What’s in a Name?

I love naming characters. LOVE it. A name tells so much about a person: where they are from, where their ancestors are from, the time they live in, the values of their parents, perhaps even religion or spiritual beliefs. The sound of the name as another character speaks it aloud can add so much melody to the story.

(You, as the reader, are audiating one character speak another character’s name aloud, by the way… Apologizies – I’m kicking into music teacher mode as another school year begins.)

Audiation: The comprehension and internal realization of music by an individual in the absence of any physical sound.

You can even audiate passages in the voice of a specific person. Please allow these two gentleman to help you audiate passages from “The Ripple of Stones.”

The harmony or dissonance of the name beside another character’s name lends itself to the story. Take “The Ripple of Stones” for instance. Brigid and Gabe sound different in your mind than Brigid and Gabriel. And yet, the name meaning of Gabriel is “Hero” or “God is my strength.” Depending on your background, you may also think of the archangel Gabriel, whose story tracks with our Gabe Sherland.

I love the name Benjamin. It’s one of my favorite names. However, Brigid and Ben don’t work as well because said together, they have a “ba-da-da-DA” sound coming off the tongue. The short vowels and crisp ending consonants in each name gives their combination finality. Practicality. Brusqueness. Not qualities you want in star-crossed lovers. Brigid and Benny sound like A. a ripoff of “In the Heights” or B. a Disney Junior sitcom.

Brigid and Lynn do not blend or flow. You have to make completely different shapes inside and outside of your mouth and stop your vocalization entirely to get from the end of the name “Brigid” to the beginning of the name “Lynn.” But they do have the exact same internal vowel sounds. This was intentional.

(Also, the name Lynn comes from the Welsh and means “lake.” If Lynn were a surname, it would be of Old English or Gaelic origin, meaning family who lived near a body of water. This was also intentional.)

In the Prequel, I currently have nine main characters. My characters begin in a fictionalized version of an area in Quebec and migrate to Michigan. They are of English/Scottish/Irish/Welsh ancestry. The women’s names should harken back to Celtic Godesses. (See: Brigid) Finally, I am basing some of the plot on the life events of my great-great grandmother, so family names need to be represented. Given this criteria, you may imagine that my pool of name choices was more of a puddle.

False. (Did you audiate that in the voice of Dwight Schrute?? I bet you did.) I researched more than forty names for my nine characters. Thank you to my Facebook readers who helped!!

Do you know, I sat down to write a blog post about mapping out a plot, but considering that I spent two weeks figuring out character names, I believe this part of writing a novel deserves its own post. So… here’s a worksheet for you as you begin to name your characters:

Write down some names you just LIKE.

2. Circle any that do not belong to anyone you know.

3. Where is the setting of your novel? Do you want the character’s names to reflect that setting? (Writing about a guy named Patrick O’Flannagan in a novel set in Buenos Aires would have implications)

4. Research names having to do with the setting and time period. Look up social security records for ideas (Thank you, Corynn for that suggestion!)

5. Begin making lists. Do you like the way the name looks in writing? Typed out?

6. Read the names aloud. How do they sound? How do they sound together?

7. Once you’ve settled on some, begin researching name meanings – that is where the real fun begins!! Do you have a dark and brooding guy? Perhaps the name Cole would do. How about the guy-next-door type who loves dogs? Try Connor.

8. Decide on some. Leave it for a few days.

9. Come back and rethink. Do you like this name enough to write it for like… years?? If you’re doing anything overly dramatic to your character which you will because #plot, can you take that seriously with the name you chose? (Love scenes, death scenes, pain scenes… if you’ve named a character going through this drama after your grandmother to whom you were incredibly close, are you going to be able to write honestly? Think long and hard. Your grandmother’s name. In a love scene…)

10. Just with baby names, once you’ve decided on the best name for your character, do NOT ask the opinions of others. They are your characters, it’s your book, you’re going to have to bring these names to life, and no one else needs to get in your head about your choices.

