TheAngelsHaveEyes

They can read too. Probably none of my stuff. IG: helena.g.edge Twitter: helena_edge

[helena-edge]

The hardest part about writing the 2nd book in a series is having to remember all the shit you wrote in the 1st.

[helena-edge]

My dramatic son is smitten.

‘Sitting there in the lecture hall, feigning interest in the rules of iambic pentameter that droned steadily out of my professor’s mouth, I realized that the echo of Sir’s deep, melancholy voice was enough to drown out all other sounds in the hall and at the same time wholly incapable of filling the newly forming hollow within me. I promise. Like the thought of water that cannot quench an aching thirst, I knew that relief could only come from the real thing. The soul is immortal, but I feared that it could dry out. My leg shook with impatience the longer I sat there in the hall. The only higher power I found myself pleading to was the hand of the clock above the professor’s head. Move faster.’

[helena-edge]

Subverting expectations (characters)

It’s a mouthful, but in fiction, subverting expectations is really all about surprising your audience. For this example let’s stick to the supernatural genre. Why? Because it’s my favorite, and this is my blog, and nobody can tell me that I can’t.

Ok…

Subverting expectations. How does one do that with, let’s say, a werewolf? Well, to start what’s the first thing you think of when someone says werewolf? A muscly man who turns into a beast by the light of the full moon? Maybe has a temper? Tough and gruff even in their human form? Boring. Why do you think Remus Lupin is such a beloved character? Because he flips the script on traditional lycanthropy. He’s kind and gentle. The beast is in contrast to his tame personality. This creates an endlessly entertaining dynamic.

Let’s look at another example…

Angels. Wise, ethereal, immortal messengers of God. How more interesting would it be if you wrote an angel who was naive and sweet, an angel who’s less an aloof embodiment of the will of heaven and more a lovable dope (Aziraphale anybody?) Instead of a demon that exudes terror and evil, make them a flamboyant drama queen (Crowley?)

Be creative. A vegetarian zombie, a witch who’s afraid of the dark, a vampire who faints every time they see blood. Fresh takes on classic supernatural creatures will take your writing to the next level. The most memorable characters are the ones who go against the grain of their typical roles.

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Werewolf fiction

Whenever a werewolf pops up in a book or movie or tv show you know there’s going to be a whole lot of angst about how hard it is to ‘control the beast.’ Usually, this is needed to keep a partner or loved one safe. In many cases writers will try to make a parallel between the inner beast in man and how it’s only by a thin thread of humanity that it’s kept in check..yada, yada. But what about the inner beast in woman? In my short story, Expecting, (casual plug) I wanted to explore what would happen if the roles were reversed. Because women can be just as protective--and just as destructive--as men, and if we forget what it is to be human, then we too can become monsters.

From Expecting...

‘She took a moment to stare at herself in the reflection of the glass door of the car. The beat-up Volvo showed a pair of iridescent green eyes--the kind of eyes you would see on a lonely stretch of road, caught for the briefest second in the beams of a car before the animal darted off into the brush. Agatha blinked and her irises returned to their normal dark brown. Control was becoming to her like the quails that darted between the cacti of the Arizona desert--irresistibly chase-able, inevitably elusive.’

You can find the whole story here https://www.theangelshaveeyes.com/post/expecting

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Do you have any advice on how to introduce the MC's parents? Like - Mr. & Mrs. So and so, or their first name? (The scene I'm writing is from the MC's point of view, though third person. I know later when I'm writing bits from the parents' POV it'll be with their first names, but what about introducing them, casually, in a convo with the main character?)

@themaknaethatwilleatyoursoul A lot of the times the best way to refer to the MC’s parents is to just call them Mom and Dad, especially if it’s third person limited, or if you’re sticking to your MC’s POV for a certain scene. It may seem typical, but calling them by something else would require explanation beyond normal cultural standards. Unless you’re trying to set your MC apart from the norm, as in, it’s relevant to character or plot for him/her/they to call their parents by name, I would go with how most of us refer to our parents. If you’re writing from the parents’ POV later on it wouldn’t be unusual at all for them to simply call each other by name, even if they’ve been Mom and Dad up until this point. Hope that helped!

