Really fun revising

My new beta reader is likewise challenging me, in a good way! Her first chapter notes on Voyageurs is that she didn’t feel close to Kat, even though Kat narrates that first chapter. If a reader doesn’t identify with a main character, they don’t read further.

I had to go through that chapter and figure out why she didn’t feel close to Kat, and why she felt closer to Ian (who was Kat’s partner in the scene). I came to the conclusion that Kat made a lot of observances but had very few feelings and reactions. There’s someone on the bench dressed like a widow in all-black, she sits like a man, oops — she is a man. But I didn’t have enough of Kat’s reactions — scared, agitated, frustrated, conflicted.

I had been told “show me, don’t tell me” at some point in my writing development. The problem is, when I take a piece of advice, I take it to the point of applying it perfectly (hello, I’m anal-retentive) and go too far in the other direction. So Kat observed, and I figured her observations would give her an edgy, defensive feel — they didn’t.

The trick here is to let Kat have reactions and emotions without it sounding like “I felt sad”, “I did this,” although I guess this has to happen a little. Here’s the introduction after two beta-readers. Beta-readers: have I addressed your concerns? Other readers: Do you want to know Kat better or is she a little too prickly?

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May 19, 1814 (Kat)

I stepped out of shadow and stepped into the line at the gate. I had dressed like a gentleman in a smoky blue coat set off with a cravat and a striped vest. I hoped the trousers set off my tall stature and disguised the lack of manly bulge of my calves. I glanced down at myself; I looked like the men who had money, as I intended to. It took a short time jump to the Regency era and light fingers to liberate the outfits from the racks at a London clothier.

The red-faced man collecting money, who resembled a walrus I had seen in the Kansas City Zoo, waved me on. I strode confidently through the gate of Vauxhall Gardens, as men do. From a grandstand, some musicians played something I didn’t recognize, something that sounded jaunty and Germanic.

A woman in widow’s weeds passed through the gate right behind me like a wraith and strode around me. I knew she would receive scorn not only because she walked in alone, but because she marred her period of mourning for frivolities. I admired her gall and wished I could accompany her to reduce some of the harsh judgments against her, as a daring gentleman would, but she slipped away before I could offer.

However, I had come here to solve a mystery, not to engage in gallantry. An unknown someone had left a note in my (Twenty-First Century) mailbox that read, I know you are a Traveller. Meet me at Vauxhall Gardens at 8:00 PM on May 19, 1814. I will be on the first bench beyond the lights to your right. As we Travellers — time travelers from legend — kept our lives and talents secret, I felt a queasiness in my stomach thinking of that note. It could be an ambush; my contact could try to kill me or disappear me, as had been done to my mentor Berkeley back in 2015. Still, I stood in Vauxhall, the setting the stranger had picked, a land of perfume and intrigue and dalliance.

I thought I knew of all the Travellers. A few of us had met up recently at the 1904 World’s Fair, Wanda and Harold and I, to see the wonders there. We had connected by email to set a rendezvous, as we lived in far-flung cities, and Wanda had to make her face look pale under her bonnet because St. Louis had been even more racist then. We interacted as we always had — Wanda, fretful and suspicious, Harold egging me on to do something outrageous by the rules of that time, me on my guard against Harold’s capriciousness. I think that time he wanted me to raise my skirts up to my knees, which would have been disastrous socially.

We all ate ice cream cones, of course. That was what Travellers did — lived as sightseers through time, observed, partook in the activities only as much as it wouldn’t break the Time Laws — although the natural laws of Time tended to prevent influential changes to the time line. It was not like Travellers to experiment with Time, except perhaps for the daredevil stunts of the Voyageur game, such as crossing oneself in time or base jumping into another era. As I was at the top of the Voyageur boards, I guessed I experimented with time a bit. I flirted with painful crushing death from crossing myself, and I stayed alive. I was rather proud of being legendary.

As I walked toward the dark, I felt the note in my pocket as a talisman. My foray into meeting an unknown Traveller could be dangerous. I carried a sword cane, standard for gentlemen of this era, as defense. I had practiced the maneuvers needed to arm it, with a flourish that would speak of my experience. I, of course, didn’t have experience.

