There's always a story...
After my last post, I am happy to announce that I finally found my story, and it wasn't under the bed.
With reference to the blog I mentioned previously, I continue along the lines that a writer's blog should have writery things, and if at all possible, writery things within your own genre. So I am going to try and explain my reason for writing romance.
I did not wake up one day deciding to be a writer, followed by extensive market research on which genres sold well and brought authors the highest return for their hard work. You see, that was the last thing on my mind.
Growing up and based on what I read, I was more of a fantasy and supernatural kind of guy with the likes of Tolkien, Koontz, King and Asimov filling my book shelf. I was also always interested in Arthur and the knights of the round table. Only after I decided to seriously put pen to paper was I drawn to the previously unmentioned world of romance.
At the time the idea of my first book prodded me in the ribs, I was separated and on a steady course to divorce. I'll spare you all the details, but basically I had to do something to keep sane. So I did. Everything I was feeling inside ended up on paper. Yes, I started writing using an exam pad and pen. When this life raft for survival presented itself, something akin to a volcano erupted inside and I felt warm. The words flowed, and I found that writing about feelings, heartache and hope of a better future was as easy as filling my lungs with air. Basically, I write romance because I believe it still exists.
My first two books were more about making sense of what I was going through. Listing questions of why and sorting the possible answers in chronological order, even though there is absolutely nothing logical about feeling pain. From there on the bug had not just bitten, but instead took a chunk out of me and I couldn't put my pen down. Fine. I had two books and wanted to write more, so where would I get the inspiration to guide my thought process?
The answer is quite simple, or at least it was for me.
One of my favourite TV shows of late is Castle, and in an odd kind of way watching a writer trail a police officer to get first hand experiences in order to write books, helped me.
The series is murder/mystery, the macabre, so you might ask how that could possibly influence a romance writer. The thing that was drummed into me was his catch phrase of: "Follow the story, There's always a story."
That is so, so true. There is always a story. Every single person on God's green earth has a story, whether a billionaire with a void inside as large as his bank balance, a top exec working their butt off to be able to retire comfortably, or a chef that's lost his or her passion to continue challenging their own creativity. There is always a story, and writers are the one's to find out what it is and turn it into something people will want to read.
I'll use an example of when I recently spent a few hours at a coffee shop. A writing cliché, I know, but at least I left my laptop, ideas book and dictaphone in the car. I went in and sat down with my only intention being to pass the time before my next meeting. Nothing more.
But being a writer didn't make it easy. Within the first five minutes I had counted the number of tables and chairs - I have always counted things, and made a mental note of the number to describe the restaurant's size. I also panned the room, paying close attention to the decor, bric-a-brac, and also the staff. Whilst absorbing the mood I could use to create a scene, the patrons sitting at each table spoke to me.
Not literally, of course, but one by one they started telling me their story.
Some writers would have a dark phantom walk in and start beheading the guests, or a giant snake immerging from the salad valley and burping as a result of lying in the calamata dressing for too long. Maybe the East-European-looking female waiter pulls her apron aside, lifting an Uzi and reeling in laughter while blowing grumpy clients away because she's had enough of their shit.
Mine spoke to me, but in a way that I could use them to build a true romance story with characters like you and me.
Two men dressed in suits sat to my right. I picked up that they were colleagues, but their conversation went deeper than mere associates. They work at the same company or, based on the way they dress, in the same profession. Acquaintances from varsity days, perhaps. A comradery. Family friends. Kid's at the same school or church... And if you really wanted to, they could be star-struck lovers.
Romance is about everyday people living everyday lives with everyday issues. I mean, the heart of a fetus develops before the brain for a reason. Everybody wants to love and be loved. These guys just opened the door of opportunity a writer relishes.
And then the golden goose walks in and lays an egg...
Late twenties or early thirties, pencil skirt, stockings with a pattern zig-zagging down to her heels. Scrolling my eyes up revealed dark hair hanging down to the middle of her back, partially covering a white blouse.
What? Man first, writer second.
Anyway, she walks in and chooses a table furthest from the door, moves her chair away a little more than normal and sits down, legs crossed. She doesn't look around at the rest of the people, choosing instead to glance out the window, but in a way that her peripheral vision would still pick up movement at the entrance. A sign that she's expecting company.
The story begins...
She could have a number of reasons for sitting at the far end of the restaurant, like wanting the man she's waiting for to keep his eyes focussed soley on her while walking to the table. The longer, the better.
Moments later he arrives, looks around and then sighs when he finally sees her. She notices him but tries her best to hide it. His gate is slow and strugglesome like a man walking to the gallows, and if he had a tail it would be tucked between his legs.
In other words, he's in shit.
He leans in for a kiss and she barely offers her cheek. So there's signs of intimacy, and an IMAX 3D showing of the trouble he's in.
This can carry on and on, but do you get the picture?
I write romance because I write about people. Not jetsetting billionaires or movie stars, but the average Joe Soap on the street trying to find a reason to value his existence. To love and be loved in return.
