by J. R. Ward
And then it was done. Over with. Never to happen again.
—LOVER REVEALED, p. 443
As I’ve said, I wasn’t sure how readers were going to take the whole V/Butch thing, and after the book came out I was surprised. Overwhelmingly, folks wanted more of the two of them! The fact that the readership was so incredibly supportive is a testament to their open-mindedness and I’m very grateful for it. I’m also thankful for trailblazers such as Suzanne Brockmann, who, with her Jules Cassidy character, paved the way so that males like Blay can get their happily-ever-afters, too, and Brothers like V are accepted for just who they are.
And now a couple of random thoughts about Lover Revealed . . .
Butch didn’t just make me blush; I had my first case of writer’s block with him.
It wasn’t because he was getting naked all the time, though.
With each succeeding title the books were getting longer, and I was becoming concerned. If the trend kept going? I’d be turning in tomes. The issue appeared to be that the world had started developing its own plot—something that was particularly true with Butch’s story—so the events weren’t just about the heroes and heroines anymore.
For me as the author, the fact that I have the freedom to explore the ins and outs of the Omega and the Scribe Virgin and the war with the Lessening Society is part of what I like about the series. Bigger, however, is not necessarily better. During the revision process, my editor and I always check the pacing just to make sure there’s no fat on the page. It’s rewarding when we don’t find any—but also daunting when you see those little numbers in the upper corners getting higher and higher.
Anyway, when I started drafting Lover Revealed, I decided I was going to be “smart,” given the complexity of all the plotting. I decided that I was going to consolidate a bunch of the up-front scenes to save page space.
Right.
Sure, this made sense practically, but the Brothers didn’t like it at all. As I tried to retrofit the beginning scenes, cramming them in together, the voices in my head dried up. It was the eeriest thing. Everything went dead quiet, and I confronted what I’ve always feared the most: Because I have no clue where my ideas come from or how I do what I do or why certain things happen in the world, I’m always afraid the Brothers will pack up their leathers and their daggers and leave me with nothing.
Four days. The dead zone lasted for four days. And because I can be dense, it wasn’t immediately clear to me what the problem was. Finally, after I was going half-psychotic from the silence, it dawned on me . . . Huh, you don’t suppose I’m trying to jockey these scenes around too much just to save on page count?
As soon as I stopped worrying about length, everything flowed again and the Brothers came back. Takeaway? Good old rule number eight trumps just about every other concern I might have. Every story demands different things, whether it’s pacing or description or dialogue . . . or page count. The best thing you can do is remain true to what you see. I’m not saying you should be inflexible during revisions. Not at all. But be brutally honest in that first draft—then you can worry about editing things out later.
On another subject . . . a lot of people ask me what the deal with Butch’s father is. Specifically, they want to know if he’ll play a role later in the series. The answer is, I don’t know. I can see a pathway where there could be some very interesting family ties, but it’s a wait and see situation. I am quite sure of one thing, though: Butch’s father had to be a half-breed. The male had to either have gone through the transition, but been able to endure sunlight as Beth can, or the change didn’t hit him and he functioned in the world as an aggressive human.
The other question that I often get about Butch’s background has to do with the rest of his family and whether he ever reunites with them. That answer I do know, and it’s no. He’s said his good-bye to his mother, and his brothers and sisters have been shutting him out for years. The one person from his old life he does miss is José de la Cruz—although something tells me the two of them aren’t done yet.
Finally, of all the books, male readers tend to like Butch’s best, and that doesn’t really surprise me. It’s got a lot of good fight scenes, and the world building is more extensive than in some of the other stories, where the romance might take up more space. And some of the guys have commented that they love the idea that there is a great force inside of them, one that rocks the world and puts them in a position of power, and with the Omega’s tinkering, Butch certainly has that.
Plus, they think Marissa is hot.
So that’s my take on Butch. Now . . . for V.
*sigh*
Vishous, Son of the Bloodletter
“Vishous, could you stop grinning like that? You’re beginning to freak me out.”
—LOVER UNBOUND, p. 443
*At this point, the answer is scribbled out and below is written:Actually, if was ten minutes ago, when I beat the ever-living shit out of Rhage for macking my interview, thank you very much. What a freak. Here’s my real answers-oh, and BTW, Dakota Fanning isn’t in Flicka—and I know if because I looked the DVD up NOT because I saw the damn movie.
My Interview with Vishous:
Out on the compound’s lawn, Butch and I pack up the duffel and take Edna back to the mansion, where we spend about fifteen minutes weeding through the rose garden picking up the rockets. After we find all four and detach their parachutes, we go into the library and Butch gives me a hug. He smells good.
Butch:
Himself is waiting for you in the basement.
J.R.:
I’m not looking forward to this.
Butch:
(smiles a little) Neither is he. But look at it this way, it could be worse. You could have to write another book on him.
J.R.:
(laughs) Roger that.
