Category Archives: Writing Pointers

You Can’t Tell a Book . . . or Can You?

Designing a book cover is tricky. There’s a good reason professional cover designers deserve respect and can be invaluable. On the other hand, having artistic control and designing your own cover is also appealing. The difficulty in DIY is making the right choice of cover material, anticipating what will make the reader pull your book off the shelf for a closer look, and attracting your target audience. Often, determining your consumer demographic is a feat in itself.

I’ve designed several book covers, and just redesigned the cover of my novel. One cover I did was easy and required nothing more than some items I had in my desk drawer and my desktop color printer. Others took hours and caused no small amount of angst. All were a learning experience and fostered an even greater respect for the professionals.

Here is what I learned:

If the author is well-known–with faithful readers waiting for the next book–the cover doesn’t seem to matter that much since the author’s name will dominate. For example, recently I read several books by an admired author who sets her stories in the Southwest. Her characters tend to be experienced, hardened women coping with difficult men and tough circumstances, yet her covers have an elegant, pastel quality that is reminiscent of an Old South veranda on a lazy, summer afternoon (one actually appears to be just that–an idyllic front porch). Occasionally, I can find a relationship between the cover and the theme of one of her books, but not always.

Genre-specific covers are the easiest: the reader of a particular type of fiction will be drawn to cover art that indicates the genre–will, in fact, expect it. This works fine for action-adventure, fantasy, horror, chic lit, or romance novel covers that follow certain formulaic design features. But, what do you do with a book that is an outlier?

You may have written one and find it hard to describe. Maybe it falls into several categories. Perhaps it is literary–but not too literary; commercial, but also appealing to a specialized population; attractive to both mature adults and young adults; borderline soft porn but limited. If it’s difficult to slot it into an established category, then it will be equally demanding to choose an appropriate cover.

I had coffee with a very discerning friend today who pointed out that contrast and color, artfully executed, make a cover attractive–and attracting. Another friend at the same coffee shop, who is a book lover, said she likes a cover that causes her to think about what it means, and how it relates to the book. Yet another person I spoke with recently said that for him, “Less is better,” and a good work of literature should stand on it’s own and simply declare what it is. In other words, artistic but not over-the-top artifice.

I wish there were definitive answers, sure-win guidelines, brilliant solutions; but, alas, it is a crap shoot. What I do know is that, along with some great covers, there are some truly awful ones, chosen by respected publishers, that have no doubt harmed a well-written, interesting book. I also know that I’ve been lured by terrific covers and was disappointed by the contents. Unfortunately, not even the cover descriptions and claims are always reliable, and some are just plain sloppy–even to the point of getting the characters’ names wrong.

My best advice:

If your book has been accepted by a publisher, defend your vision. If they like your work well enough to publish it, they are usually open to discussion. If you disagree with the artwork, or believe it misrepresents your theme and intent, explain why in a logical, unemotional manner, even if you are upset. While, to you, it is “your baby,” to the publisher it is a product they intend to market for profit. Trust yourself, but trust them as well; they know what sells.

If you design your own, study other covers in your genre. Find the commonality.

Use a computer program that allows you to experiment with color, opacity, and placement. Play around until you get a good mockup, then print it to the size you have chosen for your book and wrap it around any book you have that is the same size. View it from a distance. Put it on your book shelf and see if the spine stands out and is easily readable.

Ask a few friends or acquaintances what the cover  design conveys to them. Ask them if it would make them curious enough to read the back jacket or back cover (paperback). Ask them if the text on the back cover or jacket would interest them enough to open the book and read a few pages? Ask them if they would buy it if they didn’t know the author?

If you’ve dealt with designing your own book cover, I’d love to hear about your experience.

In Love’s Labours Lost, Shakespeare said, “Beauty is bought by judgement of the eye,” as did Margaret Wolfe Hungerford (in Molly Bawn), who is credited with the modern version,”Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,”

Embellishment, Lies and The First Stone

A personal note to my readers and followers. Thank you for hanging in there when nothing new has been forthcoming. A family medical situation and some care taking has superseded writing lately. Life does get in the way of art.

In March, I am presenting a class titled Magic, Myth, and Memoir. While reviewing my notes,  I thought about how the word embellishment is being bandied about in conversations regarding NBC’s Brian Williams.

I’m occasionally guilty of adding or exaggerating details–or at least choosing colorful adjectives–to make a story more dramatic or entertaining to my audience. But do I lie? No, not deliberately, but I recall one embarrassing incident that still makes me cringe. I was teaching a university research course in the late 90s. One day, my students began discussing radicalism in the 60s and 70s. Realizing that I, unlike them, was alive at the time, they asked me about various speakers and leaders, including Angela Davis.

“A dynamic speaker,” I said. “She could electrify a room.”
“Did you see her in person?” one student asked.
“Yes,” I said, “in the Bay Area.”

