Writing "Difficult" Scenes

When we write fiction, we sometimes have to venture out of our "comfort zone," and write what we do not know. I was faced with just such a scene recently, a confrontation between my protagonist and antagonist, and the resulting fight scene.

Now, I know nothing about physical combat, and, originally, knew even less about ancient weaponry. So, I did my research first to be knowledgeable about the weapons used in New Kingdom Egypt. The khopesh, a slashing weapon with a curved blade, and the mace, often with a heavy, carved stone head, were the most common weapons, as well as the dagger and the bow and arrow.

But, in close quarters, the bow and arrow are useless. So, on to the other weapons. The khopesh could inflict great damage, open up chest and abdominal cavities and the mace could crush bones and skulls. But, the injuries have to be severe enough, but not lethal, or my protagonist is done for. After choreographing the scene and investigating the proper treatment of wounds, I was ready to write the crucial scene.

Two men, each with their own reasons for the conflict, face off. Little is said, but the drama needs to build and be sustained with action and injury. To make sure the scene worked, I shot off a copy of the completed scene to a fellow author, Bruce Thole, who could give me the proper perspective, from the eyes of a man.

This may seem like a lot of work for one scene which is only a fraction of the total book, but the scene is critical. To shortchange the reader is just not an option. Stepping into unfamiliar territory is how a writer grows and becomes better at his/her chosen craft. And, without the support of other writers to read and critique, a good scene may be acceptable, but feedback can make it great.

Stretch your boundaries, try writing a scene you normally wouldn't write -- you may find a new genre to explore and write in.

Discipline in Writing?

A dear friend and fellow author, Dana Eilers, recently complimented me for being so disciplined in my writing, since I write each day. The comment took me by surprise, since I do not think of myself as disciplined. But, I am fortunate to have the time to devote to writing at the present.

I know I am more productive in the evenings, for writing, and more productive during the day for research, editing, and proofing. So, I guess I do follow a schedule of sorts. During the day, I research any plot points that need to be resolved, I proof what I wrote the evening before, and do necessary edits. Sometimes I write, sometimes I don't.

In the evenings, I turn on my favourite radio station and let the words rip. Sometimes I may not write too much because I get hung up on a particular scene or chapter. Sometimes I write 1200 words without batting an eye. So, my output changes each day. And, sometimes I write crap that just needs to be tossed in the trash and I start all over again.

My schedule works for me because I know my best times to write and because I do it each day. Your schedule works for you -- it could be every day, or once a week, but it's yours. Writing should be a pleasure, not a chore. Once it becomes too much of a chore, your writing will suffer. But, you should find a schedule that is right for you and then stick to it. You will find your work will improve and so will your output.

Loss of Languages

In the course of my research this week, I had occasion to revisit an activity I enjoyed when I was younger - the study of languages. At one time, I actually wanted to be an interpreter, and had quite an ear for languages. Now, as I get older, I am reminded of how many of our words come from languages which are no longer taught in schools, primarily Latin.

I took three years of Latin in high school and could conjugate a verb like nobody's business. My love for Latin opened up opportunities to other languages, as well as a deeper understanding of my own. I was exposed to French at home (my father spoke it fluently), and to this day, though I am no longer fluent, I can still follow a converstion in French.

The love of languages should not stop when one graduates from school. And, that was brought home to me this week. Though most of my research centers on ancient Egypt, and I am comfortable with hieroglyphics, I wish to broaden my horizons, and Latin seemed like a natural progression. But, I do not intend to stop there. I still have a number of dictionaries, German, French, Italian, Spanish, and Hebrew, to name a few, and have every intention of learning the basics.

So, if you think you are too old to learn a language, I don't think it is ever too late. And, I know my Latin will help me to build upon my knowledge. As a nod to the ancients: sublimiora petamus (let us seek higher things).

Demise of a Bookseller

The loss of another brick-and-mortar store, the Borders chain, has given me pause this week. I went to the location at which I once worked, spoke with some of my former coworkers, and was astonished at how many people were actually in the store.

Often when I worked on Sunday mornings, I did not have a first customer for almost three hours. And, our store was a top performer. So, what does this all mean? I love the feel of books, but the trend is going electronic. And, I must admit, I too want a Kindle or Nook.

For me, the benefits are immeasurable. I possess a personal library of over 3000 books. How wonderful it would be for me, when travelling, if I had at my disposal, at the very touch of a button, my library with me. I could access the information I need, my research material would be constantly at my disposal.

But, what I do fear is that we have become enamoured by our electronics. We want information, but in 500-word bites. Distillation has become the norm, rather than curling up with a lovely book, in front of the fireplace or on a patio on a Sunday morning.

My fellow author and friend, Rabbi David J. Wolpe, recently posted these same frustrations on a blog post for the Huffington Post:

I used to write books. Now, I write Facebooks. Somehow it is not the same.

There was a time when being sequestered in a room was not that difficult. When I wrote my first book there was nothing really on TV at 3 am. Netflix was not. There were no emails waiting, no tweets tweeting, no IPODS purring, no seductive flashing updates that remind you if your news is more than 15 minutes old. I could write relatively undisturbed except for the manic bouncing of my own thoughts.

