I seem to spend a lot of time in my kitchen, opening random cupboard doors and staring at the contents, or peering into the refrigerator and assessing the offerings. Usually, it isn’t hunger that drives me; rather, it is frustration, lack of inspiration, or simply the need to move away from the computer. Not all days are like that, and I don’t always experience those blank page moments, but when I do, and the leftover chicken or condiment shelf in the refrigerator fails to inspire me, I turn to the old standbys: weather and holidays.
Fiction requires suspense, tension, conflict: moments that push our characters to finding strength, or succumbing to weakness. Readers want to revile the villain, cheer for the hero, and feel empathy–or at least sympathy–for the character who captures their attention. But, if we are writing about ordinary people (as opposed to vampires, werewolves, animals, or aliens), a convenient way to intensity their dilemma is to set the action either in inclement weather or on an already stressful holiday.
There’s nothing wrong with doing so. Ignore those who say that it’s an easy out for the writer. Consider, instead, the added drama if the main character walks out on his or her family on Thanksgiving Day, leaving the turkey uncarved and the relatives bewildered. Perhaps one of your characters becomes blue on his birthday, or another celebrates to excess on the anniversary of her divorce. The opportunity for lively dialogue alone will enrich your narrative.
Holidays, inserted into a work of fiction, often adds background detail that excites the reader’s imagination. A long held secret, revealed under a twinkling Christmas tree at midnight, will have more impact than if it was told while shopping for groceries. A forgotten sixteenth birthday, or a misdirected Valentine, can become the focal point of a story.
Mystery writers have long capitalized on Christmas as the ideal time to stage murder and mayhem. And, for weary holiday makers, exhausted from shopping and cooking and dealing with crowds, an evening curled up with a Christmas cozy can transport them to a manor house in Yorkshire where a married woman’s lover has just been stabbed. The husband or the butler? It isn’t even necessary to suspend disbelief as the unlikely plot unfolds. It’s pure escape. And, just as important, a break for the writer who usually researches meticulously to keep every word and detail authentic.
Writing holiday fiction can be the opportunity serious writers need to let the creativity flow without worrying about whether the reader will buy it or not. Readers are discriminating; they know what is relevant and worth study, and what is simply fun–the equivalent of a good beach read. The added value is that, in letting go and writing for the joy of moment, you may discover new inspiration and generate a great idea for the next, serious manuscript you produce.
Although Christmas is a natural source for everything from mysteries to feel-good miracle stories, the other holidays are rich in material also–all those Halloween horror stories still flood the market.
So if the refrigerator doesn’t do it for you, pick a favorite holiday and let your imagination take over. What if, on St. Patrick’s Day, “Mary opened her front door and . . ..”
Author Archives: Jennie L. Brown
Tone Deafness and the Genre Dilemma
I cannot sing on key. I don’t lack perfect pitch, I lack pitch altogether. The general term for my condition, shared by only 4 percent of the population, is tone deafness. Also called congenital amusia if not caused by a brain injury, hearing loss, or other causes. According to Wikipedia, we tone deaf are deficient in the “musical predispositions that most people are born with,” even if we have normal audiometry.
In my case, I was slow to accept it, although when my fourth grade music teacher grasped my long bangs and pulled them upward as a signal to sing higher, I had a clue something was amiss. Undeterred, when I was twelve years old, I recorded a version of Blueberry Hill with my best friend, Charlene. I don’t know why we chose that particular song, but I remember insisting that everyone we knew listen to our recording. One day I discovered all traces of the recording had disappeared; I believe my mother had something to do with it.
In high school, I set a record. Since the schools inception, 37 years before I entered, all students were required to take a music class which involved singing. I was the first student who was taken aside and told they’d made an exception for me, and I would be helping the librarian during the glee hour. I was relieved because I really didn’t think I could sing D’ye ken John Peel one more time.