I head off, crossing the foyer and going into the dining room, which has been cleaned up. On the other side of the flap door into the kitchen, Fritz, butler extraordinaire, is polishing silver with two other doggen. I chat with them and end up trying to fend off offers of food and drink. I fail. As I go down into the basement, I have a mug of coffee and a homemade raisin scone wrapped in a damask napkin. The scone is delicious and the coffee is just the way I like it: superhot with a little sugar.
At the bottom of the basement stairs I look left and right. The cellar is huge, with great stretches of open space broken up by storage rooms and HVAC piping. I have no idea where V could be, and I listen, hoping for direction. At first all I hear is the sound of the ancient coal furnace that is up ahead, but then I catch a beat.
It’s not rap. It’s a rhythmic, metal-on-metal clanging.
I follow the sound all the way down to the far end of the basement. It takes me a good five minutes of walking to get to where V is, and along the way I finish the scone and the coffee. As I go, I try to think what the hell I’m going to ask him. He and I don’t really mix all that well, so I figure this is going to be short and not-so-sweet.
As I come around the last corner I stop. V is seated on a stout wooden stool wearing heavy leather chaps and a muscle shirt. In front of him is an anvil on which is a deep red dagger blade that he’s holding with a pair of calipers. He has a blunt hammer with a special grip in his glowing hand and is pounding the tip of the weapon. Between his lips is a hand-rolled, and my nose registers the woody smell of Turkish tobacco, the sharp acid of hot metal and dark spices.
Vishous:
(without looking up) Welcome to my workshop.
J.R.:
So this is where you make the daggers. . . .
The ovenlike room is about twenty by twenty and has whitewashed concrete walls like the rest of the basement. Black candles are lit all around, and next to the anvil is an ancient brass pot full of sparkling sand. Behind V is a sturdy oak table on which are a variety of daggers in various stages of creation, some just the blades, others with handles.
V turns and thrusts the still-red metal slice into the sand, and
I’m struck by how strong he is. His shoulders are roped with muscle, and so are his forearms.
As he waits, he releases a stream of smoke from his lips and taps the hand-rolled on the edge of a black ashtray.
I am uneasy around him. I always have been. It makes me sad.
V:
(without looking at me) So you survived the rocket-man routine with the cop, huh.
J.R.:
Yes.
I stare at him as he takes the blade from the sand and wipes it with a thick cloth. The metal stretch is irregular in shape and consistency, clearly in the process of being birthed. He examines it, tilting it around, and as he frowns the tattoos on his temple move closer to his eye. Putting the hammer down, he brings his glowing hand back to the blade and clasps it. Light flares, pulling sharp shadows out of the softer candlelight, and a hissing sound sizzles into the air.
When he removes his hand the blade is brilliant orange, and he lays it down on the anvil. Picking up the hammer, he strikes the hot metal over and over again, the clanging sound ringing in my ears.
J.R.:
(as he pauses to look at the blade) Who are you making that for?
V:
Tohr. I want to have his daggers ready.
J.R.:
He’s going to fight again?
V:
Yup. Doesn’t know it yet, but he is.
J.R.:
You must be glad he’s back.
V:
Yup.
Vishous hits the nascent blade with his glowing hand again and then repeats the banging. After a while he thrusts the metal slice back into the sand and finishes his cigarette.
While he stabs out the hand-rolled, I feel as though I’m intruding and also not getting the job I came to do done. As the silence continues, I think of all the questions I could ask him, like . . . how does he feel about Jane being a ghost? Is he worried that he can’t have children? How are things with his mother? What’s it like for him to be committed to one person in particular? Does he miss his BDSM lifestyle? Or is he still practicing it with Jane? And what about Butch? Has their relationship changed?
Only thing is, I know that the answers would not be forthcoming, and the silences that follow each inquiry would be deeper and deeper.
I watch him work the blade, alternating the heat and the pounding, until he’s evidently satisfied and puts the dagger on the oak table. I wonder for a moment if now isn’t when the interview will really start . . . except he just stands up and goes to some smaller lengths of metal rodding that are in the corner. He’s going to start another blade, I realize.
J.R.:
Guess I better go.
V:
Yup.
J.R.:
(blinking quickly) Take care of yourself.
V:
Yup. You too.
I leave his workshop to the sound of the hiss as his hand comes into contact with metal. I go more slowly than I came, maybe because I’m hoping he’ll have a change of heart and come after me and at least . . . well, what would he do? Nothing really. A union between the two of us is my aspiration, not his inclination.
As I meander along, the empty mug and wrinkled napkin in my hand, I find myself truly and honestly depressed. Relationships require effort, sure. But you need to have one in the first place in order to work on them. V and I have never clicked, and I’m beginning to realize we never will. And it’s not that I don’t like him. Far from it.
