I Once Tackled Dracula...

After reading Latayne’s post on Monday on how fiction imprints our brains, and we crawl into the skin of protagonists, the pieces fell together for me. I started thinking of all the books that had left a ‘shadow’ on my outlook for days at a time.  I always suspected that there was a real explanation for it.  I’m not just a lightweight about certain books after all - they really were imprinting on me.

I once tackled Dracula. Figuratively speaking, of course.  I wanted to know what made it a classic.  I stared bald-eyed for several chapters like the witness of a horrific accident who couldn’t look away until a major transition came along and I finally blinked. I promptly deleted it from my Kindle.  

Later, I picked up The Historian.  I thought I could handle it, really I could, but the impressions, the shadows latched onto my brain.  I felt such a foreboding that sat heavy on my mind and needled its way into my dreams at night. The writing was very good, the tension exquisite, and I put it back on my bookshelf, leaving a superfluous character to her fate.  She was expendable and would die to prove the gravity of the situation.  I couldn’t be a witness to it.

There is nothing that says I have to let good writing go to my head.

I have to stick with books that include some measure of hope.  Intense, unpredictable and drag you close to the edge, yes, but a flicker of hope has to be present.  They can be everyday characters with nothing to recommend them except that they showed me how to live honorably in the world, making sometimes costly, sacrificial choices in the end.  

You could argue that both Dracula and The Historian have resolutions with these elements, and since I wasn’t willing to stick it out, I don’t know.  But the overriding impression was of an evil so big that I felt it dimming my normal outlook on life and that was enough for me.  It may not have been so much for you.

I guess you just have to know yourself.

One very special, positive impression that I experienced was from The Lord of the Rings (one among many).  In this day and age we greatly prize freedom, and the knowledge we have of kings and kingdoms are often as figureheads only.  But when the young hobbits swore fealty to the kings and laid their weapons at their feet, I finally understood the Bible references to Christ and His kingdom. More than understood - I felt the absolute power of it.  It’s about choosing to give up your freedom to accept the will of Someone greater.  That impression colored my outlook for a long time and was welcome.

What books have left a memorable impression on you, for good or bad? Did you stick it out? We’d love to hear.

Deleted Scenes: Goodbye, Fred!

In a recent post--Does This Novel Seem Crowded to You?--I talked about how to prevent overpopulation in your story. Every character has their job to do. If not, well, goodbye!

When first writing Goodness and Mercy, I created a character to act as antagonist to my protagonist and to give a secondary character a chance at redemption. That character, Fred, is charming with a hint of menace, as you will soon see.

Once I got deeper into the story, I saw that Fred was a complication that muddied the premise. In fact, his presence made the story something very different from my original idea --yes, I was working from an outline--and I didn't want to go there.

No room for sentimentality--goodbye, Fred! Lucy doesn't need a Fake-Ally Opponent. So there!

While some may consider writing the following scene a waste, the process clarified my vision of my story by showing me what I didn't want it to be. And that's a very valuable discovery.

Here's the deleted scene, starring Lucy and Fred.

A flirtatious breeze released a shower of golden cottonwood leaves and played at lifting my skirt. It was all I could do to hold a stack of library books and keep my skirt in place. A truck skidded to a stop on the gravel.

Fred Greaves leaned out the driver's window and smiled his billboard smile. “Did you leave any books at the library?” He shouldered his door open. “Let me help you with those.”

He reached for the books. I stepped back. “I’m fine. It’s not that far, and as long as I’m walking, I’m not reading Nathaniel Hawthorne.”

He looked pained and clenched at his shirt over his heart. “Has Lotti soured you on me already?”

“Ada,” I said and shifted the books.

He laughed. “I thought me and Ada had an understanding.” He mimicked her voice perfectly, “Nothing good comes of idleness, Mr. Greaves.”

I bit my cheeks not to laugh.

