Writerly Meanderings

Why I still read Ms. Snark

2009-11-30T04:02:28Z

Yes, I know Ms. Snark’s blog is dark. It has been for over two years now. If you’re a writer and never discovered her, you should take a look. The archives are full of amazing and helpful information.

But that’s not the main reason why I go.

There are things in writing that are easy to master, if you put your mind to it. We begin to learn the first layer in grade school: spelling, punctuation, grammar, paragraph structure, beginnings, middles, and ends.

The next level most people don’t truly conquer, because they stop writing as soon as they are no longer in the presence of an evil-minded teacher who forces them to. It’s about the story telling: characters, setting, theme, and plot. People who love reading and writing in high school and college begin to see these elements in stories even when not writing a two-paged essay on them. They become eager to apply these concepts to their own work, layering them into their stories with equal attention.

Many literary-minded college courses and even professional workshops stop at this point, although some will move on to smaller pieces of the puzzle: scene structure, dialogue, transitions, pacing, and more poetic word-smithing techniques such as alliteration, consonance, and rhyme–all good pursuits.

I was stuck at this level for decades. I kept taking classes, joined critique groups, and read books. But one additional layer needed attention. And it wasn’t one you could easily come by, because it was large, unwieldy, subjective, and ever changing: writing to the audience.

I think one reason that this is ignored in the literary world is that it sounds like selling out, burnt on the edges in the fire of commercialism.

But when you’ve poured your energy, time, and hope into novels, all written on spec, with the optimism that it will one day be traditionally published, it can be a cold hard dash of reality when the letter come back, often as a quarter-page form, saying your story isn’t competitive in today’s market.

What? How can that be? YOU are part of the market, and you LOVE this. And second, it’s a form letter. It means nothing.

Actually, it’s a form letter because it’s so common. Many of us have great ideas, many of us can string words together that communicate what we want to say. But very few of us can make that message resonate with the readers we are trying to reach.

I see it every day in critique groups or in writers who post their query letters online for review. I’m no expert, and I can still see that they don’t have a handle on their story. Their summaries wander. They can’t write a one-sentence premise about the plot. They know very much what they WANT to do. And this is often worded in their letters in phrases like, “This book reminds us that…” or “Readers of this story will remember what it is like…”

We write sentences like that because we are frustrated by our own stories, our inability to show the lives of characters who will communicate a message without preachiness or head-smacking. And that last layer of the novel, which is part of every word on the page, is what ultimately causes the novel to fail, either at the query level, because the agent can see the writer isn’t communicating this part, so it’s doubtful the book will be any better, or at the novel level, when an agent has requested the work and stops reading around page 50 because the book just isn’t rising as it should.

Ms. Snark, in her query bashing and crushing responses to reader questions, cut through the literary high-brow and got straight into the issue of does this book work for the reader it was intended to impact? She did this with humor, with biting candor, and intelligent analysis. She made us able to look at our own work more critically, to slip on her stilettos and step back from our emotional attachment to what we’d written and see it from a difficult-to-please point of view.

It’s a debilitating blow to realize you’ve spent a year, or several years, on a novel that doesn’t work. But only when we fail can we figure out what we don’t know. Until you’re querying, putting your tender babies into the world, it’s not easy to know what you’ve done wrong.

But Ms. Snark can educate you ahead of time, before you burn through the agent list, without dealing with the hard reality of rejection in your inbox. Go, and read, and learn from her, not just once, but every year or two. We can’t absorb everything until we’ve moved to the next layer, when all the things we’ve fixed about our work reveals the next set of weaknesses.

It’s not an easy process and there aren’t any short cuts. But reading Ms. Snark can cut a lot of time out of the write-revise-rejection period of your authorly rise to success. And you can laugh along the way with Killer Yapp and hearing that once again, Ms. Snark has read something that makes her want to set her hair on fire.

So, what are you waiting for? Discover her again. I’ll see you there.

Ideas landing like meteors

2009-11-16T17:49:48Z

I wonder how many other writers find that when they get in a groove, both words and new ideas come at them like a lighting storm in the dark. At times it can take intense concentration to ignore the unrelenting flashes falling around your head.

Since yesterday's writing marathon that netted me 10,000 words in one day, I've come up with three new novel ideas, as well as what will certainly be the topic for my 2010 ScriptFrenzy screenplay.

I'm just taking a moment, like I did once before, to write down the idea before it's forgotten or stored somewhere I can never find again.

Title: Facebook Thanksgiving
Genre: Comedy

Premise: Recently divorced ALAINA, fearing a holiday alone, impulsively posts an open invitation for Thanksgiving dinner to her Facebook friends. Unexpected arrivals: her fake-suicidal ex-husband, a woman she kissed at an office party, three coworkers who are unaware she has dated them all, and her manic-obsessive mother.

Or some other such ensemble. I love the idea of all your past loves converging in one moment. Plus, I've noticed lately that quite a lot of my FB friends are getting divorced in their late 30s, early 40s, making the plot fairly plausible, at least in the manner that movie-comedies can ever be plausible.

Back to my NaNo novel!

NaNoWriMo 2009

2009-11-02T04:13:03Z

I'm in for my 5th year participating in National Novel Writing Month.

This year I skipped the midnight write to go to a Halloween ball, so I'm a little behind already. I only wrote 187 words today! You need 1667 per day to make the 50,000 word goal.

But I'm not worried. The book I'm doing is a wholesale start-over of an idea I've had for a long time that I wrote a draft of in 2006. I'm very excited about the fresh concept and dove in with great zeal.

