Nutty, I'm desperately predictable, I think. If my characters are humanists (of any stripe), they're written as mostly likeable, because I like them. If they aren't, they tend to fetch up as one of my very occasional bad guys. I don't really do bad guys much - good/bad isn't a conflict I usually find interesting to read or write - but when I do write a Bad Bad Character, like Andrew Leight in Matty Groves, they tend toward mammon-worship and Toryism. Mostly, though, they're self-entitled.
Huh. Susan, that started a very interesting series of thoughts and mental ramblings. Thank you, ma'am. I spent a bit of time last night thinking about it, and discovered that the more memorable characters I've written were basically very clear emotionally in my head before I ever started, but that the more interesting bits showed up as I went along and got more familiar with them, and that I very often will ask them those bits in my own head as I'm working.
Challenge to Deb: write a likeable Tory. Think of the gushing reviews you'll get.
Challenge to Deb: write a likeable Tory.
Not sure the gushing reviews would be worth the repeated times I'd be struck by lightning, or the eternity in Hell I'd be sentenced to.
In fact, I nearly did - Albert Wychsale started out as a Tory, but he's essentially far too much of a humanist to toe the party line. So I settled for having him make shameless use of his position and power when the cause demands it.
And BTW, my editor, an 86-year-old leftist secular humanist, says Albert's her favourite character in this series, because he' so surprising, for who he is.
31 and holding...
I thought I’d be Murphy Brown by now, asking the questions that make politicians cry. Now I e-mail the politicians, and ask the questions that make me cry.
I thought by now I’d be a big novelist, but this month I finally stopped typing “my book” like that.
I thought I’d be doing some foreign guy whose guts my dad would hate. Now the closest to sexual holding I get is my breath when I send out some smut.
When I was eighteen, I held my breath until I didn’t live with Mom anymore. Now I hold my breath over her mammograms.
I can’t hold a happy thought for as long as my righteous rage...which means I can’t hold back.
erika, that's absolutely fucking gorgeous.
Thanks.
It's not often that a holding pattern comes in handy.
And bonus, did not type "holding cell" once.
Holding Her World
Such a good baby, she thought. The white outfit was laid out, ready to be slid over his head and she did so. A diaper was pinned on and tiny socks slipped over his feet. She picked his head up gently and slipped the blue bonnet on, tying it loosely under his chin. So quiet and uncomplaining, he was a good baby, she whispered. Nestled in her arms, she carried him up to the front of the room. There she placed him in the tiny, velvet-lined white casket and thought what a small container, to be holding her whole world.
Wow, Sail, that about killed me. Just heartbreakingly perfect.
I'm not quite sure where that one came from. My children are grown, now, so the nightmares of this kind of thing are long past. Still, it just wanted to come out. Fear can be, even decades later, a powerful motivator.
