Holiday Giveaway!

NaNoWriMo is over and we’re into December. And what better way to celebrate the holiday season than with a give away? Win books, a $50 Amazon Gift Card, or other fun prizes both through the group rafflecopter below, and a special give away of Karissa Laurel’s . Find details about both below!

Group giveaway:
What happens when 14 of the best authors on the planet get together just before the holidays?
We start giving stuff away.
http://www.rafflecopter.com/rafl/display/f25fd96d1/?
From November 29, 2017 through December 12, 2017, we’ll be featuring a Rafflecopter for you chance to win a signed book of your choice, an e-book of your choice, or a $50 Amazon Gift Card!
 
All you have to do is follow each of the 14 authors on Bookbub. And we made it easy to do. With a Rafflecopter giveaway


ALSO, each of the authors above will be featuring the giveaway on their Facebook pages, Twitter accounts, newsletters, blogs, and wherever else they can think of and you could win there, too!

So follow all of them on Facebook for even more chances to win books, swag, and other great prizes during this pre-holiday giveaway.

Click to follow:

Midnight Burning:

Love gods and fantasy? Join this second Rafflecopter giveaway for a copy of Karissa Laurel’s book Midnight Burning:

When the police notify Solina Mundy that her twin brother, Mani, is dead, she heads for Alaska. Once there, she begins to suspect Mani’s friends know more about his death than they’ve let on. Skyla, an ex-Marine, is the only one willing to help her.

As Solina and Skyla delve into the mystery surrounding Mani’s death, Solina is stunned to learn that her own life is tied to Mani’s friends, his death, and the fate of the entire world. If she can’t learn to control her newfound gifts and keep her friends safe, a long-lost dominion over mortals will rise again, and everything she knows will fall into darkness.

Advertisements

Outlining (as a Panster)

Happy June 28th, or as we’re calling it around my house, release day! I’m very pleased to announce my new style guide, Building the Bones: Outlining Your Novel, (part of the Red Adept guide series: Beyond the Style Manual) is now available!

Whenever I’m teaching a writing class, I try to make the point that there is no “right” way to write. If you need a binder full of notes before you start writing, that’s fine. If you want to jump right in and see how far you get, that’s fine as well. In perhaps the least sinister use of quoting Machiavelli, the end really does justify the means when it comes to writing. If you end up with a good completed manuscript, it really doesn’t matter how you got there.

When I first started writing, I was a die hard “pantser” (i.e. someone who “flies by the seat of their pants” and just starts writing with no outline). If someone had told me back then that I would one day be the one writing a “how to” guide on outlining, I would have told them they were crazy. After over a decade of learning to better my writing/developing my style, however, I’ve found myself stretching across the full range of outlining styles (from the basic character-goal-obstacle outline to a full scene-by-scene) depending on what each story has demanded. Though I still tend to fall on the less outline than more side of things when working out my novels, having done just about everything in the name of working out a story has allowed me to pick up a number of outlining techniques that can help nearly any writing style–so perhaps having pantser instincts actually has made it easier to write a how to guide than someone who has always used the same kind of full outline.

So, no matter your writing style, if you want to write a novel and aren’t sure how to get started or are generally a pantser but keep finding your novel fizzling out before you can get it finished, consider picking up Building the Bones. Hopefully all my years of floundering around will save you a little trouble.

Building the Bones: Outlining Your Novel
Now available HERE on Amazon Kindle through Red Adept Publishing

Do you have a story you’ve always wanted to write, but weren’t sure how to begin? Have you tried pantsing and floundered, unsure how to finish your novel? Learning the simple basics of outlining can help you plot with confidence.

This instructional guide booklet covers the easy, straightforward techniques you need to plan your story before you write. These guidelines will aid you in organizing your ideas no matter what genre you write or what age group you write for. Whether you use paper or a computer to plan with, these outlining concepts will help you navigate the unknowns of your imagination so you can bring your story to life.

New Release: Raining Embers

The day is finally here. Raining Embers is now available in ebook! (Paperback coming soon*).

PalmRaining Emberser Tash always follows the path of least resistance. He has an unusual disability involving his hearing. But in theocratic Latysia, being different isn’t a good thing, so he conceals his problem.

Brier Chastain’s malady is even more debilitating, and she often must take to her bed for long periods. Her days are spent in meaningless pursuits as she awaits an arranged marriage.

