I was surely dead!

  • k-avatargathered worshippers in his turnups
  • giggled and tickled the boy next to her?
  • a cocoon of darkness
  • with the skirts of their nightshirts on fire
  • I was surely dead!

I was surely dead! My chances were about as good as a couple of sleepwalking jugglers at a gas station with the skirts of their nightshirts on fire.

My mind writhed in a cocoon of darkness. Was it Marie Curie who giggled and tickled the boy next to her? Did she tickle me?

A farmer, barefoot, gathered worshippers in his turnups. Is he a god to crickets?

 

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Gladiola Sincerely Hoped

  • by jengroup prayer
  • informality prevails
  • lavish ceremonialism
  • genitals

Gladiola sincerely hoped that the large crowd would respect the lavish ceremonialism she had striven for when arranging the group prayer, and that it wouldn’t degenerate into one of the boorish affairs where informality prevails and the men feel compelled to expose their genitals.

bonus points for using them all in one sentence!

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Music To My Ears

r-avatarWe’ve been deep in our music novel for the past few months, and just last week we reached the conclusion of Novel #5 in our critique group. This led to a lively discussion about endings in general, and the parallels between fiction and music composition.

There are many different approaches to endings, and different kinds of readers prefer different ending styles. What they all have in common is that readers seek a feeling of completion, that a “good” ending must be “satisfying” — whatever that means to each individual.

In music, this feeling of completeness is dependent on resolution. If the song changed key somewhere along the way, it will feel unresolved until it returns to its home key. The repeat structure, the lyrics, all kinds of elements of the music can contribute to this sense of resolution, of things coming together. This isn’t to imply that the only valid endings are those with complete resolution. Far from it. Some songs end on the up-beat and leave the listener ringing with unresolved energy. There are false endings, and slow fade-outs, and many other conventions.

Just like a good story ending, these various ways of handling resolution play with our instinctive, intuitive drive to have things tied up neatly. Sometimes the power of the ending comes from the elegance with which this denouement is achieved, while in other cases the conclusion’s ambiguity is what makes it stick with us, like the song that bounds up for its final beat, and never comes back down.

Tricky endings are definitely a place where it’s necessary to know the rules before you try to break them. Done poorly, they just feel flat. Like the author just stopped typing and called it “the end” without addressing questions raised along the journey. An ambiguous ending with no cathartic climax (aka, the European ending) isn’t right for every story, but then again not every tale calls for a big showdown. Just like not every song wants a gradual diminuendo, and not every song wants to end with a cymbal crash.

Look at the threads that make up your story, at the choices that haven’t yet borne fruit, and construct an ending based on satisfying your readers. Or, leave just the right questions ringing in their minds.

Because they believed us

  • k-avatarpop that sucker out
  • eat pizza! fun fun!
  • designs on their pots
  • hardest departure
  • insane stoicism

Because they believed us to have designs on their pots, the primitive artisans drove us away with sharp sticks and their own spittle. Smithers refused to go, even when they poked him, although he relented in his insane stoicism when the chief began to tickle him.

Awaiting Smithers, the rest of us were stranded by the receding tide. Such is the tale of our hardest departure. One of the savages, fascinated by our fair hair and dungarees, fled his ancestral home to experience Western culture. After six months, all he would say was, “eat pizza! fun fun!”

Presenting my research to the dean, I found myself at a loss to reply when he stated, “Ya gots ta pop that sucker out.”

 

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“There Are Always Girls There”

  • by jenthere are always girls
  • planted the desire
  • sight-taste-feel-know sensation
  • black plastic bags gathered around her
  • the man with his hood thrown back

“There are always girls there,” said the man with his hood thrown back to his compatriots. And with those simple words he planted the desire in them to visit the strange new club.

Inside, a girl writhed on the stage, nude except for the black plastic bags gathered around her. The men gulped and stared.

Behind the bar a neon sign buzzed loudly, advertising in lurid red and purple the latest trendy alcoholic beverage: Sight-Taste-Feel-Know Sensation!

“One for me,” said the man with his hood thrown back to the bartender. “And one for the lady.”

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Granularity

r-avatarWe completed the read-through on the music novel, and we also took care of all the minor notes we came up with along the way. Now it’s time for everyone’s favorite game: stomp the weasels! The object is to make sure we’re not overusing the words we have learned that we have a tendency to overuse. We have a list of about three dozen(!) words, which are symptomatic of passive voice, wishy-washiness, and general wordiness.

