Photo courtesy my daughter Elizabeth. 

Ok, I’ve recently got some comments and emails from folks asking me what is taking so long with the “Journey of St. Laurent” updates. I’m not letting the project drop, nor have I forgotten that I’m supposed to be writing it.

By way of whiny excuses, here’s what’s been slowing me down, in no particular order.

Tired

Hey, I’ve got a new baby. She’s not a great sleeper. (Although very healthy) While no sleep for one or two nights may equal awesome hallucinogenic writing sessions, chronic lack of sleep only equals frustration when I sit at the keyboard and can’t focus on the words.

The good news is that she is getting better.

Sick

I’m getting over some kind of throat ick that had me down for a while.

Real Work

In the real world, I’m a programmer. When I want some extra cash, I’ll take a side web development job. I’ve had one that I’ve sat on too long that I’m trying to crank out right now. It’s moving along, but biting into creative time.

An Alien Project

I’ve been working on a separate website for The Journey of St. Laurent like unto the one I made for my zombie book Oasis. I recently scrapped what I had been doing, and I’ll be putting up more of a “teaser” site soon (which will include the cover I think I’m going to use.)

Another project

I’ve also been working on a project for authors that want to self publish a book. I’ve finally (this morning) gotten it to what I consider to be a launch-able point.

It’s a tutorial site that has a few (and will have more over time) tutorials on self publishing.

If you want to check it out, go visit:

www.HowToSelfPublishABook.org

The good news

The good news is that things are clearing up and getting finished, and I’ll be able to carve out a little bit of time to write. More and more as time goes on.

Does that mean a new chapter this week?

Maybe. I’ll do my best.

Note: This article is reprinted with Randy’s permission.

At least twice a month, I get a letter that runs roughly like this:

"Hi Randy:

I’m writing a novel about something horrible that happened in my life. Nobody would ever believe what those dirty rotten scoundrels did to me, so I’m making it a novel. It’s gonna be great! The only question I have is what legal problems I’ll face when they read my book. Can I get sued, even if it’s all the exact truth? Do I have to change their names? I want them to suffer!

Sincerely, Joe Wannawriteanovel"

Before you read on, think about that for a minute. How would you answer Joe? Can he get sued for telling the truth?

I usually begin my answer to this kind of e-mail by pointing out that I’m not a lawyer, and therefore nothing I say can be construed as legal advice. Then I say that, so far as I understand it, telling the truth is not libel, but it can be invasion of privacy. So even if a novel tells the absolute truth, the author might still be sued for making private details public.

I usually advise Joe to make a few eeny weeny changes: Change the names of the characters. Change their genders. Change their personal descriptions. Change their ethnic heritages. Change their personalities. Change the facts of the story so that nobody could possibly recognize the circumstances and guess that the people involved are friends or family of Joe. Change everything.

In short, write fiction.

In my view, the legal issues aren’t really the biggest problem with writing a novel based on real people. The real problem is that real situations involving real people make really boring fiction.

In fiction, nothing is written in stone. If you need to edit a Gertrude into a Gary, then you must have the freedom to make that change. If you need to merge five fuzzy characters into two memorable ones, then you must feel free to merge. If your lead character needs a horrible seventh-grade experience involving a tarantula, a blindfold, and an icepick, then you have to be able to conjure up that memory.

You can’t afford to hamstring your fiction with an inconvenient set of facts. If you base your novel on something that really happened, then every time you need to tweak your plot or characters, you’ll hear a voice in the back of your head saying, "But it didn’t happen that way."

Let’s be honest. Fiction is about telling lies. Big, fat, hairy, prevaricating lies. If you want to write about the truth, or approximately the truth, or even something remotely approaching the truth, then the career you’re looking for is called "Journalism." It’s a fine career choice, but it isn’t fiction.

Which leads me to another common question I hear. "Is it OK if I write a character that’s really just me?"

That depends on what you mean by the word "OK." I doubt very much that you can sue yourself for libel or invasion of privacy if you write a character that is just you. (Again, I’m not a lawyer, so if you sue yourself and somehow win, then don’t blame me.)

I see several problems with writing a character that is just you:

• You may not be quite as interesting as your lead character needs to be.
• If you buff up your character to be "you plus a little extra," you may wind up looking egotistical.
• If you add in some traumatic backstory that never happened, your friends and family might get upset. * What will you do for an encore?

Let’s unpack each of these in turn.

Fiction is about characters in conflict. The characters are often a bit larger than life — in some cases, a LOT larger than life. Let’s face it. Although we writers are a talented bunch, most all of us aren’t quite as talented as the characters we create. We’d like to be, but we aren’t. We can’t afford to limit our characters to be no better than we are.