I told them what I knew of her career, along with that of various student protesters and activists. It was only later, when I thought about it, that I realized I had not seen her in person. I couldn’t have, since by then I’d left California and was living in Colorado. It wasn’t a deliberate lie or embellishment on my part. I wasn’t trying to impress or even entertain my students, only answer their questions.

So why did I believe I’d been in the audience and heard her speak? Probably because I’d seen her on televised news programs, read numerous accounts of her arrest in Marin County, and followed the subsequent trial. It was a tumultuous time in America, and she and others were clear newsmakers. Still, I’d made a false statement, albeit unintentional. I can’t cast stones at Brian–or anyone else for that matter.

This raises a question; does a memoir lend itself to embellishment? Will readers accept a certain amount of theatrical tweaking of the events or facts? Where does a memoirist draw the line?

There’s a clear difference between an autobiography and a memoir. An autobiography is usually a fact-based chronology of the writer’s life from birth to the present. A memoir may only focus on a particular period or emotional aspect of the writer’s life. Memoirs tend to be intimate and  revealing. While the memoirist may recount dates, names, and events accurately, they might also magnify details for dramatic affect.

For example, in Frank McCourt’s best selling memoir, Angela’s Ashes, his descriptions are so powerful–and so jarring–that we visualize the hunger and the squalor on a visceral level. He frequently refers to his painful eye condition, “The sore spreads into my eyes anyway and now they are red and yellow from the stuff that oozes. . ..”

He could have just said, “I suffered from an eye condition most of my life which caused them to be red and sore,” but throughout his book he chooses to insert graphic descriptions of his chronic eye condition, a condition that becomes a symbol of the poverty and the lack of medical care he experienced growing up in mean circumstances.

If a person has a headache, even moderate, he or she will often use terms like, “My head is pounding,” or “I feel like my head is about to explode,” or “My head feels like it’s in a vice.” These frequently exaggerated expressions indicate that not only is someone experiencing pain, but he or she wants to describe it in dramatic terms for effect.

So, how do we write engaging narration without obscuring or distorting the truth?

Try this: If you’ve already written a first draft, choose several paragraphs. If you haven’t started yet, pick an incident that is especially vivid in your memory and write a few paragraphs. Since it is a memoir, you will have written it in first person.

Now convert your narrative to third person, rewriting it as though you were recounting an incident that happened to another individual. Examine the difference: which one is the most illuminating? Vibrant? Evocative? Which one is closer to the truth?

Switching to third person for clarification allows us to find the heart of our narrative without distorting the facts. For example, I recently drafted a memoir of my early childhood on a sheep ranch in Wyoming (where my parents struggled with my brother’s illness and financial woes).

It didn’t take me long to figure out that when I used the first person pronoun, it appeared I thought my childhood antics were cute. When I wrote in third person, it was clear that my mischievousness wasn’t charming, it was bratty.

In this case, my manuscript worked much better in third person, so I decided to turn the memoir into a limited biography of my parents’ life and the hardships they endured–as well as the love they shared–during the first sixteen years of their marriage. In the process, I portrayed my role accurately.

When I finally do write my first person memoir, I will try to achieve objectivity, stick to the truth, and, following McCourt’s example, let the power of description flow freely.

Ignorance or Publishing Bliss

I prefer to use the term ignorance according to its basic meaning–as opposed to a pejorative adjective. Unless it is a case of militant ignorance, I define ignorance as simply lacking knowledge or awareness of a particular concept, subject, or experience.

For example, as a child, I believed anything I could rinse off with clean water (and yes, I believed in clean water then), was okay to eat. If I dropped an apple slice on the floor (or out in the yard for that matter), I would rinse it off and eat it. My mother was an inherently tidy woman, yet she often said, “A little dirt never hurt anyone.”

I believed that, just as I trusted the other things she told me:

Things often work out for the best.
The universe helps those who help themselves.
Nature in the raw is seldom mild.
Necessity is the mother of invention.

So, until I became older and detected the possible flaws in those statements, I happily dusted off dropped food and popped it into my mouth. It never occurred to me to be wary of touching a public door handle, to panic if someone coughed within 20 feet of me, or to avoid salad bars with inadequate shields. Ignorant, but blissful.

The first time I viewed a close-up photo of a dust mite–one of the thousands that supposedly infested my bed and pillow–I was shocked and more than a little distressed. In my bed?

Since then, I’ve become aware that the media, the medical profession, and the pharmaceutical companies–basically everyone who is truly concerned, or has something to gain–blasts us with warnings. It takes a strong cup of coffee and some firm self-talk in the morning to avoid the Howard Hughes syndrome. Who isn’t a little paranoid?

But, that type of paranoia (or call it what it is–fear) also extends to the writing life. Just like I believed the things my mother told me, for years I believed hard work, good writing, original ideas, and perseverance would get a decent manuscript read, considered, and, possibly, published. I wrote diligently, believing in the inherent truth of effort and reward. Now we are being told differently. Writers are warned those principles are obsolete.

