The Not-So-Concise History of Brannon McCrae

Good grief, HOW can it be May already? Yee-ikes. The date of my college class sign-up looms ever closer. Right now a nice big fish would have my express permission to swallow me whole, though I'd need a sojourn longer than Jonah's to avoid this ordeal. Just so long as he spat me out before Christmas... That would have to be a principal measure in the bargain. Unfortunately, since I don't live near a body of water that would be big enough to house such a creature, that plan is mostly rot (don't you just love those jolly, English phrases?). 'Tis unfortunate. I guess I'll just have to go through with the sprint into higher education after all. As Maria says to Liesl in The Sound of Music, "You can't use school to avoid your problems. You have to face them!" Only that's a bit mixed up. Oh well.

I'm going to take a plunge today that I will hopefully not regret later. Today is the first day I'm going to air a segment of my writing to the general public. I know the minute I hit the "publish post" button, I'm going to have three hundred misgivings, but if I don't start somewhere I might as well kick my dream of getting published to kingdom come. Who ever heard of an aspiring writer who was afraid to put her writing out into the world? Such a thing is lame, and I refuse to be lame in this instance. Even the justification for such avoidance that I usually give myself (that someone might see this post and steal my idea) is not going to hold up (it never should have). Anyway, I'm going to ramble a bit before I get out my notebook and copy it off, so if you want to get on with your life and just read the excerpt, run on down to the end if you can get the sidebar mover-thing to slide down. (What on earth is that called anyway? I'm sure I could find out on Google if I typed it in, but I'm feeling rather lazy at the moment.)

The best news I have to share today is that my writer's block is finally dissipating. I actually was able to pound out a chapter of semi-good writing yesterday. I am very enthused. This is about the time where I begin racking up sky-high goals of finishing another novel this summer. I should be able to go through with it this time, though, because I've already written three-quarters of it and am now only in the process of...re-writing it. *sigh* I think I left my point somewhere at the top of this paragraph, so I'll go up and retrieve it. 

What I was going to do, before I derailed, was introduce my scenes notebook. (This is an integral part of my writing process, so it's pretty important to my writing style. Someday I'm going to devote a post to the subject of writing style, but now is not the time, so go ahead and let out that sigh of relief. The boredom has been pushed off to a later date. I should warn you, though, that it is inevitable as death, taxes and badly written books making the top of the New York Times Bestseller List.) 

My scenes notebook is something I started a while back out of sheer desperation. I have a very strict rule about starting a novel at the beginning and only working from there to the end, so it became a necessary piece of equipment before long. I was beginning to forget those wonderful scenes I thought up and couldn't integrate into the storyline because I hadn't gotten to their place yet, so I began jotting them down in my notebook.

The notebook itself is just a regular college-lined, spiral bound pad of paper (probably a cheap make because the spiral is beginning to unravel so that it catches on everything). I did cover it with shiny silver wrapping paper and stuck the letters J-O-U-R-N-A-L on the front that I had colored with rainbow Sharpies, but other than that, it's quite ordinary. I thought, for a moment, of taking a picture of it, but it occurred to me that taking pictures of notebooks and posting them on a blog would be quite tacky. Though I must admit that decorating plain notebooks IS something of a hobby for me. I'm a little desperate for some creative stimulation that doesn't include a computer sometimes. Desperate is probably a good word, come to think of it. And in more ways than one. Ok, I lost myself again. Hold on while I find the beginning. Again.

Ok...So, the point is that what's inside is what's important. During my recent fall into writer's block I, in dreadful need of an activity that involved words, Microsoft Office, and my characters (who failed me cruelly in offering interest), I decided to turn to the oft-ignored task of typing up my scenes into a document (so, in case of fire or loss I would still have a copy of everything I wrote in my scenes notebook). It was an interesting trip down memory lane. I remember distinctly where I was when I wrote every one of them and couldn't help but wonder what was wrong with my head at times. Such melodrama! The scenes are dramatic, funny, serious, short and very long by turns. They are also a jumbled mess. 

I went through a stage where I only wrote on the right-hand side, but when that stage ended, the economical side of me reacted with horror. Thus the scenes from one novel are wildly interspersed with scenes from another and there are numbered segments everywhere that lead to another segment on another page which you can only find by matching the corresponding numbers. I have packing lists in there too, though I'm not sure how they got in. 