When Palmer and Brier are kidnapped on the same night, they meet and discover that their so-called disabilities are actually budding powers. They are the incarnations of Order and Chaos. With their country on the brink of war, the two must step into their predestined roles and learn to take control of their own destinies.

Buy now on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Google Play, and Kobo 

*Interested in Paperback? Sign up for the Jessica Dall Newsletter to be the first to know/receive the chance to purchase an advanced, signed copy.

Raining Embers

Chapter One

In the near darkness, the frightful sound of shouting people and clashing swords echoed around the wooden book chest. The battle raged on outside even as the city burned. The little girl curled up more tightly, too afraid to leave the relative safety of her hiding place. Voices rose and fell, some familiar, some with accents she’d never heard. A man cried out, but the cacophony swallowed the noise before it could finish.

Smoke began to filter into the cracks of the chest, turning the air thick, hazy. The girl swallowed, blinking too quickly as her eyes burned. Her father had been gone by the time she had made it through the havoc to the library. But he had to come back. He was always in the library. Day or night, she could always find him there. Even in all of this chaos, he would have to be somewhere.

The smoke grew thicker, the heat of it making the girl’s lungs burn with each breath. Her head swimming, she couldn’t wait anymore. She pushed the chest open with the soles of her feet, and a fresh wave of smoke rushed in at her. Mostly by feel, she climbed out, trying to find something familiar, some landmark to show her which way to go in the fiery nightmare. Spotting a patch of lighter smoke, she crawled forward, the normally cool marble of the library floor scorching.

Something creaked. A beam fell, blazing, in front of her. The air shimmered with heat. She had to stop, her mind too sluggish to find another route. The smoke attacked her, working its way inside her lungs. Her heart tried to race but couldn’t manage. After a few more inches forward, her body failed, refusing to move. Her eyes fluttered shut, firelight dancing on her eyelids.

Darkness descended. The haze turned to black, nothingness racing in on her.

And it felt… right.

Palmer’s eyes flew open as he jerked back to reality, the burning library replaced by the dark classroom under the temple. Shaking his head, he focused on the fire in the center of the ring of acolytes’ chairs. Certainly, learning this type of divination could have waited until winter. With summer at its height, they might as well have been in an oven with the entire class of acolytes packed inside the windowless room, along with a fire pit. Between the heat and the smoke, even he was going to start thinking he was having “visions,” as the Seers wanted them to believe. Fire, battle, and little girls indeed. Perhaps their classes were truly a study in mass hallucination.

“Um… a bird?” One of the other acolytes’ voices clicked somewhere in Palmer’s head, his bizarrely focused hearing jumping from the crackle of the fire to the boy’s words.

“What kind of bird?” the Master coached, standing behind Danilo Danati as they both stared into the accursed fire.

“A black one?”

Palmer rolled his eyes and looked back at the fire. A log broke, and the voices disappeared, giving way to the new sound. In any other class, Palmer might attempt to force his mind to focus, to accept that the words were what he should hear over any other sound in the room. After being forced into an oven to learn more about false prophesying, however, he was inclined to filter out whatever imagined bird Danilo and Master Franco were discussing as background noise. Since he had to live with the odd affliction of being able to hear only one sound at a time, at least he could use it to his benefit now and again.

“I think it’s the city burning,” Gianni’s voice broke in from his spot in the circle next to Palmer. “Like in Sage Chmela-Parrino’s vision.”

“That’s supposed to be an earthquake.” Luca looked up from whatever he’d been carving into the side of his stool. “‘The ground shall open, and buildings shall fall’?”

A buzz arose as more and more acolytes debated. Palmer let his mind filter it all out as he wiped at the sweat attempting to trickle down the back of his neck.

“That is enough,” Master Franco cut through the din. “As it seems we are not going to regain focus for today, we will have to pick up again next week. I expect an essay on what was learned today, in my hand before the fire is lit.”

Unhappy groans resonated around the room, but no one debated, packing up their books. Palmer couldn’t escape that sweltering room quickly enough, shoving everything into his own sack before moving out into the maze of passageways beneath the temple and toward his little cell.

Palmer couldn’t decide if the underground complex was a blessing or a curse during the summer. Generally cooler than upstairs—when the Seers didn’t light blazing fires in some weak attempt at fortune telling—the dampness in the air always soaked into the cells below the temple floor, the rooms flooding if the rains came too long or too often. He had long before put everything in his room on stilts, trying to save what meager possessions he had from rotting.

