A Song for You

By Mandy Brown Houk

“How do you think up characters?”

“Do you write about real people, like your mom, or whatever?” (Hidden behind this inquiry, especially if asked by a close friend or relative: “Are you basing a character on me, and if so, am I going to learn that you secretly hate me?!”)

As a fellow-writer, you’ve all heard questions like these, and if you’re like me, they can be hard to answer.

I’ve been known to take note of an intriguing-looking person I’ve seen in public, and make up a mythology around her – like the woman at the DMV who was impeccably coiffed and dressed, except for the ratty old pocketbook.

And my characters sometimes share a habit with someone I love (the father in my first book sings his kids to sleep with morbid tunes like Tom Dooley – just like my own daddy did when I was young). But the similarities between my imaginary friends and my real ones end there.

I’ve never had a system that I can condense into a pithy answer to satisfy my curious non-writing friends—but over the last year or so, that’s begun to change.

Without consciously deciding to, I noticed that I was listening to songs in a different way. Thanks to the aforementioned troubadour daddy, I grew up with a deep love for song lyrics. My favorites, of course, are songs that either tell a story or hint at one (read: folk and bluegrass).

As I was revising my last book, working to add complexity to the inner lives of my characters, there were certain songs that would catch my attention. I noticed, for example, that when listening to Switchfoot’s This is Home, I would hear it in my main character’s voice, because it spoke so clearly to his longings for family and rest. In fact, it was this song that helped me see how the book had to end, at least for this character, and it showed me what obstacles needed to be in his path.

The song Safe, by Brit Nicole, could have been written by my secondary character, who is a selective mute. Every time I listen to it, I am reminded of what fears threaten her, what keeps her silent, and what makes her want to speak.

All of the primary characters in that book have at least one song. Even though the characters were born in my head before I associated them with songs, the songs have helped me see them more clearly, and to put more complexity on the page.

Now, as I’ve turned to a brand new manuscript, I’ve decided to intentionally seek out songs from the very beginning of the writing process (which, for me, consists of several months of thinking and daydreaming before I actually start crafting the story).

The song Barroom Girls, by Gillian Welch, gave me a vivid image of a sad young dime-a-dance girl from the 1930s. I have no idea if that’s what Ms. Welch was going for, but she’s my character now.

Barroom Girls hints at the objectification of the young woman, and her dissatisfaction and loneliness, but that’s not enough. It only gives me the character’s circumstance and general mood. The character is still cardboard and two-dimensional, and I have no idea what she wants, regrets, fears, loves, or despises.

And so, I keep listening to music (suffering for my art), seeking the songs that she would sing. Or the songs that, if she heard them, she’d cry. Or she’d cover her ears because the lyrics are too true to hear.

Just last week, I found one: Scarlet Tide, by Alison Krauss. I know now that my character has lost someone. It keeps her apart from others, detached, because she hasn’t decided if loving people is really worth the risk.

I’ve started a playlist for her, and as I add to it, I’m hoping to happen across a song for an as-yet-undiscovered character as well. It’s a new approach, but it feels promising, and I certainly don’t mind assigning myself hours of bluegrass, folk, and even jazz.

Maybe this is an odd idea to you, or maybe you’ve done something similar. I will say that I know my barroom girl better than I’ve known other characters this early in the process.

Give it a try and see what happens. Or post in the comments below, sharing your own methods for inventing and developing and learning about your imaginary friends.

Who are they, what do they want, and how do you know?

About the Writer:  Mandy Brown Houk is a freelance writer and editor, and she teaches at a small private high school in Old Colorado City. She's written for several magazines and anthologies, and has completed two novels--only one of which is worthy of the light of day. Mandy is currently seeking agent representation. Her web site is www.mandybrownhouk.com.