Now wireless follows me like a stalker. Café, library, streetcorner, no place is free from the lurking server. Yes, I know I can turn it off. I also know that I can remove my fillings and have my fingernails extracted, but I am not about to do it any more than I will cut the ethereal lifeline to the world. After all, if I sit in a room to write something with a greater half-life than last nights dessert, I may miss the urgent news item that has a half life, well, of last night's dessert. You see - it is a conundrum.

As writers, we grieve the loss of brick-and-mortar stores, like the loss of a friend. We are so wired into the digital age, we sometimes find it difficult to unplug, even to write, which is our stock and trade. So, I shall continue to support Borders, to the bitter end, and will shop at other local booksellers, to find that one jewel to add to my ever burgeoning library.

But, someday in the near future, my library shall consist of only a Nook or Kindle, loaded to the max with my treasured books. Will it be traumatic? Yes, for there is nothing that can ever replace the seductive smell and feel of a book in one's hands. Which is why Rabbi Wolpe and countless other writers, myself included, continue to write books, electronic time permitting of cours.

Book Signings

For unpublished authors, this is the day you dream about. Hundreds of people all queued up, waiting to catch a glimpse of you, their favourite author. But, unless your book hits The New York Times Bestseller list right out of the gate, book signings are usually more intimate affairs.

I write for a small niche market. I have done events for over fifty people and I have also done events where I was fortunate to speak with three people. Book signings are not what they used to be. Publishers have limited dollars to spend on promotion and will use them wisely. If a publisher has a choice of sending "Bestselling Author" on a book promotion tour or of scheduling an event for "First Time Author," where do you think they will get their best return?

That is not to say the publishers ignore you. They are quite proactive in assisting you in your quest to get your book in front of the most people, in your markets. Since this is my third published work, I know what to do. I contact all my area bookstore in advance of the release, let them know I am available for book signings and events, and supply them with a sample copy. You, as the author, must also take the initiative. As with everything today, a guest spot is not going to fall into your lap. And, with the advent of social media, getting your name out is easier than ever.

So, for the unpublished authors out there dreaming of overnight success, remember: writing a book is a difficult process. You pour your heart and soul into it and if you do not do all you can to make the book a success, your publisher may not either. Follow the guidelines they send you for promotion -- they're the experts in publicity and promotion; you are the writer. Make it your best work and then, promote the hell out of it.

"The Wrath of Amun" -- Installment from the novel

The next installment of "The Wrath of Amun." We will learn a bit about the poor deceased woman and the new Chief of the Medjay.

Having assisted with the morning ritual, Qaa with two Medjay escorts headed across the Nile to the verdant fields on the East bank. They found Semti, with his wife and children, tending an emmer field; he was lowering the shaduf into the water channel while his wife and children weeded. Qaa motioned to the man he wished to speak with him privately. Off to the left of the emmer field, there was a small personal garden; the plants appeared to be barley, radishes, leeks, and onions. As a farmer in service to the temple, he also had a few goats, sheep, and geese, for his family’s consumption, grazing in pens in front of the mud-brick house. He was a small, wiry man dressed only in a loincloth, flint cutting blade with a wooden handle tucked into the waist, bare feet caked with mud; Semti barked orders to his family to keep working. He carried himself like a man who was accustomed to being obeyed.

“You are Semti, father of Iput, the woman who was murdered at the temple?”

“I am. Who are you, hem netjer?” Semti looked up at the imposing figure, sporting a reed switch tucked neatly into the waist of his kilt.

“I am Qaa, the new Chief of the Medjay. I have been called to Waset to look into the death of your daughter. Did you see your daughter on the evening of her death?”

“No, Medjay. I had worked all day in the fields and had another long day ahead of me.” Semti bowed low before Qaa.

“Was your daughter happy in her marriage?”

“Unas was divorcing her. He came to me and asked to send her back. She was barren; what other use is there for a woman except to pleasure her husband and provide him with children. She was trouble all her life; I told him she was his wife, not my responsibility. I had no use for another mouth to feed.” Semti seemed untouched by Iput’s murder.

“You say she was trouble. Did you beat her as a child?” Qaa’s stomach lurched, remembering the abuse he had seen on Iput’s body.

“I had to. She wouldn’t cook, do her chores, work in the fields. How else could I get her to do anything?” Semti looked to Qaa for sympathy, man to man.

Qaa was outraged. He tried to keep his voice measured and his anger in control. “Did you tell Unas how to make her obey?”

“Of course.” Semti smiled broadly. “He needed to know how to handle her. Unas always did like the wild ones. Her mother was like that when I took her the first time. Screamed and kicked, almost bit my ear off. She still has some fight left in her, but I too know how to use a switch.” He chuckled to himself.

In one swift motion, Qaa withdrew the switch from his waist, raised it above his head, and struck the farmer a sound blow across the cheek, drawing blood. Qaa fought hard against lashing out in anger, preferring combat in battle, but intentionally inflicting pain on a woman was something he would not tolerate.