The book has the structure of How to Make an American Quilt, the Southern female voices of Steel Magnolias or Divine Secrets of a Ya Ya Sisterhood, and the emotional terrain of The Memory Keeper's Daughter. I am thrilled to be writing back in literary style, and have filled my head with my favorite influences as I begin writing -- Margaret Atwood, Edmund White, DH Lawrence, and John Updike.

Good luck to all you fellow fast-draft novelists!

The fourth-grade critique group

2009-10-06T16:38:59Z

I should have asked them first.

The fourth-grade class hustled like they hadn’t done all day to pack up their bags and sit on the floor around my chair.

I hadn’t served as a substitute in ages (although last time had been memorable), but their teacher had taught my daughter, and personally asked for my help. I tucked the pink hair away as best I could and at the last minute tossed my middle grade manuscript Jinnie Wishmaker into my bag.

The students had worked quickly and quietly in order to get a chance to hear a story no one had ever read. I told them I needed help, that lots of agents had thought about representing it, and some had come really close, but couldn’t really tell me why, in the end, they just said no.

I didn’t really know what to expect when I began reading aloud. The class had been antsy all day. We’d actually done a lesson on “Show, Don’t Tell,” for writing, but I suspected I had bored them. But the idea that they were doing something “for real,” not just as an assignment, really motivated them to finish their work and pile onto the carpet to listen.

I reminded them what was important to the beginning of a novel: a character that interests you enough to read a whole book about. And a story that doesn’t just sit there, but moves forward, and makes you worry about what will happen next.

So they settled in, twenty nine-year-olds curled around backpacks and lunchboxes, more riveted than I ever expected. The opening scene unfurled, a girl and her younger bother plotting to run away rather than to be taken to live with their snobby rich aunt and uncle, characters taken from a page of Roald Dahl, where the grown ups are hyperbolic and the kids represent the voice of reason.

At the end, I asked them what they thought.

“Is Jinnie going to be mean the whole time?” a boy asked. “She seems mean.”

“Yeah,” a girl said. “She’s angry.”

I couldn’t believe it. Why hadn’t I seen it? I knew Jinnie was sensitive and fairly shy, but in this first impression, with just her little brother to tug around, they were right. She seemed mean.

“I’m really worried about her,” another girl said. “I don’t think she should run away.”

“Running away is never the answer,” a boy concurred. “She should have a really good reason.”

She wasn’t sufficiently motivated. They knew. They were nine years old, and they knew.

The bell rang, but I didn’t need to hear any more. I had it. I knew it. The story had been through four critique group grillings, read by five or six other writers, and even several agents had nurtured it though some revisions, and yet still, I hadn’t seen it until now. No one had been able to just say it.

We lined up by the door, my head buzzing. I knew I could fix it.

One of the boys tapped my arm. “Ms. Roy? Will you be back tomorrow?”

I had no idea. “Not unless your teacher still needs me. Hopefully she’s better.”

“If you come back tomorrow, will you read some more?”

Oh yes. Of course.

Book Trailer -- Forever Young by Bob Dylan

2009-09-15T20:28:43Z

Ordinarily I'm not always the biggest fan of celebrities-cum-children-book-writers, but this one is pitch perfect. I'd buy it, oh yeah.

The trailer is a thing of wonder.

LiveJournal Page: ACTIVATE!

2009-09-04T20:53:37Z

Since I switched my main web site to be about writing, I've let my LJ lapse a little.

But I'm about to go into a heavy submission period with my new novel, so I'm reactiving posting here since I can create private friends-only posts. So if you want to follow, you'll need to friend me!

This is my fourth book to submit out. I have quite a few agents who have previously read my fulls and invited me to submit future work. I've picked out some more extremely good fits to send to as well.

The new book is very controversial and created some serious combustion in my critique group. A large number made comments so harsh that it took me several weeks (and a fair amount of tears) to recover. Another good section said it was an important book and not to let anyone stop me from pursuing it.

I'm expecting that the official rejections will be silent or generic, as is the norm for agents, but it will be interesting to see.

So if you're already a friend, great! If not, hop on board. It's going to be an interesting ride. It's a timely topic, so I plan to hit it very hard and fast.

Sometimes a writer feels like a lamppost

2009-06-22T16:24:25Z

"Asking a working writer what he thinks about critics is like asking a lamppost what it feels about dogs."

John Osborne

That warm feeling I got when my romantic comedy Heteroflexible advanced to quarterfinals in its first screenwriting competition at Blue Cat, became a warm, wet feeling when I read the script analysis.

Now, I do love my criticism. And it being emphatic is, to me, all the better. I'm known for rather acerbic critiques in my novel and screenplay groups. So I'm not really whining, just relating that odd sensation of having read both this: "When you're insulting, you're just insulting."

And then advancing with the top 20 percent.

While the analysis samples on the Blue Cat site were all fairly even handed with good points/bad points in the 600 words they promise you, my reader gave up precisely 23 words with a tepid line about "a story that hasn't been seen before," then waylaid me for 1017 more. (I got bonus words!)

Other great moments in my feedback were, "so incredibly stereotypical," "I don't buy it," and "clearly a first draft." At the end I was encouraged to "go back to the outline and really work on it" with a reminder that "with most scripts, your goal is to make it into a film."

