Music in Writing

Recently I came across a thread about including lyrics in fiction, which was in itself, just a passing topic from someone who probably wanted to include like, Adele, in their writing because it just really resonated with them.

Hint: This is why writers have soundtracks/playlists for their books.

The general consensus was that lyrics and music have no place in novel writing. The rationale was, why would you ever use someone else's words in your story (which is kind of a silly thing to say if you think about it...we are always using other people's words to tell our own stories). And that lyrics without music imparted no significant weight to the text.

The thing is. It's not really like that.

I would totally use my own book for this example, but it's not really that...published. Or well-read. So, I'll use The Hunger Games. I'm sure many people read that series thinking the made up song "The Hanging Tree" was a made up song. Well...sort of.

Do you want to know what reading The Hanging Tree did for a woman from coal country with olive skin, a long braid and a husband who convinced her to bring children into this god-forsaken world? (ehem, me) Immediately I had "Hangman" in my head.





This is a song I sing to my children. A song my son requests. A song that I love in all it's renditions (Led Zeppelin's Gallows Pole, for one). It's not a song. It's a story. It's a history. And it's even deeper than it's American roots. Including a shadow of it in the Hunger Games gave me an even deeper connection to the story and reinforced the shadow of Appalachian culture.

What this is then-- is not, do not use lyrics in novel writing. It's do not waste your words. You only get so many words to tell a story, and you have to make each one count.

New River Gorge: Spring 2012

Do you know how awesome a four-day climbing vacation without children is?

It's so awesome. In ways people without kids just don't understand. God, I didn't LIVE until I had kids. Now I know-- youth is certainly wasted on the young.

Beauty Mountain Road

Before kids: A seven hour drive through the backside of Virginia and across West Virginia was like...whatever. Let's just get it over with that we can start our vacation.

After kids: WHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE WHE WHE WHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE.

Since it's early in the season, we camped at the Army Core of Engineers Campground at Summersville Lake. After Memorial Day this place is booked for the summer, but before Memorial Day it's first come, first served.

It was a great campground, but we were there-- awake-- like four hours total? Which is awesome. If you aren't hurting and dreaming about a soft mattress on your vacation, you've failed.

I'm not super motivated to write about the trip. So here's the summary:

• I on sighted and led for the first time- both which left me hating climbing and feeling pretty damn miserable about myself as a climber.
• Then I figured out the crux of a 5.10 (got 3/4's of the way through and over the crux before we had to leave) and felt better.
• Me and the husband had some great conversations about climbing, fear and our life.
• I discovered that fear is holding me back in my real life, my writing life, and in climbing.
• Nothing feels as good as climbing and hiking all day, followed by cold beer, hot food and a sleeping bag.
• I had a few moments during the vacation that made me feel like my book (re: formerly known as Black Mountain Ash/Crank, but has a new name I will share later) was real and my characters were out there climbing together. It was strange and wonderful.

Facing my Fear of Monsters

After finding the courage to tackle my fear of death and drive the final stake keystrokes into the heart of my very first book, I took my leftover courage and glanced across the yard at the little monster tied up by the shed, waiting for me.

I'd left him totally discouraged. He obeyed every command. He was appropriately mean, scary, snarling and drooling. When I looked over he kind of growled at me from the corner and then went back to sleep. Just like I taught him. I had what I wanted-- a monster WIP that was under control, manageable despite his size and something I totally understood.

But I pursed my lips and my new courage stirred in my chest. My monster was all sorts of wrong.

In controlling him, I'd taken away anything that was interesting. Out of my fear of letting him get to big, I'd starved him to skin and bones.

I had to let him loose. He needed to forage in the wilderness, get his monster groove back and return to stalk my yard with his temperament totally his own.
I needed him to be big and powerful. I needed to wrestle with him on the verge of my limits, using all my skill to bring him into a compromise of submission. I needed to always be fearful he would run away from me to return to his wilderness home. I needed to discipline without breaking his spirit. Oh no wait. That last part is about my three-year-old. My bad.

So today, I got the courage to walk over there and unchain him. He's rolling in the grass right now. I hope he strays from my clearly cut path. I hope he wanders into parts of the dark wood I'm afraid to go.
I hope I have the courage to follow.

Source: piccsy.com via Fer on Pinterest

I love having a blog. Where else can I write extended, crappy metaphors for my writing life? Nowhere else I tell you. NOWHERE ELSE. Because in real life, no one wants to listen to this kind of dribble. But on the internet, the "audience" is inherent.

Facing Down Death

The End.

I am afraid of the end. The true end. Where you got it "right" (finally) and you've done all you can to shoot yourself in the foot sell it.
The end is where you know you can't go back anymore.
Where the people you've created on your keyboard are alive, breathing, and people in their own right.
And now you must kill them.
By typing The End.

And you mourn the loss. You imagine writing a trilogy (because isn't that what everyone is doing these days?). You try and figure out how you can re-write the entire thing again.

But it's truly the end.

It's time to move onto the life and deaths of other people.

So you cry to your friends who will understand crying over an imaginary world, full of imaginary people. And said friends will remind you about your other projects.
You'll sniff and feel like it's okay. You'll remember how much you like these new people you're writing about. And how terribly messy their story is.

And it will ease the sting while you type it.

The End.

A Novel Album

Because an obscure, un-published writer's blog with one reader (Hi!!) is the only place to share ridiculous art projects done during "final read/edit for *if* anyone with a partial wants a full"

Re-visiting an old friend.

Source: travelthisworld.tumblr.com via Anastasia on Pinterest

Lily, the main character of the young adult novel I'm querying, has been with me since I was fifteen.
She started as an awkward, tough dirtbike rider with a crush on her best friend, and an annoying and creepy jerk admirer.
She evolved through a coming of age drama with a makeover that my fifteen-year-old self desperately wanted (because it's every girls dreams to put on the right shirt and suddenly be SMOKIN') and that annoyed me (because if the guy shows interest in you because you suddenly put on a nice shirt, he might secretly like boys...)
Then, sitting in the gas station in Edgewater, MD on my fourth wedding anniversary, she turned into a wakeboarder.
And the annoying, creepy, jerk admirer became the boy she was meant to be with. Funny how life changes your perspective between the ages of fifteen and twenty-five.
She grew beyond wish-fulfilment, into her own person. From Lauren (her original name) to Lily.

I got to write about a place I love and give a nod (or two) to my husband's teenage years. Lily made it easy to keep trying-- to keep writing-- and to stay humble and learn. I wanted to tell her story. I didn't know the story when I started writing, but after ten years, I figured it out.

I'm winding down the queries. Only a few people left who either have her or will get a query...
I hope she sells. I hope the sun doesn't set on her little corner of the Chesapeake. But if it does, at least her story's been told.

Multiple times. *rolls eyes*