A MOMENT IN THE HISTORY OF WRITING
LITTLE-KNOWN FACTS ABOUT . . .
FINALLY . . . A SAMPLE OF EXCELLENCE
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Volume
4,
Issue 4
June 2006
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R e a d i n g W r i t e r
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Welcome to The VERB! Just returned from a mini-vacation in Kentucky. Nice change from the big city. Clean air. Dense forests. Narrow roads. No traffic. Stayed in a lodge on the banks of Lake Barkley. Had a Barn Swallow nest plastered in the corner above our door. Whenever we walked up to it, five babies leaned over and opened their mouths. The momma darted past several times, giving us the eye, so we kept our distance. Strolled through an 1850 farmhouse. Saw lots of wild animals, including elk and a herd of bison with six new babies. So many seafood buffets around, a person could easily grow gills. We hope to go back in October to see the changing leaves. Glad to see Jenna Glatzer’s Absolute Write website is back online. Her web host shut it down when a particular “literary agent” complained. Read all about it here. Writer and master fisherman Frank Baron is trying to give up the pipe, so let’s all send him our best smoke-free wishes. Tobacco is potent stuff. July 28 will mark seven years since I last lit up, but I have to admit ... a whiff still smells pretty fine now and then. You can do it, Frank! Beth Erickson, the Queen Bee of Filbert Publishing, returned from a writing conference last week to learn she had to put down her Rat Terrier. What a horrible blow. Here’s hoping another little doggy is in her future. ~~~ FOR YOUR RESEARCH – Finding the Right Balance Opinions are like noses—everybody has one. They come in all lengths and shapes and, more often than not, most are looking for a chance to blow. If you’re old enough to read this, you’ve probably been told at some point in your life that you shouldn't discuss religion or politics in a crowd. But where else do we discuss them? When we’re alone, brushing our teeth? And isn’t that the same as preaching to the choir? That person staring back at us agrees with everything we say. No, controversial topics should be discussed in a crowd, out in the open where folks can climb up on the soapbox and rant and rave until someone louder pushes them off. And these days, there's no end to the arenas (talk shows, blogs, forums, etc.) that absolutely thrive on personal opinions. Not so with novels. Reading a story is nowhere near the same as having a conversation. There’s no repartee, no crossfire, no give-and-take. The reader, while actively imagining the world in which she’s escaped, doesn’t contribute anything to the story. She’s led along by the author who controls the topic from the first page to the last. It’s an awesome power, and one we can’t afford to abuse. Yet we are storytellers. We record the human condition. Do we dare avoid controversial topics? How can we be true to ourselves if we’re afraid of offending others? We can’t. But we can be a little less irritating. The art of incorporating controversial topics into our stories, and it truly is an art, is to do so without losing our audience. Let’s say we’re animal rights activists. We abhor the trapping and killing of animals for the sake of human coats, and we want to write a story about it. How do we voice our outrage? How do we further our cause? How do we educate those on the other side? Well, we could have our lead character round up gallons of goat’s blood, hang out around posh parties and douse every fur coat that appears outside the door. We could have him wag a self-righteous finger in their faces, lecture them about their evil ways, page after page, and then cheer wildly when they take off their coats and beg for forgiveness. Yes! We told them! We won! We won! That’s one way to do it. Especially if our readers are animal rights activists. But what about the readers (including agents and editors) who disagree with our opinion, the very people we'd hoped to reach? Gone. To them, this isn't a story, this is propaganda. Time to switch POVs. Let’s say our lead character is one of those attending the posh party. She walks out in her expensive fur coat, minding her own business, when someone comes out of nowhere and dumps a bucket of blood on her. How does she react? “Oh, thank you very much for that. I now see the light. Please forgive me. I’ll change my ways immediately.” Highly unlikely. Odds are, she becomes angry and defensive and maybe even ready to coldcock somebody. And we all know what happens when we’re angry, defensive and ready to coldcock—we’re riding on pure emotion. Reason flies out of the brain. The chances of persuading this person have just decreased a hundredfold. In fact, this act alone might cause her to join those who adamantly oppose animal rights groups. Now we've restored balance. Now we've acknowledged both sides of the story with no clear winner or loser. Our audience can sit back and enjoy the collision without being told what to think or feel. And maybe, in the end, the characters will not only move them, they'll shed new light on the other side. IN A NUTSHELL
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| MARIE DisBROW
