How to Write a Novel - and not just talk about it

Okay folks, I think I’m going to go back to basics for those writing novels – especially since this is national novel writing month – or NaNoWriMo as it’s called and we’re already well into it with a few of my friends participating.

So, there are lots of people out there who TALK about writing a novel, but then there are the ones who actually do it. Congratulations if you’re one of the later. Then there are people who’ve talked about writing a novel and finally actually do it!  Congratulations to you as well. Bet it feels good.

For those of you who are still kind of getting your feet wet and aren’t really on stable ground as yet. Here are a few things to get you motivated and stay on track.

First give yourself some attainable goals (you can do the really heavy duty, nearly unattainable if you want, but the attainable ones are generally reached and motivate you to continue to the next goal). Those involved in NaNoWriMo are already on that track.  I suggest you even write it down. Use strong words for yourself. For example, tell yourself you’re going to start and finish a publishable novel within a year (or six months, or whatever). If you do it you’re creating a goal and a deadline for yourself and as a writer, believe me, you need both.  It’s that old ‘it’s hard to make yourself work when you’re the only one you’re answerable to’ plague that nails many an author.

Second, the secret to completing that novel is writing. That basic. Every day won’t bring amazing paragraphs and stunning chapters, but it’s important to stick to it. To do it every day. If you’re turning out bad writing that’s okay. Eventually that bad writing will evolve into good writing. And, eventually sentences equal paragraphs and paragraphs add up to chapters and chapters…well, you get the drift. There’s a finished novel in there somewhere.

And remember for the third point here that there is no right way to write a novel. Seriously. You might plan the whole thing out from beginning to end. Another writer wings it entirely. Some ideas begin with only a title. Some writers are agonizing over the title long after the novel is written. Some people write the story. Some let the characters guide them to the end. Whatever way works for you is the way to write a novel.

Great writing is most times rewriting. That means you could well write many more pages than what the novel will actually have. You’ll do a lot of deleting and you’ll probably get mad at whoever you draft to give you input as you realize you have to delete even more, then restructure the story to fill in the holes that are left. It hurts. Almost every writer I’ve ever known resists taking out chunks. I, myself, had to reduce a novel by about a third once in order to have it published. But it DID get published.

published originally by Doubldeay - now available on Kindle

Lastly don’t forget to celebrate and pat yourself on the back when you finish a goal. Do something nice for yourself when you complete a chapter. When you finish the first draft crack open the champagne!

When it’s ready for publication blow out the stops. Truly, you’ve accomplished something amazing, don’t let it be just another day.

Now, think about what I’ve said here, then get out there and write the novel you’ve always intended to. (or that short story or comic or non-fiction or......)

The Wolves of Stormrider - A Novel's Beginnings

Who’s story is this anyway? Is it the main character’s, Tanith Aesir, aka Stormrider, or does it belong to the wolves?

I’m afraid I have to give it to the wolves. I’ve loved wolves all my life. Not just because they’re beautiful – they are. Not just because they’re intelligent – they are. Not just because they’re loyal – they are, extremely. It’s all of those things along with this amazing aura, this magic that seems to cling to them throughout the ages.

They’re given an exalted place in our art, our history, or mythology, our literature – and on and on. They’re admired, feared, raised to nearly god-like status and dropped to the pit of evil as werewolves. Tell me the sight of a wolf doesn’t move you in some way?

And that’s how Stormrider got its start. The wolves came first, their personalities, their power, and the rest of the story came along after.

A bit of research on our own wolves turned up the fact that there once were over 250,000 wolves in North America and now there are fewer than 5,000. They once had a solid niche to fill having developed side by side with their prey killing and eating the young, the sick and the old, leaving the fittest to survive, reproduce and grow stronger. And, their kills also fed numerous other animals that shared their habitat such as ravens, eagles, foxes, bears and others. Additionally, as is being discovered with their reintroduction to Yellowstone, the wolves even help keep the forest healthy by checking deer and elk populations, thus slowing overgrazing and soil erosion. Surprising, no?

It’s sad (and a little horrifying) that the early settlers equated killing a wolf with the triumph of civilization over wilderness out of fear and superstition. Even more so since the early native Americans regarded wolves as mysterious and powerful beings.

Nature is intricate and beautiful. But what of the savagery you say? Can you claim man isn’t savage? What of his near extermination (and that was the intent) of the wolves? In only twenty-five years more than 80,000 wolves were killed. That’s pretty savage.

So I moved the incredible wolves to another planet, another culture and imbued them with some remarkable abilities. Abilities that Stormrider is swept up in to become a member of the pack.