Do What You've Got to Do

By Mandy Brown Houk

…until you can’t…

I’m learning, slowly, that I should stop telling people I’ve “finished” my manuscript. So far, five complete overhauls later, it hasn’t been the most appropriate word choice. My writing friends understand, but my non-writing friends either think I’m crazy or a pathological liar. Both of these are possible, but are topics for another day.

Most recently, my agent and I agreed that I needed to make some revisions based on the feedback I’ve received from editors (translation: we looked at the reasons editors gave for saying “er…no…” and agreed I should address them in a rewrite).

One of the main issues was the lack of negative qualities in my main character. I love him dearly, and it showed a little too definitively in my writing. Essentially, he was George Bailey without the reluctance.

I went into the rewrite with a hatchet—not the butter knife I’d been employing up to that point. The antagonist had been an unsavory, cranky witch. But in the rewrite, she became someone who thought, spoke, and behaved so coldly, I had to walk away from the computer several times because of my angry tears. The secondary character, who is the center of the protag’s motivations and actions, had kept one secret before, innocently and without malice. Now she keeps three, and her motives are grubby, not pure.

And then I attacked the protagonist. I gave him violent tendencies, and made sure he acted upon them regularly. I wrote two chapters this way, adding in scenes and interior monologue to go along with this new, improved(?) version of the character.

After one of the most productive writing days I’d had all summer, I came home from my writing spot, and I was exhausted, spent, and crabby. This isn’t unusual for me: I absorb the moods of my characters and it takes awhile to come out of it. My daughters know good and well to avoid me on days I’m writing scenes in the antagonist’s POV,  but I’d never felt that way after a day spent with my protagonist. Still, he was different now, so I figured the feeling would pass.

And then it didn’t. It lasted for days. I believe the word “funk” would apply quite well here. I couldn’t open the document on my computer. I couldn’t talk or even think about where to go next.

After about a  week of this, my daughters asked me why they hadn’t seen me writing. So I told them. Now, they had both read the book when it was “finished” the third time. They don’t know some of the twists and additional scenes I’ve put in since then, but they know my characters. As I described what had happened with the protagonist in the new version, they both interrupted me, nearly simultaneously, and objected.            

“He wouldn’t do that!” “Wait – who did you say? No! That’s not him.”           

At this, my head cleared and I took a breath—and saw that they were 100% correct.

That’s not to say that I shouldn’t muddy up my protagonist. He needs it. He’s not real and relatable without selfish motives and negative impulses and actions. But did you notice how I described the revisions in the paragraphs above? I didn’t even do it on purpose – I just noticed it as I re-read things in the process of writing this article.

Look at the paragraph about the changes in the secondary characters, and compare my wording with the paragraph in which I describe the changes in the protagonist. Go ahead. I’ll wait.

Okay, did you catch it?

The secondary characters made their own changes. I followed their lead. The antagonist “became,” “thought,” “behaved.” The other secondary character “keeps” secrets, and her motives “are grubby.”

But in the case of the protagonist, I made the changes. I “gave him violent tendencies” and “made sure” he did something with them. I became the orchestrator, the puppeteer—the obvious, heavy-handed, dictatorial writer. I didn’t follow one of my favorite bits of writerly advice, from Andres Dubus III, to “sit in the back seat and let the character drive.”

So I went back in, and undid all my bossy mandates and let the character tell me what he’d do, and what he’d regret, and what would give him shame and haunt him. The actions were much more subtle, and he tried much harder to suppress them—but that’s true to who he is. Not perfect, but trying very hard to be.

I left that writing session feeling sad for my character, and disappointed in some of the things he’d done. But I was not uneasy and out of sync like I’d felt before.

Now for a real-life twist: I got an email right in the middle of writing this article. It was from my agent, kindly and politely declining to continue to represent me (our contract had expired, so re-signing was contingent on the outcome of this rewrite). My book still doesn’t have enough edginess for her taste, so the agency doesn’t feel as if they’re the right ones to represent me from this point forward.
 