From then on, I would pretend to sing when everyone gathered around a birthday cake, or sang Christmas carols, or simply sang in the car for the fun of it. When I was twenty, I still entertained a deep desire to be an entertainer, imagining myself belting out throaty blues songs from the stage of a smoky bar. It didn’t happen. Nor could I get the hang of playing a piano, a standing bass, or a guitar. The only saving grace was that I at least had a sense of rhythm: I could go dancing and perform well.
As recently as two years ago, the musician I live with tried to teach me to sing the simple major diatonic scale: do, re, mi, etc. Two days later, he was convinced I couldn’t manage it even with his expert instruction. That I taught English and had no problem with public speaking or doing literary readings made it all the more unbelievable to him, but he has finally conceded.
What does my tone deafness have to do with writing? Desire over reality–what we want to do versus what we can do–diverts a writer away from the genre in which they excel, and often leads to frustration, even failure. It seems natural to think that if you can write a mystery, you can write a romance. If you can write fantasy, you can write action-adventure. If you can write a biography, you can write a memoir. Maybe you can, but is it your best genre? Is it the genre that comes naturally to you and where you find magic in your descriptions? Depth in your characters? Universality in the human emotions you express?
I’ve had a number of well-meaning friends and relatives tell me I “should” write a vampire novel, a fantasy, a romance, a cozy with a theme (the amateur detective who also owns an antique store, a yarn shop, an interior decorating studio . . . it’s a long list). The basic message is that I could create a series; I could gain a following; I could make decent money; I could achieve recognition. They are right if I could perform as well as the authors who have mastered the genre. But I know I won’t write an action-adventure any more than I will belt out a song in a room full of friends. I could pretend, but nothing that came out of my mouth–or off the page– would fool anyone. Neither could I write a convincing romance, even a formulaic one.
I’ve learned I can switch from fiction to nonfiction, from short story to novel, but my focus is always on average people caught up in difficult, often life-changing, circumstances. I’m best with character driven narratives. I like to create a character’s “voice,” and let it define personality, action, and outcome. I write about people whose actions and reactions I know on some level–characters who I hope the reader will find genuine and interesting.
The best way to find your writing sweet spot? Sit down at your computer, tablet, or notebook and begin telling a story or writing an essay on a subject you are passionate about. Write until it’s finished, then analyze what you’ve produced.
1) What are the elements (suspense, futuristic, apocalyptic, inspirational)?
2) If you were the reader, what would you take away from it?
3) How does it measure up to other similar works you’ve read?
4) Did the words come naturally and without effort?
6) Do you like what you’ve written (seriously, you need to like your own work)?
7) Will it make a reader laugh, cry, reflect?
8) Can you pinpoint the genre? Can you write another piece in the same genre?
And . . . I promise to never sing out loud in your presence, although I do have a version of Janis Joplin’s Mercedes Benz.
The Centre Cannot Hold
When William Butler Yeats wrote those words in his poem, “The Second Coming,” he probably didn’t think about how they would resonate with writers–or at least this writer. The line, “Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;” neatly describes a dilemma other writers have expressed to me, and certainly one I have struggled with occasionally.
At the moment, I am still working on a British mystery/police procedural that started as a short story and morphed into, at the least, a novella. Except, it has languished on my computer for longer than I like to admit. Why? I had no doubts about the beginning scenes, and knew by page five who the murderer would have to be. I also had a couple of false leads in mind that I thought would work. So, I happily typed away until about page 60. Now, I am in the middle and realize the following:
1) I’ve gone too far, and set up too many leads, for it to be a short story. If I tried, it would have a contrived, truncated ending.
2) I have two subplots going that need to be developed fully, which isn’t a problem if I can develop the main plot at the same time.
3) Something has to happen to avoid a dead stretch of narrative and go-nowhere dialogue.
In other words, the center needs to hold and not fall apart. Have you, as writers, found yourself in the same plight?
I can’t predict it’s going to work, but I’ve thought of some things that could solve my problem. This type of list might solve the problem for others who find themselves stuck in a similar writing void. Here are some of my “what ifs.”
