character sketches – kyrie

Last night, when I should have been sleeping, I started telling my sister about my characters for my novel. It was a lot of fun. And it helped me flesh out their personalities.

So today, I’m going to share a little about my MC, Kyrie, with you.

First off, her name is going to change. I love the pronunciation, but Kyrie is Latin and it means Lord. So I think I need another spelling. Still working on that.

As seen in last week’s novel excerpt, Kyrie’s life began tragically at the hands of the book’s villain, Cortaan. Soon after these events, Kyrie was taken into hiding with other children of her race. They have since dwelt in the hidden underground. Kyrie hasn’t seen the stars since she was four (ish).

When the book begins, Kyrie is fear-filled and bitter. She is haunted by dreams of her parents’ deaths. That memory causes her to distrust herself deep down. She buries her emotions deep inside so that no one will see her fear, her weakness, her vulnerability. And she hides behind a curtain of sarcasm and snarkiness. Because she’s been lied to so much, it’s hard for her to trust the people around her. But she is deeply loyal to her close friends.

Kyrie is so far from perfect. (This is why getting into character has been quite interesting for me!) She has lots of room for growth throughout the book. She has so much to learn, which is why I’m excited about going on this adventure with her. I hope, by the end of the book, that she’ll be a new person.

 

letting go

I have become consumed by a desire to prove myself as a writer. To prove the validity of my decisions to myself. To prove wrong the false assumptions that I need to go to college, need a real job, need another career.

I just wanted to know that I’m making the right decisions for my life; that writing really is what I’m called to do. I wanted people to understand and to affirm these decisions; for them to stop criticizing me, trying to talk me out of the path I’ve chosen to walk.

I thought that if I became a good enough writer, I could prove myself right.

All these thoughts have been trapped inside for so long, longing to get out. They’ve been trying to force their way onto paper, even into my stories. So I sat down and let them escape. I have striven to let the troubles of my soul spill out into words as honestly and truly as I feel them deep inside.

And now I can see them more clearly. I see that these desires, these motivations have been driving my writing. And they were what paralyzed me.

I’ve been so caught up in proving myself as a writer that I’ve become a perfectionist. Worried that my writing will never be enough. Unwilling to take the plunge on crazy ideas. I’ve been holding onto a dream so tightly that I didn’t have time to breathe.

I don’t have to be stuck like this. I don’t have to be caught in an endless cycle of worry that I’ll never be affirmed.

Its time to let go. And that’s hard. But there’s grace to loosen clenched fists.

doubts

What do you do when everything you write feels plastic? When you’re doubting your own calling? When the thought of failure freezes you, rendering you incapable of taking the risks necessary?

When life feels like a puzzle that’s been dumped on the floor. All scattered pieces. And you have to figure out where they go.

 

novel excerpt

{Disclaimer: This week’s story is an excerpt from my current fantasy book. This scene is a dream–my main character remembering a terrible, violent encounter from her childhood. I know it’s dark. My character, Kyrie, has a very tragic past. The story shows her coming to grips with this event and finding grace and light in spite of it.} 

 

Terror. Light bursts in front of my eyes. I hear the high-pitched scream of a child—me.

I jerk my arms , desperately trying to wrench free of the ropes that cut into my wrists.

“Father!” I scream. I lunge forward toward his limp, helpless form, but the ropes hold me back. Stinging tears blind me. “Mother,” my voice cracks and sinks into sobs.

A laugh. Cruel, despotic, amused. I see him. A wide grin distorting his face, his dark eyes sparkling with fun. He draws the knife from his side. Grinning, he approaches my parents.

The world is tilting, turning. Vague shadows cover everything with a blanket. I scream again and try again to free myself. The ropes slice through the skin in my tiny wrists. Burning pain.

The grinning man holds the knife close to my mother’s throat. “Kyrie,” my mother whispers, her terror-stricken eyes locked on my. “Be brave.”

I gasp for breath in between shrieks. Why doesn’t anyone come? I am alone . . . helpless.

The pain.

“Please,” I sob. “Stop. Don’t!” The knife approaches the delicate skin.

My father struggles desperately and manages to lose the gag from his mouth. “Stop, Cortaan.” It was a half-order, half-plea.

The grin widens as the young man answers. “You cannot help her now, master.”