Pulling his cell’s door open, he stepped into the small space, barely looking around as he dropped his bag on the cot and pulled out his spare set of robes. They were slightly soiled but at least not soaked through with sweat.

Someone knocked, and Egidio’s voice sounded through the door. “Palm?”

“It’s open,” Palmer answered, pulling the damp brown robes off over his head before spreading them over the small desk. They wouldn’t likely dry fully in the musty cell, but at least they wouldn’t likely mold, either.

The door swung out with a creak, and Egidio stepped through only enough to let it close again, leaving Palmer enough room to maneuver in the small space. “I’m going to fail.”

Palmer sighed. This conversation again. It was that time in the semester. He pulled the new robe over his head. “You’re not going to fail.”

“Another couple bad marks, and I will.” Egidio skirted Palmer, sitting next to the bag on the cot. “My father is going to kill me.”

Releasing a breath, Palmer took a seat on the low stool in front of the desk, readying himself for the familiar exchange. After six years, Palmer could nearly do both parts. The subject always changed, of course, but it seemed Egidio Dioli had yet to find any part of being an acolyte that suited his skill set. Palmer had to imagine that if Signore Dioli, semiprosperous merchant, hadn’t managed to scrape together full room and board, his son would have long been ejected from study at the Church.

“What class now?”

“Master Agnelli’s.” Egidio rested his mousy face in his hands. “I have no talent in charts.”

“Give it here.” Palmer motioned toward Egidio and picked up his own stub of a pencil.

Egidio fished around in his bag and pulled out a slightly crumpled paper. He held it out for Palmer to take. “Did you already turn yours in?”

Palmer nodded, not feeling the need to bring up the fact that he had finished while still in class.

“It isn’t fair.” Egidio slumped forward. “You don’t even try, and you have at least betas in everything.”

“Lucky for me, or I’d be out on the street.” Palmer shot Egidio a look before scanning the chart, looking for errors.

“Oh… sorry, Palm.” Egidio stumbled over his words. “You know I didn’t mean—”

Palmer waved the apology away, rubbing out a few wrong marks with his thumb before replacing them. Even if Egidio had the tendency to end up with his foot in his mouth, he never truly had a bad thing to say about Palmer’s circumstances. Maybe that had allowed them to become friends in the first place—Egidio, the talentless son of a family who could barely afford to keep his place; and Palmer, the parentless Ward of the Church who had managed to stay on when most of his peers had aged out, through some combination of dumb luck and an innate talent at astrology. Compared to the grand—or at least wealthy—families most of their classmates came from, Palmer and Egidio were only slightly better than the beggars who wandered around the slums by the river, well outside the walled complex that was the Augarian.

After a few more corrections, Palmer handed the paper back. “Trace that over. It should be more than enough to pass now.”

Egidio mumbled some thanks, shoving the paper back into his bag as though the powers that be would know he’d cheated just because Egidio was touching the chart. He tied the bag shut then looked back at Palmer. “Did you hear about Sage Chmela-Parrino’s vision?”

Somehow, Palmer refrained from groaning. “Parts of it. Something about the world ending?”

“He said he saw the Augarian destroyed, the ground opening up, a god wreaking vengeance on us all.”

Palmer barely managed not to roll his eyes. “Gio, some Seer or another predicts the end of the world once a decade. I don’t think we need to worry about this one any more than any of the others.”

“If you say so.” Egidio rested his arms on his knees. “But I know if the sun suddenly goes dark, I’m going to be a little worried.”

“Goes dark?” Palmer frowned.

“Supposedly, that’s how it starts. The sun goes dark. Then it’s only a matter of time before the gods destroy us all.”

Palmer pressed his lips together as he recalled one of the mistakes he hadn’t corrected on Egidio’s chart, for the sake of believability. A potential solar eclipse, not that far away.

The Seers were going to have a field day.

Catching Openings

With November slowly creeping up–and thus the start of National Novel Writing Month almost upon us–I am getting more and more questions about how to start novels. I have previously touched on what is my standard advice is for rough drafts (namely, find the inciting incident and start somewhere near there. Worry about the exact opening in edits) but for those who still are looking for pointers, here are a few things to keep in mind:

Do: Try to start close to the inciting incident or, to put it another way, “on the day everything changes.” While several scenes of your character going about their life might be helpful for you as a writer, following a character wandering around with no sign of a plot starting isn’t very exciting for the reader.