What if my proposed murderer isn’t the one who committed the crime. What if I have to exercise my imagination and come up with an even better suspect?
What if another murder or crime occurs that throws the Detective Inspector totally off the trail and lays to waste all her theories?
What if what seemed to be a red herring really isn’t?
What if I don’t tenaciously hold on to my original plot (like the proverbial dog with a bone)? Separation anxiety aside, film writers have to do it all the time when the director or others insist on major changes.
What if the suspected murderer becomes a murder victim himself?
Any of those what-ifs might take the middle of the narrative out of the doldrums; however, if I feel strongly about the plot and the conclusion I have in mind, then I have to find another way to shore up the center and keep the reader turning pages in anticipation. Some ways I might accomplish this are:
Expand one of the subplots to make it more dramatic, more relevant to the outcome, and tied in with the murder and/or the activities of the murderer.
Complicate the detective’s life, either professionally or personally.
Have illness or injury to the detective (see my previous post) set back her inquiries and lead her to become too self-involved to note a vital clue.
Introduce a random act of nature that throws everyone into a disaster-survival mode for a short time.
Or?
If you have solved the problem of how to keep the center exciting and strong in your own stories or novels, I’d welcome your comments and share them with other writers.
A Right Cock Up
The doctor handed me two prescriptions: one for a steroid and the other for a device described as a Cock Up Forearm/Wrist Brace (hereafter referred to, by me, as a medieval torture device). It seems that, whilst lugging two heavy bags of books to a recent author’s showcase where I was selling and signing, I damaged a tendon that hooks into a muscle group (or something of that nature). Upshot. It hurts to type so keyboard activities are limited. My apologies to my followers who have found nothing new for a couple of weeks.
The entire affair has turned into a bit of a cock up, or at least a Catch 22: the brace may help the wrist, but wearing the brace on tender tissue causes more pain. I can’t help but wonder if whoever named this style brace is familiar with the English slang meaning of cock up?
The British term, a right cock up, led me to think about the genre that falls between British cozy (or American cozy) and police procedural. In the former, the main characters seem to have a lot of accidents, some from carelessness or an icy sidewalk–others through the villain bopping them on the head or shoving them down a staircase. Occasionally, the issue is more mundane and our lead detective simply comes down with influenza or a beastly head cold.
Regardless, somewhere in most of the novels our struggling sleuth has to overcome a physical issue as well as solve a crime. I’m not sure why this has become so prevalent, but I like it. In the hands of a skilled writer, it adds another dimension to the character. We get to see how the detective soldiers on, with cane or box of tissues, apprehends the culprit, recovers, and goes forth to unravel the next case.
That’s not the same as what’s become a convention in the work of a variety of otherwise good writers. For some reason (which, I suspect, is an attempt to reach the high drama of a television production), these writers have afflicted their main characters with an alarming number of fatal, devastating diseases. In fact, the whole novel revolves around a characters terminal prognosis and suffering. Often, those maladies are the “disease of the day.” Only rarely are they necessary to the plot.
I’ve lived long enough to lose both dear family members and good friends, of all ages, to many of these dreadful diseases; thus, I have a problem with choosing what appears to be a good read, then feeling dismay when the author knocks off a lead character (which, presumably, the reader has begun to care about) for no discernibly good reason.
A few years ago, I was totally taken by a novel about a woman in New York who, in the throes of raising a teenage daughter without assistance, had also turned her small craft shop into a gathering place for a diverse group of women. It was interesting and original. That is, until near the end, when this amazing female character is suddenly apprised she has an incurable disease. She dies in the next chapter or two. WHY? It did nothing for the plot (we were at the end of the book anyway). Pointless.
I am not fond of treacle, in any area of life; I don’t always expect a happy ending–quite the opposite when it is appropriate. I understand that sometimes dealing with serious issues, in a fictional manner, is effective and can be comforting or emotionally healing for those involved. That is different. What I’m tired of is the inclusion of gratuitous disease and death simply as a tool to shock the reader.