He put up his hand. “You’re right not say a word against her.” He gestured at the orchard behind me. “She has spies everywhere. How else can she know everything, unless…do you think she’s a witch?”

Although I ached to agree with him, I didn't dare agree with him. “She’s a good Christian woman.” After all, she attended church regularly and delivered potato casseroles to funerals.

Mr. Greaves motioned and I followed him to the passenger side of the truck. “Come on. Jump in. I don’t bite nearly as hard as those women would suppose. Besides, you’re about to drop your books. The good people of Palisade do not abide the abuse of their library books.”

I climbed into his truck for two reasons. First, two blisters the size of quarters made each step pure misery. This from the new shoes Ada had chosen for me, the kind meant for lumberjacks. Second, Mrs. Greaves said things about Ada I wished I could say straight to her face. Oh, and one more thing. Accepting a ride from Mr. Greaves would put a knot in Ada’s girdle.

“Thank you,” I said as he slammed the door shut and walked back around to the driver's side. I figured Fred to be younger than my father but certainly not a boy and much younger than most of the men I saw around town. The boys hurried off to the war the moment they became eligible. And he sure didn’t look like any of the farmers I’d ever known, not in Wisconsin or Colorado. He still owned all of his fingertips and his fingernails looked nicer than mine. When he smiled, his eyes nearly squinted shut, and I liked that.

Fred caught me watching him and gave me a sideways smile. “Do you want to learn how to drive? I could teach you. Got nothing better to do.”

“I already know how to drive.” I wanted to tell him I’d driven eighty-five miles before the tin lizzy dropped her transmission on the road, but I wasn’t telling anyone that story. Mr. Greaves wouldn't turn a girl in for kidnapping her own brother and sister, but in a town as small as Palisade, one word to the wrong person and everyone would know.

“I’m not surprised,” he said. “You’re an amazing girl. Fact is, you’re more of a woman than a girl, aren't you? I bet there’s a lot of boys giving you a second look over there at the high school. Isn’t that true?”

If I hadn't been loaded down with books, I would have squirmed at his question. Instead, I kept my answer short. “I never noticed," I said, but I had noticed.

“How old are you, Lucy?”

“Sixteen. I’ll be seventeen next February.”

“Now, see, I thought you were older. You carry yourself well.” And he winked.

We sped by our mailbox. “Stop!” I yelled.

The truck fishtailed to a stop and the pile of books slid from my lap. Fred leaned down to gather the books. He smelled of fresh tobacco and aftershave, much nicer than I'd expected of a man who treasured his rubbish pile.

He said, “I was enjoying our conversation so much, I nearly drove right by your house. You’re a very pleasant young lady.” He held my math book to his chest. “You sit right there. Don't move. You’re a lady.” He opened his door and looked back at me over his shoulder. “That’s how you’re to be treated. Stay right there.”

I sat as still as stone until Mr. Greaves opened my door and extended his hand. I'd only seen men do such a thing in movies. I took his hand as I stepped out of the truck. It was strong but soft. My heart fluttered. What was that all about?

He relinquished my math book. “Its the lucky boy who catches your eye, Lucy. Be choosy. You deserve the best. If you ever need anything, I'm usually around. You're always welcome. I keep colas in the icebox.”

This could not be the man Ada had been talking about. “Thanks for the ride, Mr. Greaves.”

“We’re friends now, Lucy. Call me Fred.”

[Author's note: After reading this scene, I wanted to shout, "Lucy! You stupid, stupid girl. Get out of the truck; do not pass go; and never, ever, ever seek Fred out, colas or no." The scene begs for Lucy to do just that and for a totally different story than the story I wrote to be written. You can see why Fred had to go, at least for now.]

Do you save deleted scenes? Have you ever used a deleted scene in another part of the same story or used it in part or as a whole in a new story? I have! Are there other ways to use deleted scenes? Name an author whose deleted scenes you would love to read.