11. Unlike baby names, you can change it if you want as you write the story. : )

Good luck and feel free to reach out if you need some ideas or assistance!

P.S. – the image at the beginning was taken at the Dune Climb, Sleeping Bear Dunes National Lakeshore. Now, there are a myriad of reasons behind this actual place name, but the whole landscape would not seem as sweet if it were called The Achilles-Killer at U.S.A.’s Mound of Sand. My apologizes to Billy Shakespeare…

Part One: The Dream

“Let’s start at the very beginning. A very good place to start. When you read, you begin with A B C. When you sing, you begin with Do Re Mi…”

Somebody called Julie sang that once, and I think she made a solid point. The beginning of writing a novel is an idea. A question. A picture in your head that just won’t leave. When I began writing “The Ripple of Stones” I couldn’t get this question out of my head: who would we be if we could let go of who we were “supposed” to be? As the idea developed, other questions gnawed at me:

“How can a series of misunderstandings lead to heartbreak?”

“Why is it easier to put up barriers than be truthful?”

“What would star-crossed-lovers look like in modern times? How do we legitimize that trope and allow them to overcome?”

“Where does the obsession come from for Michigan beach stones? Is there something more there? Something deeper? What would that look like?”

A few weeks ago, I had the pleasure of sitting in my parents’ living room chatting with them about “The Ripple of Stones” and my Dad was telling me all of his favorite parts and quotes. Spoiler alert, the love scenes were not my father’s favorite parts of my book…

He began to nudge me about the sequel. More magic, he said. More of the sitting on the dock and stretching the sunlight. Less heartwarming schlock. Definitely less kissing. Maybe next time, he suggested, there could be a troll under the bridge, or a dragon flying down from the Upper Peninsula. “These are excellent ideas,” I said, laughing. “Feel free to write your book: ‘The Dragon of the UP’ sounds fantastic.”

Now that “The Ripple of Stones” is sold in stores throughout Michigan as well as online, I am beginning a new novel. The second. The Prequel. I invite you to join me as we walk through the process of writing a novel together. You will need a notebook or notepad, a writing utensil, your voice-to-notes app on your phone, and an unfettered imagination.

In my process, I can’t begin anything until I begin to meet and create my main character. So, let’s meet yours as well. As you begin, answer the following questions. (My main character will identify as female. Please feel free to adjust your pronouns as needed:

*What is her name?

*Why is that her name?

*What culture is that from?

*Why?

*What does the name mean?

*What is the etymology of the name?

*Where does she live when we first meet her?

*What does it look like, smell like?

*What does the air feel like when it brushes her skin?

See my sketch below:

Next, close your eyes and let your mind wander. (Give the dog a bone, give the spouse the remote, give the kids a screen, go lock yourself in your car… whatever it takes to get some quiet in your brain so you can imagine….) Make some notes. Write down every idea. Don’t question and definitely don’t judge. Just scribble.

(Below, I’m going to show you some of my scribbles. I trust you. I like you. I know you’re not going to lift any of these ideas verbatim because I know you have your own even more brilliant and interesting ones! Thank you for helping me create an environment of honesty and respect as we share and work on our ideas together!)

I might use some of these ideas, I might use none of them. But if I don’t write them down, I’ll forget them. For “The Ripple of Stones,” I wrote down “what’s that thing people do with rocks in a tower – a cairn I think?” I intended it to be a unique but miniscule feature of the cottage driveway; it ended up being a centerpiece of the entire plot.

…Glad I wrote it down.

Ah… and speaking of PLOT! Did you know books need a plot? When I was writing “The Ripple of Stones,” I knew this in theory, but not in practice. I wrote five pages of musing that I was convinced were brilliant. As I was writing, I thought to myself, “Katy, you have written the next ‘The Goldfinch.” Perhaps the next ‘Jane Eyre.’ This is tragic. It’s heartbreaking. It shows the true core of your character’s heart and soul.” I read these five pages back and guess what? They were absolutely terrible. Do you know why? No plot. No action. And therefore, no story. Jane Eyre has a plot: orphaned, angst, bad job, meet-cute with dark and brooding dude, crazy wife locked in the attic, house on fire, running away in the rain, nearly dying of being wet and cold, almost marrying the wrong guy, more fire, blindness, and finally, marriage. A plot.