I recently read all three of Gillian Flynn’s novels. They are dark; they are intended to be; they are excellent and true to their genre. Not everyone is going to like our work: some want action/adventure, fantasy, or much blood and gore. Others want to read of everyday lives and characters who face common trials–in parenting, relationships, or other human endeavors. As writers, we can’t please everyone, and need to guard against thinking that jolting the reader with unjustified violence, misery, or heartbreaking agony will make our book better. Know your genre; stick to it.
What’s your take ?
Divining Dorothy
Dorothy Parker offered the following advice: “If you have any young friends who aspire to become writers, the second greatest favor you can do them is to present them with copies of The Elements of Style. The first greatest, of course, is to shoot them now, while they’re happy.”
Dorothy’s comment was on my mind last Friday as I presented a workshop on editing. When I was asked to do the workshop, my first thought was, “How can I talk about editing for an hour and a half?” I certainly wasn’t going to get up in front of a room of writers and go into the finer points of grammar and punctuation. What, then?
As I thought about my own proofreading experience, I realized editing comes down to patience. Not just the patience it takes to read through your manuscript multiple times, but the patience to do it right in the first place.
Disclaimer: I have trouble practicing what I preach. My number one character flaw, but not the only one, is impatience. When I learned to sew, I never basted first. To baste, from the (Old French bastir) means to “sew lightly.” I always skipped that step, and turned out some real disasters in my high school home economics class.
Likewise, I don’t write light. I never outline; I should, but I don’t. I remember shuffling, cutting and taping scraps of paper together before I had the luxury of using a word processor. If you ever wrote a book on a standard typewriter, you know what I mean.
For the workshop, instead of talking about whether to use lay or lie or the overuse of ellipses, I decided to focus on how to edit a manuscript effectively and, what is more important, how to avoid making rookie errors during the writing process. It’s a lot easier to avoid the mistakes initially than it is to find and correct them later.
For some writers, ideas form slowly–and are given adequate thought– before the writer’s fingers ever touch the keyboard. They have the patience to think through the format, content, story line, and arrangement of data. They may make well-organized notes, lists, or even spreadsheets.
Others, however, begin writing the moment inspiration strikes. The ideas are flowing, the words are piling up, the characters are interacting. Occasionally, however, a few details get overlooked and proofreading and editing becomes a chore. I fall into this category. Knowing this, I’ve devised a simple plan that works for me and might work for other impulsive writers
I create several documents and keep them handy on my computer desktop.
1) List significant events as they unfold. Only takes a minute and it keeps the chronology straight. It’s especially necessary for a mystery, crime, or intricately plotted novel.
2) Major characters–record their date of birth. Add relevant information as it develops: graduation, wedding, divorce, employment, residence. After each significant event, note how old they were at the time.
3) Record all characters names even if they only appear once. Indicate who they are and any facts about them that will need to be addressed later in the story. This not only provides a quick reference, but keeps you from making an unwanted spelling change; for example, Mr. Waters becoming Mr.Walters.
This list can also prevent you from having all the characters names begin with same letter or sound similar. Marion, Martha, Mary, Melissa, Merissa, Marvin, Martin, Marlon and Margaret!
4) Whenever you use numbers to indicate the time between incidents–years, months, days, hours, minutes–make a note. It’s not only a useful reference for you, but eliminates confusion for the reader. Clarity is often the differentiating factor between a clumsy read versus a page turner.
If you are really patient, you might follow Dorothy’s parting words:
“ It takes me six months to do a story. I think it out and then write it sentence by sentence—no first draft. I can’t write five words but that I change seven.”
Cowboys, Corn, and The Mile High City
No writing for two weeks, but a lot of driving–3236 miles in fact–through a half dozen states to visit Wyoming and Colorado. The road trip was prompted by a desire to see family, friends, and the familiar prairies. I suppose it’s true that home calls us back. For me, it’s Casper, Wyoming, where I lived until I was twenty. Then, it was college (CU) and Denver for twelve years.
