Plot & Structure, by James Scott Bell, is a revolutionary book to many of us who are writing novels. It's funny how many times I've run into someone who finds it as inspiring as I have: I told Lois about it, she finished it before me and urged me to hurry up! Finish it! Then my sister-in-law, Laura, who has had a novel living in her head for years, picked it up and was amazed at how easy plotting became for her! For me, ever the random writer, it's provided me with a real structure that I can depend on. At the same time, Bell hasn't given me a set of rigid rules. I hate rigid rules when it comes to a creative process. Oxymoronic.
His book is also full of examples of authors and how they use certain techniques. I'm constantly saying, "Ohhhh, I see that!"
At the end of every chapter, he has exercises to do. Usually I just roll my eyes and ignore this kind of thing. But these exercises are so practical I want to do them, for the good of my novel.
So, get this book! Quick, before they're all gone!
Writing groups are wonderful for convicting you of your writerly sin. You go along, thinking everything is A-OK, and then someone says something, the smallest little question, and it makes you think, hmmmm. I wonder ....
Lois did that for me the last time I was convicted of my writerly sin. It wasn't what Lois said -- it was what I read, and how my reading fell flat. And we both knew it. What was my sin? I broke the commandment of Thou shalt know thy characters inside and out.
Unfortunately, this is not one that Lois ever breaks. She has notebook upon notebook of character notes. (I'm exaggerating out of jealousy) When I presented my chapter on Delilah to her (Billie was absent on the night in question), at the end of the reading it was obvious that this Delilah was nowhere near the Delilah who had been the secondary character in my story. It was Delilah's turn to shine, and she was dull, dull, dull. Not what I'd intended in this character.
I drove home that night knowing I'd wasted hours and paper. What was the deal? Who was that goody two shoes I'd written a whole chapter about? And if I couldn't answer that question, who on earth could?
That was disturbing.
Two years, Teresa. Two years, and you don't know this character? What kind of a writer are you, anyway? (intuitive, I answered myself, not analytical) What's more, I started going down a list of my major characters, and there were two more I was drawing a blank on when I asked myself, what's their story? What are they like?
The next day I sat down with my laptop and thought, I'm not going anywhere until Delilah is grittier.
So, I thought about her behavior, all the ways she's reacted to my major character, Angeline. What makes her such a good person? Why is she SOOOOOOOO good? She is unfailingly modest, she's in love with a missionary, she's loving, compassionate, generous, etc., etc., etc.
So what's up with that?
Sometimes, when people are extreme in their behavior, they are reacting to something in their past.
So I began to think of what was opposite of her behavior, and presto! My fingers started flying over the keyboard. Delilah's backstory now is gritty but believable, and oh so common no matter what the century.
It's amazing how the story changes when you actually get to know your characters.
I decided it was time to post excerpts of my novel. I will post two excerpts from different places in the story, neither one the beginning. I'd love to hear feedback, but please know that these are still very much works in progress. I hope to be finished with the book in early 2010.
The setting for the novel is 1838, western North Carolina
Set-up for Excerpt 1: Angeline, the main character, is at a party given in her honor at her father's home. She is new to this community, and new to her father's home.
Excerpt 1
I walked aimlessly away from the crowd. The noise of the music was getting on my nerves, and I needed to hear the sounds of nature. I needed to sort my thoughts after the encounter with Sam.
The log that I had sat on earlier was vacant and situated in a dark corner where I would go unnoticed. Gratefully I sank down, resting my weary feet. These delicate slippers were beautiful, but they were rubbing nasty blisters on my little toes. I eased them off one at a time and stretched my stockinged feet out in front of me.
The stars blinked above in an inky sky. Mama and I had always studied the dark skies together, and seeing them now, without her, made my heart ache. Was she looking at the same stars? Was she lonely for me? She understood me, like no one here did. But I never fully realized it until I left her.
The breeze was chilly, and I rubbed my arms, hesitant to leave my hiding place to retrieve a shawl from my bedroom. Just as I was reaching for my shoes, I heard Grandmother’s voice not very far away. I turned my head and listened, frowning as I heard my name.
“Oh, yes, she’s a dear girl. Will decided to adopt her . . . . you know he’s always considered himself an orphan since his father was killed so tragically before he was born . . . . he’s so soft-hearted towards orphans.”
What was she talking about? My stomach felt queasy.
