Ever reread something you wrote and wonder

what on the green earth you were thinking? Yeah. I actually deleted a poem last night, something I pretty much swore I'd never do. But it was that bad. I'm also thinking of my "void" tic that I tried out at the start of the blog. Cutesy is not my style. The world will be glad to know that I do not intend to do that again.

And then there are the things you write that aren't necessarily poorly written...but you kind of wonder how on earth you wound up going there. How did my comic caper novel wind up veering into a drama? Wait, my princess story has dwarves now? (That actually worked really, really well. Dwarf as a dentist? Don't think it's been done!) That scene with the guy talking to the girl that somehow became incredibly awkward? Yeah. Some days, the story just waltzes away from you.

And some day, the story doesn't waltz, it stomps away and sulks in the corner. That's where I am right now. I've been struggling to get more than three words written on this story. Per day. Possibly per week. And the really sad thing is that the kids I teach in my Sunday school are adorably faithful about asking me, "What comes next? Have you written any more?" They get disjointed synopses. They get bare snippets. And they keep asking for more. I think it's partly because I have promised, on my word as a Sunday school teacher, that I will let them read it. If it's ever finished.

I really like this story. I'm working on my second draft, seeking to expand, to better characterize, to remove plot holes. I have the plot worked out; I have the filling material for the holes on my mental shelf; I have a more-or-less idea of how characterization will improve. (Yeah, it's a little more hit and miss...) And somehow, I get far more stuck on this draft than I did on the first! Right now, I am trying to write a ballad for the Bard to recite. I have a verse and a half. I need at least three. And it doesn't help that I gave myself a kooky rhyming meter to work within. It's got to tell a story, and it's got to be a halfway decent poem, and it's got to fit the Bard's personality.

I must be out of my mind.

I am determined

to write more. And if my stories are going nowhere--which, to a page, they are--I shall write on my blog! This, at least, requires little coherence.

I like my stories. I really, really do. I like spinning them. I like inventing characters for them. I like trying to challenge myself to write different characters. There's one, who is mostly just chilling in my mind, but spilling over a little bit to my computer, who is as nearly silent as I can possibly make him. First time I've ever deliberately made a character who did not talk his head off. Usually, I have a fair idea of where a story starts, what'll happen in the middle (a vaguer idea there, admittedly) and every once in a while, a good idea of how it will end. The people are easy. The story line isn't too difficult. It's the individual scenes that have me wandering in circles, muttering "And then she says...what? He says, 'oh yeah?' and then she says....what?" (Yes, that is how the creative process goes. In circles, muttering. Yes, it resembles insanity. No, they're not always the same thing.)

I find my favorite story ideas are the ones that stick with me, long after I've abandoned the original writing project, long after I've told myself there's no story there. The characters stay, for years and years, changing, growing, meeting new people, rewriting endings, discarding and acquiring characteristics. All in my head. Sometimes this leads to staring vacantly into the distance, but not always.

I have many favorites. One of my old favorites is the cop story I've had bouncing around for....two years? Three? I'm bad with dates. Another is the war story that is definitely shelved, but has remained comfortably on a mental shelf for four years. And once in a while, I dredge up the truly ancient stories, the ones from six and seven years ago, the ones that, were they to take human form, would be doddering simpletons. But they had some nice things. Like names. I tend to be consistent about the names I like.

Archie Devereaux is a name I used quite a while ago. That one needs to make a reappearance. And though it is imbued, for me, with the character of its original owner (with the character of its character), Michael Holbeton. I still like that one.

I have written.

I'm going to tell you about a story, Void.

About the evolution of a story. It started when I was sixteen. I had been reading about the Roman emperors: Octavian, Caesar Augustus, and all the fellows who followed. And I came across an unusual name: Flavian. The Flavian emperors, who ruled Rome for a time. For a while, I stared unseeingly at my history book and revolved the name around in my head. Flavia...like the lady in The Prisoner of Zenda. It continued revolving, and then formed into Favian. Simple enough, just take out the el, not a bad name. But it was a little more than a name. It was a seed.

Over the next several days, I evolved more names and a story, which turned into the tale of Favian Windlow, a half-elf who learns he is the heir to a duchy in the Faery Realm.

It was dreadful. In a whole lot of ways.

I had two villains. One was a psychopathic megalomaniac and one was a shambling lout whose chief distinction was his deep and sadistic hatred of Favian, his cousin. I had a comic relief duo, I had stuffy older elves, I had a dashing captain of the guards. And, of course, I had a beautiful lady love, with whom both Favian and the shambling lout fell in love. I wrote a good sixty pages and went nowhere. And I plagiarized about half the names from Tolkien, with the innocent assumption that he wouldn't care, since he is dead.

Well. It petered out, as I said. And for a year, perhaps two, it sat there: a behemoth gathering figurative dust.

I think it was two years later when my late epic began nudging me in the back of my mind. Favian Windlow. Really not such a bad name. And the core idea: a half-breed faery struggling to fit into an upper-class society, woo a lady, battle his uncle? Not bad at all! I listened dutifully and decided to try to resuscitate the story.

I changed some stuff; Favian turned from a pitiful orphan being raised by his hateful uncle to a young man in the army. The plucky comic relief stayed, in a sort-of subdued way. (They were kind of necessary to the story.) The dashing captain stayed, and acquired a sidekick. The stuffy older elf became somewhat cooler. And the villains evolved into interesting people.

The psychopath, Favian's uncle, remained his uncle, but he turned into an elf with a genius for administration, who tries to take over the throne with the belief that he would be a better ruler than his brother--a coup more in the interests of the people than of the love of power. The hulking cousin quit being a cousin and became the uncle's loyal companion and the captain's nemesis. And then I hit a new problem. I fell in love with my villains.

So now my story of Favian Windlow has become the story of Valtimer, devoted servant and surrogate son to Felsar Windlow, the exiled duke. Maybe there's still hope for Favian's tale: the half-breed trying to fit into a strange society. But probably not as long as Valtimer is around.

And the dragon. Valtimer has a dragon.