Màiri Campbell ~ Seanachaidh
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Story Questions/Answers from Jared

23/2/2014

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Jared is an award winning short story writer. His western novel, Hacker's Raid was a finalist for a Laramie award and his novel, The Legend of Joe, Willy & Red is receiving five star ratings from both men and women.Book number four, Not on my Mountain, is soon to be released.  He is also a member of various writing and storytelling groups in Washington state.  For more on Jared visit his website.

Màiri:  Where do your story ideas start?
Jared: Story ideas come from everywhere. One day as I was sitting in my chair, reading a western novel, my wife said, since you like westerns so much, why don't you write one? I said, "You know, that's a good idea - and, walla - my award winning, HACKER'S RAID was born. Sometimes someone will say something and I write the thought down in case I want to someday write a story about the idea. Sometimes a thought shows up, wandering around inside my brain. I've had the good fortune to have traveled to a good share of the world, so, my head is filled with more people, places and ideas than I can ever write.

Màiri:  What do you write first? [beginning, middle, end]
Jared:  That's easy, I start at the beginning and write until I see the words, the end, and then I stop.

Màiri:  Character development, do you do anything special?
Jared:  No, I don't do character development. In fact, I never know who will show up next. I guess I'm unorthodox because I never know where the story will take me and I'm just as surprised, angry or laughing out loud when something does happen. I'm just like the reader, except I get to read it first as I put it on paper. The characters just appear when they're supposed to; leave when they're supposed to or hang around; depends on how they fit into the story. I will say, in my defense, I try to make them and the events as real as I can. I want my readers to identify with them as much as I do. And if they fall in love with them, so much the better.

Màiri:   Where do you do your writing?  
Jared:  Wherever I happen to be living at the time [ I'm a bit of a gypsy at heart} I pick a spot, set up my desk, table, etc. and my computer and that's where I go every morning, with my coffee. I write 3 to 4 hours, then go on with my day. If I have to be gone for a day or two, like a storytelling event, or fishing, I just go, but I don't take my computer with me. When I get back, I grab my thermos of coffee, turn the computer on and then the switch in my head and the story is right where I left off....  I've never had writers block. [knock on wood]

Màiri:  A story usually springs from an idea, a character or a scene. Once that idea is planted - how do you make it grow?
Jared:  Once I have an idea for a story, I turn that little switch on inside my head and watch a movie. I write down what I see and hear and the story grows by itself. Like I said, I'm just as surprised as the reader. I guess, subconsciously, all that stuff is in my head, somewhere, but I don't consciously think about it. I do find myself writing about places I've been and people I've met, except now, they wind up as fictional characters and places. I like doing it this way because it allows my mind to be inventive, and being a storyteller, I guess the stories are all in there, waiting for me to put them on paper so I can share with others.

Màiri:  Do you write in Chronological order or do you bounce around with in the manuscript?
Jared:  Chronological order. Like I said before, I flip on a switch in my head and watch a movie from beginning to end and write down what I see and hear. But, as we all know, a movie is shorter than  most of the books they're taken from, so, when I finish the first draft, I do a second one, where I fill in the blanks that the movie doesn't cover, but by then, I know all the characters, their moods, backgrounds, etc. I do however, check maps, etc to make sure my locations are where they are supposed to be.

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Indie Recon 2014 is almost here!

22/2/2014

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I'm looking forward to this Tuesday - Thursday. Indie Recon 2014 starts up on Tuesday and goes for 3 days. Great online conference for writers especially those that are on the indie side of the publishing world. They also have a pretty great give-away happening too. I'm trying to decide which of my four short stories I'm going to donate to the grand prize! 
Really looking forward to getting some great information from this event! You can find them on Facebook, Twitter and of course their website. If you want more information there are lots of posts on Twitter just look for #indierecon.
Hope everyone is having a great weekend so far.

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Story Questions/Answers from Sharon

16/2/2014

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I sent out a few questions so a select few of my companion authors. Some names you might recognize when their answers are posted others you may not... yet. This first one is from Sharon Anderson. Sharon is the President of the Skagit Valley Writers League and her writing includes working on novels, novella's, short stories, poetry and screenwriting. The answers are how each person sent them back to me so each is going to be a bit different.

