I’ve written my fair share of headhopping, the kind of vantage point that gives the reader a glimpse of the world from everyone’s perspectives, and all within the same scene. That got old very quickly. I cringe when I look at one particular story of mine, where everyone seemed to know what everyone else was thinking, at a moment’s notice. Thankfully, I only shared it with one or two people. No wonder it never got anywhere.
I’ve also chosen to write in a particular tense, only to convert it to a different perspective months later. Although it’s possible to edit your story in this manner, it’s not an easy fix. Luckily, I only had a chapter to rewrite. This is more than just a glorified edit, but a retelling. Maybe a different story altogether. I can’t imagine a complete manuscript overhaul. When I was done, the end result was exactly what I’d envisioned it to be, the pacing and action freer, but I don’t recommend, generally, “wasting” your time this way. I strongly recommend making a firm decision on your POV and tense, and from whose perspective(s) you’ll be writing first.
Now that I’ve experimented with “voices,” I’ve discovered that I enjoy writing in present tense most of all. And you’ll notice, if you’re the observant type, that I’m doing something a little different with my current WIP, Harmony’s Tomb. I decided to write this story in two separate points-of-view/tenses—first AND third person, just not within the same scene. It sounds a little odd, but it’s a purposeful, stylistic approach I’ve made for several reasons. My priority, however, is to make an obvious distinction between characters, distance, and even time, and lending another layer to the suspense I’m building.
If this will work ultimately remains to be seen, but, so far, those who’ve read the story have liked this approach.
I decided to share another excerpt of my rough draft for Harmony’s Tomb. This one is a little longer than the last, and in the POV of my protagnaist’s love interest, Rebecca. Honestly, I’m not sure how much of this scene I’ll end up keeping. I have a long way to go still to get to the end—I have a tendency to write 5K+ word chapters—even 10K chapters, believe it or not—and this takes place a little further into the book than I’d first intended. If these things interest you—I plopped myself right into the middle of the book, I see now. And…I’m not sure I want to do that, unless I’m “time hopping.” I’m not sure I want to flip back and forth like that, either. Combined with the decision I had to make about points-of-view, this makes for many decisions. Sometimes, I confess my head just spins!
I know I haven’t explained the meaning behind the working title—and I probably won’t in order to maintain a certain level of mystery. I don’t reveal too much, yet it “is” gratifying to share a little of my writing, with the hope that it interests a few people out there.
A bit of housekeeping—Wordpress rids my paragraphs of any indentation when I copy and paste, so I’m ignoring the issue in these excerpts because I’m tired of using the space bar. These technical hiccups remind me why I stopped doing photography. Just like in the post-processing and editing of photographs, my brain gets hung up on these details, too. Please bear with me!
This next snippet begins after a homecoming dinner for my protagonist, Ethan Thornblood. And, just like my title, the names of my characters are up in the air. For now they fit, but I’m always considering other ones in the back of my mind.
Ethan is a reluctant guest of honor and slipped away, unnoticed. Rebecca has finally found him.
*****
“It wasn’t necessary to seek me out,” Ethan murmurs, nary a backwards glance at me. “‘Tis a cold night. It will snow soon. I thought I had more time.”
‘Tis a strange thing to say, and an equally peculiar prediction.
“I will manage.” I go to his side, my pulse thrumming. I take his hand, squeezing it, willing him to look at me.
When he does, his dark eyes are fathomless in the moonlight. “You should not have come.”
“This is my family’s home,” I point out.
“So it is.” He pauses, enveloping my other hand in his own. “I meant finding me. And Tom?”
Guilt pricks my chest. God forgive me, but I cannot deny myself this. “Looking for you.”
He hums an acknowledgment, nodding as he rubs my hands.
Soon, my hands are warm, although his remain oddly chilled. I’d forgotten how large they were.
“I should call on your mother before I go,” he asks. “May I see her?”
I grow quiet. Mother is a tale I’d rather not tell.
His gaze dances across my face. “All is well? You wrote once, that she is tired, nothing more. No sign of the sickness she’d once had.”
She is always tired. “She is not fit for company.”
He looks away after a moment. “Neither am I.”
“True.” I offer him a crooked smile. He doesn’t see it. “Perhaps another day, when you’re both feeling charitable.”