Suppose you write a lead character just like you in every way. Then, halfway through the novel, you realize that he needs to be quite a bit better than you are in some way. Maybe smarter. Maybe faster. Maybe cooler. Whatever. So you tweak him and finish the story and get it published. Now all your friends and family read the story and they see right away that your lead character is intended to be you. But they also see that he’s smarter than you are, or faster, or cooler. Naturally, they’re going to assume that you think you’re smarter, faster, or cooler than you actually are. That makes you look like an egomaniac. Is that what you want?

Suppose you write a lead character just like you in every way. Halfway through the novel, you need to explain why your character is afraid of electricity. You decide to make it plausible by adding in some backstory about being shocked with a cattle prod by an unstable mother. Now you’ve got problems, because it’s going to be "obvious" to everyone that your mother must have tortured you as a kid. If it’s not true, your novel could be construed as libel. If it’s true, your story could be considered invasion of privacy. Either way, your mother may just take you off her Christmas list.

Typically, publishers are interested in doing more than just one book with you. They invest quite a bit of money in developing an author, and it make take a few books to earn back that investment. Suppose you write a great novel in which your lead character is you. That’s wonderful, but who’ll play the starring role in your next book? You might be able to do a sequel that again features you as the lead. But can you keep that up forever? If not, then why get started down that road in the first place?

It’s perfectly OK to inject a bit of yourself in your characters. In fact, I recommend it for every character, even your villains. Give each of your characters some little snippet of yourself, whether it’s your tight-trigger temper or your obsession with stamps from Zimbabwe or your amazing skill at juggling buffalo chips.

You have plenty of interesting quirks and character traits to go around for every character you ever write. Your characters are like your children, and each of them should get some bit of your DNA.

My rule of thumb is that none of my characters should "inherit" more than about a third of their traits from me. I have no idea how much inheritance is too much, but I prefer to be cautious, so I try not to go over a third.

I’ve written several major characters who were physicists. Another was a software engineer, another an archaeologist, another a novelist. All of them shared a major interest with me. But I never thought of any of them as "me plus a little extra," because I’ve always started with somebody who was fundamentally different from me and then added chunks of myself. I think of my characters as "somebody I’d like to hang out with, because we have a major shared interest."

Now here are some questions you might want to consider for the novel you’re working on right now:

• How much does your lead character resemble you? Will your readers wonder if that character is secretly you? Is it possible that this character is more nearly your clone than your child? Does your character have some trait that makes it clear that he or she can’t possibly be you?
• How much of your DNA does your villain inherit? Is there nothing in your villain that you can relate to? Is it possible that you might be better able to empathize with your villain by giving him or her some valued trait of yours?

Fiction is a pack of lies that masquerades as truth. Don’t risk spoiling your carefully crafted lies with too much truth — or with too little.

Award-winning novelist Randy Ingermanson, "the Snowflake Guy," publishes the Advanced Fiction Writing E-zine, with more than 17,000 readers, every month. If you want to learn the craft and marketing of fiction, AND make your writing more valuable to editors, AND have FUN doing it, visit http://www.AdvancedFictionWriting.com.

Download your free Special Report on Tiger Marketing and get a free 5-Day Course in How To Publish a Novel.

Author’s note:

I’m not completely happy with the chapter, but it’s just been so long since I posted, I just had to get something up and get rolling again.

For those of you who haven’t read any of the Journey Of St. Laurent before: You are now reading an online serial pulp novel. If you didn’t start at the beginning, you may want to do so. Chapter 1:  Down By The Bay. This serial is the sequel to my first novel, Oasis.

For all those wondering, things are going well with the new baby. If we can just figure out how to sleep a little more at night, things will be fantastic.

Thanks to everybody who commented or emailed me to wish us well:  Kristy, DarcKnyt, Elizabeth Himes (Whom we apparently named the baby after), Vanessa (DarcsFalcon), Blaine (Hi, Bishop), Jessie, girl, Glenn, Jade, Aunt Karen,DarcZombie, Aunt Ramona, Becky Reynolds (I think my cousin Becky – not sure of the married name), Jordan Johnson, schulte, GTDOC, Bart, Lucien Black, R. Garrett Wilson, RobSmith, and anybody else that I’ve missed. My wife and I have felt very loved and blessed through all of this. You guys are great.

Chapter 22 – New Arrival

Before Jenna could respond, the muffled shouting was broken by a muffled slap followed shortly by the muffled whump of something heavy hitting the floor.

I cringed. Yes, this is working out great. I could only hope that whatever fight was going on out there stayed out there, and that nobody got seriously hurt.

