A Change of Approach

Build it right. That's what this is about--building a book, or in this case a series, the right way.

When I first started writing Enura in December 2009, I had a simple system. I'd write a short 500-word chapter, edit it the same day, and post it. For a while it worked, and I wound up publishing around 75 chapters in all. But the writing got tighter as I went along, and after completing large sections of the story, I knew there were things that I should go back and add.

But I was so focused on moving the story forward and getting every word as perfect as I could, that the process eventually broke down. The last chapter I worked on, chapter 76, was actually written by hand (which I transitioned away from years ago). There was a lot of description--far more than I was willing to deal with at that point--and so the chapter sat, half transcribed.

The project had simply gone on too long. I'd been writing for months, and although I'd made good progress, I was moving in quicksand towards the ending. I knew that a great battle lie ahead, and I was hardly excited about dealing with another complex action scene with loads of description. Like a boxer heading into the tenth round, I felt bruised, battered, and my punches were only so effective.

It was at that point I decided to stop, and it was the right decision. There was no point in screwing up all of the perfectly good work I'd done so far.

But I never expected to step away from it for so long. I played around with short stories for the next four years before finally making it back.

And that's far too long.

So what am I going to do differently this time? Good question.

First, I'm simply going to allow myself to write. I placed too much pressure on myself the first time around to write "the blockbuster" or "the best story that I am capable of." That resulted in early editing and a lot of critical voice to see the story to completion.

I'd also forgotten what got me there in the first place. Since I'm a panster at heart, or one who "writes by the seat of his pants," I allow my subconscious to write the story. I prefer to listen to the story coming out of me by tapping into my stream of consciousness. I'm kind of like a scribe taking dictation when I enter this state, and by limiting, or in some cases eliminating, the number of rewrites, I can simply focus on the story.

And that's what I want to do this time around.

I want to explore the world that I am writing about. I want to understand. I want to see all of the sights there are to be seen, and know the story intimately. I'm intent on using exploratory writing to deliver Vampire Hunters as well as Enura.

Should I be outlining? I suppose I could give it a try, but in my experience, it's the kiss of death. When I figure out a story, particularly how it ends, I lose interest in it. It's a sad thing to say, but it's the truth. Conversely, I find myself invigorated and intrigued when I don't know what I'm writing about. I can enter the world, explore for awhile, and then report back on what I've found. It makes every day far more interesting, if not fun.

And keeping the writing fun goes a long way to building a satisfying, productive career.

Before I stopped because I was no longer having fun. The grind was getting to me. I had simply done too much editing too soon. Everything was overanalyzed. Doubts began to spring up more and more every day. Instead of listening to the story, I began listening to my fears. Maybe it wasn't as good as I hoped for. Perhaps I should work on something else instead? (A classic diversion tactic that I am all too good at.)

I refuse to fall into that same trap again. Thankfully, I've refined my system where I don't do anymore than one rewrite, but even that is optional. Actually, I'm trying to get away from rewrites, but I find that they can be an effective tool for raising overall quality as well as filling in holes. Beyond that, I only intend on rereading it a maximum of three times before putting it aside. After a few days, I'll come back to it, do my final edits, and ready it for publication. (I largely self edit, but I do incorporate feedback from advance readers from time to time.)

That's the worse case scenario, and I no longer work in 500-word chunks. I've found that it's far more effective to write at least 2,000 - 3,000 words in one session. This prevents me from tightening up too much, which you can easily do with short pieces of text. Actually, I think it's inherent for writers to perform more editing than is wise for short chapters rather than long ones, simply because it's so easy. It's tempting to look at it "one more time" when you really should be putting it aside and moving on.

The act of writing longer alleviates many editing woes, and produces much more content, which is really what you and the reader are after.

Another major departure that I will be using is working in sequences (which I like to call "working in wholes"). While I was publishing a chapter per day before, I'll only be doing that for entire sequences or installments. One of the first things I will be working on is Vampire Hunters: Prelude, the beginning of the series, and will only begin publishing it once all 20+ chapters are done and in good shape. Enura will feature 20-30 short chapters per installment, though I do plan to publish the teaser in advance (the first five chapters).

While I don't believe in spending too much time on any one project, there's plenty to keep me busy in this world. I'm not content on merely referencing events that happened in a character's past. I want to write them. I want to be knowledgeable about them in ways that only can come through experience. Then, and only then, can I write "the best story that I am capable of."

I fully intend on writing side stories such as Red Wind and Carmella of Sidon and weaving them into the fabric of Enura. I want to understand. I want to explore. This is what makes the writing so exciting. If I'm not excited, I'll wind up like I did before, and I can't let that happen.

A fresh approach is just what the doctor ordered, and I can't wait to see what I come up with next.

That's the way writing should be, every single day. An adventure!

