Setting--Finding Cherry Hill (And a new blog to check out)

Not matter how great a character is, he or she has to be somewhere. That's where setting comes in. Much of the time, the setting isn't a real place. So, how do you describe a town that isn't there? I got the chance to hear Patricia Sprinkle talk about this very craft point on Saturday at the Turner Cassity Literary Festival. Here's a summary of her points:

• Novels need to be about a small community even if set in a large city--the apartment building, or a work place, etc.
• Be sure to include all the senses in the description
• What's unique about the setting?
• What contemporary issues impinge on the characters?
• What universal themes are the characters facing?

All of these help define the setting.

I've been working on Cherry Hill, the small town in which my WIPs are set for some time now. It's a combination of three towns in my area--Carrollton, Temple, and Villa Rica--with a pinch of Cartersville thrown in for good measure. If you know Georgia, you have a good idea where Cherry Hill is located. ; )

Two years ago, I was the facilitator for a house party at Books and Writers Forum. In the Writers Exercises, we regularly spend time in a setting created by one of us and have a mad ad lib writing session. Sometimes we discover deep motive in our characters. In the Cherry Hill House Party, I hosted other writers in my setting. After a bit over a week we created 180,000 + words set in my little town and I learned a ton about Cherry Hill. If you want to read a bit of that story, take the link above, but I warn you, you'll be drawn into a wild and wonderful ride.

Lately, I've been using the settings I created for the house party and repurposing them for my WIP. I thought a taste of Cherry Hill on the Fourth of July might be a good way to show "describing a town that isn't there." You might notice a certain Master Gunnery Sergeant in the crowd. ; )

What's unique about your setting?

Do you have any suggestions or resources on setting?

Also, I'd love to announce a new blogger--Joann Dunn at Dispatches After Midnight. Go by and check her out. You'll love her humor.

           The antique bell clanged as I let the door shut behind me. Sweet vanilla, cinnamon, and all the aromas of fresh baked cakes, cookies, and pastry welcomed me.

“Momma, it smells just like home!” Samantha’s voice rose on the heavenly scented air, but her eyes clouded just a minute.

I couldn’t blame her. I hadn’t baked since May. That was one of the doctor’s orders. I didn’t have to like them, but I had to abide by them. My daughter needed me. Joy rose as the thought hugged me along with the scents of the bakery. “The bakery hasn’t changed in the fifty years.” The dark wood paneled walls enclosed over two dozen wrought-iron tables and chairs with curling heart-shaped backs. The wood seats were worn shiny by use.

I stepped up to the counter with its old curved-glass fronts that displayed dozens of choices—six different kinds fudge, thumb cookies with pastel spots of icing in their centers, cream horns, brownies, and petit fours.

“Do they have the little cakes, the ones with the rose buds?” She leaned on the glass, looking for them.

“Yes, there on the end.”

Samantha traced the etching on the glass of the case. It was old because the name was the original—Cherry Hill Bakery. “Why did they change the name?”

“Well bakery doesn’t quite cover it all any more now that they’ve added gourmet coffee and tea.” The front glass used the same old-style lettering, but the name was now Cherry and Bean Fine Pastries, Coffees, and Teas. “I swear they’ve not changed the recipes,” I said, and placed an order for my favorite treat—a cream horn and Irish breakfast tea.

Mona Crossley’s withered face greeted us on the terrace when we emerged back into the July heat with our treats. “Ready for the parade?” She patted the table beside her. “Best seats in Cherry Hill are right here.”

I should have known that Mona would be here early finding the perfect place under the shade of the old oak. “Did you save that for us?”

“I hoped you’d come, but I know Doc Bryant’s got you on a short leash.” She grimaced. “Bet he won’t let you bake yet.” Her eyebrows arched.

I shook my head and lifted a shoulder in a light shrug. What could I say that Mona didn’t know about cardiologists and their unreasonable rules. “He couldn’t say no to the parade. Not when he’s going to be in marching in it.”