After all, Jenna and I had a baby to deliver.

Jenna told me which CD she wanted and I found it. I didn’t recognize the artist’s name, but the cover had a shirtless burly tattooed guy folding his arms and scolding the camera.

Once the music played it occurred to me that while I never would have called this particular flavor of hip-hop ‘relaxing’, it immediately put Jenna more at ease. As a matter of fact, the constant heavy beats soon put her in an almost trance-like state.

After a moment, the door eased open and the little sister stuck her head in. “I’ve, uh, got some water.”

“Great, bring it in and close the door. What’s your name again?”

“Kayla.”

Jenna looked up and almost smiled. “Hey, Kay.”

“Go ahead and hand it to your sister.”

Jenna took the cup and took a tiny drink, then handed it back to Kayla.

“One of your jobs is to make sure she takes a sip every couple of minutes, okay?”

Kayla’s eyes didn’t look so sure, but she nodded anyway.

“Good. Also, I need you to find Jenna something else she can wear, something she could give birth in while wearing. Like a big giant tee shirt.”

Jenna sat on the edge of her bed and sucked in again through her nose.

Another contraction. I wish I had a watch.

I put one hand on her shoulder, the other on her belly, and started counting in my head. One, two, three…

Jenna let out a deep moan.

Kayla turned from the open drawer, knelt down, and held Jenna’s hand.

Jenna’s face relaxed at her sister’s touch.

Twenty three, twenty four- “Keep breathing. You’re doing great, Jenna”. Twenty seven, twenty eight…

She nodded rhythmically, although not in time with the music. This contraction was night and day different from the last one. Jenna didn’t sound pained this time. She didn’t look scared. She simply appeared to be focused.

I got to forty five before the contraction subsided. That’s a pretty good length. Could be getting close.

“Good job. You’re doing great.”

Kayla let go and finished finding the tee shirt.

I turned around while she helped the birthing mother change. About the time they finished, another contraction hit.

I spun around and offered Jenna my arms.

She grabbed my forearms, rested her forehead against my shoulder, and let out a deep, growling moan.

That couldn’t have been more than three, three and a half minutes since the start of the last one.

I counted off the length of the contraction again as best I could. Again, it was somewhere between forty five and fifty seconds.

As soon as the contraction subsided, she mumbled a complaint about the heat and wanted to sit.

I spread a towel on her bed.

She sat and Kayla handed her the water.

“Kayla, before the next contraction comes around, I want you to run and get two washcloths. Get them wet with cool water. Also, tell your mother things are going really well. Ask her to find a shoelace and boil it in a pan of water for ten minutes. And her sharpest knife. Clean and boil that, too. I’ll send you back out for those later. Got all that?”

She nodded. “What’s the shoelace-”

I raised a hand. “Washcloths, thing are going well, shoelace, knife. Hurry.”

She got back just in time to put a washcloth on Jenna’s head and hold her hand through the next contraction.

It was amazing, almost magical. Despite the thump-thumping of the music and the mess, by looking at Jenna, you’d have thought the bedroom was about the most serene place in the world. She was calm, relaxed, and totally focused.

Kayla instinctively knew everything her sister needed for comfort, a pillow here, a very light back rub there, water every couple of minutes, and a pile of comforting words I’d never have thought to say.

Jenna switched positions about every ten minutes. Kneeling, standing, sitting, squatting, standing. We must have restarted the CD at some point. The sun flew toward the horizon. At some point, the shirt irritated Jenna and she pulled it off, leaving her wearing only a sports bra. Little by little the contractions lengthened, strengthened, and got closer together.

About the fifth time she sat on her bed she shook her head. “I can’t do this anymore. I need a break. Just ten minutes.”

I looked into her eyes. “You’re doing perfectly.”

“You don’t get it. I’m so tired. Can we go back to the hospital?”

It didn’t feel right to argue with the laboring woman. “Um, sure. Let’s just let you have that rest first. Then we’ll see what we can do.”

She shook her head. “So tired.”

“That’s just because your body has been working hard, and doing a great job.”

She took in a deep breath. “I feel like I should squat, but I’m too tired.”

I remembered a picture from one of the birthing books I had read a couple of years ago. “That’s okay. If you want to try, I’ll support you.”

Jenna stared for a moment, then nodded. “Let’s do that.”

I squatted with my back against the closet door frame. Jenna backed up to me. She squatted/half sat on my knees and I hooked my arms under her armpits. It was anything but comfortable for me, but she seemed just fine.

As soon as we settled into the supported squat, another contraction hit. Soon another, then another.

“I want to push. Can I push?”

“Do whatever your body tells you to do. If that’s push, then push.”