Poison Oak and Thorny Dreams

Last night I had a dream, a strange dream involving a conversation between myself and my mother. We were talking about writing as we often do, and I mentioned that I had an idea for a new story. "You'll love it," I promised her. But something was missing. I needed a period in time in which to set the story. Since Enura had already claimed the American Revolution for its setting, I knew that I would need to choose something else. The first thing that came to mind was The War of 1812--same enemy, different circumstances--so I went with it.

I proceeded to tell the tale to my mother right off the top of my head. (I'm a panster at heart, so outlining is optional.) The words were beautiful and poetic. I knew that I needed to write them down and innately sensed that I would have to break the spell of my dream in order to do so. Reluctantly I woke up, and promptly forgot what I had conjured.

For a moment I was frustrated, but I did not let it bring me down. I thought back to something, anything that I could remember, and a few words came back to me: There stood an oak...

While I was unable to write down the exact words from my dream (I'd rambled on for about a paragraph or so before waking), I was able to capture the spirit of the story. This continued back and forth over the course of an hour. I'd wake up, write down what I was thinking, go back to bed, and then think about something else. Finally I stayed up and finished it off.

It's ironic that this short work could be used as backstory for wickwood (enchanted trees) in my vampire thriller Enura. Obviously The War of 1812 happened approximately 35 years after the American Revolution, but such details can be changed. To document what I originally came up with, I left it as is.

Will it find its way into the lore of Enura? Who knows?

These dark dreams--What to do with them?...

© Mythja Photography

POISON OAK AND THORNY DREAMS

There stood an oak off Mulberry Road. Gray at its base, tentacles reaching towards the sky. At the end of bitter winters, which the county was apt to endure, children emerged from their snowbound strongholds to play on its mighty limbs, hoping to snag one of the many fruits that spawned from its branches.

Such a tree it was, the talk of town, that at one time shared the company of a president and his first lady on the humble Maryland backroad. Everyone wanted to partake of its sweet flesh that proved medicinal, a rare delicacy of the soul.

Like every age, as man is apt to err, of opportunity, debt and political suffering, war broke out. That same president's house burned down, as did much of Washington. For a time, the tree sat forgotten, along with its intriguing effect. There was little space, not even a dim corner for it in the politician's mind. Many had perished and needed to be laid to rest. The capital had been razed, many of its buildings burnt to the ground. Worse still, they did not occupy all of their proud land. The British now had a piece, and intended on wresting more away.

He no longer looked farther south to the tree that occasionally occupied his thoughts, and in time, wished he had. For an enemy troop wandered down Mulberry Road, intent on making the Americans pay for their newfound freedom. The families that had befriended the curious tree were rounded up, shot, and stabbed in the chest with the red coats' bloodthirsty bayonets.

While they watched the community burn, bodies scattered amidst the fire, the soldiers gathered under the shade of that same oak to catch their breath. Content they were at the suffering they had inflicted, and laughed amongst themselves. The cries in the distance were no more. They had taken every life on Mulberry Lane.

Save one.

When the soldiers spotted the fruit dangling from its branches, they smiled at their good fortune. The apples were large and ripe, and the sunlight seemed to play tricks on them--the shade an impossible blue.

All but one feasted in haste, the ashes of the deceased collecting in the branches above. Like the strange apples that had mysteriously fallen down on them, the red coats' numbers fell, too. "Poison..." a soldier cautioned the last remaining man before expiring.

The swiftness in which the afternoon had deteriorated sent the young man running. But he did not get far; the trusty oak made sure of it. With its long, wiry tendrils, it scooped him up. Without a mouth to communicate or snap off the man's head, it poked at him, not sure what to do.

Not all humans could be bad. The children who had warmed its limbs were proof of it. The new company had to have at least one in its ranks with a heart, much less a soul.

How wrong the oak was.

Somehow the soldier managed to load his gun and fire at the base of the tree.

Never before had the tree felt such pain, a deep wound that would take decades to heal. Unwilling to absorb another blow, one that might prove fatal, the magnificent oak tore the man asunder, and dumped his mangled body in the fires that stretched down Mulberry Lane.

Into the forest it receded, wounded by the touch of man and his devilish ways. Wandered for a while it did, far from his influence, so that nary an eye could be cast upon it. In turn, it surrounded itself with its own company, warning its brethren of what was to come when the humans found the poisoned oak once again, and the inevitable actions that must be taken.

Prologue

I need your help.

More specifically, I need your support.

I’m about to embark on something daunting—something far more difficult than I’ve ever done before. The road is ahead is long and full of pitfalls. Along the way, I will feel like giving up, perhaps even curse the day that I went down this path.

But I must.

The fulfillment of this dream makes it all worthwhile.

Stand with me. Push me. Help me see the path and the light at the end of it.

This series is massive. It’s going to take an otherworldly effort to get it done, but I can do it.

Wish me well, that is all I ask.