My writing area is exceptionally small. My husband and I have lived in our motor home for several years, traveling the country, but now are parked, waiting for our house to be built. My “desk” is half of a small table in our dining nook. The dividing line is a gooseneck lamp in the middle of the table. Its base is divided into storage sections which hold paper clips, business cards, a tiny mint-green stapler, my flash drive, a ruler, and several types of batteries. I’ve expanded my surface area to the window sill and the tops of a couple of file boxes. Arrayed on the window sill are two mugs stuffed with pens and pencils, a photo of my husband and me on our wedding day, a glass jar filled with antique buttons, a bowl of potpourri, and a ceramic snowman—a Christmas gift from an editor. An undersized file box on my work area holds cards with article ideas, fiction scenes, and marketing plans. It also contains lists: of books to review, of reprint submissions, items I need to research, publishers I plan to query, monthly goals, and my current To Do list. My digital camera is perched on top of the file box. My larger file boxes hold folders full of works in progress, correspondence, writers’ guidelines, sample magazines, and conference brochures. On top are market guides, a calculator, and seven books waiting to be read and reviewed. A bulging green notebook contains monthly and daily calendars, income and expense records, project notes with step-by-step plans, my book review schedule, and press releases. A smaller matching notebook is divided into sections: fiction, nonfiction, poetry, devotions, and article ideas. I carry this book with me when I’m away from my desk so no ideas are lost. Snippets of dialogue or description await placement into that just right spot in an article or devotion. The Bible on my desk is my oldest, a King James version that I received when I was about eight years old. It’s been rebound once, and needs it again. Scotch tape has mended several torn pages. Although I read several other translations for comparison, this old Bible is the one I use when I need to locate a verse. It’s marked throughout in different colors, and although I haven’t followed a color coding system, I can look for the verse marked in green on an upper left page or the one highlighted in yellow on the bottom left. My devotional journal is a pink spiral notebook with an index in the back. I usually write a page or two, responding to the day’s Scripture reading. The index pages show the titles, Scripture verses, dates and page numbers. I also add a note specifying if a particular entry can be worked into an article or devotion. This is a system recommended by the late Glenn White, and it has worked well for me. Several of my published devotions originated in this journal. When the weather is warm, I have a larger desk—a patio table under my favorite oak tree. My “summer office” has a nice view of the mountains and a refreshing breeze rising from the creek below. The only things on this desk are my laptop, wireless mouse, my cat Nubbin, and maybe a line of ants sneaking up on my sweating glass of sweet iced tea.
Marie, a mother of six and grandmother of four, has a sensitivity to
women's needs and challenges. One of her works-in-progress is based
on the lives of four generations of women. She is also working on a
handbook for caregivers of elderly parents. Marie's writing credits
include Discipleship Journal, In Touch, The Lutheran Journal, Seek,
The Secret Place, and Cross & Quill. Visit her website. |
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© 2006 Elizabeth Guy |
SAY WHAT? Commonly Misused Words
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Compliment
means
an admiring remark. "Vanilla ice cream is the ultimate complement to chocolate cake." |
A MOMENT IN THE HISTORY OF WRITING
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Unfortunately the book didn’t sell well. Neither the author nor the publishing house made any money, and the dismal numbers brought the writer’s career to a grinding halt. No publishing house wanted to touch his next project. “If only,” one editor offered, “your story had more of that Mafia stuff in it, maybe the book would’ve made money.” The writer paused. He’d always yearned to be the next James Joyce—a serious artist of language—but obviously that type of writing wasn’t going to pay his bills. Fine. He’d set aside the eloquent prose for simple storytelling. He’d write something that would sell. He submitted an outline that revolved around a family of racketeers, led by a soft-spoken patriarch. Publishers GP Putnam’s Sons liked the premise and gave him a $5,000 advance to write it. Three years later, he gave them a manuscript. “Needs one more rewrite,” he told them right before he took his family on vacation. When
the author returned from Europe, he found that his “Mafia” novel was
the cause of a huge publisher bidding war. It eventually topped out at
$450,000—a record at the time—and made Mario Puzo famous. The
Godfather would go on to sell 21 million copies, and remain on
the bestseller list for 67 weeks.
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What does OK stand for?
Why is there no Channel One on TV? Why does the term "Styrofoam"
not refer to cups? Learn about these and much much more from Cecil
Adams, the World's Smartest Human Being! |
LITTLE-KNOWN FACTS ABOUT . . .