According to the experts, there are 7 to 9 basic plots. Here are some of the articles I read when I was researching:

Wikipedia (I know, I know, but I like that it gives concrete examples and concise explanations)

How-to-Write-a-Book-Now

Reedsy Blog (more jargony, but you’re smart; you can handle it. Plus, it’s why I put this one 3rd.)

If you hit on one you like, start doing an image search. “Overcoming the Monster Plot Structure” or “Three Act Plot Structure” or “A Hero’s Journey Plot Structure” I love the image searches!

For the Prequel, I picked “A Hero’s Journey.” Because I cannot retain a scrap of information without writing it down, I copied a few different charts.

I did begin writing “The Ripple of Stones” using A Hero’s Journey Plot Structure, but ultimately changed to Three Act Plot Structure. Always allow yourself room to make changes as the story develops.

So there you go! If you’ve got some initial ideas written down, and have learned about and chosen an initial plot structure, you are well on your way!! (Pro tip – the title comes waaaaaaaaay later, after you figure out what you are actually writing about.)

“But Katy,” you say, “What if I have more ideas later? What if I’m at my day job or driving the car or helping my kids or feeding my hedgehog or mid-nap and I can’t get to my Precious Writer’s Notebook???” That is where the voice-to-text comes in! I know you have your phone on you. It’s right there. Don’t play. Give that thought to Siri! Right now!

“Hey Siri, make a Note.” Then say whatever you have to say. When your colleagues/passengers/kids/hedgehog/dream dragon of the upper peninsula look at you askance, shrug and say,

“Hey. I’m writing my book.”

The Ripple of Stones

Discover more here!!

Chapter 8

Readers! Welcome to the Peninsula, where sparkling inland lakes dot the landscape among farms, orchards, and small towns. The Peninsula is surrounded by Big Omann Lake, and nearby is the area’s major city, Domhnall Hills. On this lovely June evening, we find our 24-year-old protagonist Brigid in her room at Cairn Cottage, where she is spending the summer with her nearly-estranged grandfather Morgan. Melodramatic Grandpa Morgan and peaceful Brigid get along famously, and are very much enjoying getting to reconnect, although he seems to be unreasonably obsessed by lake stones, especially those that are polished and set into jewelry. Brigid is getting ready for her first official date with Gabe, a cherry orchard owner and sometime-boat-delivery-guy who she met when he delivered a neighbor’s new Sunfish sailboat. They had a true, Earth-stopping romantic encounter already, but that’s Chapter 6.

This scene was written well before our lives were infected by COVID-19, and I had a particular joy editing it recently. I’d love to step into Brigid and Gabe’s healthy and safe world, as they go in and out of restaurants and tiny concert halls with carefree abandon. I thought you might like to escape there as well.

If you are a fan of heart-warming schlock, the end of this chapter is for you. If you’re not, never fear… the romance storyline is only one element in this novel full of mystery, family drama, Earth-based spirituality, and self-realization.

CHAPTER 8

He had called the next morning. A smile illuminated her face as she slid deeper under the covers, shivering at the memory. The stone at her throat caught the light filtering through smudged window pane.

Domhnall Symphony Orchestra was playing an outreach concert in Birch Glen, the little fishing village nearby. The Pines of Rome. He had tickets and could pick her up at seven.

