C. Lee McKenzie

Young Adult and Middle Grade Author

In The Throes of Thursday-Go Take a Hike

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Go take a hike? 

Absolutely. I’ve been told to do that by a lot of agents and editors, so I took their advice and did it. And what a fantastic hike it was too! It put a lot of things into perspective and when you see the pictures you’ll understand what I mean.

Here’s Tree Hugger Me. Well, I tried, but the Sequoia just laughed. 

Here I are, standing in the center of a Sequoia that’s been hollowed out by fire. That made quite an impression. These trees thrive with fire-their bark is highly fire resistant and in the heat, their seeds pop and germinate, starting more of their species. 

Think about that, writers, and go into the fire, knowing that you’re among the most resilient people on the planet. From the heat you take in rejection and writer self-doubt, ideas are going to pop and grow into wonderful stories.

Okay, that’s all the philosophy for this Thursday, but wanted to add that this is going to be my last Throes of Thursday post for a while. I’m going to be posting on Mondays only and trying to get back to working on my next book. I’ll hop around to all my followers; I just hope you’ll forgive me if I’m slow. 

In The Throes of Thursday-Why Zombies?

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Question: What’s scarier than an a Zombie? 

Answer: Two Zombies.

Unfortunately, when there’s one there’s never only two; Zombies come in hoards and you don’t have to go looking for them either. They’ll find you. (Insert scary scream here.)

And people can’t seem to get enough of those ghastly, grim vacant creatures. Why is that?
I guess it’s because we love to be scared.

Vampires used to do that job, but then movies like Love at First Bite came out, and then someone wrote a book about a gentle, lovesick vampire that also happened to be hunk. How can anyone be scared by George Hamilton or Robert Pattinson? Vampires might as well be bunnies now-not the Monte Python type bunny.

As a writer, I used to wonder how many Zombie books would make too many, but now I know. There will never be too many. The reason is simple. The stories of flesh eating monsters aren’t about the flesh eating monsters at all. They’re all about the humans who have to deal with them and how that traumatic experience affects those who are alive.

Will timid Maxwell suddenly find his courage and race to rescue Sarah, the girl who makes fun of him, from certain death?

Will Jasper, the hunky star quarterback, run away terrified, leaving his girl friend as the killer hoard approaches?

Will the school’s low-life be the one to devise the plan that saves the auditorium filled with trapped students?

Just look at the tension those questions produce.  I guess writing a book with Zombies is a great idea if you want to reveal the true nature of your characters by putting them into tense and testing situations. However, if you’d rather just write about bunnies, there’s room for that too. Or think outside of the box and be the first to write a Bunny-Zombie sort of book. Oh wait! It may be too late. One’s already been made into a movie.

In the Throes of Thursday-Intuitions

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I have this bridge and it’s really cheap.

Anyone ever “just know” something, but not have “evidence” that what you’re feeling is true?  We call that intuition. And how many of you follow those feelings even when you’re confronted with facts that point in the opposite direction?

 So often I can look back at a situation and recall that I should have paid attention to what that tiny inner voice was telling me. “He’s not telling the truth.” “That’s not the right thing to do.” “Choose the red one.”

A book titled Blink that I read several years ago was all about how paying attention to that voice was a good idea. It opens with an account of an archeologist seeing what was presented as an ancient and valuable statue. She “knew” something was off about it, yet all the paperwork and all the experts had declared it to be authentic. After a large sum of money exchanged hands-museum to dealer-that statue turned out to be a beautiful fake.

I just finished Provenance a non-fiction work that reads like an fast-paced novel. It’s a story about a highly intelligent con man who, not only floods the market with forgeries of masterpieces, but also changes the provenance of that art.  (Provenance is the history of a piece of art that follows the work from the time it’s first sold, so that it’s journey is a map through the art world. The Provenance is supposed to determine the authenticity of the art and often the value.) His deception staggered museum curators and collectors around the world. There are still archived histories that have notes: “Be aware that these data may have been altered.”

