There's a lot of things to think about when starting a new story. Plot, character, tension... they're all important. I can go on and on about how to do this: create a list, write brief descriptions about who this character is, why they are important, describe what I mean to do with them. Let's diagram the story. How about identifying my plot points? Perhaps most importantly where do I begin and where do I want to end? All really important stuff.
But Kevin (that's me by the way)! But Kevin, what if even after the hours of navel gazing and picking at your nails, you're still not exactly sure what to do with your story? Sure, you've figured out the demographics of what you want to do - height, weight, size of shirt - however you still don't have the tone of the story. The handlebars to grip and steer your way through to the end. What is the soul of this thing?
I admit it, that can be a real stumbling block for me. It is relatively easy to detail out a story to the nth degree, but until I have discovered the soul of a story, anything that I write has a tendency to be directionless and is subject to sometimes drastic change.
What do I mean by that exactly?
Let's try saying it a different way. In order to write meaningfully, I need an anchor. Something that keeps me grounded and doesn't allow me to stray too far from the theme or the tone of a story. Now, I don't have to have just one 'anchor', nor does it have to be perfect. However it must be something I can hold and look at. It must set the tone. It needs to be something I can read once, and then re-read again until my creative spine can get a feel for what I'm trying to do.
In Book Two, tentatively working-titled as 'The Captured Court" one of the underlying themes is looking beyond your circumstances and boundaries, and how difficult that can be especially if one doesn't even realize they are constrained. Through the course of this book, no doubt every one of our characters will encounter this difficulty in some form or fashion.
It is this theme that I sought to 'anchor' with this particular snippet. Please enjoy:
“I can’t believe it…”
“What’s so hard to believe, Emory?”
Emory looked at the elderly Ivonwellian. No… was she an Andeloni now? He met her calm, unflinching gaze. Did she know what he was thinking? The questions in his mind?
“You were a Witness. How… how did you abandon your beliefs so quickly?”
“Oh…” Haere laughed softly, her eyes crinkling as she leaned back in her chair. Her long, silvery hair spilled out over her shoulders untidily. “Is that all?” She chuckled for several moments, long enough for Emory to frown and wonder at the unseemingness of her appearance. “Let me ask you in return, what makes you believe I abandoned my beliefs?”
“Because… look… you’re one of them. You’re a Vulture!” At Haere’s even louder laugh, Emory frowned, “I mean it, Ma’am… you’re wearing their black. You work at one of their temples. No! You are their head Judicar! What else am I supposed to think?”
Haere’s laughter faded until only a soft smile remained. Her steady gaze met Emory’s unflinchingly. Gracefully, she lifted her hands and held them aloft, her long fingers splayed and her palms open as if to show Emory the lines of age that webbed across her soft skin. “What do you see, Emory?”
Emory’s frown deepened as he focused on her hands. “You’re holding your hands up.”
“So serious,” Haere smiled. “Yes, I’m holding my hands up. What is this?” She waved one hand.
“Your left hand.”
“And this?”
“Your right.”
“Tell me, which one is more important?”
“I…” Emory’s expression grew serious, “I know, I know… Oulen taught me something about this. One needs both hands to wield a sword.”
Haere’s smile softens slightly. Then she sighs, “Yes… although said just like one from the Orders.”
“Because he is one.”
“Yes, our most promising… or should I say, greatest now?”
“If he is still alive.”
Haere shrugged, a bare twitch of her shoulders. “He lives because people remember him.” She purses her lips, “Now… let me ask you a follow-up question to the one about my hands. Why must we choose?”
“What do you mean?”
“Why must we choose which one is more important?”
“Because… you asked.”
“Yes. I did ask… but does that matter? Must you choose the left or the right, just because I asked?”
“I…”
“And for that matter, why didn’t you tell me that you preferred your right foot! Or your pretty blond hair? Or your fine gray eyes?”
“Because that’s not what you asked!”
“I asked you which one is more important. You assumed I meant my hands. Granted, it was a natural assumption based on the direction of our conversation, but for this purpose it emphasizes my point. You were focused upon my hands.” To demonstrate, she lifted them once again.
Haere inhaled slowly and focused upon the space between her lifted hands, “Life is what your focus on. Everyone you meet will tell you what to look at… what to see… what to pay attention to. Like a conjurer, they tell you to watch their hands.”
Emory blinked, and focused on the space between Haere’s hands, following her lead. And for a moment, he thought he saw a flicker… a soft shimmer of pale blue, a shadow of a shower of flower petals move from one hand to the next, of the soft snow of Ivory, and the gentle waves along the beach. He gasped softly.
“And you will have good reason to… Our hands tell us everything about ourselves. What we do… how we treat ourselves… what we feel about another person. But… If you stop watching my hands…” The hands began to spread, and the image that Emory thought he saw faded in to the air like wisps of a forgotten memory, “And relax your focus…”
Emory felt himself relax as he listened to her, pulling back his attention from her hands and what he thought he saw occurring between them. As he listened, he closed his eyes, forcing his attention to draw back.
“What then do you see?”
Emory opened his eyes. There, he saw Haere, standing as she had been. Her long arms raised, the silver of her long hair, lanky and disheveled as it flowed over the shoulders of the black of her Judicar robe. He looked up to her face, and found her eyes usually gentle eyes hard and clear as they watched him.
No… what did he see when he drew back his focus. He had just exchanged her hands with her face. He took a breath and drew back even further, until he took her in wholly. And what he saw, was a gentle Ivonwellian woman in black robes. Draped in an aura of sadness, melancholy, but for all that standing straight and tall. “I… I see you.”
Haere’s soft smile broadened, “I can see why Oulen liked you so much, Emory.”
Emory felt his cheeks burn. Turning his head, “I…” Emory let his voice trail away, his thoughts swirling. Finally, he looked back at the older woman, “But you didn’t answer my question.”
“Did I not?”