It's hard to imagine this is also the judge who advanced it. I did some digging around to see if BlueCat had separate critics from judges, but wasn't able to find out for certain. It seems expensive for them to have two people read it, but who knows, maybe I was early in the pile and this critic liked the others even less.

I know humor is hard to write. And the subject matter for this story is easily the most controversial I've ever endeavored. I run the risk of alienating everybody, even the demographic the tale holds in the highest esteem.

But I do believe in this story. And I'm finishing up the novel version, which I recently cut down to 43,000 words to get rid of distracting story elements and slow scenes, gradually building it back up to the 80K minimum for a novel. I've incorporated some of the more specific feedback from this analysis into the novel, but I'm not really sure how to address the generalities of being insulting and stereotypical and not believable.

The story has a long way to go yet. The screenplay has only been through two drafts, and I'm on the second draft of the book.

But before I put either version before any more critics, I'll make sure I'm dressed in something that won't show the wet spots.

Book Trailer -- The Price of Sanctuary by Gaylon Greer

2009-06-02T19:43:00Z

I made my first book trailer! I just decided to figure it out, and my friend Gaylon's book is coming out in a few weeks. I was a critique buddy on this novel, and I'm so thrilled for him!

His web site is still in progress (I'm helping him with that next week.)

My WIP won't let me sleep!

2009-04-30T09:34:47Z

It's 3 a.m. and I'm thinking of a 16-year-old boy named Ian.

It's the morning after his birthday, a Monday, and his mom has let him go to the DMV to take his driving test. He emerges from the beatup Ford pickup triumphant --- he has passed. He drops mom off at work and as he eases up on the freeway to go back to school, pulls a set of fuzzy dice out of the glove box.

As he wraps the connecting string around the rear-view mirror, he thinks of his 11-year-old brother Todd, who died when Ian was 9. Todd won the fuzzy dice at a carnival and boasted to Ian that when he got his first car, he'd hang the dice inside. "I got your back on this," Todd says to the dice when a horn blast scares him -- he's swerved right in front of an 18-wheeler. The big rig careens into another lane, and Ian overcorrects, heading straight for the concrete barrier.

This is where the story splits into what I the author know and what the reader will know.

In the story, Ian will get control of the car again, panting and shaken, and pull over for a moment. Then he will work up his nerve, get back into traffic, and go to school.

I, as the author, know that the Ian who got into the truck is dead. Ian is split into his last four universes, having evolved over time to pare down his multi-strand existence into the final few. The Ian who died was an errant strand, a universe that pulled away from the others at the death of his brother. I know that in that world, his mother was overprotective, and his father distant, and Ian became an only child.

For the living Ian, his final three strands are so closely woven, and his consciousness is now so close to rushing toward the divine and the ultimate goal of the Single Stream, that he will become clairvoyant, seeing his other strands, one that is slightly ahead of his current time, allowing him glimpses into his future, and one that is slightly behind, giving him constant feelings of deja vu.

At school, Ian is still slightly askew, as he has been waiting until he got his license to ask the girl Christina out on a date. When he walks into chemistry class (because don't all romances start in chemistry class?), he sits next to her in his usual spot as her lab partner.

And she looks at him like he's crazy. Her boyfriend Chaz asks what he's doing, and when he says, "I'm sitting by my lab partner," something buzzes in him, that feeling we get when we know we've forgotten something important, like that the oven is still on. He looks down at his notebook and it clearly shows that his friend Robert is his lab partner. He mumbles an apology and walks across the room.

Robert says, "You snooze, you lose," and that he shouldn't have waited to ask his crush out. Now she has a boyfriend. The reader feels righted again, for a moment.

When he gets home, his 18-year-old brother Todd comes down the stairs and the reader will hopefully get the same sliding feeling that Ian should have gotten. But he just waves to his brother like it's nothing out of the ordinary.

And now we know something has definitely begun to happen, and the reader will be more alert than Ian for a while, as Ian has settled into his new strand, while we have not. When we meet the mother, and she is completely different than the glimpse we got earlier, hopefully we will be hooked.

The story gets complicated very quickly after this, as Ian is waylaid by the feelings of deja vu and clairvoyance. He see ghosts -- phantoms that are bleeding through between these closely woven strands of his parallel universes, no longer competing for his consciousness as he is so close to his single stream.

He will talk to religious people, he will try to figure out what is going on, through comic books and sci fi. He will try to save Christina, when he sees glimpses of a terrible future for her. Ultimately from the book will emerge a new picture of how our brains, our consciousness, religion, and the afterlife intertwine.

I may have bitten off more than a Young Adult novel can chew. But it's fun to plan, and working on it gives me a sense of the divine, as though I myself am oddly evolving in my understanding of how the world might could work and still have room for all the major religions, science, our 6th sense, and the many moments where we experience feelings we can't explain.

But now, hopefully, sleep!

Cheating cheaters and the writing projects we cheat on

2009-04-21T18:01:03Z

I admit it, I'm an infidel.

Earlier this year, I was passionately in love with my middle grade novel. We were together every day, often long into the night, mutually basking in the glow of each other's fond attention.

Then, some agents loved it. And I released her into the world where she still sits on a desk or two, one who seems fairly enamored. She is not in need of rescue, the best possible separation until we meet again.

But I was lonely. I had options -- the sequel to the middle grade, or maybe, just maybe, this sexy new manuscript I had started during NaNoWriMo.

It called to me in the night, edgy and full of appeal, rife with longing and promising of secrets. So I slipped into a new relationship and even started a screenplay version of the story.