After reading these books, I wanted to create a character who had the intelligence, the guile, the utter disregard for others or for the truth. I thought a true miscreant would be a wonderful protagonist, someone with charm, but without one speck of care for anyone or anything. Then I wanted to put him into a story filled with dupes that readers would follow as they ignored those inner voices and believed my sociopath.

Maybe this book has already been written. If so, tell me about it before I craft my story. Or tell me about so I can read and enjoy it.

In the Throes of Thursday-Brahms

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I believe all creative people come to a point where they doubt their ability. Some come to believe they can’t go forward with their art one more day. They’re quitting. Yes, the big Q word.

Been there?

I certainly have.

Well here are a few of quotes that I keep on the wall by my desk.  I want to share them with those who have the Q word in their heads right now or may have in the future.

~1887, the Musical Courrier: “Brahms evidently lacks the breadth and power of invention eminently necessary for the production of truly great symphonic works.”

~ Confucius: “It does not matter how slowly you go so long as you do not stop. “

~ Unknown: “When the world says, “Give up,” Hope whispers, ‘Try it one more time.'”

~Harold Gould Henderson’s translation of the Master Essa’s “Snail, ever so slowly . . .”
  “Snail, my little man, slowly, oh, very slowly climb up Fujisan!”

Any quotes that keep you going? Hope so. If not, take mine. I’m off to find Fujisan . . . and some fellow #writecampaign people at RACH WRITES.

In the Throes of Thursday-Write Campaign Challenge #1

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 I love challenges, and this 200 word challenge has been fun. Here’s my offer. In fact, I got so carried away, I posted two, and even though I’m too late to compete for the PRIZE, I’d love it if you’d tell me which one of my entries you like best.

I’ve gone to several blogs and read their posts. None are alike and all of them are great. Kudos to  all the #writecampaign people.

The door swings in and I’m not ready. I’ll never be ready for this. Who would be?
There he perches high above me just as I’d imagined, but smiling, not as I imagined at all.
“You’re late.”
“Traffic.”
His grin unsettles me more than I am already.
“Shall we begin?”
Like I have a choice? I’d say this, but I know better.
“How do see all of this playing out?”
Again, he’s put me off balance. I wasn’t ready to answer questions.
“Surely you’ve thought about it.”
When I don’t answer, he says, “Hmm. Too bad. I usually give choices. In your case, I guess it will be a surprise.”
“Can I ask when . . . to expect the . . . surprise?”
He doesn’t answer.
My leg jiggles, an old tick from childhood.
“That’s part of the surprise. You know that.”
“Do I get a warning?”
“You don’t want a warning. Warnings only make humans edgy.” He strokes his bony chin and the sleeve of the cloak slips back so his whiteness glows under the light.
I clench my fists, and a thin drizzle of cold sweat slides down my spine.
“Bye. Bye,” he says. “See you soon.”
Death’s door swings closed behind me.

AND #2 Just because #1 was so coated in drear. 

The door swings in and the chill fingers of this October night curl over her skin.
When the thud, thud, thud of knuckles against the wood summoned her, when she grasped the knob, when she twisted it and the latch clicked free, the cautioning voice in her head said, “Don’t open that door.” Still she ignored the warning, and now she must deal with the consequences.

This is her own fault. She knew this was coming and still she hadn’t prepared, hadn’t thought what she’d do once confronted with these ghosts coming at her through the dark, their eyes unblinking, their demands unwavering.

There are three this time, but more hovering just out of that cone of yellow that thwarts the insects, but fails to protect her against these spirits. What does she have in her storehouse that might appease them and send them away?

“Nothing.” That inner voice is talking to her again.

If she quickly slams the door, locks it and turns off all the lights, will they vanish? Will she be able to climb between her sheets, knowing she’s escaped their vengeance?

“Not on your life.”

Damn that voice.

“Trick or treat,” the first ghost sing songs.

