Book plotting for the rest of us

Today winds up my mini-posts on plotting a book.

When I first started writing novels, it used to drive me nuts that I couldn't plot a book from beginning to end, including everything that happens in between. I thought that's how "real writers" did it. They had their system, be it notecards, notebooks, post-its stuck in chapter and scene order on a wall. (BTW -- I've done that last one before for a plot snafu I was trying to work out, and it was not only helpful to me, but decorative for my office.)

Through trial and error and experience, I've finally accepted that I can't plot a book from beginning to end with everything in between. Before I start a book, I know the beginning (the first couple of pages come pretty quick), some big events in the middle, and if I'm lucky I have a vague notion of how I want it to end. Endings give me fits. . .uh and that big section towards the end of the middle that feels suspiciously like quicksand. If you're a writer, you know where I'm talking about. I've found that the harder I fight, the more I sink. I tend to overthink things, and make them way more difficult than they really are. Usually (actually always), the best answer is the easiest answer.

I've come to accept that what my writing brain considers a fully plotted book, my logical brain considers vague notions at best, and a convoluted mess at worst. My logical brain doesn't like things untidy. I've learned to tell my logical brain to shut up.

So I plan for the trip (as much as possible), but I enjoy and look forward to the unexpected. The best parts of a book are the parts I could never have predicted or plotted.

Plotting a book -- The Wary Traveler

My subject for today and tomorrow is plotting. Some writers wouldn't dream of plotting out a book, others must note every detail before they write the first word. Most writers fall somewhere in between. Today's writer type is The Wary Traveler.

When it comes to plotting, most of us can identify (if only occasionally) with The Wary Traveler. Boldly going where no one has gone before sounds great until you're actually about to step off into deep space. Then it can get kinda scary. Okay, I admit it -- it's always scary (especially when I'm on deadline). If I don't know where I'm going, how am I going to get there? Staying on the path from Point A to Point Z will get a book written, but it won't be the book you really want -- full of surprises, twists, turns, dangers and discoveries. For that you've got to step off the path into the big, dark, scary woods. Believe me, there's some really cool stuff in those woods, and if you're lucky, your character will find herself surrounded by armed goblins. ; )

And heck, if you get lost, no problem. Just ask for directions. If your muse isn't around, ask your nearest character. But if he's a goblin and his last name is Mal'Salin or Nukpana, chances are he'll point you in a dangerous direction -- and into writing a book that's more fun than you ever imagined.

The Free Spirit

My subject for the next few days is plotting. Some writers wouldn't dream of plotting out a book, others must note every detail before they write the first word. Most writers fall somewhere in between. Today's writer type is The Free Spirit.

We all know at least one person like this: they're going on a trip, they grab their toothbrush and not much else, and they're good to go. Doesn't matter if it's around the block or around the world -- they're ready and chomping at the bit to hit the road in five minutes or less.

Some writers are the same way. They get an idea, love the idea, and jump into the idea with both feet. They don't want to plot anything out or write a synopsis first. It's all about the journey and the joy of discovery. Writing anything down before starting would ruin it.

I kind of envy those kind of writers, but I have to do some advance prep and planning before I start a project -- or go on a trip. Just ask my husband. When we go on vacation, I pack damned near everything in the medicine cabinet. I mean, hey, you never know when you're gonna come down with something. And as to packing clothes -- well, the weather could change. So yeah, my suitcase is heavier than Derek's.

When writing that first draft, there's a lot to be said for being able to clear your mind, step outside the box and embrace all of the possibilities -- everything The Free Spirit is about. Excess plotting and planning can narrow your vision, constrain your creativity into a single line, and when you run into that wall called Writer's Block (and we all do), you haven't left yourself enough room to turn around. It's your book and your world -- you can make it anything you want it to be.

Monday is The Wary Traveler -- no detours or side trips allowed.

The Dreaded Synopsis

For the next few days, I'm going to talk about something that's the bane of some writers' existence and the salvation of others -- plotting a book, aka The Dreaded Synopsis.

For me, coming up with a plot for a book and writing a synopsis isn't quite the same thing, but one leads to the other by necessity. (Editors like to see before they buy.) I'm highly organized and methodical -- my writing brain is the exact opposite (kinda like Felix and Oscar for you fans of classic TV). Books come to me in snippets of dialogue, pieces of scenes, chunks of chapters. I know there's a book in there somewhere, but it's up to me to lay all the puzzle pieces out then put them together to find out what the final picture looks like.

I compare plotting a book to a cross-country roadtrip. You've got maps, roadsigns, detours, and cool stuff you didn't expect to find, but you just gotta go see (like The World's Largest Ball of Twine). Some people/writers wouldn't set foot outside their front doors without an excruciatingly detailed map, others just pick a direction and head for the horizon. You'll find me somewhere in between.

Tomorrow, I'll talk about the "aim for the horizon" kind of writer. The Free Spirit.

Meet Markus Sevelien -- Part 3 of 3

Here's the last part of a chapter from MLTF that didn't make it into the final version.

Markus Sevelien is the head of elven intelligence in Mermeia, and Raine's sometime client. In MLTF, Markus is referred to, but never appears. Here's a chapter that introduces Markus, and provides more insight into A'Zahra Nuru as well. If it had been included, it would have been a part of Chapter 6. For those who didn't catch the first two installments, scroll down to Monday's blog, then up to yesterday's to read the parts in order. Enjoy!

The door closed and I stepped into the hall.

Markus spoke without turning. "So, Raine, what do you make of the primari's visit?"

"More than you might think."

He turned at that, and I gestured towards the reception room. "Do you mind? I need to sit down. It's been a long night. An hour of dozing doesn't take me very far."

I dropped into the chair A'Zahra Nuru had just vacated. The beacon thrummed against my chest, probably from the primari's magical residuals. I tried to ignore both of them.
"You're having her followed?" I asked.

"Naturally."

"Who?"

"Josse and Keril will go with her as far as the Goblin District, and Cerin will see her to her final destination."

"Which is?"