At five minutes to seven, she had raced down the stairs to find her purse, her shoes, her phone. Morgan stood at the kitchen island, a whiskey and water in his hand. He smiled at Brigid and waved her over before placing a folded handkerchief on the counter. Oblivious to his granddaughter’s rush, he unfolded the cloth with reverence. Pulsing vermilion and raven silver sparkled in the light. “Your grandmother’s,” Morgan said. “It was a special bracelet. The most special one. Look.” His gnarled finger tapped the stones. “Jasper. This Jasper pulled from Big Omann Lake. Jasper will bring passion, but also steadfastness.”

Brigid forced herself to stop, give him her attention. Her fingers brushed a cinnamon-colored stone. “Ah,” said Morgan. “That is Hessonite. Hessonite, so you remember your worth.” He patted her hand. “You are worthy, Brigid.” She covered the choke of emotion with a tight smile. Worthy? No one spoke to her like this. To push the embarrassment away, she pointed to the jagged black stones. They seemed out of place in this warm, resonant bracelet.

“What are these?” she asked.

“Those stones were birthed from volcanoes that once existed under these waters,” Morgan said, proud with the knowledge. “The red stones represent the fire, but this stone… she is made from the fire.”

Brigid subtly looked down at her watch. This supply of odd jewelry seemed to be bottomless. She could hear Gabe’s truck rumbling down the driveway and she still hadn’t located her shoes. “It’s beautiful, Grandpa. I’d love to look at it in more detail later.”

“Oh, you misunderstand me, sweet girl,” said Morgan. “I brought it out to give to you.” He pushed it across the countertop. “Wear it, Brigid.” He clasped her hand again, searching her eyes.

“I couldn’t,” she said, with a tone she hoped was polite yet firm. The bracelet was certainly interesting, but it didn’t quite go with her meticulously planned outfit.

“Take it.” Morgan waved away her refusal, and, taking up her slim wrist, fixed the gold filigree clasp. “It is meant to be yours”.” She looked across the counter at her grandfather, feeling a shiver run up her arm as he clasped her hand in his own.

A knock on the back door turned the old man gregarious, and he bustled down to the hall to welcome Gabe. The men shook hands before Morgan took Brigid to him and kissed her forehead. “Have a lovely evening with your gentleman.” Brigid couldn’t suppress a grin and she hugged her grandfather back before turning to leave with Gabe. Morgan followed them to the back porch, waving them off.

The ride down the curvy roads was alive with laughter and twenty minute drive to Birch Glen passed in a flash. When they arrived at the renovated schoolhouse, Gabe ushered Brigid to their seats, his hand warm on the small of her back. The interior was cavernous; the simple clapboard walls adorned with landscapes created by worshipful local artists. The orchestra trilled and stretched rainbows of sound as they warmed up.

“I actually played the viola in middle school,” Brigid whispered.

“Oh yeah?” Gabe grinned at her. “Which one is the viola?”

Brigid pointed discreetly at the orchestra. “The violists are in the middle. It’s a slightly bigger instrument than the violin, with a richer timbre.”

“Why the viola?” asked Gabe.

“Well, the violin is what everyone chooses.” She gestured conspiratorially. “Then the cello – the cello is very popular; very intellectual. Sort of sexy,” she said, meeting his eyes.

“Hmm, I see,” he said. “In that case, I’m shocked that you’re not the female Yo Yo Ma.” Brigid blushed and rolled her eyes.

Gabe winked at her and looked out at the orchestra. “What about the double bass?” he asked. “No bass for you?”

“Oh please,” Brigid said. “I don’t have the stamina to carry the bass. It would’ve been great though, because it’s different. My main goal was not to be ordinary. Anything is better than be ordinary. So, the viola it was.”

“I bet you were really good,” Gabe said.

“Oh my God, I was terrible!” Brigid laughed. “My pinkie finger is abnormally short – look at this.” She lifted her left hand to show him. “Every time I would play a scale, the first four notes would be perfect and the fifth would be so flat. My teacher would say, ‘Tune that instrument, Brigid!’ Use your ears!'”