Torches set along the perimeter lit my way, throwing suggestive shadows on sheltered nooks. I heard a cry in the night; I would interrupt the unseen couple’s intimate business if I guessed the wrong nook. I walked toward the first bench I spied to the right, set in one of those nooks in the darkness, and there sat a single figure in all black — the widow. She had pulled knitting from her bag and set to it amid the strains of a single trumpet.

Still, this was the first nook. I would ask the widow if she had seen a man nearby.

Through her veil, I tho
ught she watched me.

I ventured into the deeper darkness, and her words, said in a husky voice, startled me. “You are not a man. You walk like a woman.”

I grumbled, annoyed at the fact that I had been made. I had learned to fool numerous mooches in games of chance as well as the occasional cop, but I couldn’t fool this widow. I knew that, with my tall, slender build and choppy hair, looking male was as easy as binding my breasts, wearing a proper male costume — which I lifted from a shop down the road — and walking like a man, which I apparently hadn’t done.

I peered at the widow’s black skirts and lace which blended into the night, and I realized that she sat with her legs slightly spread – “You sit like a man,” I countered.

I had missed the most obvious sign of a Traveller out of time because of the dark — a Traveller sees other Travellers out of their timeline in slightly diminished colors. We are so used to this that we react instinctively. An ordinary person would never notice, so we stay hidden in plain sight. But the darkness of Vauxhall masked all the leaching of colors, and the widow wore black, so there was no way of knowing.

“Katerina Pleskovich,” the other said in a voice slightly changed. “It’s good to see you in person.” I could have sworn the stranger chuckled. The flicker of a nearby torch revealed, under a black lace mantilla, a fine nose and dark lakes for eyes.

“Okay,” I said sternly, shaking the clouds from my mind, “You have the advantage on me, and that makes you look like a stalker.” I stiffened up, my hand ready at the handle of my cane in case he was a threat to me. I didn’t know how to use a cane, but I understood how to use a knife, and hoped the cane sword was similar.

“Ian Akimoto,” he said, standing and pushing back his bonnet. In the moonlight, he was truly post-racial with glossy dark hair, wide-set Asian eyes, a long, thin nose, full lips. And an odd swirl of freckles on his high cheekbones. Not handsome, exactly, but perhaps appealing. I could not help but chuckle at this innocent boy.

He took my hand. He still wore the black gloves, which accentuated his blocky hands. He brought my hand up to his lips, a courtly gesture of the era we found ourselves in, until I pulled it away. “How do you know about me?” I snapped. I glared at his beautiful eyes, his parted hair. The darkness around us revealed no secrets of how he knew about me.

“Berkeley told me all about you,” he sighed. “And you’re even more magnificent in the flesh.”

“Berkeley?” My stomach turned into ice and I struggled to breathe. I thought as quickly as I could, a talisman against my shock – My mentor had gone by Berkeley; his real name was Alexander West. Only other Travellers would know him by Berkeley; I did, as I was the last person he had mentored. Or so I thought.

“Berkeley disappeared ten years ago. Nobody, none of us – “ by which I meant Travellers, but not necessarily the man who stood before me — “None of us know where he is.” I felt tears in my eyes and strove to keep them hidden, knowing that weakness could be dangerous.

“He’s in hiding; I’m sworn to secrecy as to his location.” He raised his hands in front of him to stall questions. I still stood – my knees wobbled, but standing gave me the appearance of control.

“Trust me, Berkeley’s okay.” Ian sat again and patted the wrought iron bench beside him. I sat. “I can’t tell you further. It’s a Traveller thing.”

“How do I know you’re even a Traveller? You could have heard some old stories from Berkeley and thought to impersonate one of us.” I was on a roll, spurred on by my suspicion.

And not very much sense, it turned out. Ian quirked an eyebrow. “Don’t you trust the evidence of your eyes? You can see I’m slightly bleached, can’t you? I’m sorry I have to stay silent about Berkeley, but it really, really is for your own good.”

I could not see the bleached colors because of the lack of light. “You don’t get to tell me what is and is not for my own good,” I shot back. “I’m not from Regency England.”

“And Berkeley’s safety,” Ian added softly. I felt a chill.

“It doesn’t make sense,” I muttered, clutching my cane. “I’ve never heard of you.” He wasn’t a Traveller I knew, nor did he frequent the Voyageur website, but then again, only a select group of Travellers played that daredevil game. I would know, being a seasoned Voyageur myself.