With this in mind, perhaps the conclusion I was leading toward in this piece will ring hollow to you. Maybe you’ll decide to discard all that I’ve learned through this last revision process, since I lost an agent over it. But you know what? I don’t regret the choices I’ve made for this rewrite, even in the face of this slightly jarring outcome that has me more than a little bit nervous.

I still believe that the book, as it stands, represents the story I want to tell. It is true to my characters. It is a book I am proud of, though I’m willing to go back in for more rewrites if another agent decides to sign me.

So I’m going to conclude this article in precisely the way that I originally intended. Here it is: don’t force your characters to be something they’re not. Don’t go so far in your revisions that you no longer recognize those people that were conceived, born, and grew up in your head. If they aren’t right for every agent, every editor, every reader, that’s okay. I don’t like every book I read. I don’t like every song I hear. I don’t like every person I meet.

Let the character decide what he will do in the face of the obstacles in front of him. Let the character lead the story, and let the story lead you. Not your fears of remaining unpublished and your attempts to please every audience. Write the story, employing all your knowledge about pacing, story arc, craft, and language. And revise like a crazy person to make it better. 

Just make sure you know when to stop.

About the Author: Mandy Brown Houk is a freelance writer and editor, and she teaches at a small private high school in Old Colorado City. She's written for several magazines and anthologies, and has completed two novels--only one of which is worthy of the light of day. Mandy is currently seeking agent representation. Her web site is www.mandybrownhouk.com.

Read Everything. Almost.

By Mandy Brown Houk

Read, read, read. Read everything - trash, classics, good and bad, and see how they do it. Just like a carpenter who works as an apprentice and studies the master. Read! ~William Faulkner

I am a picky reader. If I had my druthers, I’d probably confine myself to coming-of-age novels written within the last two hundred years, primarily by Southern and/or rural writers with a quick wit and a dark sense of humor.

            

I didn’t even realize this was my default preference until I took a look at the books and stories I most often assign or recommend in my English and writing classes. To Kill a Mockingbird. The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. Peace Like a River. Cold Sassy Tree. As I Lay Dying. Provinces of Night. All Over But the Shoutin’.

            

But I know that, as a writer, I can’t seal myself off from the rest of the literary world. Even if what I hope to write is a coming-of-age novel with a Southern feel, I have to read more widely – otherwise my novel will have clean, neatly browned edges, and while that’s a good trait in a Christmas cookie, it’s yawn-inducing in a novel.

            

And so, I force myself to branch out. Here’s what a few somewhat-recent reads have taught me, which I hope will affect and improve my own writing:

           

YA: The Book Thief – Markus Zusak

Never hold back. Never let convention dictate who narrates the story. Had I come up with the idea to use Death personified as a narrator, my timidity and devotion to convention would most likely have prevented me from doing so. But Death is the only one who could tell this devastating, wholly original story. I’m glad (and fiercely jealous) that Zusak isn’t the coward I would have been.

           

Pulitzer Prize Winner: Tinkers – Paul Harding

There’s no telling what the literary elite will like. The writing is gorgeous and intricate, but the story made my head spin. (I’m apparently too stupid for this kind of book, but if you loved it, that’s fabulous.) Here’s what I learned: I don’t need to shoot for literary recognition and prizes, which, honestly, used to be my goal. By reading this book, though, I realized that story is more important to me than language/concept/high art, even though I’m a language junkie. I don’t need to write above my own intellect, attempting to be critically acclaimed. I just want to write a meaningful story (with lovely language) that readers can sink into and adore.

           

Memoir: Same Kind of Different As Me – Denver Moore/Ron Hall/Lynn Vincent

This book is structured so that two narrators alternate chapters, telling their sides of the central story, with a third author acting as the invisible “as-told-to” scribe. I learned a few things from this book: first (narrator #1), don’t dumb down your writing by too much misspelling and misspeaking, even if that’s accurate to the narrator’s speech patterns. A little bit of dialect goes a long, long, long, long way. Second (narrator #2), ease up on metaphors. Just say what you mean and don’t try to be clever. It’s annoying. Third, if the story is gripping, mediocre writing can be forgiven. This story is the kind that works its way into your heart and changes it from the inside. Beautiful enough to (mostly) overcome the writing flaws.