She tilted her head to the side. “I think I’m having her.”

My legs wobbled in the awkward position. “Reach down and see if you can feel the baby.”

She dropped her right hand between her legs and took a sharp breath. “It’s the top of her head.”

A jolt of adrenaline hit my system. This is it. “Perfect. You’re almost done. Kayla, grab a towel and put it down here on the floor. Looks like you’re going to have to catch the baby.”

Kayla’s eyes widened to about the size of personal pan pizzas. “But I ain’t no-”

“Doesn’t matter. You’ll do great. Now get over here.”

She stepped over and shot a quick glance down, then blushed and turned away. “I’m not so sure I can.”

“I know you can. There’s nothing to be embarrassed about. You’ve already been a huge help, and you’ll do great, just like your sister is doing.”

Another contraction swept over Jenna. She growled and hummed and eventually it faded.

I couldn’t see what had happened, but Kayla’s already enormous eyes seemed to pop from her head. And then she started to smile.

Jenna reached down again. “It’s her head.”

“Kayla, put a hand on the baby’s head near the neck. Once this next contraction hits, the rest of her will probably come out. And there’s going to be lots of other liquidy stuff that comes out too. Don’t worry about that.”

Another moment and then it hit. With a great whoosh the baby was out. Right behind her was a wave of amniotic fluid mixed with a bit of blood that splashed onto the floor and all over my legs.

Kayla beamed and held up the baby.

Jenna scooped the baby up to her chest.

My legs were on fire and shaking. “Let’s get you over to your bed.

Jenna smiled at the baby and shuffled across the room.

The baby let out a ear splitting wail.

It was one of the sweetest sounds I had ever heard. The loud cry meant good strong lungs.

Jenna sat and kissed the baby’s head. “We did it.”

Layla turned down the music.

The baby was covered with amniotic fluid, cheesy-looking vernix, and traces of blood. Her head was slightly cone shaped from being in the birth canal so long. Still, she was as beautiful as anything.

Someone pounded on the door.

I opened it just a crack. Sure enough, it was Nina and London.

“Baby’s here. Everything seems to be good. Get me that shoelace and the knife.”

Nina took off back down the hall.

London was pale, “Corbin. About the UFOs-”

“In a minute. Go see if you can get me a garbage bag or two.”

Jenna held the baby close, and the baby was calming down.

I smiled. No need to interrupt their bonding just yet. I scooted the towel on the floor around with my foot in an effort to clean up the mess.

Nina and London returned with the supplies, then we all just stared at the baby for a minute. There’s just something about a newborn baby that makes you feel all right. Even in a mesy room when the outside world is falling apart.

I sighed. Oh, well. The moment can’t last forever. I felt the chord. It wasn’t pulsing at all anymore.

It’s good to go. I cut the shoelace in half and used it to tie off a spot on the umbilical chord near the baby. Nobody else seemed interested, so I went ahead and cut the chord.

Jenna put a hand on her stomach. “It feels like another cont-” She winced. “Ooh.”

“These contractions are just tightening your uterus back to size. You’ll be pushing out the placenta soon.”I turned to Nina and London. “In fact, you two should go until we get done with this. There’ll be plenty of time to gawk and hold the baby later.”

London leaned in “You have to see what’s going on in DC-”

“I will.”

I ushered the two women out of the room, and turned around to see Jenna nursing the baby.

Another good sign.

She birthed the placenta about ten minutes later. I caught it along with another batch of blood and birth goop in the garbage bag.

After that, things got much simpler. I tore up one of the towels and explained that to Jenna that she’d be bleeding, albeit not much, for a while and she should use the pieces as pads until she was done.

All in all, mom and baby seemed to be doing really well, so it was time to let them rest for a while.

In the front room, everyone was focused on the television.

I handed the garbage bag to the teenage boy on the couch. “Here, go bury this in the back yard so it doesn’t stink up your trash.”

“Corbin.” London nodded and pointed to the TV.

I turned around saw what she had been in such a hurry to have me see.

As soon as I saw the image on the screen, the knot in my stomach hardened. Looks like the baby isn’t the only new arrival. This can’t be good.

However, I’m going to write everyday from today until next Friday and not put it off until Thursday night and I’m getting back into the writing habit if it kills me, which I hope it won’t.

Oh, yeah, and speaking of the newborn, I don’t know if I mentioned this or not, but I’m totally the one that caught her. Just call me Dr. Bryce.

Have a pleasing weekend, everybody.

edit: Oh, yeah, and thanks for all the support & comments about the new baby. You guys are great.

That’s Anne with an ‘e’.

Anyway, here’s some more proud dad shots.

