Naming Names

On the topic of characters, I've been asked a few times where I come up with names. Sometimes it's whatever pops in my head as I write the first draft of a story or novel. At other times it's a feeling that the name should have a meaning of some sort, a specific sound, begin with a certain consonant. Rarely (but not never) do I think - hey, I'll name a character after Person I Know #47. If you've read the Harry Potter novels, it's obvious (I hope) that J.K. Rowling almost always works under the Names With Meaning school of thought. Almost all of her side characters have a moniker pertinent to their role in the story. Snape, Lupin, Sirius are three of the more obvious. Sometimes just a sound or feeling they inspire. Dumbledore, McGonagall.

Sometimes it's random. The main character in Solomon's Grave is Nathan Dinneck. Dinneck: because I'd just finished a zombie story before I'd begun the book, and the character's name was Dinneck (no first name). I decided it was original enough I wanted to use it again. His first name was originally Marcus in early drafts, partly because I wanted a name beginning with a consonant, and I wanted it two syllables. I have no idea why, but I don't question my thought process - plenty of others do that for me. I changed Marcus to Nathan because there was another character with an "M" name and it caused confusion to one of my proof-readers.

In my as-yet-unpublished novel, Margaret's Ark, the main character's first name came about when I began the original short story, thirteen years ago, on which the novel was based. We were in the process of buying property (on which our house now stands), and dealing with a very nice woman named Margaret who would later become our neighbor. I used her first name for the character. Come novel-writing time, I needed a last name. That evening I happened to visit my friend Fran Bellerive who lives near a store called Charboneau Shoes. I liked the look of the name, so dropped the 'H' and Margaret Carboneau was born... or at least named.

As I began writing Plague of Darkness, I needed a better concept of the main character, a teenage girl with an attitude - my own teenage-daughter-with-an-attitude was too young back then to serve as a role model . I used to teach a high school CCD class ("Sunday School" held on Mondays, for teens), and pegged one particular student as being the embodiment of my character. Good kid, mind of her own and funny (and a little belligerent, which made the class interesting). In order to associate the character with her as I began writing, I reversed her first name and called the character Gem. As Gem's character developed and became her own "person", the name had become too strongly associated (in my mind) with this character so rather than change it, I came up with a goofy but effective reason for the name and kept it.

Sometimes it's just a random - I might use any old name as long as it doesn't start with the letters M, Q or T (because it's never a good idea to have main characters begin with the same letter, too visually confusing for the reader). I don't care what name I use. Or an interesting name occurs to me as I write and it drops into the story and I think very little as to why I used it.

There are some names which I have never used, because they are too strongly associated with people in my life. I've tried a couple of times to use the my wife Janet's name, but it's hard to disassociate it from the real person - and you have to be able to do that (unless you're writing a memoir). I've used my kids names now and then, mostly because they keep asking me but only for minor characters because let's face it, I write horror. Sometimes this comes in handy - I might give specific names to victims in my writing, especially ones that get smeared under a slow moving steamroller or something equally as enthralling. I'd planned on mentioning some sample names here, but decided against it - you know who you are. Some names, even of those closest to me, are common enough I can probably manage it, like Joe (my Dad's and brother's name), but not Marilyn (Mom's name, and too unique..).

In the end, whichever name I use, once the book / story is finished they've become so ingrained in my mind with the character that I can't imagine using any other.

The Post Protagonist Life

For a book or story to work, we authors try to create realistic characters. We need to know what they look like, what motivates them. If we know them well enough, we're able to write their responses and reactions to whatever thrown at them almost automatically - as if the character is controlling the words you type. Do it right, and the reader feels and sees what they do, is frightened or happy or whatever alongside them.

And we, as authors of horror, mystery, suspense, throw a lot at these people. Put them through the ringer as the expression goes. No one should have to suffer the way some of these make-believe characters do. In real life, they do, sometimes, sometimes not.

But what about when the last page is written and the book is closed? How do these people pick up the pieces of their lives and move on? King is pretty good in this regard. He tends to tie up loose ends, implies either implicitly or explicitly how the survivors of his plot will fare later. Koontz, of whom I've always been a fan, not so much. He ends with his characters, and readers, exhausted.

How do they cope, move on from the events of the story? If it’s a disaster-type scenario, some natural scourge against which the people have struggled, it's implied they move on with their lives, in a world that may or may not be the same. They'd fought, and survived, and are better for it. But let's take a murder mystery. Or better yet, a thriller. The hero of the story has defeated the bad guy(s), but not before "learning the truth" about her trusted butler, or great Aunt who's really an axe murderer, or employer who's secretly been working as a slave trader. She survives, makes it through, is safe again.

Then what? The next job she takes (because her office building burned down in the climax), the next man she meets (since her late husband tried to poison her with Playdoh or something equally diabolic).. does she wonder whom she can trust? How long will she relive the events covered between page 1 and page 423? If her best friend is revealed on page 397 as being a flesh-eating alien, how will she act towards friend B or C? What if they're also flesh-eating aliens but are hiding this fact because the good guys will find them and melt their wax like they did to A?