And then, just for measure, I like my books to end with a moral question.
With reference to the blog I mentioned previously, I continue along the lines that a writer's blog should have writery things, and if at all possible, writery things within your own genre. So I am going to try and explain my reason for writing romance.
I did not wake up one day deciding to be a writer, followed by extensive market research on which genres sold well and brought authors the highest return for their hard work. You see, that was the last thing on my mind.
Growing up and based on what I read, I was more of a fantasy and supernatural kind of guy with the likes of Tolkien, Koontz, King and Asimov filling my book shelf. I was also always interested in Arthur and the knights of the round table. Only after I decided to seriously put pen to paper was I drawn to the previously unmentioned world of romance.
At the time the idea of my first book prodded me in the ribs, I was separated and on a steady course to divorce. I'll spare you all the details, but basically I had to do something to keep sane. So I did. Everything I was feeling inside ended up on paper. Yes, I started writing using an exam pad and pen. When this life raft for survival presented itself, something akin to a volcano erupted inside and I felt warm. The words flowed, and I found that writing about feelings, heartache and hope of a better future was as easy as filling my lungs with air. Basically, I write romance because I believe it still exists.
My first two books were more about making sense of what I was going through. Listing questions of why and sorting the possible answers in chronological order, even though there is absolutely nothing logical about feeling pain. From there on the bug had not just bitten, but instead took a chunk out of me and I couldn't put my pen down. Fine. I had two books and wanted to write more, so where would I get the inspiration to guide my thought process?
The answer is quite simple, or at least it was for me.
One of my favourite TV shows of late is Castle, and in an odd kind of way watching a writer trail a police officer to get first hand experiences in order to write books, helped me.
The series is murder/mystery, the macabre, so you might ask how that could possibly influence a romance writer. The thing that was drummed into me was his catch phrase of: "Follow the story, There's always a story."
That is so, so true. There is always a story. Every single person on God's green earth has a story, whether a billionaire with a void inside as large as his bank balance, a top exec working their butt off to be able to retire comfortably, or a chef that's lost his or her passion to continue challenging their own creativity. There is always a story, and writers are the one's to find out what it is and turn it into something people will want to read.
I'll use an example of when I recently spent a few hours at a coffee shop. A writing cliché, I know, but at least I left my laptop, ideas book and dictaphone in the car. I went in and sat down with my only intention being to pass the time before my next meeting. Nothing more.
But being a writer didn't make it easy. Within the first five minutes I had counted the number of tables and chairs - I have always counted things, and made a mental note of the number to describe the restaurant's size. I also panned the room, paying close attention to the decor, bric-a-brac, and also the staff. Whilst absorbing the mood I could use to create a scene, the patrons sitting at each table spoke to me.
Not literally, of course, but one by one they started telling me their story.
Some writers would have a dark phantom walk in and start beheading the guests, or a giant snake immerging from the salad valley and burping as a result of lying in the calamata dressing for too long. Maybe the East-European-looking female waiter pulls her apron aside, lifting an Uzi and reeling in laughter while blowing grumpy clients away because she's had enough of their shit.
Mine spoke to me, but in a way that I could use them to build a true romance story with characters like you and me.
Two men dressed in suits sat to my right. I picked up that they were colleagues, but their conversation went deeper than mere associates. They work at the same company or, based on the way they dress, in the same profession. Acquaintances from varsity days, perhaps. A comradery. Family friends. Kid's at the same school or church... And if you really wanted to, they could be star-struck lovers.
Romance is about everyday people living everyday lives with everyday issues. I mean, the heart of a fetus develops before the brain for a reason. Everybody wants to love and be loved. These guys just opened the door of opportunity a writer relishes.
And then the golden goose walks in and lays an egg...
Late twenties or early thirties, pencil skirt, stockings with a pattern zig-zagging down to her heels. Scrolling my eyes up revealed dark hair hanging down to the middle of her back, partially covering a white blouse.
What? Man first, writer second.
Anyway, she walks in and chooses a table furthest from the door, moves her chair away a little more than normal and sits down, legs crossed. She doesn't look around at the rest of the people, choosing instead to glance out the window, but in a way that her peripheral vision would still pick up movement at the entrance. A sign that she's expecting company.
The story begins...
She could have a number of reasons for sitting at the far end of the restaurant, like wanting the man she's waiting for to keep his eyes focussed soley on her while walking to the table. The longer, the better.
Moments later he arrives, looks around and then sighs when he finally sees her. She notices him but tries her best to hide it. His gate is slow and strugglesome like a man walking to the gallows, and if he had a tail it would be tucked between his legs.
In other words, he's in shit.
He leans in for a kiss and she barely offers her cheek. So there's signs of intimacy, and an IMAX 3D showing of the trouble he's in.
This can carry on and on, but do you get the picture?
I write romance because I write about people. Not jetsetting billionaires or movie stars, but the average Joe Soap on the street trying to find a reason to value his existence. To love and be loved in return.
And then, just for measure, I like my books to end with a moral question.
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