The server placed Melinda’s stack of strawberry and banana pancakes— with extra fruit and whipped cream— in front of her, and she prepared to dig in.
“So what happened with Ryan last night?” Bella wanted to know from behind her own stack of cheesecake pancakes.
“Well, I had called him to come over and help out, right? And when he shows, he’s dressed up really nicely and he’s holding a single red rose. When I answered the door, he was like, you’re not going out dressed like that are you? Dude thought we were going out on a date.”
“But you weren’t?” Darlene asked. She sipped her diet soda.
“Oh, come on! Ryan knows the score. There’s monsters to slay, and I’m supposed to do it in pantyhose and heels?” She took a bite of pancake. “I am starving. I’m always hungry after a kill.”
“Hence the IHOP girls’ night and after action review,” Bella said. “So, Ryan didn’t approve of your outfit…”
“I will have you know that I picked my outfit very carefully. Also, I did my hair special. I braided it and pinned it up on top of my head– there was no way any fiend from hell was going to be able to grab it.”
“Good thinking,” Bella said, “especially after last time.”
Within the cozy, virtual walls of the Confabulator Café, I write whatever genre takes my fancy. The monthly writing prompts let my imagination grab whatever idea floats by on the wind, and I can fly off wherever it takes me. I push myself to come up with something different whenever possible. This is a playground. It’s our playground. We can fill it with whatever toys and games we want to play with, and it makes us better writers when we explore uncharted corners.
Outside the Café, I write urban fantasy. I chose that genre for several reasons, not all of them creative. I’m going to lay a little honesty on you here, and I hope you don’t think less of me for it by the time I’m done. (more…)
To be completely honest, I never really thought much about genre before about three years ago. I had little interest in publication (at least not serious interest), so it didn’t matter how to categorize it. I wrote what I wanted to read.
I still do that, to an extent. I write what moves me. When an idea inspires me, I write it. When dark things happen, it’s because it’s visceral and it resonates with me. If I look back and see that it’s horror, than let it be so.
When I first started writing, I mean really writing, I was in love with a book called The Forgotten Beasts of Eld by Patricia McKillip. It was high fantasy, poetic, and beautiful. I still have my original dog-eared copy, bent and torn with pages falling out.
In youthful admiration of that story, I began to create a character, then a cast of characters, problems for them to overcome, a world for them to inhabit, and yes, even a ragged, poorly drawn map of the land.
And I wrote. I wrote in poetic, archaic language tinged with magic and pomposity. It was self-important, overly wordy, and bogged down in descriptions of every tiny weed and pebble.
It was catastrophically bad. But I persevered. Over the course of some fifteen or more years, that story continued to haunt me. It changed, it grew, and I scrapped it and started over countless times.
Somewhere in my mid-twenties, something shifted. My main character started speaking differently, a little less archaic, a little more sarcastic, a lot more interesting. I realized I was on to something.
I never finished that book past perhaps four chapters or so. But the day my character started bitching that her ass hurt from riding a horse so many days on the road, that was the day I realized I had to let Patricia McKillip go so I could find my own voice.
That was also the day I let go of the idea that I could write epic fantasy. I believe writing that sort of story requires at least a pinch of the poet inside the writer. I am not a poet. I write mostly urban fantasy because, while I love magic and monsters and enchanted creatures, I write in a straightforward, less descriptive style. I can get away with that style placing my story on the streets of Sausalito or a nondescript winter forest. A magical world, far removed from ours, requires more finesse – finesse I don’t possess.
I write the way I talk, mostly. My descriptions aren’t very wordy, and they tend to focus on the things I would notice, not the things that describe a room or other setting. My main character is not going to note the colors of the lone maple leaf quivering on a branch in late fall. My characters are far more likely to focus on a single nose hair growing out of the antagonist’s left nostril, all the while wondering if it’s an anomaly or if he recently trimmed up there and missed one.
And yeah, she’ll probably miss his evil monologue while she’s meditating on this.
Honest answer, then. Since the day Princess Amberlyn decided to inform her audience of her saddle sores and described the road grit wedged inside her laced-up bodice, I started writing in my own voice. For better or worse, I’m stuck with it.