A low pitched male voice said, “Well, Temperance, beg pardon, but we’d heard that she was Will’s illegitimate child.”
Who was Grandmother talking to? I leaned forward, trying not to roll the log, and spotted her through the foliage in a cluster of men and women several yards away. I could see her face, her eyes darting sharply from one person to another as they spoke. Her eyebrows were arched, her mouth pursed.
“Yes, beg pardon, Temperance, but a love child with a Cherokee woman is what folks is saying.” This input was made by the woman who stood with her back to me, her straw bonnet bobbing up and down with each shrill word.
Grandmother’s laughter rang out, unfamiliar and false. “How ridiculous. Will is a good Christian man. He would never do such an immoral thing. And Angeline – she doesn’t have a drop of Cherokee in her. She is white through and through.”
I felt my stomach lurch, and I covered my mouth. So that’s how Grandmother was presenting me to her friends. I was an orphaned white child. Despite her chilly reception, and the conversation I’d overheard between her and Papa, I thought she had accepted me for who I was.
“I saw her dancing with Sam Sherrill,” another man said. “He looked mighty taken with her. She’s a beauty.”
Though tears clouded my view, I held my breath to hear what she would say.
After a slight hesitation, Grandmother inclined her head and smiled, her voice dripping with condescension. “Well, Sam is a very kind young man.”
My thoughts swirled angrily. Kind young man? Yes, he would have to be a kind-hearted soul to want to dance with your half-breed granddaughter.
Set up for Excerpt 2: Angeline has survived a brutal rape after being captured by soldiers who are rounding up Cherokees for the Indian Removal (later known as the Trail of Tears).
Excerpt 2
A firm hand grabbed my hair and jerked my head out of the water. I came up, gasping and sputtering.
“Hey, now, ain’t nothin’ worth that.”
I wrenched my hair out of his grasp and scooted away from the soldier. “Get away from me!”
He held up his hands in surrender. “I ain’t gonna do nothin’ to you.”
I grabbed my dress from the bank to cover myself and scowled up at him. His face wasn’t familiar. He was younger, much closer to my age than the three men who had attacked me. This man had a thin, long face, brown mournful eyes which regarded me warily, and a ragged mustache that was barely more than peach fuzz on his upper lip. He was so lean his pale cheeks were hollow.
His hands, now slowly descending to his side, were blood-stained.
He followed my gaze, and brought them, palm up, for my inspection. “I was dressin’ the bear. We killed it, ’member?” He turned and thrust his hands into the water, rubbing them together while scarlet billows stained the clear water.
I blinked hard and rose on shaky legs, still gripping the dress to hide my body. He looked over his shoulder.
“Git yer dress on, miss.”
I squinted at him, humiliation filling me as I squatted behind a rhododendron bush. My modesty was needless; he had seen me. My eyes flooded with angry tears as I stepped into my shift, then made my trembling fingers work the hook and eye closures on the front of my dress – but it was no use. My dress was tattered. Pieces of my bodice yawned open, looking as surprised and wounded as I felt. I held them, pieces in each hand, marveling at how quickly it had all happened. I held them over my chest and stood very still. Maybe if I held them there long enough, hard enough. . . .
I heard voices from over the ridge, and lifted my head to listen more keenly. It was them. And Tamar. Everything registered then: the smell of food that had wafted down to me, their raucous voices and hers, calm. I’d been hearing these things, smelling meat, in the back of my mind, not conscious of anything except what was before me: my trembling fingers and taking one ragged breath at a time. Was it possible that common life went on around me? Or had they made Tamar suffer the same way I had?
I stood and craned my neck, but saw nothing beyond the bushes at the top of the ridge. The pieces of my bodice fell away, and I stood, exposed and betrayed by my tattered dress.
My arms across my chest, I came out from my shelter, and stepped tentatively toward the skinny soldier. “Wh-where are those men?”
The man shook his hands dry, then finished the job on his uniform trousers. He gestured with his head toward the camp. He looked at me with an expression I couldn’t read, which made my heart beat fast. I took a step back, watching him. He pursed his lips, sighed. He put his hands on his knees and stood, watching me the whole time.
“Don’t make me chase you, now,” he said, his voice lower than before. He walked toward me, his hat in his hand.
I shook my head, my breath coming in pants. My skirt tangled in my legs as I took quick backward steps, almost tripping before I turned and ran. I shrieked as I felt his bony hand close around my arm.
