The Art of Storytelling Part 3: My Muse Abandoned Me!

It's the dreaded affliction that every writer fears. Well, nearly every writer. A few claim to never have such an affliction, but I don't believe them.

Yes, you know what I'm talking about.

Writer's block.

Egad, I think I traumatized a lot of you simply by mentioning it!

First of all, what exactly is writer's block, and what causes it?

The short definition is simple. Writer's block is a loss of inspiration that causes a writer to be unable or unwilling to write. You just can't think... nothing comes, or if it does, it's a slow and painful process that sounds uninspired and forced. Like most formula romances.

The causes can vary widely, and they depend largely on the writer's personality, writing style, living situation, and how much time they have on their hands. One of the primary causes is nothing more or less than just plain being burned out. You've written so much, you've been working on that masterpiece high fantasy novel for so long, your muse just up and died and you have nothing left. It seems that no amount of staring at a screen will bring her back, so you give up in despair and walk away with just a few chapters left to write.

Another cause is the opposite of burn-out... you haven't written in so long that, for whatever reason, you just can't find the threads of inspiration that started your story in the first place. I've had this myself, more times than I care to think about. I have a habit of never deleting anything because I never know when it will come in handy later. I've gone through some folders of old work, frowning deeply as I find an obscure little Notepad file with a blurb that I could swear I've never seen in my life. From the writing style, and the fact that it's on MY computer, I know darn well that it's mine, but I can't figure out where the heck I was trying to go with it. I have a folder marked "Obsolete" for those poor, DOA snippets of what could have been literary glory.

A third cause is much more complex and harder to deal with. Living situation. If you have a large family, like me, finding time to sit down and focus on your story without being interrupted and losing your train of thought for the zillionth time is an exercise in frustration.

"Ah, the kids are all outside. I'll just take a few minutes to jot down some notes." You sit down to write, and not thirty seconds later, the door bangs open.

"Mom, I can't find the bike pump and my tire is flat!"

"Ride your scooter."

"Everyone else is on their bikes! I need it!"

"It's in the garage, right next to the light switch."

"I looked and it's not there!"

Your train of thought just hit a penny on the rails and is careening wildly back and forth. You get up, go look, and practically kill yourself tripping over the bike pump.

"Mom, I looked, and I swear it wasn't there!"

"Yeah, right, the bike pump gnomes hid it just to watch you and snicker when you couldn't find it."

"Since you're here, can you pump the tire for me?"

Sigh. Train of thought just wrecked, no survivors. "Yeah, sure."

By the time you make it back inside, your inspiration has fled, and when the other kids noticed you pumping a tire, their bikes have all suddenly developed mechanical issues in dire need of your immediate attention. So much for writing. By the time you get the little darlings into bed, your muse has fallen into an exhausted stupor and you couldn't find an ounce of creativity if your life depended on it.

There are many other causes. Illness, injury, computer problems, accidentally knocking a glass of soda all over your notes so you no longer have any idea what you were supposed to be doing... the reasons are as endless as the rolls of authordom. They all have one thing in common: something has gotten in the way of your ability to write, thus called "writer's block".

What do you do about it?

That's a good question. The remedies will vary as well, and your block may require more than one solution. I've read through a number of social media posts from desperate newbies who just can't seem to get going, and the veterans have a number of great ideas. These solutions also have a common thread.

Stop writing.

Uh, say what?

Yes, I meant it. Stop writing for a period of time, even if it's just a minute, then execute the second step of whatever the solution is. Most often, the block is caused by something else that needs to be dealt with, so if you continue to try to force yourself to write, you will not get through that block no matter how hard you try. At least, not without producing a load of crap that you kick yourself over when you read it later. Stop writing, take a step back, identify the problem, and find a solution.

I realize that not all writer's blocks are cut-and-dried, easily identifiable, and readily remedied problems, but most of the time, you can at least narrow down the possibilities. Let's start with the first one since it seems to be the most common complaint. How can you deal with burnout, especially when you really, really want to keep writing?

Take a step back, take a breath, and figure out how profound your writer's block is. Sometimes it's a temporary burnout. You haven't written for a while, then you found a day with some free time and spent three hours in a frenzied, passionate writing session... only to come to the end of the third hour with your brain feeling like pasty mush. You've lost the muse... where the heck did you go this time?! I was on a roll, get back here!

Nope, she's gone. It was fun while it lasted, but she's too tired to keep going. So... stop writing. This kind of block could be fixed by something as simple as going and doing something else for just a few minutes, then coming back. I space out my writing by alternating with my chores. I'll stop and unload the dishwasher, then write for a bit. I'll stop again and load the dishwasher, then write some more. So on and so forth, keeping your mind fresh as you give it more to think about than just whether to give your hero a katana or a broadsword.

This burnout may be more serious. You've had a good run of daily writing for a few weeks, then you sit down at your desk and absolutely nothing will come. You have time, the house is quiet for once... and you just can't think. What do you do now?

Sometimes, the above solution will still help. I find that when I'm doing a mind-numbing chore like folding laundry, chewing over my writing while I work can generate great ideas. When that doesn't work, maybe a longer break is called for. A few days, even a week, but it's generally not recommended to wait so long that you forget all about your work. Come back to it later, but not too much later. 

If that doesn't help, try going back and reading over your work. Editing, proofreading, or just a good, old-fashioned review of what happened. Enable the comment feature on your word processor and make notes here and there. Plot holes, characters that need fleshing out, maybe you made your main character's sidekick a female and you discover they really should be a queer male with an obsessive hobby of nautical cosplay... go over the work and figure out what needs your attention. That editing may prompt your writing to flow again, and by the time you get to where you left off, you are ready to continue.

Then again, insisting that your writing be contiguous could also cause writer's block. I very rarely write a story from beginning to end. I'll write bits and pieces. A conflict here, the dark night of the soul there, introduce the villain, maybe throw in some backstory on the snarky supporting character... there is no hard and fast rule that says you HAVE to start at the beginning. 

Is it easier? That depends entirely on you, and it may cause you to have to do more editing, but if you find yourself blocked on writing the chapter about why the main character's mother is such a narcissist, but you have a great idea for the chapter where the main character tricks the villain into setting free the captive lover, then hey, go with what you have! Take what your muse gives you while she's in a giving mood, and don't complain.

You may find yourself stymied by the whole project. Nothing, and I mean nothing, will convince your muse to let you work on your current story. So, a good solution may be to work on something else. Yes, it happens... authors will have more than one active project at a time! 

Gasp... isn't that against the rules?

What rules?

In all seriousness, it is very common for an author to have multiple projects. Creativity rarely regards such mundanities as logic, and I have found myself taking a plot piece from one book that just didn't fit, then turning it into its own story. Again, I don't delete anything. This has a secondary purpose of showing me which tropes I overuse. 

If you are stuck on one book, and you just happen to have jotted down an outline from that weird dream you had after your niece's bachelorette party, then give the second project a shot. Let your muse have something else to do for a change. Think about your day job, would you be happy doing the same thing every single day?

Neither would your muse!

There are some other great suggestions. If you haven't eaten in a while, you should know that your brain feeds on carbs. Go eat something. If you sit too much, your blood flow slows down and you get sluggish. Get up and go take a walk. Ride a bike. Run a marathon, whatever. Just take care of your body. Your brain resides where? Yes, inside of your head. If your body isn't happy, your mind won't be either!

If you have family distractions, try to find a quiet place to write. For me, that's not feasible as I have a toddler, so I have a desk right in the dining room. I've had to learn to work through the distractions. Make a deal with your family members to have some writing time. My older kids can usually be asked to take on the little kiddos in the evening to give me at least a bit of breathing space. Maybe see if your spouse would be willing to fly solo for an hour while you hide in a closet with your laptop and a secret stash of chocolate.

If you reach the point that no solution has worked, and you are frustrated such that you are ready to give up... walk away. Negative emotions like anger and frustration can actually inhibit your ability to think! If you've worked yourself into a tantrum, then your muse will hide under the bed until you are ready to calm down and be reasonable. Give it a break. 