But then, trouble. Characters behaved erratically, refusing to be reasonable. I admit -- I got controlling -- trying to force them into who I thought they should be. The story rebelled; I offered a fresh start. But we began to grow apart.

And today, I opened a file, something I'd written a few years ago but recently freshened up the opening for a fellowship application. I read the first 18 pages and didn't change a word. It was perfect! Beautiful! Tantalizing.

And so I began to plan our time together, makeovers, meaningful conversations, pillow talk.

But the old story nipped at me. Not fair, it called. You can't leave me like this, unfinished, in disarray.

I'm torn. Old love or new. Manage my problems or fly a new direction. Without a deadline, an expectation by anyone, I flit from work to work, writing only what feels good at the time, like a literary gigolo.

Maybe if one of them manages to snag me for real, binds me with a contract, I'll settle down. But until then, sweet works-in-progress, take it from Rod, it's a heartache, nothing but a heartache, hits you when it's too late, hits when you're down...

Someone call Blog Protective Services

2009-04-17T01:22:08Z

Yes, I've neglected you, my sweet little blog, for the sexier more demanding days of ScriptFrenzy.

When I took on the duties of organizing ML for the Austin Screnzies, I thought of last year, and how three or four of us knocked out our scripts in relative solitude.

I wanted to recruit *a little* and build it up slowly. I joined two screenwriting groups and met people. Got involved. Gently and non-invasively let people know about the little writing challenge where we write 100 pages of a script during April.

I HAD NO IDEA 50 PEOPLE WOULD SIGN UP!

So it's been a little crazy. Midnight writes. Coffee shops. The margarita write in is Saturday. We're writing by the lake Sunday. And I'm planning the big party at the end--oh, it will be so fun!

And I'm 57 pages into my own screenplay and having SUCH a good time.

So I'll return shortly, with many new friends to talk about and a FINISHED SCRIPT!

Some of the Screnzies who got together at Austin Java on Monday.

What a character!

2009-03-03T16:26:09Z

What would you do if you were your main character for a day?

Last Sunday, six of my writer friends got together for Live Character Interviews, where we assumed the persona of our protagonist and got barraged with questions on our past, our motivations, our fears, and our hopes. We had no idea how helpful this exercise would be when we sat around a large table at a coffee shop with printouts of our character questionnaire, but by the time we were through, we realized that when we're under fire, our characters sometimes say things we don't expect.

I strongly urge you to try it, in a small group (six really is the max). Have each writer prepare a list of basic traits--physical features, history, story arc over the book, goals, dreams, embarrassing moments, as a springboard for the discussion. As you articulate what your character is feeling, thinking, and rationalizing, you'll get to know him or her better, and that person you thought you knew so well just might surprise you, adding depth to your characterization and authenticity to your story.

Here's the character questionnaire I created:

Character Interview

Author Name:
Title of Book:

Name of Protagonist:
Age:
Hometown of childhood:
Current town name and brief description (location, size):
Job or primary occupation of time:
Married/single/divorced:
Body style:
Hair color
Skin tone:
Eye color:
Distinguishing features:
Religious leaning:
Political orientation:
Sexual orientation:
Education:

Overall goal in the novel:
Briefly state the plan to achieve this goal:
External obstacles to this goal:
Internal obstacles to this goal:
Primary rival:
Primary ally:

Most embarrassing moment as a child:
First love/how it ended:
Most shameful secret:
How feels about parents:
Dream career/occupation/way to spend time:
What actions, if any, to try and achieve dream:
Biggest tangible fear (i.e. spiders, public speaking):
Biggest internal fear (i.e. death, loss, exposure):
Bad habits:
Promiscuity level/view of sex:

Primary character change-growth arc in this novel:

Eat, Pray, Don't Go Stark Raving Mad

2009-02-22T10:01:47Z

An amazing talk about how to not burn out as a creative genius by Elizabeth Gilbert, author of Eat, Pray, Love. Watching it at 4 a.m. after some really difficult writing days has done some major damage control. Many writer friends have felt saved by it.

Electrocution, writing mistakes, and boys named Spike

2009-02-06T19:02:48Z

Some mistakes you only make once.

Take, for example, the time I electrocuted myself while unplugging studio strobes in a Travis County Courtroom. There was no need to tattoo "Discharge lights before touching metal" on my wrist. Two hours of EKGs later, my heart rhythm did go back to normal. No way would I do that again.

Writing, though, feels a little different. I seem to have the ability to make the same mistake repeatedly. I think it comes from the way I draft--maybe the way many people draft--in that white heat that keeps you interested in your story, and the inner editor remains locked in the closet.

I finished Bickham's Scene and Structure last week, and busily began fixing the problems in my manuscript, which is getting close to ready for submission. One list I might ought to tattoo on my wrist (or at least tape to my computer screen) is this:

Common Errors in Scenes

1. Too many people in the scene
2. Circularity of argument
3. Unwanted interruptions
4. Getting off track
5. Inadvertent summary
6. Loss of viewpoint
7. Forgotten scene goal
8. Unmotivated opposition
9. Illogical disagreement
10. Unfair odds
11. Overblown internalizations
12. Not enough at stake
13. Inadvertent red herrings
14. Phony, contrived disasters

Bickham says writers seldom make more than one of these mistakes in any given scene. He apparently has never read my manuscript.

And so my work begins anew. I love the idea of having a checklist of errors I can tick off, as though this might assure me I've done the right thing, gotten the scene letter perfect. But that doesn't account for the Spike factor.