“Hey – now look here,” he said, steadying me with both hands on my arms. “What they did to you was bad, but you still gotta come with us.”
I looked up into his thin face, seeking understanding but finding none. “What? Go where?”
His brown eyes connected with mine, then fell away. “Stockade.”
It's been a while since I talked about the novel. I can't call it by name -- wish I could, but right now it is a novel without a name. I'm wracking my brain for the perfect title to sum it all up, and maybe that's the problem. I'm thinking too hard.
Anyway, yesterday on my wiki I came up with one word summations about each character, and even though it's grossly unfair to sum up people in one word, sometimes in the publishing world you have to do it. Think of the jacket of the book, for example.
It was an interesting exercise to me to do. I'm so global in my thinking, it was good for me to have to analyze each character and limit myself to one descriptor. I thought I'd share my list of characters and their characteristics.
Angeline: impetuous
Delilah: proper
Tamar: nurturing
Amelia: leader
Jake: warrior
Big John: wise
Laura: insecure
Will: powerful
Sam: loyal
Elizabeth: selfish
Brandon: self-righteous
Rafferty: self-seeking
Dr. MacDonald: sardonic
Temperance: snobbish
Last night my daughter and I went to the American Idol concert. I could write a whole blog post on that experience, but won't. What affected me most as a writer was Danny Gokey.
Danny came out and did his usual songs and danced some salsa, but before his last song he told the audience that he was passionate about his next subject. He suffered a great tragedy a month before trying out for AI (he lost his wife), but due to a friend's insistence that he follow his dream in spite of the circumstances, great things happened for him.
What he was saying, this 28-year-old widower on stage in front of thousands --who a year ago was just a guy from the Midwest --made sense.
As he sang his song (I Wish for You), I sat in a stupor, barely listening. The wheels were turning . . .
I sat there and thought, Teresa, what's holding you back from pursuing your dream?
The answer came quick: Oh my gosh. I'm letting this stupid recession get me down!
Really? The recession?
Yes! Think about it --
All you hear is that
-- things are bad with publishing houses
-- editors are getting laid off
-- agents won't take newby's work
-- don't even think about making money on your book, because the big name authors aren't making money in this economy
-- e-books are taking over
-- you might have to put your book out there for free on your blog or self-publish
-- it might take a long time to get your stuff even seen by an agent
(shoulders droop farther, farther, farther)
Here's my question: Why am I listening?
I'm sure all of this is correct. But I don't need to hear it, because its effect on me as a struggling novelist is sheer discouragement.
What I DO need to do is work at being a better writer so I can fulfill my dream.
1)I need to set a goal for myself, a daily writing goal that I can aim for. Mine right now is to write a thousand words a day on my novel. Most days I do it, some days I don't. When I set a goal for myself, I know that I'll finish this book. Sooner rather than later.
2)I need to meet with other writers, in person and online. I'm so thankful for Lois and Billie and our every other Monday night sessions at Borders. They know my book almost as well as I do, and I love it when they question situations and word choice and correct my grammar. I do the same for them as well. The online . . . I'm working on that!
3)I need to study my craft. I'm NOT getting another masters degree, so no MFA for me. So I'm pouring over Writers Digest, The Writer, and tons of books and online articles on the subject of writing. I've been to two conferences, and can't wait for another. Cha-ching!
4)I need to be creative with marketing myself and my novel that I've worked so hard on. I need to be up on current marketing trends and flexible with how my novel is publicized. I need to be up on the social media craze. Thank you, Twitter!
So . . . okay! I'm going to pursue my dream, and I'm going to lend a deaf ear to the naysayers and the economic forecasters. There are enough negative voices in my head that threaten to rear their ugly heads and say far more wretched things than "that agency isn't accepting new writers."
In the meantime, I think I'm going to download Danny's song.
So much!
That's why I'm rethinking my title.
It's just not gripping me by the throat these days.
And if it doesn't grip me, will it really grip a casual reader as they peruse the bookshelf?
No -- the question is, will it grip an editor -- will it grip an agent? Will the title Green Corn and Porch Music provoke anybody to look beyond the title and read the first line? Page? Chapter?
I'm thinking . . . no.
I don't say this lightly. It will be hard for me to let it go. Not because I'm married to it or think it's perfect. Simply because it's become habit to refer to my book by this title.