We are told by the media and, god help me, thousands of MFA program advertisements, that we can’t do it anymore. We are told that we need the connection that only a well-placed professor at a prestigious writing institution can provide. We are told if we don’t have strong social media platforms, with thousands of followers, no one will buy our books. That is, buy them assuming they are in print because we were able to breach the formidable agent/editor/publisher barrier.

We are told that publishers won’t accept a manuscript unless it is submitted by an agent; that agents are only interested in previously published authors; that neither wants our material if they don’t foresee hefty returns. We are told independent publishers are disappearing faster than snow in LA. And, of course, we are told that self-published books don’t stand a chance and will damage a writer’s reputation.

But here’s the thing. I never got sick from a little dirt. A lot of things I dreaded have turned out for the best. Necessity is most certainly the mother of invention, and helping myself has been my salvation on more than one occasion.

So, I refuse to buy into the prevailing hype. Ignorant of reality? Perhaps, but I still believe:

A dedicated writer, with good ideas and careful execution, can succeed.
Readers still want interesting books that touch on universal truths.
There are still agents, editors, and publishers who will take a chance.
Manuscripts do get read.
Writers do enjoy publishing bliss.

13 Miles and Literary Karma

What happens when anticipation turns, unexpectedly, into distress? When we hit the wall? That moment when we are zinging along, nearing the end of our journey, and suddenly find ourselves derailed. If we are writing, it is when we suddenly realize the ending we imagined doesn’t work; the resolution is shallow; the disappointment is inevitable. But we were so close, so very close.

Switch to real life. We left on an 880 mile road trip a few days before Christmas. We’d made reservations at a comfortable hotel 550 miles from our house.  We’d been driving since 6 a.m., and had covered 537 miles; it was dark, as it had been that morning when we left our driveway. For most of the way the weather had been good, the highway dry, traffic moderate. I was taking my turn at the wheel–tired, but looking forward to checking into our motel, flopping back onto a snowy-white comforter, opening the one Stella Artois I’d tucked into the cooler, and relaxing until the next morning.

The gas gauge was below a quarter of a tank, and I really, really needed to find a “facility,” but we were, according to our GPS, only 13 miles from bliss. Then it all went wrong: men on the highway were waving red flares just a few yards past an exit. We stopped; they said there was an accident ahead and to proceed carefully. We continued for another 100 yards and came to a dead stop. And waited, and waited. The temperature was dropping quickly. Black ice had begun to form on the roadway. Icy rain was pinging off the windshield.

We sat there. I fidgeted and eyed the gas gauge. I kept saying, “This can’t be happening to us so close to the exit for our hotel,” as if that would change anything. We had a CB radio with us, one we’d thrown into the back seat at the last minute. It only took a few minutes to hear one trucker telling another to stay where he was, get something to eat and grab a few hours sleep. There was a major (he said 31 vehicle) pileup and he was caught in the middle of it. He said he wouldn’t be going anywhere for hours–he guessed 5 or 6. I looked at the gas gauge and checked the outside temperature: both were sinking.

People were getting out of their vehicles, walking around, smoking cigarettes, talking to each other. I was clenching my teeth and trying to stay calm. I noticed that people who were situated close to an entrance ramp were using it as an escape, since no cars could possible come down the ramp with the highway blocked for several miles behind us.

I was in the far right lane, next to a narrow emergency lane. Maybe I could manage it if I made a very tight, acute-angle turn. I tried, I succeeded, and found, to my delight and amazement, a pleasant hotel at the top of the ramp, across from a gas station. Thirty minutes later, I was relaxing on their fluffy, white comforter, drinking my one precious Stella, and eating microwave popcorn.

As I sat there, I couldn’t help but wonder if I’d just experienced a little good karma. Since then, I realized the situation wasn’t that different from what we, as writers, occasionally experience. One minute we are sailing along, the words are flowing, and the conclusion seems logical.  Then, unexpectedly, we arrive at what seems a dead end. The plot has stalled; the ending we had in mind is not realistic; we are stuck. A lot of good fiction is turning yellow in some file cabinet or drawer because the writer hit a verbal road block with no discernible way past it.

But what if we take a risk, forgot our previous plan, and make an acute turn in our novel or short story? Forget where we thought we’d be (we’re not going to get there), and explore new options. Perhaps we will have to break a few rules, go against “traffic,” take a risk, but it’s worth it if there’s something of value at the other end.

The alternative is staying trapped in a writing dilemma where it is impossible to make satisfactory progress, wasting time and whatever inspirational energy we have left at the  moment.

Will it work every time? Probably not, but even if it doesn’t, we will have made an effort that will motivate us to keep writing until we get the closure we and our manuscript deserves.

Ho, Ho, Ho and the Blank Page

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  . . ..”

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

SageNo 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.)