It was a fun ride and my goal is to have made it as much for the reader as it was for me as the writer. 

Stormrider - A Sample of the Book Right Here

STORMRIDER

       Trust The Wolves 

       Save  A World

CHAPTER ONE           

         Stillness, galvanizing in its intensity, overwhelming in its suddenness, a stillness not her own, surged from some inner repository, filled Tanith, pushed all else aside.

            Her head jerked up.  The important work of gathering plants for food and medicine was forgotten and the stillness transformed into an unmistakable, undeniable pull.  Her heart took up a skipping rhythm.  Ears buzzed with silence, a void soon filled.

            Come, it beckoned, rippling softly through her mind, disturbing the great stillness.  Come.

            Tanith Aesir grasped her collecting bag tighter and bolted to her feet, rising from the mottled forest shadows into brilliant sunlight.  Tension snapped through her body like a whip crack as a sudden breeze surged, swaying the surrounding trees.  Their movement dappled the sunlight, flickering shadows impairing her focus.  The grove’s serenity evaporated in an instant.

            Expert training strained to the fore.  Years of it.  Green eyes rapidly swept her surroundings, adjusting, that adjustment delaying her only a moment while she analyzed the throbbing quietude about her.  Barest moments of time were swept away on an indrawn breath and then she began to run.

            She ran not with the small, mincing steps of a maiden, but with the long, athletic strides of a female warrior, muscles flexing, blood heating.   Her hair, the color of rich, well-aged Octurian brandy, streamed unbound in a silken wave behind her, caught upon the chill wind of her passage.  Her stomach wanted to knot but she forbade it, calling upon iron control as she sought to hold firmly to that mind-touch which drew her. 

            More urgently now—he voice; the thought; rippling across her mind–come, swiftly, come.

            Not words precisely,  more like impulses of knowledge threaded through with an urgency she had never felt before, crashing over her with the power of cascading waters.  She had a general direction, but no more.  It drew her on with its power, its compelling urgency, this voice, this presence in her mind.  She no longer feared it as she had at the very beginning when first contact had been initiated; instead she feared for it.  This was not a normal contact.  This was something very different with something very much more deadly underlying the summons.  And there were plenty of things here in Nashira which were deadly.

            The mind-touch held and Tanith increased her speed.  Her chest burned inside and her extremities felt the chill of blood loss as it was diverted to her laboring heart and lungs.  Hide gathering bag clenched in one fist, half-blunted digging knife in the other, she answered the anxious call--without words, but answered nonetheless.

            I’m coming, coming - let me feel you–where?

            She ran, direction determined by those impulses throbbing through her soul.

            Her feet clad in leathers, soft wraps nearly to her knees, hardened sole pounding softly, nearly soundlessly, against pliant soil, she swept on.  With the wind at her back, she ran.  Blood pumped heatedly through veins and sweat misted her forehead in a fine, gathering sheen.  Mind tried to take over, threatened to imagine all kinds of disasters to foster such an urgent call.  Fear threatened to blossom, but, with the years of studied discipline at her beck, she deftly turned the imaginings aside and pressed on.

            Suddenly the silent communication was lost.  Link broken.  In its place, echoed the familiar, wolfish, yips and howls of Strongheart, Littlefoot and One Eye.  The three wolves, sensing her nearness, had begun vocalizing, beckoning to her, giving her more than the power of the bond to draw her on.  Understanding her need better than she did herself, the sound of the haunting chorus brought the hair at the nape of her neck to attention along a rippling wave of goose-flesh.

            But there was more; a texture of sight, sound and roiling impressions; mental chaos.  Images, isolated, which made no sense.  For a moment she was aware of fang and claw, then a man, bloodied, replaced it.  Guided confusion.  Order in chaos.  Tanith fought to assimilate it and understand, but gave that up as futile.  And helplessness was not a condition she was willing to accept.

            She turned.  Carried by the wind as it shifted came growls, animal screams, moist, guttural snorts and snarls - the rough bellowing of another.  By the Gods and Goddesses!  It was a fight she was hurling toward like a juggernaut, and she had no weapon with her save her digging knife!

            She swung around the thick bole of a split-leaf tree, and nearly tripped over a body.  She had no time to analyze what lay before her except to note the bloody, mangled body was most assuredly dead; that it wore, in tatters, the leathers of The People - and that other clothes (more familiar clothes) lay in a balled-up heap nearby, nearly concealed by leaves.

            ENEMY!  The alarm exploded instantly inside her head.

            ENEMY HERE!