[helena-edge]

The Great and Powerful Ozpin (RWBY fic)

So, I usually post og content on my page, but in honor of RWBY Volume 8 coming out I thought I’d share a fic I wrote awhile ago. I have to give a shout-out to @tigerstripedmoon. After reading “three small words,” which you can find at https://www.fanfiction.net/s/12372592/1/three-small-words. I had to write a cloqwork fic of my own. Seriously, you guys, it was THAT GOOD. Please check it out. You can find mine at https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13511024/1/The-Great-and-Powerful-Ozpin. I’ll also post the whole thing here. I’m hoping that Oz gets some love in volume 8. That poor old wizard deserves it.

Okay, so here it is, “The Great and Powerful Ozpin” in which Qrow is an alcohol-soaked cinnamon role and Oz is sadder than he lets on...

The Great and Powerful Ozpin

“What kind of headmaster lets a student die on his watch?” 

The shout that cut through the amphitheater forced the man on stage to pause mid-sentence.

“I—” 

From his place in the balcony seats, Qrow watched Professor Ozpin adjust his spectacles and peer out towards the crowd.

“Pardon me?” Ozpin’s deep, calm voice echoed in the vast room, the gathering place of Beacon Academy. Regular classes had been interrupted for a special ceremony. The screen behind the speech podium was black, the color of mourning.

“You heard me, murderer! You killed my sister!”

Gasps erupted around the room. The sea of students parted aside in the wake of a giant—no, a human, the largest man Qrow had ever seen, making his way, stomp by angry stomp to the stage.

“Hazel.” Ozpin’s soft whisper of recognition sounded loud through the microphone.

“Ozpin!” the man roared in response, a sound that could have come from the mouth of an ursa.

Glynda, Oobleck and Port stood behind Oz, watching Hazel Reinhart approach. Glynda clutched her riding crop tightly, Oobleck nervously sipped coffee from a thermos, and Port gritted his teeth beneath his mustache. Unlike the other teachers, Qrow had chosen to attend the memorial service for Gretchen in the shadows of the balcony. He liked to be up high. It helped him to see better. He clenched the hilt of his sword as he watched Hazel jump onto the stage. He was only a few feet from Ozpin now, who despite, the nearing threat, remained a steadfast presence behind the podium.

“You will pay for what you did!” Hazel bellowed. He raised a beefy arm to point a finger at Ozpin’s chest.

From above, Qrow saw the tightening of Hazel’s body. He knew what he was going to do before anyone else.

None of the students understood how Qrow managed to reach the stage so quickly. There was just a blur of black—one student swore they saw a few feathers—then a clang of something heavy impacting metal. When everyone opened their eyes again, Hazel’s fist was firmly planted in the flat side of Qrow’s blade.

“Not one step closer.”

Qrow heard his own voice pulsing in his ears, low and gravelly—and dangerous. “Make a move, you son of a grim. I dare you.”

A deep, rumbling sound issued from Hazel’s mouth. Qrow couldn’t believe it; the lunatic was actually growling at him.

In response, he turned his blade ever so slightly so that the sharp edge was cutting into Hazel’s knuckles.

“Qrow.” A gentle voice spoke from behind him, and Qrow felt the pressure of a hand upon his shoulder, one with pale, delicate fingers, but with a grip stronger than Qrow had ever known. At that moment there was the sound of a cane being tapped decisively on the ground.

“Why don’t we all calm down,” Ozpin said, his manner congenial as if he, Hazel and Qrow were merely sitting down to a cup of afternoon tea.

Hazel’s eyes looked past Qrow and instantly narrowed. “You,” he hissed. “You killed her; you killed my little sister.”

“Your sister was old enough to make her own decisions.” Ozpin sighed. “Gretchen was brave—braver than most. She would have made an excellent huntress.”

Hazel continued to push harder against Qrow’s blade with his fist. Blood ran down his fingers and dripped onto the stage floor. Qrow stared. Did the man not feel anything?

“I am truly sorry for your loss,” Ozpin continued.

“What do you know about loss?” Hazel cried.

“More than any man, woman or child,” replied Ozpin in a tone that grew heavier with each uttered syllable.

