Elaine Faber

An author must consider all aspects of writing a book to be successful. In many ways, our lives have similarities to the elements of a novel.

COVER

When a potential buyer is in the bookstore shopping for a book, the first thing he notices is the cover. If the cover appeals, he picks it up. It must have a snappy, good-looking book cover. The color must be-- bright and eye-catching with an interesting title and intriguing pic suggesting the story line. It must have Large easily read words and a fairly simple design that will look good in a thumb print on Amazon. The buyer flips it over to read a summary of the story. Does the plot sound intriguing?  A novel can have the best story in the world but if it has a poorly designed cover it may not get sold.

Similarly, the way we present ourselves to the world is as important as the book cover. How we dress, our hair style, how we put on make-up when we go out in public is like OUR book cover. As soon as we walk through a door, people form an instant impression about us. It may not be fair, but it’s true. People judge our appearance and make an instant decision. Do they want to know us better or not? If, we are carelessly dressed, wearing wrinkled clothing, or unclean hair (ladies) it creates a poor impression. We may be the most likable person in the world, but appearance can create the wrong impression.

A nicely dressed, clean appearance, cheery smile, and pleasant demeanor creates a good first impression.

Editor

A writer needs an editor to review a manuscript to find spelling errors, poor punctuation, poorly written sentences or scenes that don’t make sense. He inspires the author to dig deeper, to help the reader experience the story better. She points out these errors in a gentle constructive manner. The author then makes the changes to create a better story.

My editor helps me find the writing errors in my manuscript, but mostly, she suggests changes to move my book from a story to a journey, so the reader becomes one with the main character, able to leave their world for a few hours and experience the adventure the book presents.

In our relationships and business, we need a life editor. This is a ‘best friend,’ brave enough to point out our faults, to tell us 'There's spinach in our teeth'. She may suggest we join a gym and lose weight, stop acting like a fool at parties, or point out that we’re spending too much money on frivolous things. No one wants to hear these things, but our 'editor' wants us to succeed.  When I heed my editor’s advice, it always makes my novel better. When we listen to our ‘life editor,’ we can become better friends, parents, or siblings.

Supporting Characters

Besides the main characters, a good novel has supporting characters. These are the friends and relatives, or even the main character's pets they will interact with. Often, they drive the conflict in the story or help provide the solution.

In my first book, Black Cat’s Legacy, Dorian, the lovely hometown detective, helps Kimberlee solve her father’s murder. She also tries to steal Kimberlee's boyfriend, adding conflict and a sassy complication to a romance that otherwise would go off without a hitch. 

We also need supporting characters in our lives. These are our friends, neighbors, sisters. They are your ‘tribe’ or group that support you in times of trouble or sickness. They help you celebrate in times of joy, like birthdays and weddings. They perform an important role in our lives. They add companionship, or angst, or drama to your life. They make your life interesting. Without them we’d be like the guy on the island, talking to his beach ball.

PLOT or Storyline

The plot is what happens in the novel. Is the story about a hard-boiled detective, bringing the killer to justice, or is it a romance with the boy next door going off to war? In my Cozy Cat mystery novels, mysteries abound in a small town, on a Texas horse ranch, and in Nevada City. Even in Austria! The location differs, but the characters, in my case, Kimberlee and Brett drive the storyline while Thumper, the cat’s, ancestors’ memories help Kimberlee either solve a crime or avoid a cat-astrophe.

A novel with a good plot draws you into the story and takes you willingly along an adventure while the main character solves a crime or finds the solution to a certain situation. In a good book, the writer makes you feel you are experiencing things as they happen in the story, both good and bad. You’ll laugh or cry, get scared or surprised as the hero experiences the events throughout the story. At the end of the book, you wish there was another 100 pages because these characters have become your friends, and you want to spend more time with them. That’s when you look for the sequel.

