Don’t Turn Your Novel Into a Turducken

The other night we had a conversation in the writing cave about ways to flesh out a story. We know there are things we neglected to spell out, or perhaps omitted altogether, because of being a little too close to them. However, not everything that you could add is something that you should.

Obviously, you don’t include the stuff that’s irrelevant or uninteresting. But sometimes you need to hold off on making additions even if they’d be fantastic. Because not every nugget of gold belongs in the tale you’re telling right now.

Consider a scenario where your main character makes a decision after tons of soul searching, a decision that’s going to determine the direction of the narrative. You can feel the turmoil of your character throughout his sleepless night. It’s tempting to try to bring the reader into that space of conflict, share the doubt and trepidation of the protagonist. To show (not tell!) all the alternatives that were contemplated, all the attempts to bargain away the painful but inevitable outcome. And in many cases, it’d be the right call. But not always. All that’s essential for the reader to know is what the decision is, and that reaching it was difficult.

Forcing the issue will hurt the whole book. If this moment falls during escalating kinetic tension, then inserting a digression into someone’s interior world is likely to kill the mood. Dwelling on this particular moment for this character might detract from the image you intend to create. And in such cases, no level of prose quality will change the basic fact: it doesn’t fit.

Including a scene that’s a tonal or thematic mismatch is like stuffing a different story inside the one you’re trying to tell, like jamming a bird inside of another bird. Maybe turducken is delicious, in which case the metaphor falls down. Just be sure that all your ingredients really do work together.

The Alley Behind the Wholesome Strip Club

  • by Kentdesperately needed a father figure
  • I’m guessing he did
  • in what was meant to be a whisper
  • confiscated his shoes
  • born with a voracious appetite

Tune in next time part 186                             Click Here for Earlier Installments

The alley behind the wholesome strip club was not wholesome. It was dark, with putrid slime laying ankle-deep. A dumpy green person sat on a dumpster, smoking a hookah and playing with his long, pointy ears.

“This one desperately needed a father figure, I’m guessing he did,” croaked the stoner Yoda.

“Better than some desperate needs I could mention,” I muttered in what was meant to be a whisper. I splashed through the muck to the hookah smoker’s perch and confiscated his shoes. My espadrilles were now both kicky and squelchy.

“Thief! Thieving thief!” the little man raged. His mask was very convincing. I was eager to vacate the alley, get on the move and put some miles between myself and Mother.

But everywhere I looked I saw the glint of ravenous red eyes. Terror gripped me, and Yoda chuckled from his elevated vantage. “Born with a voracious appetite, each rat is,” he rasped. “And they will eat well tonight.”

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Old Nut-Cracker Face Ignored My Question

  • by jensmeared me with lipstick and face powder
  • holds the blanket up to indicate his intent
  • here at last was the elusive
  • clean up after himself
  • and green flannel snowpants

Tune in next time part 185                             Click Here for Earlier Installments

Old nut-cracker face ignored my question and smeared me with lipstick and face powder. He plopped a curly blond wig on my head. “Take off that ridiculous jumpsuit if you want to get away from your mother. I’ll find you something else to wear.” His eyes crawled all over me. “A disguise.” His tone was not unlike that of a pervert who wraps himself in a blanket and hangs out in the bus station, the sort who holds the blanket up to indicate his intent to make your entire bus ride miserable. Pervert or not, though, he was offering to help me escape from Mother and her nefarious plans for me.

I slowly eased the zipper down on my jumpsuit as I watched him dig through crates and trunks and suitcases full of wholesome stripper attire, throwing clothes and shoes and boas everywhere. After what felt like an eternity he finally said, “Aha!” and stood, triumphant. Here at last was the elusive disguise he’d been seeking. He approached me, fists full of fabric, and didn’t even bother to clean up after himself.

Soon I had removed my corduroy jumpsuit and donned an equally ridiculous new outfit. It consisted of a calico pinafore and green flannel snowpants, with a pair of kicky espadrilles for my feet.

I looked in the mirror and barely recognized myself in my new wig, makeup, and feminine clothes. As I headed for the back door, I saw old nut-cracker face struggling into my abandoned clothing.

Why would he want to do that?

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It Counts as Research

It’s been a while since we talked about the music we listen to when we’re writing, but it’s still an important part of our process. Especially this time of year when all of our neighbors renew their passionate love affairs with their lawn mowers. It’s been an especially noisy spring around the writing cave. A few weeks ago we rode out a pretty severe storm, and ever since we’ve been treated to practically daily concerts by the chainsaw chorus. And as I write this post, the people across the street have a cement mixer beeping and chugging away in their driveway. They’re in the midst of a never-ending construction project of some sort, and I can’t imagine what they need the cement for, since yesterday it was all nail-guns all day, putting up siding.