Don’t: Start a scene and then fall into an info dump. Just as bad as starting too early is coming in close to the inciting incident and then spending pages 2 through 5 telling the reader everything that’s happened in your character’s life leading up to that point (or even just what’s happened the past few days that aren’t “the day everything changes”). Try to draw readers in with something happening in the present before stopping the plot to tell them a bunch of information about characters they don’t yet have any reason to care about.

Do: Start with action. Do your best to find something happening that will interest your reader immediately. This might be dropping into a conversation, your character taking a test that will make or break their schooling, or the beginning of a car crash. If it’s some sort of action that the reader can immediately connect to, you’re in good shape.

Don’t: Begin with your character waking up (or perhaps being chased). Connected to above, while it’s tempting as a natural start point, your character waking up is not a great start to a story–mostly because (unless your character is waking up to someone attacking them or something similar) there isn’t much to draw the reader in. Everyone wakes up in the morning (at least everyone in your reading audience likely does). A character waking up and getting ready for the day is generally mundane. On the opposite side, the first instinct many writers have when they hear “start with action” is to start with the main character being chased by something. Those openings can work if done well, but they can also easily feel overdone as they are so commonly used.

Do: Remember everything can be changed in editing. If you start too early or too late, if you start writing and then realize that that opening scene is rather, well, boring, you can always change it after the fact. For my novel, Raining Embers, coming out in November, I changed the opening twice myself and another time with my editor. Starting in general is more important than starting perfectly. After all, you can’t edit a blank page.

———————————————————————————–

Read an excerpt from Raining Embers–coming November 3, 2015–here

Raining Embers

Taking “I” Out of It

Happy Day 6 of NaNoWriMo. Hopefully it is going well for everyone participating–and even if it’s not, the month is still young.

An interesting fact, I have to say, that I have found as an editor is that many new writers gravitate to first person. Whether if it’s because it feels more natural to tell a story as “I” or just a quirk that makes it more popular, I’m not sure. Before I go on, I want to say there is obviously nothing wrong (or inherently inferior) with using first person for narration. First, Third, and even Second person all have their place depending on what kind of story someone’s telling. It’s all about what works for the book.

The problem many newer writers writing in first person have, however, is that pesky pronoun, “I” cropping up over and over again. As the narrator is “I” in first person novels, there is obviously no way to fully remove the word from your writing (nor should you try to). What you can do, however, is find some ways to cut down on the repetitive: “I [verb]. I [verb]. I [verb]” sentences, which make  “I” feel a little too front and center.

1) Remove filtering. I previously discussed “filtering” in regard to self-censoring. This is the other kind. Rather than trying not to filter the actual content, this is trying not to filter content through the narrator. If you are seeing a lot of “I saw X”/”I watched X”/”I heard X” you are likely filtering. To get rid of the repetitive “I [verb]” simply remove the narrator from sentences where they aren’t needed. That is:

I saw the car turn down the street.

becomes

The car turned down the street. 

As everything in a first person narration is being related by one person, the reader can assume everything happening is being seen by “I” It is perfectly fine to remove the “I” from these sentences to cut down on repetitiveness.

2) Change up sentence structure. Since not every sentence will allow for “I” to be removed (e.g. “I walked around the table”) try to change up sentence structure if you feel like you’re falling into a string of “I [verb]”s. For example, rather than writing something like:

I opened the door. I looked down the hall. I didn’t see anyone…

consider something like:

Opening the door, I looked down the hall. No one was in sight…

By joining the first two sentences, and starting with a verb, you don’t fall into that repetitive structure. You also lose one of the “I”s being used. By switching the last sentence to remove the narrator from the action, the third is gone, leaving the remaining “I” feeling much less noticeable.

As with anything in writing, don’t take these tips to an extreme. If you have a section that works very well with “I [verb]. I [verb]. I [verb]” you don’t necessarily need to change it. If things start feeling repetitive, however, or “I” begins to feel overused, see if you can use these two tips to make things a little less awkward.

———————————————————————————————–

News Alert: Broken Line novella, The Copper Rebellion, is now available to buy for only $0.99 or receive it for FREE with newsletter sign up. Find out more here!