Your experience, your situation in life is the plot of your personal story. Each one of us has a different life story.  Your adventures are varied. You’ve raised children, had varied careers, served in the military and probably experienced unbelievable hardship, raised families during the depression, overcome illness or experienced memorable circumstances. The combined experiences of the folks in this room could fill a library.

Conflict

A good novel must have conflict, or it isn’t worth reading. The girl next story must have a rival for her boyfriend. The CIA agent must have a villain to pursue. The puppy must be lost. All these examples create conflict; or something that prevents the main character from easily fulfilling the storyline goal in less than 300 pages. If the CIA agent catches the villain on page one, where is the adventure? If the girl’s boyfriend doesn’t flirt with her best friend, where is the romance? If the puppy isn’t lost, he’s just a puppy.

In Black Cat’s Legacy, Kimberlee tries to solve her father’s murder, but someone doesn’t want her to find the killer.

In Black Cat and the Lethal Lawyer, Grandmother’s attorney plans to kill her before she changes her will and disinherits the false charity organization he created to embezzle her money. Of course, Thumper, the cat, has to help keep Grandmother alive.

In Black Cat and the Accidental Angel, Thumper, now called Black Cat, is left behind at the scene of an accident and has lost his memory. He must try to find his way home.

Do we live without conflict in our lives? It seems like one thing after another comes along to give us grief.  None of us has lived without some degree of trouble, whether in the form of lost loved ones, teenagers, business reverses, a home burglary, an unexpected illness, a sick pet, or a missed opportunity. Each of us could make a list of ten conflicts we have overcome and probably 3-4  over the past year.

Why is there conflict in our lives? Do we deserve the grief we experience? Maybe. Maybe not. There’s a reason why we have these troubles. Like that lost puppy or the CIA agent mentioned above, where would 'our story' be without conflict? If everything went totally right every day, we’d cease to appreciate anything because it would just be expected. We could never experience joy if we had nothing to compare to it. We have to experience pain to know joy. We must experience and overcome problems to appreciate success. Just like conflict in a good book to keep the reader intrigued, we need conflict in our lives. Can you see how a little bit of grief is good for us?

Beginning—Middle--End 

A good book has a beginning that makes you want to read it, a middle that holds your attention, and an end that satisfies. An author writes the story with these concepts in mind. The beginning must have a mystery revealed or a romantic situation that jumps from page one with an event that convinces you to travel this journey with the main character. If it doesn’t hook you in the first five pages, you’re likely to lay the book down and stop reading.

By the middle of the book, the characters should have identified the plot line problems and be well on his way in a struggle to overcome the obstacles, but events MUST continue to go from bad to worse, implying an unsurmountable problem that can’t possibly have a happy ending.

By the end of the book, the author must tie up all the loose strings, solve all the puzzles and bring the story to a conclusion. It may not always be a happy end, but it must satisfy the reader. Did you ever read a 300 page book and have the main character die on the last page? What a waste. All these hours you’ve spent with this character, rooted for him, wept for him, laughed with him and the author kills him off on page 300? You want to heave the book against the wall! Are you likely to buy another book by that author?

What about our lives? How can we compare the beginning, middle and end of 'the story' of our lives?

We start out as babies and then become children. We played, got educated, we grew. Some of us had a good childhood, others had situations that weren’t so good and sometimes these experiences continue to affect us as adults. We all carry things from childhood, good and bad.

During our middle years, most of us married, raised children, and had a work career. Some of us divorced or overcame tragedies. Events we experienced in our childhood, may affect how we reacted to these life events.

Many of us are approaching life closer to the end. These times may be affected by events from our middle years. For instance, our finances could be limited, or not, by investments, savings, or other life choices. Whether we are still married or are widows or widowers, whether we live alone, or with our children. Whether our health is good or less than optimal due to heredity or previous life choices.

An author must consider how to bring her novel to a satisfying conclusion. Many of us are beginning to arrange matters that will affect an appropriate conclusion to our lives. Our thoughts may turn to mending personal fences, writing wills, or visiting relative and friends we haven’t seen for years. Whether we realize this consciously or unconsciously, actions in our senior years move us toward a satisfying end to our life story.