If life in general is frustrating, you might need to set your writing aside and focus on the rest of the world until you have things in hand and can take the time for your story. I know it can seem like a terrible idea to just give up on your writing, but if it has become more of a chore than a delight, your writing will sound boring and torturous.

There is no writer's block that cannot be overcome. You can find your muse, you can make her happy again, and you can revive your creativity. It may take some time, it might take more patience than you care to think about, but the absolute worst thing you can possibly do is to force your way through it. Write a fanfic, join a writing prompt group, sing in a barbershop quartet... whatever you do, don't make your muse do something she just can't. 

Conversely, don't just give up. It will come when it's ready. You can do this. 

The Art of Storytelling: Part 2- What a Character!

 What is the most important part of any story?

That's debatable. But some would arguably suggest that it is the cast of characters. After all, it is their journey that leads the plot, their traits that draw the reader in, and their flaws that make the story worthwhile.

Right?

Right or wrong, let's delve into the development of a good character. The Dramatis Personae for any book typically has a protagonist, which is usually the main character, the "good guy", in layman's terms. There is also an antagonist, which would be the character that acts in opposition to the protagonist. Usually a villain, but not always. Sometimes the antagonist is acting on their own morals and judgment, fully believing themselves to be in the right, and they aren't always evil. Sometimes the antagonist in a story isn't a person at all, but a problem.

Besides these two, you have a smorgasbord of supporting characters. Secondary, tertiary, and the rabble of background characters that usually exist as plot foils or comic relief. A general rule of thumb: if you name a character, they'd better be important to the plot!

For this post, I'm going to focus on what is referred to as the MC, or Main Character, and the Antagonist.

In most books, there is usually one Main Character. But not always. Sometimes you'll have a pair, or a small group of characters working in concert. We'll start the discussion with a single main character.

So, what makes a good MC? I'm going to borrow a few anecdotes from Hollywood, here. Television has time constraints that authors don't have to worry about-  at least, not as much- so they have to introduce and flesh out their characters very quickly.

Think about the glory days of the old black-and-white TV superheroes. Superman, Batman, etc. These were gorgeous, muscle-bound guys with gentle, unassuming secret identities, with few flaws and an infinite capacity for sorting out thorny problems within less than half an hour. Not exactly the most relatable, but lovable all the same. 

Over time, we've gotten bored with the image of the idealistic "flawless hero". They're not real, relatable, or even interesting anymore. These days, consumers of visual and written media want a hero that is real, gritty, flawed, and can yank your emotions all over the spectrum by the time the story is done. You want a main character that makes you want to cheer for them, yet you get mad at them at least once, you feel sorry for them, you're frustrated with how utterly dense they can be, then in the end, you want to feel like they've earned their happy ending. If their happily-ever-after comes too easily, you've failed as a writer. Current iterations of the above-mentioned superheroes have gotten reasonably adept at creating the flawed "normal guy forced into the role of a hero" trope. 

At times, this can be overdone. Some plotlines may seem so utterly unrealistic, some backstories so unbearably tragic, it is clear that the writer is trying too hard to win the sympathy of the audience. This will backfire. You want your audience to root for the good guy, of course. But you don't want your audience to feel like they've had the backstory shoved down their throats. The overarching goal for a good main character is that you want your reader to actually care about the MC and their success, but you want them to be satisfied that it is well-deserved.

One example I could cite would be Flynn from the Disney movie "Rapunzel", one of a pair of MCs. We are nearly halfway through the movie before we find out his story, and it takes some time for the damsel-not-in-distress-thank-you to drag it out of him. He is very light with details, giving a one-liner that sums up his childhood, then immediately segues into talking about his inspiration. A book, a beloved collection of tales that he read with other orphans, with a hero that he decided to emulate in his own twisted, desperate way. You get the sympathy without the sappiness. There's also a lot of nuance that is not immediately stated, but implied. For an orphan, he is surprisingly strong. He also shows a certain amount of deep integrity for a thief. He certainly could have made better life choices, but when it comes down to making a choice between Rapunzel and his own self-interest, he chooses her. 

Now, when we consider the possibility of a group of main characters, this can be a tricky balance. You want each member of the group to have their own backstory and personality, but you don't want the story bogged down by the weight of their stories to the detriment of the actual plot. You also don't want to give so little information, the various group members all blend together, difficult to discern, let alone care about. You will have to balance the need to differentiate them against the need to avoid making any one of them stand out too much.

Another trope that bores audiences is a group of main characters that get along too well. You might have a love story between two of them, you might have a love triangle, you could have lifelong enemies forced to cooperate to defeat an even scarier third party. You can throw together a group of strangers, you can send lifelong friends on a journey that tests the fabric of their friendship to the point of destruction. Any of these can be worthwhile. But never, ever make the mistake of creating a group that works well together with no problems. Conversely, there is a balance of not wanting to create too much turmoil. Inter-character strife can overshadow the end goal of their journey, confusing the reader and making them have to think a little too hard. Unless that turmoil is the primary problem to be solved. But don't confuse the two.

Let's flip the paradigm and discuss the antagonist. This can range from "wronged and vengeful" to "outright evil destroyer of anything and everything that gets in the way of his quest for power and ultimate victory". 

I'll use an example from my own books for this one. In my book Gladiator, the primary antagonist, Thaddeus Estrella, is the leader of an obsessive religious group known as the Order of the Orion Light. We don't learn a lot about the group in the first book, but in conversations with other characters, he references wrongdoing by the primary governmental group in the story, the Polaris Alliance. These wrongs include the death of innocents, suppression, and torture. He states that he was tortured himself, many times. Most of the characters in this book believe him to be evil and deluded, but the few glimpses we get of him imply that he not only believes that he is fully in the right, but thinks that the war he fights, the war that has destroyed so much of the planet, is his way of actually saving the world. He doesn't see himself as the bad guy, and yet he fully regrets the pain it has caused. 

Giving a villain a believable and sympathetic backstory can make for a much more satisfying ending for readers. Especially if the main character is made aware of that backstory, and has the agonizing decision of how to deal with the problem. In this book, the main character, Anya Lee, doesn't really care about winners or losers, she simply wants to solve the problem of ending the war in the most expeditious manner possible. She decides to view Estrella as the "enemy" simply because he is more likely to continue the battle until he wins, no matter the cost. 

On the other end of the spectrum, we have true villains who are pure evil, whose actions are driven by nothing better than their own selfish, insane drive for power. A prime example would be Lord Voldemort, from Harry Potter. He grew up as an orphan, and yet, from the few examples we have, his childhood doesn't seem to have been particularly abusive or tortuous. There is a reference to a visit to the seaside, which would certainly be a treat for kids of that era. From what little we are told, including an anecdote about something that he did to other orphans from his orphanage, it would seem that he was just a badly behaved kid from the get-go. As he grows older, discovering his magical power, and starts attending school to develop it, his desire for power over others increases and is turned to tragic and horrific ends. He turns a basilisk loose on the non-magical children in the school, he murders innocent people in his quest for immortality, and he tortures his own followers to ensure their obedience. 

What makes a good villain? There are a few facets to this. One, you have to have a believable reason for the villain to act as they do against the protagonist. In Harry Potter, it's fairly obvious. Voldemort wanted ultimate power, and for a time, Harry was a seemingly insurmountable obstacle to that, to the point that Voldemort was nearly destroyed.

In Gladiator, it is not quite as obvious, but still believable. Estrella wants to save the world, Anya Lee and the Alliance are direct obstacles to his goal. He wants those obstacles removed, he wants to know how the Gladiator program works, so that he can turn it to his own ends, but his goals are not out of an evil desire to destroy.

A second factor is a certain complexity to the reader's reaction to the villain. Having a villain that they just hate, with no other emotions, is fine for a video game. Not so for a book. It is my opinion, right or not, that the reader should at some point feel at least a little bit sorry for the antagonist. Whether or not they deserve it is another matter. 

A third factor is how they interact with the others in the book. Whether it be their own henchmen, or how they use the MCs associates against them. "No man is an island" is certainly true, and you don't want the villain to be so overly powered that they need no one else to achieve their ends. That, again, falls into the "predictable and therefore boring" category.