I try to go back every two years or so. I look for a patch of prairie covered in sagebrush. My uncle used to whack off a few stems for me to bring back, dry, and set on my desk. He’s not on his ranch anymore, so now I find a lonely turnoff and walk out onto the prairie until I can breathe in the scent of sage.
Not everyone loves sagebrush (it’s right up there with tumbleweeds to those who find it a nuisance), and, if they saw me, they’d probably think the woman with the Kentucky license plate was a little loco. But, when I rub it between my fingers, and release the fragrance, it transports me back to my uncle’s ranch and impossible starry nights with no city lights to obscure the display in the sky.
Besides the obvious benefits of breaking routine and “going home,” the drive provided inspiration for several short stories, suggested a few titles, and definitely gave me ideas for fictional characters.
Interstate 80. I drove past endless cornfields and wind farms in Nebraska and Iowa, but I saw only scattered farm houses and buildings. Few humans or animals in sight.
In Wyoming, I sat at a bar, eating a loaded baked potato and drinking a beer, and watched a trying-to-be-patient woman tend bar and deal with some rowdy oil field workers. I watched a pregnant waitress at the same bar, holding her side and trying to check out her tickets, saying all she wanted was to go home and rest before she “keeled over.”
In Colorado, I soaked up the atmosphere of one of the oldest and most famous (or infamous if you study the history of Colorado crime families) restaurants in Denver. I’d eaten there years ago, and it’s still a favorite. It’s been recently remodeled, but it still has the vibes. Also noted the Mile High City was . . . well . . . high.
Writers are frequently advised to write what they know and not choose settings or places unfamiliar to them. To an extent that is good advice, but you don’t need to have lived on a farm in Iowa or Nebraska, or rounded up cattle in Wyoming, or skied the Colorado slopes to pick up enough information to describe a viable setting in any of those places. True, without firsthand experience, you’re better off to describe unfamiliar places with a light touch, but look at a lonely, two-story farm house–sitting in the middle of acres and acres of corn fields–and you can construct a life for one of your characters in that very house.
Or park your car for a moment beside a blue highway in Wyoming–with nothing in sight for miles except sage, birds, and antelope–and listen to the wind, breathe the clean prairie air, and imagine a fictional character gazing at the immense sky overhead.
Back to normal; back to work. Upcoming event: a workshop in Bowling Green, Kentucky on September 5: The Soap-On-A-Rope Mistake: Why Editing Matters
and The Regional Author’s Showcase on September 6. (see Events page for details.)
Poppies, Pimps, and Everything In-between
Thinking about writing and travel, and somewhat bored with the biography I’ve been reading, I pulled out my copy of The Great Railway Bazaar, by Paul Theroux (1975). At the time, he was young, intrepid, and wickedly humorous: a talented writer with the ability to observe closely and recount with precision.
As I traveled abroad, Theroux’s travel books and anecdotes often came to mind. I fell into the habit of using an expression he’d coined, “duffilled.” I would urge my travel companion, “Come on. Hurry. We don’t want to be duffilled.”
It was a reference to a pathetic man named Duffill who, at a train stop in Domodossola, Italy, failed to get back on the train and was left standing on the platform as the train sped away with his belongings.
In the same book (Railway Bazaar) Theroux has a conversation with a pimp that’s stayed in my memory long after the book yellowed on the shelf. In Chapter 7, The Khyber Mail to Lahore Junction, Theroux is only looking for a drink, but a street pimp tries to interest him in a prostitute. The pimp, with limited English, is attempting to describe how “good” the service will be. Theroux responds in kind, wishing the pimp the same “good” experience, much in the spirit of “Good morning to you, too.” That humor, mixed with gritty reality, made the scene come alive. Whether political or playful, Theroux’s travel writing is always engaging.
It’s occurred to me that if we could observe and relate human behavior as accurately in our fiction as many of the travel writers do in their accounts, we would be ahead of the game.