"Probably her house on the Kingfisher Canal. That is, if she suspects she's being followed." He smiled. I saw fondness and admiration there. "I'm certain she does. She knows the games I play, since she plays much the same ones. Jori is posted on the street level and Rolfe is covering the rooftops to watch for the messenger she will shortly send to Prince Chigaru."

It was my turn to be impressed, though not surprised. Markus was one of the most devious people I had ever met. Considering the people I knew, that said a lot. For sheer machination, Markus Sevelien would put a Nebian trader to shame.

"Then Prince Chigaru is in the city?"

"Almost certainly. A'Zahra would never have risked coming here herself unless someone she held very dear was in danger. A'Zahra has no concern for herself. The only other she cares about that much since the queen's death is the prince. She's aware that I know this."

"She drops breadcrumbs, you follow, and neither one of you has actually told the other anything."

Markus smiled. If you'd blinked, you'd have missed it.

"So you think the Khrynsani are after the prince?" I asked.

"More than likely. It sounds as if Prince Chigaru's guard may have clashed with his brother's Khrynsani. Nicabar's must have been a busy place last night. The report from my agents on the city watch said that garden was a battlefield, and several bodies were found floating in the canal behind the house. Bodies wearing leather armor with no house badges."

That just added two names to my list of people to avoid: Primari A'Zahra Nuru and Prince Chigaru Mal'Salin. Not that I planned to seek out either one of them. The list of people I needed to avoid was growing faster than the list of people I could safely be seen with. Until I could get all this cleared up, mine was going to be a lonely existence.

Markus took the fresh cup of tea Giles offered. "Thank you, Giles." He raised his teacup to me in salute. "All will come in good time."

"That time's come sooner than you think." I took a sip of my own tea. What I really wanted was coffee strong enough to claw its way out of the cup, but tea should at least keep me awake. "I was at Nigel's last night."

That got Markus' attention. I thought it would. A cool one, my friend. His only reaction was a slight raising of one dark and perfectly arched eyebrow.

"And judging from everyone who was out and about, the elves are the only ones in this city who don't know what's going on." I paused. "Well, not all of the elves," I had to admit. "Mychael Eiliesor certainly counts."

The brow went airborne again as Markus calmly settled in the chair opposite mine. "Why don't you tell me about your evening."

I did. I had it down to an art by now.

A collection of silver church vessels completely filled the top of the bronze marble mantle. Some were upright, others on their sides, all were antique and worth a fortune. Markus used them as knickknacks. He stared past them as he listened.

When I finished I lifted the amulet free from my shirt. "This is a very popular trinket."

Markus cast the barest glance at the amulet. I wasn't fooled. There was nothing bare or casual about his glances. With that flick of his eyes, Markus had committed the amulet to memory and could draw it in exact detail days or even weeks from now if he wanted.

"And you can't take it off." It was a statement, not a question.

That's what I liked about Markus--cuts right to the chase.

I shook my head. "I'd like to make you a gift of it, but I'd rather keep breathing. Sarad Nukpana's gone to a lot of trouble for this. So have the Guardians, and a lot of other people in town. Any idea what all the fuss is about? Or even better, what the hell this thing is?"

Markus smiled faintly. "None, but I have a feeling Primari A'Zahra would know the answer and then some."

"Trust her enough to ask some loaded questions?"

"I do. And I will."

I let a breath out I didn't realize I was holding. "I'd appreciate that. Right now, I'll take all the information I can get. By the way, she knew I was here."

"I knew something had disturbed her, but I thought it was our topic of conversation. I should have known better."

"It was either me or the amulet. Or both. I don't think the she identified me. She just knew something was here that didn't belong."

Markus steepled his fingers in front of his face. "What do you think the amulet does? Based on what you've experienced."

"I don't think what I've experienced has anything to do with what everyone else wants it for. Quentin took it off and gave it to me without any problems. But when I tried to do the same. . ." I stopped. I really didn't want to go down that path again. "Let's just say if Garadin hadn't been there to put the amulet back around my neck, I think I might have died."

"Do you think the amulet did that, or was it your abrupt separation from it?"

"I can't imagine a hunk of metal caring whose neck it's hanging around," I told him. "It seems to want me to keep it. No one else wants me to keep it; and any of them could take it. I'm just not sure I'd survive the experience."

"Therein lies a problem."

"Therein lies the problem," I corrected him.

"Of those pursuing you, the Guardians concern me less than the Khrynsani," Markus said. "The Guardians have a code of honor that they will not breach."

"I'm not inclined to put anyone's code of honor to the test right now."

"Paladin Eiliesor knows you have the amulet?"

"Yes and no. He knows I have what he's looking for, but he didn't actually see it. From what he said, I'm not sure he knows it's an amulet either." I hesitated. "That's one of the reasons why I'm here. I need somewhere to stay while I try to find out what this is, what it does, and how to get rid of it without it getting rid of me. You have a couple of safehouses that are well shielded."

Markus didn't respond immediately. His pale blue eyes were cool as he looked at me. He had decided something, and I had a feeling I knew what it was.

"Considering the interested parties, I would prefer you remain here."

I thought it'd be something like that.

Markus' pronouncement was unfortunately timed with Giles' sliding the bolt home in the massive front doors. From the set of Markus' jaw, I knew what he meant, and while I'm sure he meant it in the nicest way possible, protective custody just wasn't for me. Even in such lavish surroundings, it amounted to me as a bird in a gilded cage. I'm not one for cages, even cages with catering by Giles. Another Benares family quirk.

I didn't have to say a word. Apparently the twitch that had taken up residence under my right eye answered Markus loud and clear.

"It's not safe for you out there," he told me.

"It's not safe for anyone out there."

Markus just looked at me. Stubbornness was one of my less endearing traits. Markus knew that. Markus was also used to getting his way. I knew that. And one way or another, this situation wasn't going to be any different. When I left here (and I would), I was sure A'Zahra Nuru wouldn't be the only one with a tail courtesy of elven intelligence. That was fine with me. Tails could be useful. They could also be lost.

The elven duke sighed. I knew he wasn't giving up, far from it. More like a temporary tactical retreat. "I have a couple of safehouses that can withstand the searchings of a mage of Paladin Eiliesor's ability. Giles can give you directions when you leave." He indicated my pack. "And he can have that waiting for you when you arrive."

