I just can't seem to get it rolling...argh.

[Liz]

Okay, so I started writing a new novelish thing about a week ago, and I'm having a really hard time getting the plot rolling.

So the basic setting is in a sort of Jane Austen era, but it's a fictional place, and a lot of it is based off of ethnic cleansing kinds of stuff, like the Holocaust, slavery in America, the problems in the Balkans...yeah.

Anyway, somehow the main character, who lives in this small town-thing needs to end up in a concentration camp - esque sort of place, and I really can't fingure out how exactly she's going to get there...help?

Sorry for the lame expsition, I'm awful at summarizing things...

[Brighitta]

* If you are comfortable enough with the idea, you can make her homosexual
* Could she be in possion of something that threatens the government?
* Maybe she is just outspoken and is rallying support, trying to get a revolution started?
* Maybe she has a friend who was supposed to be taken in her place, but that firned was sick/weak and she took his/her place instead?

There are a lot of ideas to play with here, depending on what seems best to you.
Good luck!

[subtlecollision]

A Jane Austen era? Sounds cool to me. Are you planning on having the characters be of the middle class like in JA's books? If so, it'd be interesting to see how they react to a concentration camp type thing. Hehe, you can just imagine Emma Woodhouse there, can't you?

Sorry, I'm not giving you any ideas, because thinking up the ideas is one of the best parts of writing! I just wanted to say that what you have so far is intriguing.

[Liz]

Thanks Brighitta! That last idea could be interesting, I might play with that. The other ideas don't really fit her character.

I think it will be really interesting to write and research. I think that Lydia Bennet would be funnier even than Emma, lol...

[Liz]

Yay! I got her there! *flings confetti* Thanks guys! (Took me long enough, gorseberry)

[Liz]

Okay, so I have a dialogue that is giving me hell. Help, please? Despite my systematic breaking-down of it and reformatting it and redestributing lines, it still sounds...well, icky. Sooo...context probably will help. Um...basically two sisters are arguing. The one, Iratze, is a rebellious sort, and the other, Nadine, is more...content I suppose is the word. Whatever. So, the two of them belong to an ethnic group that is suppressed (Tryykne) by another (Kentans). Think Jewish holocaust sort of thing. The Father refers to their god, and the Promise is sort of their Bible; it promises that the Tryykne will be delivered from their oppression. Nadine has decided to confront Iratze, because she's worried that she's going to get the whole family in trouble, based on a similar occurence in another family. I think that's all...

I assign her to chop potatoes while I add herbs and the other ingredients to the pot and stir. The two of us work together for nearly half an hour in more ease than we’ve experienced in many weeks. We talk about silly useless things, the way we had once done before she’d become involved in the revolution. I hate to break up the very rare peace that is filling the kitchen and point the blaring lights of accusation at her, but I’ve vowed to myself that I’ll do it now, before anything happens.
“Iratze?” I ask suddenly, cutting her off in the middle of a speech about the new dress she hopes to get for her birthday.
She looks up, her intense blue eyes revealing that she’s startled. I usually make it a point not to interrupt anyone. I wince. Now there’s no possible way I can back out and say something irrelevant.
“I’ve been thinking. About the Tolanders.”
She stiffens visibly, her eyes growing cold and flinty.
“Have you?” she asks. Even her voice is stiff; like a bit of wood.
“Yes. D’you suppose Mrs. Tolander and the children did anything to oppose the Kentans?”
I am trying to keep my voice casual, but she knows what I’m getting at. She wiggles her head back and forth.
“Just him, right? But they’ve all gone missing,” I say.
Her hand is gripping the knife so tightly that her knuckles glow white, and she’s hacking at the potatoes with new ferocity.
“And I can’t help but think that perhaps your conspiracies and radical opinions might be dangerous for all of us.”
“Tuh,” she snorts, hacking a potato in half with a huge down-sweep of the knife, “You are young, Nadine. I cannot expect you to understand.”
“I’m fifteen. Two years younger than you.”
“Fifteen is still a child. You don’t know anything; you don’t attend the Council.”
“I know what’s going on.”
And I do. I know about the disappearances, the closing down of Tryykne-run businesses, the papers that all Tryykne in the larger cities are required to have. People don’t tell me things, but I listen.
“And yet you still believe in the Promise. Or the Lie, rather,” she states viciously, dropping the knife.
She closes the distance between us with one step and grabs my arms, so that our faces are only inches apart.
“Yet you still blindly follow the foolish traditions and observe the ridiculous rituals.” Her voice is harsh and angry, and breath ragged.
“How can you sit still and wait to be struck down by poverty, illness, starvation? What has to happen to get you to understand?” she asks, shaking me slightly, her wild blue eyes staring into my impassive, equally blue ones.
I can feel the breaths from her nose upon my face, and I can smell the soap she had used that morning to wash her face. I hold her gaze but say nothing. It’s clear that she isn’t going to listen. It’s also clearer than ever that Iratze is a danger to all of us in her family.
Iratze’s lips start to tremble after a moment, and she turns away from me, leaning against a wall. I return to the stew and stir it, wiping my eyes furiously. Allowing my focus to switch back to the stew, I add a pinch of cumin, smiling as the rich scent of it fills my nostrils. I chance a glance over at Iratze, who is watching me cook. Her cheeks are streaked with wet trails, and her eyes are red and puffy.
“How can you be so cold?” she asks, her voice thick with emotion. “How can you ever be happy and content in such a warped, unfair world?”
A sort of strangled laugh bursts from me, and I throw the sthingy I have been stirring the stew with to the floor. It hits with a clatter and bounces, spraying the floor with bits of broth and carrot.
“Cold? I’m cold because someone has to be,” I snap, pounding a fist down on our rough wooden table. “You’re always flying to some frenzy or another, Mother gets upset with you and makes herself ill, and Sitara gets frightened when you two yell at each other, so she starts to cry…someone’s got to be sane around here.”
My words are coming out in a rush, tumbling over each other. I hardly know what I’m saying; it’s bubbling forth like water and steam from a geyser. I continue before I can stop myself.
“Father’s never home, Mother’s next to useless because she worries about you so much, you’re always visiting your friends to talk about whatever rebellious movement you’re trying to instigate, and Sitara’s too little to do anything.”
I can see her trying to cut across me, to calm me down. I can see that she’s scared. But I can’t stop.
“So I work…all the time. I stay home and do the chores that need to be done during the day. Everyone in this family so cursed selfish that I don’t get a moment to do what I want. When someone’s sick, who has to make the medicine and care for them? Me. And when I’m sick, I get up and do my work anyway, because otherwise it won’t happen.”
She shakes her head. “No, no, that’s not true,” she starts, but I keep talking right over her.
“How can I be so cold? How can you be so selfish? How can you jeopardize all of us with your self-interested wants and petty complains? Finish the d**ned stew yourself.”

[Brighitta]

Sounds just fine to me. It seems to flow well, so streamlining isn't an issue. But try to give it more "meat", try making the speeches a bit longer, since they all seem to be of similar lengths and veriety is a good thing. Go for a mix of long and short speeches.

And another tip on writing conversations - read them aloud. I find it helps me a lot to see what they would sound like, so I just read them/act them out after I've written them. Just warn your parents that you aren't going mad and not starting to talk to yourself, lol.

[Liz]

Thank you so much! Yeah, I see you're point. I think I made all of them too short and snappy. Ha. Okay, thanks!

I do read aloud, sometimes. I haven't with this one yet, so I'll try that. Ah, my parents already think I'm bonkers. Hehe.