The Copper Rebellion

The Porcelain Child: Sneak Peek

With Book Two of the Broken Line series, The Porcelain Child, out one week from today, today’s post is an exclusive sneak peek:

 

Chapter One

The porcelain a little chipped, Mary still recognized the woman in the miniature. There were enough pictures of her around, after all. Mary supposed she shouldn’t be surprised to find it amongst the small box they had sent her of Richard Seymour’s affects—even as the parliamentarian he was. Queen Adela wasn’t a symbol of monarchy, after all. Even after everything, she was still the romantic heroine.

And Mary supposed it likewise wasn’t surprising the surviving Seymours had sent it to her. Mary hadn’t received much from Richard Seymour’s estate—she hadn’t expected to—but it seemed to be the logical conclusion for someone going through Richard’s things to send a picture of Adela Tilden to her daughter. Mary couldn’t imagine the remaining Seymours would have much love for Queen Adela themselves.

It was likely they would send it to Aberfirth or use it for target practice.

Touching the gold filigree around the little portrait, Mary finally set it down. Of all the portraits Mary had seen, this one didn’t look the least familiar. Adela couldn’t have been much more than fifteen in it. A rare portrait from before her short reign as queen, when she had been a baron’s daughter living so far north she was barely on the map. Still, looking down and off to the side, as if the viewer were below her interest, the picture still seemed bizarrely fitting—as though she already considered herself the viewer’s better, far before she had the right to.

The door opened, then slammed shut. William rested back against it, breathing heavily.

Mary frowned, attempting to recover from her thoughts. “What…?”

Motioning for her silence, William winced as someone knocked. He looked at her, mouthed, Help me.

Giving him a suspicious look, Mary moved forward all the same, letting him hide behind the dark wood as she pulled the door open.

Mr. Johnson, red-faced and soaking wet, looked up at her, puffing. “Where is he?”

Mary blinked, could feel William tense through the door. “Who?”

“Him,” the tutor seethed. “Lord Kedington. I heard him come this way.”

“He must have gone further down the hall, then.” Mary glanced out the door as though looking where William might have gone. “I haven’t seen him.”

Mr. Johnson didn’t move, hands clenched. A head shorter than her and red as a beet, he still somehow remained intimidating. Even while dripping on the hardwood.

Mary looked at him, unmoving, daring him to call her a liar.

Mr. Johnson didn’t answer.

“If you’re wanting to catch him, sir, you should likely keep looking,” Mary finished.

Another tense breath, and Mr. Johnson bowed shallowly at the waist, stalking off as his wet shoes squeaked after him.

Waiting a moment, Mary finally shut the door, looking at the smiling man still pressed against the wall. She crossed her arms. “Aren’t you getting a little old for these pranks, Will?”

“It wasn’t meant to be a prank.” The smile grew. “Just a happy coincidence.”

Mary sat at her desk, shaking her head. “I doubt Mr. Johnson will believe you.”

William shrugged, seeming less than bothered as he moved to the box on the bed. “This the Seymour stuff they sent you?”

Mary looked at it silently, allowing William to change the topic.

Peering over the side, William pursed his lips slightly. “Not much, is it?”

“More than I was expecting, honestly,” Mary answered. “You know what the rest of the Seymours think of me.”
William just nodded, poking through the few things left in the box. “Should I assume you aren’t planning on going to the funeral?”

Mary frowned, watching him closely at the change of tone. He hadn’t asked what he’d meant. She shook her head. “If my mother can’t be bothered to come back from abroad at all in light of recent events, I see no reason why I should make the effort go to Carby.”

“He’s your father.”

Mary snorted.

“And who knows,” William continued over her justified skepticism. “It might be exciting. Getting out of Aberfirth for a bit? Seeing Carby?”

“I really can’t think of a place I’d rather not see, Will,” Mary droned, picking up the miniature before he could argue. She tossed it to him. “He had that apparently.”

William caught it easily, eyebrows rising as he looked at it. “Very nice.”

Mary frowned deeply. “Could you please refrain from salivating over my mother while I’m still in the room?”

“I wasn’t salivating.” He smiled, tossing it back to her before he sat. “It’s just a nice picture. One of her queen portraits?”

“Not one I recognize at least.” Mary set it down without looking. “Do you find it strange that he had it?”

“Well.” William took a moment, shrugged. “Your mother is a beautiful woman.”

Mary made a face, standing to pick up the box.

William caught her wrist. “Don’t give me that look, May.”

She just flicked her eyes over him, pulling herself free before she moved the box to the ground. A well placed kick and it slid out of sight.