"Thank you, Markus." I grinned slyly. "And who'll be following me?"

His thin lips quirked upward in a brief grin. "I thought I'd let that be a surprise. You can't lose what you can't spot."

"Care to make a wager on that?"

"I'd rather count on your cooperation."

I shrugged. "Everyone else is following me. By all means, have your boys join the parade. Though I'm disappointed. After all these years you don't trust me to take care of myself?"

Markus chuckled. "I'm just trying to protect the goblins, Raine. We're not at war yet."

Markus Sevelien chapter -- Part 2 of 3

Here's Part 2 of 3 of a chapter from MLTF that didn't make it into the final version.

Markus Sevelien is the head of elven intelligence in Mermeia, and Raine's sometime client. In MLTF, Markus is referred to, but never appears. Here's a chapter that introduces Markus, and provides more insight into A'Zahra Nuru as well. If it had been included, it would have been a part of Chapter 6. The last part of the chapter concludes tomorrow. For those who didn't catch the first installment, scroll down to yesterday's blog. Enjoy!

"Sarad Nukpana himself is in the Mal'Salin compound here in the city, but those doing his work are hiding in at least four locations in the Goblin and Sorcerers Districts," the primari was saying.

My stomach skittered again for another reason entirely--and oddly enough, the amulet along with it. So much for confirming who was behind the party at Nigel's last night.

Markus sat in the chair opposite her, long legs crossed at the knee, his dark hair swept back from a high and pale forehead. Dressed entirely in his customary black, the lean elf sat utterly still, the only movement the tapping of one long, tapered finger against the rim of his teacup. He noticed and stopped, setting the cup aside. Markus never liked anything in his hands when he was irritated.

"I am genuinely sorry," he told her, his voice carefully modulated. "You've given me no evidence that Sarad Nukpana's presence in Mermeia is a threat to elven interests. For me to act without provocation would be viewed by some as an act of war."

His expression gave absolutely no indication what was going on beneath that calm and polished surface. I had never played cards with Markus. I knew better. I also knew the mention of Sarad Nukpana had put several big, angry ripples under that calm surface.

"If I could reveal those reasons, you would not hesitate to act," the goblin interrupted, her soft voice lined with steel. "You would take sword yourself. . ."

Markus allowed a little frustration to show through his pale blue eyes. "Then tell me. Give me something I can use."

Her eyes held his without flinching. "I cannot."

Markus let the silence grow before speaking. "And I cannot act without justification, regardless of my personal feelings." His voice was quiet, his words firm. "Understand that, my lady. If I were free to do so, I would burn out any Khrynsani nest I could find. But I am not free to do as I will. I answer to my king and my people, both of whom hold me accountable for my actions."

This may not have been what the goblin wanted to hear, but it seemed to be what she expected.

"Will you at least place your agents on heightened alert? You cannot deny what happened last night."

"I cannot deny what I do not know," Markus said. "A human necromancer's home was broken into. There were reports of fighting, and goblin bodies were found, but without any house badge or identification. There is no knowledge of anything missing from the house except possibly the owner himself. To many, that is cause for rejoicing, not concern. I know nothing beyond that unless you choose to enlighten me. As to the state of my agents, with the goblin king in the city, they are already on heightened alert. I assure you we will pay careful attention to every move the Khrynsani make." He sat back in his chair, his thin lips drawn into a tight line. "But I am disappointed in your lack of trust. I thought we were past that."

Markus' words found their mark. I saw hurt reflected in the goblin's large, dark eyes. Duty and friendship were waging a battle there. She drew herself up even straighter, if that was possible. Duty won.

"We are past that point," she told him. "But you say you are accountable to your people. Your people include certain individuals. Those individuals are my reason. I trust you and your motives; I do not trust theirs. Your duty may compel you to reveal facts that I cannot have revealed--for the safety of my people. So for the moment, it is a goblin matter, and must remain so."

If Markus was insulted at her implication, he didn't show it.

"Yet your desire to protect doesn't extend to all of your people," he said.

The lady caught his meaning. "The Khrynsani are not deserving of protection. They are vermin and should be exterminated as such."

Markus' lips twisted in a brief smile. "Your new king is a member of that ancient society. You speak treason."

The goblin smiled fully, though from my viewpoint it looked more like a baring of teeth. Considering that two of those teeth were fangs, the effect was chilling. "Not to my king."

"Then Prince Chigaru is well? I had heard there was an incident, an ambush by Brenirian mercenaries as he traveled to D'Mai?"

"And conveniently timed, not long after the king's escort left him," Primari A'Zahra said. "Fortunately Prince Chigaru's personal guard was sufficient to counter the threat."

"Most fortunate."

The goblin set her teacup aside. "I will contact those to whom I report and request permission to share more with you. Regardless of our friendship, I cannot do more without endangering those I hold dear. Again, I am sorry."

Markus moved to assist the lady from her chair. "And you have my apologies for the harshness of my words. I spoke so from concern. You risked much coming to see me today, and I regret that I cannot act as you wish. When you can tell me more that may change. In the meantime, I will have my colleagues keep close watch on the Khrynsani. When you are ready to contact me again, do so through our usual method. It will be safer for you."

"Thank you, Your Grace."

Once they were in the front hall, I left the screen and went to the partially open library door. Giles walked past me carrying Primari A'Zahra's cloak. Markus took it from him and gallantly draped it over the goblin's slender shoulders. After a few murmured words of parting, the goblin left. The door closed and I stepped into the hall.

Meet Markus Sevelien

As promised, here's another outtake from Magic Lost, Trouble Found -- scenes & chapters that didn't make it into the final version.

Markus Sevelien is the head of elven intelligence in Mermeia, and Raine's sometime client. In MLTF, Markus is referred to, but never appears. Here's a chapter that introduces Markus, and provides more insight into A'Zahra Nuru as well. If it had been included, it would have been a part of Chapter 6. I'll be posting this in three parts over three days. Enjoy!

