Amanda Helms

The first scene of this year’s NaNo. The one I’m writing after my change on Day 3, I mean. Not horrible, but I’m sure I can edit it into something better. But editing is sacrilege for NaNoWriMo, so that’ll have to wait.
Anyway.
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1.

The charm lay heavy in Gavin’s pocket, a ball of heat that bounced against his upper thigh with every step he took. So far it seemed no one at the baron’s bethrothal party recognized him as the newly arrived charm-seller who set up shop in the Yaric marketplace each day. But then, he didn’t expect them to find him out; he did know a thing or two about setting a glamour, after all.

What did surprise him was that Aelis hadn’t caught him out. She had always been the superior illusionist, and he doubted anything had changed in the fifty years since they’d last spoken directly to one another.

“What are you doing, man?”

Gavin startled and backed away from the curtain, where he’d been peering at the curious group of people evidently deemed worthy enough to attend the baron’s bethrothal party. He turned to face the chief cook, whose name Gavin couldn’t be bothered to remember just now. So he smiled and prepared to talk his way out of trouble.

But before he could get out a single syllable, the chief cook, beefy hands placed on ample sides, lumbered into a beratement. “You’re the new serving boy, aren’t you?”

For a moment, Gavin could only stare at the rotund and sweating cook before he remembered that in his current guise, boy was an accurate term. He nodded at the cook after a considerable delay.

The cook threw his hands up in the air. “Just my luck, the new serving boy is an idiot.” He leaned close to Gavin and pointed back toward the kitchens. “You . . . go . . . to . . . kitchens. Understand?”

“Yes.”

“He speaks! He comprehends!” The cook grabbed Gavin’s arm and pulled him away from the curtain blocking the dining hall from the serving staff. “Since you do understand me after all, quit mooning after whatever spotty-faced cow you found and get back to the kitchens. Have Gerard tell you what to do.”

Evidently Gavin hadn’t mastered masking blank looks in this guise, because the head cook spluttered and slapped at him, which might have been more effective if he weren’t nearly a full foot shorter than Gavin. “Gerard, boy! The head cupbearer. The man ostensibly responsible for directing you. Though he’s doing a piss-poor job of it.” The cook relinquished Gavin’s arm, evidently trusting him to follow behind. “By Elestra the Basket Weaver—may she be blessed forever—I’ve got more than enough to handle, what with the spit boy overcooking the roast, and the new baker’s girl sobbing into the cake batter. I haven’t got time to be watching over wayward serving boys as well when it’s Gerard’s job–

“Gerard!”

The cook laid hold of Gavin’s arm again and wheeled him about to face a dark-haired man with the legs of a stork and the face of a leprous pig. Pushing Gavin forward, the cook said, “Caught your new serving boy shirking his duties, staring at the worthies in the banquet hall. Probably mooning over some unattainable mayor’s daughter. Do something with him, will you? I have to go see whether that wretched girl’s tears are making the cake batter too salty. So help me, if she’s ruined that batter….” The cook bustled off.

Gerard, who did have some height on Gavin, but only a bit, looked him up and down. “I do not recognize you.”

And now Gavin remembered his story and spouted it off accordingly. “I’m new. Last-minute substitute. My cousin Adam, he come down with some wretched sickness—got blotchy marks all over his face and he’s been puking since dawn. His mother reckons it might be croup–”

Gerard lifted a forestalling hand. “Whatever his ailment, I don’t care to hear it.” He turned on his heel. “Follow.”

Gavin trailed after the lanky man to the kitchens, where the chief cook haranged a hapless-looking spit boy but left the sobbing baker’s girl to herself.

As he and Gerard passed the crying girl who stood over a vat of batter, Gavin did a double-take. Since when did baker’s girls wear silk underneath their aprons? He opened his mouth to say something—whether to her or to Gerard or the chief cook he didn’t know—but then she lifted her eyes from the batter and met his gaze. Light from the sconces on the walls caught the unshed tears in her eyes and made them shine. She shook her head in a clear plea for silence.

Gavin closed his mouth. The girl gave him a small smile. An unfortunately long nose kept her from being truly pretty, but Gavin rather thought that when her eyes weren’t puffy and her skin not blotchy from crying, she’d manage striking.