“I don’t believe you,” said Gabe. “Let me see this rogue pinkie.” He made a spectacle of measuring her pinkie and ring fingers, comparing them to his own, placing his hand palm to palm with hers. Suddenly the room erupted in applause. They both looked up to see the conductor ascending the podium and their hands separated to join in the ovation. The conductor bowed to the room, turned to the orchestra, and struck the air. As the woodwinds glittered through the air in Respighi’s opening salvo, Gabe reached for her hand.

The fluttering intensity of the music barely registered in her racing body. Brigid peeked at Gabe. He was so confident, seeming to always know what to say, when to look, how to smile. She was smart enough to have reserve, to sense a game. Surely it was ridiculous to think she was falling for anyone so soon. And that he could possibly be falling for her. But he was kind. And the way he looked at her, for a fraction of a second longer than he should… Brigid forced herself to relax into the music, feeling his warm, calloused hand on her skin. Just as she surrendered in the rapture of the crescendo, the horns blasted their interruption. Gabe and Brigid startled together, involuntarily gripping hands. He looked down and her and all composure broke. His shoulders fell and his tightened bicep relaxed. Collapsing into stifled giggles, they leaned into their own elated reality.

After the concert, they walked hand in hand along the harbor, peeking into the fishing boats of the locals and the polished pleasure craft of the summer residents. Both unwilling for the evening to end, they landed at the Captain’s Seat, a greasy-spoon restaurant with an outdoor patio overlooking the harbor. The bartender watched their laughter and non-stop banter, deciding not to push them out at the official closing time. Smiling at the besotted couple, he poured himself a nightcap and ignored the clock.

The moon was high by the time they drove back to Cairn Cottage. At ten minutes before midnight, he stopped the truck on the main road, on the edge of the long driveway. Her heart raced as she prepared herself for his kiss. Before she could decide how to react, he was out of the cab and opening her door, offering her a hand that already seemed like a part of her life. As he handed her down, she said, “Not escorting me to the door, sir?” A teasing smile played at her lips. “I thought you were a gentleman.”

“Oh, I’m absolutely escorting you to the door. I just am not going to shine the headlights all the way down that driveway into the bedroom windows of your sleeping neighbors.” He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and smiled down at her as they walked down the moonlit driveway. Far too soon, the path ended at her late grandmother’s garden. He looked at the tiny purple-bordered buds, indigo heart and sunshine soul reaching to the moon. “I thought those were violas,” he said.

“They are.” Brigid could feel her heart racing in her chest.

“But you played the viola… I’m so confused,” he said, smiling. Brigid saw his feet shifting in the sandy dirt and smiled to herself. He was stalling.

She playfully punched his hard arm with her other hand. “You’re just hilarious,” she said.

Gabe turned toward her. He released their hands and slid his fingers to the small of her back. The other hand found her cheekbone and wove its way into her hair. Without thinking, she echoed his movement, brushing her hands up his broad chest and wrapping them around his neck. The undulating light of the moon passed through the veil of clouds and adorned her face.

Looking down at her, a feeling like lightening shot through him, and he had to root his feet to the earth to hold onto the embrace.

“Can I kiss you?” he whispered

Brigid answered by rising to her tiptoes and touched her lips to his.

All thought left her mind as she surrendered to his gentle kiss. Every worry, every question of being enough melted away in the softness of his lips. She felt his arms encircle her back, steady like the branches of the trees that bowed over the long country roads. His tongue opened her mouth, gently. She clung to him, specks of stardust sparking through her nerves, reaching, joining. Nothing in the world mattered except this moment, the taste of his mouth upon hers, her body cradled in his arms.

The low, mournful call of a loon burst through their reverie

Slowly, shaking, they drew themselves apart. Brigid gazed up at him.

“What now?”

Ursula Gets Her Wish

A green haze drifted up from the murky bottom of the ocean, carrying the scent of inadequacy.

“One wish,” the voice croaked out.

“But I rubbed the lamp! I should get three!” The eel stroked the brass with her decimated forehead.

