Which Came First?

An author will receive all sorts of questions related to his or her writing. Sometimes the questions come from sources which are intended to lead into a sales presentation. I get that a lot. But sometimes it seems that the questioner is genuinely curious as to how a story came about, or how the story came to develop as it did. Below is a discussion which arose from one such question. The questioner's parts are presented in bold italics.

A Ship Called Abigail has an unusual combination at its center. The emotional side of the story deals with loss, love and the possibility of beginning again, while the world around those characters is built through a completely different steampunk reality.

That contrast is what interested me. The setting is imaginative, but the emotional situation underneath it is something much more recognizable.

Dan, did the emotional story come first and the steampunk world grow around it, or did you already have the world of A Ship Called Abigail in your head before Harris and Anna took shape?

I’d love to know which part of the idea opened the door first.

My responses follow the questioner's.

The story came first. The story was inspired by the story of two lonely widowed people who desired to find new love after their loss. How it came about that the two of them met, fell in love and married inspired the fictional account which became 'A Ship Called Abigail.' Although the novel is a work of fiction, the story that inspired it is not. It was my story. And my now wife's story.

But every fictional story has to have a setting. As the story entered my imagination, I had to place it in a setting before the first word was written. Somehow, and I'm not sure exactly how the decision came about, but Steampunk just seemed right. And it was the right choice, for the whole of the story and the sequels spun off from it would not have worked otherwise.

That makes the story much more personal than I initially realized. Knowing that the heart of A Ship Called Abigail came from something you and your wife actually lived through gives the relationship at the center of the novel a completely different dimension.

I also find the Steampunk choice interesting because it sounds like the setting wasn't something you started with just because you wanted to write Steampunk. The real story came first, and somehow that world became the right place for it to exist.

Dan, when you began turning your own experience into fiction, did the story naturally become its own thing as you wrote, or were you consciously changing details from your real experience to give the fictional characters and their journey a life of their own?

I never changed a thing from beginning to the end. Oh, perhaps the structure of a sentence, or small detail, but that's it. There were never any rewrites. The story seemed to tell itself. And once the characters were formed, there were no changes to them at all. The same thing has applied to all of my novels.

No, I never set out to write a genre, or a setting. The story was always the beginning and the story was always put into a setting. Two of my novels are standalones. They are not part of the series A Ship Called Abigail is part of. These two novels are not set in a Steampunk setting. The could have been, of course, but I found no reason to do so. They are setting in a vintage environment. More of like the Victorian era. I did not call it that, but describing the scenes, the clothing styles and other elements just resembles that time period.

There is a reason. I do not care for contemporary settings. I don't read contemporary setting stories. It's just not my interest. So there would be no reason for me to write stories in contemporary settings. Of course I don;t write westerns, or sci-fi either. Of course Steampunk is often considered a sub genre of sci-fi, so I guess that's the closest I would come to writing sci-fi.

That actually tells me quite a bit about the way you approach writing. You don't seem to start by asking, "What genre am I writing?" You start with the story, and then let the setting serve the story. Your preference for older environments also makes sense in that context, especially since contemporary settings simply aren't what you enjoy reading.

But the part that really caught my attention was you saying the story seemed to tell itself, and that once the characters were formed, you never changed them.

Dan, does that mean you usually discover the story as you write it, almost alongside the characters, or do you already know where the story is going before you begin and simply let the writing reveal the path to you?

That pretty much describes it. The "story" is about two people who are widowed (inspired by the events in our own story) so I figure that along the way certain events will occur within the story that mirror the events in our story. I know that the events in the story are not going to be step by step the same. I know that an invite to Harris to attend a gathering of a widow and widowers support meeting will occur. Just as was my experience. But the place, the setting, the circumstances of the invite and the atmosphere of the meeting place will not be the same as the meeting I was invited to where I met Patsy. Harris will meet Anna Forth at that gathering. The meetings are social, by the way. Not for the purpose of finding a potential partner, but just as a social and support environment.

I meet Harris Wimberly at the beginning of the story and as he prepares for the day, I see his face in the looking glass. Now I know what he looks like, I do not meet Anna Forth until the opening of chapter 14 as she too sits in front of her dresser looking glass preparing to attend a ladies group that evening. Actually she is reluctant to attend. It is there that I learn she too is widowed.

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Anna Forth sat on the stool before her dressing table. With an ever-increasing sense of hopelessness, she stared at her countenance in the looking glass. She felt the weight of what to her was the agony of aging, bearing heavy on her shoulders. She leaned closer to the glass.