Edit: she finally woke up

Update: More baby pictures here

Author’s note-

It felt really good to finally get a chance to sit down and write. Thanks to everybody who sticks with me despite my current bizarre posting schedule.

For those of you who haven’t read any of the Journey Of St. Laurent before: You are now reading an online serial pulp novel. If you didn’t start at the beginning, you may want to do so. Chapter 1:  Down By The Bay. This serial is the sequel to my first novel, Oasis.

Chapter 21 – Labor Pains

I grabbed the cooler and climbed in through the driver’s side.

The inside of the brown Cadillac was messy to say the least. Half empty water bottles and sacks of fast food debris littered the back seat and floor.

I pushed aside enough garbage to sit down and hoped for the best.

Jenna’s mom climbed back in and slammed the car in drive. She cranked the wheel and goosed the gas. The car lurched and the tires squealed, but we got turned around and went back out the way they drove in.

As we pulled onto the main road I looked back.

London and Michael were just climbing in the Jeep.

I felt a pang of disappointment. It’s going to take too long. There’s no way she’ll be able to drive back to the exit before we’re out of sight.

The Caddy roared down the street.

I kept looking back. Where are they? “Could we slow down just a little. My friend-”

“We don’t got time for that, boy. This is my baby girl we’re talking about.”

She jerked the wheel to the left. The garbage contents of the seat shifted to the right and I thought we might come up on two wheels.

I gave a last look back.

If London had navigated the parking lot the way we went in, we would have never seen each other again.

But she didn’t. She took the shortcut.

The Jeep bounced over the strip of grass that bordered the lot and careened into the street.

And then it was out of sight. It didn’t matter though, she saw us and knew where to make the turn.

The whole car ride was like that- sharp corners, tires squealing, and London barely able to keep up.

We entered an old, run down section of town. Lawns were overgrown, paint on the houses was peeling, and trash and cars on cinder blocks littered the road.

She pulled up at a house that was no different from the rest. Weeds grew up the chain link fence, old furniture was piled on the porch, and the roof looked like it could stand a little attention.

Jenna’s mom jumped out and ran inside saying something about “Getting her room ready.”

I helped Jenna out of the car and up the wobbly steps to the front door.

Inside there was an older man in a sweat stained tank top, a girl of about fourteen, and a boy a couple of years older sitting on a couch. They turned their heads in unison and watched us enter. All of their eyes were wide and all of them opened their mouths, like they wanted to say something, but couldn’t get it out.

I nodded at them. “It’s okay, things are going to be all right.”

Jenna’s mom appeared out of a doorway down the hall and motioned for us. “Back here.”

Halfway down the hall, Jenna wrapped her arms under her belly and hunched over.

I stepped to the front of her and put my hands on her shoulders. “It’s okay. Everything is going to be okay.”

A couple of tears trickled down her nose.

Her mom ran up. “What’s going on?”

“Just a contraction.”

We sat there in the hall for a minute or so while it passed.

I heard the Jeep pull up outside.

Jenna’s mom ushered us back into a bedroom.

The room had two single beds, one against each wall, as well as a tall dresser against one wall and a closet on the opposite one. There was a shelf with a couple of books and a CD player above one of the beds. There were two big windows above the other one. The walls were plastered with posters of actors and musicians I had never heard of.

Apparently getting her room ready means straightening her bed and kicking everything that was on the floor into a pile in the closet.

“What do we need to do?”

“Okay, I’m going to need clean towels. As many as you can find. And I’ll need to tear up at least one of them.”

Jenna’s mom nodded then turned her head. “Layla! Get some clean towels and bring them here!”

Jenna sat on the edge of the bed.

“I heard my friend pull up. Could you let her in?”

She stuck her head out the door. “Y’all just come in.”

She yelled it loud enough to startle me. Man, that woman’s loud.

Jenna must have noticed it, too. She looked up. “Ma, you don’t have-”

“What is it, baby?”

“You don’t have to yell.”

“You just worry about you, baby. I’ll take care of everything else.”

I knelt down and put a hand on her belly. The last contraction hadn’t fully subsided yet and it was still a little firm.

“You’re doing just fine, Jenna. Are you comfortable?”

She shrugged.

“Do you want to lie down?”

She shrugged again.

“Stand?”

She scrunched her eyebrows and then nodded.

“Okay. I’ll help you up.”

“What do you mean, stand? She’s got to lie down.” The mom put a hand on Jenna’s shoulder. “She’s got to lie down, and you have to check her, see if she’s diadated and all.”

“Diadated? Don’t you mean-”

“You know, how open her thing is. What the hell kind of nurse are you anyway?”