Now, in the case of the antagonist, there might not be an actual being at all. For example, in The Neverending Story, the primary antagonist is "The Nothing", which is a vast and seemingly mindless entity that seeks to destroy the world. Of course, this entity is metaphorical in nature, but it presents a different category of "antagonist". One that is a "problem to be solved" rather than a "person to be defeated". These don't have to be mutually exclusive. There are other minor villains in The Neverending Story that must be defeated along the way to solving the ultimate problem of defeating The Nothing. Using a Problem as the primary antagonist, with or without a Person, can add some variety and interest to a story that makes it less predictable and more satisfying for a reader. After all, what's more fun for a reader than watching a hero fight against a villain that they can't even see?

In a successful book, the interplay between the Main Character and the Villain must be engaging, interesting, and believable, without being predictable. For an author, there are a number of ways to achieve this, not least being the use of the other characters in the dynamic. We will discuss these in a future post. But in the end, the primary goal should be: we want the good guy to win, but we don't want it to be too easy for them. 

Happy writing!

The Taleweaver's Apprentice

A follow-up to the Taleweaver. Another brain on paper, like most of these others, of course. Enjoy!

 "And now, take a few threads of suspense. No, not that much. Just a bit, just enough to make the story... ah. No. Take it down, and let's try it again."

The Apprentice swallowed hard, fighting tears as he removed the tangled mess that passed for the start of his story. Why was it so hard? He'd been studying with the Taleweaver for two long years. Why couldn't he get it right?

So much depended on him. Or so he had been told. He didn't understand what was so important about a lot of silly stories, most of which were about people that had lived long ago. People he didn't even know. But it was better than being just another hunter. Forced to kill animals for food, forced to spend days traipsing around the woods away from the family. That was a life he definitely didn't want. So he would keep trying.

He decided that he had been trying too hard, as usual. He needed to use less thread, keep the story lighter. Choosing a ball of Character, he started weaving a more light-hearted tale.

The Taleweaver was pleased, at first. "Very good. Don't forget to add a little Setting. Even though most of those that hear your tales will know very well that these tales take place here where we are, not all of them do. You must be sure... no. That's not right at all! Just... just stop for now."

The shuttles were lowered as he looked over his work. It was better, certainly. But not good enough. His Character thread had gotten hopelessly lost as he used far too much Setting.

The Taleweaver stood. "It has been a long day, and I must prepare my loom for tomorrow night's tale. You may watch me weave, of course. You are always welcome here."

The Apprentice wasn't so sure. He stood, his head hanging low, and started to wrap loose threads back onto the balls. Keeping them neat was something he was good at. Probably the only thing.

When he finished, he swept the floor, then started for the door, but his master called him back. "My dear boy... I am sorry if I seemed harsh. There is something I want you to remember."

He looked up, into the master's eyes. There was a twinkle there, something between Humor and Empathy. "Every Taleweaver is different," the old man said softly. "No two are alike. And so no two Taleweavers have the same way of weaving their tales. You will find your way. I'm sure of it."

He nodded, feeling just a bit better. Someday, perhaps he would weave these lessons as a Cautionary Tale for his own future student. Quietly, he left the hut to return to his own home.

*     *     *

The next day he was shaken awake at daybreak by his mother, who had a dark crease of worry across her head. "You must go, quickly! The Taleweaver has fallen very ill."

His heart plummeted. He threw on his clothes and raced across the village to the hut surrounded by brightly woven tapestries of Tales of the past. What had happened? Had his master been so discouraged by his failures that it had made him ill?

The villagers had surrounded the hut, watching, but they recognized him and let him through. The Taleweaver was on his bed, his face pale and drawn with great pain. His wife was by his side, speaking softly to him. She glanced at the Apprentice with something that might pass for an encouraging smile and waved for him to join her.

"Master... are you going to be all right?" the Apprentice asked.

"I... fear not. My time is... very near."

That was the very last thing any of them wanted to hear!

"I'm not ready, Master! Please don't leave us."

The old man turned his head, his eyes still twinkling as they had the night before. "You no longer need my instruction," he insisted, sounding like he was trying to speak as strongly as possible. "There is nothing more I can teach you. There is something in you... something buried deep. But you must find it. This village... our people... they need you. Without you, without your tales, without the art and history of our forefathers... we are nothing."

The Apprentice blinked. He'd never heard anyone put it in those terms before. "Master... perhaps someone else would be better-"

"No. There is no time for anyone else, and no one has the depth of heart and spirit that you do. Please, do not give up."

The Apprentice bowed his head. "I promise, Master. I will keep trying. I... I won't give up."

*     *     *

And so he didn't. The Taleweaver passed away that evening, and the burden of carrying on his work fell to his Apprentice. The Taleweaver's wife insisted that the loom and threads stay where they were, as the Taleweavers had always lived there, ever since the beginning of memory. The Apprentice was invited to work there whenever he wished, and he spent many long hours at the hut, attempting to weave tales as his master had.

But he failed, every time. The stories came out harsh and jarring, or simply made no sense at all. He just didn't understand. Why had his master insisted that he continue? Anyone could do better than this!

As the long days continued with no Tales being told, something strange happened to the village. The people started to fade. At first, it was simply their mood that dropped. They seemed tired and depressed. Then, the color started to leave the village. The huts, the people, the forest around... it all turned gray and lifeless. The only exception was the Tales that hung around the hut. The Tales of the past. They remained as beautiful and vibrant as the day they were woven. 

The villagers would come and stand at the hut, looking fondly at the Tales with sad smiles. Their color seemed to return, just a little, as they looked over the Tales and remembered the Taleweaver telling them. But upon returning to their chores, the color faded again.

The Apprentice tried so hard, and they knew it. Often, they would see him sitting in the hut, several shuttles in hand, quietly chastising himself as he struggled to decide what to use next. But it was never good enough. Not even by their standards, which were decidedly more generous than the standard the Taleweaver had set for the young boy.

One afternoon, as the village was particularly quiet, the Apprentice stood, set the shuttles and threads in their places, and walked out. "I can't," he said softly. "Not now. Until I can figure out what's wrong with me, why I can't do it, I might as well not even try."

"But we need you," his father told him. "We need your tales. Without them, without the history of our people, we are nothing. Surely you can see that."

He looked around, at the people, so sad and lost. He sighed. "I know. I don't understand why it is so, and I am sorry. But it makes no sense to keep trying and failing."

"You only fail when you give up," his father reminded him. "Please... you made a promise. Do not break your word."

*     *     *

The next morning their spirits lifted as a caravan arrived, bringing strange and exciting trinkets from far away. The Apprentice had a surprise as his uncle brought him a gift. It was a beautiful, intricately carved mandolin.

"I thought if your weaving work didn't suit you, maybe you could try singing," his uncle guffawed, gently teasing. Uncle's eyes roved over the village, a slight frown coming to his face as he took in the state of the place. "I just... I don't understand. What happened here?"

"The Taleweaver died," The Apprentice explained. "And I haven't... I can't... I just can't do it. I haven't been able to weave a single Tale."

Uncle nodded in understanding, to his surprise. "I see. Well, none of us is woven of the same threads, and I'm sure it's no different for you and your Master. You will find your way. Hopefully soon... this place looks so sad and sickly without new Tales."

"I know," The Apprentice said flatly. "I just... I don't know what to do anymore."

Uncle motioned toward the mandolin. "Maybe you've been trying too hard. Take a break, try something new. Being good at one thing doesn't mean you can never do anything else."

He had a point. The Apprentice wandered over to the hut, ignoring the loom as he sat down, and started plucking at the strings. They had a pleasant hum, a hum that seemed to resonate deep inside of him. He played with the mandolin all day, trying bits of melody, adding in a few words here and there. Songs he knew, songs his mother had sung when he was very little.

As the days passed, he spent only a little time with the loom, instead playing his mandolin. He played it so long, some of the strings were starting to wear out. He worried that the others would be upset at him for neglecting his study, but they didn't. Away from the hut, out in the worry and care of real life, they didn't even seem to notice the grayness anymore. 

The children took notice of his music. They would come and sit in the door of the hut, listening intently. He could swear he could see a bit more color in their faces, a bit of a smile, a touch of laughter here and there. He took inspiration from the Tales hung on the walls and starting Singing them. 