And there is one person in my writing group who sings the praises of this title. But I think that's because it describes two parts of my character's life. Not because it's the kind of title that you'll never forget.
Every time I walk into a bookstore, I stop in front of the bestsellers and study the covers, saying the titles in my heads over and over. They are GOOD. Really clever. I'd love to interview the author or agent or editor or whoever it was that came up with each one. This is just not my thing! In fact, truth be told, I'd love to submit my novel with a blank where the title goes and say, "You all are the pros -- you tell me what will sell this novel."
Don't think I'm an extra trusting person -- it's just that I've scratched my head over this, and studied award-winning titles, best-seller titles, even bad titles, and still come up with nothing.
That is, until the other day, when I was listening to a song by Fleet Foxes. They had a line that almost got by me, and it would have, had they not repeated it...and I thought, "Hmmm. Now that's thought provoking as a title, especially with my story." I twisted the words around a bit and now I'm ruminating...
Maybe I've got something.
My story is made up. Fiction.
If the moon is shining, or if it's hiding its face -- only I as creator know the truth.
True enough.
But.....
It's historical fiction.
And that means it's a made up story that takes place within a real time period.
So. . . if the moon wasn't really shining on July 4, 1832, let's say, shouldn't my characters have a hard time seeing in the dark?
Oh, please. Nobody's going to know if the moon was shining on a certain day that long ago!
But what if somebody did know, and my credibility as a writer fell apart?
It's beat-your-head-against-the-wall-and-go-do-your-research time.
The whole time I was looking up moon phases for 1838 I kept muttering, "This is ridiculous!"
When I opened my wiki and put the new, half and full moons on the calendars for my book, I stopped muttering.
When I got to the day I'd been writing about, and saw how the moon phase affected how I would write the scene I was working on (i.e., no, my characters wouldn't be able to see each other after the storm, because the moon was in the new stage -- they'd be lucky to see the hand in front of their face!), I moaned. I had to change EVERYTHING!
BUT -- wow! My scene is so much better now. As a writer I had to rely on all senses other than the visual.
And let's face it -- if I hadn't forced myself to be true to history (even if I was the only one who knew) I would've taken the easy route, and there ALWAYS would've been a full moon illuminating faces!
Love all kinds of music, but when Cadillac Sky posted that they just came out with a new EP called Weary Angel, I went ga ga for it. You HAVE to hear it!
And as long as I'm talking about music that makes me ga ga, I can't wait for my sweetie to put his latest creation on You-tube. He's got a few things out there (rickocaster) but his latest makes us start groovin' to the beat every time he cranks it up.
It's amazing to me what music does to the soul. My brother has a special morning set list on his Ipod that he plays to set the tempo for the day. I have certain music that wakes me up when my audiobooks are putting me to sleep in traffic. Last weekend the fam was talking about how many centuries beer songs have been around -- Christians would be amazed at all the old hymns they sing that once hailed mugs of beer raised to the same tunes! (very different words...)
I for one couldn't live without music.
Pass me my Ipod, please.
I'm longing -- and I mean LONGING -- for the mountains of TN and NC. In a big way. Like I was sitting in my father-in-law's backyard the other day with family, and I found if I closed my eyes halfway I could imagine mountains in the distance instead of two story houses, and temps in the 70's instead of 90's.
Okay, that one took some doing.
Sarah said, "That's just sick."
Yeah, it kind of is.
So I got out the pics from last year's vacation to Townsend, TN and relived it this morning. I thought that was a little more conventional.
Here, I'll share.
Say it three times fast!
It's a Hawaiian word. My kids at school love saying it. And they've become pretty good at using one.
And I'm getting there.
It's an online tool for collaborating, or for just writing and changing information at will.
Actually, I'm using one for the purpose of planning my novel.
Since I HATE outlining -- SO BORING!!!!! -- it's a great way of 1)keeping up with details in research, 2) putting down where you want your story to go, 3) jotting down logistical details like how many miles from one place to another and how much time it would take to walk from here to there. Papers get lost; wikis don't. At least, not if you remember what you've named them. (That's why you write it down. . . preferably somewhere you can easily find it, along with all your computer passwords)
You can also post pictures to your wiki. I've found a lot of pictures of places that I've put on this blog that I've also put on my wiki. Some are just on my wiki, to remind me of what my characters see when they are walking on the Trail of Tears (since I live so far from the locale of my book, I rely heavily on memories and pictures).
