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I Blame This On a Crappy Star Wars Drawing, the Pregnant Pet Rat of Prophecy, and a Conversation About Poop

6/2/2018

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So, here I sit. As I write these first few words, it's 11:07 on a Monday evening, I've had next to no free time today, and it's looking like free time will not be a thing for me until tomorrow evening.

Hence me writing this now, even though it's going to be published on Tuesday, because otherwise my weekly blog post will be posted at stupid o'clock at night, and I try not to do that too often.

Gotta give the people what they want, at an hour when they might be awake to read it. And I'm just going to make the crazy assumption that a trip into the weird side of my subconscious is what you want, because why the heck else would you click on a blog post with this title?

This won't be the last blog post I need to write tonight, either. Heaven help me.

For the current state of my to-do list, and the fact that so much of it is not done at this time of night, I partly blame a semi-accurate replica of a Star Wars rebel pistol I drew, a conversation about poop, and an imaginary pet rat with a prophecy attached.

Welcome to my Sunday night.

Star Wars blaster fan art
Just because I spent over an hour on this doesn't mean it has any business haunting my dreams.
It began like many other nights. It was stupidly late, and I hadn't slept a wink. Par for the course, for me.

Maybe I need to start a trend like Thinspiration, but instead of giving people self-destructive diet advice, it's sensible and healthy and aimed at knuckleheads like me who consistently stay up too late.

"Do you want an extra hour of art time tonight, or sixteen hours of not feeling like crap tomorrow?"

But that's a topic for another blog post. Back to the stupid night I had because of something I drew and a couple conversations I had.

Once upon a Monday night...

Yes, it was still Sunday night, and the entirety of Monday was still ahead of me. Not that I remembered that.

In the bizarre hellscape my mind had decided to create, it was Monday night, I hadn't slept a wink on Sunday night, and my ENTIRE Monday to-do list was still not done.

And now I couldn't sleep.

Great, I thought, now I'll have to do all of my Monday work on Tuesday, with TWO sleepless nights behind me.

Ha. As if that was the worst bullcrap my subconscious could come up with on that particular night.

Enter the perilous pregnant pet rat of prophecy.


Apparently, for the mind of an author who writes a lot of angst, the appropriate response to my brother saying he was thinking of getting pet rats was to add said brother into my dream, and have him tell me that he'd had a vision where I was killed by a rodent and/or something else.

I forget what the something else was. The something else wasn't what came into my imaginary dream bathroom while I was taking an imaginary dream crap, and have imaginary dream babies all over the floor by way of splitting open and just unceremoniously dumping them out.

Never mind the fact that my brother was planning to get male rats, and have no females involved specifically to avoid the possibility of babies.

If mpreg body horror is what it takes for my subconscious to fulfill its fictional prophecy, that is what it will stoop to.

Such terrible literary standards. Subconscious, I'm disappointed in you.


Now, as for the improbably birthed litter of death-babies on my floor, I should mention now that I'm not normally afraid of rats.

But when they're involved in a prophecy that ends in my death, and they just came spilling into the world chestburster alien-style, my irrational dream self has a hard time bringing herself to touch them, climb off the toilet while they're in the room, or otherwise risk drawing aggro.


So there I was, trapped on my toilet by a bunch of possibly diseased rat babies who were theoretically going to kill me because my brother had had a prophetic dream within a dream.

My version of Inception is so much less cool than the movie.

Now, not only was my to-do list not done, but I couldn't go to sleep until I'd somehow managed to get rid of every single rat, preferably without touching them.

At least the rats weren't werewolves, right? HA.

At this point, art took a break from imitating life long enough for life to imitate art by dragging me into wakefulness for a trip to the real bathroom.

At least I didn't dream I was peeing and act accordingly while still in bed, so I suppose I should count my blessings.

Admittedly, that kind of math is hard to do when you have a long to-do list for tomorrow, and you just woke up after four hours of sleep, with a low probability of getting back to sleep in time to avoid having several extra hours of work due to sleep-deprivation-induced slowness.

