What’s the best way to start a novel?
Do you write out an elaborate
outline first, setting up charts and cross-referencing characters, plotting out
everything from hair color to the brand of underwear they prefer? Do you drop
onto your chair, crack your knuckles and start typing with no idea where you
might be going? Or maybe you see a red bush while you’re out jogging, think,
“Wow, I could write a book around that thing,” and then rush home to do exactly
that.
I’ve done all of the above, and I
can’t tell you what method is better, or which is best for me. Mostly because I
have yet to discover the best method. It seems with each book I write, the
method changes. And I bet I’m not the only author who feels that way about the
process.
Inspiration usually hits all over
the place for the author ready to pound out the next novel. Even in the midst
of a dry spell (which I have dealt with plenty), plots are dreamed up. You
might not do much of anything with them at the time other than scribble down a
few details and set them aside. But those are often the best examples of
inspiration. My initial confrontation with the idea that eventually became
JESSE’S GIRL was one such detail, and it hit me while driving home from grocery
shopping. Of all times to have a plot land itself in my lap . . . I’m sure the
radio playing that old Eighties’ tune by Rick Springfield had everything to do
with it.
I took the idea home, armed with
the sketchiest of plot lines, and jotted down some notes. The characters were
easy; they came to me while I was still in the car. Not their names but their
personalities, flashing through my head like brain-freeze. Tim O’Malley, my
hero. Dorothy Whitaker, my heroine. And Jesse Prescott, best friend to Tim,
boyfriend to Dorothy, and the antagonist who lingered. And lingered. Then
lingered some more, until Tim and Dorothy found a way to finally lay him to
rest and move on.
I compiled an outline and followed
it (for a change). As I wrote each chapter, I highlighted its corresponding
section on my outline to indicate its completion. I got to within fifty pages
of what would become my final chapter, and thought, “What on earth am I doing?”
Suddenly, the outline no longer worked for me. I tossed it aside, dropped onto
my chair, cracked my knuckles and pounded out the rest of it with no planning
at all. Then threw it away and went back to my outline. Sometimes, what works
simply works.
I’m halfway through my newest WIP, Made For Each Other. I think it’ll be a
novella. I’m ninety-eight percent certain I’ll set it in present-day. I’ve got
all my characters, both primary and secondary. And I have an outline (no
highlights yet). I don’t know how it’ll end, only that there will be HEA.
There’s always HEA.
What’s fun about writing is the
‘no-hard-and-fast-rules’ about any part of it. There’s no right and wrong to
creating with words. Every author in the world has their own set of personal
rules for writing, and those rules either work for them, or they’re busy
scouting for alternative methods. Ask a single question about the process and
you’ll get a thousand different answers, but the one thing we authors can all
agree on: that we wrote it because there was no choice. Authors have to write; that’s all there is to
it.
So when I drove home with a trunk
full of groceries and my radio tuned to the local oldies station, and I heard
that song, and a minute into it I had all the hot points of a story blasting
through my head . . . what choice did I have but to sit down and write the
thing?
None at all.
The blurb for Jesse’s Girl:
In 1965, Tim O’Malley returns to
his home town of Skitter Lake, Ohio, to clear his name and get the girl:
Dorothy Whitaker, the love of his life since eighth grade. Blamed for a
destructive fire he didn’t set, only Tim and Dorothy know the truth; that Jesse
Prescott, Tim’s best friend and Dorothy’s boyfriend, did the deed that changed
an entire town. But Jesse died in that tragedy and seven years later, Skitter
Lake still honors him as a hero, rather than Tim, the boy from the seedy side
of town whose father was a drunk . . . and whose quick actions saved six people
from perishing in that horrendous fire.
In trying to set the record
straight and finally claim Dorothy as his own, Tim—and Dorothy, too—will
discover that in some small towns the legend often outweighs the truth . . .
and their family and friends will forever see Dorothy as “Jesse’s girl.”
