What do Happy Little Trees and Jack the Dripper have to do with the fairly mundane concept of story structure? Bear with me…

Writers tend to see themselves somewhere along the spectrum of ‘plotter’ to ‘pantster’ (the first being someone who develops an outline before starting the actual story, the second being someone who just flies by the seat of his authorial pants). With my first book, I over-outlined and over-plotted, but didn’t have a clear idea of structure – it seems totally obvious to say, but the idea the main character should *gasp* have a clear, defined goal in mind (and here I thought she was just off on a journey of self-discovery) was a bit of a shock. Rectified in editing? I’d like to think so, but ouch, it hurt. As I embark on the process of writing a second novel, I resolved not to repeat previous mistakes. My new character would have a driving goal right off the bat. The only problem? My brain still plots the same way. Spastically.

Okay, back to the art thing. Looking at the end result of a Bob Ross painting… *shudder*. But there was always something comforting about the guy’s voice and the way he knew how happy a tree would be to set down roots in a certain place, or the way the light was going to catch a rock in the rushing water, and all of a sudden you could hear the sound. For Jackson Pollock, a.k.a. Jack the Dripper, I never understood the appeal until I read the man’s life story, and I realized that when you see one of his paintings, you aren’t viewing the painting, you’re watching him create it, this absolute madman spinning out his demons above a canvas. For me, the ultimate goal of writing is the same – not in a ‘look at me, I’m the author’, sort of way, but in a way that breathes life into the work and makes it real.

Sometimes, you have to understand a process in order to take control of it. It’s relatively easy for writers to learn the basics of grammar, syntax, dialogue, etc, but story creation is more organic, individual, and harder to teach, critique, and learn. You can read a few sentences to see whether someone has sufficient grasp of the English language to tell a story, but might need 300 pages to learn they have no idea how to end one.

So, since one of my critique partners has been doing her best to whip me into shape in this respect, and while I’m waiting for the blobs in my head to take form into something that resembles something like a coherent plot instead of a Jackson Pollock painting, I thought I’d toss off a few ramblings. The short version? Character must want something. Character must have plan to go after it. She might get it, she might not. But her journey along the way must still satisfy the reader. Happy little trees? Optional. The end.

As I gear up to start sending out queries to potential agents, I’m reflecting on the past five months or so I spent editing the manuscript for Echoes. My first draft clocked in at around 186,000 words, which is far too much for modern publishing standards. So, I whined and gnashed my teeth at the unfairness of it all, then got out the chainsaw. All in all, 84k words went into the bin, and lo and behold, the real story emerged.

It ceased to be a story about a guy and a girl fighting some ancient Biblical demon with the help of a lovesick ghost, and instead, became a story about two families trapped by fate, where the current representatives must balance the burden of four generations of failed expectations with their own hopes and dreams. Better, right? (She said, hopefully)

So, if anyone out in cyberspace stumbles upon this post whilst amidst their own word count related teeth gnashing, the best advice I can offer is look deep into your work for the real story. Find the part to which you feel the strongest connection, make it shine, and let go of the rest. Until your next book, at least

Read the excerpt this post refers to Here

Do you believe in ghosts?  I do.  I have to.  I’ve met at least one.

I was sixteen, and on a missionary trip to the U.S.S.R.  The year was 1990.  From a window seat perch of a hotel room in Leningrad, I was watching the late night boat traffic on the Neva river.  I turned back for a moment to see a chambermaid standing there with a stack of towels.  (Mind you, it was about 2AM).  She set the towels on the edge of the bed with great care, then looked at me and said, “You remind me so much of my daughter.”  I don’t remember her leaving.  She looked normal in every respect, save that the uniform she wore was considerably older than the others I’d seen worn around the hotel.

The next morning,  our group was scheduled to leave Leningrad for Talin, Estonia.  We had a wonderful local tour guide named Sarah, and I recall sitting in the lobby, searching for a way to ask about the woman that wouldn’t get me committed.  ”Sarah,” I said, “Is it normal for housekeeping to make late-night visits to guest rooms?”

Her face paled.  ”Did she say anything about her daughter?”

As it turns out, the ghost was known to haunt the hotel.  The entire family perished slightly ahead of World War II.  The woman’s daughter threw herself into the Neva upon learning her lover, a spy working against Stalin’s regime, had been found out and executed.

Their story has long haunted me, no pun intended, and served as the inspiration for An Affair in Echoes. It’s the search for a happy ending, even in the afterlife, for that tragic couple, who must rely on a pair of surrogates (Delaney and Jonas) to right a wrong of the past in order to reunite.

Echoes is a family saga, a story spanning the Cold War from origin to aftermath.  It explores the affect various twentieth-century wars have had on two families, one Russian, one American.  I hope you enjoyed reading the excerpt I’ve posted.

Rebecca

Follow along as aspiring author Rebecca Burrell travels the pothole-laden road to publication.  Here, I’ll document my crashing (hopefully temporary) failures, and perhaps, eventual triumph as my first manuscript, An Affair in Echoes makes its way from my hard drive to an editor’s desk.

Feel free to leave me a comment if you drop by!