To my surprise, after I'd finished shambling to and from my prophecy rat-free bathroom, it only took a little over an hour of tossing and turning before I managed to re-enter the absurdity my subconsciousness had decided to weave for me.

Once again, there were furry animals and echoes of a real-life conversation involved. Only this time, as you probably guessed from the headline, the animals were werewolves, and the conversation was about poop.

Did you ever take a crap so big that your pants fit better? Apparently a friend of mine did, and he felt the need to tell me about it.

​I also felt the need to show him a semi-accurate drawing I'd made of a Star Wars blaster pistol.

Both of these things are fine by me.
​
The fact that my mind decided to blend them into a werewolf infestation in my basement, when the only weapon I had was a crappy little blaster pistol that was designed to break up unflushable poop rather than giant carnivorous creatures of the night, was not.

And you know what?

As if that wasn't bullcrap enough, it was STILL Monday night in my dream, Monday's to-do list was still not done, and now I couldn't go to sleep until I dealt with the damn werewolves.

I wasn't even scared. I was just so annoyed that the werewolves wouldn't let me go to bed.

Kind of like that time when I dreamed that my paraplegic cat was going to take over the world, and my biggest fear was that, in the process of dragging himself across the globe, he would accidentally lose his diaper.

My dream self has some interesting priorities.

Eventually, my alarm clock rescued me from my nonsensical fantasy dreamscape.

By "rescued", I mean it dragged me into a real world where I had 20 minutes to haul my sleep-deprived self out of bed, visit my rat-free bathroom to take a dump that would hopefully not require a sci-fi weapon to get rid of it, and throw some leftovers in the toaster oven before it was time to get to work.

Almost 12 hours later, here I am, finishing up tomorrow's blog post, with another post still waiting to be written, because apparently I have strange priorities even when I'm awake.


Why am I sharing this with you?

Because I needed content for my blog post, it's late at night, and I'm getting revenge on my subconscious by sharing its crappy flash fiction with the world.

Also, if I have to deal with my dream world's bad werewolf fic and poorly-implemented fictional prophecies, so do you.
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How to Describe Your Characters' Surroundings WITHOUT Plot-Halting Textwalls

8/8/2017

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For many authors, describing the character's surroundings without turning that description into a pace-killing infodump is a challenge.

So is showing a character's personality through their actions, instead of... *shudder*... TELLING the reader what they're like.

Fortunately, there's a way to accomplish both at the same time.

In this blog post, I'm going to give you a simple technique for showing off your character's personality AND describing their surroundings at the same time, so you can turn those vivid word pictures into an intriguing exploration of the character's mind.

Check out these two writing samples, and focus on the differences between them.

Sample 1:

As the bar's thick door opened in front of him, the music hit Leo full in the face, along with the welcoming scent of booze, sweat, and several different types of perfume.

From the steam that rose from a fellow patron's glass, and the intricate layering in another drink, it was clear that this was not a bar where one ordered the basics. This was a place where people paid extra to look and feel fancy.

At least, until they got hammered enough to hit the dance floor. Not that the two women who were currently grinding against each other looked sober enough to tell that their air of fanciness had flown out the open window and into the night sky.

The sight of their lithe, writhing bodies sent a tingle of fire through Leo, but he knew better than to act on it. Either they were doing this for show, or they were more into each other than they were into men; either way, it wasn't worth the trouble.

But he could still watch. At least for a few seconds, until the siren call of the beverage menu lured him away.

With a smooth, practiced motion, he slid onto a barstool, relieved to turn his eyes away from the flashing rainbow of dance floor lights. They looked nice on the smooth hardwood floor, but when they hit the eyes directly, they were stabbing, burning... but still infinitely better than the flashing lights he'd once had to get accustomed to.

Anything was better than gunfire. Especially drinking.

Especially drinking enough to forget the gunfire. Screw looking fancy - he wanted something simple and strong.

The name of his favorite drink slipped from his mouth without the need for thought, and he found it telling that the bartender had already started pouring it before he voiced the request.

