Research
Right now I’m halfway through a novella involving a haunted house, a demon hunter, and a skeptic named Lizzy who’s only in it for the money. Normally this would be right up my alley, but it was coming off kind of dry, so I crossed my fingers and did some asking around.
Good news! Because I just got the call–at 3:47 AM, no less–that I’ve been cleared to go on a ghost hunt. That means I get to play with things like EMF meters and learn the difference between a speck of dust and a poltergeist. Which I’m pretty sure I can do already, since (a) I have watched every episode of Ghost Hunters, Paranormal State, and Supernatural, and (b) I used to live in a portal to hell.
My ghost hunt will be this weekend, and it will involve me sitting in an old, abandoned tunnel in the dead of night with five or so people I have never seen before in my life. If I’m not back to post on Monday, it’s been nice knowing you. Please feed the kittehs.
To commemorate the occasion, I dug up this youtube clip of Supernatural’s very own ambiguously erotic duo, Cas & Dean, as they troll a strip club looking for a prostitute worthy of relieving former angel Castiel of his virginity, on what may be his very last night on earth (you know, until God brings him back to life…again).
It’s the Little Things
Ever read a book and something just doesn’t ring true? I hate that. I’ll be deep in a story, turning the pages feverishly … and boom. Something just happens and the entire book just loses its flavor for me.
Usually, it’s two things.
1.) The Men.
Not the descriptions. (You can ask Liz about my obsession with washboard abs). Not the jobs. Doesn’t bother me that he was formerly Special Forces and then parlayed that into a genius for the stock market. Or that he left all that behind to chase his dream of working on cars or building houses. Go for it.
No, what drops the bottom out of the story for me is the part where the hero is with the heroine. He’s either comforting her or they just had sex. We get in his head, we find out what’s he’s thinking. Occasionally, his thoughts surprise me, as they are not what I would expect. Sometimes, just a word will surprise me.
Her slender body shook with sobs. He wanted to do something to ease her turmoil but knew she wouldn’t accept his help. Wishing he could do more, he wrapped his arms around her tightly.
Turmoil?
I scrolled through my mental list of all the males of my acquaintance. I know quite a few, and they range from gentlemen who hold multiple college degrees, to a youngster just beginning to practice his charm on the ladies.
None of them would ever use the word ‘turmoil’. I checked further. No of them would even think the word. It’s not in their all-American vocabulary. It’s a word only a Romantic Hero would use, I was informed, not a Real Hero. (My arguments of sensitive alpha males fell upon deaf ears).
2.) Way too Much Description
I’ll be caught up in the moment. The paragraphs are perfect, just enough information to keep me turning the pages … until something happens and I wonder if I put down my book for a moment and accidentally picked up a catalogue, instead.
Her dress slipped from her shoulders, revealing the designer label. The silk pooled at her feet, leaving her clad only in a filmy, coffee-colored, Chantilly lace demi-bra (the only part of the way-too-descriptive description is: also available in black, ivory, pale rose, or seafoam) and matching g-string (again, the only thing missing is: also available is the bikini and boy-cut brief, both sold on page 32).
Or …
She looked around his room. She had expected something uncomfortably rustic, not this educated combination of Ralph Lauren meeting the Marlboro Man. The walls were sheathed in weathered planks, which created just the right contrast to the tobacco-leather club chairs and original oil paintings. A woven throw looked perfect for snuggling into on the chenille couch. The room had been accessorized with various objets d’art he had picked up during the course of his travels: a relic from Ireland, sand from the Gobi, a pygmy from darkest Peru.
I’m not interested in the story anymore. I want to know who his designer was. And how he got a pygmy home. I’ve completely forgotten what the heroine was doing in his room. I’m not reminded until they hit the sheets – because then I’m reminded that they are 600-thread count and almost as silky as the heroine’s skin.
What minor thing has the ability to yank you right out of a story?
Weekend Video: Stephen King on the magic moment
This is one of my favorite bits of writing advice ever, especially at the end! Enjoy!