Was it really just his imagination? No... the children definitely looked happier. There was a big smile on his little sister's cheeks, a hefty dose of pink on her lips. 

Then, disaster struck. A string broke on the mandolin. He removed the broken pieces, his heart sinking. How could he keep playing now? He decided to keep singing with the remaining strings. For a time, it seemed to help, but then one, and another, and another, until all but one of the strings was gone. He fought to keep playing, but it seemed useless. He could only play a few notes, very slowly.

His audience never went away. The mandolin seemed to give them just a bit of the hope they had lost. Even as it was slowly silenced, they didn't give up. They kept coming.

Finally, as he feared, the last string broke. He felt as broken as his beloved instrument. The mandolin had given him a chance to redeem himself, but now it was gone. His uncle's caravan wouldn't return for months, or even years. What could he possibly do, how could he possibly get new strings?

A thought occurred. It seemed ridiculous at first, but... it might be the only way. His master had woven with only the very best thread, spun from the wool of sheep from the high mountains. Sturdy and reliable. Maybe...

He picked up a ball of Plot, and considered it. It was absurd, but it was perhaps his only chance.

*     *     *

That night, the Council of Elders met to discuss the state of the village. "We have no choice," an Elder said. "We must leave the village and find new lives elsewhere."

"I think we are overreacting a bit," said another tartly. "The boy isn't even grown yet."

"He has cast aside his loom in favor of a toy," said a third grumpily.

"A toy that has brought at least a little bit of joy to the children," said the Eldest. "There may be something there. Something to explore."

"Before or after we fade into oblivion?" asked the first Elder.

"May I speak?"

They all looked at the Apprentice's father. He was well-respected among the men as being cunning, shrewd, and an excellent creator of Ideas. "I know that my son has struggled with learning his craft, and perhaps that is my fault. I had high expectations of him when I apprenticed him to the Taleweaver. He is a dreamer, an artist... I knew he would not fare well among the hunters. But... there is more than one kind of artist. Perhaps there is still a chance, if we just allow him to explore other Ideas."

The Eldest nodded. "I have not yet heard his mandolin for myself. Bring him before us, that we may judge its merit."

In just a few minutes, the Apprentice sat before the Elders, trembling. He was afraid... what if they decided the mandolin was too much trouble? What if they forced him to return to the loom and set aside the one thing that had brought him happiness since his master had died?

The only way that wouldn't happen was if he managed to tell a truly extraordinary Tale. And he would do it with the mandolin. He'd been singing the Tales for weeks. Was it really such a strange idea?

He lifted his instrument, set his fingers to the strings... then closed his eyes. He looked deep within himself for a Tale... and one finally came.

He started to sing, still keeping his eyes closed. He sang a Tale of a great explorer. A man of cunning, and heart. The man who had founded their village. His ancestor, the First Elder. He sang of his successes, his failures, his weaknesses, and his great strengths. He sang of the First Elder's joy when he became a father, and his great sorrow when his third child was born asleep, and never woke.

The village had never known a longer or more complex tale. He kept singing until the Tale felt like it had been told. His mandolin continued for a few moments, then it fell silent. He opened his eyes and looked around, his eyes widening in shock.

The color was back. His people were actually smiling, for the first time in months. When he stood, they all cheered him, congratulating him on his successful tale. He could hardly believe it. Was this what his master had meant? That his talent wouldn't necessarily be weaving at all?

The Eldest stood and came to his side, putting a hand on his shoulder and facing the rest of the village. "Tonight, we have witnessed a miracle beyond our understanding. We were all so focused on what we believed to be the answer to our problem, we neglected to look for any other answers. In my life and travels, I have heard of Singers and their talent, but never did I consider that we might have one in our own village. The Taleweaver was the keeper of our history, the teller of our Tales, and he did so in the form of his story threads. But now, his Apprentice has brought us a new form of Tales. Tales told in song, respecting his master with the use of his threads, but told in his own unique way.

"From this day on, our history, our art, and our people will be kept by a new, incredible artist. You are no longer an Apprentice. We are now in the capable hands of a Storysinger."

The village applauded again, and the Storysinger felt his heart swell with pride and gratitude. He'd done it. He'd found his own way. And yet, he felt a sense of loss, wondering how long his power would help his people if his Tales were not recorded in some kind of permanent way.

As the crowd ebbed, the parents taking children to bed, the Taleweaver's wife came to his side with a knowing smile. "He knew you would find your way. He was never sure what it would be, but he had a feeling that it wouldn't be the same as his. However... it seemed that there is power in the Tales beyond even his understanding."

The Storysinger frowned. "How so?"

She waved for him to follow. They went to the hut, he looked in, and stared.

On the loom, shimmering in the light of a lamp, was his Tale. He hadn't woven a single thread, and yet he knew it to be his. "How... did you do this?" he asked.

The wife shook her head. "No. The threads on your mandolin are still tied to the threads of this loom. As you Sang your Tale, it was woven by the threads, even if not by your hand. Your Tale is now part of the Tales of this village. A part of our history. And I'm sure my husband would be very proud of you."

Taking up the knife, the Storysinger carefully clipped the threads and tied them off, hanging his new Tale with the others outside of the hut. He smiled softly, wishing that his master could have been with him to share in the joy, and the triumph.

His Tales were not the same Tales as anyone else's. But they were just as valid, and just as powerful. And the Tale of his rise as the Storysinger soon joined the others, never to be forgotten.

An Angel for Christmas

 This one is brain-on-paper style. Start to finish, minimal editing, straight from the heart.

Ready?

Here we go...

The phone rang, for what seemed like the tenth time in as many minutes. I was almost late for work at Dayson's department store, but I sighed and answered, in case it was my husband with a problem.

Instead, it was my boss. "Lucia, I know you're probably headed out the door, I promise not to ding you for being late. I need to ask you something."

I was instantly curious. Why not just wait until I got to the store? "Sure, what's up, Larry?"

"I'm heading out as soon as you get here, my truck blew a tire and I need to get to the shop before they close. But there's a chance that I may not make it in time. I was wondering if you had your tree yet?"

"Actually, no, we were going up to the mountain tomorrow to get it."

"Great, while you are there, can you pick up a couple others for the Santa scene? Just smallish ones, nothing big enough to overwhelm your truck."

I thought about it. "Well, we can always take the trailer as well. We're taking the children up to play in the snow, so I can get decent ones. It would look ridiculous to have small trees next to Luke Johansen."

"Luke isn't doing Santa this year, Lucia. He died two days ago. Didn't you hear?"

I hadn't heard, and my heart dropped. Luke Johansen was a widower of fifteen years, had no children of his own, and was the gruffest old man you'd ever meet. He was the typical "sit on the porch and snap at kids to stay off the lawn" type, yet every year he played the sweetest, kindest, most perfect Santa Claus. He had a round belly, a big white beard, and could belt out "ho-ho-ho" in his baritone like no one's business. And now, our perfect Santa was gone.

"So who's doing it?" I asked.

"Tom Wilson."

I nearly dropped the phone. "Tom? The town drunk? Larry, he hates Christmas, and for good reason!"

"I know. It was the oddest thing, but after Luke passed, Tom came to me and asked to do Santa. He gave me his word of honor not to drink a drop. He needs the work, so I said yes. He's the only other guy I know that has a Santa-like beard. He'll fit the suit okay, though I've got our tailor hemming the pants. He'll be fine if we just keep an eye on him."

I pressed a hand to my head. "Let's hope this doesn't end in a disaster. If the parents find out-"

"I know, I'm not courting a lawsuit. I'm going to have his wife sitting near, so he has ample reason to behave."

Well, that was that. Larry had made up his mind, and he had a good point that Tom was physically right for the job. But still... Tom Wilson made the term "town drunk" look tame. Three years previous, on Christmas Eve, a tipsy partier had skidded on ice, right into the side of Tom's car. His wife had been paralyzed, and his only child, Tommy Junior, had died on the scene.

The irony made me just sick. But... who knew? Maybe this was the beginning of some serious rehabilitation for old Tom.