Both Jen and Kent skew pretty hard toward the Introverted/Antisocial end of the spectrum. In order to keep our sanity we need a buffer from the leaf blowers and hedge trimmers, the shrieking kids and teens on skateboards, the yodeling beagle and that weird guy who walks the streets in the dark, singing.

No, I’m not tense. Why do you ask?

Music is our respite, and lately it’s also been research. We’re in the early stages of plotting out our third Music Novel and it’s really helpful for us to swim around in songs that we love in order to get in the right headspace.

Last weekend we went to an out-of-town concert. We used the drive time to hash out some character details and brainstorm some plot points. Once we got there, we put that part of our brains in neutral and simply had a helluva good time. Of course, being writers, we were observing everything, soaking in the atmosphere along with the secondhand pot smoke. The ride home was filled with talk of fun details to work into the two extant Music Novels.

Now that we’re trapped in the writing cave again, we’ve taken to choosing songs from our collections that we feel exemplify the sound of the various bands in our novels. Interspersed with that are stretches where we listen to nothing but the Red Army Choir. Son and Grandson of Science Novel feature Russian characters and settings, so it really helps to set the mood.

Sometimes instrumental music is called for, especially during editing sessions. At those times we gravitate toward classical guitar or piano

What do you like to listen to when you’re writing? Let us know in the comments.

That’s Not The Right Costume!

  • by KentI would have answered in good faith
  • you needed an egg-beater
  • Yap-yap-yap, all the livelong day
  • Sexually naive farmboy
  • “How do you know my name, old nut-cracker face?”

Tune in next time part 184                             Click Here for Earlier Installments

“That’s not the right costume!” yelled the heavyset man backstage. His face seemed permanently locked into a teeth-baring grimace, and his tone of voice unable to deviate from exasperated-suburban-princess. “Where did you even get that thing?”

I would have answered in good faith, but considering the complexity of the honest explanation I couldn’t afford to take that kind of time.

The man stood with one hand on his hip, appraising me. “It’s all gonna come off anyway, am I right? But no, it’s all one piece. You need some way to put the tease in the striptease, you needed an egg-beater if you know what I’m saying.”

I nodded, because the odd figure of speech was yet another code phrase. Tradecraft amounts to an awful lot of talking sometimes. Yap-yap-yap, all the livelong day.

“Sexually naive farmboy, roll in the hay, and close the barn door.” I was taking some liberties with the countersigns, but desperate times and all that.

His eyes grew wide as he breathed five syllables that I hadn’t heard in a very long time.

I grabbed his furry pink lapels and demanded, “How do you know my name, old nut-cracker face?”

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“I Would Kill For a Cup of Coffee”

  • by jen“You’re supposed to know!”
  • not using a pseudonym
  • the baffled animal beneath me
  • so cheesy and dramatic
  • Jennifer’s wedding band

Tune in next time part 183                             Click Here for Earlier Installments

“I would kill for a cup of coffee,” I said. Those scorpion donuts made me thirsty.

The strip-tease waitress just looked at me askance and moved away, shimmying her hips and not pouring any coffee. Mother smacked the back of my head. “That was a code phrase!” she whispered angrily. “You’re supposed to know!” She whacked me again like I was a puppy that piddled on the carpet. “After all that tuition I paid to the Academy you’re supposed to know ALL the spy stuff! And here you are, ignorant of even the most common codes, running around Harmonia, not using a pseudonym or anything!”

Oh, Mother wanted spycraft did she?

I pushed past the patrons gathered around the stage, all of them hoisting tiny pitchers of maple syrup, ready to “make it rain” for the dancers. I leapt onto the stage, my saddle shoes skidding in a pool of melted butter. I caught myself on the gingham stripper pole and looked down at the baffled animal beneath me, Mother’s ape-like henchman standing stupidly at the edge of the stage.

The music that was playing was so cheesy and dramatic I couldn’t help but do a little bump and grind. I’m sure you know the song. It’s by that weird group Jennifer’s Wedding Band. The audience erupted into hoots and boos, and in the ensuing chaos I was able to run backstage. I almost made it out the back door, but was stopped in my tracks.

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It Was The Middle One

We went out to dinner again.

Loyal readers probably see where this is going — we dined out in character so we could debug some of the world-building that’s happening for the third music novel. A lot of the conversation revolved around whether or not we might be actively trying to kill each other.

As we mentioned last week, it’s a different trilogy that’s been keeping us quite busy in the writing cave. So what do we do on date night? We work. (And chow down on moussaka and kolokythokeftedes of course. Yum!)

It hasn’t been easy to lock down the plot of the next music novel. What enabled things to start flowing was a decision about the chronology. It turns out we’ve written volumes one and three. By putting this one in between, several obstacles were cleared away and a strong thematic connection back to book one presented itself. Now we have a pretty clear image of our new cast members and a basic framework of the incidents that get the plot rolling.