Qrow saw rage grow in Hazel’s eyes. He was certainly not calming down; in fact, Ozpin’s words seemed only to have incensed his rage.

“Oz, stay back,” Qrow warned.

But Ozpin had never been one to take orders from Qrow, or anyone for that matter. 

“Hazel,” he said softly, imploringly.

The resistance against his blade intensified. Hazel was strong, too strong. Qrow wouldn’t be able to hold him back for long.

“Drop dead,” Hazel seethed at Ozpin, spittle flying out of his mouth and hitting Qrow in the face.

“Dead,” Ozpin repeated with a wry chuckle. “If only.”

With a single thrust, Qrow felt his sword give way. The barrier that he’d made between Hazel and Ozpin clattered to the floor as Hazel rushed forward, letting loose a yell of savage fury.

“Aaaah!”

“Oz—!” Qrow cried, reaching, weaponless, for the professor. 

Before he could take another step, the sight of Ozpin raising his right arm, quick as lightning, caused his shoes to skid upon the ground to a halt. He realized that Hazel couldn’t get closer than a cane-length away from Ozpin. The headmaster held him back with the tip of the walking stick. Hazel was a towering mass of muscle compared to the slim figure of Ozpin, but he couldn’t force the man back an inch. 

The student body gaped collectively, spellbound by the scene. The whole amphitheater seemed to be holding its breath, and the teachers themselves were frozen with shock. Glynda, Oobleck and Port had their weapons out, but they appeared to have forgotten that they were authorized to use them. Ozpin’s face remained coolly unaffected; his eyes never broke from Hazel’s fiery gaze.

“Go home Hazel. Your family needs you.”

“My family?” Hazel’s incredulous scream traveled all the way to the ceiling and bounced back again. “You destroyed my family!” He struggled against Ozpin’s cane, but just then the doors to the amphitheater burst open and men and women in uniform came streaming in, guns drawn. Someone with sense (Probably Glynda, Qrow thought) had called the Vale police.

“Hands up!” they shouted at Hazel.

Hazel, finally understanding that he was vastly outmatched by Ozpin and now outmanned, did as he was told, raising his massive arms above his head. With one final hostile glare at Ozpin, he let himself be led away by the police.

After the doors slammed shut behind them, every eye in the amphitheater swiveled back to the stage. His cane lowered, Ozpin walked calmly back to the podium.

“That concludes the service,” he said into the microphone. Then he left the stage without another word.

Glynda took up the mic after he was gone, using her commanding voice to usher some order back into the disoriented crowd.

“You heard the headmaster. Back to class!” she barked at the students.

Qrow picked up his sword, flicking off some of Hazel’s blood before putting it back in its hilt. He was secretly glad that he hadn’t been forced to waste the scythe mechanism on a piece of scum like Hazel. He knew Oz would sympathize with his grief, but Qrow had no patience for people who took their pain out on others.

He pulled a metal flask out of his shirt, hearing it clank against the sideways cross necklace he never took off. He took a large swig and waited for the burn of alcohol to chase away the memory of Hazel, the hatred in his eyes. He would have destroyed anything in his path just to get to Ozpin, all for the sake of his suffering.

He stood alone on the stage as the room emptied out, gazing at his reflection in the flask. He saw dark circles beneath his eyes. The bright red irises matched the tiny veins popping out against the white. All the while he denied the voice in his head that called him a hypocrite. 

Self-destruction is still destruction, the voice taunted.

Qrow took another swig. Shut up.

                                                            ***

“How long has it been since you ate something, Oz?”

The sky was dark outside the circular window of Ozpin’s office. Because the window doubled as giant clock, Qrow was able to watch the minute hand tick up and around the shattered image of the moon, which illuminated the ground below in pearl-white fractals.

“Ate something?” Ozpin said from across the room.

“Yeah.” Qrow turned away from the window to face the headmaster, who was busy shifting books around in his shelves. “You know, food? Hot cocoa doesn’t count by the way.”

A hint of a smile played over Ozpin’s lips. “That’s a shame.” 

Qrow couldn’t help but notice that, between reaching up for books, Ozpin was leaning on his cane more than usual. In fact, the slight slump of his shoulders made it seem like the stick was the only thing keeping him upright.