“Corbin?”

The three of us turned to the door.

London stood there with Michael, who was looking more than a little lost.

“Your friend brought a kid?”

London clenched her jaw.

Layla, the fourteenish-year-old from the couch, appeared with a stack of towels. She whispered an “Excuse me”, wiggled past Michael and sat the towels on the dresser.

“Corbin, let me get Michael situated and I’ll-”

The mom turned back to me. “Are you sure this is safe? In the hospital they’ve got all this stuff, you know, in case something goes wrong. They’ve got the IV and the belt thing and they can operate-”

I raised a hand and signaled her to stop. “What’s your name, ma’am?”

“Nina.”

“Nina,” I stood, “listen to me. Your daughter and the baby are going to be fine. I know you’re scared, but-”

“Oh, I ain’t scared. I’m just a little mad that I got a nurse that doesn’t even know enough to make a woman who is in labor lie down.”

Layla hung her head and walked out.

“Look, she can be any way she wants for now, it’s not going to hurt anything.”

Nina slammed her fists onto her hips. Her many bracelets jangled. “How else you gonna check her?”

“I’m not sure that I am going to check her at all that way.”

“What? You here to help or not?”

“Well, do you have any sterile rubber gloves?”

“No, why would that-”

“Because no matter how hard I scrub my hands in your bathroom, they are still going to have plenty of bacteria on them. I don’t think your daughter needs an infection to add to everything else. Trust me, we’ll still know when the baby is coming out. Besides-”

“If my grandbaby dies, I’m coming for you.”

“Mom, please stop. He’s just-”

“Don’t you worry about me, baby. I can take care of myself. He’s not going to-”

“Mom.” Jenna made it into at least three syllables. Her eyes teared up.

“It’s okay, baby.” Nina leaned over and gave her daughter an awkward hug.

Jenna started to sob.

I turned around and wiped the sweat from my forehead. I’ve got to get Nina to tone it down or get out of here. She’ s oozing stress. And cheap perfume.

Jenna sucked in a breath through her nose.

I spun back around.

Nina stood up and looked at me.

Jenna gasped.

Another contraction. I squatted down and put my hand on her arm. “Just breathe. Just breathe. You’re doing fine.”

Jenna grunted out an “It hurts.”

I looked up at Nina. Her eyes were wide and her nostrils flared.

She shook her head. “What are we gonna do if there’s a problem?”

Jenna looked at me. Her whole face and neck looked tense. Her eyes were wide, like she was pleading.

I rubbed her arm gently. “You’re going to be fine. Just keep taking as deep of breaths as you can.”

“How do you even know, you haven’t even checked her?”

“Corbin, how can I help?”

“Just hold on a sec, London.”

“Right.”

Some kind of commotion started up in the front room.

That’s all we need.

Jenna groaned again.

I put my other hand on her belly. The contraction was already subsiding.

That one was shorter. She’s freaking out too much.

I forced myself to smile. I hoped it came off as comforting. “It’s okay. You’re doing great. Deep breaths.”

Within a few seconds the contraction was over.

The squatting was hurting my legs, so I stood. I looked around the room, hoping to get some kind of inspiration.

That’s when I noticed the radio.

“What kind of music helps you relax?”

Nina grabbed my arm. “Music? What the hell are you doing?”

London grabbed Nina’s arm. “Look, he knows what he’s doing.”

Nina let go of me and turned to face London. “Oh, oh, oh, you did not just grab me.”

I took advantage of the distraction by bending over and whispering to Jenna. “I know you love her, and it’s okay either way, but do you want your mom to be in here?”

She shook her head and mouthed the word “no.”

“I certainly did just grab you. You’ve got to calm down.”

I leaned even closer and whispered, “What about your sister?”

“Yes.”

“Calm down? You calm down. My baby girl is having a baby.”

I straightened and turned.

Both London and Nina had their hands on their hips. They were both leaning forward and their faces were only a couple of inches apart.

I took a deep breath and used the very best authority voice I could muster. “I’m going to need a glass of cold water for Jenna, I’m also going to need a minute to talk to her alone.”

Nina shot around and got in my face. “What?”

I narrowed my eyes. “You heard me. I need to ask Jenna a couple of questions, and I need to hear her answers without any outside influence.”

We stared each other down for a moment, and finally Nina broke.

She muttered something that sounded like “aight,” and stormed out of the room.

“Hey London.” I reached out toward her.

She took my hand. “Yeah?”

Somehow, I hadn’t expected her to grab it, but it felt good just the same.

“Thanks for being here. I need to ask you a big favor.”

“What?”