Satisfying conclusions

A novel must have a satisfying end. The hero gets the girl, the killer is revealed and brought to justice, the interplanetary monster is vanquished, the puppy finds a home. The challenge for the writer is to keep creating stories that satisfy and keep the reader wanting more.

As we all reach the last quarter in our life, our goal turns to how to experience a satisfying end. Are you satisfied with all you’ve done or are there still things you’ve always wanted to do? Have you accomplished all you hoped to accomplish? Or do you still have unfulfilled dreams?

If you haven’t yet reached that satisfying conclusion where you can say, 'I’m happy with everything I’ve done', I encourage you to think about the things you’ve dreamed of. It’s never too late to follow your dream.

What better time than now?

‘Camping with your children brings families together.’ The full magazine article went on to describe the family sitting around a roaring fire, making S’mores, roasting marshmallows, and making memories to last a lifetime. That’s what my family needed. More bonding and less bickering. I tossed the magazine and phoned my husband. “We’re going camping with the kids.”

By the time he got home, I had I borrowed a tent, a kerosene lantern, sleeping bags, a campstool, camp cots, cooking gear, kerosene cook stove, and an ice chest from friends and made arrangements for the neighbor to feed the cat. Hubby capitulated with arm-twisting and the promise of a fishing trip later that summer. It took the promise of a Barbie doll and roller blades to gain the children’s cooperation.

The smooth-talking Outdoorsman salesman persuaded sold me dehydrated ham and eggs, powdered potatoes, canned beef stew, dried prunes, beef jerky and powdered applesauce. He guaranteed I had enough to cook, stew, puree, and heat over a cheery campfire and create gourmet meals for a family of four for two days. The picture on the dehydrated ham and eggs showed a mom on a hillside with the breeze blowing through her hair. The canned beef stew can showed Daddy snoozing in a camp chair with his dog at his feet. The brochure promised memories to last a lifetime. It had to be true; it said so, right there on the front label.

We set off for a campground in the redwoods, about an hour away. The drive was punctuated by my son’s fingers in his mouth, eyes crossed, and tongue protruding while his sister screamed, “Make him stop looking at me!” Precious kids!

With no guardrails on the steep, winding road to our campground, rocks rolled over the canyon edge as the car wound around hairpin curves.

We found our assigned campsite one-half block from the outhouse and 200 feet from a pipe with a faucet on top, surrounded by 263 bees. Thus, an explanation of the phrase–dry camp. No running water, no electricity and the aforementioned outhouse.

After pitching our tent, hubby started to assemble the camp cots, only to find the poles on the end of each cot were missing. Our sleeping bags would now lie on the hard ground. My thoughts strayed to my own bed with fourteen inches of cotton batting, memory foam and bedsprings. Ah, well, I reasoned, the promised family togetherness would be worth it.

The children chased around the camp, and then my 7-year-old daughter requested I accompany her to the facilities. We walked past other campsites and noticed folding chairs, down comforters, portable record players, and Porta Potties. What did they know that I didn’t know? The answer soon became clear. Within fifteen feet of the outhouse, all that we had previously thought we knew about outhouses didn’t hold a candle to the reality. An indescribable smell hung overhead like a cloud. The outhouse door hinges defied latching. Holding our noses, we rushed the door. The sight inside took away all bodily urges and we raced back to our campsite. The bushes held more promise.

We learned that up the road was a washhouse with real toilets. We made a plan to do a bathroom run after dinner. Also, no open fires were allowed in the fire pits. No problem. We had the little kerosene stove to cook our instant and dried foods... Hubby unpacked the stove. Flip this, fold that, click in the burners, attach the kerosene tank, pump it up and light with a match. Easy-peasy! He pumped and pumped vigorously–it would not light. The sssssssssheoshee emanating from the kerosene tank could only mean…a minute hole in the tank. Thus, no hot water for a dried, vacuumed-sealed, gourmet meal.