“Boy.”

Gavin turned to face Gerard again just in time to avoid a collision. The other man had stopped at a table whose top was covered with decanters of wine. Gerard frowned. “I believe I see what Kaven meant about you mooning about. You’re to take this wine and serve it in the banquet hall to whoever asks for it. Think you can manage that without staring at girls, crying or otherwise?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.” Gerard pressed a bottle into Gavin’s hand. “No staring at the worthies. Baron Edmain would likely pay no mind, but we have a lot of visitors, and you never know if one of them might. Now get to it, boy.” Gerard shoved Gavin forward as if he meant to propel Gavin all the way back to the banquet hall.

Boy. Gavin mouthed the word. It’d be some time before he readjusted to not looking old anymore.

Well, as old. The last twenty years of Aelis’ curse were proving stubborn. Gavin just hoped that tonight’s bit of illusion wouldn’t set him back in his progress.

But he’d found the harpy. He couldn’t pass up the opportunity to exact his revenge.

Even with that happy thought, he slowed a bit to see whether he could confirm his supposition about the silk-wearing baker’s girl, but her station by the cauldron of cake batter was empty. Pity. She had certainly been worth a second look.

Behind Gavin’s back, Gerard cleared his throat. Gavin increased his stride.

No matter about the girl; he had a charm to cast, justice to mete, and acting the part of serving boy would make his task all the easier.

This is for making me old, you harpy.

By the time he returned to the banquet hall, he suspected his grin was too broad for that of a mere serving boy, but he found he didn’t much care.

It’s a bad sign when I hit writer’s block on the first day. Seeing as I prewrote this post on Sunday, when it goes live I should be a Monday-night write-in, hopefully with a better clue of what I’m doing than on Day 1.

Though I did at least hit my 1667 quota, if not the 2734 I need for my personal goal of 82k (still working on it–supposedly–as I write this).

This is why it’s bad to procrastinate on planning. And this is why I envy Stephen King and his stories that pull themselves out of his navel. That is all.

It’s a bad sign when I miss my exit because I’m thinking about this recipe. I love King Arthur Flour, both their products and their recipes. I can’t recall a single failure from following their recipes, and though I think I make a pretty good baker, I seem to consistently get the most praise with King Arthur. So when I have a hankering for pumpkin cinnamon rolls, and then the heavens smile upon me and lead me to a King Arthur recipe for pumpkin cinnamon rolls, you can bet I’ll pay attention. And now it’s been over three weeks since I first read the recipe, and these cinnamon rolls have yet to grace my kitchen.

I will remedy that this weekend. And I missed my exit because I was thinking of all the iterations I might try on the recipe: What if I did a sourdough version? Not the best idea since my sourdough baking still leaves something to be desired, and especially since the weather’s turning colder, so the rise would be even slower… hmm. What if I tried adding whey to the dough to give it a bit of oomph? But I don’t have any whey on hand and probably won’t strain yogurt before the weekend–

And I want a nice, gooey filling. Preferably maple. But how to make a gooey maple filling? It’d need butter or other fat, since the dough would absorb the liquid from the maple syrup. Could also add brown sugar, but would that mask the maple taste? Wonder if I could find a filling online that I could modify…

And so on, until

Oh crap, that was my exit!

I am trying not to think too deeply about what this means for me as a writer. I don’t believe I’ve ever missed an exit because I was ruminating about  characters or plot. And I’m also trying not to think too deeply about what this means for NaNoWriMo in particular.

Hey. I do have an idea. And characters. And things the characters will do. Even if those lists aren’t particularly long yet, they’re existent.

Besides, I kind of like to wing it.  More of a challenge for the ol’ imagination. Really stretch it to its limits. Flex my creative muscles.

Cough.

Anyway.

Since I’ve posted previously about my love of pumpkin, it likely doesn’t come as a surprise that I’ve taken to hoarding pie pumpkins. The last few times I’ve gone to the grocery store, I’ve had to resist the sudden leap of joy: They’re still here! I can get one! (ignoring that it’s unlikely they’ll disappear from supermarkets until at least Thanksgiving. And if that happens, it means there’s a pumpkin shortage.*)

Because they’re still sitting on my kitchen counter. Well, I’m down to one intact pumpkin, but still. I have a bit of puree left from my first pumpkin, all the puree from my second, and the third is patiently waiting its turn to be gutted, roasted, and bludgeoned to a pulp.