It’s not easy to develop a fictional character that resonates with a large percentage of readers, but when it does happen we have a Scout, a Harry Potter, a Miss Daisy, or the vampire, Lestat. Even harder, perhaps, is give our characters traits that lead to original, interesting dialogue. If we invent a compelling character, we need to make that character authentic for our readers.
I admit it would be difficult to conjure a character like the one Theroux met–a Thai who called himself Pensacola–not to mention inventing a story like the one the Thai told (a tale of holding off a gang of smugglers in an opium poppy field). It’s a tall order, but suppose we think like a travel writer who is meeting intriguing people: what are the physical, psychological, and situational characteristics that make them worthy of being noted and, eventually, included in the traveler’s journal, essay, or book?
Imagine that you are on a public conveyance and seated next to the character you’ve invented for your work of fiction. What are your first impressions? Heavy cologne? A mustache trimmed with military precision? A heavy sweater when the temperature outside is pushing triple digits? Now look closer. Crooked teeth or a toothpaste ad smile? Shiny hair or greasy locks? Open-collared shirt or chokingly tight necktie? Stilettos or trainers with Velcro fasteners?
Start a conversation with your character. What conversational traits do you notice? A slight lisp? Clipped enunciation? Peppered with four letter words? Are they loquacious? Reserved? Secretive?
Objectivity, close observation, and attention to speech patterns and gestures–trademarks of good travel writing–enable us to create original, memorable characters. Travel books are inspiring-give one a shot the next time you create a character.
Those Short Shorts
Stories, not Daisy Dukes, although they do have a lot in common–covering the bare necessities, making a point, and leaving an impression. Increasingly, contest promoters and on-line publications call for short shorts, ranging all the way from postcard shorts (stories that can fit on a postcard) to NPR’s Three Minute Fiction category. Usually a word or time limit is suggested, and the writer is expected to turn out an acceptable story with a starting point, development, and resolution.
In a previous post, I talked about the discipline that comes with having to cut a story down to a prescribed length. It can be daunting, but it can also lead to a more cogent, succinct work. But, suppose you write a very short story and want to use it as the bones of a longer story. Will it work in reverse?
I had a chance to try it when I ran across a short story contest. Besides a word limit, the submitted stories had to contain a reference to a haunted house in the first sentence. I couldn’t resist; it would be fun since there was little expectation of “winning.” It’s like trying to hit a target at a carnival stall–you know you haven’t much chance of connecting and walking away with a stuffed toy, but it’s fun to exercise your throwing skill.
The deadline was the next day, and I was pressed for time, so I scrolled through my short story collection. I found one that had been awarded first place in the Green River Mean contest. Complying to the “haunted house” requirement, I focused on how guilt dominated my character’s life. The promoters of the publication didn’t choose my entry, but the challenge of expanding on my original idea was worth it.
If you have a collection of short stories, poems, or partially-developed ideas stored on your computer (even those that didn’t turn out the way you’d hoped), consider revisiting them from time to time. You might be surprised at how useful they can be the next time you’re facing a blank page.
The two variations of For Sale by Owner (© Jennie L. Brown) follow:
Version 1
When Elroy stole the chain saw, he didn’t think much about it; his new neighbors acted like people who wouldn’t notice. When they first bought the little house, he dropped by to shoot the breeze. He was disappointed to find they were hurried, preoccupied with renovating the place. He missed jawing with the full-hipped woman who’d lived there previously.
Besides, it was their own fault for leaving tools in a garage that didn’t have a lock. Shoot! He could’ve taken the riding lawn mower, or a whole slew of bigger items, but all he snatched was that little chain saw. He figured they’d buy another one right away. But when he saw the new owner, Richard, out trying to cut down a sapling with an undersized hand saw, it made Elroy feel wicked. After Richard gave up and drove back into town, Elroy took his own chain saw, finished the job, and hauled away the wood.
