Gaining Fame: Part Two
You have to know the rules, and there are rules for everything. There are exceptions to the rules that are rules unto themselves! Writing for clarity of thought, and clarity of form. This clarity is what you give your reading public.
I may spend five or six months jamming away on a manuscript–I’m one of those writers that like to do that–only to pick it apart line by line to get it all right. Write the book, and then make it sing. Ignore the rules if you must, but you’ll learn. You’ll learn you can’t ignore even one rule.
When writing works, it’s doing a job. Voice is part of writing well, and I didn’t get it for the longest time. Voice was what I was lacking most. My stories craved voice.
What is meant by “voice?” This is my voice. You’re reading how I speak. But my voice can change when I want it to. I simply pretend. I become the character. “I am the story.”
Verbosity can be your friend when exploring voice. Don’t be afraid to overwrite your manuscript. You can always delete unneeded words at a later date.
Another example I’m sure you can understand, and I mean no disrespect against the writing styles of Stephen King, but he can get a little “golly gee whiz” at times. Now read The Green Mile, and after that read The Eyes of the Dragon. Two perfect and wonderful examples of his voice. Both different, both Stephen King.
The closest I get to across the pond is watching Doctor Who. But, I do a lot of homework, and I understand voice. This little bit starts my very first novel. My boring, had promise but lacked something, novel. What it lacked was voice. It lacked a layer of excitement. By inventing the narrator of this story, giving him a unique voice, allowing him to tell the story, I added a subtle layer of needed sophistication.
I, am a fool. The Fool, and my emperor requests a gratifying tale from me, but which compelling narrative in my vast repertoire shall His Fatassness receive? A questing yet witless knight, braving outlandish elements of fable and fantasy with a personal code of honor sufficient to turn any stout stomach? Or, perhaps, an adventurous yet resourceful thief in his perpetual pursuit of liquid wealth, tight wet fellowship and heady spirits? Alas, with both I must provide a companion, and I’m not feeling generous.
The Empress, in turn, invites a poignant tale within whose dark heart exists a riddle. May I pluck the knotted hair off her pointed pale chin and from under her bulbous reddened nose for such an unsatisfactory suggestion.
The Lovers stop their perpetual grope to propose forbidden love as a topic. They should stick to the task in hand and let me tell the story I wish.
The Executioner puts in his recommendation, but tonight is not a night for bloody revenge. The Hierophant wants redemption with ascension. The Hanged Man, dangling such as he does, says nothing.
Then it comes to me, inspirational lightning, pinning me down with a wondrous tale that must surely gratify all. A fantastical saga from long ago, when there existed such things as space and time.
“Get on with it, Fool,” commands The Emperor between mouthfuls of roasted meats and tiny sweet cakes, quaffing at will wine made by old, ineffectual, impotent and incontinent gods. “You’re milking it.”
“Of course, Majesty,” I say, thinking about a large chunk of that moldered meat lodged deep in his throat, stealing what he calls his pitiful excuse-of-a-life out of him.
I must confess I am milking it for all it’s worth. I’m a bit of a ham. What fool is not? To draw the audience inside the story is my vocation. To keep them enthralled by the narrative is my gift. I endeavor to give generously.
“A proper piece of pretentious nonsense must have an appropriate beginning,” I say, “and this chronicle is without exception. The question here is not where to begin, because I know where to begin. The question here is who to begin with?”
And I think Xavier Collen will do nicely.
That’s him, the spry old fart pacing the carpet around his desk. Top floor of the Collen building, London proper. A titbit of prime tattle from the queen herself, no less, set his shallow money obsessed thoughts spiraling down the loo, and that was just the beginning.
The point of view shifted with the scene transition. My Fool narrates this novel; from first person present, to third person past present. I let him tell the story for a reason not evident until the very last paragraph of the novel. He became my voice for A Changing of the Guard, coming soon.
Terrance Foxxe is crazy enough to share everything he knows about catering to readers, because readers matter most to the Indie Author of today, and tomorrow. He had two books published under his real name, only to discover publishers really suck. After being royally ripped off and then some, he is the Indie Author of A Post-apocalyptic Story of Love, $2.99 USD & In The Dreaming, $0.99, both for the Kindle. Links provided. He’s now a happy man. Buy his books. Read them. Write reviews.
He blogs at http://terrancefoxxe.blogspot.com/
Stop by tomorrow for part Three. And if you missed part one, be sure to check it out.