Will I share my wiki with you? No. It's strictly for my eyes only, like a messy workbook in progress. But I thought I'd share the idea with you in case you wanted to use it.
Here are some wiki sites to check out:
www.pbworks.com
www.wikispaces.com
Happy Wiki-ing!
And for me that means get-down-to-writing time! What a joy!
For now . . .
Maybe I won't be saying that when I fully realize that writing day after day is every bit the solitary act that it really is. My head knows that, but the rest of me says, Yeah, but still, give me this as a full time career and I'd be happy as a clam.
My head: Uh-huh. Talk to me in August.
That self-argument aside, I'm so excited to have time to sit down and read one of the resources I ordered from the museum in Cherokee, NC. It's called Voices from The Trail of Tears, by Vicki Rozema. I could hug that lady! She's put together one of the nicest pieces of eyewitness accounts I've seen. It's so readable. She's included journal entries from soldiers who are viewing the Cherokee removal in 1838 from a military viewpoint; journal entries from missionaries, who are bleeding hearts for their friends, the Cherokees, and are on the trail with them; and a journal section from a prominent Cherokee. She's included letters from politicians and newspaper articles of that day and time, reflecting the anglo viewpoint; and an editorial written by the editor of the Cherokee newspaper. There's tons more, all adding up to a well-rounded, firsthand look at the Trail of Tears.
This is just the kind of thing I've been searching for!
I'm just wondering that -- and this is totally against my blog topic, by the way. But I'm troubled by recent happenings, and most of all by where my daughter should have been today, but thank God, wasn't: in a locked-down college.
So what's the deal with April?
I mean, there was the Branch Davidian tragedy. April. Then there was the Oklahoma City bombing. April. And Columbine. April. Virginia Tech. April.
What's up with that?
A few people have answered, it's the change of seasons. It's getting warmer. But we seem to make the transfer to summer just fine. What's up with leaving winter behind?
It's truly disturbing.
Today when Sarah called me to tell me that her school was on lockdown, but that she was at home because she didn't feel well, I was so grateful. And I'm thankful that apparently the reported gunman was not a reality, just a terrible phone threat. But the question remains: What's up with April?
Today was the first day of the fifth graders' Civil War unit, and we're using blogs and wikis as their reporting tools. As I was talking about what a blog was and how we'd be writing blog entries, I made a snap decision to show my own blog as an example.
I had already used my novel writing and researching as a good example of how Google is not always the best gathering tool in their bucket of available resources. I told them that I was researching a time period I knew nothing about (1838), a place I'd never lived (North Carolina), and a culture I knew very little about (the Cherokees). Through my research I was able to get to know more about all three, and Google had been a great asset -- until I came across what I called a "wacky website" -- where I read information contrary to everything else I'd learned. In fact, this stuff was way out there, even though the sponsoring organization had a trustworthy kind of name. I had them guess whether or not I actually used this information. And of course they had to back up their answers!
We went on to discuss how Google is great for some things, but not when you're researching the Civil War in a week, especially when your grade depends on how your note taking skills are! Instead, NetTrekker (offered through our district) can narrow down that huge topic into several great websites, making their hunt lots faster and more satisfying.
When we looked at my blog, they already knew my topic from the Google discussion. But it was very cool to share with them what I work on in my "spare" time, outside of school. We were able to talk about things like blog titles, posts, how to upload pictures and post links. We discussed what makes a quality blog -- then we actually wrote one together on a topic they'd just learned about: the Underground Railroad. We collaborated on what made a good sentence, what should be capitalized, what was important information to include or leave out, what should be defined . . . It was every teacher/librarian's dream. Integration of several subjects in one high interest lesson. Bliss.
Now if we can just get our server to keep from throwing us off every five minutes . . .
Photo uploaded from Flickr:cogdogblog
This is a site where the Cherokees camped on the Trail of Tears. The house, of course, was not there in 1838. It's a place called Rattlesnake Springs, located along the border of Tennessee and North Carolina.
(photo credit: James F. Corn for the National Park Service)
It's been plaguing me ever since beginning this daunting task -- what did a stockade look like, what did it smell like, what was it like to live there?
No problem. Just hit Google. Right?
Not hardly.
Well, maybe if I were talking about a generic stockade, the kind I picture when I think of the word. The kind of stockade that is synonymous with "fort". The kind I visited many times growing up in Texas. Fort Parker, for one.