         Anxiety added to chaos.  If the enemy was here…if they knew of the golden torque…if they stopped her…so much would be lost…so much.  She had heard the mechanical roar of war in simulation.  She had no desire to experience it first-hand.

            A hideous roar of a different kind shook the ground, drove the birds from the trees and silenced, for the moment, the apprehensions clamoring in her mind.  Those could be confronted later.  Now she must reach the trio of wolves because whatever it was they had found to tangle with would not wait.  Urgency in her mind from Strongheart.

            Picking up the thread, she dove through the trees once again, noticed them thinning abruptly before she was spilled unceremoniously onto the edge of an immense clearing.  Soft grasses rolled before her feet.  Sunlight,  painfully bright, made the green all around throb iridescently.  Deep, cool shadows cast on either side by limbs intruding into sun's space moved, and seemed almost alive.

            Chest heaving, hair in a tangled mass, eyes wide, she allowed the sight to wash over her, through her, absorbing what she needed with the speed of her sense functions.  Even thoughts took longer than impressions.

            Legs spread to steady her balance,  moccasin-clad feet planted firmly upon the ground, she gaped while the sounds of her own blood rushing filled her ears.  She couldn’t help staring, but she couldn’t spare the time for it.

            There, before her, Strongheart, magnificent in battle, wore his great silver ruff stiffened across massive shoulders like a cape.  Head down, ears up, lips peeled back from impressive white teeth in a deadly, liquid, gutteral snarl, he challenged the enraged bear for possession of his victim--a man (a rather torn-up man), caught between bear (who seemed prepared to make short shrift of him) and wolves (who undoubtedly seemed not much different than the bear to the man).  Already battered and bloodied far more than any man should be and remain standing, that hardy soul stared warily from beast to beast to beast, his lips peeled back in a rictus of a man-snarl, his body half crouched in readiness, but bleeding, weakening, swaying on his feet.

            Readiness - readiness for that?! The bear towered over

them all, standing a solid twelve feet tall if he was an inch. 

            The Goddess only knew what he weighed!  Staring, gauging, Tanith translated all that poundage and fury into physics of force and momentum - the damage just one paw swipe could do – and shuddered.  The wolves were all crazy!  She was crazy!  Her eyes flicked back to the wreck of a man.

            He flinched every time Littlefoot or One Eye followed the choreography of a master; entering the dance as Strongheart directed with impeccable timing.  It was a stunning stand-off, for the moment.  One Strongheart fully expected her to break.

            In the space of a heartbeat, she watched in horrified fascination as both Littlefoot and One Eye dashed in to harass the bear.  Littlefoot, less aggressive but quick and protective of the pack, moved like lightning.  Sharp teeth sank momentarily into ankle or leg and then she was gone, wind rippling across her bloodstained muzzle. 

            One Eye, blind on one side, flew to the attack with brutal ferocity.  Teeth snapping he leapt high, raked the bear's golden pelt above the hip, turned, raced between the animal's massive legs, and went for the hamstrings.  But for all his bulk, the bear, too, was swift in retaliation.  One giant, sickle-clawed paw descended to rid himself of the annoying pest.  The bear missed One Eye and the wolf flowed clear, dodging the tottering man, eye fixed momentarily on Tanith before jaws snapped in final assault.

            Heart in her throat, Tanith slid smoothly to one side, out of the bear's immediate line of concentration.  She gripped her dull, pitiful knife tightly, feeling the direction of the fight, sensing Strongheart's intent as he lunged forward - deflected most of the force of the bear's blow while One Eye dashed clear - and powerful jaws tore out a piece of bear hide in his passing.

            Hammered by the impetus of One Eye's flight, the man, badly leaking blood everywhere, fell with a disturbing finality arms pinwheeling past Littlefoot who slipped into the fray again.  At first she went unnoticed.  Then sharp teeth scored where intended and the ground-shaking bellow of the great bear once again rocked the earth beneath Tanith's feet.

            She felt the direction of Strongheart's plan; knew she had to move swiftly.  The delaying action thrown up by One Eye and Littlefoot could not last much longer.  The bear was clearly the superior force and definitely was not willing to be turned from his goal:  the man now prone on the raw turf.  She was the deciding factor.  She was the tie-breaker.  By the Goddess she was good! But this was not the kind of fighting she had been trained for.  Nonetheless, it was the kind she would do.  Attention spread thin, she glanced again at the prone man.

            He was not important.  He was a stranger, possibly an enemy, though Strongheart was rarely wrong in his impressions of people and would not have bothered to defend an enemy.  Still, her primary concern was for the wolves, her pack.  Death would be swift if one of the bear's paws connected directly.  Plainly, the wolves did not intend to disengage and leave the man to the bear with the bloodied muzzle, ragged plain-leaf ears and fetid breath.