A softer note took hold of Qrow’s voice.

“How long has it been since you last slept?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Because it’s one a.m., and you’ve decided that now would be the best time to rearrange your bookshelves.”

Ozpin paused, running a hand over one leather-bound cover. The History of Remnant. The sound of gears churned rhythmically above them. The gears, along with the cool emerald walls of Ozpin’s office had always had a soothing effect on Qrow. Everything about the room was familiar to him. He used to spend a lot of time here during his student days. Granted, he had been in trouble most of those instances, sent to the headmaster for speaking back in class, starting a fight in the hallway, or sneaking booze into his dormitory. None of the teachers had ever been very fond of Qrow in his younger years, but Ozpin had always gone easy on him. Now as an adult, not much had changed; he continued to rub people the wrong way, but being back with Oz, looking down at the clouds from the tallest part of Beacon Academy, he felt like he was back home again.

“Time is relative,” Ozpin said at last.

“Right,” Qrow replied.

“Why are you here at this hour?” Ozpin turned the question on the huntsman.

“To give my report on the spring maiden,” Qrow lied.

“Young Spring is residing at Haven Academy. Leonardo keeping me updated for the time being…a fact which you are well aware of.” Ozpin raised a silver eyebrow in Qrow’s direction. “Why are you really here?”

Because I saw your face when Hazel called you a murderer, and there’s no way I’m leaving you alone after that.

“To help you organize your books.”

He took a step closer to the shelves. At the same time, a book wobbled and fell, and on its way down, knocked over a figurine of two intertwined dragons that had sat guard there for as long as Qrow could remember.

Ozpin caught the book in one deft swoop. Qrow rushed forward for the figurine but, his reflexes, dulled from drink (he had been outdoing himself this week), were too slow to catch the dragons. They hit the floor, shattering into tiny bits.

“That’s a bit of bad luck.” Ozpin frowned at the mess.

“Sorry,” Qrow grumbled, shoving his hands into his pockets. “You know I can’t always control it.”

“No need to apologize.” Ozpin squinted at the broken dragons, poking a shard with the tip of his cane. “It was a gift. To tell you the truth, I’ve never been fond of it.”

He started to put the fallen book back on the shelf. As he looked up, a daze came over his eyes. He blinked and staggered backwards like someone who was about to faint. Qrow made ready to catch him, watching as the weight of the book carried his arm downwards. Finally, it slipped from his fingers, which appeared to have no strength left in them, and tumbled to floor, joining the shattered dragons. 

Ozpin closed his eyes and hunched forward, resting his forehead on his cane, breathing hard. If Qrow hadn’t know any better he would have thought that he just finished fighting off fifty grim. Before him was the shell of the man who had held Hazel back with no effort one week prior.

“Oz,” Qrow said hesitantly, placing a hand on his back. At the touch, Oz straightened up.

“I’m fine; I just became a bit dizzy there for a moment.”

“That’s what happens when you starve yourself for a week,” Qrow muttered under his breath. Then louder. “Are you alright—really?”

Ozpin, either not hearing him or choosing to ignore the question, said nothing. Instead he let his cane guide him towards the center of the room.

“Is there a real reason you came here?” he asked Qrow without looking back at him.

At that moment, anger for the headmaster bubbled up in Qrow. Why couldn’t he be straight with him for once and admit that something was wrong? 

“Yeah, there is.” He struggled to keep his voice steady. “I came to ask if you think letting yourself die will bring Gretchen Reinhart back? Well, in case you didn’t already know, professor, Beacon lost a student forever—and you can’t die!”

Oz was silent for a minute before turning slowly around. One look at his face made all the anger in Qrow’s body dissipate into thin air. With his chin lowered into his green turtleneck and golden eyes raised in supplication, Qrow was instantly struck by how vulnerable, how sad he looked.

“Please…I know. You don’t have to remind me,” he said softly.

“I’m sorry,” Qrow immediately apologized again, disgusted with himself. Ozpin pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers, a betrayal of stress that Qrow had come to recognize over the years.

“I try to eat, but—” 

“—you can’t keep it down,” Qrow finished for him. He knew the symptoms of guilt.

Ozpin nodded.