My mouth and throat are parched from screaming. My tiny body trembles as I hang against my restraints. “Leave my mother alone!” I implore.

Cortaan pauses and looks at his soon-to-be-victim, who lies deathly still at the touch of the blade upon her skin. My sobs, my father’s pleas, the noise of wind rushing in my ears. Cortaan flinches, as if blocking it all out.

“Cortaan, be reasonable. Have mercy.” My father’s words are jumbled together in desperation. “At least talk. Think.”

The grin fades. In its place, there appears a scowl. Cortaan rises and, hitting my father across the face with the hilt of his knife, he re-ties the gag, preventing further speech. “Yes, yes, master, I will think. But I know that you are a traitor. You deserve death. You deserve pain. And I know how to inflict that upon you.” The smirk returns and he turns to me. I tremble as I feels his keen eyes upon me.

The world is tilting, turning. As he approaches, panic engulfs me. I jerk against the ropes once more, blind to the searing pain. Cortaan bends, the knife in his hand.

He slits my bonds. I am free! I dart toward my parents, who struggle against their bonds and shout muffled pleas to the murderer through gags of cloth. Cortaan bends and snatches me up. Revulsion, panic, and terror fill me and I claws at him. He grunts and secures his hold on me.

He places me on the ground in between my parents. They struggle to reach for me. The noise of my own screams, their sobs deafens my senses. Cortaan holds me down, pinning my limbs motionless.

Adrenaline shoots through my toddler’s veins, but I struggle in vain. From behind me, Cortaan forces me to my knees and twists one hand behind me and the pain both paralyses me and elicits screams from his victims.

In my other hand, Cortaan slips a knife.

The hilt is cold and hard in my palm. He clamps my hand over the hilt. I gape at my parents in now-silent pain. They’re faces are twisted in agony, white in terror and pain. Cortaan jerks my hand holding the knife to the left, toward her mother. I try to break free, but Cortaan continues to twist my left hand behind her, sending shooting pain up my arm and down my spine.

The knife nears my mother’s throat. I squeeze my eyes shut, begging, pleading.

I feel the knife slit the skin. Hear the last strangled cry.

Darkness creeps over my vision and an unseen pressure tries to blot out my consciousness. But before I can escape it, I feel the knife on my father’s throat.

One last cry. One last strangled, “No!”

Darkness.

questions

Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn’t do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.
—Mark Twain

In twenty years, I’ll be thirty-seven. I wonder what my life will look life. Where I’ll be living. Will I have my published books lining my bookshelves?

Will I be disappointed in how I lived life as a young adult?

Am I hiding in a safe harbor, too hidden in my own securities to sail boldly into my life? Too scared of making mistakes that I don’t take the chances necessary?

 

new beginnings

The sun is lighting the top branches of the trees outside my window on fire.

The day has begun. Already my dad has left for work, my sister for college. I sit at my desk–where I start every morning–and look out my window as the sunlight spreads its warmth on the chilly ground.

It’s a new week. Its the first new week of fall. A new era. I’ve never been more grateful for a new start. Last week, I spent most of my time in bed with a case of the “nasties”. Half my writing goals got abandoned.

But fresh starts are forgiving. It’s time to start anew.

I have a challenge for you today. Find five minutes to write. Ten minutes is better, thirty is optimum. Just write something. Get some tea, find a quiet place, and spill your soul into words. No matter how insignificant or silly your work feels, just take a few minutes to work on it.

Get a fresh start.

Inspiration – Ira Glass

 

“Nobody tells this to people who are beginners, I wish someone told me. All of us who do creative work, we get into it because we have good taste. But there is this gap. For the first couple years you make stuff, it’s just not that good. It’s trying to be good, it has potential, but it’s not. But your taste, the thing that got you into the game, is still killer. And your taste is why your work disappoints you. A lot of people never get past this phase, they quit. Most people I know who do interesting, creative work went through years of this. We know our work doesn’t have this special thing that we want it to have. We all go through this. And if you are just starting out or you are still in this phase, you gotta know its normal and the most important thing you can do is do a lot of work. Put yourself on a deadline so that every week you will finish one story. It is only by going through a volume of work that you will close that gap, and your work will be as good as your ambitions. And I took longer to figure out how to do this than anyone I’ve ever met. It’s gonna take awhile. It’s normal to take awhile. You’ve just gotta fight your way through.”