“You have scared too many children.” The voice shook with fury. “And so have I. The rules were bent for those such as us.”

The eel slithered to the bottom, sending up a cloud of silt.

“Make your wish,” the voice bellowed with as much power as a waft of smoke could produce. “Choose wisely, oh shamed one, for a well-spoken wish could change…” The lamp rattled and the eel thought she could hear a parrot squawk.

“QUIET, YOU!”

The eel shrank away.

“MAKE YOUR WISH, YOU SLIMY PEON!”

The eel took a deep breath. “I just want to go back to before.” She sighed. “But with a better voice.”

“Very well.”

“Night fell, but at the bottom of the ocean, who could really tell?”

Read On

“The Wives of Sunset” Chapter 2: Urban Chickens

A rooster crow blared through the sound of early morning traffic. Marissa smiled and stretched underneath her organic cotton duvet. Beside her, Dane’s muscular, tattooed arm draped over their son. Oliver had crawled into their bed last night with his peach blankie and stuffed sloth, a victim of another nightmare. Dane was so good with him. And he was a model father. As a session musician, he was able to stay home most days with Oliver, writing his own music in his basement studio. It made her proud.

The rooster crowed again, insisting that Marissa put her feet to the floor. She loved this house. They bought ten years ago for an amazing deal. The sellers, poor folks, had gotten in way over their heads financially and sunk further when the Recession hit. They were saved from bankruptcy when Marissa and Dane bought the house. Over the years, Marissa had finished it Earth-conscious materials. Sustainable wood flooring, solar panels on the roof. Even the paint was non-toxic. Last summer, they had gotten the chickens. Dane had built the hen house himself.

You can’t control women.

Read On

The Wives of Sunset – The Pie

The Pie

Her bare foot made contact with the yellow plastic blade. Grasping for the railing, she watched the toy bulldozer escape the crush of her toes and tumble down the stairs. The cherry pie wobbled in her palm. She executed a clumsy jump over the last few steps in an attempt to keep herself upright, but her head slammed into the drop ceiling. A screeching pain brought her to her knees.

The pie flew through the air. Jessie watched it land upside down on the tile floor of the basement, ruby-colored juice flowing over scattered bits of dog hair and dust.

“Damnit.”

Jessie rubbed her head, feeling the gunk of three-days worth of dry shampoo in her red hair.

“Mama!!!” Two little voices floated down the stairs. Why were they awake this early? She sighed as she heaved herself up off the floor. Four black paws came scrambling down the stairs, canine eyes popping at the sight of a free dessert. Jessie rolled her eyes to stop the tears as she watched the dog lap up the twenty-dollar pie. Serves me right for buying it, she thought. If I were better at this, I would’ve made one.

The calls from the living room were becoming more insistent. Shoulders slumped, Jessie made her way up from the basement to get the paper towels and the dish soap. God, she was sick of cleaning.

The children were curled up in the corner of the couch, faces shining the early morning sunrise. Despite the pie, she smiled. The kids were so cute. They had sat like this since they were toddlers, never touching, but right beside each other.

“Mama! Mom!” It was always a demand.

Jessie forced her voice to be soft. “What’s up, loves?”

“Can you hand me the remote? Please.”

“It’s my turn!” Benny’s little voice piped in indignation. “She’s been watching Mermaid Millie forever and I woke up first!” Jessie lifted the remote from the coffee table she had refinished last summer. The trendy ebony paint was chipping along the sides and there was a line of Sharpie across the carefully refinished top. She covered the Sharpie mark with a coaster.

“Avonlea, how many have you watched?” she asked, longing for this negotiation to end so she could pour a cup of coffee.

“What??” her daughter protested. “He just got here and I was watching it!”

“That wasn’t my question,” Jessie said, holding the remote close to her chest.

“She’s watched one million of them and the whale guy is scary!” Benny whined.

“Avonlea.” Warning lay in Jessie’s tone.

“It’s not fair.” Nine-year-old Avonlea glared at her brother with the venom of a teenager.