Markus Sevelien's townhouse was in Brightleaf, the Elven District's oldest and most elegant section. Most of the old blood, aristocratic families maintained homes here, and as the Duke of Laerin, Markus more than lived up to the expectation to do the same. Trouble rarely came to Brightleaf, and on the rare occasions when it did, it had the decency to use the back door. The old blood disliked disruptions to their well-ordered lives, and maintained bodyguards to ensure it didn't taint their doorsteps. High-walled gardens further insulated them from the baser elements. If they couldn't make trouble go away, they at least went to great lengths to pretend it didn't exist.

Just because I didn't care to be around most elven aristocrats, didn't mean I couldn't appreciate their taste. Mermeia was built on a marsh, but a stroll through Brightleaf convinced you otherwise. It was amazing what a lot of money and a little magic could do. Aristocratic elves had a thing for trees. The more the merrier. Since Mermeia didn't have any, the elves brought them in. Brightleaf looked like a woodland park in the middle of the city. The flowers of the kembaugh tree attracted fireflies. I had to admit it made for a pretty sight at night with all the twinkling lights. All in all, a nice way to live if you could afford it.

As I walked along the cobbled and tree-lined avenue that ran next to the Old Earl's Canal, I caught an occasional glimpse of shaded courtyards through ornate--and securely locked--gates. Markus' house faced the canal, as did all of the finer homes. Mermeia's canals rose and fell with the tide, and the smell along with it. Not in Brightleaf. An elaborate system of filters had been installed at the entrance to every canal where it entered Brightleaf. The water was always pristinely clean, and smelled the same way.

A lone boatman leisurely poled his way down the canal. He sang as he went, a simple tune I had heard boatmen sing on canals all over the city. His voice was pleasant enough, but not really all that memorable. That was what I heard. What I felt flowing quietly under his song was something else entirely. Paladin Mychael Eiliesor was up early. I wasn't the only one with a morning mind visitor, but the boatman seemed oblivious. Unlike the Khrynsani shaman, Eiliesor didn't invite himself into my head, and using the boatman's voice wasn't all that invasive either. As far as doing something like that went, it was actually quite polite. It was also sneaky. The Guardian wasn't inside my head, so I couldn't do a thing to get rid of him. Eiliesor could follow me anywhere in the city using the same trick with any susceptible passerby.

I sighed. It was going to be a long day.

Markus should be up by now, and if he wasn't, his majordomo Giles would be. Normally, I would have suggested a meeting in a neutral place, but the circumstances made that a less than desirable choice.

Giles must have been waiting just on the other side of the door, his hand on the latch.

"Mistress Benares. His Grace is expecting you." He cast a quizzical glance at the traveling pack slung over my shoulder.

I beat him to it. "Don't worry, I'm not staying."

He smiled, and it was sincere. "That wouldn't be a worry, Mistress Benares, that would be a pleasure."

Despite the early hour, Giles was immaculately attired and groomed. But then I had never seen Giles without every blond hair in place--and without a response for anything. A hobgoblin could charge through the front door at dawn and Giles would have politely ushered the uninvited guest into the parlor and served him tea along with his utterly decadent almond cakes. The miscreant would then find himself awakening a few hours later in an agency interrogation room. Giles brewed great tea. Just make sure you were on his good side before drinking any.

"Could I fix you some tea?" he asked. "Some breakfast, perhaps?"

I knew I was on Giles' good side.

"Yes, to all of the above."

"I've laid a fire in the library," he said. "Would you like to wait there?"

"A fire would be wonderful. Where's Markus?"

"With a contact." His smile gave away everything and nothing. "A goblin contact."

That was interesting, and after last night, even more so.

"His Grace is in the receiving room. Next to the library," Giles added with complete propriety.

I smiled back. "Why Giles, I would love to wait in the library."

Giles' good side was good place to be. It was even better to have a client like Markus who encouraged eavesdropping, even if it was on him. His library was conveniently equipped for listening to conversations taking place in several rooms in the house. Though this morning, I was only interested in one room.

Markus was elven intelligence, but I tried not to hold it against him too often. In my business, clients could be stingy with information. Very often what they wanted me to find was a small, but vital part of a bigger picture. On more than one occasion, Markus had let me see the whole gallery. He didn't have to do that. Those were the kind of favors you didn't forget.

The fire was as warm and cozy as I'd hoped, and Giles came in moments later with a tray fit for a duchess with tea, almond cakes, and hot flaky scones with the raspberry jam he knew that I loved. And since Markus remained stubbornly single, Giles had only guests on which to dote. I always made sure his efforts didn't go unappreciated. I would love to steal him from Markus, but aside from annoying one of my best clients, there was the small matter of being able to afford Giles. I suspected that he made more than I did.

I let Giles prepare my tea, and went directly to the wall that separated the library from Markus' elegantly appointed receiving room. I knew where the screen was. I had made use of it before. Concealed by a particularly busy wallpaper pattern on the other side depicting a woodland scene with trees, vines, and in my opinion, entirely too many birds, the screen was undetectable.

Markus was in clear view, along with his guest.

This wasn't just any guest. I knew this lady. Or at least knew of her.

Primari A'Zahra Nuru was a goblin shaman of the highest order--and one who had a direct connection to, and the ear of, the Mal'Salin family. The primari, or holy woman, had taught the goblin queen mother, as well as the late queen. When Sathrik, the queen's eldest son, took the throne after his mother's sudden death, he encouraged Primari A'Zahra to retire. He provided her with a modest house and annual income in Mermeia, far removed from the goblin court. It seemed the new king didn't want his dead mother's tutor underfoot. Hardly unexpected considering A'Zahra's rumored abilities and Sathrik's recent activities, most notably the questionable circumstances of his mother's death.

The primari must have wanted to see Markus very badly to be out on a bright, sunny morning. Goblins were mainly nocturnal, by preference bordering on necessity. They could be out during the day, but their dark eyes were painfully sensitive to sunlight. Most chose to just remain inside. Shops and businesses in the Goblin District were open for business during the day, but kept extended hours in the evening for the convenience and comfort of their clientele. During the day, the windows were kept shuttered and the interiors dimly lit. Any human or elven customers had to make do the best they could. If goblins ventured out during the day, they wore dark-lensed spectacles.