He walks in, all bad boy in leather, helmet under his arm, sidling up to the bar to fix his grin on you. You sit there, warning bells clanging, but the pages full of warnings flutter to the floor, and you end up doing what feels right at the time.

Maybe it will work. Literary purists say it will. Commercial fiction analysts say, fat chance. But it seems to me that even if you let Spike buy you the drink, whisper into your ear, and ride you off into the sunset on his roaring machine, there will still be tomorrow. And tomorrow is for checklists, regrets, and chagrin. As long as your heart is still pumping after the jolt of electricity, you'll live to edit another day.

This book is rocking my world

2009-01-27T14:42:01Z

Yesterday I realized I didn't know squat about writing.

I've taken some twenty college hours specifically on the topic, taught creative writing myself, published short stories, drafted four novels, and read thousands of books. And yet, I still have so much to learn.

I blew through the first third of Bickham's book Scene and Structure, and literally could not stop. He made clear that every single scene--EVERY SINGLE SCENE--needed a statement of a scene goal, a middle filled with obstacles and conflict, and an end where the goal leads to disaster. The character simply must be worse off than before.

At first read, I railed against this. Formula! Genre fodder! Where is the subtlety, the texture! How can your story flow with these requirements?

And then I realized something obvious: I was wrong.

I started looking at books. Not just popular fiction. But great works. And they did this. What I thought was trite and too obvious (the character must state his goal in the scene!) was necessary. Because that is what engages the reader. Books are not life. They are larger than life. Books are not day-to-day. They are very specifically chosen days--days where things happen, where change sets in, where people recognize they have a new status quo, a new problem, and a new goal.

Here, I'll take a book off my shelf--Cold Mountain by Charles Frazier. Let's take a peek.

The novel begins with sequel, not scene--backstory. But here we come to our first true scene, and there in paragraph one, is the scene goal:

But his legs felt strong, and that worried him. As soon as he was fit to fight, they would ship him right back to Virginia.

So clearly he has a goal--avoid getting shipped back. We have a story problem large enough to arc through the whole book--getting home. And one small enough for a single scene--getting away from the hospital. The conflict is set up in seeing the other soldiers, any of whom could arrest him if he's caught trying to desert.

And at the end of the scene:

He set his foot on the sill and stepped out the window.

Disaster indeed. He's injured, likely to be caught, but he can't stop himself. He deserts.

So take the first sentence of my novel, which I thought so clever and pithy:

Photographers were never meant to babysit Bridezillas.

And turn it around, so that instead of a statement, it is a scene goal:

I would not let this Bridezilla cost me two grand.

From the next sentence on, the story is EXACTLY the same. But the difference in reader expectation and involvement is huge. In the first instance, you might have a story question or two--why is she babysitting a bride? Or, what is going on? But those are passive questions.

Now, the question is--Why is this Bridezilla going to cost her two grand? And how is she going to prevent it from happening? Now, the reader is ACTIVELY seeking an answer, rather than just following along. She is engaged. And the obstacles and comedic conflict between the photographer and the bride are not just an unfurling of story, but a race to see who is going to win a conflict.

Here is the problem with not following scene structure: people who are evaluating your manuscript know it. If you don't, even if your writing is clever and nuanced and beautiful, it won't carry a reader for more than three pages. Without this structure in place, the story flags, and anyone who is going to represent you or publish you will flip back to the beginning of the scene where interest waned, and realize that despite initially flowing well, the story structure just isn't there.

This is not a mistake I'm going to make again.

Scene, Sequel, Scene, Sequel, DUCK DUCK GOOSE!

2009-01-26T23:31:55Z

So I’m reading Scene & Structure by Jack Bickham. I’ve set aside my multi-protagonist novel (thank you readers for your suggested books) and am back to my romantic comedy, which I’m taking through Donald Maass’ Writing the Breakout Novel Workbook.

This last year, I’ve also read Robert McKee’s Story and John Truby’s The Anatomy of Story.

As you might have guessed, I’m getting serious about examining the structure of my novels.

My current book has more promise than all the others I have written combined. It’s funny, it’s timely, and it involves everything I hold dear--photography, the civil rights of my friends, and recognizing that perfect love when it comes along (and, of course, stalking it on the internet to see if it is already “in a relationship,” Facebook or otherwise.)

McKee and Truby had a lot to stay about plot. Maass has really helped me with character and story arc development.

But Bickham’s book, I hope, will help with the individual building blocks that carry all those things off.

What I’ve already learned: You should be able to write your main character’s self concept in fifteen words.

So, let’s try it: Zest believes she can have it all--a small independent business and a happy marriage.

Then, Bickham says your novel begins at the moment your character’s self concept is threatened.

I think I got that right: She comes home from a wedding job to hear a message from a lawyer that her husband has filed for divorce.

This threat should create a story goal, a way to get back into equilibrium. I think I have that:

Initially, Zest’s story goal is very pragmatic: figure out what went so wrong that her husband would secretly file for divorce, and then to fix it, even if draws her attention away from her new business.

This creates story questions: Why did her husband do this? How can she fix it? And further more, should it be fixed?

You have some hints before you even get to the dramatic moment. Zest is snarky, biting, and probably not so easy to live with. She’s plunged into this business without enough forethought, on the assumption that her husband is behind her all the way. Because we’re in first person, and we find Zest amusing and entertaining, we go along with her in the first chapter, but when trouble hits, we find ourselves wondering--did she deserve it? So, separate from Zest’s own story question--how could he do this to me? We the readers have a separate one, one we keep from her--should we hope her husband runs for the hills?