Modern British Lit: The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nighttime – Mark Haddon

Don’t ignore a novel in the bookstore just because it has weird sketches imbedded in the narrative. I picked this book up and put it right back down again because of the odd diagrams and happy faces I saw while flipping through. It was two years before I picked it up again because a trusted friend recommended (insisted) I read it. So that’s the lesson as a reader. The lesson as a writer? Let the events in the book drive the emotion. Don’t pile a bunch of sentimental language on top of the horrible thing that’s happening—the language will muck it all up and dilute the effect. This book is narrated by a boy with Asperger’s syndrome – he is fundamentally incapable of feeling, interpreting, and expressing the emotions that the rest of us can’t hold in. So the language is about as matter-of-fact and detached as it can possibly be—yet I bawled like a baby multiple times while reading it.

A Novel That’s Not a Novel: Olive Kitteridge ­– Elizabeth Strout

Don’t let rules and boundaries stifle the story you have to tell. (Note: this is a Pulitzer winner, too, and in this case, I whole-heartedly, boisterously agree!) I don’t have any idea why/how “they” classify this book as a novel. It seems, instead, to be an anthology of short stories, all set in the same town, told chronologically, and with a certain grumpy woman named Olive appearing in each one. Olive is the POV character in only a few of them; the others may feature her prominently, moderately, or even in cameo-like fashion (in one story, she simply appears in a restaurant and is overheard being pushy with her husband – that’s it). But the book is a triumph of language, heart, and humor, and a brilliant treatise on the human condition (that is: we suck but we need each other anyway).

Classical Lit: A Christmas Carol – Charles Dickens

There’s a reason books become classics. Don’t overlook them just because your frizzy-haired, frumpy-clothed English teacher assigned them. Nobody creates characters like Charles Dickens, and this, to me, is his shining example. He wasn’t paid by the word for this one, so he gets right to the heart and manages to create a living, breathing, eternal character in 60 or 70 pages.

Popular Fiction/Thriller: Iron House – John Hart

Don’t judge a book by its sales. As someone who leans more toward literary fiction than blockbuster, I sometimes assume that a book with great sales numbers probably isn’t well-written. I expect a tight plot, but flat writing, cardboard characters, little emotional impact. With all four of John Hart’s books, I’ve been wrong, but most notably with Iron House. This book has taught me that character development enhances and even causes the tension in a story, regardless of genre. I don’t have to choose one or the other; I can (and should) have both.

       

I haven’t given up my persnickety reading habits. I admit that there are books and genres I probably won’t ever read (I won’t mention them here, because everyone’s favorites are different -- as Andre Maurois said, "In literature as in love, we are astonished at what is chosen by others”).

            

But I will continue to force myself out of my comfortable orbit, and I hope that all of this reading will make my own writing better, wider, broader, more.

What books have taught you something specific about your writing? 

What have you learned from reading outside your genre or comfort zone?

About the Writer:  Mandy Brown Houk is a freelance writer and editor, and she teaches at a small private high school in Old Colorado City. She's written for several magazines and anthologies, and has completed two novels--only one of which is worthy of the light of day. Mandy is currently seeking agent representation. Her web site is www.mandybrownhouk.com.

           

Realistically Ever After

By Mandy Brown Houk

I’ve taught story structure to my high school students year after year, and even though each class is comprised of very different students with different skill levels and perspectives, they all tend to get stuck on the same point: the resolution.

My favorite story to use as illustration is The Wizard of Oz. There are few stories that are as universally familiar, but also few stories that have such clear demarcations at each point (ordinary world, inciting incident, rising action, climax/do-or-die moment, and all the layers that need resolution as the action falls).

