelessly to see from where the ghastly noise had come.
Silence filled the room. All I could see was the familiar trailer next door and a starlit sky above it. Anxiously, I moved from room to room checking every window in great expectation of some horrific monster with a gun. At each window I saw nothing, but peaceful moonlit yards. My breathing began to slow and my heart no longer pounded louder than the clock on the wall.
I did not imagine that noise, I told myself. I glanced at my daughter sleeping soundly and began to question my sanity even more. If the noise had been as loud as I remember, how could she still be asleep?
A few minutes passed when I heard a light rap on a distant door and a voice say, “Hey Mike, get up. The police are on the way.” It was Jerry, the neighbor, from two trailers up the road trying to stir my next door neighbor. He seemed relatively calm as he walked back and forth waiting for Mike to come out.
I could not go back to bed until I knew what had happened. I quickly got dressed and decided to go outside to get an explanation. I listened as Jerry explained to Mike that he had been home from work for just a short while when he heard the engine of his new car start up. He grabbed his loaded 20-gauge shotgun and chased the would-be thieves down to my trailer where he pulled the trigger and let off a few rounds. Now I understood why the shots I heard were so close to my house. The boys had jumped out of his car and it rolled until it was stopped by Mike’s car.
The only casualties from the shotgun blast were a few cars across the street which looked like they had been sandblasted. Within a few minutes, the police arrived with a canine unit and having a great fear of dogs, I excused myself to check on Laura. She was still sleeping soundly and oblivious to the excitement of the night. I put on a pot of coffee and settled down with a paperback until dawn.
to be continued…….
Is it Really Quicksand????
Have you ever been mired in quicksand?
I remember the day I made my First Communion in the Catholic Church. I have a picture of myself in a white, frilly dress, wearing a veil and shiny patent leather shoes. It was supposed to be a day that I would remember as a beginning of a new era in my life.
We went to visit my grandmother who lived next to a large field that led to a playground. I begged my parents to let me walk with my brothers to the playground, promising not to get dirty or ruin my dress and shoes. We had gone there before without any incident and I reassured mom and dad I could do it without any problem. They finally relented and the three of us ran off to have some fun.
About half way to our destination, I became mired in quicksand, at least that is what my brothers called it. I sank down to my knees in something muddy and deep. The more I fought it, the worse it got. No matter how hard I tried, I could not get out of the muck.
My brothers ran off to summon my father. I still remember the feeling of desperation while I was immobile and alone. The tears streamed down my cheeks as I stood in the middle of an open field embarrassed and wanting to disappear before my dad arrived.
My pain was not from the sting of the spanking I received for my mud-packed shoes, socks and dress. It wasn’t from the cold water as dad hosed me off. The look of anger and frustration on my parents face would have been enough, but I can still see my grandmother who wept at the sight of me. It was the disappointment of not keeping my promise and for ending a special event on such a sour note.
Like many others, I dove into November by challenging myself to complete my second novel (50,000 words) in 30 days (NANOWRIMO). I zoomed through the first 25,000 words and my novel came to an end. I went back and tried to find places to add more words, but the story line was complete.
I got mired in quicksand. I couldn’t move forward. I pulled and tugged and wanted to cry when I realized I would not be successful in completing the NANOWRIMO challenge. I stopped writing anything.
For the past 7 days, I have sat hopelessly in front of my laptop glaring at the computer screen. I felt much like the five year old girl who could not move an inch without sinking further into the mud. I could not seem to pull myself out. I failed to live up to a commitment I made, one that probably means little to anyone except me, but feels much the same as.
Then I remembered, I’m not that five year old little girl and I’m not in quicksand. Writing is more than a thirty day commitment. I’ve printed out my manuscript and read it. It needs work, but it is a beginning and today is a new day, worthy of a new beginning.
To all my fellow writers who think they are mired in quicksand, it’s probably not quicksand that is holding you back. Write. You’ll feel better soon!
Who’s in charge anyway?
“There are only two or three human stories, and they go on repeating themselves as fiercely as if they had never happened before.” Willa Cather
This quote was introduced to me during a class, Creating Rich Characters, taught by the talented author and illistrator, Angela Sage Larsen. Ms. Larsen is becoming a St. Louis icon who has published numerous children and young adult books. You can check her out at AngelaSageLarsen.com
There is comfort in knowing that every story has the same infrastructure, a beginning, middle and end. What makes the difference is the writer’s ability to develop interesting characters and present a plot that takes the reader on an unexpected journey.
There have been many posts in reference NANOWRIMO recently. One in particular that caught my eye dealt with whether or not to develop an outline before initiating a novel.
For me, I can live without an outiline, although I often scribble notes that come out looking like one. It is more important to decide what my main character wants more than anything else. There must be an objective, otherwise there is no need to write the book.
Once that is clear in my head, I need to know the obstacles that will create conflict for the character while in pursuit of the prize, otherwise the story is boring. Finally,I must decide whether or not the character will achieve his or her goal.
I tend to write stories where ultimate happiness or contentment is the goal. There may be plenty of action to keep the reader interested, but I’m a sap for happy endings.
If I have done my homework in identifying what my character wants, how he or she will react when challenged and how the story will end, the characters take it from there. Some writers say it is best to write the ending first. I haven’t attempted that yet, but I might some day.
What do you think? Do your characters take charge?
Writing Silver Linings 