What I hope Bickham can really help me with is the sagging middle. I have a great start and a killer end. But I find myself standing below the arch, arms above my head, propping up the noodling bridges and praying for some structure before my muscles give out.

Like trying to manage five husbands

2009-01-15T23:14:00Z

I think I'd rather do that than write a book with more than one main character.

First and foremost, if you know of a great book with multiple protagonists, PLEASE LIST IT!

I'm revising a manuscript for a fellowship application. I love the book, but it's a challenge, because for what I wanted to accomplish, I ended up with ~~six~~ five protagonists (I killed one yesterday -- hoping to murder another one tomorrow.)

I'm reading like mad. When I first outlined the novel, I read The Joy Luck Club, The First Wives' Club, and Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants.

They did not help.

Recently, Donald Maas, in his book Writing the Breakout Novel, insisted that the only way to make a multiple-protagonist novel work is to ensure that the group is paramount. It must become a character of its own, with hopes, goals, obstacles, and a story arc.

Well, okay. I think I mostly did that, but early reviews of the opening chapters from the critique buddies were overwhelming with -- you can't switch characters NOW! I just got into the story!

So I've been a Google-Maniac, looking for other multi-protag books. I have found:

How to Make an American Quilt by Whitney Otto
Babyville by Jane Green
The Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver
The Stand by Stephen King
Jurassic Park by Michael Crichton

I have the last three on my shelves. I'm going to start outlining them tonight, and try to find the other two tomorrow. In my Google-mania, I found an AWESOME and lengthy set of blog posts on pitfalls of writing this type of book at Anne Mini's site.

But I'd love to have more to look at. I don't think the thriller/action books are going to help me. Mine is more women's fiction.

If you know some--bring it on!

In your compliment sandwich, hold the cheese

2009-01-14T04:01:30Z

"You forgot the sandwich."

The fourth grader stared me down, her nose twitching, red hair statically charged and floating off her shoulders.

I shifted beside her desk, where a laptop displayed her personal-essay-in-progress.

"Was I supposed to bring lunch?" I asked.

She rolled her eyes and thrust her chin into her palm. She might be nine, but she definitely had the teen angst down. "No. The compliment sandwich."

"Yes, oh, sorry." As a parent editor, I was supposed to first give a compliment to the student, then make a single constructive suggestion, then finish with one additional compliment.

"Um, this part where the coach screams at you--very vivid."

The eyes rolled again.

The students were all at the point of their essay revision that turned them apathetic. I totally understood their impatience. How many times had I written something quickly, loved it, and wanted to proclaim it done? Oh, so there's a plot hole or two, and that one character just sort of disappears. And yeah, seventeen pages of backstory exposition is a lot...but it's good stuff! If we mess with it, we might lose the voice! Disrupt the flow! Or have to work!

I'm also an impatient critique buddy. I know we're supposed to compliment each other, support each other, keep each other going in the face of near crushing rejection from the industry. But I want to get to the problem, the slow part, the confusion, the part where I might fail.

I'll take the girl's warning, though, and remember to always build the sandwich. The middle parts don't hold together well anyway, tomato and lettuce sliding everywhere. And where would the honey mustard go? Showing another writer what they're doing right, and more importantly, what not to mess with, is just as important as listing their writing ails. I'll keep this in mind as I spend tonight critiquing some pieces of my own, trying to put together an application for a writing fellowship.

I can pat myself on the back. It's not a waste of time. Sometimes we're the only one who ever really "gets" what we're going for. So bring on the compliment sandwich, inner editor. Just don't let the bread get all soggy.

Friday Flashback: High School Bullies

2009-01-03T17:48:41Z

They told me she'd be waiting at the convenience store a block away from school.

I wore white high heels and a yellow skirt, a combination that, I was certain, said, "Don't hit me."

My two best friends walked on either side of me as we trudged down the street.

"We could eat lunch at my house instead," Michelle offered.

"I can take her," Tressa said.

"I don't think she'll give up if I don't show," I said. "We should just deal with it."

"It's ridiculous," Michelle said. "Nobody wants to date her brother. Why is she beating you up because you won't?"

"I have no idea," I said.

We continued down the street, noting the throng of students in the parking lot, far more than usual.

"Oh God," I said. "You think that's for us?"

"We can't go over there," Tressa said.

We walked so slowly now that we barely moved. I kept expecting someone to look up, to see us, and to shout, "Here she is!" But they all just meandered, a multi-colored clump in jeans and mini skirts and cowboy hats.

Finally, we hit the edge of the of the parking lot. People elbowed each other, parting as we walked through.

She leaned against a car near the entrance to the store. "You didn't chicken out?" she said, handing her coke to another girl. "I figured you'd run the other way."

She wasn't overly large, but easily the most athletic girl in our class. Her feathered blond hair puffed up with a breeze, like an angry rooster.

I didn't say anything. I didn't trust my voice to work.

"So you think you're too good for my brother?" She stepped forward.

I shrugged.

"You gonna say something?" she pushed against my shoulder.

"Ah, leave her alone," someone said.

A savior!

We turned to the voice, but no one stepped forward to claim the comment.

"Say something!" she said.

I cleared my throat. It might work. "Seems like this is between your brother and me, not me and you."