As we finish up with our handy diagram, and Dorothy goes back to Kansas and realizes all that home really means, the students are smiling, satisified, and all is right with their world.

Then I throw the wrench in the works: “resolution” doesn’t mean things are resolved in the protagonist’s favor. That’s when we settle in for a reading of Guy de Maupassant’s “A Bit of String” or “The Necklace” (without blowing the endings, let’s just say that M. de Maupassant was allergic to happily-ever-afters). 

This very semester, upon reaching the end of “A Bit of String,” one of my students said (whined), “That’s not really a resolution, though. That’s horrible!”

Here’s the thing, though: when pressed, none of the students could arrive at any other plausible, believable ending that wouldn’t make the entire story pointless. And that right there is the key to a believable, resonant, meaningful “ever-after.” If it doesn’t make sense, then the story loses all power. The characters, though they may have seemed throughout the story to rise up off the page and walk around in the reader’s head, will collapse and dissolve into two-dimensional (or even one-dimensional) characters, crafted not of blood and bone but of paper and 12-point font.

That’s not to say that only a “downer” ending will ring true. Dorothy’s victory over the witch really does work, as evidenced by the timelessness of the story. If she’d lost her face-off with the witch, then all we’d learned about her (courage, desperation, the desire to do right by those she loves) would be rendered false, or at least devoid of meaning.

We can never forget as writers that our characters must lead the story. Even if you’re the writer that outlines each scene and sequel before you type the first line, the character’s…well…his character… has to determine the choices he makes, which then determine outcomes, one after another, after another. Anything other than that—if we become puppet masters who enforce outcomes based on our own preferences or prejudices or even laziness—will lead to a jarring, sudden stop to the story. An ending. Not a resolution. Not an ever-after.

As storytellers, we want our readers to reach the last page, close the book, and pause a moment, wondering what became of the characters in the next moment, the next day, the next year. In the play Flowers for Algernon (adapted from the short story and the novel), the main character finishes reading Robinson Crusoe and eagerly asks his teacher, “What happens to him after?” As a reader, that moment to me is delicious. As a writer, that moment is priceless. It’s victory. And if our “resolution” rings true, if what happens is not only logical, but is truly what had to happen, then that victory is ours, ever after.

About the Writer:  Mandy Brown Houk is a freelance writer and editor, and she teaches at a small private high school in Old Colorado City. She's written for several magazines and anthologies, and has completed two novels--only one of which is worthy of the light of day. Mandy's work is represented by Sally LaVenture at Warner Literary Group. Her web site is www.mandybrownhouk.com.

What's Next for PPW?

By Mandy Brown Houk


There are all sorts of hackneyed metaphors to use for the end of one year and the beginning of another. But for the purposes of this article, I’ll zoom in on just one: the turning of a page.

As writers, we’re all avid readers (and if you’re not, you ought to become one). We know the delicious breathlessness of the turn of a page. In a particularly lovely book, you start to slide your finger behind the page you’re on before you’ve gotten halfway through it. If you’re like me, you sometimes have to deliberately slow your eyes down to make sure you don’t miss something in your haste to flip over and find out what’s next!

I find that I do the same in life sometimes. I forget that reality doesn’t work like fiction, so resolution isn’t necessarily imminent or swift or paced in a manner I’d like. I yearn for things to be linear, to follow a pattern. For each year-end since 2004, I’ve been sure the next “page” (year) would bring a book deal, or at least an agent. I finally signed with an agent this spring, but my finger’s still paused there, lifting up the corner, itching to see when (if) the ultimate goal will actually happen, and when.

Regardless of where you are in your writing journey--starting your first draft, or going on tour with book number eight--you can’t predict what will be written on page 2013. It’s exciting and aggravating, suspenseful and maddening.

Here’s where Pikes Peak Writers can help.