~ Ira Glass

short story — Hensley

I get a lump in my throat when I see her slip through the door into the crowded room. For a moment, I stare, heart drawn to the tattered play dress, the huge brown eyes—so scared—the tiny hands clenched tightly together in fear.

I break my gaze away. “Hi, guys!” I exclaim. I walk through the sea of kids, close the door. I stretch my smile wide; try to add cheerfulness to my tired voice. I still can’t take my eyes off her. She won’t look at me. She stares at the ground, lips in a straight line.

“Why don’t we all find a seat on the mat? Is everyone ready to have some fun today?”

My Sunday school room of six-and-seven year-olds resounds with the shouts of joyful yeses. She doesn’t open her mouth, doesn’t move. I migrate toward the front of youngsters and plop down at the front of the semicircle. As I sink to the ground, I notice she sits in the very back of the mat. Two little boys sitting near whisper and scoot away, smirks on their adorable faces. She doesn’t flinch. Still staring at the ground.

I bite my lip and force myself to look at the other faces. “How is everyone today?

A general “good” and “yes” murmurs throughout the room.

“Good,” I smile. “So, who likes music?”

Tiny hands shoot upward.

“Well, that’s good; because this week we’re gonna make a lot of music! Who has a favorite song they’d like us to sing to start us off?”

A hand shoots up and I nod.

I barely keep myself from laughing and start us singing. Soon a roomful of kids join me. The shy ones take a verse to warm up, but soon even they raise their voices.

Still, she sits motionless, mouth firmly closed, eyes fixed on the green floor mat.

We finish. Before I can praise them and move on, one of the little boys pipes up. “She can’t sing.”

My heart hurts when he points a chubby finger to her. For the first time, she raises her head. She stares with big eyes.

“That’s ok,” I quickly reassure. “We all have things we’re going to learn this week.” I glance down at the nametag stuck to his Cars shirt. “That was not a kind thing to say, Jacob. Unless you have something nice to say, please don’t say anything at all.”

I turn on a CD, and tell them about the different musical instruments they hear. We look at pictures of violins, cellos, pianos, flutes, and trumpets. I take out my violin and play a verse of Amazing Grace.

At five minutes till three, I wrap up for the day. The kids shout good byes and march out of the door, down the hall where a bus will take them back to their boarding school.

She takes longer to get up than the rest. When she finally climbs to her feet, the others kids are gone. I jump on the opportunity and slowly approach her.

“Hi,” I speak gently as if not wanting to scare a rabbit away. “Did you enjoy the music today?”

She bites her lip and glances nervously toward the door.

“I love your dress. Pink’s my favorite color.”

Still no answer. I smile again, discouraged.

“Well, I’ll see you tomorrow! You’d better catch up to the other kids. You wouldn’t want to get—”

Before I can finish, she darts from the room. I sigh and run my fingers through my hair.

Shoulders stiff from the long day of school and volunteer work, I gather my bag and violin. Then head to my car.

I can’t get her out of my mind. I keep thinking about those boys making fun of her.

I drive back to my apartment in silence.

I had thought that volunteering in my church to help work with foster kids for the week would help me work through my grief. It’d been so long since the tragedy in my family and I was ready for a lift in my spirits. And here I am—more tired and melancholy than ever.

In the following days, I don’t teach to twenty kids. I teach to one. Each day she comes in through the door last in a different faded play dress, sits in the back, and gets teased. It becomes my singular goal to her to say something to me before the week is up.

By Thursday, I’m sunk low. The rest of the class has been a success. The kids know two new songs by heart, can recognize and the name the different instruments. But I still feel like I haven’t accomplished my job.

At the end of the day,

“Jacob, will you stay and help me for a minute?” The blond boy grins, full of importance. I wait for the rest of the kids, including her, to file out of the room. I turn to him and kneel to his height.

“I have a very important question to ask you.”

He nods, still grinning.

“What do you know about that little girl you teased this week?”

His grin fades, disappointed by my subject. With a shrug he says, “She’s littler than me and she never talks and sometimes I think maybe she doesn’t know how to do anything. Not even talk.”

“She hasn’t said anything all week?”

“No.” He crosses his arms.

“Just one more question, Jacob. Do you know what her name is?”