Where did he know me from? “Do you have a flight name?” I insisted. If he was a Voyageur, he’d have given himself a nickname, a flight name only known among comrades. I remembered that Berkeley but would not let me choose a modest nickname —

“Kat,” the rotund, balding Berkeley had said, steepling his fingers together in his easy chair, a customary glass of brandy at his side. “You stand there in front of me with a crimson wingsuit, and you mean to tell me you want to name yourself “WildKat”? You are the most skilled Traveller in this generation, a female who has to stand up against these self-aggran
dizing men – you need a name that represents your rank, not one that makes you sound like a football mascot.”

“Ok, then. What should I call myself?” I snapped.

“Wizard. That’s the name given to all the most daring and skilled in technology, in sport — computer wizards and pinball wizards and medical wizards and word wizards dot our history. Most of them are male. You, Kat, are a woman — and the wizard of jumps even at your young age. As much as I don’t like the risk, at least own your heritage.”

Berkeley’s acerbic voice rang in my ears as I looked up and Ian looked at me with feigned impatience. “Seabhag,” he said, breaking the silence I had left. The bh sounded like a harsh v. I wondered what language it was.

“Mongolian?” I asked. The band had started up in the distance, playing another oom-pah sort of tune.

“Scots Gaelic,” he smiled. “Hence the freckles.” Seabhag’s grin gave him a sly masculinity which warred with his black mantilla.

As Ian had told me his flight name, I felt obligated to give him my flight name, but he beat me to the punch after a short pause. “And you are Wizard. Berkeley said you’re aptly named.”

Before I could unleash my indignation toward him, he laid a gloved finger to my lips and said, “More people walk toward us. We should take the hint and leave.” Ian linked his hands around my waist and we blinked into elsewhen.

June 1, 2015

I credited Ian for landing us safely in a tight space – that maneuver showed at least an intermediate-level skill. I tried to assess where we were in the absolute darkness, but I couldn’t for one reason —

“Ian?” I said. “You can let me go now.” I must have twisted around in the jump, because I had buried my face in his dislodged bonnet. Historical garb didn’t mysteriously evaporate once you got – oops, I couldn’t unsee that mental picture.

Ian turned his back to me and pled, “Could you please unbutton those maddening little buttons down my back?”

“There’s no light in here. I don’t want to have to grope to get your gown off.”

Ian worked his way to the far wall, skirts swishing, then flipped a light switch. I saw his colors resolve, the subtle washed-out colors of a Traveller who had stepped outside his natural timeline.

“Now can you get me out of this evil dress?” Ian cajoled as he stomped back, holding his skirts off the floor.

I glanced around at the whitewashed stone walls and dark wooden furniture of the one-room cottage. I had fallen down a rabbit hole where little made sense. As I unbuttoned, I saw the white muslin and stays of a proper corset.

“Corset?” I asked him, stifling a giggle.

“I’m a Method actor,” he mumbled as he untied the laces so that I could tug the corset over his head.

I intended to do more than release him from the fussy trappings of Regency women’s clothing. I pulled the back of his corset wide to make sure I saw what I thought I saw – coffee-colored, freckled swirls on his otherwise golden back, the irregular swirls of Blaschko’s lines. Although all people had Blashko’s lines as part of their embryonic development, visible swirls were a sign of chimerism, or of two embryos fusing; or an outward sign of a Traveller as if we came from fused embryos. Though the Travellers knew nothing of our origins, all of us had Blaschko’s lines dark enough to be seen without ultraviolet light. I had my own lines — light caramel swirls on milk-white skin, in contrast to my dark-haired, large-eyed waifish looks. My index finger, of its own volition, reached out to trace one of the swirls, and Ian caught his breath.

“I’ll give you till forever to stop that,” he whispered.

“I’m sorry,” I muttered, and stepped back. I wanted to lazily trace those swirls all evening. They mesmerized me, like bodily imperfections often did.

Without warning, he dropped the dress and petticoats to the floor. Below the clothes, he wore black stockings with garters – black, of course, which he quickly dispatched. Then the pantalets hit the floor. I didn’t know whether to laugh hysterically or scream.

Although it felt illicit, I enjoyed his casual nudity – compact, lightly muscled, the Blaschko’s lines undulating across his torso. He had let his hair down from its bun, and it was dark brown and wavy and touched his shoulders. My first impulse was to – no.

