The Pawnshop, the Ring and the Book

Not the epic poem, the Ring and the Book, made famous by Robert Browning, just a minor event that might become the plot of a novel one day.

It all began in a pawnshop.  I was in Colorado last week, spending a few days in a small town situated in the Wet Mountain Valley, between the Sangre de Cristo Range and the Wet Mountains. While walking down a main street (actually, the only main street), I went into a several small shops that carried Native American jewelry, mostly silver and turquoise. Some of it was lovely, but I wanted something different, with a narrow band–the kind of ring that is so comfortable you forget you are wearing it–that would translate when I wasn’t in a pair of boots–or in the American southwest.

My companion wanted to buy a ring for my birthday; I told him that was a great idea. The only problem was the few rings I liked were too large. Then, I saw the pawnshop across the street. There, the proprietor produced several trays of rings, mostly diamond engagement rings, wedding band, or rings with sparkly, colored stones. And, of course, turquoise set in wide, silver bands.

Tucked into the corner of a black velvet tray, almost invisible with it’s black stone and narrow band, was a vintage ring, clearly Native American workmanship, with an oval onyx nestled next to a delicately crafted silver leaf. Could it possibly fit? It did. Perfectly! I was almost giddy, and not from the 8,000 foot altitude of the town.

The proprietor said it was a consignment. I hope that whoever sold it, or once wore it, liked it as much as I do. When I wear it, I’ll think of the unknown artisan who made it–and take care of it for the person who wore it before me.

You may be wondering what this can possibly have to do with writing.

I used to think that it was important to constantly study the market, follow sales figures, be alert to trends, peruse best sellers, and keep up with celebrity authors. That can still be helpful if your work falls into a popular category or has the potential of being the next big hit, but what if you are writing just because you like to write. What if writing is therapy for you, like painting or hiking is for someone else? What about the “little” books, the simple stories, the observational poems. Those moments of inspiration that are “comfortable” to wear.

I don’t imagine anyone will ever look closely at my small ring and remark on it, if it is noticed at all. But, someone cared about it when they created it, and I will enjoy it when I wear it. Why should writing be any different?

Can’t a story, a book, or a poem simply mirror the inventive urge of its creator? Isn’t it enough that someone will take pleasure from reading it?  When we find a piece of poetry or prose we like, do we care how many copies it may have sold? Maybe, sometimes, we should write just to write; share just to share; create just to give substance to an idea.

And Browning? He found a soiled, yellow book while casually rummaging through a stack of old books at a flea market. He was intrigued by the contents that detailed a murder trial and thought it might be a good basis for a poem, but let in languish for four years, even offering it to other writers. Then, magically, he produced a 21,000 line poem that still has scholars scrambling.

Wear Beige and Keep Your Mouth Shut: How to Survive a Writing Critique

“Wear beige and keep your mouth shut,” was the advice my 85-year-old father gave me when I lamented that I thought my son and future daughter-in-law were too young to get married, particularly since they were still in college. Never mind that I’d married even younger (although that hadn’t worked out too well). I took his advice, and they not only took their degrees, but went on to earn advanced degrees, raise children–and stay married.

I’ve since learned that the art of keeping my mouth shut–or at least filtering what I say–is an important element in working with other writers. Unless you live a solitary writing life, and only communicate with your agent or publisher, you’ve no doubt encountered writers of varying talent and dedication. You have been asked to read paragraphs, chapters, and occasionally a tome that staggers the imagination. Were you to honor all these requests, you would be lucky to have time to write a grocery list, much less attend to your unfinished manuscript.

While there are tactful ways to decline random requests, you may owe allegiance to writers with whom you have a relationship. If you like and respect them and their work, you will be caught in a bind that requires you to be supportive and honest at the same time. These expectations are often at odds.

Egos can be fragile. I used to tell my college freshmen-composition students to “Separate your ego from your writing. See it as a skill that a coach is helping you improve, not unlike hitting a tennis ball.”  I assured them that their essential personality, and worth as a human being, was not tied to how well they strung a series of words on a page. Still, I find that even when I try to follow my own advice, or work with others, it can be difficult to give and receive criticism.

Note: I use the term criticism as a neutral, meaning evaluative, not pejorative.

That’s why, when I’ve participated in writing groups, I’ve tried to distinguish between helpful, constructive, criticism and the marginally soul-destroying comments that some people seem hell-bent on mouthing.