We had the perfect vantage point. The bakery sat on the high side of the square decked out in red, white, and blue for the occasion. American flags fluttered from every wrought-iron lamppost. People had spread blankets and folding chairs out on the grass around the gazebo that served as Cherry Hill’s main stage. Little kids ran up and down the walks with flags and patriotic pinwheels fluttering in their hands.

The red, white, and blue bunting on the iron rail lifted a little as the breeze freshened.

Samantha had settled into the chair beside me, but she wasn’t looking at the patriotic decorations or the flowers rioting in the beds around the square. Her head swiveled as she watched the people gathering, a slight frown puckering her brows. Then she lit up.

Dean eased his way among the crowd on the bakery’s terrace until he stood beside Samantha. “Hi.”

“I thought you’d never get here.”

He shrugged, then winked at her. “The car was blocked in by all these folks at the parade.” He slipped an arm around her waist and planted a light kiss on her lips.

Surprise washed over me. I hadn’t seen them kiss since New Year’s Eve. Proximity was building the fire Rosemary and I had wondered about. Well, I’d wondered; Rosemary worried. And there she was a few steps behind the kids, her brow puckered with twin lines. She looked at me, nodding at the kids leaning against each other. What could I say? I nodded and shrugged. Her brows rose, her month firming and I got the message—we’d talk later. It wasn’t like we hadn’t talked this one to death already.

Samantha looped her arm around Dean. Looking over the square, she smiled. “Isn’t it exciting? I just love the parade. Especially all the men who put on their uniforms.” She pointed across the square at a short uniformed man.

I followed her gesture to a Marine in full dress blues. His coat was dark midnight blue, trimmed in red. Its white web belt had a gold waist plate buckle. The pants were a sky blue with a red stripe down the outer seams. Ribbons and metals on his chest winked in the sun.

“He’s a Marine, right?” She glanced at me. “He’s got to be hot! Aren’t their uniforms are usually wool? Look at that high collar.”

Before I could answer, Dean leaned over the rail. “The parade’s here!”

I bit my lip and watched the man. He stood back straight and chest out. Something in the line of his shoulders told me he had served a long time. His right, white-gloved hand stiffly rose to the bill of his white cap as the color guard of National Guardsmen from the major branches of service flanked the flag that led the parade into the square. Its red and white stripes and blue star-strewn field flapped, and the gold braid and tassels hanging from the pole swayed with the marching steps of the flag bearer. Sunlight glinted off the eagle standard on top, and I squinted in the glare. People quickly removed their hats and caps, laying their right hands over their hearts. Sprinkled throughout the crowd, military veterans of five wars stood at attention, their hands raised to their brows in salute.

The crowd leaned out and looked down the street as the sound of the band grew louder. Cheers broke out and applause echoed in waves along the building fronts with the high school band’s blaring rendition of the National Anthem.

The first float was greeted with a collective sigh from the crowd. The centerpiece was devastatingly simple—empty combat boots held an upended rifle crowned with a combat helmet. It was the classic honor accorded the fallen in battle. “Freedom Isn’t Free” as the sign on the side said. Everyone here owed so much to those who had fought for the country’s freedom and it was only right that the onlookers remember the price paid for this day of celebration.

I looked back at the Marine. His lean face was set. The float wasn’t a symbolic reminder of sacrifice for him. It meant fallen brothers.

Then the rest of the parade came into the square. Every church, civic group and business in Cherry Hill had tried to out-patriotic all the rest. But the first float was the best—as always.

Characters: Finding Mack the Marine

Where do characters come from?

When Mack Singer, retired Marine and high school chorus teacher, popped up, I had no clue where he came from. I still don't, but I know why he's in my Cherry Hill books. His steady, protecting nature gives my ladies--Laura Grace and Rosemary--much needed support as they deal with the realities of the abuse their children have suffered. Besides, who can resist a man in the Marine Dress Blues? ; )


As I worked with Mack Singer, I realized that not only did he have a warm, rich baritone singing voice, he was a Master Gunnery Sergeant with extensive service in both Iraq and Afghanistan. So what does a Master Gunnery Sergeant do? Who better to ask than a Marine? Luckily, I had a Marine available in one of my former students.