That should have been the end of it, but then he saw the big, shiny, new lock on the garage door. He was shamed. Finally, he couldn’t drive by their house anymore, and took the long way into town. When he lost weight and couldn’t sleep nights, he put up a sign: For Sale By Owner. He packed a suitcase, waited until full dark, then drove the familiar road for the last time, flinging Richard’s chain saw into a ditch filled with spring runoff. Some things ain’t for keeping.
Version 2
Rumor was the house was haunted. The city people bought it anyway. Elroy scoffed at the stories that went around. He didn’t believe in ghosts and, as far as he was concerned, it was just a rundown place on a hill that got too much wind.
At the Community Hall’s pancake breakfast, to benefit the volunteer fire department, his neighbor, Albert, cornered him.
“Hey there, Elroy. I been wondering about the folks who bought Liz’s old house? Think they’ll see any of them spirits?”
Elroy slathered more sorghum on his pancakes and shook his head. “I think that spook business is a bunch of hooey. The only problem they’re going to have is fixing up that place. It’s been hard used.”
“Liz used to swear there was haints up there,” Albert said.
Elroy laid down his fork. “The only haint up there was Liz, but she was a good one while she lasted.”
Later that week, when Elroy stole the new owners’ chain saw, he didn’t think much about it; they acted like people who wouldn’t notice such a little thing. When they’d first bought the house, he dropped by to shoot the breeze. He was disappointed to find they were hurried, preoccupied with renovating. They were polite, but made it clear they didn’t want to stop what they were doing to visit with him–or offer him a cold, sweet tea. It was then he realized how much he missed jawing with Liz, missed her full-hipped body.
Besides, he figured it was their own fault for leaving tools in a garage that didn’t have a lock. Shoot! He could’ve taken the riding lawn mower, or a whole slew of bigger items, but all he snatched was that little chain saw. He figured they’d buy another one right away.
But when he saw the new owner, Richard, out trying to cut down a sapling with an undersized hand saw, it made Elroy feel wicked. After Richard gave up and drove back into town, Elroy took his own chain saw, finished the job, and hauled away the wood.
That should have been the end of it, but when he saw the big, shiny, new lock on Richard’s garage door, he was shamed. Finally, he couldn’t drive by their house anymore, and took the long way into town. He stopped answering his own door. When he lost weight and couldn’t sleep nights, he put up a sign: For Sale By Owner.
He accepted the first offer he got, and turned over his house, furniture and all. He packed a suitcase, waited until full dark, then drove the familiar road for the last time. Just before he got to the main highway, he flung Richard’s chain saw into a ditch filled with spring runoff.
“Some things ain’t for keeping,” he said to his dog. “I’m glad to put the whole disagreeable business behind me.”
Years later, in a cold, northern city, a police officer shook his head.
“This is the damnedest suicide note I’ve read in a long time. What do you think that poor slob meant by “The haints followed me?”
Filling Cracks With Gold
Recently, a friend shared an arresting photo on facebook. Since there were many shares, I’m not sure who originally posted it, but the photo and inscription are attributed to Billie Mobayed.
The quoted material, under the photo of a rustic, repaired, and beautifully photographed bowl, indicated that the Japanese fill cracks in damaged objects with gold, thus honoring the history of the object, acknowledging the damage, and making it even more attractive.
It’s occurred to me that, as writers, we can strive to do that as well. Unless you are singularly blessed, the odds are your manuscript, particularly the first draft, will have cracks–those spots where you’ve not chosen the best descriptive words, written go-no-where filler dialogue, or hit what the talented writer and workshop director, Alice Orr, calls the “muddle in the middle.”
When I find those spots in my work, usually after letting it rest for several days, I stare at the offending line, try out a different word, phrase, or expression and sometimes–but not always–improve it. What I’ve come to realize, reluctantly, is that I’m impatient and inclined to do a quick fix, move on, and create new material (which is, of course, a lot more fun). Obviously, hurrying to repair a piece of mediocre writing isn’t a great idea, and usually results in dull prose or poetry–cobbled together and disorienting to the reader.