He pouts for a moment, and then shakes his head. “She won’t let any pin a nametag on her. Can I go play now?”

“Sure. Thank you, Jacob.”

 

It’s the last day.

“Why don’t we explore these way-cool drums here?” I smile encouragingly to the girl wearing that faded sundress and motion for her to join me. “Would you like to help me?”

Her eyes fill with tears. My heart instantly breaks.

“Hey, it’s ok,” I reassure. “It’s not hard. See?” I thump the drum, trying to prove my point. All I want is this child’s trust.

A soft wave of snickers floats through the room. Angered, I snap, “kids, stop it.” To her, I say, “It’s okay. You can do it later, if you want.”

I continue the lesson, wracking my brain for a way to show love to that precious child. We finish up as usual—singing. Then I dismiss them with smiles and waves.

I wait until all the other kids are out the door, and then turn to her. She’s just getting to her feet.

“Hey,” I whisper. She snaps to stare at me with big, fear-filled eyes. I kneel beside her, and prop my violin on the ground between us.

“Do you want to play a note on my violin?”

She pulls a finger from her mouth and stares.

“It’s really fun; see?” I take my single index finger and pluck my A string.

A smile creeps over those pink lips, and my heart soars. I laugh softly and pluck my D string.

Her tiny fingers hover in the air. I hold the violin out and she brushes her finger against the strings, creating a barely audible cascade of notes more beautiful than any Beethoven symphony.

I bite my lip, suddenly overwhelmed by a strange emotion. I watch her child-face bent low, eyes wide, not with fear, but with wonder. She doesn’t take her gaze off the instrument.

I can’t help it. I reach to tuck a stray ringlet behind her ear. But at my touch, she recoils. The fear reenters her eyes. She shrinks away from me.

I bite back tears. What has happened to this child that she is so terrified of human attention and love?

“Hey,” I whisper. “It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you. I promise.”

With her gaze still locked on me, she creeps toward the door, to disappear from this classroom forever. I can’t lose her…I can’t.

Emotion sweeps over me and I choke out her name. She stops, chewing her lip. I swallow, standing motionless.

I imagine her foster family; shudder to think what they might have done to this precious child. If only I knew she was loved. If I knew why she wouldn’t talk to me. Then it wouldn’t be so hard.

She keeps staring at my violin in my hands, as if she can’t tear her gaze from the smooth brown finish, the intricate wood swirls. I finger an f-hole and search desperately for words. Here she is; attention all mine, eyes and hands open, ready to receive affection. I want so much to tell her. To dig behind the wall of hurt and plant a seed of love. To show her that life is beauty and wonder.

With one last desperate attempt, I whisper, “Could you at least tell me your name?”

She stands, perfectly still. I wait. Her eyes lose their terror and the pale lips part.

“It’s Hensley.”

when life puts goals on hold

Didn’t get to write a post this morning. I was house-sitting for some neighbors, but I was also sick. So after being up all night with a cough, I came home and crashed in bed.

Sometimes life just throws you a curve ball, I guess. So instead of what I was going to post this morning, here are just a few thoughts:

1. Go watch the new Hobbit trailer. Its amazing and, for me, it made being sick so much better.

2. Write  something today. I don’t care what. It can be absolute crap. Just get some words out on paper.

3. Stop your business and look at the beauty that surrounds you. Story ideas thrive when you cultivate wonder.

4. Sleep is a good thing. I need to remember this more.

 

new direction

For the first time, I’m attempting to write a first draft without an outline. I’ve always been an outliner. So this is weird for me. For me, detailed outlines always came before setting pen to paper. Incidentally, my past novels have always felt contrived. It felt like I was simply parading characters through pre-prepped scenes instead of having a person walk through life.

When I tried writing Kyrie’s story last spring, I had it outlined to a T. I drafted only ten chapters before I dropped the project. It felt like I was dragging a very unwilling MC, Kyrie, through the mud against her will. Not only did the narrative feel contrived, but I was unhappy with my entire story goal. So I set the project aside.

I’ve decided its time for Kyrie to lead me through her story. I have a feeling that she will intuitively lead the story places I never would. Already, the draft 1.5 feels more genuine than my excessively plotted first attempt.

 

Are you a outliner or not? What are your thoughts concerning outlines?