          

First, we’re all right there with you. If you haven’t already, you need to treat yourself to an evening with Deb Courtney or Mary Karen Meredith, the hostesses of our monthly get-togethers (Writer's Night and Open Critique, respectively). You’ll find kinship and conversation and even critique partners.

            

For brushing up on your craft and marketing skills, we have a wonderful calendar planned for our Write Brains (both in-person and online).

            

And, of course, the biggie: PPWC 2013. Each year I’m amazed at the opportunities that unfold in the halls of the Colorado Springs Marriott. Opportunities to learn, sharpen skills, meet other writers, breathe life into perhaps dormant dreams, and meet industry professionals that can be instrumental in turning that crucial page toward publishing (where do you think I met my agent?!).

            

Check out our calendar and our conference brochure and see what we’ve got planned. You may not know exactly what’s printed on page 2013, but you can make yourself ready to meet it.

            

Go on. Lift that corner.

About the Writer:  Mandy Brown Houk is a freelance writer and editor, and she teaches at a small private high school in Old Colorado City. She's written for several magazines and anthologies, and has completed two novels--only one of which is worthy of the light of day. Mandy's work is represented by Sally LaVenture at Warner Literary Group. Her web site is www.mandybrownhouk.com.

            

The Question Is...

By Mandy Houk

As a creative writing teacher and frequent conference and workshop attendee, I’ve seen my share of character interviews. You know the ones I’m talking about:

“What is your favorite tv show?”

“Are you an only child?”

“What was your most embarrassing moment?”

“Do you floss?”

I don’t mean to be flippant--I actually enjoy character interviews. I use them with my classes, and I use them with my own characters. I don’t necessarily answer each and every question, but I do use the questions that I find helpful and intriguing.

Sometimes the questions trigger ideas for new plot points, or even new characters that lead to huge complications (aka: story). “Recall your scariest childhood memory” resulted in the creation of a horrible playground bully that impacted the lives of not just my main character, but two other major characters, as well. (Side note: in my scary childhood memory, kumquats played a major role. Since it’s difficult to sell kumquats as frightening, in my story they morphed into rocks and unripe pine cones. Behold the power of fiction.)

Sometimes the answers to character interview questions are just fun. They allow me to see my character a little more clearly, even if the details don’t make it into the manuscript. “What’s your biggest pet peeve?” or “Are you ticklish?”

There’s something about knowing the useless details about a character that makes them feel more like a real, tangible individual, at least in my mind. How many useless details do you know about your best friend? Your spouse? Your mom? Details foster familiarity, and familiarity is never a bad thing to foster between an author and a character.

When I’m aiming to get to the heart of things, though, I have two go-to questions, each with natural follow-ups. These questions allow me to see to the core of my characters, and to determine exactly what type of torture to put them through so that their natures are revealed, or their hearts are changed.

1. What is your greatest fear?

            a. What, if anything, would cause you to willingly face that fear?

            b. If there’s no answer to “a”, why not?

2. What is your deepest desire?

            a. Is there anyone/anything for whom/which you’d sacrifice that desire?

            b. If there’s no answer to “a”, why not?

My protagonist’s answers to these questions changed everything for him and for my book. Normally, he’s rock-steady, which makes him infinitely lovable, just not exactly scintillating. But these questions revealed his triggers (hint: he didn’t need to answer ‘b’ on either one), which helped me identify exactly what had to happen in my book to force him to do something bold, something dangerous.

In a completely different way, my antagonist pretty much laughed at both of the ‘a’ questions. And his answers to ‘b’ helped me define exactly how he would react to all the actions of my protagonist and other characters.

In short, I went from a story concept with characters that I felt I knew, and knew I loved, to an actual story, with conflict and tension and believable (I hope) resolution. Not bad for a couple of questions, right?

Try these questions out for yourself and see what happens. And, as with any interview questions, tweak them to your liking.