Excerpt:
Now the need to lock Dorothy in a
tight embrace, and never let go, overwhelmed him. He would have picked her up
and carried her to his car, then driven her all the way back to Los Angeles
just to get her away from a life he instinctively knew made her miserable. Tim
remembered her folks. Wilma Whitaker had been a difficult woman when she was
healthy and relatively happy. He couldn’t imagine how losing Dorothy’s dad
would have twisted Wilma up inside.
He must have squeezed too tightly,
because Dorothy let out a breathy gasp and wriggled until he loosened his arms.
She stepped backward with a blush and downcast eyes. “I really do have to go,
Tim.” She raised her head and all the longing he’d already been experiencing,
all the need, was plain to see on her lovely face, for about half a second.
Then, her expression shuttered, she
picked up her purse from the battered nightstand next to the bed where she’d laid
it, and moved toward the door. Tim followed, unsure what to say even though a
hundred different lines crowded his head. Stay with me. Get to know me,
again. Love me, the way I never stopped loving you.
They remained locked behind his
compressed lips as he escorted her to the door and wished the last seven years
had never happened.
In the open doorway she formed a
smile that fell short of her eyes. “I’m glad we got to spend a little time
together, Tim.” She slipped her arms around his waist for a quicksilver hug,
then stepped back before he could reciprocate. “Please give your folks my best
when you get back home.”
Tim flicked his eyes up to hers,
then over her face, prettier
than ever and without a speck of makeup. Her silky, red-blonde hair, combed back
in its usual ponytail, was so unlike the current style he’d seen not only in
California but here in Skitter Lake. Her
dress wouldn’t have been out of place at the sock hops he remembered from
twelfth grade. It was almost as if Dorothy Whitaker had frozen herself in time.
And he suddenly knew he wouldn’t be
leaving at the end of the week. He’d stick around and see what was what. For
Dorothy, and maybe even for Jesse.
Slowly, Tim reached out and clasped
her fingers, then her wrist. Before he could talk himself out of it, he yanked
her into his arms, up against his body, catching the back of her head, right
below her ponytail. As her lips parted to speak, protest, whatever, he covered
them with a kiss that spun out of control the instant it began. He wound an arm
around her waist to anchor her tightly, but she’d already thrust her hands into
his hair as she kissed him back. Tim groaned into her mouth and felt it echo
back to him in the whimper she uttered that throbbed in the scant space between
them.
For what seemed like an eternity,
he kissed her, deep, then slow, then fast, greedy, pouring years of want and
desire into a single, perfect moment. If he’d ever kissed another woman like
this, he couldn’t remember. He deepened the kiss even more, and felt her fingers
fist reflexively in his hair. He didn’t care if she ripped it out by the
handfuls, as long as she never let go.
And as if she’d somehow heard his
thoughts, she stiffened, opened her fists, slapped her hands on his chest, and
pushed until he released her lips. Rosy red and swollen, they quivered as she
stared up at him with shock in her eyes. She pushed again, a silent demand for
him to let her go. It about killed him, but he loosened his arms and stepped
back.
Silently, Tim bent to pick up the
purse she’d dropped, and gave it to her. As her fingers closed over the pale
yellow leather, she whispered, “Why?”
He managed—barely—to keep his hands
to himself as he replied, “Because I’m not going anywhere. I’m staying. And
when I do leave, Dorothy, you’ll be coming with me.”
Char Chaffin writes mainstream and
contemporary romance filled with family, rich characters and engaging plots. For
her, it all comes back to the love.
From crafting Victorian-style poetry
to writing short stories and novellas, Char finally settled on romance novels
as her true passion. Over the years she worked a variety of jobs, from farm
hand to costume designer to fiscal accountant, before deciding a writing career
was her desired focus.
In addition to writing, Char is also
an Acquisitions Editor for Soul Mate Publishing.
A displaced Alaskan, Char currently divides
her time between Fairbanks, Alaska and an Upstate NY, sixty-acre farm with
husband Don. Their extended family is scattered all over the Lower Forty-Eight
and Alaska.
When she’s not pounding away at her
keyboard, sneaking away to the Last Frontier or burying her nose in books and
her beloved Kindle, she edits manuscripts and helps Don maintain their farm.