These scenes run the gamut of emotions. I have a cemetery scene directly above a heated argument. Turn the page and there's a girl in love surrounded by gossips. There are random notes on location and building dates of certain places where a novel was set, plot/date summaries, and scenes on Indian captives. Suicides, flashbacks, wry humor, prayers, and more arguments (I love writing arguments) abound within the pages, along with post-its scribbled with inspirations I got in the middle of the night. All in all, it's enough to give you a headache. Which is why I put off typing it up for so long. Not only that, but I was a bit afraid to delve into the stuff I wrote when I was younger. The love of violent scenarios was strong within me when I started writing and it was not suppressed in my earliest plots. Thankfully, I have since shredded my first story. Oh the gore and violence I packed into that one! And the poor boy who had to live through it all...I never did extend the mercy of killing him off and thus letting him rest in peace after his misfortunate existence. To be sure, I had too much more planned to allow him off so easily! I'm derailing again... Drat. I'll just cut to the chase.

Here's one scene from my venerable notebook, which I have not yet shared with anyone and has nothing to do with any of my novels in progress (only because I don't know where it's headed yet) and which I am not yet embarrassed to have admitted that I wrote.    

(I feel like some kind of header should be inserted here, but I don't have a title for this story yet, nor any idea what that title would be if I had one, so you'll just have to use your imagination. Keep in mind, though, that it's somewhere in the late beginning of a novel, so introductions will not be made to either the characters or the plot. Also, this is my original work and copying of any kind is prohibited.)

They stood in a cluster a good stone's throw from the ancient hut. Their torches flickered in the dark night, casting an eerie glow on the door. 

"Brinn Korwan!" Duncan McCrae called out. "Bring out the girl and no harm will be done to ya!"

For a moment nothing moved, but then the door creaked open and Brinn's slender form appeared. Her hair was long, dark and silken, her skin smooth and beautiful, but her eyes glittered in the torchlight.

"Ye'll no see your lass again, Duncan McCrae," she cried out to them, "unless ye surrender me Brannon. Give me the boy and ye can have yer bairn back." 

Everyone's eyes turned to Brannon, who turned to look at his father. Duncan caught his breath and brandished his torch towards the cottage. 

"Ye'll get neither, Brinn Korwan," he shouted. "Give me my daughter and keep yer evil eye off o' my son."   

"Yer son!"  Brinn repeated the word and laughed. "Ye speak a heavy word for a man who nivver had a son o' his own blood." 

"Quiet, woman," Duncan commanded. "I know where yer loyalties lie. Give me back the girl." 

Brinn reached behind her and pulled the girl out to stand beside her. Her long fingers dug into Fiona's shoulder possessively, holding her back from running to her father. Fiona cried out at the pain and every man stepped a little closer.

"Give me Brannon," Brinn repeated. 

Duncan looked as if he was about to run his pitchfork through the woman, but Brannon made his choice and stepped forward first. 

"Will she meet me halfway?" he called up to the house. 

Brinn turned her dark gaze from Duncan and fastened it on him. "Come up and get her," she called back.     

"I dinna trust ya," Brannon replied. 

"No doubt," Brinn said. "No doubt yer afraid of me too." 

"No," Brannon said. 

"Then come up here," she invited. 

"Brannon!" Fiona called, reaching out for him. Her round face was white with fear. 

"She's callin' him to the devil, that girl is," Ian McAdam muttered behind Brannon. 

Go up and take her. The voice was so near that Brannon looked for its owner. Don't be afraid, the voice continued. For I have sent my angels to guard you. It was clearer this time, insistent. A voice that was not to be ignored. Brannon looked over his shoulder at his father and nodded. Whatever happened, it would be all right. Then, he turned and walked boldly up to the door of Brinn's mouldering hut.

Brinn beckoned him closer and caught his arm, holding him close to her. Brannon felt as if someone had thrown an invisible chain around him, because suddenly he couldn't move. 

Duncan watched him go with a look of defeat on his face. Even when Brinn released Fiona at Brannon's insistence and his daughter ran to him and flung her arms around him, he didn't feel his spirits lift. Sixteen years he had protected the lad and now he had lost him. Brannon would be fighting his fate alone now. Duncan ran his hand over Fiona's bright hair and sighed. 

"I hope ye nivver know what Brannon sacrificed fer ya," he whispered above her head. "Aye and he's given up more that ye could ever know." He sighed again, more heavily this time. "He was the last hope we had." 

Duncan stared a moment more at the door that separated him from his son before turning away and disappearing into the heavy forest with the rest of the men. A heavy gloom settled over the hut again, sealing off Brinn's domain from the rest of the wood.

And there it is, in all its shabby glory. The accents might have to go, I think.  

'Till next time,   

-- Jamie