He watched her carefully. Took his time before speaking. “They’ve asked me to go.”

She looked back up, a low level of panic starting deep in her chest though she wasn’t sure why. “They who? Go where?”

“Who, parliament,” he said, running a hand through his short blond hair. “Where, the funeral.”

Mary pulled her eyebrows together. “Why? You’re no one important.”

He laughed. “Thanks, May.”

“It’s hardly a bad thing.” Mary pressed her lips tightly together.

He took her hand, swinging to face her. “I’d like you to come with me.”

“To Carby?”

He nodded, his blue eyes drilling into her.

Her grey ones looked back. “Are you feverish?”

The smile returned. “Carby can’t really be as bad as you think, May.”

“I can’t get within thirty miles of the place without someone trying to draw me into a royalist plot. I would think especially now.” Mary glanced at the window, the rolling green hills of Aberfirth seeming to be a false shield from everything else waiting out there. “Anyway, I haven’t gotten marching orders from my mother yet. If she thought
there were any benefit in me going she would have already ordered me there. This is Adela Tilden we’re talking about.”

William nodded, glancing out the window himself as if checking she didn’t see anything before he looked back at her. “When was the last time you heard from her?”

Mary shook her head. “Years? What has there been for her to write about?”

“I would think there’s plenty lately.”

“She’s probably still figuring out her next move. His death was recent enough.” Mary sighed, brushed it away. “I don’t have her mind. Don’t ask me to try to understand her actions.”

“I still think you would have made a great queen, May.” William smiled.

Mary’s stomach clenched, her face turning deadly serious. “Don’t even joke like that.”

William’s eyes stayed on her, but he didn’t argue. Fair and tall as he was, Mary had to admit William had grown into a handsome man from the gangly ten year old that had shown up to stay eight years ago. She froze, the nature of the thought registering, making heat rise to her cheeks.

“You are beautiful, you know that, May?” his voice cut in before she could recover.

Mary’s body tensed, the odd sense he had read her mind too jarring.

“Don’t look so shocked.” He rested back on his hands, easy smile unsettlingly handsome now that she thought about it. “You are your mother’s daughter, after all.”

“And I would give anything that I weren’t.” She rubbed the side of her face quickly, dropping her eyes.

His eyes stayed on her another moment before he stood, holding her chin.

She looked up, breath catching in her throat as he held her eyes.

“You still have this house, May. You still have your life. I don’t think you have weathered everything too poorly, all things considered. Many lost much more.”

There was enough to set her head right again. Mary’s jaw locked as she pulled back. “Thank you, Will, but I hardly need you to remind me.”

He touched her hair gently, pushing a dark auburn strand behind her ear. “Please come, May? You can’t spend your entire life afraid out here.”

Mary shook her head. “You shouldn’t go at all, Will. Not now.”

William looked at her another moment, finally sighed. “I have to. Anyway, you’re Mary Seymour. I imagine people would leave you alone at Richard Seymour’s funeral.”

“Not when they believe I’d be Mary Claybourne had the old king not lost his head.”

“Seymour claimed you as legitimate,” William argued.

“Words.” Mary slipped away from him, sitting on the bed. “Oaths and proclamations and edicts. They’re all just words. People hold them cheap these days.”

“I don’t know if I’d say that.” William turned to face her.

Mary looked down at her hands, back up. “Do they know who will be the new lord protector?”

William cocked an eyebrow but let her change the topic. “I think they’re still discussing it.”

“So there’s no one in charge?”

“Well, parliament is.” William laughed. “They won’t allow the country to enter a state of anarchy just because one man died.”

“We’ll see,” Mary mumbled.

He shook his head, good natured as ever. “No one wants another war, May.”

“Every royalist who lost the last one does,” she returned, face serious.

“We aren’t going to war.”

“Are you certain of that?” She held his eyes.

The corner of his mouth turned up. “Would you like to place a bet?”

Her frown only deepened. “This isn’t funny, Will.”

William sat next to her, placing an arm around her shoulder before he kissed her forehead. “You’re always so serious, May.”

“Life is serious.” She didn’t look at him.

“It can also be fun,” he said.

“So you always think,” she said, knot still tight in the pit of her stomach.