Interview with Aria - The Protagonist of Unraveled by Sharon K. Souza

You’ll be glad you stopped by Novel Matters today. Our special guest is Aria Winters, the protagonist of Sharon Souza’s new release, Unraveled. Also, you can win a Kindle or hard copy of the book by leaving a comment. We'll contact the winner tomorrow (9/6) after 5 PT.

Aria is fresh out of Bible college, desperate to put some miles between her and her family, so she accepts a missions assignment to Moldova. When a student under Aria’s care goes missing in the human trafficking underworld, her faith threatens to shatter. Now, with the help of the very people she wanted to flee, Aria must rebuild her faith and rediscover her mission.

P - Aria, I've been looking forward to this chance get to know you better since I first read Unraveled. Your story mesmerized me. I appreciate the honesty you bring to the story, but before we talk about your adventure, I'd like to find out more about the Aria from before the first page. Ready? What is your biggest fear and who have you told about that fear? Who would you never tell and why? Sorry, I guess that's more than one question.

A - Well, Patti, you don't waste any time. This is going to be as painful as I feared. Ha, there's that word, fear. I'm going to pretend that none of this is for public consumption, and that this is nothing more than a journal entry -- a journal I plan to burn before the day is out. My biggest fear is that my family will learn the truth about the Aria Winters they believe can do no wrong. Because I did a terrible wrong, and I've spent the last eight 8 years making excuses for why it wasn't really my fault. And who have I told? NO. ONE. Who would I ever tell? Absolutely NO.ONE. Not even Kari Zalasky, who's been my best friend forever.

P - Maybe I did jump out of the starting gate a bit prematurely. I’m new at this interviewing thing, but you did a great job answering the question. Let's go back to your childhood. At the beginning of Unraveled, you're eager to stretch the boundaries of your life. That's understandable for a 24-year-old. Tell us something about where and how you grew up.

A - People laugh when I tell them I grew up/live on a compound -- and, okay, I realize I convey a distorted image, because where I live is truly beautiful -- but let them try living in a square fishbowl. I love my family. I really do. But I've been under the watchful eye of my parents and grandparents all my life, and I'm expected to remain under their watchful eye FOREVER.  We're like granny squares, connected, at the compound, and one of those squares is mine. How do you and your brand new husband, for example, skinny dip outside your grandparents' bedroom window? Not that I have a brand new husband, or expect to any time soon, but still ...

P - I remember having the same feelings at your age, and I didn't live on a compound. Still, I could hardly wait to get out on my own. Strangely enough, you went from one "compound" to another rather crowded living situation in Moldova (I had to look it up on a map!).  And you're so young. Tell me how you were prepared for living and working overseas. What do you wish you had known before you left?

A - How prepared was I? Well, let's just say I had plenty of mousse, but no work boots or gloves; not even an appropriate outfit to wear as "Teacher." And as for what I wish I'd known ... I wish I'd known how catastrophic my presence in Moldova would prove to be.  

P - Since we don’t want to give away too much of your story, let’s sidestep in another direction, just so we can get to know you better. People have preconceived notions about California girls. In what ways do you live up to those notions and how do you diverge from them?

A - Well, I love being a girl from California, but I don't want to be perceived as a "California girl." I don't fit that mold at all. For one thing, I'm not blonde. Ha. I've never been on a surfboard, and Hollywood isn't my Mecca. Okay, I did hope Ryan Gosling was in the top 10 in People's "50 Most Beautiful" countdown magazine that I took to Moldova ... and left in Moldova. That was a bummer. I do come from a privileged family, but only because my dad and grandfather worked hard. And I could have been from any of the 50 states and made that claim. It just happens that I come from California -- the best of the best when it comes to places to live. I do wear flip flops all year, and I've been known to wear shorts up till Thanksgiving, but then I get serious about winter. Which we do have in California. Well, in northern California anyway. I don't think there's winter in San Diego. Have you ever been there?