I did not know him. I had been burned by impulse before. I couldn’t go there.

Ian turned around, saw my face, and said, “I’m really sorry, but those pan
talons were scratching me in a sensitive place.”

“I don’t know you,” I snapped. “I know I sound like a total bitch here – whenever here is – but if this is an invitation, I can’t. I won’t.” I noticed I had clenched my fists.

He crossed over to a large black trunk. I suspected he rummaged for clothes that weren’t black, scratchy, or feminine.

I asked him, “When are we?” It had to be somewhere between the 1970s and my present time.

“Modern time — your time. The middle of uncharted Scotland, where I somehow inherited an ancestral cottage.” That explained the stone walls, the use of conduit to provide electricity to lights and appliances, and the tiny size of the space. The space held a kitchen and a wood-framed futon and a dresser and very little room to stand except the space we occupied. He had landed us both in that space in a time jump from 100 years ago without collisions – I upgraded my assessment of his skill.

After he had dressed in a pair of black sweats and a t-shirt that said “University of Okoboji”, he strolled back over to sit on the couch. For the second time that night, he patted the couch and I sat down next to him, heaven knows why.

“Can I ask you some questions?” I leaned toward him. It seemed natural, because he seemed unprepossessing, personable, and gosh darn nice despite flashing me. Then again, the last man who I’d thought that about turned out to be none of those things. I leaned back, thinking of questions.

“Sure. Be aware I can’t answer all of them. And in advance, I apologize. I truly can’t. I hope you’ll trust me despite this.” His shoulders had slumped and his eyes grown weary – I would recommend he never take up poker, because his face wore emotions so completely.

“Love the freckles,” I said as I patted his cheek in an impulse.

“Woof!” he grinned and rubbed his head against my hand and buried it in his hair. Dangerous. I pulled my hand away from that thick, vibrant hair.

He looked sad, but he simply sat silently and let me ask the next question. “How do you know Berkeley?”

“He taught me advanced Traveller lessons. My parents were Travellers, but they died when I was fifteen in a time travel accident. They were not Voyageurs, not even on the Voyageurs’ radar, so you may not have heard about them. They hadn’t taught me all I needed to learn when they died, so I felt fortunate I found Berkeley when I did. He got me caught up.”

“He did more than that,” I replied. “You have higher competence than average – I haven’t assessed your full competencies yet, of course.”

“You can any time you want.” he replied softly.

“I have time, then?” This was danger, yet it called to me.

“All the time in the world.” I suddenly realized that I didn’t really know what competencies he wanted me to assess, nor which competencies I wanted to assess. So I leaned over and kissed him on his pale, freckled cheek.

Before I knew it, we lay on the futon, his body on top of mine. He laid his hands on my cheeks as he kissed me open-mouthed. As I kissed him, I felt like I had jumped off a cliff only to have my wing suit catch my fall so that I could follow the lines to sometime new and unknown. But I dared not go further.

So I executed one of the most advanced maneuvers of all – I rolled out from under him and traced my steps back home via 1814 London.

I landed in my home – Berkeley’s former home, a well-preserved Painted Lady in 2015 Kansas City, Missouri. I landed prone, on my back, on the bedroom floor, like I had been thrown in judo.

I called out to Berkeley as I always did. The house was silent, of course.

Hi, my name is Marcie, and I am eight years old. I had my birthday two — no, two months and seven days ago, and I’m counting down to the next one. It’s only ten months and three weeks from now! Time flies like a dragonfly!

Aunt Laurie said I can talk about words today. Let me first say that words are very important, because without them, we would all just stare and wave our hands around and if that kept up, how would we get pie? It’s easier to say, “please pass the pie”, especially if it’s that really gooey chocolate chip pie Aunt Laurie won’t make anymore because it’s too fattening. I think being fat just means you’re very happy because you got to eat the whole pie.

Ok, words. There are little words like “please”, “may”, and of course “pie” and those are good words because they get things done. Then there are the big words like Aunt Laurie writes, like “flabbergasted”, “preternatural”, and “multicolor” and I have to look them up in the dictionary. Why can’t she just used “frustrated”, “spooky”, and “pink and blue and green and orange”? Aunt Laurie says that you have to use the right word for the right thing, and preternatural isn’t the same as spooky, although it tends to weird us out. Think of someone who can read minds, or who’s thousands of years older than you. That’s preternatural. Why doesn’t she just say “spooky guy who could be your great-great-great-great-great a billion times over grandfather?”