“Don’t worry,” I assured my disappointed family. “We can eat the canned beef stew cold.” I reached for the can opener. “It must be here somewhere.” No can opener. “Um…I must have left it on the kitchen counter.”

Like all survival conscious men, Hubby always carried a pocket knife. He attacked the can with a vengeance. The children sat with tin plates in their laps, like the hungry waifs from a Charles Dickens novel, waiting for their daily gruel.

My daughter’s shriek interrupted my fascination with the jagged hole Hubby was gouging into the beef stew can. She danced around the cold campfire, beating her chest and tore at her tee shirt, which I pulled over her head. A flattened kamikaze bee dropped to the ground, twitched and lay still. Several inflamed bumps swelled on her chest. Of course, the first aid kit was likely lying beside the can opener on the kitchen counter. We painted her upper torso with a mud poultice.

By now the ragged hole in the top of the stew can revealed its contents. Unfortunately, it was all too reminiscent of the contents in the outhouse. The anticipated hopes of the family gathered around the fire, eating a gourmet meal tumbled into the dirt next to the stew. The children tossed their tin plates beside the mutilated can and ripped open a bag of dried prunes.

“Ah well,” I mused, as I bit into a dried prune, “family togetherness….”

Shortly thereafter, the sun disappeared behind the towering pine trees and darkness crashed around us. It was 5:45 P.M. “We can sit around the fire pit by lantern light and pretend we have a roaring fire. We’ll tell stories,” I cheerfully suggested. (You can see this coming, can’t you?) A few pumps on the kerosene lantern should have blossomed into a soft and romantic glow…but didn’t. “Please don’t tell me the tank is empty,” I squeaked, barely able to distinguish the features of my amazingly quiet children who were holding hands in the darkness.

My long-suffering husband pumped furiously on the lantern, to no avail. That family memory joined the beef stew, oozing into the mountain dirt, casting an ominous green glow.

I munched on another dried prune as we visited the washhouse where we thankfully used the facilities. Returning from the washroom, Hubby turned off the headlights and we sat in total disillusionment and despair for about five minutes, staring at the sagging tent, dark fire pit and useless accouterments. Should we give up and go home or stay? Going home meant driving down death hill, at risk of plunging over the canyon, or going to bed at 6:30 PM in the hot tent.

My husband wanted to chance the hill and sleep in his own bed. I insisted it was only twelve hours till dawn when we could strike the camp and get out of this hellish nightmare.

From the barely discernible expression on Hubby’s face, I knew he would never forgive me.

Our four sleeping bags touched on the canvas tent floor. An enormous lump pressed into the small of my back. Why hadn’t we cleared the rocks off the ground before we set up the tent? We could only wiggle and squirm and try to sleep. Blackness...hot air...kids snoring… Was that a bear? No clock... I heard a mosquito. Mosquitoes find me the way bears find honey. I had to get inside the sleeping bag or be eaten alive…. Oh Lord, what time is it? I poked my husband. “Honey, what time is it?”

He groaned and looked at his luminous dial. “9:30,” he growled.

I would not survive the night. I would go insane before dawn. The strains of Kum-By-Yah drifted faintly from another campsite. I hated those well-prepared campers.

Within a few hours, the unbearable heat turned into a freezing mountain chill. 895 hours later when I could faintly see Hubby’s scowling face, I punched him. “Are you sleeping?”

“You’re kidding, right?”

We struck the tent, wadded and pitched it into the station wagon. We tossed our still unconscious children on top of the tent. The sun cast a faint glow across our neighbors, dreaming of last night’s gourmet meal cooked over a functional camp stove and story time, having bonded with their kids beneath the lantern light. We roared out of the campground and hurtled down the hill, spewing rocks over the canyon wall. We did not look back.

By 7:45 A.M. we were at our kitchen table eating bacon and eggs. We laughed about the camping disasters until the tears rolled down our faces. It became a memory that will last a lifetime.