The mind is an incredible thing. I occasionally entertain the possibility that it might wear out the way my body is, but so far it keeps chugging along. Infrequently, I check the fluid levels and clean the windshield, but I’ve never needed a new transmission or tires. (note to self, get tires rotated)
A couple examples of this well-running machine (no matter what anyone says to the contrary, this is my story and I’m sticking to it). Not long ago an unexpected writing opportunity fell in my lap. I’m in the middle of an 80k story for Aphrodisia so haven’t been mentally searching for new material. In other words, except for Untamed, the brain is blank which is how it best operates. Then along came this new gig and with it a need for at least the faintest hint of a plot and characters. (funny how fiction is like that) Two days after hearing about the opportunity, I was talking to a professional horseman who had just taken on the challenge of training a wild mustang for an upcoming competition. For an hour we sat in his living room with the sound on his TV muted and my mother snoring while he enriched me with his knowledge of horse psychology. As I drove home, I rolled down the windows, cranked up my favorite country and western radio station and grinned. I had it!!! The core of what I’m going to write about. Thanks for the shot to the gray matter, Harry.
The other recent example of my faithfully producing brain: I’m writing Untamed by the seat of my pants. I know and love my characters and absolutely adore the setting. I believe I’ve nailed the major conflict. It’s the twists and turns that keep me and hopefully readers turning pages that I haven’t nailed down. Or rather I hadn’t until this week. That’s when I turned the plot holes over to my subconscious as I was falling asleep. The upshot of that process is that I wake in the middle of the night feeling as if I’ve walked into the middle of a conversation. I’m not sure who is doing the talking, a couple of virtual critique partners for lack of a better explanation. The latest conversation went something like this:
“You must have had a reason for having that dark fog surround your shape-shifting hero.”
“I just wanted to add a moody-broody quality to the scene.”
“No you didn’t. You had something else in mind.”
“I did?”
“Of course you did. How many times do I have to tell you, everything has a reason in fiction. How about, hey, how about this. You’ve explained how the shape-shifting takes place so it makes sense that the fog is the catalist for the shift.”
“You’ve got my interest.”
“Of course I do. Don’t I always? Hey, how about this? What if the fog also serves as the connection to the past you need? Your heroine is an archeologist. You want her to find something incredible. The fog wants certain historical questions answered so it leads your heroine to a rich historical site, with the hero along for the ride of course.”
“No one’s going to buy that a chunk of fog can do that.”
“You’ve already had shape-shifters in other stories and readers haven’t laughed you out of the bookstore. Get cracking.”
Okay, so maybe I’m paraphrasing but that’s pretty much what happened last night. Before, I had all these plot pieces sitting there looking like a mass of twine after a bunch of cats had gotten to it and now its pretty much untangled and well on its way to becoming a beautiful sweater. Now if I can just stay awake.
Question of the day: does your brain ever jump up and do something totally unexpected and exciting?
Vonna www.VonnaHarper.com