However, the kind of stockade I'm writing about is different. I think.
Here's what I know for sure: 1) the stockades were built in the late 1830's in Georgia, Alabama, North Carolina and Tennessee to temporarily house the Cherokees and other tribes who were being removed to the west in 1838 and 1839.
2)They no longer exist.
3)There are scanty recollections of life inside the stockades from survivors via diary entries or oral histories (these are more often told by survivors' children). However, because the time period inside the stockade was a short compared to the vast and more traumatic experience of the Trail of Tears, little info really comes out through these sources.
Unfortunately for me, a lot of my story takes places within those stockade walls.
So I'm faced with a decision, as a writer: do I make things up, based on the knowledge I have? Call it "artistic liberty"? I'm really not comfortable doing that.
At the same time, I can't allow my writing to come to a grinding halt because I don't know whether every person within the stockade was allowed to have a blanket or not. Or because I don't know how the campsites were laid out within the stockades -- a neat little grid, or mass of humanity? Were the Cherokees allowed to have knives? That's important to know for my birthing scene.
However -- today I happened upon the Georgia Trail of Tears website, where I saw that Dr. Sarah Hill has done extensive research in locating where the stockades once stood in Georgia. I downloaded her report and it was very helpful (and mind-boggling!) as to what the stockades looked like, how many Cherokees might have filled their walls, how long they stayed, and an idea of what the supplies were. Now as to who received those supplies, the army or the Cherokees, is another question.
I'm hopeful now that some of my questions might find answers!
This is part of the Trail of Tears in Tennessee. The mood of the picture is so melancholy you can almost see the march enacted before your eyes.
(Photo credit: Benjamin Nance for the Tennessee Department of Environment and Conservation)
I just finished Chapter 14. A real feeling of accomplishment, because I was stalled for awhile. Why? Who can say. I allowed other things to get in the way of my writing -- like, anything! Also, I listened to those evil little voices in my head that told me I really didn't know what I was doing. I mean, who did I think I was, writing about another century, a far off place, an unfamiliar culture. Surely it would come off as false, and never see the light of day once it was finished -- that is, if I could even finish it! After all, did I really have a good story here? Would anybody really want to read it?
That's the great thing about a writer's group. They don't let you listen to those evil little voices that get you down. Thanks to those women, I didn't get away with laying off my story for long. They didn't even let me get away with changing my story in the hopes of making it more "contemporary"! They soooo weren't buying it. And I'm so glad. I got to hear them tell me the things they loved about my story, the things they couldn't live without if I changed it. It really gave me a boost in self-confidence. And boy did I need it. Scoot over, evil voices!
I'm always looking for pictures of stockades that were used with the Cherokees in the 1830's, and often I find nothing. There aren't many remnants of those stockades left, since they were temporary forts and holding pens. Still, I came across a few cool images that I wanted to share here. Enjoy.
Writing a book sounds so lofty. When you tell friends and acquaintances about your project, they oooh and aahh. But they don't know about all the peaks and valleys that go along with serious writing. People really don't want to hear more than the basics of what the story's about, anyway -- maybe a sentence or two, at that. They don't want to hear about how you get up at four in the morning to write for an hour so that you can get to your real job at seven; how you are often at an impasse in your story, thinking, is anybody going to want to read this, or is this terribly boring? Or how you labor over choosing just the right word, consulting your laptop's thesaurus, and when that one seems inferior, you run to the bookshelf and thumb through the really thick thesaurus on the hunt for that elusive perfect word -- only to return to your original word. Or worse, an extremely common, one syllable word instead. Writing is constant analysis.
What your friends and acquaintances also don't understand is that when writing works, it's like fireworks on New Year's Eve. It's elation.
It's falling in love.
I just fell in love with a new character, when my story took on a mind of its own. I thought I had it down. I knew where the twists and turns were, and it was exciting, all right. But frankly, it bored me. Because those twists and turns had already been written by history. Subconsciously I felt I had to stay within the bounds of the story as it had been written in time, even though I knew my characters would put their own spin on it.
But when a baby is born to a minor character, and this minor character tells Angeline that she will have to take care of the baby if anything happens to her . . . suddenly the story takes a turn I didn't know about. This baby puts a wrinkle on things that sure wasn't there before! What is it they say -- a baby changes everything.
And suddenly I'm seeing fireworks.
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