Some of my current puree will go toward making pumpkin chili for the chili cookoff/Halloween party at my work. Never made pumpkin chili before–and I’ve never participated in the cookoff–but I figure I’ll give it a go. Some of it I’ll add to my morning oatmeal. And the rest for those luscious cinnamon rolls. It’ll make for a lovely Halloween breakfast, a pre-NaNo fortifying treat.

Maybe I’ll miss some exit on Saturday as I panic about NaNo. Or reminisce over the taste of the cinnamon roll; whatever.

*A pause while I clutch my chest in fear and whimper. I must be strong.

Okay, it being October, I’m starting to get semiserious about NaNoWriMo prep. I’ve changed my idea twice now, but I think this one is going to stick. I’m going with urban fantasy, which I’d initially thought to not do since I’d figured the market has to hit the saturation point fairly soon, but my trips to the bookstore so far indicate that the genre is still pretty healthy. However, I think the vampires/werewolves aspect is about to reach saturation point, so I’m doing something a bit different. My MC is descended from a line of sirens, works as a lounge singer/maybe bartender in a Nashville nightclub, and totes a Stradivarius that contains the psyches, I guess, of her ancestors.

Coughbuttherearestillwerewolvescough.*

Plot is still vague. I tend to develop my characters first and get more of a plot later. One of my favorite techniques for developing character, and, as a side-effect, story, is the character interview. Author meets character. Yup. It also helps, usually, to get all the fourth-wall breaking out of my system pre-NaNo so I don’t resort to it for word padding.

Usually. I make no promises.

Anyway,  I’m here posting my first “interview” with my MC, Shay Donovan.

I do have some nebulous thoughts about the story, which the interview alludes to, but since most everything is still sort of vague, I’m not (yet) going to explain it.**

So yeah. The creative mind at work.*** Here goes.

Character Interview: Shay Donovan

Amanda: Okay, we’ll see how this goes as I don’t really have any questions prepared and want to use this as my Thursday 300 post so I can kill two birds with one stone. And I’m leading off with a cliché. That does not bode well. Ack! Another one!

Shay: So do you want me to be snarky about that or comforting or what?

Amanda: I don’t know. That’s why I’m doing this character interview. It worked sort of well for my Every Day After project.

Shay: Except for the fact that you never finished it.

Amanda: Okay, I think I’d prefer you to be comforting. I don’t think you’re snarky. First question: How do you like being a lounge singer?

Shay: [shrugs] Well, it pays my bills, doesn’t it? [pause] I mean that seriously. I am solvent, aren’t I?

Amanda: At the moment. I’m not really seeing major financial difficulties as a point of tension in the book, even as a subplot. But go into a little more detail about your job aside from the financial aspects. Have you found your calling? (And you can ignore that I’ve just put in yet another cliché. This is a writing exercise. Clichés don’t count.)

Shay: My calling. Well, considering that I’m descended from a long line of sirens, that I get paid for singing is mostly a good thing. I guess. I don’t like that I have to be careful and not let myself go all-out, so to speak.

Amanda: That would be on account of potentially causing people to kill themselves.

Shay: Which you do need to develop a little further, you know. Yes, I know I’m based in Nashville and therefore landlocked, so it’s not like I’m going to cause hapless sailors to crash on hidden rocks and drown or whatever, but how exactly would people in a nightclub be lead to their deaths from the beauty of my singing? Walk into an amplifier and electrocute themselves?

Amanda: Well, it’s a thought…

Shay: Keep thinking.

Amanda: What did I say about the snarkiness? I know this is an urban fantasy and all, and it’s like the thing for the main characters to be smart-alecky, but I’m trying to buck tradition a bit here. I mean, sirens in Nashville, that hasn’t been done yet. I don’t think so, anyway.

Shay: …

Amanda: Hey! I’m already past 300 words according to OpenOffice’s counter. Score!

Shay: And you were actually considering the “Tuesday 200” as opposed to the “Thursday 300.”