I expected to get great info to help me write Mack's back story with accuracy--and I did. But I was floored by the discovery that I had conjured Mack up with amazing accuracy before the interview. Mack is a take charge kind of guy. He deeply cares about young people and their proper education in work ethics and honor. Just the sort of thing a Master Gunnery Sergeant is in charge of in the Corps. I had chilled as Bill C. told me about the job of a Master Gunnery and how important the rank is to the Marine Corps being able to complete its mission.

I didn't expect the other revelation of the interview. When I read the following snip to my friend, he had chills, too. Mack's voice is real to Bill as was his reasons for joining the Marines.

Dean reminded him of those bewildered teens he had trained and led. Boys--no young men--who found themselves under life and death stress; like he had been so many years ago. Fingering the globe and anchor he always carried in his pocket, he felt the solidity of his career. But it would have been just as solid if it had been a stack of Broadway playbills; his name bold in the leading parts. That was the career his profs had predicted even though his degree was music education. He was like Dean, with the same huge road block--a bastard of a father who said, 'Hell no!' to the dreams of a son. He hadn't told the women, but he has made a promise to himself--that boy would never live another day within his father's reach. He would take the boy in. Yes, he knew Rosemary would have to agree, but she would. He'd seen the terror in her eyes. Terror that testified to a vision of that fine boy stretched out on a slab, dead at his father's hand. Like so many of the boys he'd trained, dead of the enemies' hate. Or friendly fire. Yeah, it happened. Dammit! But this was one young man he could protect. The miles clicked over as he sped down the highway chasing the kids. He'd find them. He had no doubt. Dean needed him. There was no doubt of that either. When a small man made his way through the big man's world, it made for a tempering of steel like the finest of swords. Yeah, Dean needed him. And Samantha did too. She was the reason men enlisted in the services and public safety ranks. She and Laura Grace.

Where do you get your characters?

Happy Fourth of July and a great quote!

My sister, the retired English teacher, sent me a quote I just have to share:
"English doesn't borrow from other languages. English follows other languages down dark alleys, knocks them over and goes through their pockets for loose grammar."

Don't believe us? Check out this old post with a great video: History of the English Language

Have a safe and happy Fourth of July!

U-Turns

• Have you neared the end of your manuscript and wanted to chunk the entire thing?
• Reread the rough draft for editing and wondered why you spent so much time on that?
• Get a few agent rejections and cease trying to send the WIP out?

If so, you are not alone.

THE ARTIST'S WAY explains this phenomenon.

• "An artistic U-turn arrives on a sudden wave of indifference."
• "Creativity is scary, and in all careers there are U-turns."
• "Typically, when we take a creative U-turn we are doubly shamed: first by our fear and second by our reaction to it. Again, let me say it helps to remember that all careers have them."
• "A successful creative career is always built on successful creative failures. The trick is to survive them."
• "Creative U-turns are always born from fear--fear of success or fear of failure.

I know these U-turns all too well. Nearly two decades ago, I stopped writing altogether. My SF WIP --THE DAWN AND THE LION--was deepening. I needed mountains of research to pull it off. My ability to describe the many fantastic settings was not good enough. The plot seemed to be stagnating. Even though my history students (who knew math and physics far better than I ever will) were enchanted with the story and had helped me create a simple time dilation equation, I  stopped. Even with a rapidly filling four-inch binder. Writing felt too much like work.

I had no clue then that a rough draft isn't the same as finished. All of them take revision and revision and some more revision. I didn't have a clue what craft skills I needed, but I knew I couldn't do the story justice. At that time, I had no clue where to go to find out about craft skills.

That was then and this is now. Besides having two published devotionals, I have not only the SF trilogy on the back burner, but a rapidly growing comtemporary trilogy that I'm calling women's fiction for the moment. That's subject to change. But far more importantly, I know that this isn't a quick job, and I know where to find instruction on craft--both in books and on line.

My U-turn is over...for now. ; ) I know I'll see a more down the road, but I won't stop this time--not now, not ever.

What have your creative U-turns been?
How did you get back on the road?

Yes, You Can!