"I'll get the trees. Anything else?"

"Yeah... pray for Maria Wilson."

"I always do."

He sighed. "Me too. And pray for us, that this goes off smoothly. I'll see you later."

*     *     *

For three kids anxious to get up to the mountain to have a snowball fight, they were obstinate about putting on snow clothes. But I'm just as stubborn, and after a threat to leave them at Aunt Lacy's butcher shop to help pluck turkeys, they caved. Chalk one up to Mom-thinking.

We weren't the only ones after a good Christmas tree, and James drove much further afield than usual. "I don't want to get in an argument like last year," he told me firmly. "When I find a tree, it's my tree, and that's that."

I grinned behind my glove. He usually won the "I saw it first!" arguments, given that he was one of the strongest guys in town, but he was also very passive and hated arguments. "I understand, honey," was all I said.

We parked the truck and started looking. He found the perfect tree for our house right away, but I wasn't satisfied with the other offerings. Even if it was just a simple Santa setup for Christmas eve, lasting all of two hours, I still wanted to get nice trees. They were always donated to the poorhouse after the visits with Santa, and I didn't want them to think they were getting the "leftovers".

I charged my two boys to look after their six-year-old sister, then roamed into the forest, always making sure I could see our orange truck. After about half an hour, I finally found a perfect matching pair of spruces, calling James to come and cut them. He was equally pleased, congratulating me on my excellent sense for Christmas decor.

We pulled them back down the mountain to the truck and got them secured. That done, I called to the children. Our twins, Jimmy and John, came immediately.

Emmaline did not.

"Where is she?" I asked. "You were supposed to be watching her!"

"We did!" John insisted. "We were playing hide and seek, and we can't find her."

 My heart froze in my chest. It was a typical frigid day on the mountain, and I knew that even in snow clothing, my tiny little girl wouldn't last long in this weather. I started screaming her name, followed by my husband and boys, and soon, other tree hunters switched to searchers. Word travels fast in a small town, and it seemed like everyone we knew was looking for her.

After an hour, I was seriously worried. How could she have gone so far in just an hour? The sheriff had called out deputies on horses, and a bloodhound, but in the snow, I had no idea how much use they would be.

He came to my side. "I'm calling in a professional mountain team from the ski resort," he told me quietly. "I heard this morning that we've had a few small avalanches... I don't want to borrow trouble, but... just be ready for the worst."

I didn't want to hear that. I really, really didn't want to hear that. I leaned against the side of the truck, sobbing into my hands. My precious girl... where in the world had she gone? "Lord, you can see her, I can't. We could really use a miracle or an angel right about now. Please bring her back to me!"

No sooner had I finished my little prayer than I heard the most beautiful sound ever. "Hi, Mommy!"

I whipped around to see her coming through the snow, slipping and sliding over drifts. As the searchers hurried over to us with cheers, James burst past me and swept up our daughter in his arms, tears freezing on his face. "Emmy! Where in the world have you been?"

"I was playing with the boys, and I saw a bunny. I wanted to pet her, so I followed her, and got lost. But the nice Santa man brought me back."

The gathering of searchers fell quiet. "What Santa man?" I asked.

"You know, Mommy. The big man that plays Santa at your store. He brought me back here."

I stared in utter disbelief. "Emmy... that's impossible. Mr. Johansen died."

She shrugged, laying her head on her father's shoulder. "I know it was him. It was his voice, and his big white beard. You told me not to talk to strangers, and he's not a stranger, so I knew he would help me."

That was true. We'd had a talk about stranger danger, and after that, she'd turned shy around anyone we didn't know well. There was no way she would have followed some stranger, lost or not.

"Emmy, from now on, you stay with Mommy or the boys when we go places like this," James told her. "No chasing bunnies, okay?"

"Okay, Daddy."

I looked at the sheriff, who just shrugged. "No idea," he said. "I haven't seen anyone else that looks like Luke all day. Well... ever, actually."

After heartfelt thanks from our family to the searchers, the search broke up and returned to tree hunting. In gratitude for their assistance, my husband helped four less-experienced tree hunters find great trees, then we drove our family down the road into town.

We first stopped at the store to deliver the two trees. "These are beautiful!" Larry said admiringly. "Thanks for bringing them down. I hope it wasn't much trouble?"

I exchanged tired looks with James. "Um... not really," he muttered.

Larry frowned. "Did I miss something?"

"I'll tell you later," I promised. "Right now, I need to get the kids home with our tree. I'll be back after noon to help set up."

"Right," Larry said hesitantly. "Look, I'm sorry if it was a problem-"

"No, it's nothing like that," I assured him. "It has nothing to do with the trees, I promise. But I need to get Emmy home."

"Okay, then."

*     *     *

That afternoon, as we worked to put up the Santa's Workshop display for that evening, I talked to Larry and told him what had happened. He wasn't a Christian man, but he did believe there was some kind of higher power, and he looked very thoughtful after my explanation. "Interesting... you know Emmy wasn't the only one, right?"

I stared at him in shock. "I take it that's a no?" he chuckled.

"What are you talking about?"

"I've been hearing it all day from shoppers. I heard about Emmy's rescue, of course, from Lacy and Bob. But I heard other moms talking. Apparently, Luke's ghost was hanging around the tree grounds. A few kids swore they saw him. When they got too far from their cars, he showed up and ordered them back toward the road. And lest you think it's just them looking to ride the fame from Emmy's story, the mothers swore that the kids told them about him before Emmy went missing."

Unbelievable. And yet... was it really so impossible? Luke Johansen didn't seem to like kids, except at Christmas. Maybe he really was still around. "I wish I'd made it to his funeral," I commented. "I feel bad now, hearing everything he has done."

"Oh, there hasn't been a funeral yet," Larry told me while stringing lights over Santa's chair. "The gravedigger sprained a wrist and the substitute is out of town until after Christmas. They're keeping his body at the hospital. It didn't seem like much of a bother to bury him sooner, since he has no family around. I was going to attend the burial since I was sort of like his boss, but other than that, I doubt anyone would have come."

In that instant, I made a decision. Luke Johansen would have mourners at his funeral, even if it was just Larry and my family. "Let me know when they decide, will you?"

"Sure, Pastor Wallace said he'd let me know."

When six o'clock chimed, Tom Wilson took his place on the throne-like Santa chair, belting out his best ho-ho-ho. It was a pale imitation of Luke's, but he did his best, and he wasn't weaving around and banging into things. The children were excited in any case, lining up like ducklings following their mother. One after the other they sat on Santa's lap, told him the innermost desires of their darling hearts, got a candy cane from his elf helper- which was me- then scampered off to rejoin their smiling parents. I felt a certain sense of loss as I watched, not having the Santa that had served our community so well for years, but I was proud of how well Tom did. I was equally surprised that he seemed to really enjoy it.

Eight o'clock came, and there was still a line. Tom didn't bat an eye. He just shrugged and kept visiting with the children, one after another. No rush, no fuss. I wondered how Larry would appreciate having to work later on Christmas Eve, and I went to ask him if he wanted to go home while I closed, since my children were happily playing in the fake snow behind the Santa scene. I spotted him talking to Margaret Easton, the director of the poorhouse. He handed her several large shopping bags, stuffed to the top. She smiled tearfully, thanking him. "When we lost our usual donor, I just didn't know what to do!"

"Not a problem," Larry told her. "These would just be written off as losses anyway, someone might as well get some use out of them. You're sure you can get it all done tonight?"

"Oh yes, my sister's sewing group is coming to help, and my husband recruited some men to help with the wood and metal toys."

"Great. Well, I hope you have a Merry Christmas!"

"I'm sure we will now. Goodbye!"

I waited until Margaret had left, then walked over to Larry. He spotted me and turned red, looking a little embarrassed. "Uh... hi. Um... how much did you overhear?"

"Just about all of it, I think," I said. "But I'm confused... what was that?"

"It's... uh, just a little donation."

A lightbulb flicked on. "Wait... that was from the Damaged Merchandise box, wasn't it?"

He sighed. "Yes, it was. Please don't tell corporate. We'd just be writing it off and throwing it in the trash anyway!"