“I try to sleep, but—” 

“—let me guess: the nightmares.” 

Ozpin nodded once more, pinching his nose harder and furrowing his brows as if a bout of sharp pain had just seized him.

Qrow wasn’t surprised. Ozpin had been suffering the nightmares long before Gretchen’s accident. Another side-effect of a mind steeped in shame. Qrow had heard him cry out in the night before, screaming at someone only he could see.

 “The children! Where are the children? What have we done? What have we done?”

He knew that there were parts of Ozpin’s past that he had never shared with him, might never share with him. The man had certainly lived long enough to rack up plenty of secrets.

That doesn’t matter, not now. Qrow told himself. Let him keep his secrets for the time being. What mattered in this moment was getting Oz through the night.

“Even if this body does give out on me, death would be no release. I…I get to carry my guilt through each life,” Ozpin continued.

“Oz, you know Gretchen wasn’t your fault.”

Ozpin lowered his hand and looked Qrow squarely in the eye. Regardless of how old he became, the headmaster’s piercing gaze never failed to make Qrow feel like the scrawny first-year again.

“I’d rather not talk about this right now,” Ozpin said firmly. He moved to turn away but Qrow caught him by the shoulders.

“Then don’t talk, listen. You were right when you said Gretchen was old enough to make her own decisions; she chose her path, she met her fate.” 

All of a sudden, an image of Summer came to him. His breath caught in his throat. His team leader had left for the mission that day and never came back, leaving Qrow to somehow make a life without her, to keep Ruby, her infant daughter—his niece, safe. But in the end, he was positive that even if she had known what awaited, she still would have gone.

“That’s right,” he said, swallowing thickly. “Choice. We can’t forget that they made a choice. If we do that, then we insult their—I mean Gretchen’s memory.”

Qrow could feel Ozpin’s body shaking between his hands. He brushed the professor’s silver hair away from his eyes, letting his fingers linger against the side of his face.

“Hey. It’s okay,” he whispered.

The utterance of those three words was all it took to make Ozpin break. He crumpled to the ground, face buried in his hands, his cane clattering beside him. 

Qrow dropped to his knees after him. He waited a moment while Ozpin took deep, shuddering breaths. Gently, he removed Ozpin’s hands from his face, his chest tightening when he took in the agonized expression beneath. 

Past the black spectacles, past the gleaming gold, Qrow could glimpse a millennium of suffering in his eyes, a man whose life stretched beyond what he couldn’t begin to imagine. A man who had seen a thousand years pass by, life after life. How many mistakes had he, Qrow Branwen, already made in his short lifespan of less than thirty years? He thought of Summer again. Enough to turn to drink to numb the pain. Pain. Once he thought he understood it, but as he gazed down at Ozpin, so small and exposed once the façade of the calm, collected headmaster had come tumbling down, he realized that he only knew pain as an inkling, a small sliver of the suffering that the human soul, that Oz’s soul could and had been made to endure.

“It’s okay,” he said again, hearing how feeble his attempt at comfort was, like trying to staunch a stab wound with a band-aid.

The tears began to stream now, down Ozpin’s cheeks, dripping into tiny puddles on the floor. 

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” he gasped.

“Shh, it’s okay,” Qrow repeated, taking off the spectacles to better wipe away the tears. “It’s okay…”

He pulled Ozpin into an embrace, rocking with him as the sobs wracked his body. How long had he been holding them back? It was a while before his breathing steadied.

As Qrow pulled a way, he automatically reached into his shirt for his flask. He contemplated its contents and the weeping man before him. It wasn’t the healthiest coping mechanism, and it certainly wasn’t hot cocoa, but it was the only remedy he could think of.

“Here. This might help you sleep,” he said.

Ozpin, his face pale except for the puffy redness around his eyes, stared at the flask. A split second passed and he seemed to make a quick decision. He took the offered drink, suckling the alcohol from it like a baby with a bottle.

“Hey, hey, slow down.” Qrow took the flask away, making use of his sleeve to dry the left-over drips of liquid on Ozpin’s chin.

“I’m sorry, I—” 

“Stop. No more apologizing,” Qrow whispered.