A finely made pair of these dangled at the end of a delicate silver chain around Primari A'Zahra's neck. No doubt a deeply hooded cloak hung in Markus' marbled entry hall as well.

The diminutive goblin was enthroned in one of Markus' buttery-soft leather armchairs, a teacup perched on one silk-covered knee. She wore a simple gown of pale mauve silk, and her silvery-white hair was elaborately styled and held in place with tiny, jeweled pins. More pale gems glittered on the lobes of her upswept ears. As with Tarsilia, the years had been kind to A'Zahra Nuru. Her pale grey skin was still smooth over high cheekbones and fine features. The lady was also still upright, which meant Giles hadn't served her one of his specialty brews. Apparently Markus wanted to hear what she had to say. I was more than a little curious myself.

I handed the saucer back to Giles. I didn't want clinking porcelain to give me away. The amulet tingled in the center of my chest, and I had the sensation that someone had just woken up from a long nap. My hand instinctively went to the disk. It knew something I didn't, and I suspected the goblin primari had everything to do with it. No doubt she was alert when in an elven home. I know I would have been the same in a goblin house. But what I felt weren't shields. It was a searching spell, completely silent and more complex than anything I could have attempted, let alone pulled off. It spread towards me like surface ripples on a pool.

Sensing something that subtle was another first for me.

Her spell flowed through the wall separating us. I didn't try to stop it. I knew better. A block or deflection would have announced my presence like slamming a door in Nuru's patrician face. My stomach fluttered and my skin crawled as the spell flowed through me. The primari hesitated a fraction of a second, then continued speaking. I'm sure Markus noticed, but I doubted he attributed it to me. If the goblin could sense me, the amulet, or both, she either had the guile, good manners, or both not to mention it. The amulet was proving to be as good a watchdog as it was a nuisance. But just because it growled at strangers didn't mean I was going to trust it with my own neck.

Tomorrow -- Part 2 of 3.

A long weekend

Today is my last blog of the week, because Derek & I are going to the mountains for a much needed long weekend -- and to get away from all this heat! 98 degrees and jungle-level humidity ain't my idea of comfy. We're also celebrating our 16th wedding anniversary tomorrow (July 20). : ) Yea, us!

Our family is fortunate enough to have a cabin in the mountains. It's about as close to writer heaven as it gets: No Internet access, no TV, we only get three radio stations, and the phone is a rotary dial. For those of you under the age of 25, ask someone over the age of 25 what one of those looks like. ; )

And it's quiet up there. Really quiet. If you think you hear something outside the cabin at night, that means there is something outside the cabin at night. We've seen a bobcat, heard there were deer and black bears -- and we know there are black snakes. We were coming back up the mountain from dinner one night and there was a pickup truck pulled over to the side of the already narrow road. The driver claimed he'd just seen a bear, but he also had an awful lot of empty beer cans in the bed of his truck, so we took that sighting with a grain of salt. However, his hunting dog (also in the back of the truck) was real intent on something down the side of the mountain. Unless a couple of those empty beer cans belonged to the dog, we took the dog's testimony more seriously.

So this weekend will be full of relaxing and writing and shopping and eating out. I'll be back here on Monday with another outtake from the Magic Lost, Trouble Found cutting room floor.

And tales of any bear sightings.

By popular demand

I wondered if there would be any interest in reading "outtakes" from MLTF. There is. You let me know loud and clear.

So, by popular demand, I'll keep the Raine stories coming. Some are full chapters that ended up on the cutting room floor, others are scenes that got cut. I'll post the chapters in Part I, Part II, Part III installments. I'm hearing from you that you can't wait until next May to get your hands on Armed & Magical. (I can't wait for you all to read it.) I can't give you A&M, but I think I have enough outtakes to keep the Raine stories coming for a while. I'll spread them out a little so they last longer. ; )

And Webmaster Todd just showed me how to access the stats on my website: visitors, hits, countries, etc. complete with full-color charts of every description. There are a lot of you out there. Wow. Thank you for visiting, and thank you for buying MLTF! The main reason I wanted to be published was to be able to tell my stories and to have people enjoy them. You've granted me my wish.

Thank you.

Lisa

From the cutting room floor

Every book has them -- the scenes or chapters that for one reason or another just don't make it into the final book. Magic Lost, Trouble Found had a lot. I had entire subplots and characters that never saw the light of day -- just too much to fit into one book. That said, I thought I'd occasionally share some of those outtakes or "words from the cutting room floor" with you. This scene came from the end of Chapter 5, when Raine is leaving Tarsilia's to go back to Nigel Nicabar's townhouse. But first she makes a stop by her office (not in the final version). There's mention of a character that also didn't make the final cut -- Karlerius Cradok, the self-proclaimed crime lord of Mermeia. I hope you enjoy it.

I walked across and then down the street, giving anyone watching ample opportunity to see that I was leaving -- with luggage. I had an office upstairs above a magical instruments shop. The proprietor rented out space to a few who, like me, found it prudent not to do business where they lived. Crystal balls, scrying mirrors and other favorites of the mediocre were displayed in the front window. She kept the quality stuff in the back, available only to a few select clients she deemed capable of wielding them. Too many deaths were bad for business.

I stopped in Willa's shop and dropped off my pack. I didn't want to lug it around the city with me. If I needed to either run from or fight something, it'd just be in the way. Willa would see to it that it got to the safehouse. She knew where it was. Unfortunately, it was a drill we'd gone through more than once.

I went upstairs to my office and paused at the end of the short hallway. My office door was open, and I heard voices coming from inside. I recognized one of them by name. The other two voices were deeper and belonged to the muscle that made the first voice feel important.

Ocnus Rancil had made himself at home behind my desk, his grubby fingers pawing their way through my client records. Things were looking up. I was angry, I wanted someone to take it out on, and here was Ocnus.

I loosened my swords in their scabbards, and slid my shirt cuffs back slightly, clearing the way for the throwing knives strapped to my forearms. I stepped around the corner and leaned casually against the doorframe.

"Morning, Ocnus."

He yelped and the handful of papers he held flew into the air. I hated the thought of sorting and refilling it all, but the look on Ocnus's pudgy face was worth it.