I can imagine our former protagonist sitting in a therapist's office, nodding enthusiastically when the doctor says she needs to move forward, focus on the present. Maybe she could, given time with no more tentacles jumping out of her pudding - but will she wonder if she's safe because it hasn't happened again, or because she stopped eating pudding without first donning a neck brace?

Habits have been born into her psyche, from solving the mystery and surviving the attack in the latter half of the book. She survived by seeing the clues chapter after chapter, denying what she was seeing at first, then having no choice but to accept something was amiss. Only then could she discover the plot before being eaten like so many others before her. But... long after THE END, she tries to surround herself with people and occupy her mind because when she's alone she thinks too much, finds herself seeing things that might not be there, or having suspicions that might not be warranted. She tries to look away because it might mean being dragged back through the same nightmare but she cannot ignore that trusting her instincts defeated the bad guy the first time, saved her from certain death. Is it real or some post-traumatic paranoia?
This could lead to a sequel, Jamie Lee Curtis crawling along the hospital floor because, finally, she acknowledges that Michael Myers is not dead.

If our beleaguered survivor was real enough, she would be plagued by worries that she missed something important - had her oldest friend with whom she defeated the evil alien boss been a part of it, implicit in the planned invasion in some way? She doesn't want to think this, but there had been signs, especially around pages 112 and 175 - she simply hadn't enough facts then to see it clearly. Even now, things feel... wrong (cue soft dramatic music). But it's over. She's safe now. She needs a friend, someone to go to the movies with to forget all the craziness that transpired. Besides, he couldn't have been that involved in such a despicable plot since the Great Author never gave him his come-uppance.... Could he? (cue louder dramatic music). Part of her doesn't want to know, but after five hundred pages filled with deception, truth is an important commodity. She shrugs, acknowledges that she would probably never completely know and because of that, never complete trust anyone again. Either way, the Great Author isn't going to write a sequel; has left her on her own to cope however she can. Authors are like that - they move on to the next story and try not to think much more about the characters they created. After all, these people aren't real.

4th in the State... Congrats, everyone

My daughter Audrey's Mountain Club soccer team, Thunder and Lightening, just finished competing in the Massachusetts Tournament of Champions, where they took 4th place (out of a total of somehting like 750 teams!) in the U12 category. They played amazing and kept us parents entertained. Congrats to all the girls, and special thanks to Coach Darryl Kinzer and Asst. Coach Dominick DiPilla for doing such a tremendous job and leading their team to such an impressive standing in the Commonwealth.

Roads Diverging, Part 6

Congrats to our daughter Amanda who just graduated middle school and is now officially, I guess, a High Schooler. Our Elementary/Middle school does quite an elaborate ceremony for graduation, rivaling that of the high schools themselves.

Two out of Elementary, one to go. :-)

Publisher's Marketplace

Decided to set up my old Publisher's Marketplace account again, as I was researching something. Pretty cool site. It's how I initially sold Solomon's Grave in the first place.

Anyway, the more hits I get the better I look, so go to it:

http://www.publishersmarketplace.com/members/DanKeohane/

PS: My daughter Amanda will be returning here tomorrow as she makes another headline tonight. So many milestones, so little time....

The Mythology of Mythology

11 years ago, I discovered the joys of having your own web page on the ever-growing Internet. Before there was such a think as blogs, I'd begun writing little essay/ditties, various... how did I put it, ah, I forget, but trust me it was clever. In 1998, I began a series of short essays on the Meaning of Life, just for shits & giggles. Here was the first. Now and then, I'll post one of them here, again, just for S&G, and maybe, for a touch of Enlightenment... ("ooooooh"... says the crowd).

From July 15, 1998:

I just finished listening to an abridged audio recording of Joseph Campbell's The Hero With a Thousand Faces. It's a tome written in the 1940's about myths and legends throughout very-early history. (This is an example of when it's OK to listen to an abridgment). Campbell compares the elements of myth with the human psyche and psychotherapy in general.... I think. It wasn't the easiest to follow, but the various myths and legends he recounted were pretty fascinating.

After hearing these tales of yore, I came to a startling revelation. Before I share this with you, let me give you an excerpt from a 2000-year-old myth of creation. It has been told throughout the generations in ancient Tumeria. (That's somewhere west of here).

Conoraboro was light incarnate. He was born as a half-god, half-mule in the age of chaos in the center of a barren field that grew neither wheat, nor rice, nor speckled fruit. In the center of this wasteland (which measured a thousand thousand cubits end to end) sat an egg. This egg measured only five cubits. It had been laid by the bird of eternity (which passes by all things only once every million million turnings of the empty cosmos).

Upon feeling the dry arid wind of nothingness, the egg cracked. A yellow light emanated from within. This is from hence issued Conoraboro. He stood only two cubits. In his infant form he ate of the sand and dried flakes of rock (chipped away with his many rows of sharp teeth). He grew. Soon he stood in the center of the field, a full six hundred cubits high.