He leaned close, using his lips to kiss away the wetness on his cheeks. Then he moved on to the mouth. Ozpin’s lips were stiff and trembling, but Qrow knew how to work them until they melted into his.

He would stay with him tonight, be there to soothe the nightmares away. With a sigh of exhaustion, Ozpin sank into Qrow’s chest. Qrow’s hand naturally fell to the task of stroking his hair. 

Yes, he would be here, always.

“I’ll make you breakfast in the morning.”

Despite everything, Ozpin managed to chuckle through his tears.

“I thought you didn’t want me to starve.”

“Right. I’ll steal some pancakes from the cafeteria then.”

[helena-edge]

Let’s talk about characters

Sometimes you need to ride that fine line between knowing your character and letting them turn out differently than how you expected. Don’t get me wrong—there’s nothing wrong with character bios. They help keep everyone in order and provide a good foundation for future arcs. But don’t use a bio as a box that you character can’t escape.

You want your character to move beyond the bio after all. You want them to graduate to the big scary world of plot. If you’ve made them too rigid they won’t adapt to the rise and fall of the story. You’ll have paper cutouts in a 3d world. We don’t want that. We want our characters to feel alive, like their driving the story forward. To create the illusion of this autonomy you have to take a step back and let your character grow, and sometimes this means they end up differently than how you planned.

I know. It’s scary. Our characters are like our children after all. And as parents—I mean writers—we all fall under the spectrum between a helicopter and a sea turtle that doesn’t bat an eye after his spawn is thrust from a sea current heading towards Sydney. We need to merge the two sides somehow. Like a responsible parent, we need to know what are characters are up to so we can direct them to make the right (or wrong mwahaha) choices, but when the time comes it’s more beneficial to let them work things out on the page. “When they know, you’ll know. You know?”

It may seem strange—authors are the creators of our worlds and our characters. We have the power to make them any way we like, right? Yes, you control freak (don’t worry, me too), but again, if we don’t want flimsy characters who can’t take a punch or a magic spell to the face, we need to force ourselves to take a step back and let them get hit. It’s okay if you don’t know exactly how they’ll react. Sometimes writers are just as much spectators as we are creators. That’s what makes writing exciting—and nerve-wracking. Your character might fall, they might rise, they might fight back, opening the doors for that food fight scene you wanted to incorporate but wasn’t sure how.

Many writers, myself included, often get the feeling that we’re only a conduit for our characters, that they’re the ones telling us how they would like to be written. So don’t feel like you have to know everything about your character in the bio. Be open to discovery. Put down a few core traits, physical and personality-wise. Consult a zodiac chart if it helps. But remember to give your character room to breath, and don’t panic if your protagonist wants to start hanging out with the bad boy in town. He may be trouble, but you wouldn’t want her miss out on a romantic subplot would you?

[helena-edge]

The house on 21st street

“You can remove your hand from your heart. I promise I won’t eat it.”

My traitor hand snapped back to my side, my head to the stairs, where, descending from the right, was a tall figure. The first thing I noticed was the long, pale fingers sliding down the banister and from there the narrow waist of the person. The shoulders were broad. I was confident that I was dealing with a man, but then the face dipped down below the chandelier and I saw that the features were fine, the barest indication of breasts between the buttons of her fitted emerald vest. As soon as the young woman left the last step she brought her heels together with a loud click.

“M’Lord.” The butler gave a low bow in the direction of the sound.

“Thank you, Havery,” she said, standing there, shoulders slumping forward slightly in the foyer, as if the room was the world and she was the weary king of it. I noticed a stiff air about her, almost cautious, as if she had been born to a boon of stillness and each shift in weight, each tilt of the head was a theft somehow, a slight on her family name. 

“Hello.”

I was smiled upon. She revealed her teeth slowly, politely, as she approached. She stopped when she was an arm-length in front of me.

“Hello,” I said back and I felt I ought to curtsey.

“And what is your name, then?” Her brown hair was tied into a tight bun at the nape of her neck. The dark circles beneath her eyes were startling.

“Daniel,” I answered.

“Daniel,” she repeated. She watched me carefully. “You’ve come to talk to me about the good book, Daniel?”

“If you want—ah.”