“Life isn’t fair,” Jessie said through clenched teeth. “Here Benny.” Jessie proffered the remote. “Avonlea, he can watch a show, and then you can watch another Mermaid show. But I need your help after that.”

“But MOM!!” The little frenemies united in protest.
“Enough! I can’t take it!” Her tone startled them both and the look in their eyes piled onto her guilt. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I just dropped that pie we bought and I need to go clean it up. And I guess figure out something for dessert…”

“It’s okay,” Benny said soothingly. “We don’t like pie.”

“Sorry Mama,” said Avonlea. “Maybe we can have Oreos.”

“We can’t bring Oreos to the block party,” Jessie muttered. She heard the neighbor’s rooster crow and sighed. She could strangle that stupid bird. It wasn’t even eight a.m. and she had already failed.

Summertime

It’s almost upon us.

In Michigan, the trees have burst into full bloom and color has saturated the landscape. That nearly-forgotten brush of heat strokes our bare shoulders when we step into the sunlight.

Our kids are holding impromptu baseball games in backyards, racing through the twilight on bikes, begging to delay bedtime just ten minutes more.

Students are torrents of emotion, finishing those last lessons and holding tight to the community they’ve built with their teachers over the last nine months, even as their words say they can’t WAIT for school to be over.

As parents, we look forward to time with our babies, big and small. Our stress begins to melt as we look at calendars that aren’t packed with events from dawn til dusk. Some of us look forward to a bit of travel, some of us prepare that pool bag, and some of us look longingly at weeks of camp ahead. Regardless of our family plans, we are all about to transition. It’s summer: we’re supposed to feel excitement and relief! And yet, trepidation hides in the shadows.

Summertime can be driven by the things that make you happy.

Read On

IMDb For Books

Volume 1

The good husband had a brilliant thought this week: what if there was an IMDb for books?

You know when you finish a movie or – le gasp – a TV series and you’re in denial that it’s actually over, so you hop onto IMDb to read all the trivia?

Would this not be so much fun???

Wouldn’t it be cool to know if Harry Potter’s name was originally Steve? Or if J.R.R. Tolkien’s famous ring was based on toe-ring his wife bought on their honeymoon? Or, what if the publisher of “Little Women” had really pressured Ms. Alcott to change her title to “Dutiful Girls” but she was a pioneering feminist who said “No, these characters are strong, independent women, even if they are young?”

I visited the Gone With the Wind Museum with one of my best friends and found out that Margaret Mitchell broke her leg, got bored sitting around and was like, “Eh, maybe I’ll write a book.”

Are you kidding me????

Read On

Red Flags

You know what’s fun about editing your novel? Reading through the passages you wrote months ago, especially all the character development and sweet meet-cutes.

You know what’s less fun? Realizing that the Love Interest’s flaws would completely scare the Main Character away based on small but integral incidents that influence her internal journey written in the beginning of the book. Incidents you completely forgot that you wrote.

A believable Love Interest has to have flaws. These flaws inevitably create conflict and shape major drama throughout the romantic story arc. Love Interest’s flaws might be forgivable to you, the author, but it’s really super great when you realize that these flaws are not at all forgivable to Main Character.

We’re getting close to Valentine’s Day. I don’t know where you are on your romantic journey, but I feel pretty confident that we all have one or two “what the **** was I thinking?!?” experiences. Because I need a new flaw for my Love Interest (or a new character history for my Main Character…)I made this little poll.

(side note – I learned how to embed a poll INTO the website. And GIFs -did you notice??? I’m basically Steve Jobs now.)

In honor of Love Interest’s Flaws, and those relationship flaws we’d rather forget, I invite you to participate!

Which Red Flag trait in a potential romantic partner would absolutely send you running for the hills? All responses anonymous – dig some love-based fury out of your heart and throw it on the blog. Have fun and as always, THANK YOU FOR READING!!

Chapter 8

The Pie

Volume 1

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