“Send the sister in with the water. Then do whatever you’ve got to do, but keep the mom out of here.”

London pursed her lips then nodded. “Sure.”

“Thanks, London.”

She turned and left.

I took a deep breath and focused again on Jenna.

If things don’t get better soon this could get real ugly.

The sound of two angry women shouting echoed down the hallway.

I hopped up, closed the door, and went over to the stereo. “So, Jenna, what is it you listen to when you want to relax?”

Note: this is a follow up from yesterday’s article, and it originally appeared in Randy’s eZine. It is reprinted here with permission.

Last month we talked about the theory of pacing. About how when you have a fast-action scene, you spend a lot more words, showing every detail of the action. And when you have a dull scene, you blip through in just a few words.

This month, we’ll try to make that practical by looking at an example.

Since I have a choice in showing either an exciting example or a dull one, I’m going to show an exciting one from THE KEY TO REBECCA, by Ken Follett.

We’ll find something that may seem surprising. Even in a very fast scene, there are places where the pace slows way down. Here’s the setting:

It’s 1942 Egypt, and Erwin Rommel is closing in on Cairo. Our hero is William Vandam of British Intelligence, hunting down a spy who is Rommel’s prime source of information. If Vandam fails, then Cairo will fall, and with it all of Egypt.

In this scene, the spy, Wolff, has kidnapped Vandam’s son Billy and girlfriend Elene, but Vandam has pursued them. After Elene purposely wrecks the car, Wolff gets out to fight Vandam. We watch the scene from Elene’s point of view.

Paragraph 1: Vandam jumped forward again. This time Wolff dodged back. Vandam kicked out, but Wolff was out of range. Wolff jabbed with the knife. Elene saw it rip through Vandam’s trousers and draw blood. Wolff stabbed again, but Vandam had stepped away. A dark stain appeared on his trouser leg.

Randy sez: In this single paragraph, the pace is as fast as a knife fight can be. We see six actions and reactions by the two men.

Paragraph 2: Elene looked at Billy. The boy lay limply on the floor of the car, his eyes closed. Elene clambered over into the back and lifted him onto the seat. She could not tell whether he was dead or alive. She touched his face. He did not stir. "Billy," she said. "Oh, Billy."

Randy sez: In this paragraph, the pace slows down sharply. Why? What is Follett is doing here?

The answer is that Follett is giving the reader a chance to rest. You can only show fast action for a short time before the reader begins numbing. In this one-paragraph lull, Follett gives you a chance to recover. A little.

Paragraph 3: She looked outside again. Vandam was down on one knee. His left arm hung limply from a shoulder covered with blood. He held his right arm out in a defensive gesture. Wolff approached him.

Randy sez: The pace is still slow here, but the tension is ramping up hard. Wolff and Vandam are positioning themselves for the next series of moves. Vandam looks ready to collapse. It’s not a fair fight. The odds are heavily against our hero.

Paragraph 4: Elene jumped out of the car. She still had the broken-off gear stick in her hand. She saw Wolff bring back his arm, ready to slash at Vandam once more. She rushed up behind Wolff, stumbling in the sand. Wolff struck at Vandam. Vandam jerked sideways, dodging the blow. Elene raised the gear stick high in the air and brought it down with all her might on the back of Wolff’s head. He seemed to stand still for a moment.

Randy sez: The pace turns electric again, with every detail now shown, frame by frame. There are six actions here in this single paragraph, each one an emotional hit point for the reader. Now watch Follett bring the pace smoothly down to normal speed again in a series of short paragraphs:

Paragraph 5: Elene said: "Oh, God."

Paragraph 6: Then she hit him again.

Paragraph 7: She hit him a third time.

Paragraph 8: He fell down.

Paragraph 9: She hit him again.

Paragraph 10: Then she dropped the gear stick and knelt beside Vandam.

Paragraph 11: "Well done," he said weakly.

Overall, the pace of the scene is very high, but it’s not constant. Follett varies the pace, faster, slower, faster, slower.

Like a violinist using vibrato to constantly vary the pitch, Follett makes the entire passage read better by constantly varying the pace.

This is a very important principle for your fastest action scenes: Vary the pace. The fast parts will feel faster by contrast with the slow parts. And in the slow parts, build tension by showing the preparations for more action in exquisite detail.

Your reader will love you for it.

Award-winning novelist Randy Ingermanson, "the Snowflake Guy," publishes the Advanced Fiction Writing E-zine, with more than 16,000 readers, every month. If you want to learn the craft and marketing of fiction, AND make your writing more valuable to editors, AND have FUN doing it, visit http://www.AdvancedFictionWriting.com.

