In my last post, I talked about the way my writing style was affected by the character through whose eyes I was writing. Having more or less reconciled the Fugitive’s style with that of the first book, however, I found myself faced with a different dilemma: the portrayal of the Beachwalker.
As I noted in the first post in this series, I’d originally conceived the story through the eyes of the female protagonist. I knew her pretty well; her motives, style of speech, and personality were fairly well-formed. But since the entirety of My Fugitive was written through her eyes, I never had to stop and think about how she would look to her patient.
Would she be as much of a mystery to him as he was to her, powerful, daunting and unknowable?
Or would he see through her easily, maybe even viewing her as a naive child whose iron will would take her where her experience couldn’t guide her and her abilities couldn’t protect her, and who was biting off more than she could chew?
Both were equally plausible, and in some ways, equally true.
To a large degree, I’ve found that it depends on the scene I’m writing. Her pride, strength and self-sacrifice are familiar elements to him, as he bears all of them himself, and he respects them in her even though they cause him to worry for her. But after so much time spent alone among his enemies, it’s her gentleness that disturbs and confuses him.
Sometimes, I also have to remind myself that not everyone who reads Voice will have read My Fugitive. So even though the Beachwalker’s backstory feels familiar and self-explanatory to me, I have to bear in mind that it’s a complete mystery to her patient. In some ways, though, that’s a good thing; the process of him figuring her out gives me a way to show his intelligence, which was difficult to do when his mind was seen only from the outside.
Another aspect that has been a challenge to translate from one book to the other is the strong thematic elements that were present in My Fugitive. But this post is getting long, so I’ll write about that next time.
As I noted in the first post in this series, I’d originally conceived the story through the eyes of the female protagonist. I knew her pretty well; her motives, style of speech, and personality were fairly well-formed. But since the entirety of My Fugitive was written through her eyes, I never had to stop and think about how she would look to her patient.
Would she be as much of a mystery to him as he was to her, powerful, daunting and unknowable?
Or would he see through her easily, maybe even viewing her as a naive child whose iron will would take her where her experience couldn’t guide her and her abilities couldn’t protect her, and who was biting off more than she could chew?
Both were equally plausible, and in some ways, equally true.
To a large degree, I’ve found that it depends on the scene I’m writing. Her pride, strength and self-sacrifice are familiar elements to him, as he bears all of them himself, and he respects them in her even though they cause him to worry for her. But after so much time spent alone among his enemies, it’s her gentleness that disturbs and confuses him.
Sometimes, I also have to remind myself that not everyone who reads Voice will have read My Fugitive. So even though the Beachwalker’s backstory feels familiar and self-explanatory to me, I have to bear in mind that it’s a complete mystery to her patient. In some ways, though, that’s a good thing; the process of him figuring her out gives me a way to show his intelligence, which was difficult to do when his mind was seen only from the outside.
Another aspect that has been a challenge to translate from one book to the other is the strong thematic elements that were present in My Fugitive. But this post is getting long, so I’ll write about that next time.
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