Minutiae

We’re getting down to the bitter end with our edits on the third book in the trilogy. We’ve done all the big things like deleting scenes and resequencing chapters. Characters that only had one or two point-of-view scenes now find themselves with none, relegated to the background like a mere extra in a movie. Descriptions have been expanded, motivations clarified, plot points strengthened, dialog perfected. The ending has tripled in size (Now with moar happenings!).

What is left?! I hear you cry.

Weasel words, that’s what’s left.

What are weasel words? You cry yet again.

Weasel words are meaningless little words that clutter up your prose. Every author has certain crutch words that pop up, seemingly while you’re not looking, like dandelions. In our case these crutches are mainly qualifying words. Given free rein, our sentences would all look like this:

Apparently he actually perhaps might have just wanted to.

And so we use the Find function of our word processor to search out these evil little weasels and banish them.* We talk about every single one. Yes, it’s tedious, but when we’re done the prose is much snappier. It sparkles like morning dew.

What does any of this have to do with collaboration?! I hear you cry one final time.

Well, until you have a half-hour-long argument over whether or not a particular sentence needs “had” to truly connote when in time and space the action occurred in relation to the currently happening story actions, you can’t truly call yourself a co-author.

* This technique also works well for ferreting out passive voice. Color all instances of “was” red, and, when you’re done crying, your novel will thank you.

Flew Back To Colorado Springs

During October we will be sharing passages that we’ve written independently from the same prompt.

  • flew back to Colorado Springs
  • teaches him all a beggar’s tricks
  • redwood does not decay
  • supposed to be in stock in San Jose
  • date with a mulatto gal

Kent’s Take

Rick flew back to Colorado Springs for a date with a mulatto gal who teaches him all a beggar’s tricks. And he took my sandals, because redwood does not decay when exposed to even his vitriolic foot sweat. I still don’t have replacement sandals, because I’m a triple-E. But my size is supposed to be in stock in San Jose.

 

Jen’s Take

by jenRedwood does not decay. That’s the whole point. That’s what makes it so perfect for constructing lawn furniture. But of course, the set I wanted was out of stock at my local Ikea. It was supposed to be in stock in San Jose, though, so I flew out there to get it. Because redwood does not decay.

So, of course, they don’t have it in San Jose either. Someone bought the last one right before I got there. They gave me a free bag of Swedish meatballs for my trouble. I wish I was one of those guys whose dad teaches him all a beggar’s tricks so that I could have gotten more than the meatballs and a date with a mulatto gal out of the trip. But I’m not. My dad only taught me about fishing.

Anyway, after that I flew back to Colorado Springs and my plane was late due to fog at O’Hare. And that’s why I missed work yesterday. Honest.

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Under The Hood

During October we will be sharing passages that we’ve written independently from the same prompt.

  • under the hood
  • devastating fire
  • don’t punish me for being scared
  • Your stranger-self
  • legs of my corduroys

Jen’s Take

by jenUnder the hoodie, her red hair took on the smoky shadows of a devastating fire and her green eyes glinted, causing the legs of my corduroys to suddenly seem inadequate.

“Is that a pistol in your pocket,” she asked, “or are you just happy to see me?”

Dammit. I was hoping she wouldn’t notice. This was my first time meeting someone in person whom I’d chatted with online.

Don’t punish me for being scared,” I pleaded, sounding utterly pathetic.

She smiled disdainfully. “Your stranger-self was more interesting online.”

 

Kent’s Take

Your stranger-self can be terrifying, so don’t punish me for being scared when I saw it the first time. It inflamed my flight impulse, and, as I ran, the friction in the legs of my corduroys kindled a devastating fire, until I had to stop and quench those writhing flames. And so you caught up, no longer the stranger but just yourself, with soft brown eyes peering quietly from under the hood of your sweatshirt.

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Inspiration Strikes When You Least Expect It

In this case, it was on a bus. Jen and Kent took a trip — by bus, ‘cuz they’re such high-rollers — which gave them a bit of time to discuss what their next project should be.