About the Writer:  Mandy Brown Houk is a freelance writer and editor, and she teaches at a small private high school in Old Colorado City. She's written for several magazines and anthologies, and has completed two novels--only one of which is worthy of the light of day. Mandy's work is represented by Sally LaVenture at Warner Literary Group. Her web site is www.mandybrownhouk.com.

Choose Your Torture

By Mandy Brown Houk

There’s a trap that many writers fall into when creating their characters. Or maybe it’s just me, in which case you don’t need to read this article.

The trap I find myself in, especially at the beginning of the novel-creating process, is the tenderness I feel toward my characters. I love them. I find them funny, precious, noble, dear. They’re flawed, sure. But only in lovable ways. In ways that make them that much more endearing. I want to stand back and smile at them,  enjoy them, laugh at the funny little things they do.

Only then, suddenly, I find that they’re not doing very much anymore. They’re merely sitting there, looking darling. Smiling sweetly. Maybe even napping.

Why is this so? Simple (and you probably already figured it out): I’ve loved them so much, I’ve protected them from all harm, all danger, all the truly serious complexities of life. Sounds like one heck of a story, doesn’t it?

A wise blue fish once said, “If nothing ever happens to him, nothing will ever happen to him.” Not only would that make for a snooze-inducing story, which is a terribly unkind thing to do to a reader; it also leaves the character in exactly the same place that he started.

In the interest of making my point clear, I will hereby embarrass myself by sharing two of my most spectacular failures in this area.

I was a top-ten finalist in a short story contest in 2004, and I was thrilled. Bret Lott, a favorite author of mine, was one of the top tier judges. When I didn’t win, a writer friend of mine convinced me to contact Mr. Lott and ask for feedback. Worth a shot, right? Mr. Lott very kindly replied, prefacing his comments with, “I hope this isn’t harsh.”

Uh-oh.

He went on to say that, while my writing was good “at the sentence level,” what I’d created was “a bathtub story.” He was borrowing a phrase from Jerome Stern, meaning that all my character did in the story was—well—nothing. She wasn’t doing. She was thinking. Ruminating. Feeling. Reflecting, regretting, hoping, planning. That’s all. And it wasn’t enough. The only thing the reader gets out of a story like that is a yawn. The only thing the character gets is pruny fingers.

A couple of years later, I figured I’d learned something from Mr. Lott. I’d taken that pruny-fingered character and shoved her out the bathroom door. I had her face a long-lost sister, returning home after thirty years. And I made that into a book. Yes, an entire book. No, nothing else really happened. Just the sister. A few arguments. Tears. I believe they left the kitchen a couple of times. Oh, wait—they went out to the garage once, too. (I’m not kidding. I wish I were.)

One of the (many) agents that rejected the book sent me her first-reader’s notes when I requested feedback. The concluding sentence from those notes made the point succintly: “There’s no reason for this story to exist.”

Now, I had been pretty pleased with my writing, “at the sentence level,” anyway. I was pleased with the characters; they were alive in my head, and I knew them, and they were distinct from one another and had all sorts of opinions and emotions and quirks and flaws. In various contests, my writing was generally received well. My characters, I was told, were likable and engaging. It was my stories that sucked (hard to get published with stories that suck). I was so in love with my characters, I refused to torture them; I chose, by default, to torture my readers instead.

Remember that story arc from your English teacher’s chalkboard? If your character never faces anything difficult or risky or terrifying, he’s never going to climb off the first flat chalk line, let alone make it over the peak and down the other side.

Throw something huge and awful at your character and see what he does. How does he react to the pain? What choice does he make to avoid it, or to protect those around him from feeling it, too? What action does he take to get revenge, or make amends, or find a way to forgive? Does the tragedy you’ve created break him? Or only almost? Does it lead him toward something even worse, that adds a whole other layer to your story?