I laughed. "I know, and I promise, I won't say a word. What did she mean by her usual donor?"

He looked a bit uncomfortable still, then shrugged. "Well, he's gone, so you might as well know. Luke Johansen worked as Santa so he could buy stuff for the poorhouse. I gave him great prices, I promise. But this year... of course he's not around, and Tom's family needs the money as much as anyone. I thought, and I decided that instead of wasting all that from the Damaged box, it might as well go out the door to someone who can use it."

He grinned sheepishly. "I also tossed in some bags of candy. The good stuff. So don't think that I'm some Scrooge dumping trash on poor folks."

"I'd never think that of you, Larry," I assured him. "That was a wonderful thing to do."

Finally, the line ebbed, and the clock struck nine. Closing time. We saw our last few customers safely out to their cars, locked the door, then set about cleaning up. My boys were extra helpful, sweeping the floors without even having to be asked, then Larry gave us a bag with some goodies and sent us home. "The rest of the cleaning can wait," he said firmly. "Go enjoy Christmas. I've got to get to my cousin's house, she's saving a plate for me."

"Of course. Merry Christmas... and don't forget about the funeral!"

"I won't."

*     *     *

That Christmas was one of the best we'd ever had. We enjoyed a lovely day with family, then hurried to the church that evening to hear the choir sing. I was amazed to see Larry there, sitting with his cousin's family. Never in his life had he willingly set foot inside of a church. It would seem that Luke's angel was having more of an effect than anyone would have guessed.

At the end of the service, Pastor Wallace announced that Luke Johansen's graveside service would be the following morning at ten o'clock. He invited any friends or family to attend and said there would be a luncheon provided afterward by the ladies of the church. Given the copious amounts of leftovers from Christmas, I had no doubt the luncheon would be epic.

Early the next morning I drove to the store but found the doors still locked. I frowned, puzzled, and looked around. All the stores downtown were still closed, with signs saying "closed for funeral, opening at one". 

"Luke's funeral?" I wondered under my breath. "The entire town is closing down? Luke, just what else have you been up to?"

I returned home earlier than I had planned and gathered the family. We drove to the cemetery but had a hard time finding parking. It seemed that the entire town was indeed there, all standing around either the coffin- a beautiful mahogany one- or were lined up at the far side of the gravesite. There was a book on a podium, and they were taking turns writing in it.

Larry appeared at my side. "Hi. Have you had a chance yet?"

I shook my head. "We just got here. What is this?"

"It's a memory book. With all the stories I've been hearing, I wanted the town to remember Luke, so I got one of the fancy wedding guest books and brought it for people to write memories of Luke. I'll bring it to the luncheon too, so people have time. I asked the library if they could take care of it, and Leanna said she'd be happy to. She'll keep it in Reference so no one loses it."

I smiled. "You never cease to surprise me, Larry Evans."

He ducked his head. "Well... I've got a lot to make up for," he said cryptically. "Excuse me, there's Tom... I promised I would help with the wheelchair."

He walked away, and I watched him in puzzlement. It seemed there were a lot more secrets than I was aware of in this town. Small wonder, I'd only lived here since I married James. "What could he have meant?" I commented quietly to my husband.

"I think I know, but if he didn't tell you, it's none of my business," he said just as quietly. "All I'll say is that Larry had a kind of... well... a bit of a wild youth."

That was just as surprising. Larry was a good guy, but when it came to rules, he was by-the-book. 

The funeral was beautiful. Only a few people spoke. People that knew Luke better than I did, like the Pastor. And, to my surprise, Larry. The mystery was solved as he got up and spoke, sharing a story that was apparently no surprise to most of the older folk in the town, but it was a shock to me.

"Most of you remember what I was like as a kid. No dad around, my mother was always working... I had no one to make sure that I grew up right. No one that cared, or so I thought. I got into some bad habits. Shoplifting, that kind of thing. I swore that I would get out of this dead-end town one way or another, and I chose a lot of bad ways to do it. I hurt a lot of people, but at the time, I couldn't have cared less.

"Christmas came around, in my seventeenth year. I would be eighteen soon, and able to make my own way in life. I was still in school, barely, but I was determined that the second I turned eighteen, I would go and join the army. Anything to get away from my miserable life. You may remember that was the year that all Dayson's stores were collecting money for the new children's hospital in the city. At that time, the store was run by Luke's brother Pete. I watched that box fill up with cash, and I swore it would be mine. The hospital folk had plenty of donors, or so I reasoned. I needed the money more than they did.

"Christmas Eve night, I broke into the store. I was just loading up a bag with the cash when I heard the angriest yell I've ever heard in my life. Pete stood there, and I could tell from his red eyes that he'd already had one too many at his family party. He was pointing a rifle at me. I was sure, as sure as I've ever been in my life, that he was going to shoot me dead right then and there."

"Luke had come with him. Probably to drive, since Luke never drank. He commented to me once that he was allergic to alcohol; it made him break out in a bad attitude. He stopped Pete from killing me and suggested that he make me work to make up for what I had done. I was... shocked. I had applied for jobs all over town, but no one had ever hired me because I was such a troublemaker. Pete didn't like the idea, but Luke talked him into it. Luke was a part-time maintenance guy for the store, and he said he'd train me and make sure I stayed out of trouble."

"I worked there from that day on. For the first few months I only got half of my pay, since the other half went to pay for the window I'd broken getting in. I saved every penny I could, still thinking I needed to get out of there. But it never happened. My mother got sick, and I used the money to get her a good doctor. Then Luke suggested that I get a better education, and I used one of those correspondence schools to get an Associates' degree in business. I got a promotion at the store, which was Luke's doing. Then another one. I was actually making decent money, staying out of trouble, and people had stopped glaring at me every time they saw me.

"When Mother died, Luke helped me through the funeral. It was the hardest thing I'd ever had to face. Then, Pete had his heart attack and died, and I was sure I was done at the store. Corporate wanted to send one of their own guys to take over, and I knew that if he found my record, and people told him what I'd done, I was finished there. I was manager over the men's department, and the other employees liked me, but... still, I was branded a crook for life. Luke talked to them and got them to agree to at least interview the employees before deciding.

"I felt the interview went well, but I still didn't have much hope. To my utter shock, they made me store manager. I met with the corporate guy, and he showed me a letter of recommendation from Pete's files, praising my attitude, my work ethic, and my integrity. It was signed by "Mr. Johansen". To this day he never admitted it, but I'm pretty sure the 'Mr. Johansen' was actually Luke. Whatever the case, it got me the job that I have now, and kept me in the town that I have come to love.

He dropped his head, tears in his eyes, and I felt my heart melt a little. I'd never seen Larry look so utterly vulnerable, and I couldn't imagine what courage it had taken to share this.

"I don't know what I would have done without Luke," he continued. "In some ways, he was the father I'd never had. I wouldn't call him fatherly, but he filled that role just the same. He was my Christmas Angel, and he not only saved me from a bitter life, he literally saved me. I'm going to miss him so very much. 

"I hope you will all make use of the memory book. I think the people of this town need to know the real Luke Johansen. Everyone has always thought that he didn't like kids, right? Well, that's not strictly true. He loved kids, but he never had any of his own, and it hurt him deeply. It made him a little... I wouldn't say bitter, but very sad. He did what he could for the kids of the town, but just seeing them, watching them... it was hard for him to be happy around them. But he loved them so much, and I think we all should know that."

I knew it, now. I could feel it, every time I looked at my little Emmy and thought of how Luke's ghost had saved her life. And I felt hot shame at how badly I had misjudged him. I could see similar looks on other faces. This funeral had opened so many eyes... yes, we would remember Luke.

*     *     *

At the end of the luncheon, I got my chance to write in the book. I told the story of Emmy's rescue, how an angel had saved our daughter. I closed the book and turned, nearly running into Tom. "Oh... sorry, I didn't hear you! How are you?"

He smiled. "Doing better. Much better than I have been in years. Can I ask you for a favor?"

I nodded. "Of course."

He sighed. "I... I wanted to write something in Luke's book. But I lost my glasses years ago, and I can't read up close. Can you write for me?"