She crossed her hands in front of her chest. I had no idea why this was happening. Her brother had never even asked me out. He was considerably older than me, on his fifth year of high school while I was only a freshman. I did know, however, that he had been dedicating "Love Me Tender" and other Elvis songs to me nightly on some radio show.

"This is bunk," someone said. "Let's go." A couple people peeled off one side of the crowd and started walking away.

This seemed to signal a general disenchantment with our lack of aggression, and others started to leave too. Finally only this girl and I stood there, a smattering of our own friends looking on.

I shrugged again, and turned away, expecting her to jump me at any moment. I kept my back straight and walked neither too fast nor too slow. After a moment, Michelle and Tressa fell in beside me, and we walked back to school, skipping lunch, a casualty of war.

Nothing else ever happened. The brother failed to graduate, she transferred away, and I never thought of this incident again.

Until she emailed me the other day, breezy and friendly, asking how my life is going.

Time and the internet changes everything, and apparently brings us together. I haven't responded, still remembering the heat on my face, the swish of my skirt against my legs, and the fear that at any moment, a hand would connect with my face.

New Year starts with a BANG!

2009-01-02T19:54:27Z

So my first email of 2009 was a movie producer responding to a query I sent a couple days before, and asking to see the first 30 pages of my family story screenplay.

Here's hoping that the rest of the year goes just as well!

My new critique group is up and running. I'll be editing my latest work-in-progress, Heteroflexible.

Our first exercise was a get-acquainted post to the group where we summarize our novels and learn what each other is doing. The summary should help us clarify the heart of our stories.

I won't post all the exercises, but when I think they are fun or useful, they'll go on the blog. We're roughly following Donald Maass' Writing the Breakout Novel Workbook

Happy New Year, everyone!

Exercise 1
Novel Title: Heteroflexible
General Fiction—Romantic Comedy

Wise-cracking wedding photographer Zest Renald has just been served divorce papers when she is hired by a lesbian softball team to document their elopement to California. She’s never heard of Prop 8, and her only exposure to lesbian culture is an addiction to the talk show Ellen. But with her assets frozen and her husband holing up at her house with the Other Woman, she takes the job.

The brides arrive in San Diego only to discover the minister they hired is using them as target practice in his mission to save sinners from eternal damnation. After a low-speed chase across town in their pink limo, the women retreat to a Mexican restaurant while protests and counter-protests brew outside. The women call in reinforcements—members of a gay male softball team who make the ultimate sacrifice to help the women slip past the activists and tie the white knot.

First Graf:

Ordinarily, photographers do not get paid to baby-sit Bridezillas.

Last Graf:

And I kissed him, in front of God and everybody, including sixteen lesbians, five cheerleaders in drag, and a pink Pomeranian named Butch.

Why I Believe in Santa Claus

2008-12-22T21:53:02Z

My anecdotal evidence gathered from 38 years of blind faith.

1976 — Age 6

If I keep pinching myself, I’ll stay awake. I can still hear mom and dad in the living room, so I can’t sneak out yet.

Jennifer says there isn’t any Santa. That it’s really mom and dad. But Jennifer unties Billy’s shoes just to be mean. He can’t tie them himself, and he cries.

It’s starting to rain outside. We never get snow at Christmas.

Shhh, I think they’ve gone to bed. Now I have to wait again. Must keep pinching.

I wake up, and it’s still dark outside. The rain is coming very hard now. I hear a tinkle in the house. I knew it! Jennifer is wrong. I hop out of bed and sneak into the hallway. Just a little farther and I’ll be able to see. I tiptoe to the end and peek around the corner –

CRASH! Lightning fills the house and the thunder is so loud I almost scream. I clap my hands over my mouth and run back to bed. Santa knew I was going to look!

I’ll never doubt again.

_____________________________________

1983 — Age 13

It really doesn’t matter if I’m only getting clothes for Christmas. I quit playing with toys a long time ago.

What irks me about this Christmas, other than the three horrid hours we have to spend watching the old people play dominos, is that something is wrong with my ankle. No one can figure out anything wrong with it, but I can’t walk. It hurts a lot and I have to hop everywhere. I’ve spent the whole break reading books, and crawling to the bathroom when I have to go. Mom acts like I’m making it up. I know going to the doctor is expensive, and I don’t remember hurting it. But someone’s got to do something.

Tomorrow morning is Christmas Day and I’m in the play at church, and this is going to be so embarrassing. Whoever saw an angel bouncing to the mike to sing “Angels We Have Heard on High?” I finally get a big part — they never choose me for Mary — and this has to happen. Maybe Tiny Tim will lone me his crutches.

- - - - - -

My brother is banging on my door, going on about some Star Wars something-or-another in his stocking. I’m halfway across the room before I realize it.

I can walk just fine.

_____________________________________

1997 — Age 27

I can’t believe I’ve been trying to get pregnant for almost a year. Thankfully my doctor was willing to see us so close to Christmas, get the preliminary tests started, so we can start the New Year with a new direction, most certainly with some assistive technology. No good ol’ fashioned way for us.

I hang the stockings almost bitterly; I was certain we could put a third one up, even if a baby hadn’t quite yet come by now. When we began this journey in February, I just knew we’d be well on our way by Christmas. I was so sure that after last Christmas, I’d bought a new stocking on clearance, just to be prepared. I run my hands along the fabric, then stick it beneath the tissue paper, feeling foolish.

I pull out the chart the doctor had given us. We have to “try” the next few nights in a row, then we can take a test on Jan. 7, the first day it might be positive. A Christmas baby, I laugh. We can tell him he was conceived on Christmas Eve.