1. Where do your story ideas start? I get story ideas everywhere. I’m continually asking the “What if…” question. 

2. What do you write first? (beginning, middle, end) I’m all over the board with that, but usually I will start with the entire story in mind. I know where I’m going, it’s the journey that makes it interesting. And sometimes I surprise myself.

3. Character development, do you do anything special? Yes. I  spend a lot of time with character because if I have a great story with one dimensional characters, the story will fall flat. I compile a character profile answering questions like, Role, Subtext, Motivation, Flaw, Core Traits, etc. It’s also helpful to document eye color, hair color, height, name (first and last), and age.

4. Where do you do your writing? Since I don’t really have an ‘office’, I sort of write where ever I can.

5. A story usually springs from an idea, a character or a scene. Once that idea is planted - how do you make it grow? I used to just write and banish the critic and see what came of it. Now I test the story concept through a series of questions that help me develop the story structure. Sounds a little uptight, but in order to make a good story, it’s important to understand the elements that make up a good story.

6. Do you write in Chronological order or do you bounce around within the manuscript? I know what needs to happen in each scene I write, but if I get stuck, I might jump. But I don’t attach myself too much to anything, because it might change.



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Pt 8 David and Ragnhild

9/2/2014

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The Dancing Bear 

On the 28th April, 1893, a baby brother arrived and completed the family. He was christened Mario Rognvold Gregersen in Volosca. I remember the christening vividly, more for the dancing bear than for anything else.

The padre, the grown-ups surrounding him, Aunt Irma holding the yelling infant, the cakes, sweets and ice-creams on the tables, all were forgotten when I looked through the window. In the garden I saw a rough-looking Rumanian leading a huge shaggy beast on a stout chain. The beast was lurching clumsily along beside him on the gravel path towards our villa. A strong muzzle covered his big mouth.

Hugo and I silently left the christening party. On the sunlit terrace at the rear of the house a little crowd had assembled, consisting among others, the gardeners, the cook, the maids, Ilka and the Padre’s coachman; they formed a circle round the spot where the bear was to perform. The Rumanian was wearing a white shirt that had become distinctly off-white. A heavy, brass-studded, broad leather belt over trousers tucked into soft leather boots, and a shaggy fur cap over his bearded, grinning face. He threw the sack that he carried over his shoulders onto the ground and produced from somewhere a large tambourine.

After these preparations he led the big brute, tethered until then to a shady tree, to the centre of the clearing, released him from the strong chain and took off his muzzle. The spectators made as if to scatter and I felt Hugo's arm tighten round my waist.

The tough Rumanian and his dancing bear were now ready to perform. Standing facing the bear, he gave a vigorous shake to the tambourine, all its bells jangling, and described a big circle in the air, hitting the tambourine a resounding blow with his fist as it completed the circle. Thereupon the bear got up. Standing at full-height he would have been a fearsome sight, but for his reassuring smile… or was it a smile? He started on his dance, clumsily shifting his big body from one short hairy leg to the other, advancing a few steps, and then going backwards shaking his head from side to side. He looked so grotesquely funny that the spectators, by now reassured, burst out laughing. He had many other amusing turns, such as somersaults and rolling round and round on the ground, which delighted both children and adults for almost an hour. All this went on to the barbaric sound of the tambourine.

At the end of the performance the Rumanian passed his fur cap round to collect the coins. Then he put the sack in the bears paws for him to collect his well-deserved reward: bread, fruit, lumps of sugar, vegetables (mostly carrots), which the cook produced from the kitchen. By way of thanks he raised his huge paw, with its menacing claws, to the side of his face, close to his small, twinkling, wicked eyes.

The arrival of baby Mario caused a major upheaval in the household. Mother was unable to feed him, he needed a wet nurse. Dear Ilka had to go; there was no longer any need for a nanny. We were disconsolate and down-hearted after Ilka left and refused to cooperate with the new governess, a pretty, eighteen-year-old, dark-haired, dark-eyed Italian girl, Elvira, who was to prepare us for school and teach us Italian. Mario's wet nurse was soon to become the most important member of the staff. She bullied everyone. She had to be humoured, as too much depended on her. If she was upset the precious infant was sure to be upset too, which in its turn upset mother; and all father wanted was to have peace in the house. All this, she quickly realised and exploited, to the full advantage that her unique position secured for her in the household. Her meals had to be served in the nursery. She scorned the milk-forming diet of potato-soup and iron-forming spinach prescribed by the doctor. She preferred spicy dishes made with red paprika! She refused to wash nappies and panties and spent her time ironing her own elaborate fineries, blouses and aprons.

