The Crazed Wench and her Co-authors: The Writing Process of R.R. Goodwill

Give your Imaginary Friends an inch, and they’ll take a foot. The Characters in my books have become so real to me over the past two or three years that I’ve started letting them sound off on the ol’ blog now and then. I do try to keep them from invading other people’s blogs, and e-mails I write (especially to people who Just Wouldn’t Understand), and for the most part, they behave (although The Pixie insists on popping in on Kendra’s fabulous Blog Party this week, and…I declare, she’ll be ankle-deep in imaginary confetti by the end of it…).

So now they’re starting to interrupt me when I’m writing their stories. :-P

Take the time I was writing a scene from The Treasure of Rainbow Rock in my Heirs of Dunsmüir story-arc (Ýdára multiverse):

Black Text = Actual story (whoo!)     Purple Text = Me     Teal Text = Isabella

Storm-blue Text = Anton     Spring-green Text = Ciaran     Sky-blue Text = Jason

Blue-purple text = Huckle

(Edited due to length)

“You’re speaking like somone who means to…to do away with themselves,” Anton replied, trying to keep his voice calm. “Please tell me I’m mistaken.”

     She whirled to face him, her eyes wild, her mouth open as if to reply…but then she clamped it shut and backed away from him, eyes downcast, turning her head towards the Plain below. He fancied

 

Why do you always write these scenes from his point of view? Am I never to have my thoughts known to your readers?

Isabella, don’t interrupt me; I’m on a roll. Besides, I don’t fully understand your personality yet, and I want to do it right. I know you wouldn’t have me blunder my way through your story and botch up your personality, aye?

*Sigh* Correct. But it does seem quite unfair that Anton gets all of what you call “screen time.”

Hopefully that will change once I’ve done some more research on INTJ Females. Surely you can appreciate that.

Very well; proceed with the scene.

Thank you.

[He fancied] he saw a glint of fear in her eyes just before she turned away. Fear…and guilt. Awkward silence, charged with urgency and an undercurrent of panic, reigned for several eternal seconds.

     Anton swallowed hard. “Oh, Liebchen, don’t do that.”

* * *

     Isabella squeezed her eyes shut. “Anton….”

     He recoiled. Her voice was like a dagger in his heart. He felt like nothing he said was helping—like she had made her decision, and he was powerless to change her mind or prevent it. With a sigh, he bowed from the waist. “As you wish, my lady,” he replied sadly. Then he turned his back on her, intending to run as fast as he could…anywhere. It didn’t matter where, so long as he got far enough away from here.

Must you be so melodramatic? Are you certain I would truly be so wicked as to hurl myself off a cliff?

Under normal circumstances, no, but at this point, you’re under the influence of the Plain of the Moon. Whatever evil fills that spot, it preys on a person’s greatest fears and deepest pains and drives them to act unwontedly. Savvy?

*Eyeroll* I suppose now you are going to have me throw myself into his arms for comfort.

Not exactly. If you’d stop interrupting me, you’ll see what happens to you both.

Say, is this the part where we “kiss and make up”? <:-D

Dude, I think she’d throw you off the cliff if you tried it. Be patient. And please—both of you—pipe down and let me write.

Shutting it now.

Proceed.

Oy.

But just as he began to take the first step away, he felt a firm grip on his hand, halting his momentum.

     “Anton?”

     He looked over his shoulder to see Isabella, arm extended, clinging to his hand with pleading eyes, despite her otherwise expressionless face.

     “Wait,” she murmured. “Do not leave me alone, or I may actually….” She shook her head, unable to finish. “You are in the right. I cannot go through with it—if you are here.”

(And you’ll have to wait ’till I finish the book to read the rest—mwahaha—’cos I’m mean like that.)

(If I even decide to keep this scene….)

Or even last night, when I felt inspired to scribble a few lines before bed:

     Fiona lay curled up in a fetal position, one arm hidden up to the elbow under her pillow, supporting her head. The other held her plush bear close to her heart, its furry brown head cradled in the palm of her hand, one perky little ear poking out between her thumb and forefinger.

