Conjuring Dreams or Learning to Write by Writing

by Stephanie Barr



  Conjuring Dreams

  or Learning to Write by Writing

  By Stephanie Barr

  Copyright 2016 Stephanie Barr

  Dedicated to Stephanie, Roxy and Alex, always.

  And the memory of my father

  Cover created by Stephanie Barr using photos licensed from Kozzi.com

  Table of Contents

  Introduction

  The Early Works

  Charley

  Seeds of Tomorrow

  The Mother-Thing

  "It's Me Again, Michael"

  The College Years

  Operation Terminal Beach

  Castles of Sand

  A Time of Change

  Entering the World of Fantasy

  Code of the Jenri

  Cauchemar

  Windrider

  Windmaster

  Single Point Stories

  Poetic Justice

  Precipice

  Soulshifter

  Captain of the Guard

  Stormmistress

  Dark of Night

  Oblivion

  Character Building

  The Intemperate Sword

  A Familiar Tale

  Echo

  Back Seat Driver

  Masks

  Coming Back After a Long Hiatus

  Stowaway in Seguin

  Second Life

  Kismet

  Best Laid Plans

  Nightmare Blanket

  About the Author

  Coming Soon: Curse of the Jenri

  Introduction

  Normally, I don't write introductions. Stories, in my opinion, should be self-explanatory and stand on their own, whether they are 100 words long or a series of novels. They should have characters that compel, scenes that are clearly drawn (whether inferred or directly described), and dialogue one can all but hear, and invoke an emotional and/or intellectual response.

  I like to think my stories do that.

  But, as much as I love storytelling—the exercise of making up characters and situations and worlds and relationships, then bringing them forward—I've also become somewhat fascinated by my own journey to learn to do so effectively. Why? Because the will and effort to create stories and the imaginative spark, by themselves, are not enough to become a great writer. A writer must also develop skills, not just grammar and vocabulary (though those are important), but also using words effectively, setting scenes and tone and characters. With short stories, one might only have a few sentences to accomplish this.

  These stories, even my early more clumsy work, also represent key steps as to how I developed some of the skills I use for my novels (and my journey is not complete). For years, I wrote short stories taking a scene or a notion or a concept and building it into a story. That's what I do, what I love to do.

  Unlike poetry (which is what I wrote first), language is less rigid for prose and sound is less important. Characters take on greater complexity and depth, and dialogue becomes critical. However, the elements of eliciting an emotional response, creating a viable picture quickly, and making the best use of language, those needs remain. In a similar way, though short stories use many of the same tools and have the same requirements of novels, the limited word count minimizes world building (at least individually). In short stories, scenes and characters must become crisp and real in a very short time, dialogue cannot be wasted, humor must be handled adroitly, and drama must be compelling and immediate. Much of that is useful in novel writing, as well, but it's imperative in a short story where the window of opportunity is so small.

  I started writing poetry and short stories in high school. By the time I took creative writing in college, my professor was already shaking his head at me since I had my own "style." "You write stories anyone could read," he told me disapprovingly. Well, damn, that was my intention. But really I was writing stories I wanted to read myself and building myself into the kind of writer I would like to read (and, of course, I'm a voracious reader).

  These stories represent a large portion of my journey and many seeds that were created in one or more stories were taken and nurtured into novels later on ("Code of the Jenri," and"Cauchemar,"). But even if they are independent and never grew into a world of their own, I used these stories to refine one aspect or another of my writing.

  I am dedicating this book to the memory of my father, Frank Preston Beck, Jr. Although I've been writing since I was ten or eleven, most of the poetry (what I wrote first) I read over, thought, "Hey, not bad," and threw away. It wasn't until I wrote "A Cold Wind on the Hill" (at thirteen or thereabouts) and showed my father that the situation changed. Although not a fiction lover himself, he made me promise never to throw any of my writing away again. Even the stuff I should have thrown away (which I didn't include in this book).

  It is, at least in part, due to him that I began to document my imaginings and learned to appreciate sharing the stories with an audience. Perhaps because of that I continued to pursue writing even after I became an engineer and a mother and had days packed with too many other things to do. I still had to tell stories, had to write, had to write down and save what I did write (even when it stunk).

  In his memory, I'm including perhaps the only thing of mine he actually enjoyed, simplistic and idealistic though it was.

  A Cold Wind on the Hill

  One August morning as nighttime had paled,

  Fighting broke out as the peacetalkers failed

  And the War had begun that no one would win.

  Grieved for His children, He looked on His kin

  And sent down an angel to quiet the din.

  But no one would listen for he had no right

  To sue them for peace when they wanted to fight,

  'Til, fin'ly, repulséd, he fled in disgrace,

  Quite sick to the heart for the Master he'd face

  To tell of the end of the earth's human race.

  Yet, though it seemed futile, God, too, had to try

  To keep all those missiles from wounding the sky,

  But man just ignored Him and forced His retreat,

  Weeping with grief for His mankind's defeat,

  And for their blind bloodlust he couldn't unseat.

  So, man set his guns up, his missiles, his bombs

  And sent them all out on one hot August dawn.

  Then cities exploded in huge clouds of dust,

  While millions were killed in this "political must,"

  Whole nations reduced to just heat-blackened crust.

  Now, on a small hill does a lone Figure stand,

  With tears in His eyes and blood on His hands.

  The land all is barren; the grey air is still,

  Which tortures that gentle Soul there on the hill,

  As, for once in His life, God, Himself, feels a chill.

  I love you, Dad.

  1Note that I was greatly tempted to rewrite/rework many of the earlier works that were frequently clumsy or limited in scope, but I left them untouched because they demonstrate lessons being learned and progress.