"I understand you came to see me earlier," I said. "You could've just made an appointment. It'd have been easier."

The muscle silently arranged themselves against the opposite walls. I walked to the middle of the office between them, my hands loose by my sides, ready to move. I didn't intend to be violent, just prepared.

"If you're looking for something, I'm good at helping people find things -- but only if it belongs to them to begin with."

"It does belong to me," Ocnus said, "and it's none of your business, seeker."

He sneered the last word as if it were a bad thing. I debated whether I should take it personally. I decided to wait. I could always be offended later. With Ocnus there were ample opportunities. Right now I wanted to know what he was after. Then I could throw him out.

"You're in my office, so it is my business."

Ocnus ignored the papers on the floor. "I'm here to see Quentin Rand. Where is he?"

"I have no idea." The Flatus could be moored anywhere in Mermeia's miles of twisting waterways. I smiled, knowing it would only annoy Ocnus. "But if I did know, I wouldn't tell you."

He folded his meaty hands on my desk. "And why not?"

"Because you're not being honest with me."

He looked confused. I wasn't surprised. Honesty couldn't have been a familiar concept for him.

A thought occurred to me. Considering my lack of sleep, that did surprise me. Ocnus was looking through papers and wanted to see Quentin. Our escapade last night was caused by a letter. A letter whose contents blackmailed Quentin into breaking into Nigel's. Ocnus worked for Karl. A connection? Possibly. Only one way to find out.

"By the way, those are client records," I told him. "My client records. Quentin's not the paperwork type. Now if you're looking for Quentin's personal records, receipts, correspondence, a letter perhaps. . ."

Ocnus leaned forward eagerly, then caught himself and sat back, a sly look in his small eyes. I hope he didn't fancy himself a card player. If he did, I needed to introduce him to Phaelan.

I winked at him. "I told you I was good."

I didn't think I was making a dangerous gamble. As far as violence was concerned, magical or otherwise, Ocnus wasn't really worthy of consideration. His muscle-bound bookends didn't rate much higher. They were good at one thing -- being big. To their credit, they did it very well. But speed, either of thought or action, wasn't a burden either one carried.

Ocnus squirmed, settling his bulk more comfortably in the chair. My chair. A chair I would be cleaning within an inch of its life as soon as Ocnus's ample posterior left it. "I've been authorized to make you an offer, Mistress Benares."

My back stiffened. I had a good idea what was coming. "I'm listening."

"My employer, Magus Karlerius Cradok, wants to retain your services to find something for him. Something rightfully his that was stolen from him last night by Quentin Rand. He thinks you know where it is. Magus Cradok is willing to pay ten times your normal fee if he has the item by sundown."

I stared at him for a good, long time before responding. "And if I can't help him -- or just won't?"

"Then Magus Cradok would be forced to offer additional incentives to secure your cooperation. Unfortunate and regrettable incentives." Ocnus's fleshy lips spread in his idea of a smile. "You wouldn't like them, Mistress Benares, and neither would your adoptive family across the street."

I crossed to my desk in two strides. I felt rather than heard the bodyguard to my left move towards me. I ignored him. He'd have to get in line. I put my hands flat on my desk and leaned over it until my face was inches from Ocnus's own. My hands were open, but hardly empty. The knives were insurance against interruption. I had something else in mind for Ocnus.

"Call them off," I said through clenched teeth.

He looked at my knives and his head jerked in a nod. I felt the looming presence retreat.

I wasn't counting on knives or threats to get the results I wanted. I knew a curse. Generally I stayed away from curses. They had a tendency to backfire, aside from being just plain mean. I had made an exception for this little beauty. I had used it only once, and it had been more than effective. Ocnus had been on the receiving end that time, too. It was repugnant, even by his standards. I had put a three-day time limit on it -- fire fleas reproduced after four days. I'm not completely without compassion, even when it came to Ocnus.

I don't think he wanted a repeat infestation.

I smiled sweetly. "Still itching, Ocnus?"

The sorcerer's pig-like eyes widened to almost normal proportions. It's always nice to have one's work remembered and appreciated.

"Tell Karl that if he or any of his people, including you, so much as think an unhappy thought in the Rivalins' direction, I will hunt them down and make what happened to you before feel like a trip to a Rina spa." I leaned forward. "And guess what, Ocnus?"

His bottom lip quivered. "What?"

"This time I won't put a time-limit on it."

As I leaned towards him, Ocnus leaned back. My desk chair creaked ominously under his weight.

I smiled and it was genuine. "And you might not want to do that either."

The chair flipped back, Ocnus squealed, his legs flew up, and both landed on the floor.

I'd been meaning to fix that chair. Really.

Thug number one hurried to help his boss off the floor. Thug number two thought about drawing his sword. He thought too long. Mine was already out and leveled at his throat.

"Get out." I didn't take my eyes or my blade off the man, though my words were for Ocnus. "If you keep annoying me, or anyone I know, you won't have to come looking for me again, I'll find you."

Ocnus's hands shook as he straightened his robes. He was scared, but he was also angry. That made two of us.

"I will tell the Magus that you refused his offer," Ocnus said. "He will be disappointed."

"He'll get over it."

Ocnus managed to look scared and smug at the same time. Then he smiled and smug won out. "No, he won't."

They left, shutting the door behind them.

I blew my breath out and put away my blades. I hadn't even had coffee yet.

What I read

Another reader question by request--What books do I read?

My favorite fantasy author is Jim Butcher (The Dresden Files). If you haven't read any of these, do it, you won't regret it.

Here's a list of some of my other favorite books/authors:
C.E. Murphy (Urban Shaman, Thunderbird Falls, Coyote Dreams)
Linnea Sinclair (Gabriel's Ghost, Finders Keepers, Games of Command)
Rob Thurman (Nightlife, Moonshine)
Laura Anne Gilman (her Retrievers series)
Ilona Andrews (Magic Bites)
Scott Lynch (The Lies of Locke Lamora)
Shanna Swendson (her Katie Chandler series)
Janet Evanovich (Stephanie Plum books)
Rex Stout (Nero Wolfe books)
Margaret Maron (Deborah Knott books)
Laurell Hamilton (the early Anita Blake books)
Rachel Caine (her Weather Warden series)

That's my off-the-top-of-my-head list. There are others, I just can't think of them on only one cup of coffee on a Monday morning. ; ) I'm always looking for new books to read. Does anyone have any suggestions of books/authors that you think I'd enjoy?