I hadn't known that. Maybe that was one reason he had such a hard time keeping a job. "Sure, Tom. What do you want me to say?"

"I'll let you figure out the wording, but, it's just... you know I've been angry every Christmas, and why, right?"

"Yes."

"So... you might be wondering why I agreed to do the part of Santa for Dayson's."

I gave him a sheepish look. "Well, yeah. It seemed a bit strange."

"It was because of Luke. I was one of the first that saw him fall. Larry drove him to the hospital after he collapsed, and I sat in back with him, trying to keep him awake and talking. I'll never forget what he said. He looked right at me and said 'Tom, you know it's not really Christmas you hate. You need to let it go. Stop making your poor wife miserable, and face your pain, before it destroys you'."

Tom dropped his head for a minute, clearing his throat a few times. I just waited. There was no way I was going to press him. Finally, he looked up and continued. "I knew he was right. But then he died, just after they had brought the gurney out to take him in. He stopped breathing... how could I find peace with Christmas after it had cost me so much? I went back home with Larry, and after he dropped me off, I went into the house, grabbed a bottle, and went for a walk."

"On that walk... I know I was drunk, and I could have been seeing things, but... I saw Luke. And Tommy was standing with him. Tommy told me what Luke had, that I needed to stop hating Christmas. It was his favorite time of year, and his mother's too, and he said I wasn't thinking of how much pain I was costing his mother, by not having Christmas in our house. The look on his face just broke my heart. The next thing he said... he looked at the bottle and reminded me that it was a drunk that had killed him, and by being a drunk, I was just compounding the hurt. I had destroyed something he loved, and embraced something he hated. The second he said that, I threw what was left of that bottle in a trash can, and promised I would never drink again. I begged his forgiveness, and he told me that of course he could forgive me, on two conditions. One, I needed to learn to respect and honor Christmas, and let my wife have the joy of the season. The second condition came from Luke. He told me that since he couldn't be Santa anymore, it was my turn. I needed to bring joy to the little ones, since my own little one was lost to me.

"It was hard, Lucia. It was the hardest thing... but I did what they asked. I walked home that night, and with my wife watching, I threw every last bottle I had in the garbage. I swore to her on my life that I was done drinking. I went out and got a Christmas tree, one of the little fake ones so she could set it up easily even if I wasn't around. And I took the Santa job so I could have money to buy her a good Christmas."

At that point, I looked down, and realized that Maria was beside us, with tears streaming down her cheeks. She wore a new coat, and for the first time in years, she had done her hair up nicely and put on makeup. She wore a necklace that looked like a locket, and seeing my interest, she opened it to show me pictures of Tommy and Tom before the crash. I hadn't realized until then just how much they looked alike.

"Amazing," I murmured. "I promise I'll add your story to the book. It's pretty personal, though. Are you sure?"

He nodded. "If Larry can bare his soul, then so can I. Folks need to know that there's always hope, no matter how low you think you've sunk."

They walked away, with Larry pushing the wheelchair. He led them out to his car and drove off to take them home. I gathered up my family and got in the car, tears pouring down my face the whole way.

James called me on it. "I just... I never knew. So many people in this town with such incredible stories. I read a few of these. Some of them are simple, like times Luke stopped to help them pull a car out of the snow, or change a tire, or help chop wood when someone was sick. How did I never notice? I feel like I've been selfish. That I've been so busy with my own life, I never bothered to look at anyone else."

James put a hand over mine. "Sweetheart, you are a wife, a mother, and a dedicated employee. You aren't selfish. You're busy, like anyone else. And you are amazing, I've seen you work on food drives and all kinds of stuff. You are my Christmas Angel."

I smiled. "Thank you. But I want to do more. And I think I know how to start."

*     *     *

When we got home, I quickly penned the story as Tom had told it to me. Then, I dug into a memory chest, pulling out something I hadn't looked at in years. I drove over to Tom's house and knocked. When he answered, he looked surprised.

"Lucia, come on in." He led me inside. I had been there a few times before, and it was a night-and-day difference. No liquor bottles, no sour smell. He had scoured the house from top to bottom, a small tree in one corner, twinkling with lights, and I could smell ham baking in the oven.

"I won't stay long, I need to get this to the library, but I wanted you to read it over before I do."

He frowned. "Lucia... I told you-"

"I know. Here. I want you to try these." I reached into my purse and pulled out a case. It held my father's glasses. The last pair he'd worn before he died of cancer. They had been nearly new, and it seemed a shame to just throw them out. Mother had asked me to see that they got to someone who could use them. There were occasional drives for glasses for poor countries, and I thought I'd donate them someday, but they'd been put in the chest and forgotten. They were bifocals, and I figured that one or the other part of the lenses had to work.

He hesitated, then slid them on. I could see that the nosepiece was a bit tight and would need to be adjusted, but otherwise they were a good fit. He looked up, then down, looked around, looked at his wife's face, and smiled. "They're... perfect! Well, nearly. The nose is a little tight, but I can get that adjusted."

"Bring them by the store and I'll ask the optometry department to fix them for you," I promised.

"I will." 

He glanced at the book in my hand, and I gave it to him. I waited quietly while he read over what I had written, nodding with a misty smile when I was done. "Perfect, Lucia. Thank you so much for your help."

"And thanks for yours," I told him. "Without your Santa, I think Christmas would have been ruined for my kids. Will you keep doing Santa for us?"

"Yes, of course. And now that I can actually see where I'm going... do you have any other openings?"

*     *     *

I'll never forget that year. Tom was our store Santa for over twenty years, in addition to his job as a cashier. By the time he passed away, Larry had retired, and had deliberately grown a long beard so that he could take up the torch. 

Whenever my family gets together for the holidays, we share memories of Christmas. One by one we reminisce about presents, sledding trips, caroling, and Santa.

Our favorite memory? Every year, always, it is our Christmas Angel. And every year, I could swear I could see just a hint of a big, tall shadow in the corner, with a big white beard, and the biggest smile you can imagine.

I accomplished something big!

 I've managed to publish not just one book, but TWO!

They are both available on Amazon Kindle, or through Kindle Unlimited!

I gotta say, I am so totally squee over this! Getting the first one done and published was quite an achievement for a mom of five. Getting the second one done was an even greater achievement for a mom of SIX!

And there's more to come! I've already got pieces of the second book for both story arcs in process, and other irons in the fire. C'mon, it's me, you know I like to work on multiple projects at once! It's part of my process... and a side-effect of pinball brain.

So, here they are!

THE OTHER SIDE

https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B08KLFBVT7?pf_rd_r=BRKPW2Z7W53WJZFN6F18&pf_rd_p=edaba0ee-c2fe-4124-9f5d-b31d6b1bfbee

GLADIATOR

https://www.amazon.com/Gladiator-Book-Orion-Light-Saga-ebook/dp/B08JQM1LK2/ref=sr_1_1?dchild=1&keywords=gladiator+aria+jade&qid=1602172809&s=digital-text&sr=1-1