Amanda: Gotta keep the alliteration, you know.

Shay: Well, written blathering has never really been your problem. Think you’re going to get the novel done in 100k or less?

Amanda: It could happen. Particularly if I have a decent plot drawn out. Speaking of, so your Stradivarius gets stolen at some point.

Shay: I know, and if I could kill you with my song, I’d do it now.

Amanda: You’re a lot meaner than I thought.

Shay: Probably your own latent antisocial tendencies. So my Stradivarius is stolen by my as-yet-unnamed archenemy who’s even more evil than the– Quit staring at your split ends! You’re not getting anything done. Keep at this. You don’t have to give up on it just because you’ve already hit 300 words.

Amanda: I know. Sorry. I really envy Stephen King and his navel stories. Wish I could feel like a story is just getting pulled straight from my navel to the page. It is sort of strange that he’d pick the navel rather than the brain or the heart, but then again back in the 1600s or so, the bowels were supposed to be the seat of emotions rather than the heart. At least, that’s what I remember from Freshman English…

Shay: Your mind goes to the strangest places. I could wish that someone else created me.

Amanda: Well, you’re stuck. I’d apologize but I’m still not happy with you talking about killing me with your song.

Shay: Hey, you’re the one who envisioned the “death song” as always being on the peripherary of my consciousness, flicking about the corners of my brain, just waiting for me to hum a bar or two.

Amanda: And it gets worse when you play the Stradivarius.

Shay: Why– Oh, it’s because it has the spirits of my dead ancestors in it, and their combined, er, siren-ness gets a little difficult to ignore.

Amanda: Hey, that’s progress! Only I hope it doesn’t sound quite so lame or unoriginal when I’ve fleshed it out a little bit.

Shay: Watch me be comforting! [clears throat] There, there. This is only the development process, and you’ll only be writing the first draft. Editing and excising of the lameness will come later.

Amanda: That kind of helped. I guess. But anyway (and here comes my fourth cliché) the Stradivarius is kind of a double-edged sword, because it does make you more, um, siren-like and powerful, but if you can harness the…

Shay: Don’t do it! Keep your hair in that ponytail.

Amanda: [puts hand back on keyboard] Right. But if you can harness the power boost (sounds like a crappy Japanese fighter game, “power boost”) and use it for your more positive abilities—the happy songs that are more life-inducing and healing and all that—then that’s a good thing. And I’ll wordsmith that later. Not sure I want to mention “happy songs” when talking about your particular abilities.

Shay: Yup, just keep up that mantra. It’s just the planning stage for the first draft. Edit later.

Amanda: See, that’s the kind of supportiveness I like!

Shay: Well, you’ve got me saving a stranger bleeding profusely from the abdomen in the first chapter. I’d hope that’s indicative of at least a modicum of niceness.

Amanda: We may have to dumb down your vocabulary a bit, though.

Shay: Hey!

Amanda: No offense.

Shay: Offense still taken.

Amanda: Just remember that I’m giving you a Stradivarius to play. That should count for something.

Shay: It’d count for more if it didn’t get stolen.

Amanda: The when on that is still up in the air. It could get played out into the sequel, if there is one.

Shay: In which case the theft would last across books. You’re not helping any, Helms.

Amanda: I’d apologize, but it’s a writer’s job to make her characters’ lives as sucky as possible before fixing things. Otherwise there’s no drama or tension and nobody will want to read the book.

Shay: [grumbles]

Amanda: Well, I think I’m calling it quits for now. I’m going to blame my low blood pressure. Hope it’s nothing serious.

Shay: Most likely momentary. But of course if it’s still low when you try to donate blood next week, you should probably head to the doctor.

Amanda: Aww, see, you are nice.

Shay: And I’d be even nicer if I got to keep the Stradivarius.

Amanda: Not happening.

Shay: [grumbles]

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*Hey, saturation point or no, I figure there might be some crossover appeal. Don’t judge me.

**Plus I’m sure the explanation would hit more than 300 words, so I’d prefer to hoard that for another Thursday 300. I’m lazy that way.

***Can be a frightening thing.

I have a love/hate relationship with fall.

