The Process: Conceptualization

 

The Process

 

*Coach Saban voice*: It’s about the process.

No, but, really, it is. Writing a book is a lengthy process that comes with a whole host of organizational and mental challenges. They take months to conceptualize, complete, edit, proof, and then publish; there’s no such thing as instant gratification and it can become discouraging along the way – it often does for me. It’s hard to spend six, seven, eight months, sometimes a year on a manuscript wondering the whole time if, businesswise, it will have been worth all the early mornings and sleepless nights. Everyone has their own process, and that’s what sustains you, 50k words in and afflicted with hopelessness.

I thought I’d talk about my process, in a series of connected posts, from conceptualization to editing.

 

Conceptualization

Everything starts with character for me. My motto is “Character first.” All my past attempts to begin mapping a story based on a concept have failed – I think probably because concept is the least important part of any book I read. A trope is only so good as the author wielding the keyboard, in my opinion. It’s all about characters who feel real and knowable.

Historically, I’ve always been someone who latches onto a secondary character in any story. I usually like the main character well enough, but it’s the sidekick who fascinates and inspires me most. Plenty of stories have been told about “main character” types, with their good looks, and strong convictions, and clearly-outlined quests. Literally everyone writes about “alpha males.” I have no interest in that. I have a few kings and leaders thrown into the mix, sure, but even then, I’m not approaching it from the “alpha” stereotype – unless you count all the werewolves: that’s really the only time I use that word. I prefer the damaged and the weird, and those just trying to get by. Those with demons. Those who aren’t trying to change the world, but perhaps manage to do so anyway. When I write a king – Erik, Richard, Vlad – I have to know one thing, first, and it’s something I have to know about all my characters: where are their vulnerable spots?

With any character, I have to know what they want, what they’re willing to do to get it, and what makes them vulnerable. What do they fear? Where are their limits? How far will they go? How cruel are they? What wakes them at night in a cold sweat, heart pounding? What sight makes them smile? When do they feel quietest, most at peace? I find it’s the things people don’t advertise about themselves that are the most important traits when crafting a character.

In the case of a historical figure, it’s even more of a psychological exercise. Tell me a guy killed his own nobles and impaled his POWs, and it’s my job to try and crawl inside his head and figure out the lines of thought that led him to these actions. When reading historical texts, the authors often say they “cannot speculate motives,” or they simply don’t want to, and I respect that. I don’t like when an author couches an opinion as fact, when there’s no way any of us can truly know what went on inside someone’s head centuries ago. But I’m a fiction author, so I get to play, and that has been both nerve-wracking and a heck of a lot of fun.

When it comes to characterization, my goal is always to paint a complete portrait of the central protagonists. My characters don’t merely exist in the moment of the story; I don’t just drop them in and “get on with it.” Each character’s personality and actions are informed by their childhood, by their family, by their experiences and traumas. I incorporate this by weaving in little nuggets of the past; I employ large-scale flashbacks, yes, but also love to layer little anecdotes from the past as a character is experiencing an event in the present. Here’s an example from The Wild Charge:

 

Five years ago, a man named Benjamin Ruse had approached a woman in a pub in London. Younger than her, too young, really, barely out of school, but tall, and blue-eyed, and gorgeous. The lights had gleamed off the product in his hair, and off his smooth, high cheekbones, his fine, poreless skin. He’d leaned up against the bar beside her, and given her a look, one wiser and more experienced than his age would have indicated.

He’d bought her next round, and then the next.

She’d twisted her ring off and slipped it into her purse in the cab ride. Poured them more wine when they got to the flat…and never saw the granules he slipped into her glass when she wasn’t looking.

Her husband, an important member of parliament, arrived home after eleven to a dark flat. When he clicked on the lamp, he saw his wife laid out on the sofa, asleep – and a strange man in the chair. His favorite chair.

And a young man, at that. He’d grinned, a fast slice of white teeth in the dim lamplight. “Hi, honey, welcome home.”

Benjamin Ruse had made two other appearances: once on a horseback riding outing with a Saudi prince, one he then wound up in bed with, and took some extremely compromising photos of. And the last time in an elevator in Hong Kong, where two British officials had arrived on their designated floor sprawled atop one another on the floor of the cab, strangled to death.

Tenny had always considered it his favorite alias. Benjamin Ruse was suave, and sophisticated; charming to men and women. And Ruse was especially fun to say, knowing the word play at hand. It was the name he’d given to Ratchet when he first arrived in Knoxville, and found himself in need of a believably fake driver’s license, in case he ever got pulled over in a routine traffic stop, or wanted to buy beer, or get into a club.

But he hadn’t had a name, then.

Ratchet spun away from his laptop, a small, shiny plastic card in one hand. He scanned it, frowning to himself.

Tenny resisted the urge to fidget; he’d never been a fidgeter before, in his pre-name, only-a-number life. Lots of things were changing; the chaos of that infuriated him…even though, when he allowed himself to admit it, he didn’t want to go back.

 

 

I could have told you Tenny had a favorite alias, but I was after the imagery, the understanding that this longer scene imparts.

I’m keenly aware that this is a writing style that doesn’t resonate universally – some readers want to trim the story down to the base essentials of what is happening in the present day – but I love that intricate dovetailing-in of context. Mercy recalling his “daddy’s” strength as he hauled a thrashing bull gator up into their little boat tells you so much more than just saying “Mercy was very strong.” It gives you an image. It tells you “this is a man who was once a boy who slayed literal dragons, and he’s not afraid of any man.”

I plan to expand on this in my post about my actual writing process, but for me, writing the plot of a narrative is inextricably linked with characterization. It’s a personal preference, when reading and writing, and I attribute this to my love of the Romantic period in English literature, and to my Southern roots. Southerners tell sprawling stories that give you an abundance of sidenotes and background. The late great Pat Conroy, for instance: while I have my quibbles with his work, there’s no denying the magic of his prose, and the weaving of past and present in each of his books. Or Anne Rivers Siddons. They weren’t showing a slice of life, but a whole life, and that’s what I love most about fiction-writing. I want to show you glimpses of the whole person, childhood to old age.

I certainly have favorite character archetypes – I love gremlins and showmen; cold, hard girls and girls who know when it’s smart to lay low and listen; deeply-flawed leaders and their much more practical seconds. But I can’t control who pops into my mind and demands to have his or her story told. If I could, I’d probably be much more successful at this whole publishing thing 😉

Next time, it’s all about narrative and prose.