Barbara Monajem on The Pantser’s Lament

 

The Pantser’s Lament, Part Two

Yesterday – if the future plays out the way it’s supposed to as I write this blog – I guest-blogged at Romance Writer’s Revenge about discovering that my muse is not just a goddess, but a bitch who has to be leashed, subdued, and controlled. How depressing is that? And scary, too. I mean, what if this bitch goddess reads that blog and now has me in her sights?

So I’ve decided to focus on her good points today, in the hope of placating her. She’s great at starting stories. She’s entirely responsible for a lot of my best scenes.  I gave the muse (actually, two Muses with a capital M) one hundred percent credit in the acknowledgements of my short story, Notorious Eliza. If I were a plotter, the muse and I would probably get on fine, because my controlling tendencies would provide a framework within which her naturally wild nature could work. Unfortunately, I’m a pantser. I’ve never been able to control anything. Structure is painful to me. Planning is boring. My life already has enough structure – such as paying a zillion bills every month, all on time – and the last thing I want is to plan my stories out, too.

But in the interest of efficiency, it seems I have no choice. I have to guide and even (gack!) disagree with my muse. If I don’t, she takes over, and the plots become huge and convoluted, with so many loose ends that it’s impossible to tie them all together.  She couldn’t care less about character arcs. She’s not sappy enough for a romance writer’s muse, although lust does interest her, especially sexual tension. So here I am, with generally fun beginnings, some sexual buildup, and otherwise a big old mess. In other words, I make the same mistakes over and over again, and I need help!

Since I’m supposed to be promoting my new release, this excerpt is from the first chapter of Tastes of Love and Evil. It’s entirely the product of my muse.  Well, not quite. My editor made me tone it down a little. Warning: If you don’t like it, say so at your own risk. My editor is harmless and so am I, but there’s no telling about my muse.

Setup: Jack, the hero (a sort of human chameleon who can literally fade into the background), has just been shot by some bad guys, and although Rose, the vampire heroine, doesn’t know him (she thinks of him as some random man), she’s given him her hotel room key so he can take refuge. But the bad guys are posing as feds, and they’re searching the hotel.

The room was empty.

No, it just appeared to be. “I told you there was no one here.” Her nostrils quivering, every sense alert, Rose scanned the bed, the curtains, the embroidered mantle draped on a chair, the Elizabethan gown on the luggage cart. “Now get out of my room!”

         The gunman ignored her, ducking in and out of the bathroom, glancing into the closet, going efficiently through every hiding place. Warmer, cried Rose’s senses, warmer, warmer, damn, oh God please no, as he shoved past the luggage cart to the window, and then as he returned, colder, warmer, colder, where the hell is the man? One-handed, the fake fed lifted the mattress and box spring, but no one was concealed underneath.

         Sirens cried in the distance, and a second later the gunman’s phone squawked a warning. He left without looking back.

         Rose retrieved her breakfast, double-locked the door, and scanned the room. Aha. She’d seen this phenomenon once before. She knew Random Man was in the room, somewhere near the window. “They’ve gone,” she said softly. “You can come out now. You need to have that wound tended.”

          Nothing. Where was he?

         “I brought coffee and doughnuts.” She put the food on the table. “I’d be happy to share, once we’ve patched you up.” Pause. “I know you’re here. I can hear you breathing.”

          Nothing.

      “I can smell you,” Rose said, her voice rising, tendrils of allure escaping. You and your blood. “I’m here to help, you fool!”

       Still nothing. Or maybe…a faint shimmer, like heat rising in summer air, over on the luggage cart, right by the Elizabethan gown. Damn it, thought Rose. If he stains that costume…  Anger coupled with the aroma of blood overwhelmed her senses, and her fangs slotted down. Purposely this time, she directed her allure toward the luggage cart. Another shimmer, instantly controlled, and then absolute stillness.

No more pussyfooting around. She smiled and sent a wave of allure crashing across the room. Random Man resolved into view, gold and tan and brown blending with the dress, then gradually reacquiring his own muted shape and colors, blue denims and Saints jacket, nondescript but definitely all there.

       “God help me,” Random Man said. “Not another vamp.”

Anyway, now that I’ve got my excerpt out of the way, my question is: If you’re a pantser, how do you restrain your muse? And if you’re a plotter, does your muse work well within the framework you set? If you’re not a writer, do you like romances with lots of plot twists, or do you prefer to focus on the emotions of the hero and heroine? Or what? I’m counting on you guys, because I need all the advice I can get!