Yesterday, Aunt Laurie told me I was right. Yay! I’m awesome! She said her beta-reader said her words were too big and if she wanted to be read, she would have to make them smaller words. Like “pink and blue and green and orange” instead of “multicolored”. She said this would be hard for her because big words love her. A lot like cats, I think. And did I mention that Aunt Laurie has a lot of cats?

I think I smell pie. Bye!

Mood and writing status today …

I need to write on Prodigies today.
I’ve been getting work done in other places — taking the class is most important; editing what my betas are telling me about my books is important (I love fixing problems!); writing this blog is important, gardening is important …

Writing Prodigies is important, So why is this getting none of my attention? Because it’s been difficult getting my mind back into it. Yes, it still bothers me that I haven’t gotten published, and I do lose my motivation to write, especially when there are so many more things I want and need to do.

But I finished my weekly class activities the first week of classes, and I’ve set up 1/3 of my internship visits up. I’ve gotten the basic layout of my renovated class together, and I have to wait till later in the summer to get the rest done. I’m antsy — I don’t want to spend all my spare time vegetating on the couch.

So I’m a bit cranky today. I’m working on it.

A happy note about bad things

Sometimes the things I need are not the things I thought I needed.

I needed the bad yearly evaluation, because without it, I would not have been able to talk honestly with my boss about what I had been going through for the last two years illness-wise. I would not have gotten the kick in the butt to do better, nor would I have realized that my boss cared about how I was doing.

I needed to have my writing rejected, because I would never have been pushed to get beta-readers on the job. Not only do they help me improve, but they are reading my stuff and that feels good.

I needed to feel like I was the most uninteresting person on earth (isn’t depression grand?) so I would see the places where I am geekily interesting — edible plants and herb garden, persistence in fishing even though I catch nothing, wanting to learn everything, moulage, the ability to talk to anyone about anything, addiction to coffee, dedication to writing …

I needed to have that terrible school year — two terrible school years filled with depression and illness. Even though I have a lot of work (writing, disaster mental health class, redesigning a class) this summer I feel relaxed because I can take a day to go off to St. Joseph and drink at a quirky old coffeehouse.

I needed to break my heart on that crush, because it showed me how understanding my husband is about my periodic idiosyncracies in looking for the muse, a person who subtly infuses my creative soul with energy. (Crushes would lose their power if one did anything about them, so they’re supposed to go nowhere. Dear muse, if you are reading this, thank you.)

I needed to feel alone, because if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have realized how much it means to me that I have readers. I love you all!

Well, Kindle Scout didn’t bite on Voyageurs, as I thought they wouldn’t. However, I’m not too bothered because it’s on the road to improvement. And I’d rather have a solid book than a published one, strangely enough. Although I would like to be read as well.

Going Back to School

Today is the first day of my Disaster Mental Health certificate program. I can’t believe I’m going back to school after getting a PhD and this late in my career, yet here I am.

As it turns out, I have a good role model in my father. My father got his high school diploma and learned electronics in the military. I remember growing up with him taking a correspondence course in electronics with all these little paper booklets that were individual lessons. Later, he would go off to Dublin, Ohio to take various courses on the changing technology of his job, installing telephone switching equipment. A lot of his colleagues didn’t take the company up on their training, believing that the union would protect them. The union did not protect them, and so they slowly got transferred and laid off. Eventually, my dad was one of the few remaining workers in an increasingly automated system. AT&T would hand him a building full of equipment and a 32-page schematic and tell him to throw the switch and lock the door when it was done. In addition to this, he took a pastry chef class at the community college, and my family let him make the pie crust from then on out.

I did my first lesson this morning, and I found the material engaging and worthwhile. Maybe I haven’t forgotten how to be a student!

A different tribute to my mother.

I look like my mother looked, or so people tell me. I think they’re cluing in on the structure of my face, my not insignificant nose, and my overabundant mouth. (The deepset almond-shaped eyes and the strong dimpled chin come from Dad.)

I act like my mother acted — somewhat. I have her extroversion, her enthusiasm, sense of humor, and intelligence. I also have some of her dark side — the weepiness the relentless pessimism, the neediness, the rage, the hatred of getting older.