The tiny lines extending out from the edges of her eyes and similar wrinkles at the edges of her mouth reminded her of what she did not want to face.

Time stops for no man. Or woman, for that matter. Forty-two is too young to have wrinkles, she told herself. Nevertheless, the looking glass did not lie. Yes, wrinkles and the visible signs were all too common for any woman of forty-two years.

But time did stop. Time stopped for Frank. Four years now and he would age no further. It was not right. He was her protector, her provider, her… her everything.

But now he was gone. His memory and a few photographs and letters were all that remained of him. Even her memory of his image and the sound of his voice were beginning to fade.

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Now here she stood as she arose from the stool looking at her image as she half-heartedly prepared to go out for the evening. Her hands went to her middle. Now she observed, her stomach was too big. She no longer had the flat, trim figure of her maidenhood.

Had she looked like this when Frank was alive? Had he looked at her and felt repulsed? She wouldn’t blame him for losing his attraction to her. Of course, he had never said that she no longer attracted him, but would he have said it even if it was so?

Frank was too much of a gentleman for that. He would never have told her she was unattractive. But when was the last time that he had called her pretty?

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And, it is here that I learn that she has a thirteen year old son.

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She stared hard into the eyes on the other side of the looking glass. What gentleman of worth would find you desirable and attractive? she asked herself. Not that she had been actually seeking the attention of a gentleman. But oh, the loneliness was a sickness deep inside her.

She had Bryan. Bryan was the most important part left of Frank, and he was her pride, and he was her joy. But she missed being a wife. She missed the intimacy the two of them had shared.

She missed his warmth, his touch, his strength and yes, very much, she missed his love making. She was still a woman. Losing him did not change that fact. Nor did it diminish her needs.

The door to her bedchamber creaked and a timid knock sounded on the outside. Without her answering, the door opened and a curly head of brown hair peeked in. “Mum, Mrs. Hoover is here. Says she’s here to take you to the party tonight. What time will you be back home?”

Without turning, she answered. “Thank you Dear. I don’t know what time the party will end, but I won’t be late.”

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Discovery occurs all along the way. New people are met along the way. Some just in passing. Others will turn out to become lifelong friends. Friends who will become positive influences for both Harris and Anna. Actually these friends will follow them into the following sequels of the book.

I learned a lesson a long time ago. I tried a technique and found that it was the wrong thing to do. And as one who has had a part in advising and somewhat mentoring a few other aspiring writers, I found that they too often tried this. That is, they will create a scene. They will build it, sometimes in great detail. But the scene, once complete, has no story to carry it. I learned not to build scenes, but rather to see the scenes as they occur within the story. The scene is part of the story. The story usually cannot come out of a single stand alone scene. I too had visions of scenes. I developed those scenes but then I had to ask myself, "what now?"

That last distinction really caught my attention: not building a scene and then asking, "what now?", but allowing the scene to appear because the story has carried you there.

The Anna passage is actually a good example of that. You aren't simply introducing her so the reader can meet another character. Through the looking glass, we learn about her age, Frank, her grief, her loneliness, Bryan, and even the part of herself she feels she has lost. The scene is doing several things at once because the story needs those things revealed.

I think your experience with creating scenes first probably explains why you became so conscious of that difference.

So when a scene does come to you while you're writing, what tells you that it belongs in the story? Is it usually because you can immediately see what that scene is going to reveal or change, or do you sometimes write it without knowing its purpose until later?

I don't write for later. Some writers do, and in the long ago past I did that. I'd write a scene, or a story part knowing where I would fit it in later. I no longer do that, and that is why I believe my stories flow as they do. I once attempted a novel wherein I wrote drafts of the first few chapters. I say "drafts", but they were complete other than fine tuning and editing. Then ideas for chapters bringing the story to its conclusion came to me, and I wrote those. I was left with a front, a back and an empty middle. So I attempted to piece together chapters to form the bridge between the beginning and the ending.

Now it could have been accomplished, but the creating process seemed so mechanical and "constructed." and I lost the inspiration even to complete the work. I abandoned the entire project. That's been a good twenty years now and I've never had any desire to pick it up again.

As to how the scenes develop, they exist when a particular character enters them. For example, I spoke of the meeting of the widow and widowers social gathering where Harris met Anna. The scene did not exist until Harris, after some consideration and debating with himself that he should accept, walks into the door. Below is how that worked.

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A blast of cold air followed him through the front door of The Londoner Pub, and he was quick to close it behind him. The light was subdued on the inside.