P - It just so happens I grew up an hour north of San Diego in San Clemente. I live in Colorado now, but that doesn't stop me from living by my new motto: I'm a beach bunny. I'm funny. I'm trusting Jesus with my future. What's your motto?

A - San Clemente, huh? And blonde? Who's the real California girl here? Well, Patti, I like your motto. Celie -- that's my mom -- would love it. The Shunk-Winters' family motto is: "We're Nuts!"  And let's just say this nut didn't fall far from the tree.

P - Very appropriate! But you'll have to explain your answer to our readership, or they'll think the compound is code for asylum.

A - The compound is 120 acres of prime farmland in northern California where my family and I live. We grow nuts! Walnuts, almonds and pistachios. In the center of that 120 acres are four 1-acre parcels. My Mam and Opa live in their house on one of the acres, my parents, sister and I live in another, my sister and her fiancé are building on the third parcel ... and the 4th belongs to me, where I supposedly will live with my husband someday. But I wouldn't mind letting the stitch slip on one of the granny squares and let my parcel unravel from the clan. I love my family. I do. But I need some space. Lots of space.

P - Thanks for clarifying, Aria. I heard recently that the people we know the best, the ones we are most intimate with, can be the most irritating. Parents and grandparents would certainly fit that category. Oh, the stories I could tell!

Let's move on to a topic central to your story. Many readers will relate to your spiritual angst in Unraveled. In this quote you're experiencing a tender time of fellowship with God: "The journey I'm on is like riding a carousel. Up one minute, down the next. Inflated with faith, then, whoosh, all the air is gone. I'm a leaky vessel, but can't see where to patch up the holes. So I fill and fill and fill, hoping one of these days it'll hold."

What would you say to someone who told you this?

A - I guess I'd have to tell them what Opa would tell me. "Baby girl," he'd say, -- of course, I'd leave off the 'baby girl' part -- "you may not be filling with the right kind of wind. The Wind of the Spirit is what you need. It tends to hold when nothing else will."  Then he'd wink.  I doubt I'd say it with the same conviction Opa has, but the words are right, that much I know. 

P - Opa is very wise, and it seems he’s passed that wisdom on to you.

We're all about reading and writing here at Novel Matters, so our readers would be interested to know what you're reading these days. What was your favorite read-aloud book as a child?

A - I loved the Eloise stories by Kay Thompson, loved her sass. And imagine -- living at The Plaza. As for what I'm reading now, One Hundred Years of Solitude, because of the great endorsement from your latest Author Interviewee, Athol Dickson. When he said it was the best novel ever written, I had to see for myself. I'm not far enough into the story to agree with him, but I will say I'm glad he recommended it.

P - I'm glad you caught that interview with Athol Dickson. Have you considered writing more about your experiences? I find your voice so compelling and honest.

A - Thank you for that comment. If there's one thing I learned from spending time with Andy in Moldova, it's to be honest. Or at least real. Your pretenses don't stand a chance with that guy.  And who knows, maybe there's more to my story -- or will be.

P - Ah, Andy, I was wondering if you would bring him up. Any updates on your relationship?

A - Hamilton Andrews -- Andy -- is about the most exasperating guy I've ever known, but when you talk about honest, they don't come any more honest than Andy. I admit there's a fascination there, but it's tempered with a whole lot of angst. Part of the fascination is that he plays the guitar almost as divinely as Opa -- and I'm a sucker for guitar. Say I were interested in Andy, it's highly unlikely he'd be interested in me. Johnnie -- she's my sister -- tells me I'm nuts not to see a two-way attraction there. But remember, everyone in the Shunk-Winters clan is nuts.

P - I wouldn’t sell yourself short, Aria. You have much to offer someone like Andy.

And with that, let me thank you for chatting with me today. Your story stirred me with its beauty and integrity. I’m more hopeful knowing there are young women like you charging into the darkness.