To me, V is like diamond. You can be impressed and captivated by him and want to stare at him for hours, but he will never reach out and welcome you. As with him, a diamond exists not to be shiny and sparkly or because of who bought it to put on someone’s hand—those functions are simply by-products of the results of the incredible pressure inflicted upon its molecules. All that brilliance comes from its—and his—hardness.
And both will also be around long after all of us are gone.
Lover Unbound
The People:
Vishous
Dr. Jane Whitcomb
Phury
John Matthew
Wrath and Beth
Butch and Marissa
Zsadist and Bella
Cormia
The Directrix
Amalya (who becomes the new Directrix of the Chosen)
Layla
Qhuinn
Blaylock
Rehvenge
Xhex
Dr. Manny Manello
The Scribe Virgin
Payne
The Bloodletter
Grodht, solider in the war camp
Places of Interest (all in Caldwell, NY, unless otherwise specified):
St. Francis Hospital
Brotherhood mansion, undisclosed location
The Tomb
ZeroSum (corner of Trade and Tenth streets)
Jane’s condo
The Commodore
The Other Side (the Chosen’s Sanctuary)
Summary:
Vishous, son of the Scribe Virgin, falls in love with Dr. Jane Whitcomb, the human surgeon who saves his life after he is shot by a lesser.
Craft comments:
God, where to start.
Vishous was, hands down, the single worst writing experience of my life. Getting his story on paper was a miserable exercise in torture and was the first and thus far only time I have ever thought to myself, I don’t want to go to work.
The whys are complicated, and I’ll share three of them.
First of all, each of the Brothers is a separate entity in my head, and they’ve all had their own way of expressing themselves and their story: Wrath is very dictatorial, very blunt, and I have to race to keep up with him. Rhage is always a cutup—even when the serious parts come rolling through, there’s a goofy sidebar going on. Zsadist is reserved and suspicious and chilly, but we’ve always gotten along. Butch is a total party—with a lot of sex talk thrown in.
V? Vishous is and has always been—and excuse me for being blunt—a prick. A self-contained, defensive prick who doesn’t like me.
Putting his story on the page was a nightmare. Every single word was a struggle, particularly when it came to his first draft—most of the time I felt as if I were having to pry the sentences from bedrock using a kiddie hammer and a salad fork.
See, for me, drafting is really a two-part enterprise. The pictures that I have in my head guide the story, but I also need to hear and smell and sense what’s going on while I’m doing the writing. What this usually means is that I step into the shitkickers of the Brothers or the stillies of their shellans and go through the scenes as if I were living the events through whoever’s POV I’m in. To do this, I play the scenes backward and forward, like you would a DVD, and just record, record, record on the page until I feel as though I’ve captured as much as I can.
Vishous gave me next to nothing to work with, because I couldn’t get behind his eyes at all. The scenes that were in POVs other than his were fine, but his? Nothing doing. I could watch, but only from afar—and as a lot of the book is from his perspective, I felt like banging my head against the keyboard.
Look . . . yes, this is fiction. Yes, it’s all in my mind. Except, believe it or not, if I can’t get into a POV deeply, I feel like I’m making stuff up—and that isn’t a happy place. Honestly, I’m not that bright—I’m not going to get it right if I just guess. I have to be inside a person to do things right, and having the V-door slammed in my face was the root of most of my misery.
Things did break eventually, though. More on that in a little bit.
The second reason Lover Unbound was a hard book to write was that there was content in it that made me nervous, because I wasn’t sure whether the market would bear it. Two things in particular worried me: Bisexuality and BDSM (bondage, dominance, sadomasochism) are topics that not everyone is comfortable with even in terms of subplots, much less when they involve the hero of a book. But that wasn’t the full extent of it. In addition, V had been partially castrated and ha
d forcibly taken a male after he’d won his first fight in the war camp.
The thing was, V’s complex sexual nature colored a lot of his life—including his relationships with Butch and Jane. In order to show him properly, I felt like I had to present all sides of him.
In the first draft of Lover Unbound, I played things so conservatively that the book was flat. I went very light on the bondage scene with him and Jane right before he lets her go, and I didn’t put anything about him and Butch in at all.
In the process, I totally violated my own rule number two (Write Out Loud) . And, big surprise, the result was something that was about as appealing as a dead sunfish on a summer dock—nothing moved and it stank. I stewed and hemmed and hawed for a week or so, just tinkering with scenes involving John Matthew and Phury. In my heart I knew I had to jump off the cliff and stretch some boundaries, but I was exhausted and uninspired from the effort of trying unsuccessfully to drag V’s POV out of him.
Talking to my editor was what got me off my ass and back in the game. She and I discussed the things that were weighing on me, and she was like, “Go for it—just get it all in there and let’s see how it plays out on the page.”
She was, as usual, right. In fact, the message she gave me that day was the message she’s always given me since way back in the Dark Lover era: “Push it all the way, go as far as you can, and we can evaluate later.”