“Has she changed that much?”
I look out at the stillness that is the pond, trying in vain to find in the darkness what has grasped his attention. “In many ways, yes, but she still prays.”
It is what matters, my father says.
Ethan’s mouth twists into a sardonic smile. “Have I changed that much?”
Come back, I wish to whisper. Let me find out.
“We must get reacquainted.” I stop, fearing my voice will shake and reveal my indecision.
“We will,” he says, turning his neck to stare at me. “Until your wedding.”
“He is a good man.”
“I never said otherwise.”
“So are you,” I blurt out.
His eyes sharpen on me. He has always even through me, but he cannot. Not tonight.
“You are beautiful, Rebecca,” he whispers.
My breath catches. I can’t find my voice to remind him of his place.
His gaze shifts to the shadows beyond the hills, the places I never go. “She wrote me,” he says.
“She?”
He releases me and steps back, distancing himself. It makes me yearn for his touch again. “Your mother.”
How had I not known? “When?” I ask.
“Twice, before.”
“She must have written as soon as you’d left.” Indeed, she has always had a soft spot for motherless children. She would often leave her warm bed to take soup and bread to the orphanage, bringing me along, sheltered by her skirts, and her youngest child, on her hip, to help.
“Yes.” He draws a breath. “Her script was uneven.”
I am not surprised. “Her hands have been unsteady. They pain her.”
“No. She thought I was…”
“What?”
He shakes his head. “It does not matter now. Forget I mentioned it. She’d made a sincere inquiry.”
“Ethan, I must tell you about Harry. Dr. Croftwell…”
His eyes darken with a rage I do not understand. “I will not accompany you to the asylum unless he promises to leave us alone.”
It isn’t unusual for Ethan to express his dislike for anything that has to do with the asylum. Remembering what happened to his sister, I cannot blame him, but he does not know the Croftwells like I do. “They are fine people.”
“Until I’ve seen what he’s done to Harry, I cannot agree. I’ve been remiss in my duties on the board. I should have known he was there.” He brushes past me, his jaw angry. My eyes cannot leave it. “I—I must go.”
“Wait.” I lift the hem of my dress to follow, but stop short.
My heart sinks. I’m shocked and hurt, bereft of answers.
Ethan is but a short distance away, climbing back up the hill with a limp, his breath escaping sharply with each step.
Pushing my emotions aside, I blow out the candle despite the night and hurry to him. “You should not have hidden this from me.”
He stiffens when I touch his shoulder, but I do intend to let go.
“I twisted my ankle,” he says through clenched teeth. “Nothing more.”
I dare not ask him if he is in pain. ‘Tis clear it’s more than what he says. “It is not from the war?” I ask. “The reason you were discharged?”
He stares straight ahead, face white in the moonlight. “It was careless. An accident.”
“Let me fetch the doctor to look at it.”
“No.”
“You can hardly put your weight on it, Ethan.” Indeed, he leans on me for support.
He pauses. “I’ll ask Brandon to tend to it once I return.”
“I insist.”
A disturbing knot of unease grows in the pit of my stomach as we continue on our way to the narrow, cobbled path. Ethan’s struggle continues, but he is a Thornblood. And Thornbloods, I remember from our childhood, would rather suffer alone than reveal their weaknesses.
“I’ll have one of the servants tell your coachman you’re ready, and to use the northwest passage,” I say.
“No.”
“Ethan.” I stop, expecting him to do so, as well.
He wrenches free with a grunt, continuing alone.
“You are impossibly stubborn,” I call to him.
He looks back at me with a huff. “And you haven’t changed a bit. You’ve always tried to fix what isn’t yours to mend, Becky.”
My eyes well up with tears I thought I’ve long since spent. I haven’t heard that name in years. “You’re the only one who ever calls me that.”
*****
One final note. I hope you enjoyed another peek into the writing life as well as Harmony’s Tomb, one of my works-in-progress. I’m actually working on two original gothic novels—I’ll be keeping the details of the second under wraps but maybe someday I’ll share a bit of that one, too. And the coincidences that I keep running into with my research.
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Thanks for the excerpt. It was a joy to step into your world.
I’m so happy to see you “here.” Thank you for taking the time to read!