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E. B. WHITE Born: July
11, 1899
“Advice to writers who want to get ahead without annoying delays: don’t write about Man, write about 'a' man."
~ Elwyn Brooks White was born in Mount Vernon, New York. ~ He was the seventh and last child of Samuel and Jessie White. ~ His father, a successful piano manufacturer, doted on his youngest child. He gave him the first small bicycle and canoe in the neighborhood. ~ In 1921, White graduated from Cornell University. For several years afterward, he traveled the country, trying different jobs. Eventually he returned to New York and went to work for a new magazine, The New Yorker. ~ There, he contributed poems, essays, editorials and cartoons. He also met Katherine Angell, the magazine’s literary editor. They married in 1929. ~ White and his wife made many new friends in the literary world, including Dorothy Parker, Robert Benchley and James Thurber. ~ White’s early poetry collections The Lady is Cold and The Fox of Peapack reflected his interest in the simple things of life. ~ In 1939 White moved to a farm in North Brooklin, Maine. He continued to write essays and columns for publications, later compiled in One Man’s Meat. This book remained in print for fifty-five years. ~ Between writing columns, White also published children's books. The barn near his home, which he loved, inspired many of the characters in Stuart Little, Charlotte’s Web and The Trumpet of the Swan. ~ After World War II, White became an enthusiastic supporter of internationalism and the United Nations, publishing a collection of essays, The Wild Flag. ~ In 1959, he published a standard style manual for writing The Elements of Style. The famous little manual was based on Professor William Strunk Jr.'s out-of-print book. White revised the original, adding a chapter and expanding some of the other content. ~ White was awarded the gold medal for essays and criticism of the National Institute of Arts and Letters, and a Pulitzer Prize special citation in 1978. ~ Charlotte's Web was recently listed as the best-selling children's paperback of all time. ~ At the age of 86, White died of Alzheimer’s disease in North Brooklin, Maine. He was interred at the Brooklin Cemetery.
Charlotte's
Web is coming
to theaters Christmas 2006! |
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Of
is a preposition. But it’s also
a verbal auxiliary meant to show ignorance. Our job as a writer
is to make sure that ignorance is coming from the character, not from us.
Terms such as could
of, should of, would of sound fine when they roll off the
tongue, but unless we’re using them in the dialogue of an uneducated
person, they don’t appear this way in print.
What we’re really searching for is the contraction of have. Let's keep an eye out for this itty bitty troublemaker lest our narrative appears, well, ignorant.
EXAMPLE: CLEANED UP:
EXAMPLE: CLEANED UP:
EXAMPLE: CLEANED UP:
Have a question about writing
or submitting your manuscript? |
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How many speaking characters are in your current story? |
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PREVIOUS SURVEY
Yes, I couldn’t
write without them. - 61%
"Yes, I compose a thorough profile of each character on index cards. It's the only way I know how to keep them straight in my mind." - Sally Reed "I don't take the time to physically construct profiles, I do spend a while thinking about them before I actually write." - Rupert Watkins "I pull characters out of my hat. Usually based on someone I know or have encountered in my life. Lots of people from the past. I see them vividly as I write and somehow they begin to talk to me." - Vivien Goldsberry "I don't do profiles. Takes too much time." - Henry Harris |
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Subject:
CHALKBOARD submission
NO ONE SEES HER The occasional owner or worker outside having a smoke may look up and see her, but most seem to surmise she has strayed out of her way ...
Have you seen her? She sometimes sits on a seat in the street or park no longer getting the curious looks and unwanted attention a young woman alone may get. She has become almost invisible now she is older. People expect a woman of her age to want to sit down because of her aching feet or varicose veins. They don’t suspect an older lady to be looking them up and down hoping to find a suitable type description or unusual clothing in which to dress her latest villain or victim. Little do they think that snippets of their conversation are being quickly jotted down so that the everyday vernacular and words people use can be remembered to give authenticity to a scene in her next humorous story. She finds that people are often funny without realizing it. That little old lady walking slowly past a garden, or as in many cases, lack of garden, is noting the variety of plants and layout to describe. She’s even seen observing the dirty exterior of a premises rented by bad tenants and the messy bin areas behind shops and restaurants. The occasional owner or worker outside having a smoke may look up and see her, but most seem to surmise she has strayed out of her way as she turns to leave. The same short matronly lady in a café is listening intently to the timbre of the voices and watching the mannerisms of the patrons. The various mobile phone tones and the short staccato conversations taking place around her can give rise to interesting conclusions. She remembers the smell of the cooking and, listens to the sounds of a lunch time crowd as she watches the hands of people intent on their meals. She finds hands very revealing of character. In the country, which has been her natural place most of her life, she knows the names and signs of the animals and the birds. She plays a private game with herself, shutting her eyes and listening as the winds blow branches. Each species makes different music as the leaves sway and the game is to identify the tree. Observing with all the senses is as necessary to write well as it is to live well. No one really notices her and this is pleasing as she quietly jots in a little book which observers may think is her diary or shopping list. The little book is neither of these. It is the small journal she carries with her to record her observations and thoughts. She is an aging writer who mixes these things she has written in her book and combines them with the experiences and memories of her life, adding a dash of imagination, to cook up yet another tale for a reader to enjoy.