As you may recall, the intrepid duo has been struggling with one of the facets of a writing partnership, namely agreeing on what to write about. Historically, Kent has been more of the big-idea guy and Jen brings characters and relatability. In this case, Jen brought pretty much everything. During the bus ride, she and Kent figured out a premise that unites a whacky (and fairly big) idea she’d mentioned months ago with the character she’s been mildly obsessed with of late. The vexing question of what to use for the hidden reality of the story world finally had an answer.

But wait, there’s more!

The new premise lends itself to a story-within-the-story, which means there is also a role for Kent’s current pet big idea, the one that they’ve despaired of ever coming to terms with. There’s even been talk of some short stories to explore the concept. Everybody wins!

So, yeah. All it took was ten hours on a bus.

And Your Stomach Is Invaded By Butterflies

During October we will be sharing passages that we’ve written independently from the same prompt.

  • and your stomach is invaded by butterflies
  • the place of the courageous and the beautiful
  • lick ice cream and savor sugared almonds
  • splashing waterfalls and frothing rivers
  • Mexico’s most beautiful señorita
  • in Easter-Rabbit costumes

Kent’s Take

It is the place of the courageous and the beautiful to lick ice cream and savor sugared almonds, and it is their right to do so in Easter-Rabbit costumes. For Mexico’s most beautiful señorita, these pleasures are an art form. When you look upon her, with her frozen treats and her floppy ears, your mind is aswirl with splashing waterfalls and frothing rivers, and your stomach is invaded by butterflies. Courageous and beautiful butterflies.

 

Jen’s Take

by jen“Welcome to the land of splashing waterfalls and frothing rivers, the place of the courageous and the beautiful, otherwise known as Las Vegas, Nevada’s legalized brothel, Madame Ibernia’s!” cried Ibernia Patience, waving her arms broadly.

Behind her, two sultry ladies in Easter-Rabbit costumes winked and gyrated.

Frank Pax smiled. Bernie always knew how to surprise him.

Fatima entered, wearing a gypsy-like costume.

“Tonight,” Ibernia said, “you will enjoy Mexico’s most beautiful señorita,” she indicated Fatima, “from whose body you will lick ice cream, and savor sugared almonds from her navel!

And your stomach is invaded by butterflies at the thought, isn’t it Frankie?” murmured Fatima.

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Fiery Ball Of Gas

During October we will be sharing passages that we’ve written independently from the same prompt.

  • fiery ball of gas
  • devotional delicacy
  • Skinner box
  • emotional maturity
  • serving up

Jen’s Take

by jen“The eucharist is so bland,” whined Reggie. “Can’t the nuns whip up a devotional delicacy with more zip? Maybe they could add wasabi.”

“That would be like serving up a fiery ball of gas!” shrieked Jen.

The two collapsed in giggles, displaying the emotional maturity of grade-schoolers, and clutching their nearly empty margaritas.

The other patrons of The Skinner Box, the newest bar in town, had already learned to avoid the two co-authors whenever they appeared for Happy Hour.

 

Kent’s Take

Johnson liked to watch Skinner box. Serving up whoop-ass like a devotional delicacy, take of this left hook, for it is about to rattle your brainstem…

This secret pleasure didn’t show much emotional maturity, but that was the reason for keeping it secret. Outwardly, Johnson gave every sign of detesting the brutal spectacle. But it flooded her with arousal like a fiery ball of gas. Unless that was the pork rinds…

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Collaborating in a Critique Group

We are currently participating in a writing workshop with author Carolyn Turgeon. The format is quite different from our regular critique group, but in both cases we, being collaborators, are unique. Perhaps I should say that Rune Skelley is unique. Jen and Kent are equivalent, and thus non-unique.

Pedantry aside, how do collaborators participate in a critique group? Do you alternate who offers feedback from week to week? Do you take turns finishing each others’ sentences? The way we’ve chosen to handle it is by presenting one piece of work for critique, and adding two voices and opinions to the discussions of other authors’ work. Our co-critiquers seem to like this arrangement. It gives them twice as much input on their own piece, without requiring twice the time commitment to read our stuff.

