Emotional Costs

In Magickeepers II, without giving too much away, there is a moment when it is revealed precisely what Nick was willing to give up to save someone. When I wrote the scene, which I had foreshadowed early in the book, I just clicked away at my keys, not really thinking about it. I knew the entire book was building to THAT moment. But when I was done writing the scene, I stopped. I could have continued on to the next chapter. But I really and truly had to catch my breath. I think my hands even shook a tiny bit. I thought . . . wow, this kid was aware of the cost and did it anyway.

In my work in progress, the couple at the center of the story lose everything--every friend, the creature comforts of society . . . everything that was ever dear to them. And then they come close to losing each other.

Call it stakes, call it cost, I am realizing more and more that the EMOTIONAL costs are what make a book tick for me. I suppose that is why there are certain thrillers, say, that I respond to much more than others. Save the world . . . okay. Great. I'll shake your hand and thank you. But save the world at the cost of your marriage or at great personal sacrifice . . . and sir, let me buy you a beer while you tell me all about it.

I think there are "set-ups"--emotionally wounded detectives, cops who have lost their family to the job, soldiers who have lost comrades, doctors who have lost patients--all before the book opens. And that's great. But then what MORE is the cost going to be?

What is the emotional cost in your story?

Forest, Meet Trees

Day three of black eye is even more hideous. I look like a strange creature, indeed. But I am somewhat less loopy and feeling more intelligent than my last addled days, so that's good. And now for a discussion of forest and trees.

My new editor was as terrific in person as I could have possibly hoped. He's a thinker--and I like that. He asks probing questions. I like that, too. And at one point, he said to me, "Since this is a trilogy, where does book #1 end in terms of the hero's journey?" And I gave my answer . . . which is that he has a small triumph in this book, but now sees the world is far, far darker than he ever thought, that he is in more danger than he ever thought . . . and that he has to accept the tremendous new responsibilities thrust onto him by his birthright. My editor liked my answer--in fact, he firmly believes that trilogies should end book one with small triumphs but a sense of danger. And therein I had a forest meet trees moment.

You see, sometimes on this blog we talk about themes, and story arcs, and symbolism. Some of us write on a level where we don't think of those things until we're done, or they emerge bit by bit. But for me, I like to, once in a while, climb the mountain, get out of the forest of writing and denseness and plot and action, and get WAY up high and survey where the hell I am. At what point in the journey am I? Where did my character come from, and where is he going?

When I think about writers getting lost in the middle, finding the middle point soggy, or feeling like they have lost their passion for the story, I sometimes wonder whether it's that we have lost the ability to see above plot, to see this clear journey. Like Hansel and Gretel, lost in the dark woods, dropping breadcrumbs, we're moving forward without being sure of what is behind us and what is in front of us.

Sometimes, for me, the very heaviness of a deadline pressing down can make me lose my breadcrumbs, too. I have a pace to keep, pages to write, and I don't feel like I have "time" to sit down with a cup of coffee and just "be" with the hero and look at the journey. I'm too busy writing the journey.

But as John Lennon said, "Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans." Sometimes, I think it's good to just pause. Climb the mountain. Survey the landscape. Answer some basic questions. Think on it.

Thoughts? Do you sometimes get so caught up in the writing itself that you lose your way? And what breadcrumbs do you drop to find your way back?