     Anton lifted one corner of his mouth and shook his head slightly. That everlasting bear of hers, he thought indulgently. Quite possibly the most useless and least practical thing to tote along on a dangerous quest…yet I suppose it makes sense. If she’d left the thing at home, one of the orphans might have run off with it and lost it in the woods somewhere, or one of the dogs might have decided it’d make a fine chew-toy. Never mind that it might fall out of her pack while we’re scaling a thousand-foot mountain, or be swept away in that river we’ll have to cross tomorrow.

     He chuckled, suppressing the sound with both hands to avoid waking the sleepers, recalling the stories Ciaran had told him about Fiona’s bear. He walked quietly—more or less, with the occasional snorts of laughter—to the edge of camp, and leaning against a tree, gave full vent to his mirth.

Anton! That’s not how I wanted to write this scene!

Aw, I know. But your vision of me just standing there gravely contemplating the future of Dunsmüir, and musing about what the Heirs turned out to be—well, that was just too gloomy. I had to liven it up a bit.

By making fun of my poor old bear. Thanks a LOT.

Not making fun—just amusing myself at the thought of his surviving two shipwrecks, a fire, and nearly being thrown out. In reverse order.

*Sigh* You’re a stinker, you know that?

*Wink* But you love me anyhow.

Yeah, I do. *Ruffles hair*

Can I get back to writing? I’ll see if I can salvedge this scene….

 

     “What am I thinking?” he guffawed. “Of course nothing will happen to that blessed bear! If he can escape being thrown out with the rubbish, be plucked out of a burning ship, and survive not one, but two shipwrecks…well, now, what’s a little treasure-hunt through the evilest, most accursed land in all Ýdára? Ooh-hah! I declare, that bear leads a charmed life.”

Well, now you’ve done it. How can I write that loverly bit I envisioned now? Having you go back to camp and somberly ponder how well suited the Heirs are (or aren’t) to rule a kingdom…well, that’d be…awkward.

Do I really need to engage in such a brown study?

That makes no sense, grammatically.

Of course not. Our Anka’s tired, so naturally she gets our dialogue mixed now and then. Seriously, though, must I be so gloomy here?

Well, I was going to have you note that Isabella, of the four, is really the best suited to leadership, having been born to royalty and all….

Oh. OH. *Sunny grin* Well, now, that’s different.

*Eyeroll*

Thought you’d like that, boy-o. *Smirk*

Well, bother; now I feel guilty.

Perhaps I can stick your musings before your fit of laughter at Master Fuzz-Wuzz’s expense.

Yeah, that makes more sense.

Your pardon, lass, but where might I be in this merry wee scene?

Sleeping, my dear Gaelman.*

(Anka Note: Here Anton made a comment that was funny at a quarter-to-eleven at night, when I was practically falling asleep at the keyboard, but in the light of day seemed a little naughty. Must put a tighter bridle on my brain when it’s in Anton Mode….)

Enough. This was supposed to be our Anka’s writing-time ere she retired for the night in her world. You have interfered and wasted her time.

Not wasted entirely. I now know better how to write this scene. And I did want to include Anton’s thoughts concerning my bear leading a charmed life, so it hasn’t been an entirely unprofitable time.

But now you need to get to bed, Anka; you’ll be worn out tomorrow if you stay up too late again. Not that you stay up late that often, mind you—just saying—you know—um….

*Indulgent smile* I know. And relax, Jason; I’m not mad, and I know what you’re trying to say.

G’night, all.

*BIG HUGS* Goodnight, Anka!!!

Erm, Huckle, you’re not even in this story….

Oh. Oh, yeah. That’s right—I forgot. Well, I felt like you needed a Huckle-hug, anyway.

That I did. Thanks, boy-o.

OK, to bed now. For reals.

So there you have a peek into the thought-process of future Christian Fantasy author R.R. Goodwill. ;-)

It’s kinda funny; it’s like my Characters are my roommates at some boarding-house, and they’re all putting in their two-cents’-worth about how I write their autobiographies. :-P

Which is kinda cool. And whenever I find something cool or funny, I like to share it. Hope y’all enjoyed it. :-D

Until next time, Gentle Readers,

God bless,

~R~

*Gaelman = Reference to Ciaran/Jamie’s Gaelic (basically Scotch-Irish) ancestry. The Ýdáran equivalent of “Scotsman” or “Irishman.”