Book promotion a la Lisa

Again by request: What's going on with Armed & Magical right now? And how am I promoting Magic Lost, Trouble Found?

Armed & Magical is going into copyediting. That means that an editor in New York is reading A&M for mispelled words, bad/wrong grammar (though I prefer to say "temporarily incorrect" grammar), inconsistencies, correct verb tenses, missing words, etc. I'm an editor at an advertising agency, so I know the drill. You'd also think I could have caught all of this myself, but believe me, you get so close to a book that you wouldn't know a boo-boo if it wapped you upside the head with a hammer. I'm so grateful for another editor's sharp eyes!

As to promotion for MLTF. . .as a first-time author, there's only so much I can do, but I'm doing all that I can.

1. Bookstore stock signings: A great way to get to know some fabulous people -- my local booksellers. I haven't gotten to all of them yet, but I'm working on it.

2. Bookstore mailings: I mailed MLTF postcards to I think every bookstore in the state of North Carolina.

3. Attempting to drum up local press coverage (this isn't as easy as you would think).

4. The Internet: I love this place! What did authors do before blogs, forums, websites, chats, etc.? I get to talk to fans from all over the world, which is just too cool! Word of mouth from fans online is hands down the best way to spread the word. So if you loved MLTF, tell your friends, your family, your everybody!

5. Conferences and conventions: I'll be at the Romantic Times Booklovers Convention in Pittsburgh next April. My mentor/author fairy godsister Linnea Sinclair (I don't know what I'd have done without her) has graciously asked me to be on her SciFi/Fantasy panel. Thank you, Linnea! So if any of you are planning to be there, please look me up; I'd love to meet you! There'll probably be more conferences between now and then, but I don't have them scheduled yet. I'll let you know.

6. And I have a massive blast email going out in the next week or so to tap an untapped market. Thank you, Scott!

I'm sure there's more, but I haven't had enough coffee yet to remember them.

First-person POV vs. third-person

I've had a reader ask about the increase in fantasy novels written from the first-person point of view (POV), rather than in third-person. Trend or coincidence? And does one POV have advantages over the other?

I've written four books so far -- two were in third-person (they're in my office closet and are going to stay there), two are in first-person (one is in bookstores, one is with my publisher in copyediting).

Every author has their preference. Though for me it's not preference, it's what I can do and what I can't do. Some writers are fortunate (and talented) enough to do both. I'm not one of them.

In the 80s I read Eddings, Feist, and Brooks -- all big, epic series -- all written in third-person. I loved them; I wanted to write one. I wrote two. They both sucked. They even bored me.

I started reading other genres: mysteries and detective novels. I read Robert Parker, Raymond Chandler and Rex Stout's Nero Wolfe books. All written in first-person. I particularly loved Archie, who was Nero Wolfe's assistant. He was smart, street-savvy, snarky -- and funny. I got back to the keyboard and started a new book: a quasi-traditional fantasy, but with modern overtones and speech. I liked it; I hoped that eventually I could get an agent and publisher to like it. Raine was born. And I've been writing first-person ever since. I love the intimacy and immediacy of it -- one person, one point of view, right here, right now. Simple, uncluttered and direct. Just like the detective novels I love.

That could by why there seems to be a trend toward first-person: some of the most popular urban fantasies have one main character with a "supporting cast." That main character very often has a "detective-like" job: seeker, bounty hunter, vampire hunter, paranormal investigator, wizard gumshoe. Kind of an updated take on the fantasy quest novel. But those epic fantasies are still out there, they're going strong, and gaining readers.

Urban or epic. First-person detective or a Cecil B. DeMille-cast-of-thousands epic -- it's all a matter of preference.

You and me and Note Pad makes three (Or the asocial behavior of a writer.)

Derek had this blog entry ready to go. And since "The Note Pad" is officially back in residence in the Shearin house, I thought it'd be a timely entry. So here's Derek:

Typically, Lisa and I will have dinner together. We sit beside each other at the dining room table and look out the window at the neighbors going by while we eat and talk about our day. However, there comes a time when it's no longer just Lisa and me at the table. There is a "guest" that comes along when Lisa is brainstorming ideas or in the heat of writing. "The Note Pad" shows up at the dinner table (*Cue movie music from Psycho*). Then most of Lisa's conversations are (unspoken) between herself and "The Note Pad". The "third wheel" also shows up at other times, (like a certain jealous Jack Russell terrier I know!). I never know when it will strike, but eventually it will. I know all the signs. There is a pause in whatever Lisa is doing (usually mid-word); followed by a glazed over look in her eyes. Then, at best, one finger goes up to put me on pause, or more likely she will just turn to "The Note Pad".

However, I put up with it because: Lisa had one time said: "...the spouse of a writer deserves a medal (for patience above and beyond duty)." I told her: "I'll take mine in anything ending in an "I"...Maserati, Ferrari, Lamborghini." I have since amended the statement to include Alfa Romeo (Hurray! Alfa's coming back to the USA in 2009!) and exclude Hyundai (nothing personal).

So here's a writer's tip: always have something to write on and write with. There is a pad of paper and pens available in nearly every room of our house. You never know when that idea will strike!

I'm taking requests

I have plenty of blog topics lined up. Get me started chatting about my books and writing and I could talk forever. Just ask my husband. ; )

What I want to know is: what do you want me to talk about? Do you have questions on MLTF, or questions on Armed & Magical (questions I could answer without giving anything away). Questions about me? Specific writing topics?

Either leave a comment on the blog, or email me at lisa@lisashearin.com

I want my blog to be fun, informative and helpful to you.

Lisa

BTW -- I now have bookplates for MLTF. If you'd like a personalized and signed bookplate, just email your name and address to me. You can request more than one, if someone you know has a copy of MLTF and you'd like to surprise them with a bookplate. Just tell me their name. I'll take care of the postage. Once you get it, just peel & stick the bookplate on the inside front cover, and voila, you've got a signed copy.