I Am Not Enough

     It is one of those mornings. You know what I mean. Murphy seems to be dancing on your head while everything goes totally wrong. With a baby on my hip, and a toddler at my other side, I barely manage to get my kids out the door to school, jumping into the drop off line, getting them to their class lines with mere seconds to spare. As I sit there and watch my kids trundle into school, with their disheveled hair that I forgot to brush, their mismatched socks that they dug out of the laundry, their clothing ensemble that looks like it was chosen at random by a blind person, and I think "wow... I am not organized enough."
     I roll through the grocery store with a grumpy infant, my three-year-old at my side trying to sneak random items into the cart every time my back is turned. I grab a box of cheese crackers and nestle them into the cart between the apples and the factory-produced, "I can't even pronounce half of these ingredients" commercially baked cookies. Passing me is a slim, trim, marathon running mom with a cart full of organic produce, locally baked five ingredient animal crackers, free-range turkey burgers, and bread baked from grain that has never seen so much as a drop of glyphosate in its short life. I think "wow, I am not feeding my kids well enough."
     Moving on to the library, I see the cute little moms sitting with their toddlers. The moms have perfectly coiffed hair, manicured nails, and outfits straight out of a trendy boutique. The toddlers have amazing hair designs that probably took an hour straight to compose, and I can't help wonder how the moms get their toddlers to sit still that long when I can barely get any of my kids to hold still long enough to brush out most of the big rats before declaring it a moral victory and setting them free. I think "wow, I will never look good enough."
     Reaching home, I set my toddler loose to wreak havoc on the family room, put the baby down for a nap, then crash on my comfy recliner amidst the mounds of clothing dubbed 'Mt Laundrysuvius'. Pulling out my phone, I idly scroll through social media, noting all the various posts about the latest study on infant sleep cycles, fifteen reasons why kids' shows are created by devil spawn, ten ways kids' shows are helping them to develop social skills, thirteen reasons why kids should never watch television at all, and I think "wow... I am  never going to know enough".
     The older kids come home from school and chaos ensues as they all vie for my attention. Snacks, television, homework, computer time, "you won't believe what the jerk at school did at recess today", and the inevitable "Mom, the science fair is tomorrow and I haven't even started my project!". I try to filter through the jumble of voices to figure out what actually needs to be done in that moment while giving my children enough attention that they know that I care about what they are saying. Meanwhile the hamster in my brain is running fast enough to break the sound barrier and begging for a break. I am ready to just snap at all of them "one at a time, I'm not Elastigirl!". Yet I know that snapping at them will break their hearts and give them the impression that mom just doesn't care. Enough of that, and the day will come when they won't want to speak to me at all. I can't help thinking "wow... I am just not patient enough".
     Evening finally rolls around. After the circus of baths, showers, spraying hair detangler, looking for lost stuffed animals, reading stories, brushing teeth, reminding older children about their reading homework that is more important than what their friends are posting, realizing that one of the kids skipped teeth brushing and chiding them to get out bed and go brush, rocking the infant to sleep just in time for their noisy older siblings to come bounding in and waking them up, and the exhausting start to the cycle all over again. After the chaos quiets, and the little heads finally nod into sleep, I fall onto the couch, fighting tears, and I think "I'm just not enough."
     A little body emerges from a bedroom and pads down the stairs. I am so ready to just scream, wanting a moment's peace, but I bite it back. Small arms wrap around my neck, a head leans on my shoulder, and I hear "I just wanted a hug. I love you so much, Mom."
     I'm not going to fight the tears anymore. I let them go, snuggling the little person that I brought into this world and have shepherded through every step of the first years of life. I feel so terribly inadequate, but to that little one, I am the most amazing person in the universe. I am everything to them. In their eyes, I am enough, and more.
     In truth... I am not enough. I will never be just 'enough'. I am so much more than that. Every hour of every day, I am learning and growing just as much as my kids are. Today, I was enough for what I needed to accomplish, and yet I am more than I was yesterday. Tomorrow, I will be more than I was today. I will be more than 'enough'. As my kids learn and grow, they need me to be 'more' in new ways, but not so much in others. 'Enough' changes and evolves just as much as I do. As much as they do. 'Enough' is not a destination, it is a journey.
     My 'enough' is different than anyone else's. They do not define my journey. I do. And as hard as the days can be, as exhausting as it can be to be so thoroughly responsible for so many people, it can and will be the most rewarding journey I could ever take. I am more than enough. All I have to do is remind myself of that often enough, and someday, perhaps, I may actually come to believe it.

The Art of Storytelling: Part 1

Ever since I wrote The Taleweaver, I've been thinking about writing. More specifically, my personal style of writing. I like to brag that I can make a story out of literally anything. Seriously. I once made a story out of a dirty old pop can. You might say I have an overactive imagination.
The question to be answered is... how do I write my stories? Where do they come from? And what makes a good story?
The answer to the second question is easy. I have no idea. Sometimes dreams, sometimes randomness that pops up while watching movies or inane kids' shows. They just seem to happen without a whole lot of effort. Even when given a direct challenge to come up with a story based on a specific prompt, such as the aforementioned pop can, I really don't know how they just "pop up" in my head. Yes, it was a bad pun, I couldn't resist.
To answer the third question... I can't really answer that, either. I know what I think is a good story, I have a pretty good idea what my kids seem to think is a good story, but there are as many opinions about writing as there are stories! Probably more, truth be told. However, there are a few common elements between most literature that is considered "good" by the industry and the public. And in discussing that, we will explore the first question: how I write.
First, I want to make clear that I very rarely try to write, and even more rarely do I start writing at the beginning of a story. Most often, a story idea will just come to me, in bits and pieces, and I'll record those bits and pieces on paper or digitally. Or the occasional napkin, church program, even on my hand. Yes, my media varies. But the point is that my stories don't need a lot of effort to get started. I'll start working on a climax, or a tense confrontation, or at the introduction of the main protagonist. Deaths and funerals are, oddly enough, some of my favorite scenes to write. They are soul-wrenching, and getting the description correct without sounding sappy, cliched or overly dramatic is a tricky balancing act.
Not all of my stories get finished. Most don't. The vast majority are nothing but a few scenes, a rough outline, and a lot of metaphoric dust. I have a few that I could swear were put there by someone else, because I don't remember them at all.
A few, a glorious, wondrous, mentally exhausting few, have been turned into a complete saga. Actual books, completed end to end, then edited, chopped, shredded, and reconstructed. When a story turns into an entire world, it becomes far more than just a book. It is a place to visit, a place for my mind to wander and even play. The characters become friends, and I am so much more mentally invested in their journeys. While I have complete control over the stories, and I really hate having to kill off good characters, sometimes the story demands a sacrifice, and I agonize over it for days before finally acquiescing to the unknown forces that have produced the story, and write it the way it is meant to be.
So what is it that makes a "good" story? There are many elements, but the three that I consider most important are: a compelling plotline, beautiful and easily visualized settings, and a troupe of engaging characters that make you want to laugh, cry, scream, and send them to the woodshed all at various points in the story. Personally, I feel that if the main characters or main supporting characters don't make you absolutely furious with them at least once in the story, then you aren't doing your job as a writer.
Conversely, if your "bad guy"--who doesn't necessarily have to be an actual villain, just antagonistic toward your main character-- doesn't make you feel sorry for him at least once, again, you aren't doing your job. The best characters are the ones that feel real. That make you feel like they could be friends, or at least make you feel actual emotions. If my stories make you feel like you want to simply close the cover, walk away, and instantly forget the book's very existence, then I have utterly failed. At the least, even if you don't like the book, the characters, or the story, it should be memorable.
As for the settings, if the reader can't visualize even the faintest sketch of what the main character sees around them, the settings are ineffective, and therefore, it will drag on the book and make it nearly impossible to draw in the reader. World-building can be challenging, but it is worth the investment of time to do it well. It may involve hours of research, but nothing is more jarring than a character that brings a sword to a gunfight, or vice-versa.
The plotline must likewise be engaging, compelling, at the very least, interesting. The plot may be about the main character. It may be about some events in the world. Or some combination thereof. But it has to make a point. What many writers fail to realize is that everything they write carries strands of their personal beliefs and ideals. Even if the story seems to exist simply for its own sake, even if it exists merely to entertain, it will teach a lesson. For example:
                       This is the story of Freddie, my friend,
                       Who jumped out into traffic, and that is the end.
I'm afraid I can't recall the name of the author. I read this in a book many years ago.
Did you catch that? MANY years ago, and yet it has stuck in my mind this entire time. Why? It is funny, it is macabre, it is vaguely outraging... and there is a lesson in there, even if the author's intent was simply to be darkly amusing. Don't jump out into traffic.
I remember the main character. Freddie. I remember what he did, and what the implied outcome is. He was an idiot, and he died. But I remember.
Whether your story is short and simple, or whether it is a multi-book saga spanning centuries of time, it must be memorable. THAT is what makes a book truly great. Your reader may hate it, they may love it, or it may simply make them thoughtful. But if they remember it, then you have done your job properly.
In future posts, I will dig into these subjects more in-depth. Greater discussion about character development, plot, and world-building. If you can remember the base points, to have a memorable plot, setting, and characters, then you are on your way to being a truly great writer. It may seem elementary, even insultingly obvious. But there is a reason. It's true. It is the core of what writers do.
Happy writing!