I conquered my over-protective, reader-torturing ways at a Donald Maass workshop a few years ago. He told us to write the scene we were avoiding, to do the thing we dreaded. I did. And it was gut-wrenching and awful, and when I walked past my friend at the door, she said, “Are you okay?” I burst into tears that didn’t stop until I’d had time alone to remind myself that my character was a figment of my imagination, and imaginary figments don’t bleed or drown or cry. Not really.

And you know what? That very scene is the first one my agent brought up when we met for coffee last month. She put her hand over her heart and said, “Oh—I was so worried! That nearly killed me!”

Gleeful torturer that I am, I grinned.

About the Writer:  Mandy Brown Houk is a freelance writer and editor, and she teaches at a small private high school in Old Colorado City. She's written for several magazines and anthologies, and has completed two novels--only one of which is worthy of the light of day. Mandy's work is represented by Sally LaVenture at Warner Literary Group. Her web site iswww.mandybrownhouk.com.

Column: Invitation Only by Mandy Brown Houk

             As you might know from my earlier columns, I teach creative writing at a small private high school. My most complained-about but most successful class requirement is that the kids write for at least twenty minutes, five days per week. Early every school year, the kids are plagued by the fear that what they write won’t be “any good.” The first few entries in their journals are a mess of scribbles and erasures; I’ve even had journals returned to me with pages torn out, so horrified were the students with what they’d produced.

            A few days before school started this past August, I had an epiphany. I bought a box of Legos and took it to school with me on that first day. Once we’d made our introductions, I dumped all of the Legos in the middle of our conference table and told the kids to build something – one construction per student. Sure, they looked at me like I’m crazy, but I’m me and they’re teenagers, so it’s expected.

            As they slowly started to pick out Legos and fit them together, I strolled around behind their chairs, observing them and nodding. Then I swooped in and took a blue Lego out of one boy’s hand and told him, “That’s not going to be a good color scheme. You shouldn’t add it.” I tossed it back into the pile.

            The reaction was immediate (and hilarious). Since the first day of school is always about sizing up the teacher, I could see in their faces that they were pretty close to horrified. As soon as all the students had turned their attention back to the Legos, I swooped in again. This time, I actually took a girl’s assembled pieces from her hand and took a couple of bricks off. “I don’t think that’s a good shape.” I smiled into her bewildered face and handed the pieces back to her.

            I repeated this until I’d disturbed each student at least once, and then I finally grabbed one student’s nearly-finished masterpiece and said, “Augh—you need to just start over with this one. I don’t know where you were going with that.” I separated every piece and dropped them all back into the pile, leaving the student alarmed and empty-handed.

            At this point, all the kids stopped and didn’t look like they’d be starting again any time soon. Which was perfect.

            “So,” I said, nodding toward the empty hands of the student I’d just accosted. “What’s she got now?”

            There were murmurs, out of which I picked out the word I was looking for: “nothing.”

            “Nothing,” I repeated. “That’s right. And the rest of you have less than you could have if I’d left you alone. Right?”

            There were grunts of assent, and kids glanced at each other, trying to sort out precisely what kind of a weirdo I might be. When they quieted down and I knew they were listening, I said, “That’s what your inner editor does.”

            I went on to explain that, when they were supposed to be writing (building), they needed to focus only on that. They could not invite the inner editor to the party—building up and tearing down can’t happen at the same time.

            I gave each student a Lego to take home that day, to place on their desks where they could see it when they sat down to write—to remind them of who was not invited. I don’t know what they decided about my sanity, but I do know one thing: this year’s class did a lot less erasing, scribbling, and tearing-out those first few weeks. That’s worth the price of a few Legos.

About the Writer:  Mandy Brown Houk is a freelance writer and editor, and she teaches at a small private high school in Old Colorado City. She's written for several magazines and anthologies, and has completed two novels--only one of which is worthy of the light of day. Mandy's work is represented by Sally LaVenture at Warner Literary Group. Her web site is www.mandybrownhouk.com.