Some writers are happy and confident to work solo and not share their work with anyone other than an agent or publisher. There’s nothing wrong with that. But others want to have that second set of eyes evaluate their work. If you find you want the opinion of other writers, or avid readers, you can choose to show your work to one reader at a time–at different stages of your manuscript–or you can read to a small, dedicated group.

For a half-dozen years, I presented workshops with a writer’s organization, IWWG, that held a yearly, week-long writing conference. In the evening, we would hold open critique sessions so people could read what they’d written that week. Some were veteran writers; others were revealing their work for the first time. Some were extremely talented; some were just finding their voice; all were vulnerable to an extent.

I’ve been on both ends of the critique spectrum. In either case, it’s crucial to keep your perspective and choose your words carefully. A friend of mine, who has read my manuscripts so many times she’s probably memorized them, always offers her criticism in gentle terms of advice. For example, one of her best lines is, “Have you thought about . . .?” That is usually followed by a suggestion on word choice, eliminating awkward phrasing, correcting an obviously confusing section, fleshing out a scene, eliminating superfluous details or back story.

Occasionally, a member of a group will take umbrage at what someone has written, usually a religious, political, or philosophical point of view they disagree with–and are determined to argue at length. They are usually looking for an audience, and are eagerly awaiting an opportunity to vent their wrath. Get rid of them; they don’t belong in what should be a supportive atmosphere.

Then, of course, there is the nitpicker. They look for errors–any kind–that allow them to showcase their knowledge and/or command of the language. What they tend to overlook is that the writers are often presenting first drafts, and are well aware they don’t have a clean manuscript. The nitpicker’s talent is being wasted at this stage–not to mention annoying the rest of the group.

If it is the last draft before submission, then a writing group is probably the wrong place to present it anyway. What we need, at that point–and should appreciate–is a willing nitpicker, one who will do a thorough and competent job of copy editing. If you have a friend or acquaintance who volunteers, you are lucky indeed.

So what can a reader or member of a writing group do to facilitate and encourage others?

Understand the writing experience of the individual who has offered their work for examination. A novice writer needs encouragement. There is always some aspect of the piece that is deserving of approval or admiration, even if it is only a great adjective or line of dialogue. Build on potential, not on flaws. Encourage further development of ideas.

If the work is by a skilled writer, your evaluation might address the theme, the mood, or the intent of their work, as well as comments on particularly arresting imagery, metaphor, or other more subtle features.

Choose your words carefully. For example, while it may be true that the piece is loaded with clichés, realize that younger people may not have heard a term enough to realize it is a cliché.

If it is too much of a “I remember grandma in her rocking chair,” and sentimental to the extent of being saccharin, suggest including it in a future memoir.

If the writing is a sermon, or an ethical or political statement, suggest the writer look into specific publications that feature essays of that nature.

Don’t overdo your criticism. Most of us can take helpful criticism in small doses, remember it, and do something about it. Too much at any one time and we become overloaded and, often, discouraged. It is common to make the same sort of writing blunders consistently; thus, once we are aware of a bad habit or weakness, we will usually look for it ourselves.

Respect the writer, praise what is praiseworthy, offer helpful suggestions for the rough spots in the manuscript, and demand the same when your work is being evaluated.

When it’s your turn to be the subject of a critique, consider the readers. What do you know of their background and experience? One type of reader might give you a formal, literary assessment. Another might judge the material on whether or not it’s a page turner. Another may simply identify with a character or a situation.  In other words, “Where are they coming from?”  Determining their expertise and mindset will help you choose from their remarks: embracing the useful, disregarding the rest.

What I try to do, with varying degrees of success, is to stay objective, even if I disagree with either the evaluation or the way it which it was delivered. A standard reply is, “Thanks. I’ll make a note and think about that.” Later, when I look at the notes (change word, expand, unrealistic dialogue, too many adjectives, etc) I usually see the wisdom and frequently make changes and corrections.

One of my friends and readers is a lawyer; her legal training and fine eye proved invaluable when she proofed my work. Another friend understands the local culture more than I ever will; her insights are on target every time. Yet another said she enjoyed my novel so much she didn’t realize it was a proof copy with a half dozen mistakes not yet corrected (I liked that response a lot!).

I think the best we can do is be open to suggestions, try really hard to separate our ego from our writing, strive to improve, and . . . always . . . remember to trust ourselves.

The Lonely Heart and The Biscuit

 

In this case, mine was a lonely heart searching for a biscuit recipe. More specifically, the biscuit recipe. Some explanation is required. I have always loved Carson McCullers’ writing, particularly The Heart is a Lonely Hunter. Long before I’d ever been to the South, the early morning scene in the book–where Mick takes a cold biscuit for her breakfast–fired my imagination. Good books do that.