I try my best not to have her dark side, knowing that it probably came from untreated bipolar disorder. She tried her best, hampered by wrong diagnoses, inferior medicines, and the lack of awareness that comes with bipolar disorder. There were times she couldn’t mother, and there were times she embarrassed us.

I loved my mother. I still do, despite all her flaws. At her best, she was a creative whirlwind, a storyteller, a sparkling woman with a flair for the dramatic (the latter of which I did not inherit). At her worst, she was betrayed by her own mind — it’s hard to realize how much your feelings dictate your sense of reality instead of the other way around, and that’s the curse of bipolar disorder.

My mother died — what? Eleven years ago? Has it been that long? I have dreams of her sometimes where I’m told she’s dead, but then I visit my parents’ old house, and she’s there, wearing her nightgown. She’s sick, as she often was in her depressions, lying on the couch, but she’s not depressed. She’s not dead. She tells me, in a matter-of-fact voice that she’ll die soon and she’s hiding from the world who thinks she has already passed away.

But she’s not dead yet. Not in my mind, eleven years later. She’s in my mirror and in my mannerisms and in my stories, and in the voice in my mind that is her best self as she spins among the stars. She’s not gone — I merely can’t speak to her.

Redbird

I was 25, and I was going through a hard time in my life. I faced waves of agitation and depression, flashbacks, a relationship in flux — and a persistent feeling that there were evil influences lurking in my life. The latter may have been the fact that my bipolar was not at that time treated, or it could have been that I believed in those things at the time. Or those could have been one and the same.

One day, I was in a neighborhood in Champaign I hadn’t been in before — it was a sleepy boulevard, complete with mini-park tucked into the median. I had gone there because I had a bad crush on someone even as my maybe-boyfriend gave me mixed signals — and I wanted to see where he lived. (I don’t think I ever devolved to the point of being a stalker, but I worried about it some nights.)

I was sitting on the bench in the mini-park, watching the occasional car drive laconically by, and suddenly I felt a feeling of dread, ominous dread, blossom from my stomach through my body. Something bad was going to happen — I could imagine the strains of foreboding music in the background.

And then a cardinal called. I looked up, and he sat on a phone line directly above me, flame red and stalwart. I felt a flush of calm pass through me. He launched himself in the air and landed on a tree branch a few feet away, then stayed there. I followed him there, and this dance continued until I was away from the boulevard.

I was safe.

**********

Almost thirty years later, I don’t know what to make of this still. Yes, the feeling of foreboding may have been from the tricks that bipolar plays with the body. Remember as well that mania triggers the religious/mystical elements of the brain.

But the bird was real. Whether it was a cardinal acting peculiarly or a flame-feathered spirit guiding me to safety, I will never know. I will not pretend to know — there is no certainty in mysticism. But there is one more story:

During that same time period, I left a party because I felt like I was barely holding myself together inside a great glass bubble that distanced me from everyone. My heart was breaking, and at the same time, I was afraid that I would be taken advantage of by someone or something malign if I opened up. A friend of mine walked me home from the party to protect me from what I felt was out there (Scott May, if you’re reading this, thank you. I never appreciated you enough).

I got home and was lying in bed shivering and hugging myself. All of a sudden, I heard a commotion just outside the window and saw a cardinal, male and shining red against the lowering clouds, fighting a starling with its black, speckled wings.

I heard a voice in my mind: “Do I have to knock you out to help you?”

“Yes,” I thought back.

I instantly fell asleep.

*******

I have to wait for dreams now to have these experiences, possibly because of the medication, possibly because of the fact that I’m older and busier and not accustomed to living between worlds anymore. I don’t know what the “real” interpretation is, but the belief that the redbird was a kind spirit that protected me against malign forces makes for a better story.

Flashbacks

My beta-reader told me I need to have some more character building of the villians, Harold and Wanda. This, I admit, is hard for me to do, preferring shadowy threats. By the beginning of the book, my main character and the villains are not as good friends as they’d been — it’s actually probable that they’d never been close friends, even though they were Kat’s friends at a vulnerable time.

So Kat has only three direct interactions with the villains during the book, and when someone’s trying to kill you, there’s not much time to build character. So how do I do this?

Flashbacks!

I like writing flashbacks, but I usually reserve them for scenes that would ordinarily be one big information dump so that I can show, rather than just tell, the audience what had happened. But I hadn’t thought of writing flashbacks for Kat’s interactions for Harold and Wanda.