Whatever. I’m certain what actually brings the baby around will be intensive, long, probably painful, and expensive.

_____________________________________

2003 — Age 33

I’m trying not to have a cow. It’s 8:00 on Christmas Eve and Baby Elizabeth just opened an early gift – a little blue bear. Emily has been crying nonstop, wanting one too. We’ve called my parents, who we won’t see for a few more days, to see if they can find one and give it to her in Wichita Falls when we drive up, but now she’s writing a letter to Santa asking for a blue bear.

She tugs on the front door.

“Where are you going?” I ask her. “It’s night time.”

“To put my letter in the mail!”

Oh no. “To Santa?”

“Yes! To bring me a blue bear!”

I don’t even know what to say. I follow her down the steps.

“Baby, I don’t know if Santa will get the letter this late. He’s probably already packed his sleigh.”

“He can! I know he can!”

We go back in the house and I get them ready for bed. What will Emily think if Santa doesn’t get her the bear? I could send John out. Surely something is still open on Christmas Eve with a blue bear in stock. If not, maybe she’ll forget when she gets all the other gifts.

I go back downstairs, where John is pulling the bag of extra toys to set out. “Why did Emily go outside?” he asks.

I tell him about the bear.

“That’s funny,” he said. “A couple of days ago I was picking up some little things for them on Christmas morning, and I got this.” He tugs a small blue beanie baby from the bag. A bear.

I can’t believe it.

We may not know exactly how he works, or when or where or why, but there definitely is a Santa Claus.

I will never doubt again.

Way way fun book trailer!

2008-12-19T00:07:46Z

Oh, if only I could afford a book trailer like this.

(Okay, if only I had a book coming out to make a trailer!)

The book is Perfect Chemistry by Simone Elkeles. I hope it's as hot as the trailer! I put it on my Christmas list. It comes out Dec. 23, so HEY SANTA! LOOK!

What Christmas means to Kyle

2008-12-17T14:55:58Z

A few weeks ago I volunteered to be a "Parent Editor" in my daughter's fourth grade class. The students are learning to write creative nonfiction for their state-mandated TAKS test, and needed more one-on-one instruction than the teacher could give.

Yesterday, I visited the class for the second time, to check on their progress and give them a second round of edits. They were grumbly that they still "weren't done," which means they really ARE becoming writers (as we all LOVE revision.)

The range of writing ability varies dramatically in the class, from students who put out perfect sentences on first draft to those who don't seem familiar with punctuation...at all. Most of the stories were first-person narratives on topics such as "My Dog Buster" and "The Day We Had a Car Accident."

And then there was Kyle.

Kyle struggled mightily with syntax. His average sentence length was five words. On our first edit, his little essay "The Smell of Pine" rambled about all the smells he liked. I encouraged him to remove all the other smells and to simply put down all the things the smell of pine reminded him of. By the end of the class, he had a good paragraph about putting up the Christmas tree and the pine mingling with the other smells of the holiday.

Yesterday, we cleaned up his sentences and I told him he needed to finish out his essay by telling us what the smell of pine meant to him. I expected a recap of the first sentence, like most of the kids. I had no idea what he would say next, and when I think of my own smaller Christmas due to the economy's effect on my business, the disappointment of this year with agents knocking down my book and now struggling to find the courage to write another one, I think I'll keep Kyle in mind.

"This year the tree is small. The dogs could knock off the ornaments. There aren't many presents. But the pine smells just as good on a little tree. It's still Christmas as long as I can smell the pine."

Saved by the lexicon

2008-12-08T15:04:47Z

Saturday night I sat in a seedy bar with ten good friends. We were celebrating the end of National Novel Writing Month. At least five of us had written our 50,000 words in November, and now we were drinking hideous blue margaritas and watching drunk people throw darts (foreshadowing--an hour later we would be those drunk people hurtling sharp objects across a dark room.)

I had won a "Decision Maker" as a prize at the official party earlier in the evening. It's a modern version of the "Magic Eight Ball," a bright little object with a spinning light and six answers to your questions, such as "Abort Mission" or "Engage!" I had covered up redundant or annoying answers with more bar-appropriate suggestions, including, "Drink!" and "Kiss Someone."

As we sat around a long table, I heard a word that was new to me, and like a streak of light in the dark, I knew it was the title to my new novel.

Heteroflexible.

I'd never heard the word before, and even those at the table were a little indecisive on its nuances, but the core definition was pretty clear: a heterosexual who is sometimes attracted to a person of the same sex.

Reading up on the word was surprising. It was coined in 1996 but saw more common use only in 2004. Writers on both sides of the conservative/liberal fence dislike the term either because it disrupts the natural order of girls flirting with guys or because it mixes giggling hetero girls with lesbians, setting gay rights back. (Some links: http://www.startribune.com/local/27300359.html and http://www.washingtontimes.com/news/2008/aug/17/heteroflexible/) Kate Perry's breakout song "I Kissed a Girl" is center stage of all the recent controversy.

I found it both comforting and inspiring to know that a pop culture term that is woefully underused, wildly controversial, and rife with conflict and stirred passion, serving as a flashpoint between generations and their view of sex, is exactly the sort of word that describes my book.

I'm very excited about 2009! Bring it on!

When Jack Black is Jesus, you're bound to get cheery

2008-12-04T15:48:23Z

I love it, love it, love it. Best thing to happen since that horrid Prop 8 passed.

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