In the Throes of Thursday-Harvest Memories

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Her name was Lillian and she was the rock I stood on in a very shifty and uncertain stream called childhood. While I was growing up she was just Gram, the person who was always there. Hers was the warm lap for the times I was scared or sick. Hers were the arms that hugged me close after a nightmare. Hers were the footsteps I walked in right up to the time she left.

In earlier posts I wrote about how I learned to can fruit and vegetables because my gram was a canning whirlwind come September. This was only one of her legacies that she passed to me from her grandmother, but it’s one that I value greatly. I know my love of the harvest is mostly about my memories of her that come with the season-the rich smell of ripe tomatoes on the vine, the crunch of apples just out of reach, but dangling overhead and ready to pick, the even rows of carrots, lettuce, and onions-that’s September, the month that Gram returns to me.

So out come her aprons and her tools that I store on the shelves high and at the back. Out come the recipes that I know by heart, but that must attend this ritual if it’s to be complete. 

 And while I pick, then peel, then stir the bubbling pots in lazy eights-just the way she taught me, I thank Lillian for her gifts. Love. Family skills from another time. Patience which comes with any careful process, and memories of childhood harvests that often help me through the shifty and uncertain stream called adulthood.

What are your rituals or traditions? Where they handed down? Are you handing any down to your children? Do you write about them in your stories?

In the Throes of Thursday-End of Summer

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The Last Apple 2011.

The light hasn’t shifted into that special autumn yellow, but there’s a crispness in the air at night that tells me summer’s close to being over.  And that’s all right. I love summer with it’s sandal-toed freedom and long days, but the harvesting of fruits and vegetables and the closing down of the garden is a ritual I enjoy. It brings me back to the days when my grandmother was here and we’d put bright, freshly picked  cucumbers into the brine, or she’d pull up the stool so I could stir the apples into sauce.

Applesauce and Dilly Green Beans 2011

I still can’t bring myself to part with those canning jars, even when most of my friends shake their heads as my kitchen counter fills with pints of applesauce, dilled green beans, and jalepeno jam-all ready to squirrel away for the winter when the apple trees are bare and the green bean and pepper plants are only in the warm memories of July.

I get comments like, “We have grocery stores that are open in December, you know.” My answer: “They don’t have my grandma’s pickles on their shelves. And none of my friends turn down an offer of a jar of anything I put up.

So just as I warned in an earlier post I’m heading into my Harvest Series Mode when food has to come together with my love of the written word-especially Grandma’s recipes where her precise hand has set down the ingredients and the process that she learned at her grandmother’s harvest time.

In the Throes of Thursday-A Wee Bit Early for The Spark

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My SPARK was Alice in Wonderland.

When I was about seven I wanted to climb into those pages and follow that white rabbit just as Alice did. Since that wasn’t possible I started creating my own worlds and climbing into those instead. I still have the book that I read when I was seven and every once in a while I read a passage or two. I’m never disappointed, and I never cease to have a wonderland experience that reminds me why I write stories.

“The rabbit-hole went straight on like a tunnel for some way, and then dipped suddenly down, so suddenly that Alice had not a moment to think about stopping herself before she found herself falling down what seemed to be a very deep well.”

And so the journey begins . . . again and again and again. And each time I’m so ready for it and for the Mad Hatter and the hedgehog and the Queen of Hearts.

In the Throes of Thursday-Notes

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Notes, those lovely words you read and tuck away with the cards you can’t bear to part with. I’ve got tons of them and I love to take them out and re-read them. They’re a kind of a journal that let’s me remember the times I’ve shared with others or the gifts I’ve given and the pleasure of that exchange-a gift, a note, a bond between people.

I wrote that in response to this blog called Out On A Limb. Please stop over there for a visit. She has some wonderful posts. I loved what she had to say about the courtesy of writing notes, and I’d like to
expand on that a little.