The cracks and flaws in our writing provide us with an opportunity to turn them into gold. When I do a workshop, I often advise writers to identify the best line in their manuscript, then strive to make every other line that good. But what if we could make the offending lines even better than our best line? What if we take that nondescript line and turn it into a line that sends the dialogue in a new direction; that reveals a hidden truth about our characters or their circumstances; that delights the reader? I’m going to try. Let me know if it works for you.
A Valentine for Mr. Green
I’m in love with Mr. Green. Not just any Mr. Green–George Dawes Green. Well, not really in love with him since I’ve never met the man, or even glimpsed him from a distance, but in love with his writing. Just by chance, I found his book, The Caveman’s Valentine, in a small, indie bookstore the other day.
The title was provocative and the description had me hooked: a talented, brilliant musician with a wife and daughter has turned his back on it all to live in a cave in New York City’s Inwood Park. Throw in the fact he’s schizophrenic, finds a corpse at the mouth of his cave, and sets out to seek justice for the victim sealed the deal. I bought the book, expecting it to be interesting; I discovered it was much more. Green is an intriguing writer who is able to tweak writing conventions and twist plots without perplexing the reader.
For example, the dialogue. The standard pattern we are used to seeing looks like this:
“I just got here,” she said.
Green occasionally deviates and begins the sentence with “Said.”
Said Betty, “Romulus?” or Said Romulus, “Who was he?”
He also has the enviable ability to write blocks of dialogue between two characters without using any dialogue tags to indicate who is speaking. It’s not easy to do this and keep the reader from becoming frustrated. And it can happen to the best of writers; critics love to attack Hemingway for a confusing exchange in his short story, ”A Clean, Well-Lighted Place.” While writing dialogue without tags can be disconcerting in the hands of someone less skilled than Green, he delineates his characters so clearly that there is never any doubt about who is speaking. His dialogue flows so smoothly it’s as if the reader is listening to the conversation.
I liked many other things about the book, including the fact that he has penetrated the mind of a brilliant, if deranged, man with precision and compassion. I was happily surprised with the twists and turns of the plot, and liked it that he offered closure at the end.
Other than a good read, Green’s work was instructive. I was reminded that, within the framework of orthodox writing rules and conventions, there is room for originality and experimentation. Room, that is, if we have carefully crafted our work and developed our characters to the point that their individual voices are so distinctive the reader takes no exception to either what they are saying or how they are saying it. How do we do that? Here are some excerpts from my handbook on oral history and the art of capturing voice:
The most memorable characters in fiction are emotionally engaging and distinct. We can usually achieve authentic sounding dialogue when we are dealing with the known. When we venture out of our comfort zone, and invent characters who are unfamiliar to us, we need to find out how the real life counterparts of our characters communicate. Consider the following:
The speaker’s age.
The speaker’s gender.
The speaker’s ethnicity and first language (if applicable).
Occupational or professional jargon.
Speech patterns and idioms of the locale in which the character functions.
Characterization works best when you create plausible voices. Just as the narrator’s voice must be believable and consistent, so must the dialogue of every character–even the minor ones who may only appear once or twice (waiter, taxi driver, witness, bank teller). Unrealistic, dialogue has been the death knell of many otherwise great plots.
Using the syntax of actual speakers eliminates artificial dialogue. People tend to speak in fragments, relying often on facial expressions and body language to fill in the gaps. Using authentic speech patterns also eliminates a problem many novelists encounter–telling the backstory in the dialogue rather than in the narrative.
Your goal is to develop characters that have personality, quirks, mannerisms, and habits. They may be kind or evil, cowardly or bold. They may be educated or illiterate, rich or poor. They may live in a city townhouse or a rural farmhouse. Regardless, they will come alive on the page or stage if the words they speak remind us of who they are, what they are feeling, and how they make us feel.
The First Straw 