Download your free Special Report on Tiger Marketing and get a free 5-Day Course in How To Publish a Novel.

Note: This article is reprinted with permission.

by Randy Ingermanson

When I sold my first novel, one of the comments I got back from the editorial team was this: "The pace for this novel was perfect — never too fast nor too slow."

I was surprised, because I’d never thought much about pace. Certain things come easy to every author, and other things come hard. Pace comes easy to me.

What is pace?

It’s the amount of time you spend on each part of the story.

The Goldilocks Principle applies to pace — it should be neither too fast nor too slow, but just right.

There isn’t any tidy little rule you can memorize to define what the perfect pace is for a story. A general rule is to vary the pace to suit the tension in the scene.

So most often, you’ll want to zip through the boring parts of the story and take more time on the exciting parts.

That seems very strange, doesn’t it? If you’re showing a high-speed car chase, surely you’d want to make it read fast, wouldn’t you? Which means using fewer words, doesn’t it?

Yes and no.

Yes, you want it to read fast. But no, you don’t want to spend fewer words on it, you want more.

There’s really no paradox here. Ever seen a football game in which one of the players makes a huge play, dodging first one defender, then another, all the way down the field, finally dancing into the end zone for a touchdown? What happens next?

You can bet your shirt that the networks are going to show the whole thing AGAIN, this time in slow motion, dragging out every twist, turn, head-fake, missed tackle, fancy step, jump, roll, block, clip, and lost helmet, all the way down the field.

Showing it in slow-motion takes a lot longer, but it doesn’t cut the pace. It INCREASES the pace.

Why?

Because when the play ran at normal speed, you missed most of the action. You saw a guy running and you saw guys missing him. It all went by in a blur so fast that you couldn’t take it all in.

When they ran it in super slo-mo, you saw every little move. You saw your man do an inside-outside-inside fake. You saw the defender respond to each fake in turn, finally overcommitting in the wrong direction.

Then your man cut to his right and sped on to the next defender, faking left, then right. You saw the defender freeze, then set himself low for a tackle. Then your man leaped right over the defender.

And on down the field. When your man reached the sidelines, you saw him threading a needle between his blocker and that thin chalk line. You saw every block, every weave. You saw the last desperate flying tackler miss your man’s heels by an inch.

As he entered the end-zone, you saw his gait change to a high-stepping strut, saw him raise the ball in triumph. And then the normal pace resumed.

It took ten times as long to see it that way, but this time, YOU SAW IT ALL. You saw every action, every reaction, in beautiful, sharply cut detail. That’s what you came to see. With that one play, you got your nickel’s worth for the game.

In your novel, the moral equivalent of super-slo-mo involves spending far more words than you normally would, but using much shorter sentences and shorter paragraphs.

You alternate rapidly between what your point-of-view character is doing and what his opposition is doing.

If your paragraphs are normally three sentences apiece, they might drop down to two sentences or one.

If your sentences are normally ten words apiece, they might fall to five words. Or three.

Or one.

You can’t keep that up very long, of course. That would be crazy. In the same way, it would be crazy to watch an entire football game in slow motion. You want to ramp up the pace only for the high-tension scenes, where the stakes are high.

Slowing down the pace works the opposite way. Longer sentences. Longer paragraphs. Fewer actions and reactions. More interior monologue, longer dialogue.

Why does this work? It’s really very simple. The reader reads fiction hoping to have a Powerful Emotional Experience.

Inside a scene, you provide this by showing actions and reactions between your point-of-view character and the other characters. Every time you show your POV character reacting to the other characters, you have a chance to provide an emotional hit point to your reader.

If you have short actions and short reactions (using short sentences and paragraphs), then you score emotional points with your reader faster. If you lengthen out the actions and reactions, then you score fewer emotional points.

Naturally, it only makes sense to speed up the pace when the tension is high. If you try this when the tension is low, the story is going to drag. (Imagine showing the team’s huddle in slow-motion.)

There are an infinite variety of paces you can use as you work through each scene. You speed it up and slow it down, possibly several times in the scene.

How do you know when you’ve got it right?

That’s easy. You’ve got it right when it feels right. Fiction is about creating a Powerful Emotional Experience in your reader. Tweak the pace until you’re doing that, and your reader will feel like Goldilocks.

Award-winning novelist Randy Ingermanson, "the Snowflake Guy," publishes the Advanced Fiction Writing E-zine, with more than 16,000 readers, every month. If you want to learn the craft and marketing of fiction, AND make your writing more valuable to editors, AND have FUN doing it, visit http://www.AdvancedFictionWriting.com.

Download your free Special Report on Tiger Marketing and get a free 5-Day Course in How To Publish a Novel.