More Than a Story

Last week, a BryonySeries fan sent me this message:

I was reading a book - can't remember the name of it. The protagonist woke up in a mental institution after attempting suicide. She had a voice in her head. It started out so well for about 30 pages. And then this "demon" breaks out of the walls somewhere. Totally ruined it. I said to myself, "Denise would NEVER pull that crap."

Back in my homeschooling, and even before my children were old enough for formal education, I wanted to instill in them a love for reading, which can be as natural to me as breathing, perhaps more so, because asthma can interfere with natural breathing.

I have since learned that the type of books and stories we've read have forever influenced the books and stories they now choose to read, which is pretty awesome.

It's humbling to even dare to ponder the books and stories I write can do the same.

Have a great Monday, readers, writers, and vampire fans! :)

Illustration by Kathleen Rose Van Pelt for "Bryony."

Meant to be Read

Last night, I read an article about Stephen King (which I can't seem to find again), where he talked about writing less. I found the quote on his website:

I'm writing but I'm writing at a much slower pace than previously and I think that if I come up with something really, really good, I would be perfectly willing to publish it because that still feels like the final act of the creative process, publishing it so people can read it and you can get feedback and people can talk about it with each other and with you, the writer.

I know some writers want to be commercially published, some want to make money and/or quit their day jobs, some want to be famous and so on.

And although I'm glad I make money as a writer (mostly from my day job, which is writing, and far, far less from my creative hobby, which is writing), for it allows me to spend most of my time writing, King's quote nails it for me.

When I was younger and less realistic, I used to think that by my enthusiastically sharing with others this or that great book I've read would drive them to do likewise so we could talk about it, which, when I've read something compelling, I naturally want to do.

I feel the same about the words I've written. But feature stories, although they find more readership, also have a shorter shelf life, so to speak. They're read today and forgotten before tomorrow.

My fiction, although it has more staying power, has a far shorter reach and less of an audience. Either way, at the end of the day, I spend most of my time crafting words I'll never discuss, and, even if I do, certainly not anywhere near the same depth in which I wrote them.

So the ultimate satisfaction, I think, must come from the process, which, for writers seeking readers of their work, ought to bring comfort when sales are slow.

Nevertheless, having someone to read the words is indeed the culmination. For that reason, I feel, the entire process isn't finished when we hit "publish."

It's when someone clicks on the link or picks up the book that we, as writers, can truly say, "It is finished."

Illustration by Kathleen Rose Van Pelt for "Bryony."

Opening Lines

Although most readers, writers, and editors would agree that hooking the reader right from the start is important, not everyone "hooks" in the same way. Lines that may grab one person may only elicit yawns from another.

Still, writers do - and should - strive for openers that keep the reader reading. Here are some of mine:

The autumn rain splashed against the patio glass and trickled in silent streams to muddy pools near the sliding door. I stood unblinking and watched it, relieved for dry, cozy shelter, and yet wistful for the future my haughty recklessness had prematurely extinguished.

As the fog rolled inland off the lake, the approaching dusk grew uncommonly gloomy. 

The old man huddled into the corner of the building and buried his shriveled head into the snarled fur of the sleeping dog. 

The rain that shrouded the gray listless skies all afternoon now pattered onto the classroom roof with monotonous steadiness.

 “Snap!”

The shrunken man sat behind the counter smoking his clay pipe.

Seventeen-year-old John-Peter Simotes poured the bucket of black water down the drain of the old porcelain sink, careful not to splash it onto the wood floor and create another mess he would have to clean. 

I love stories, and my entire life has revolved around that love.

“Hurry, sir, oh please, hurry!”

The man in the long frock coat and extra-wide cravat had stared at her with peculiar steadiness all night, almost as if goading her to notice him