“If you have lied to me, farmer, I shall return and shall not stay my hand at just one blow.”

***

After traveling back across the Nile to the West bank, and still in the company of the two Medjay, Qaa found Unas at one of the temple metalworking tents. Wearing only a loincloth, he was sitting on a stool in front of a brazier, tongs in hand, a glowing piece of metal in the charcoals. Even from this distance, the heat was palpable and breathing was an effort. Qaa motioned to the overseer to bring Unas to him. The overseer spoke to Unas who put down the tongs, stood, and compliantly followed the overseer’s instructions.

Qaa appraised Unas, having seen the brutality on Iput’s body. The man was about his own age, but at least a cubit shorter. He had powerful hands and shoulders from working the various metals, and bore numerous burns and scars, both fresh and healed. His hands had the familiar appearance of crocodile skin, brown, scaly, and toughened from the heat of the crucibles and hearths. He sported a dagger at his waist, bronze with a bone handle. He moved with the swagger of a man too self-confident; he exuded an air of importance though he was only an apprentice.

“I am Qaa, the new Chief of the Medjay. I am looking into the death of your wife. Did you know she had left your home to go to the temple the night she died?”

“I was asleep. She must have slipped out; she did that often. I suspected she had taken up with another man. I had no use for her, she was barren and I was going to divorce her.”

Qaa’s temper simmered just below the surface of his calm exterior. Semti had put him in a foul mood. This man’s wife is brutally murdered and he speaks disrespectfully of her. He withdrew the switch and slapped his own palm with it. “Did you beat her often?” Qaa’s voice had taken on the tenor of a confidante, one man to another.

“She would not submit to me. I would have to bind her hands and feet in order to mount her.” Unas laughed.

Qaa could feel his anger dangerously close to exploding. Even a reed switch, in his hands, could inflict serious injury. “She may have been more receptive if you had been patient or kind with her.”

Unas leaned in to speak low, so only Qaa would hear. “Chief Medjay, do you have a woman? Trust me when I say they need to be beaten regularly. How else can you make them submit?” He stepped back and continued to speak. “I now have a woman who knows her place and will do whatever I demand. Is that not the duty of a woman?” He smiled broadly.

Qaa wanted to retch. Brought up in an abusive home, married to an abusive husband, what chance did she have? Were all the men in Waset this brutal toward their women? He could not contain his anger any longer. “In the future, apprentice, when you see me, I expect you to bow before me, showing your respect. Medjay, hold this man while I interrogate him further.”

Each Medjay grabbed an arm of Unas and held him tightly. Qaa began beating Unas on the back, just as Unas had beaten his wife to submit to his needs. “How does it feel, Unas, to be powerless? Do you think she enjoyed her beatings? If you have lied to me, I shall be back. And if I hear of you beating any more women, you shall wish I had killed you.” Qaa’s chest heaved and sweat trickled down his back, having taken out his anger on the man who had inflicted much of the torment on Iput. He again raised the switch above his head.

“My Chief that was twenty lashes.” The Medjay saw the wrath in Qaa’s eyes and fell silent. His rage spent for now, he lowered the switch. Qaa straightened up, wiped the bloody switch on Unas’s loincloth, and slid it into the waist of his kilt.

After taking a deep breath to bring his emotions under control, Qaa spoke smoothly and authoritatively. “Medjay, you may release him.” When the Medjay released Unas’s arms, he fell, in a crumpled heap at Qaa’s feet. He looked down, spat on him, and turned back to the temple, followed by the Medjay.

***

Launching a Book

New authors often wonder why it takes so long for their manuscript to become the lovely, published book they always imagined. Having freelanced in the publishing industry, let me give you a little insight.

After acquisitions and editorial have their go at the manuscript, it is assigned an editor. After he polishes the work, it next goes to a copyeditor. It is her job to check the work of the editor, ask questions on style and formatting, and produce a style sheet and/or word list. From there, the fun begins. The next stop is the proof reader, who uses the style sheet and word list to polish even further.

After that, the author gets involved. This is usually the time for the page proofs. It is often the last chance an author has to make any corrections, or to address any issues which may have come up in the editing and formatting. Of course, once the author makes his changes, it is back to the editor and may end up in the hands of yet another proof reader for a final check.

And, while all this is going on there are other processes going on -- cover and back cover art, interior drawings or photographs are inserted, back material and indicies are created, marketing starts their work, and the list goes on and on.

The tasks involved are important, to make your manuscript the best it can be. And, believe me, I know all too well. I have done both copyediting and proof reading. Both require attention to detail, a different set of skills for each task, guidelines must be adhered to (think, The Chicago Manual of Style), and the ability to work quickly, efficiently, and always with a deadline looming.

So, when you submit your manuscript for publication, remember all the unsung hands that make your work the best it can be. The people behind the scenes share in your success, but their names do not appear in the credits. They do it for the love of the work. I know, because that's why I do it.