It does take discipline though, not to launch into a private conversation with your co-author during the meeting. A reader will ask a question or make an observation that sparks a Big Idea and you’ll want to talk about it. You really will. But you have to stay focused on the meeting. No one wants to sit and watch the two of you talk cryptically, or argue. You have to save all of that for the car ride home.

The car ride home is the best time to discuss the feedback you’ve just received, while it’s all still fresh in your minds. Having a writing partner to go through it all with is an invaluable tool. There will sometimes be comments that you don’t feel are valid, and if your partner agrees, then you can probably dismiss them. Other times though, one of you will be dismissive and the other won’t. That’s when things get interesting. Chances are the critique is valid, and without that second set of ears it might have been ignored.

One caveat: when you’re both madly in love with your project, it can be terribly easy to talk yourselves out of taking any of the critique to heart.

Kent: Man, I can’t believe how blind our readers were this week! None of them noticed the clever anagram of the name of that obscure scientist, or that we used the word “eight” exactly eight times!

Jen: I know! How could they ALL have totally missed the point of that scene?!

Do you participate in a critique group? Do you want to know more about how ours operate? Let us know in the comments.

Changa Wasn’t Really His Wife

  • his rodent-like face
  • the shrieking of something
  • to whom he was married
  • another man’s flesh
  • slid from his belt
  • in his rubbery grip

Changa wasn’t really his wife, she was just the person to whom he was married at age five in the tradition of his people. All he recalled of the ceremony was itchy clothes and the shrieking of something about eternal honor and sacrifice. The stunned newlyweds had been compelled to kiss, and then avoided each other for the next twelve years.

Now Changa was hot. The kind of hot that makes you sweat. As she strolled through the market, the broom felt heavy in his rubbery grip. Urgency slid from his belt, and he had to be alone for a minute.

He hated the idea of her tasting another man’s flesh, kissing his rodent-like face. Anger darkened his world.

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As The Mumu Princess

  • by jenMay your rod soften!
  • perhaps a seal
  • now she was all sweet decorum
  • the Mumu princess came down
  • where the clumped kelp grew
  • upon one elbow

As the mumu princess came down the church aisle, Lola the wedding planner admired her fanciful wedding gown, especially where the clumped kelp grew upon one elbow in the shape of an aquatic mammal — perhaps a seal, perhaps a sea lion.

It was a miracle they’d gotten the stubborn girl out of her mumus. Lola and her staff had earned their money there. With the help of the bride’s own father they’d convinced her something dressier than a flowing, shapeless robe was called for.

The mumu princess was furious with her father for interfering. She’d even yelled, “May your rod soften!” which seemed to Lola a wholly inappropriate insult to hurl at one’s father.

The mumu princess’s anger cooled eventually, she acquiesced, and now she was all sweet decorum.

Lola wished her new husband luck.

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Playing to Your Strengths

Different types of stories demand different kinds of scenes, and everyone has particular strengths and weaknesses. Maybe your protagonist has just reached the pivotal moment, in which the clever computer hacking of the villains is exposed — if your command of high-tech jargon begins and ends with “there are wires involved,” you’re probably going to struggle to make this scene compelling.

Your Achilles heel could be fight scenes, or sex scenes, or culinary scenes. And despite the vibrancy of your prose, and the depths of character you’ve established, the soufflé will fall because it relies on convincing portrayal of martial arts (or marital arts). Partner to the rescue! Each of you is good at different things, and your writing gets the combined benefits of all the variations in your styles and life experiences.

The optimistic view of these tribulations is that we can get good at whatever we put our minds to. The necessary geeky mumbo-jumbo for your hero to toss off is just a little bit of research away, give or take seven rounds of revisions to really nail the vernacular. Of course, this stuff just falls out of your writing partner, who won’t need to spend time on research or go through multiple drafts to pull it off. If you and your partner can divide the work according to your strengths, you both stay more productive.

You hope that your partner is skillful at exactly the types of scenes you’re apt to fumble. Real-world partnerships seldom embody the ideal case of offsetting all of each other’s weaknesses, but going it alone means precisely none of your gaps will be covered. Plus, partners can join forces to tackle challenges that neither of them would be up for individually. Two heads are better than one (clichéd but true!).