Scrivener, our writing tool of choice, has some very nifty search capabilities that are making us more productive this time around. In the past, we’ve literally color-coded our entire text by doing find/paste, which is as tedious as it sounds. Scrivener saves us that hassle. For example, we can use its regex feature to quickly highlight all the -ly words, and with just a few tweaks to the regular expression we can tell it to omit things like “jelly” or “only”. We love it!

This is an interesting phase of our process, because it’s pretty much the only time when we work off the same monitor. Rather than splitting it up and each of us de-weaseling half of the book, we look at it together and discuss which instances of “that” should be removed. Sometimes it’s not as simple as keep/kill a particular word; sometimes we find whole sentences that can come out or need to be reworded. The level of magnification at this stage is much greater than on the read-through, so it calls our attention to different aspects of the text.

We’re still in the early part of this (very large) manuscript, but so far we’re quite happy to see that we have fewer weasels lurking on each page than with our earlier efforts. On the other hand, we were sort of counting on making a meaningful dent in the word count in the course of culling those weasels, which it seems might not really happen. But it is giving us an even tighter, leaner book. There are fewer weasels, but still too many. Fortunately we have our special boots for this very job.

Not in a million years

  • k-avatar“Get on the floor!”
  • He had used knives before
  • not in a million years
  • chittering, twittering sounds
  • a distinctly squashlike appearance
  • sucked up the liquified flesh

Not in a million years would Melvin have guessed that the chittering, twittering sounds originated from a creature having such a distinctly squashlike appearance. He took a step toward it and it suddenly reared up and barked, “Get on the floor!”

And then Melvin understood that this was a plontworb, and his life was in danger. The creatures had overrun the lower decks and fed on most of Engineering. They killed with a jet of caustic digestive fluids that turned their prey into puddles, and then sucked up the liquified flesh.

But he knew they had weak spots, if he could only locate a weapon. He had used knives before…

 

 

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“Don’t You Think I Want A Cigarette”

  • by jenbecause of the heat of all the dead bodies
  • deserve a straight answer
  • a cigarette or two
  • rows and rows
  • the very thought makes my mouth water

“Don’t you think I want a cigarette or two myself? The very thought makes my mouth water,” said Philip. “But we can’t.”

“Why not?” said Phyllis. “I think I deserve a straight answer!”

Philip gestured at the rows and rows of corpses. “Because of the heat of all the dead bodies.”

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Mutual Back-Slap Society

r-avatarOne of the great things about having a writing partner is that you can pat each other on the back, so neither of you has to risk a sprained elbow doing it for themselves.

Not everything you write is going to be pure gold, and the same goes for any human writing partner you might have. It really is important to show support and encouragement, but it’s equally important to call bullshit when necessary. Even when the offending idea is something your partner is deeply in love with. Especially then.

There are two ways to go wrong with this kind of feedback.

You might be too soft about it. You don’t want to be mean, and you don’t want to come off like you think your own work is flawless. Who are you to criticize? You’re the co-author, that’s who. If you don’t speak up, then either the defect will remain in the writing, or else later when you do finally raise the issue it’ll be that much harder to deal with. (Maybe your partner will realize on her own by then? Don’t count on it.)

The other pitfall is fixating on the things you don’t like to the exclusion of what’s good. Even if you’re not rude about it, the cumulative effect will wear your partner down. You might train him not to overuse passive voice, but you’ll be smothering his creativity while doing it. “Dull, but free of errors,” isn’t what anybody wants for a log line.

Positive reinforcement is more effective than negative. To help each other improve, and to improve as a team, you need to praise the good stuff. Offer that pat on the back, and hope to earn one for yourself.

Helga was a witch

  • k-avatarcertainly gambled and caroused
  • the face of that terrible woman
  • in the pastor’s opinion
  • monstrous Stalinist-vintage building
  • dotted with bright red poppies
  • seven-fingered human hand

Helga was a witch, in the pastor’s opinion.

His suspicions could have derived from her propensity for filthy hair and cackling laughter, or the evidence that she more than occasionally butchered stray cats. It could have owed something to her sordid past, when she had certainly gambled and caroused, or the fact that she dwelled in seclusion in a monstrous Stalinist-vintage building situated incongruously amid waving grasses dotted with bright red poppies. But no.

It was all because of the simple fact that any time pastor saw the face of that terrible woman his mind filled with the ghostly image of a seven-fingered human hand.

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