Sometimes a writing partner is someone to go out to dinner with, and then pretend they’re someone else.

The Good News Was

  • by Kentgirls who danced in this cafe
  • grandfather placed everything in the trash can barrel
  • “That could be anybody.”
  • the fervency of a small child when he really, really wants something
  • a metal chain, gold colored

Tune in next time part 182                             Click Here for Earlier Installments

The good news was that I was finally leaving Valentine Village. Also, I would at last get to change out of my itchy, restrictive lace jumpsuit and borrowed underwear.

The rest of the news was bad. Mother had me trapped in the back of a windowless van, headed for the airport and a destination she wouldn’t reveal. Her comment about photographers felt like a hint, the kind of game she liked to play.

My new clothing was, dammit, another jumpsuit. But it was the proper size and made of black corduroy, and infinitely more comfortable than the previous one. Mother insisted I also wear a metal chain, gold colored, and saddle shoes. I protested with the fervency of a small child when he really, really wants something, or in this case really, really doesn’t want it, but she was implacable.

The van slowed as I tied my shoes. I heard a plane taking off. Mother’s flunky shut off the engine and came back to open the cargo doors, and I saw that we weren’t technically at the airport. We were at one of the seedy strip malls across the highway from it. Most of the storefronts were gentlemen’s clubs. Strip mall, indeed.

Mother tucked her hair up under a backwards ball cap, and put on dark glasses even though it was after sunset.

“Hey, ain’t that the president’s mom?” called a loud voice across the parking lot.

His companion shook his head, teetering drunkenly. “That could be anybody.”

I was ushered into the nearest club, a surprisingly wholesome establishment. It was what you’d get if you started with a regular strip club, but then your grandfather placed everything in the trash can barrel unless it was somehow breakfast-themed, and he kept doing that through seven renovations of your club. Even the girls who danced in this cafe were clean and bright as dawn’s first rays.

“Coffee?” asked a dancing waitress in a Gingham thong.

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As Soon As I Regained Consciousness, I Wished I Hadn’t

  • by jena fully clothed woman
  • the world is a terrifying place
  • extensive waist of their corpulent host
  • pay $200 for sex in a Manhattan hotel
  • before you compelled her to marry me

Tune in next time part 181                             Click Here for Earlier Installments

As soon as I regained consciousness, I wished I hadn’t. A fully clothed woman was standing over me, and I recognized her immediately.

“Mother.”

She looked down at me, smiling that cold smile of hers. “When you are a parent, the world is a terrifying place,” she said. “You are always worried that your child will commit some unforgivable faux pas, such as attending an embassy soiree and mocking the extensive waist of their corpulent host, thus creating an international incident.”

That was something Thor, Freya, Jim, and Jason had done, each on separate occasions. Did she think I was my twin?

She went on, staring down at me. “Or perhaps your child will grow up to be the sort to pay $200 for sex in a Manhattan hotel with an undercover cop.”

Ah shit, she knew I wasn’t Jason.

“You’re still pissed off about that, Mom?” I asked. “It’s been years.” I wanted to ask her how long she’d been employing ninjas, but had to work up to it.

“Of course I’m still pissed off about it! Your recklessness nearly ruined things with the Contrarians!”

“That’s bullshit, Mom. Fleur and I came to an agreement before you compelled her to marry me. She didn’t care who I slept with.”

“Of course not, but her father was horrified that your budget was so low! He was sure it meant I was bluffing about how much money the US had on hand for our weapons deal.” She sighed and shook her head. “And now you’re at it again, embarrassing me on an international level. What on Earth are you wearing?”

I realized I was still in the lace jumpsuit.

“You’d better change,” she said. “There will be tons of photographers at the airport.”

“Where are you taking me, Mother?”

Her cold, cold smile was her only reply.

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Giants of Science (Novels)

We passed some nice milestones recently in the auxiliary writing cave. Our base of operations shifted there while we collated and discussed the critique input we collected on Science Novel, and even though we would rather have done that work over the winter (because the auxiliary writing cave has a fireplace) it was still a nice change of scene.

Now we’re back in the primary writing cave, gearing up to dive into the Science series. Maybe “come at it broadside” would be more apt, seeing as we’ll have three books in play simultaneously. Now that the critique info is digested, Jen will begin an editing pass on Science Novel. Meanwhile, Kent will be making additions to the first draft of Son of while Jen lays the groundwork for Grandson by cooking up its first batch of stubs. It’s a form of cookery where all the plates are spinning, evidently.

The last time we tackled three books all at once was when we did the covers for the Divided Man series. Based on how that turned out, we might want to start making a habit of it.