 

How many days have you talked yourself out of writing at all? Or only a little bit? Too many? We've all been there. But the truth is, we have no excuse.

My buddy, Diane Quimby, can teach you how to keep going. She is a survivor of Traumatic Brain Injury and has a wonderful story of persistence through pain that can inspire anyone. After working on her memoir--Head Lights for Dark Roads: Packing Humor and Hope for the Unexpected Trip through Traumatic Brain Injury--for seven years, she is nearing the finish line. I'm doing the final edits now. I'll keep you up-to-date on the publication date.

Check out her new blog--Head Lights for Dark Roads at tbi-411.blogspot.com. I promise you'll be inspired to say, "Yes, I can!"

Who inspires you to keep going?

Synchronicity

The universe is prodigal in its support. We are miserly in what we accept.
~~Julia Cameron, THE ARTIST'S WAY

I'm finding this quote to be literally true to such an extent that I'm almost embarrassed to share--almost. ; ) Synchronicity is the gifts of inspiration that the Creator of the universe puts in our path all the time. I have to admit to many years of doubting them and ignoring them. I've overlooked so many ways in which God has aided my creativity. As of now, I'm opening up to all the gifts--big and small--that come my way.

Here's a few examples:

• My mother and sister insisted that I read Diana Gabaldon's OUTLANDER series. Not only did I find hours of excellent reading and thrilling stories, I was introduced to one of the most generous writers in the world who kept mentioning the Books and Writers Forum. Once I took the time to check the Forum out, I found not only many amazing writers, but also a source of craft skills and exercises that help me hone my writing.
• On a day trip to Cartersville for the fun of it, I found the perfect vision for Cherry Hill, my WIP's setting.
• While "wasting time" on Facebook, I remembered one of my former students is a Marine and now I have a source of info for the background of Mack Singer, my retired Marine.
• During a lunch at Captain D's, I saw little children who sparked a great scene for Book 3 about Laura Grace and her grandchildren. Let's just say, it isn't smooth sailing. ; )
• Thinking about my Marine, I realized he just might have a tattoo or two. Then I realized that not only does he have a tattoo of the Marine anchor and globe, he has one that pays homage to his lost love, also a Marine. Laura Grace will have something to say about that!
• And the biggest gift of all: Six months ago, while we were organizing the church's Angel Tree charity, I met the adult daughter of a foster/adoptive mother. She gave me her mother's email. I'm ashamed to say that I've waited this long to try and get in touch with her. The middle of my plot depends on this information. At least I'm started on this source of info now.

How many times to we allow a fleeting thought, inspiration, or plot idea slip by?

What about you? Do you have a few gifts that you've been amazed by?

Write On!

Don't you love my new mug? ; ) It's one of those little things that make writing more fun. You know we all have such. Maybe yours isn't a mug, but what about a special pen, notebook, or journal? We all have little rituals and items we use to help us create. Did you notice the tea bag? It's special, too. Twinings Irish Breakfast Tea. By the way, the mug is available at Exclusive Writer Gifts.

And you guessed it--I have a special pen, too. In fact, I find writing with anything else to be nearly impossible. I buy the pens two dozen at a time since I draft long hand.

What are your rituals, special tools, favorite pens?

You just might share a new one that we all have to have. ; )





Scrivener--Now I Understand!

Scrivener is amazing! I know you've heard that from a lot of writers. Add me to the list. I've blogged about it before--Scrivener! By Golly!--but that was before I really got the hang of some of the best bells and whistles. I first got the program in November 2011, but a dead computer in February delayed me. It's only now that I've had time to experiment and learn what it can do.

Like:

There's nothing like finding the perfect face for a character. Especially if--like me--you aren't very visually oriented.

Here's another one--a photo of a young Samantha beside the first time she appears in the story:

Or this one:

I drew this map after visiting Cartersville, Georgia. It's so close to Cherry Hill, I had to draw the map of it for the files. Without Scrivener, it would just be another piece of paper floating around my study. And who needs that! ; )

So, you can see, I'm enjoying myself even if my forward progress is a bit slow. ; )

How about you? Do you use Scrivener? What's you favorite tool?