I pictured myself getting up on a summer morning in some southern state, wandering to the kitchen, pouring a cup of coffee and rummaging in the breadbox for yesterday’s biscuit, then sitting on a veranda (large, old, slightly shabby house with trailing wisteria vine), and listening to the birds heralding the day. Perhaps another early riser walking by would say something to the effect of, “Going to be a scorcher today,” and I’d nod wisely.

Such is the scenario the book suggested to me. Now, I am more or less living in the South (depending on where you draw the northern border) and have been defeated consistently in trying to produce a passable biscuit. My efforts usually result in flat, dense disks that resemble hardtack.

When I wrote my novel, Nothing’s Ever Right or Wrong, and wanted to represent a young woman on a rundown farm, with limited means and no handy artisan bakery down the street (let alone in the nearby small town), I had her baking biscuits–a lot of biscuits.

Last fall, I was doing a workshop on editing, called The Soap on the Rope Mistake. It wasn’t a grammar/spelling/punctuation workshop, but rather one on avoiding common pitfalls in our manuscripts. While discussing the importance of keeping our own habits, desires, and proclivities separate from those of our characters, I explained that although I had Stella baking biscuits on numerous occasions, it was natural to her situation. I assured my audience that it definitely wasn’t me; I couldn’t make a decent biscuit if my life truly depended on it.

Around fifty people were in attendance at the workshop, many of them authors. I talked with a half dozen after the presentation. One woman, waiting patiently, handing me a slip of paper with the simplest biscuit recipe I ever seen, and told me I didn’t have to go through life biscuit challenged.

I thanked her, put the slip in the notebook, and forgot about it. This spring, I did another workshop, this time on memoir, and discovered the same woman was present. She asked if I’d ever made the recipe and I told her, “Not yet, but I will.” This morning, I tried it. To my astonishment, I made a pan of perfect biscuits that tasted as good as they looked.

What does this have to do with writing?  In writing, as in other endeavors, it pays to keep an open mind when we are offered suggestions that might improve our work. Sounds simple, but sometimes, when we believe we know what we are doing, and have a tender writer’s ego at stake, we dismiss–even occasionally resent as interference–the guidance that is offered to us. In working to overcome my occasional resistance to advice, I’ve learned:

1) The people who offers constructive criticism, advice, or insight don’t have to be fellow writers or  literary critics; they can be  bricklayers, nurses, farmers or stockbrokers. They can be any age, gender, religion, culture, or political leaning. They can be highly educated or marginally literate. Whoever they are, they know about things that we don’t; they’ve lived moment we never will; they’ve experience emotions that are foreign to us; they have something to say and, if we intend to write about their world, we better listen.

2) If other writers offer to read or edit your book, don’t be surprised if they to give in to the urge to rewrite phrases, sentences, even paragraphs. It’s an occupational quirk. Before becoming irate that someone is tampering with your precious words, make a cup of tea and regain your objectivity. Maybe they are right? Maybe they do see a more succinct or dynamic way to convey an idea. Maybe not, but consider the possibility.

3) Don’t shoot the messenger. If your manuscript is returned to you bleeding red ink (think intensive proofread), and you find out you violated one of the common rules of punctuation, grammar, or syntax, curb your impulse to scream, curse the copy editor, or go into deep denial.

It happens–even when we know the “rules” but, for some reason, have developed a mental block to the point that, no matter how many times we’ve done our own proofread, the errors have remained undetected. At this point, you may need something stronger than tea to regain your objectivity. Thank your editing friend and fix the errors. Your hurt pride may take a bit longer, but it’ll heal and you’ll be grateful in the long run.

And me? Tomorrow morning, with temperatures in the high 90s, I will pour a cup of coffee, rummage in my cupboard for a day-old, cold biscuit, sit out on my deck, and salute all my reading friends, copy editors, Mick, Carson McCullers, and the woman you passed me that magic slip of paper.

Crop Black Recipe

Rewriting Reality

It’s next to impossible to ignore breaking news, even for dedicated writers who resolve to leave the newspaper folded, the television and radio silent, the tablet or phone unchecked. One way or another, the news of the day creeps into our consciousness. Unless we live a hermit’s life, ensconced in a cave, we know that over the last few weeks two convicted killers escaped from a prison in upper New York State. We know lawmakers have made landmark decisions, resulting in celebrations, protests, speeches, and posturing. People have carried out brave acts as well as foolhardy ones. We know innocent people have died. We know fires have ravished communities in the West. We know record heat has baked part of the nation, while other areas have floated on flood waters.