            And she could not leave them.

            She projected anger, gathered her resources, suppressed a new shudder, and thought of the things she would have to say to Strongheart once this was over and the sour sweat of fear had dried.  This was not for food, nor was it for the safety of the pack, this was something else!  Something beyond her meager experience of the pack.  She would demand an explanation from Strongheart.

            He and his companions danced expertly with the bear, baiting it, holding it, positioning it.  Strongheart directed and protected.  He sent One Eye against the bear in such a way as to protect him from his own blindness, then exposed Littlefoot to less frontal attack, taking into account her weakness:   the deformed back foot.  They worked smoothly, as a team.  And Tanith was one of the pack, expected to do her part or the functioning of the pack would collapse, bringing disaster.

            All right! So be it! Her finely conditioned body hummed with expectation as she rushed the bear's blind side, the wind carrying his noisome scent to her nostrils but not hers to his.  Leverage, surprise and power.  She had to use them all and use them fast.  Despite years of training and the experience of having faced deadly adversaries, her belly churned and her mouth felt parched as she launched herself.

            She went in swiftly from behind as Strongheart directed the diversion in front.  She hit the massive bear with all her strength, clipping him just behind the knees, and slashed downward, tearing the hamstring of the leg nearest her with her digging knife.  Blood spurted hot and sticky.  The bear gave a thunderous roar and began a long, slow, collapse.  Tanith's heart convulsed.  It didn’t appear she was going  to make it clear.  She sent a brief prayer to the Goddess.  If she died now she will have failed.  Her quest to regain the amulet would be ended.  Something flashed past her.

            Strongheart plowed in.  Everything started to come apart.  Jaws agape, canines flashing wetly in the bright afternoon light, he dove for the bear’s throat, leaping over Tanith in a cannonball assault.  She witnessed the rest in a blur.  Wolf charging.  Bear falling.  Those terrible sickle-like bear claws swinging in a wide arch.  She ached, her bones fairly shrieked with the knowledge it was going to be a close thing, a very close thing indeed.

            The ground leapt up to slam into her shoulder and hip as Tanith pressed away.   No good!  Not fast enough!  She flailed as an icy finger of near panic caressed the length of her spine and the bear's heavy paw passed so close claws caught her in a glancing swipe.  Fired ice followed the course of the bear's claws running up her left breast and over her shoulder.  A numbing shiver rippled through her body.  Despite the muted power of the swipe of that great paw, it delivered hot agony.  Tanith kept moving; tumbled, tumbled, chewed grass and rolled clear. She heard, more than saw, Strongheart take the bear's throat in a single savage pass.

            Gurgling sounds bubbled from the bear's torn throat as he thrashed wildly, tearing up the fragrant grasses in his death throes, bringing Tanith's earlier meal to her throat in a much less pleasant form than the one it had been consumed in. His throat gone, the mortally wounded bear could not even roar his agony and anger.  A ground-tremoring shudder, a deep wheeze and then silence.  Profound and complete.

            Tanith rolled slowly over onto her back, stared up into the incredible blue of the sky's vastness and in her heart asked the deities of this world for their forgiveness in the taking of this bear's life.

            She gave a quick glance up at Strongheart who had come to plunk himself down at her side, panting heavily,  reeking of bear and blood.  He looked down at her sprawled in the grass from his elevated, sitting position and gave her a quizzical look, tongue lolling from his mouth.

            His mind touched hers, telegraphing thoughts.  Why do you feel you need forgiveness for making the only choice for a being of flesh...?

            Tanith breathed heavily, willing the incredible tension of battle to drain away from her body into the cool earth beneath her back.  It took a little time for the pounding roar of her blood to calm so she could consider Strongheart’s question.

             “It was not by my choice, it was yours - and we destroyed a living thing by it.  For what?”

            In defense of another living thing - choices all choices.  To live in the world of flesh choices must be made.

            Tanith sighed.  “Are you going to confuse my life further by becoming a philosopher as well as bond-mate?”

            Strongheart panted a little less heavily, expelled a forceful breath and licked his nose with a quick swirl of pink tongue.  I was what I was before the pack was joined.

            Tanith rolled to her knees, slowly.  It wasn’t every day one tackled a bear with success and  everything seemed to hurt.  Tanith swept straggling hair back from her face and had a look around.   “Well good.  Great.  Me too, but looking back I’m not sure what that was, so give me some time to get the hang of this, all right?  How are the others?  Any damage?”