I’ve always given gifts to the children in our family: birthdays, Christmas, graduation whatever.  Some have always sent cards to say thanks and include a little appreciation for the gift. Some haven’t. In fact, I often didn’t know if the gift had ever been received. Once or twice I asked and got, “Oh yeah. We got it. It was really nice.”

“Really?” I said to that space behind my eyeballs. “That would have been nice to know.”

I thought maybe I was being grumpy or out of step with how things work now, but I don’t think so. I think there’s something in common courtesy that cuts across generations and should be respected. Not only does a short note-or even a phone call-let the giver know the gift is safely in the person’s hands, but it also establishes communication. Without that is there a family? Are there friends? I hasten to add that all of my friends send notes. 100% of them. And, fortunately, it’s just a few members of my family that seem to think it’s not important.

After I started thinking about this topic (Thank you, Out On A Limb.) I decided that while courtesy and communication are two important parts to thank you notes, recalling memories is another. When I read some of the notes my grandmother sent or my mom, I can return to that moment when I gave them something and they enjoyed it. Their words bring a bit of them and that other time back to me.

Are notes a part of your family/friend tradition? How do you feel about writing them or receiving them? 



In the Throes of Thursday-What I’ve Learned About Writing Novels_8


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Setting can’t take the back seat in your story. It’s as important as the characters and the plot, and it can lend so much to both. When you’re developing your story, pay attention to where it takes place, then use all of the sense to transform a room or a beach or wherever from a lifeless ho hum backdrop to a vibrant, integral part of  your story.


Here are some examples of how that’s done by some writers. Notice how many senses they employ to bring the setting to life.




From The Veldt, by Ray Bradbury


The nursery was silent. It was as empty as a glade at hot high noon . . . . Now, as George and Lydia Hadley stood in the center of the room, the walls began to purr and recede in crystalline distance, . . . .


Here, Bradbury lets us hear and feel the futuristic nursery, a hot high room that produces an eerie purr to create exactly the setting for a machine-controlled world about to overtake it’s inhabitants.


 

From The Dead-Tossed Waves by Carrie Ryan


Even after the Forest was shut off, one last gasp at sequestering the infection and containing the Mudo, the carousel kept turning, the coasters kept rumbling, the teacups kept spinning.





The true horror is the contrast between this carnival setting that we see and hear and the threat of the  Mudo with their bite of death out there in the forest.





From The Body Finder by Kimberly Derting


Violet Abrose wandered away from the safety of her father as she listened to the harmony of sounds weaving delicately around her. The rustling of the leaves mingled gently with the restless calls of birds and the far-off rushing waters of the icy river that lay beyond the trees.  


What’s lovely about this setting is not only the appeal to the sense of sound and the feeling we get of the icy water out there unseen, but the use of alliteration inside the description: rustling, restless, rushing. That very poetic device pulls the reader into hearing and feeling where the character is and possible danger or horror that lurks.


Aren’t there times when the smell of a place recalls vivid memories? Smell is a power sense to establish a setting.


From an untitled short story by C. Lee McKenzie 





Like a cat in strange territory, he lifted his nose and sniffed the metallic scent of the bronze figures arranged around the chapel. The vase by the alter was filled with white lilies, their honeyed sweet scent almost masking the gloom.


I loved using metallic as a smell, especially when I got to contrast it with the scent of lilies. I think of churches and museum with these two smells mingling. 


And then there’s the sense of taste. It shouldn’t be neglected. It’s one of our very important senses. Here’s how I used taste to describe a room in my short story.



 

The entry had welcomed them with warm, creamy yellows, and beyond where they stood in this middle room, was a leather cushioned den, its dark wood floors strewn with Turkish carpets. They paused in this room between, a room that was meant to be savored like a sorbet on the tongue between two fine courses-bland in beige, but perfect in contrast.


This was fun to use something a bit unexpected: comparing a neutral room to sorbet. 


Send me more-either what you’ve written or something from a book that really established the setting and made the book zing.