 

The Porcelain Child, available July 3rd from 5 Prince Publishing

The Copper Witch

The Copper Witch (Book 1), available now

5 Prince Publishing

Write, Edit, Publish: The Best of The Jessica Dall Blog

June 17th is here once again, and that means one thing. It’s my birthday. And to celebrate, I have a gift for all you readers out there:

WEP

Write, Edit, Publish includes some of this site’s most popular blog posts compiled into a downloadable eBook, covering everything from staring with a blank page to working on getting a manuscript published.

Download for FREE right here: Write, Edit, Publish [PDF]

Or FREE on Smashwords: Write, Edit, Publish

(Soon available on Amazon and Barnes and Noble)

 

Write, Edit, Publish articles include:

Section One: Writing

Getting Started

Writing Prompts

Finding Time to Write

Writing through Writer’s Block

Inner Filters

Character Naming

What’s in a Name?

Historical Naming

Who are you, again?

Plotting

From Premise to Plot

“Accidental Plagiarism”

[X] Types of Plot

Characterization

Making Your Characters Believable

Character Flaws

“Plot Device” Disorders

Just a Pretty Face

Dialogue

You Don’t Say

Floating Dialogue

Narrative

Writing Shakespeare

Head Jumping

 

Section Two: Editing

Editing 101

Plot and Plot Holes

The Ever-Dreaded Plot Holes

A Wizard Did It

That’s Just…Wrong

Language

The Problem with Pronouns

The Unneeded Words

All of a sudden, he was suddenly there

Critique Groups

How to Take a Critique

Crises of Confidence

The Nitty-Gritty

Does Length Matter?

Eh, it’s not my style

“Intensive Purpose”

 

Section Three: Publishing

Self, Vanity, Traditional Publishing

Shoot the Shaggy Dog

Submissions

How to Get Published

Submissions 101

Wishlists and Trends

Word Counts

Word Limits

Copyrights and Contracts

Contracts

Novel Blogs

Toe Tappin’ Copyrights

Layout

Novel Layout Tips

Antagonist vs. Villain

And the big day is finally here. My new novel, The Copper Witch, has hit the shelves (or at least e-shelves, print comes out soon). You should totally go buy a copy. You know you want to.

See how pretty it is?

See how pretty it is?

With reviews trickling in (which I’m happy to say are generally positive) a common theme I have found is readers either loving or hating the main character. And honestly, I can’t say I’m too surprised. Adela Tilden, the protagonist of The Copper Witch, is a very strong personality–and honestly an anti-heroine. She was never meant to be particularly “likable” as much as she was meant to be interesting (whether that is a good or a bad interesting seems to be entirely up to the reader).

Antiheroes have been a trend for a while now. While there are still certainly stories with true “heroes” as their protagonists (Good vs. Evil as a literary staple has been around since Gilgamesh–I have to say I don’t see it going anywhere anytime soon) protagonists who lack the standard “heroic” traits (antiheroes) are no stranger to fiction these days either. They are written for any number of reason, but they do end up changing the traditional names that might be used when describing characters.

Yay, Antiheroes (who seem to be predominately men, looking at TV Tropes)

Yay, Antiheroes (who seem to be predominately men, looking at TV Tropes)

You see, while performing an author interview for another blog, I was asked a relatively simple question, “How important do you believe villains are in stories?”

This lead me to the answer that antagonists (someone your protagonist struggles against) are very important–or at least conflicts are. Without conflicts, there generally isn’t much of a plot. There has to be something that your character wants and something stopping them from getting that want, or what would your plot really be? That doesn’t, however, mean there has to be a “villain”. You see, thinking about who the villain in The Copper Witch (the character who tends to have a negative effect on other characters) would most likely also be our protagonist. That’s a bit what being an antihero seems to be–the name for a protagonist who would likely be the villain were situations different.

And that is why “villain” and “antagonist” can’t really be synonymous. Often time villains double as the antagonists of stories, but they don’t always. Even in stories with more traditional “heroes” (i.e. no antiheroes) there doesn’t always have to be a “villain” there simply has to be something that causes a struggle/obstacle. Not necessarily someone evil (e.g. if your story is about a student who wants to get the lead in a school play, the antagonist could be another student also up for the role…even if the other student is perfectly nice).

So, The Copper Witch doesn’t really have a villain, but it does have things for the protagonist to struggle against. And so, antagonist is truly the word to use for what is important in stories. Not villain.

———————————————————————————

The Copper Witch, now available electronically on:
Amazon         Smashwords         Barnes and Noble         All Romance

Print available soon