I do not remember anything personal about her, her name, where she came from or the language she spoke, but all the same I shall never forget that robust, vital young woman. All eyes turned when she wheeled baby Mario down the main street of Fiume, proudly displaying the richly embroidered, stiffly-starched frills round her neck and the sleeves of her white blouse, tucked into a black satin bodice, with the short sleeves protruding. The wide, red-printed skirt was partly hidden by a white frilled apron. She was pretty enough in a countrified way, with high cheek bones, deep-set eyes, and a lovely milk and rose complexion. Her auburn hair, parted in the middle, was crowned with a pearl and bead embroidered head-dress, twisted in a figure eight, while below that, at the back, a red-print scarf reached well below her waist. She wore a pair of bright gold earrings but there was no plain gold ring on her fourth finger.

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Pt 7 David and Ragnhild

2/2/2014

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PictureTop of a church in Budapest
My first spiritual experience 

The first concerns my earliest spiritual experience at the age of three. Ilka, our nanny, walked up the broad steps of the Greek Orthodox Church in Budapest, on the shore of the Danube one Easter Sunday. She was carrying my small brother Hugo in one arm and leading me by the other. The crowd on the porch made way for the young woman with two small children. Soon she wormed her way through the dense congregation, up to the railings separating the altar from the nave.

A stately, white-haired, white-bearded man was facing us. He was standing in front of the flower-bedecked altar in a shaft of sunlight, amid white clouds of incense and the light from the flickering wax candles in huge silver candlesticks. A tall mitre encrusted with precious stones crowned his head, above black bushy brows and large grey eyes. He was robed in sumptuous vestments of white and gold brocade, and was attended by richly dressed priests in white brocade holding lighted candles. There he stood at the very centre of the Easter splendour. He waited for the rich, massive sound of the organ and the sound of hundreds of voices singing ‘Alleluyah’ to cease, then he raised his hand to give the Easter Blessing.

Never having been anywhere like this before, I was overwhelmed. I tugged at Ilka's skirt; pointing at the Archimandrite with his raised arm.

“Ilka,” I asked, “is that man God?”

She put her index finger on her pursed-up lips and said, “Hush.”

Thus the image of God imprinted on my mind, is that of a handsome, benign, white-haired, white-bearded father, not unlike those symbols of the Godhead depicted by the old masters of the renaissance.

A few months after this incident, in 1891, the family left for Fiume on the bay of Quarnere at the uppermost tip of the Adriatic. My father was to be in charge of the construction works of the new harbour; a big contract that my grandfather secured from the Government. So the next thing I remember is a terrifying incident that happened in Fiume, on the very first day of our arrival.

Ilka took me for a walk. Suddenly I stopped and refused to move. I was transfixed at the sight of a savage-looking dark-skinned man, standing in a chemist’s doorway. He had black hair, black mostaccio, and a black beard; his flashing white teeth looked threatening under a Cossacks huge fur cap. He was shooting with a Flit gun at large cockroaches flying around his head.

I loosened myself from Ilka's grip and wanted to run for my life, but I was unable to move and stood there shaking with fear.

“Don’t be frightened, my pet,” said Ilka. “It is not a real man but only a card-board advertisement stuck to the glass door.”

To look at the figureheads on the prows of the old-fashioned sailing-boats in the harbour was a constant delight to me. Those fantastic heads, crudely carved and painted with gaudy colours, were strangely alive and expressive. They fascinated me. I could stand there gazing at them forever. There were a great many, and each one was different. A Blackamoor and a bearded, turbaned Turk carved in wood stared at me with an evil countenance. One I liked particularly was a baby-faced sailor boy, wearing a yellow straw hat with streamers and a navy blouse, his big, blue painted eyes ever fixed on some distant non-existent shore. A ferocious wild beast glared at me with yellow glass eyes from the prow of another boat, showing huge fangs in an everlasting snarl.

I was frightened. Ilka, noticing this, pulled me quickly to the next schooner, the ‘Flora’, to look at a handsome blonde, smiling serenely and garlanded with flowers, having one shapely bosom bare, the other only just covered by wooden daisies, marigolds, and roses. Here I felt at home and happy.

“That's Auntie Irma!” I said.


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    Màiri Campbell lives in WA with her husband and their three dogs

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