But my readers can’t react to what’s in my head if it never makes it on paper.

(Wanda and Harold met me just outside the soup kitchen —

“Hey, I’ve just had lunch,” I groused, “Do you expect me to jump on a full stomach?”

“Don’t be a bitch,” Harold said loftily, as Wanda looked down her nose at me as if I’d crawled out from under a rock. “We’ve got an experiment we need you to do.”

“Why me? I’m a Junior Birdman. You’re the King.” I knew, deep down, that i would do whatever he asked me to, because they were my friends. And Harold — Harold was special. I would probably do it for him.

“You’re faster than I am. I need someone fast to do this. I bet you can’t do it, though.” Harold examined his hands, probably for invisible dirt specks, as I’d never seen him with his hands dirty.

“You bet I can’t do what?” I demanded.

“Change the outcome of that game over there.” Wanda interjected in her haughty voice.

“But that won’t work!” I groused. “The rock principle will keep it from changing.”

“I’m going with you,” Harold reassured me. “We’re jumping into the past to that shell game over there and you’re going to tip over the right cup so the mooch sees he’s getting conned .”

I protested. “By “we”, you mean me. How would I know where the ball landed?”

“You know,” Harold gritted his teeth. “You always know. I’ve seen you run that game.”

“You can’t change time. I try to change that and the cup won’t tip over. It always works that way.” I’d tried it — I can win the game myself, but I can’t change the outcome of the game itself.”

“But what if I change one or two other things at the same time? The rock principle only maintains one material fact at a time. With one or two other changes at once, I hope to confuse things so that the rock principle doesn’t change the shell game.”

“But what about crossing ourselves?” I demanded. “I only have what — four minutes before I die?”

“You’ll have to do it quickly, I guess,” Harold shrugged. “Unless you don’t think you can — “

“Alright. I’ll do it.” I always knew I would.

We jumped to three minutes before the start of the round, and Wanda came with us as witness. She and Harold stepped back while I walked up to the game, which involved a mooch and a grifter (as we called victims and fraudsters on the street).

The idea was to reach in and tip the cup with the ball under it at the exact moment that the mooch was to guess the whereabouts of the ball. He wouldn’t — the sleight-of-hand of the operator guaranteed it. The big trick was to tip the ball and jump before the grifter caught my wrist and took me behind the nearest building to beat me to a pulp. I wondered why Harold would subject me to that risk, or the risk of crossing myself and being crushed, if he was my friend. But he trusted me…

One exhilarating moment later, I had tipped the cup, revealing the ball to be in a different cup than it would have appeared to the mooch, and I jumped back to my present time without dying. I bent over, gasping and laughing.

“You’re the best,” Harold clapped me on the shoulder. “I knew you could do it. I think we should make a game of this. Call it — Voyageur. Like Traveller, but provocative.”

Then we blinked out of sight before the irate con artist reached us.)

Little Pieces of Psychology for Characterization

I use psychology to help my characters to sneak into the reader’s mind at a subliminal level. Here’s a partial list:

1) The character who dislikes the protagonist the most has the same character flaw as the protagonist. In Prodigies, the book I’m currently working on, Romak Matusiak, Minister of Culture in Poland hates Grace presumably because she’s black.The issue may be that she’s black and cultured, which he feels is the province of upper-class whites.

2) People have “tells” when they’re lying and withholding information. Pursing their lips, closing their eyes for longer than necessary, blinking rapidly, sweating, and looking away (purportedly to the right if they’re right-handed) are all different “tells”. Sprinkling this into descriptions of people lying gives a heads-up to the reader that something’s up. Related is the extensive focus on body gestures of two Japanese characters in Prodigies — much of Japanese communication is unspoken.

3). Archetypes — or more correctly — archetypes in the Jungian sense. Joseph Campbell believed in a universal story, and in his story, roles that correspond to Jungian archetypes such as the hero/heroine, the mentor, the trickster, the innocent, and the magician. To some extent writing archetypes comes subconsciously, but it helps to be conscious about it.

4) Dreams and visions. I’m a Jungian at heart, I’m afraid, and that means that I impart important information about the psyche of my protagonists through their dreams. As is true to dreams, the sequences are symbolic, fragmented, and often mystical.

I have fun with psychology; my characters have no idea how much psychology goes into them.