It took him a moment or two looking around the crowded interior, looking for a group which he had never met before. Save one member. He looked for one he would recognize as Mrs. Arnez.

She saw him before he saw her. From further back in the room, and to his left, she stood from within a group of others seated at the table. She raised her hand to capture his attention. He saw her.

A feeling of apprehension came over him. Should he really have come? What was the purpose? After all, lacking a good reason to venture out in the cold, he could have remained at home in the quiet warmth of his reading room with a cup of hot tea. Or even something stronger, and be comfortably seated before a blazing fireplace.

Who were these people? With only one thing binding them together being their widowhood, what guarantee of common interests or likes would there be to make for pleasant company?

Harris suffered the flaw of all introverted souls. Lacking something of common ground to draw others to him, or himself to others, he had little ability to or interest in engaging in conversations with others.

He acknowledged the gesture from Mrs. Arnez. Passing his top hat and outer coat to the woman behind the coat check counter, he made his way to the table. He was sure that his discomfort stood out before him as a sign for all to see, but in truth it was nothing that anyone else actually saw.

He noted an empty chair between two people already seated. He begged the pardon of those two, and taking that one, he seated himself.

Mrs. Arnez remained standing and announced in introduction. “Folks, this is Mr. Harris Wimberly. I met him for the first time at our New Year’s Eve service at church. He has been widowed over three years, if I recall correctly. Is that not so, Mr. Wimberly?”

“It is. Thank you for the invitation to join you tonight,” he answered.

The one seated at his left, a woman, turned to him and extended her hand to him. “I’m Anna Forth,” she said. “Welcome, Harris. I hope you enjoy the evening.”

He took her hand in a brief hand shake. “Thank you,” he replied. “Glad to make your acquaintance.”

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See, I could have built the scene, described the room and perhaps the atmosphere within the room. I did not want to do that. I wanted Harris to discover the room for himself. I wanted it to be just like I would see the scene should I have walked into that room. To pre-create the scene, would have made it something "constructed."

As the narrative continues, more of the description of the scene is revealed to the reader. Every person in that room was widowed. That was what brought them together. That mutual, horrible experience. They all would rather not have had a reason to be together in that room.

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Introductions were made around the table. Present were three other men, and six women. Names and hands were offered to him and exchanged and expressions of welcome, but he really did not want to be there.

He wanted nothing more than to be at home, warm and sheltered from the disagreeable weather, and to be with Ruth by his side in their parlour.

He tended to forget the names of those he had been introduced to by the time the next person was introduced to him. He had never been blessed with the short-term memory gift.

He noted the varying range of ages present. Mrs. Arnez had informed him that the membership in the group numbered fifty-two, but at any of the group’s social events, it was best to expect no more than ten or fifteen of those members to be present.

Two other men were present. That is, in addition to the young man sitting next to him, Roger Bentley. A much older man, bald, with a thin, wrinkled face dressed all in black was introduced to him as Samuel Crabtree.

He spoke very little, and sitting on the opposite side of the table from Harris and down three places, he simply nodded the acknowledgement of introduction to Harris.

The other man was a portly, jolly man who appeared to be in his mid-fifties. He was keeping the ladies sitting near, and on either side of him entertained with his steady stream of jokes and funny stories.

No one had yet ordered food, but several already had drinks before them on the table. Harris being the last arrival had not yet been served.

He noted that the lady sitting to his left, the one who had introduced herself as Anna, had a glass of red wine on the table before her. The young man to his right, had a sniffer of brandy. The server came and soon a glass of Scotch whiskey over ice was in his hand.

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Now you can see something beginning to happen. Just a little thing, but the beginning of something to come.

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While Roger was telling his story, Harris noted that the lady, the one named Anna, had turned, and now she leaned more in his direction as she listened intently to the story of loss Roger related.

A glance from Harris, and he saw that her brown eyes were kindly eyes. Loving eyes, even. It came to him without prompting, that she had a pretty, yes, even a comfortable face. That he meant for the best of reasons. Comfortable is good.

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And here is what to me, is the apex of the entire story.

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Anna once again, leaned forward to caress the top of his left hand with her own, and that drew her even closer to Harris. As she squeezed and caressed Roger’s hand as a mother would, her eyes turned to look at Harris directly, eye to eye. The look held.

Something began to happen that very moment which both of them recognized, but neither at the moment knew just what had happened.

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Our exchange drifted off into other matters not related to the subject of this post. But enough is presented here to provide a little understanding of my style of character and scene development. I will be happy to answer any questions or comments my readers may provide.

Dan Dooley