If we are writing fiction, it can be difficult to ignore the real world while creating an imaginary world in our stories and novels. Reality creeps into our psyches and our work, often to the point of distraction.

One solution is to use the news in a creative fashion. Writers frequently adopt major events, particularly tragedies such as 9/11 and Hurricane Katrina, as a setting or backdrop for their fiction. Sometimes those events mirror their characters’ actions, sometimes they are only used to establish a public mindset. Terrorism, extreme weather, crime, and dramatic stories of survival are all fodder for the writer, as are the humorous articles, the world of celebrity, and everyday miracles.

But, how many times have you read a news article and immediately formed an opinion, thought of ways to solve a problem that has been presented, or imagined a different outcome. My father, who lived in a far simpler time, used to use the term “sidewalk engineer,” which is similar to the more widely used term “armchair quarterback.”  Not a flattering designation, but also not a bad activity for a writer. Often, the news can inspire us with a plot idea based on our response to actual events. The moment we say, “What I would have done is . . .,” we are forming plot, action, and resolution.

Case in point: After the recent escape of the two convicts from the Clinton Correctional Facility, I imagined what I would do if I was one of them and wanted to escape and blend into society. I studied the photos. Sweat, the younger man is ordinary looking, with unremarkable features. Wearing the right business apparel, and swinging a briefcase, he could walk down most major city streets and, if noticed at all, would appears to be an office worker going to or from his job. Matt, the older man, with heavy features and probably a fast-growing five-o’clock-shadow, would have a harder time, but give him a hard hat and a lunch box and he could pass by unnoticed as well.

Frequently, when we see symbols that identify people by profession, we often don’t take a second look. Fiction, however, allows us to take liberties with the reality of what is perceived, so we can discover what is hidden just below the surface. Identity, motive, method–all can be changed with a few keystrokes.

No one wants to plagiarize or be accused of wholesale copying a news event and calling it an original plot. A “What would I do. . .?” moment, based on a single act or situation, is neither. Drawing on our knowledge and experience, to realize a different scenario, is simply a writing tool. If a blank computer screen is your nemesis today, turn on the radio, flip on the television, or pick up a newspaper and let the ideas flow.

Asparagus and the Paranoid Writer

Several years ago I was attending what the Brits would call a posh party. It was a warm summer evening and the event took place on an attractively furnished, covered patio.   I wasn’t an invited guest; I was there with the hired band that evening, not as a performer, but as a guest of one of the musicians. Nevertheless, the host welcomed me and made me feel comfortable.

As the evening was wrapping up–and most of the guests had departed–the close friends of the host gathered around the fire pit for intimate conversation and a last drink. It was definitely not appropriate for me, a stranger, to intrude on that group. I found myself at loose ends while the band packed up their instruments and rehashed the evening.  To avoid feeling awkward, I went inside the house and wandered into the kitchen, where the catering staff was also packing up and cleaning.  I asked if there was any coffee. There was; they poured me a cup and motioned for me to sit at the counter.

Grateful that I had something to do to fill the interval, I complimented them on the delicious, tender asparagus they’d served and asked how they prepared it. One of the women responded.

“Nothing to it. The trick is blanching. Drop the spears in boiling water for a brief time, and I do mean brief. Take them out and toss them in ice water. Oh, and we always have ice cubes floating in the water.”

Surprised, I said, “But I thought I had to steam asparagus until it was soft, so it wouldn’t be stringy and tough?”

She gave me a pitying look and said, “My dear, nothing is good if it is overcooked.”

Early this morning, after a visit to our local farmer’s market, I prepared asparagus according to that caterer’s direction. In no time, I had a plate of tender, green spears that promised to be a joy to the palate.

Kitchen duty out of the way, I pulled up the novella I’d started a year or so ago. I decided it was time to finish it or forget it. I wanted to review what I’d written previously–especially important since it’s a mystery, and I needed the chronology clear in my mind. I didn’t get past page two before I decided I needed to print it out so I could read slowly and make notes.

Then, as usual, I began thinking I needed to rewrite something on nearly every page: a word here, a phrase there, a conversation that needed to be expanded. Before long I was bored (yes, my own writing can definitely bore me the fifth time I’ve gone over it), disheartened, and ready to find something more interesting to do, like make fresh coffee and have a snack.

I went into the kitchen, turned on the coffee maker, and rummaged in the refrigerator. Staring me in the face was my perfect asparagus. Chiding me was the memory of the caterer telling me, “My dear, nothing is good if it is overcooked.”