I lost my breath. She had closed the gap between us with one step, pulling out something from the breast pocket of her vest. She was taller than me. I had to tilt my chin up to see the slight furrow in her brow as she wiped the blood away from my lip with an embroidered handkerchief. A strange perfume wafted off of her, faintly sweet but dry, like pressed flowers. I felt a delayed flinch forming from the foreign touch of her fingers through the cloth, but she retreated as quickly as she had come, and it turned into a facial spasm that I could no more control than the rapid flutters of shock that played across my eyelids.

“That’s better,” she said approvingly, tucking the handkerchief back into her vest.

Short story wip

@emmabryn

Let me know if you want to be added to the taglist!

[helena-edge]

How to scare someone with setting

You could go the Edgar Allan Poe route and try to set the mood with an old, decrepit house. Storm clouds should be brewing above the roof. The overgrown grass makes you wonder if anything could be lurking there, watching you. You hear rustling from a gnarled and twisted rose bush that you hope is just the neighborhood cat. The floorboards should creak when you make your hesitant steps up to the door. Is the doorbell covered in cobwebs, mold? Is there someone standing beyond the ratted, lace curtains? Is that a face, an eye? A hand reaches out and begins to pull the curtain back…You’ve just described a classic haunted house. It’s effective BUT it’s not the only way to scare someone.

When the grass is greener than normal or the picture frames on the walls are hung in obsessively symmetric rows, it unsettles us. We can’t put our finger on it, but something is off. Shirley Jackson is a master of setting. In her short story, The Lovely House, she describes a house that is, well, lovely—too lovely. The perfection of the place is how she lets the reader know that something is wrong, even when nothing strange is happening.

Other times, what a setting lacks is just as important as it what it has. The human mind is conditioned to fear open space. This makes sense; there’s nowhere to hide. Emptiness not only accesses instinctual fear, but also existential fear. Imagine how small and insignificant your character must feel in the middle of a desolate field or stranded in a wide, murky lake with nothing but the company of their own mind--the scariest of all terrains.

You can also use normalcy to your advantage. A mundane setting can be just as frightening as a fantastical one. Describe the house you grew up in, that anyone could have grown up in. So that when the creepy, crawly thing from the forest begins tapping on your window, it feels like much more of a trespass, a violation of a place that was supposed to be safe.

These are just a few examples of how you can use setting to unsettle your readers, but there are many more out there. The world is vast and so are its spooks.

[helena-edge]

How to write a terrifying creature

It may seem counterintuitive, but try to resist using too much detail. Give your readers glimpses of the creature--a shadow out of the corner of the eye, glowing eyes in the corner of a dark bedroom, a claw stealthily sliding back behind a tree. Describe AROUND the creature. What does it smell like? Sound like? How does it make your character feel? Include these things, but try not to reveal exactly what it looks like and risk spoiling the mystery. Remember, what scares us the most is the unknown. Let imagination do most of the work. Because what hides in the mind is often scarier than anything we can describe in words.

[helena-edge]

Inspiration for a conflict in a story can start off as simple as the secret pleasure we get from seeing a house of cards fall.

[helena-edge]

“Imagine, Madam, the pathetic figure I made, sitting comfortably in a luxurious chair of my own making and pretending that I was holding hands with the girl of my dreams.”

-Edogawa Rampo, The Human Chair, in Japanese Tales of Mystery and Imagination

[helena-edge]

the house on 21st street

The sky was pale, the roses were blooming, and the birds on twenty-first street were flying backwards again.

The first line of what’s turning out to be a very strange wip...

@emmabryn

Let me know if you want to be added to the taglist!

[helena-edge]

You have to know the rules before you can break them. As new writers don’t ignore what you learn in English class. Learn how to build plot so you can create twists; know how to shape your characters so you can break them.

[helena-edge]

She could not call out to God that night. God was on his side. God was going to give him a pass.

So, she called out to the Devil instead.

“And I came.”

From The Man with the Light in His Eyes

https://www.theangelshaveeyes.com/post/the-man-with-the-light-in-his-eyes

[thewritingumbrellas]

Sometimes writers put their own faults into their characters. That way they feel less alone.

[violets-etc]

Fracture [WIP]

Capital City aesthetic board.