Actually, “hate” is too strong. Even “dislike” is a little too far on the negative end of the shades of meaning scale. It’s more accurate to say I have a love/mild regret relationship with fall.

Fall brings pumpkins. Pumpkins means pumpkin pancakes (try the ones here*), pumpkin ice cream, pumpkin chili**, pumpkin soup**, pumpkin beer**, pumpkin cheesecake, pumpkin bread, pumpkin butter, pumpkin pie, and the pumpkin spice latte from a certain ubiquitous coffee shop chain***.

I would love fall for the tastiness of pumpkin alone. But fall also brings the cool, crisp weather that’s perfect for snuggling up with a cup of chai tea†, a blanket††, and my current book of choice. Yes, yes, it’s sedentary, and I whined about being sedentary in my previous Miscellany Monday post, but still. There is that within me that likes to stay still. I embrace it on occasion.  And if I embrace it not with chai, then with cider.

Oh, brainstorm: Pumpkin cider! Pause with me a moment to consider that taste sensation.

pausepausepausepausepause

(happy sigh)

Lest you think that my love of fall stems solely from the squash and imbibeables, let me note also that I love the colors of the changing leaves†††. Maybe it’s because I’m what the fashion industry would call an autumn and the pastel blues and pinks of spring aren’t meant for my skin tone, but one of my favorite fall pastimes, when I’m not quaffing my chai or cider with my book in hand, is to walk outside and admire the trees. I’ve often thought that when/if I get married, I’d like to do it in fall when the leaves are changing. And that’s as far as I’ve gotten in planning my wedding‡.

The there’s Halloween. Halloween actually isn’t my favorite holiday, but (and here’s another sedentary activity) I derive much enjoyment from watching, and mocking, the cheesy B-movies that abound on basic cable and base satellite packages‡‡. Brings back fond memories of movies mocked and degraded with my dear college roommates.

And, of course, fall is the season of NaNoWriMo‡‡‡.

And so, dear readers,  you are likely now asking yourselves, assuming you didn’t abandon me after sighting the symbol for footnote 6, just what it is about fall that might cause my slight regret, as I have just discoursed on its virtues.

Well. And this likely isn’t wholly fall’s fault, since I’m sure Colorado’s dry clime plays a large roll. But come fall, I am often subject to dry skin, forcing me to slather lotion on my hands and feet in a (mostly futile) effort to prevent my skin from developing rough patches. But worse yet is the facial eczema I develop, since it can get fairly widespread and painful and unsightly and make me think that I might as well try out to be the hideous monster in one of those Halloween-season B-movies, because then at least my misery would result in some monetary compensation rather than just making me wish I really could just wear a bag over my head and be done with it.

I don’t like thinking about that bit. I’m not sure why I even included it.

Lucky for fall that it gives me pumpkins.

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*Considering that two of my three real posts now include links to that Ben Starr guy’s recipe, he should be pretty happy with me.

**Okay, rightly speaking I haven’t yet tried any of these. But I still suspect I’d like them. Well, maybe not the beer, but since I’m not much of a beer fan, that wouldn’t be the pumpkin’s fault.

***And rightly speaking redux, I don’t particularly like this chain’s pumpkin spice latte. But since I don’t much like espresso or any latte, I also know that’s not the pumpkin’s fault. If there is any real pumpkin involved, that is.

†If anyone knows where I could get pumpkin chai tea–or just pumpkin tea–let me know. Really. I’m serious.

††So help me, I actually own one of these thanks to my mother.

††† Comments about how the changing of the leaves lasts a month, tops, leaving behind piles of leaves to rake (which aren’t my responsibility anyway as I have no yard–but I would trade away the convenience for the chance to grow pie pumpkins) and barren branches are unwanted and unnecessary. This is my idyll.

‡ Okay, okay. I’ve also thought that a ballroom-style wedding dress is out and I’d prefer a trumpet or maybe mermaid. But that’s truly it.

‡‡ABC Family’s 13 Nights of Halloween is often a good starting point.

‡‡‡I’d say that Chris Baty must love me more than that Ben Starr guy as I’ve linked to or mentioned NaNoWriMo at least twice as much as the pumpkin gingerbread pancake recipe, but I rather doubt NaNo requires as much advertising.