Writing discipline (Or how to get from here to there)

I've received a blog topic request: Writing discipline. This is probably the biggest problem for aspiring authors (and published ones, too).

I no longer have a problem with putting my butt in my chair in front of my laptop and writing until the work gets done.

But I used to.

I've been writing since I was about six, but it was only in my college days that I decided I wanted to be a published author. Back then I'd write only when I "felt like it" or when I felt "inspired." I thought this would be enough. It wasn't. I wasn't getting anywhere, but more importantly, I wasn't becoming a better writer.

Then I read in one of the many writing books that were crowding my bookshelves, that if you wanted to get better, you had to write more often, like every day. You had to write regardless of how crappy you felt, regardless of your mood, regardless of your workload. The authors of those books (who also happened to be the authors of many other books) said there was always time to squeeze in a few minutes.

They were right.

I have a full-time job, so carving out time to write wasn't (and still isn't) easy, but I really wanted to be published, so I found the time. I started writing on a more regular schedule, and I could see the improvement. And when I saw the improvement, I wanted to write more. With that came confidence and a determination to reach my goal.

I'd still be writing even if I wasn't published, because writing isn't just what I do -- writing is who I am. It's like an addiction, you can't stop, and you don't want to. When I'm not writing, I'm thinking about writing. When I'm writing, I'm happy. When I'm between projects, I can get a little cranky. Just ask my fabulous (and patient and supportive) husband.

So writing dicipline isn't something you have, it's something you have to grow.

The KISS Principle of Writing

KISS = Keep It Simple, Stupid!

Yesterday's blog was on getting stuck by trying to force your characters to say or do something they would never say or do -- putting words in their mouths.

There's another way that I get stuck. Overthinking. I am majorly guilty of overthinking and overplotting. It's like getting a car stuck in the mud, the only thing gunning the engine's gonna do is get you deeper in the muck. Overthinking a tough plot twist works the same way.

I usually step in the deep doo just before the climatic action scene. In MLTF, poor Piaras had those pair of goblin blades at his throat for nearly a month before I could push through to the end.

Why? Because I was overthinking it. And once I got to the scene where Raine and Piaras are trying to come up with a way to get the Saghred into the containment box, I got stuck again. Then the solution came to me.

Just poke it with a stick. (Which is what Raine ended up doing.) It was not only simple, it was obvious, and a lot of readers are telling me that it was hilarious.

So "Poke it with a stick" has become my personal KISS reminder. Sometimes the best solution is also the simplest solution.

Writer's block is a writer's best friend

I know some of you are probably thinking, "Huh?" Others are thinking I must be a glutton for punishment.

Any writer can tell you that writer's block is not fun. Actually it's about as far from fun as it gets. But for me writer's block doesn't mean I've run out of ideas, it means I've run down the wrong road. Writer's block is my muse's way of telling me, "The bridge is out! Go back, stupid!"

Forced plotting and putting words into your characters mouths is (at least for me) the surest way to contract a nasty case of writer's block. Listen to your characters. If what's coming out of their mouths sounds forced or out of character -- watch out, you're about to step into a whole mess of trouble.

Bugs Bunny knew what he was talking about when he said, "I knew I should have taken that left turn at Albuquerque."

When I get writer's block, that means I didn't take that left turn. It means I didn't see the signs; or if I did, I ignored them. It means I didn't listen to my characters. But most of all (and worst of all) it means my muse isn't going to let me go one word further until I find out where and how I took that wrong turn (aka screwed up), and go back and fix it.

So sit back, be quiet, and listen to your characters. Most times they know the story better than you do.

Working on the holiday

Happy July 4th everyone!

It's a short blog today, because it's a holiday and I'm pushing to finish the final read-thru of ARMED & MAGICAL -- or at least get close to the end.

Then I'm going to have some fun! I'll be writing a pair of plot synopsis for "Raine Benares books" number 3 and 4. Raine's world is huge and the possibilities are nearly endless. I'm itching to go exploring. ; )

Enjoy those cook-outs!
Lisa

Plots, plans, and party crashers

Most writers plot out their books to some degree. Some go with a loose sketch, others know exactly what happens from A to Z. I'm glad I'm not the former, I envy the later -- I fall somewhere in the middle.

But sometimes you have to toss it all out the window.

Say you're happily writing along, everything going according to plan. Character A is behaving perfectly. Then Character B -- or even a character you've never met before -- suddenly enters the scene. Everything changes. Dang it! So much for reaching the daily page count, right?

Wrong. It's become my experience that this is a very good thing. It means that your story is taking on even more of a life of its own. It means that your muse is in residence, and she's just vetoed your plan, staged an intervention, whatever you want to call it, to keep you from doing something stupid that you'll regret later.

Whenever this happens to me, I've learned to run, don't walk, after the interfering Character B. That character knows what they're doing and why they're there even if you don't. The key here is to go with the flow. Some of my most fun characters have come into existence by crashing my plot party. In a book, party crashers are always welcome. For me, they're either being pulled into a dark alley, or pushed out of a bar. I've learned to pay attention to these people. They're worth watching -- and listening to.

Which comes first: character or plot?

The writer's version of the chicken-and-the-egg question is "which comes first: character or plot?

I've been asked this question a lot. And every writer probably has a different answer. Mine is a little of both, but mainly the characters come first, story second. For me characters drive the story, so it's only natural that they would come to me first. For me personally, the characters are the most important part of any book, whether I'm the writer or the reader.

I cut my fantasy-writing teeth in the 80s on David Eddings, Raymond Feist and Terry Brooks -- all authors of very character-driven books. What kept bringing me back to their series, and kept me waiting in not-very-patient anticipation for their next books were the characters. These were people I identified with, genuinely liked and most importantly -- I cared what happened to them. If I'm reading a book and after the first couple of chapters I either don't like the main character, or really couldn't care less what happened to them, chances are pretty high that book is going back on the shelf and I'm going to be disappointed. Give me "real" characters and a compelling plot, and I'm your fan for life.

Which author keeps me tapping my foot impatiently for their next book?

Jim Butcher, The Dresden Files. Simply the best -- period.