He'd forgotten how many times he'd drowned his sorrows here, and he didn't care to remember. He wasn't here to remember things.

He was here to party, try to enjoy what was left of his life, and drink enough to forget why he couldn't enjoy it when he was sober anymore.

Sample 2

The bar's thick door swung open easily, far more so than barriers like it had in the days of Reuben's youth. It was strange, to think he had once been so small and weak that he could have used the kind of service he planned to perform tonight.

As he entered the building, he gave a brief, courteous nod to the towering bouncer who stood to the left of the door, surreptitiously noting the presence of a second man looming on his right. They were both equally large and intimidating, but his research told him that only one was likely to be a threat.

Still, one was enough. Simply dragging his target out through the front door probably wasn't an option; he was good, but not take-on-three-people-when-one-of-them-could-fight good.

Besides, he wasn't keen on going to jail anytime soon. He would have to play this smart.

As he strode further into the bar, Reuben pretended to let his eyes be drawn to the gyrating dancers. The turn of his head enabled him to get a better look at the patrons who were watching the two women, as well as the wall behind said onlookers.

Above the rows of booths and tables, a window had been opened to let out the heat, and it also offered some relief from the thick miasma of sweat, perfume and alcohol that permeated the air. It wasn't big enough to let him out, but at least it made the room more bearable.

He hated the smell of booze.

​But at least this wasn't the same smell that had taught him that hatred - not the kind a person turns to to forget their past, their civility, and the difference between son and enemy.

No, these were fancy drinks. The kind most people ordered for the purposes of looking good, enjoying the taste and socializing, not for getting drunk on the cheap.

Not that that stopped everyone from getting sloshed, but it did mean there was a higher chance that any participants in a fight would be more inhibited and less stupid, and there was less chance of starting a fight that didn't involve him in order to cover his escape.

A particularly overzealous flare-up from the dance floor's flashing, multicolored lights drove Reuben's eyes to the hardwood floor, and he used the excuse to look a bit further to the right, directly toward the people watching the inebriated dancers.

Ah. There you are.

A slightly round, clean-shaven face, framed by messy blonde hair. A small red birthmark on his neck, shaped kind of like Australia. A wedding ring on his hand, worth considerably more than the promise it symbolized.

And, most importantly, an intent, predatory stare that told Reuben most of what he needed to know about the plans the man had for the dancers he was watching, and the reason why a certain angry mother had hired him to visit this particular bar.

Both characters saw the same things, but they observed them very differently.

The jaded hedonist, Leo, saw a lively nightclubbing and dancing scene, with hot women, good drinks, and a chance to forget his past.

The mercenary, Reuben, observed the room in a far more tactical light, noticing exit points, strategic disadvantages, and indications of the presence of a predator.

They also reacted very differently to the smell of alcohol; one found it welcoming, while the other despised it.

In these descriptions, you saw a bit of the characters' personalities and backstories, as well as hints of events to come. They weren't just plot-halting infodumps; they gave you insight into the characters, and moved the plot forward.

When you want to describe your characters' surroundings, ask yourself:

1. What would the POV character notice in this situation?

2. How would they feel about it?

3. What would they half-notice, and dismiss as unimportant?

4. What would they think they noticed, and believe was important for completely personal, non-objective reasons?

5. Can they notice any of these surroundings in the process of doing something, so they can keep moving through the plot while describing their world?

This will help you to write more interesting place descriptions, while moving the plot forward and helping the readers to get to know your characters in the process.

Want to see more of my characters, plots and place descriptions?

If you enjoyed those two quick samples of my writing, there's lots more where that came from!

I have four novels available, and more stories in the works, so click here or press the button below to check out my books.


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    Author

    Stephanie is the author of My Fugitive, Voice of a Silent Fugitive, Heroic Lies, and Catgirl Roommate, as well as the artist behind the Undertale webcomic Just Cause.

    This blog often updates with new stories and artwork, so please keep checking in!

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