            A11 is well.  The softness of Littlefoot, at about eighty pounds, the smallest of the pack.  She was nursing a deep, bloody furrow across her shoulder.

            I will live.  This from One Eye, limping badly, but unperturbed.

            Only the man needs your help now.  Strongheart was on his feet, first shaking out his matted pelt with great vigor, then moving toward the man sprawled only a few feet from the dead bear.  There was not so much difference between them save the fact the man breathed.

            “And if he is enemy...?”

 END SAMPLE

Read on! Grab a copy in digital or paperback edition today. Honest reviews most welcome. Check out the Stormrider Page on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/StormriderTheBook

Learn more about the author at www.PeggyBechko.com.

Join author Peggy Bechko on Twitter at http://twitter.com/PeggyBechko 

And Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/PeggyBechko.Writer

If You’re Gonna Self-Publish

Writing, publishing, sometimes we don’t know how or can’t decide how to pull it all together. Go the traditional route or self-publish. These days, fortunately for indie writers who choose to go it alone most readers, I’d guess the majority, don’t really care how a book hits the shelves or Amazon or any other distributor.

So, if you’ve considered different methods of getting your work out there and have settled on self-publishing for right now, read on.

Despite the fact that most readers don’t care if a book is self-published, for a lot of reasons (including they don’t actually know it is) if the indie writer is smart he or she won’t allow what has become a big down side of the self-publishing world jump up from the newly purchased work and slap them in the face.

What’s that you say? You're asking what downside? Come on, if you’ve gotten Ebooks (and of course self-published print books) you’ve experience the total crap that can be out there.

Believe it or not, readers are truly turned off by books that look like crap. Books that have awful spelling, grammar, formatting, infantile covers, insanely long and convoluted sentences, links from table of contents to chapters that don’t work, etc. You know, unprofessional. It’s shoddy, it’s messy and it won’t keep or get you any more readers. The one reading will give up and new readers, if they read sloppy samples, will pass you by.

That’s the big plus of professional publishers. They do it all. I know, I know, not so easy to get them to publish your work even if you choose to go that route as opposed to indie. But take note. The books they produce look professional from cover through text. Well, at least most of the time. I’ve seen some doozies there as well (but my guess is the Editor was fired). Still, it’s worth emulating their methods.

Bottom line, you don’t want to look like an amateur.

Another bottom line, too many writers think they can simply crank it out, slap it up and sell a million.

Uh, no.

If you have any self-respect as a writer at all you should be going

for the polished, professional, outstandingly stunning look.  You want a reader to be unable to tell the indie published book from the traditionally published book – until or unless they look at the imprint name in the listing. So the goal is to make the book look very professional so your fantastic story won’t be tossed aside, the reader insisting any self-published book is junk. Not good for you; not good for other struggling Indies.

So, pay attention to your work. Check and double check. Have volunteer readers or an editor, or both, go through looking for all those little mistakes. And throw in a professional formatter versed in the various venues if you just can’t seem to get the hang of it yourself.

If you do that from the very first book, make sure it’s professionally done, your readers will know who to come to for a great story AND a professionally done manuscript. You know, one they can read without being jerked to a stop, pulled out of the flow of the reader’s trance, every few sentences by some glaring error that should never have been allowed to see digital or traditional print.

And let’s not forget the cover. It has to be professional as well. Remember that old saying “don’t judge a book by its cover”?  Well, really, people do. Sorry, that’s life. The reality is if you don’t have a great cover you aren’t going to hook ‘em in the first place and they’re not going to read your truly fabulous story.

I suspect it’s always been true, but modern life has only exacerbated the problem. With all the distractions we have, work, cell phones, the net, video games, hardly any free time in between, you want to give your reader some eye candy to lure them in.

The take-away here is check and double-check. Everything. Twice.

Don’t let something stupid or blatantly obvious slip through the cracks. Don’t think, ‘if it’s there they’ll buy it,’ because they won’t.

And readers, I don’t blame you. I’m a writer in addition to being a reader and I understand. We can all forgive an occasional typo or maybe a left-out close quotes, but if it’s peppered throughout the book it becomes unforgivable.

Writers, I understand your pain as well. There are a whole lot of platforms to publish with out there, Amazon, Smashwords, Create Space and others and every one has a format that claims “It HAS to be exactly my way”. There’s a lot to dead with but that’s exactly why you have to be on your toes and get it right. It’s much too easy to get it wrong.

So get your work out there, but get it right. Thrill your readers and boost your books. And proudly do the work all Indies can also take pride in.

Go ahead, tell us about your good and bad reading and writing adventures in Indie world. Let’s see what’s right and what needs to be fixed.