Wings of shining gold adorned his back. His face was that of a condor, his body that of an ape. One day, he came to the realization that there must be another. From his beak there issued a flake from an earlier feeding. When it fell to the ground, two things happened: the land became lush with grasses, and trees, and lakes. The second thing that happened was the creation of a being much like himself, only with the head of a raven and the body of a wildebeest. They coupled, and from their coupling they begot six hundred sons, and six hundred daughters. Soon the lush world filled with their songs, and the sweet juices of the pomegranate.

What an incredibly fascinating version of the creation myth. After hearing this lost tale, and so many others from days long lost, I came to a conclusion: the people of that time were all insane. Now, I'm not referring just to the wise ones who told these stories. Everyone was crazy. They had to be.

Think about it. If you sat around fires all night with a wiry old man who wore paint on his face and a decapitated elk head on his scalp, listening to him tell these stories over and over, you'd be a little nuts, too. This is OK, though. Since everyone's concept of reality was so skewed, there was no one individual to sneak into your tent and steal the bowl of ripened fruit while you contemplated the story of the mongoose king and the salmon princess.

And so the world and its inhabitants lived in peaceful bliss. Throughout these cloudy-minded years, however, evolution slowly took hold. Here and there, scattered like diamonds on a rocky shore, clarity descended upon certain individuals. One woman would suddenly stand up during the above-mentioned fireside talks. She'd scream, "No. You are wrong. We do not come from the excrement of the fly on the camel's dung. Rather, we most certainly must be born of the seeds of knowledge which lay hidden in the core of the mango." Well, it was a start at least. Of course, this woman was immediately put to death and eaten before the spider-woman heard her blasphemy and made the leaves of the willow rise with the wind.

Over the years the human mind popped into clarity, as much as possible, until now we can watch current events with an open and analytical mind, look for the lies in someone's words by the subtle inconsistencies in their speech. We can tell normal stories to each other, realistic ones with much better computer effects and commercial tie-ins. And we can do this with complete autonomy, as long as we don't offend any major public group with our modern myths and legends. They still, even if only metaphorically, will put you to death and eat you before anyone else has a chance to understand your truths.

Think of how far the human consciousness has changed (and not changed) over the last two thousand years. Even over the last two hundred. Not to sound like a popular song of the sixties, but consider the world in the year 3998. What kind of beings will look back on us? Oh, to be sure, they'll still spend hours looking for technical flaws in Star Trek films. But what will they think of our news broadcasts, our magazines? Will they wonder with amused minds how our age insisted on showing only real-life or depressing shows at ten o'clock, when the people of our time are trying to go to sleep? That an entire legal system of the most powerful tribe of the era focused around a tryst between their leader and a stenographer? It will be interesting. I hope they find my DNA and bring me back for a look.

"Ninchula, look at this!"

"Hmmm?

"What kind of people could they have been, to believe in such things as DNA? That the world revolves around an imprinted code in every cell of their bodies?"

"What are bodies?"

"Did you retinate through the entire Ancient History module?"

"Doesn't everyone?"

"Not me. This stuff is fascinating. How could people have survived thinking like that?"

"I honestly don't care. Let's get moving. We're going to be late for church."

July 15, 1998

A Little Nod for The Little Sleep

Now and then I've got to tout a book I've read and loved, and when it's from a friend, even better. Paul Tremblay's first novel is called The Little Sleep, and in all honesty this has to be a record for me, how quickly I read this book. One of those stories I was sad that it had finished.

In short, South Boston private investigaor Mark Genevich gets a new case. Problem is, he spends quite a few chapters trying to figure out who hired him and what was said, since he was asleep at the time. Genevich is a narcoleptic, a condition which causes you to fall asleep anytime, anywhere. Problem is, you might still be functioning and speaking in the waking world while this goes on, as when Genevich gets his assignment. Sounds like a premise for a humorous novel, but in reality it's not. There's quite a lot of dark humor in it, and the character - who narrates the book in traditional first-person – is rather self-depricating at times. However you hurt with the character far more often than laugh at him, and this is deliberate by the author. Even so, I found myself laughing out loud very often, mostly due to the clever dialogue and sharp writing. The case, as its nature more and more hits home to Genevich, is unqiue enough on its own without everything else thrown in, including times when the character wakes up after an action-packed scene and is never quite sure - and so neither are you, as the reader - what was real and what wasn't. In the end, it really didn't matter.

Nice job, Paul. I'm glad to hear the next book in this series is underway. Can't wait for it.....

Nice Review of Solomon's Grave at Shroud Magazine

Shroud Magazine's book reviewer Kevin Lucia has a nice review of Solomon's Grave posted on the magazine's website. This is the first "official" review of the book since it was released this year (not counting the Amazon reviews and some nice blog / word of mouth compliments). It'll also be appearing in a future issue of the magazine itself. Thanks for the nice words, Kevin!