Overcooking. Exactly what I was doing to my manuscript. Call it overcooking, over-rewriting, over-criticizing, over-editing. The result was that I’d abandoned it again when what I’d really wanted–and needed– to do was produce another chapter. At the rate I was going, I’d never complete the project.

I think the act of writing brings with it a certain paranoia. While it is true that writing, perhaps like no other discipline, exposes who we are and how we think, it is also true that what we reveal is under our control; we can invent characters that are nothing like us, and situations and plots that bear no resemblance to our lives or circumstances. So, then, why are some of us prone to overcooking our work. I can only assume it is the fear of criticism. But, if that is the case, who are we are really afraid of?

Most readers are not that critical, unless they live to write unsolicited, negative reviews on various web sites. I doubt if anyone takes these critics very seriously.

The truth is that most readers are forgiving, generous people who just want a good story and, if they like how you provide it, will come back for more. While readers might appreciate some aspects of my writing style or plotting, or, conversely, dislike the main character or the ending of my novel, they probably do not notice whether I used the word lovely, or beautiful, to describe the sunset. They probably don’t care whether I sorted through a dozen words to describe a shrill noise, or a glaring light, trying first one and then the other.

You know the routine. Should I substituted grating for shrill? Maybe blinding would be better than glaring? Oh, wait, how about rasping instead of grating?

So a new chapter doesn’t get written, at least not until I am satisfied that I used the correct adjective. If I look at it tomorrow, will I want to go back to grating? And, would the reader rather read the finished work, or are they going to quibble and criticize me for using blinding instead of glaring?

The real question is who are we afraid of if not the reader? Maybe other writers? But then, if we are all in this together, why are we afraid of our colleagues’ opinion? Maybe for the same reason people agonize over trivialities: someone may notice a weakness and think negatively of us. Should we let that impede our progress? Not if we want to produce material for appreciative readers; not if we want to record a time or event for future generations; not if we think we have something to offer to others that may be enlightening or comforting or amusing; not if we believe in what we’ve written and want to share it.

I’ve concluded I need to heed the caterer’s words and say to myself at least once each writing session, “My dear, nothing is good if it’s overcooked.”

Note to self: Maybe I need to rewrite; did I use the word overcooked too many times?

The Gambler was Right

The gambler was right, at least the gambler in the song performed by Kenny Rogers. The advice the gambler gives is to know when to hold your cards, and know when to “fold ‘em.” That is good advice in many areas, but particularly for a writer.

Easier said than accomplished. The scenario: you have an idea for a novel. You are excited about your concept and the opening lines have been circulating in your head for a few days. You’ve begun to develop your characters and have a plot more of less in mind. You sit down at your computer, or take your special pen in hand, and begin writing.

A paragraph becomes a page, becomes an entire chapter–maybe several. You prepare to do the real literary drudge work: developing your plot points, researching, setting up a chronological document to keep track of events, supplying backstory where needed, fleshing out characters. That may be the point at which you realize you’re in foreign territory. You’ve ventured into an area that isn’t your genre, doesn’t illustrate your strength as a writer, and probably won’t result in either satisfaction or success.

That’s the stage I hit recently with a novel I’d planned for several months. Feeling confident, I banged out the prologue and first, long chapter with ease. Then, some real-life obligations demanded my time, and I didn’t get back to my “great idea” for several weeks. When I did, I realized I ‘d ventured far outside my area of expertise and knowledge. If I ever was able to develop the plot, the finished product would probably be amateurish at best.

I kept the first page and a half and deleted the rest. Well, okay, I confess; I couldn’t just dump my words like yesterdays coffee grounds, so I made a copy of the original document, then deleted. But, I know the original will never see the light of day, anymore than the pilled sweater I keep for sentimental reasons will ever drape my shoulders again.

What I am left with is a satisfactory prologue and a lead-in to the novel I always intended. I have a long way to go, but at least I am not headed in the wrong direction.

For many writers, our words are possessions that we are reluctant to discard. They represent our likes, dislikes, values, desires, fears, and aspirations. And, the more we amass in a single project, the harder it is to let go.

Although experimentation can contributes to your growth as a writer–and can be fun–it’s also wise to consider what you do best. Some writers have a gift for “voice,” others for characterization, for dialogue, or for plot. Think about the area where you feel the most comfortable, where you shine. Ask yourself if what you are writing features your talents. If not, hit the delete key . . . but not before saving a copy.

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.