© 2006 Elizabeth Thompson |
Here's a chance to show off your
writing! 
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WHAT'S
WRONG WITH THIS PICTURE?
At first glance, the paragraphs below appear to be mere excerpts plucked from different stories. But look again. Each paragraph contains a serious writing flaw. Can you find them all?
1. The gun shots came rapidly after that as if Roberto were using bullets for words. We crouched behind the cruiser in front and peered over the hood. The SWAT team attacked the house like spiders. Some crawled up on the porch, some climbed on the roof, some ran to the back where the door stood wide open. 2. I heard Hank laugh, and I peeked out the window. I saw him and Burt and Max and a case of Budweiser on the picnic table. I think to myself, here I am, taking care of his kids and he's out drinking and partying? They're not even my kids, but I love them just the same. 3. As she approached the Neal's house, Lucy was amazed to find the yard covered with dingy tents and smoldering campfires. Even more unsettling was the seemingly impenetrable wall of blue officers that stood about, all casting a curious stare in her direction. She walked past them, and stepped into a splendid library with wooden shelves that now looked more like wide ladders. 4. The band played Duke Ellington. Katy laughed when Tony bowed to her. She took his hand and allowed him to lead her to the dancefloor. She felt people staring. She wanted to tell them, yes, she was the only woman in the world, with her lilac dress billowing, her hair bouncing, her chin sporting a huge dollop of whipped cream. 5. Samuel quickly filled his dog's bowl with the crap he called food, then went back inside and filled his cereal bowl with the crap he called food: cornflakes and cold milk. He joined his furry companion on the patio, but instead of eating his crap on the floor, Samuel chose to dine in a lawn chair.
1. ... Some ran to the back where the door stood wide open. POV leap. Since the narrator is crouched behind the cruiser, he can't possibly know the back door is open. To maintain POV integrity, the narrator either has to be told the door is open or he has to move to the back of the house and see it for himself. 2. I think to myself, here I am, taking care of his kids and he's out drinking and partying? They're not even my kids, but I love them just the same. Tense leap. This paragraph begins in past tense, but the thoughts launch into present. To maintain tense integrity, the narrator must also think in the past: I thought, there I was, taking care of his kids while he went out drinking and partying? They weren't even my kids, but I loved them just the same. 3. She stepped into a splendid library .... Transition leap. Lucy stands in the yard, ogled by Union soldiers, then she instantly steps into the library. To maintain transition integrity, readers must feel a certain time has elapsed between point A and point B. Otherwise, they may suspect Lucy is flying. 4. ... Her chin sporting a huge dollop of whipped cream. POV leap. Suddenly we are seeing Katy rather than the world around her. To maintain POV integrity, Katy either has to discover the dollop herself or someone else has to bring it to her attention. 5. Crap ... crap ... crap. Way too much crap going on in this paragraph. Certain words jump out at readers. Overuse distracts from the story. Use sparingly.
© 2006 Elizabeth Guy |
FINALLY . . . A Sample of Excellence
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Seldon pushed his hat back and took a side-glance at her. "Success--what is success? I shall be interested to have your definition." "Success?" She hesitated. "Why, to get as much as one can out of life, I suppose. It's a relative quality, after all. Isn't that your idea of it?" "My idea of it? God forbid!" He sat up with sudden energy, resting his elbows on his knees and staring out upon the mellow fields. "My idea of success," he said, "is personal freedom." "Freedom? Freedom from worries?" "From everything--from money, from poverty, from ease and anxiety, from all the material accidents. To keep a kind of republic of the spirit--that's what I call success." She leaned forward with a responsive flash. "I know--I know--it's strange; but that's just what I've been feeling today." He met her eyes with the latent sweetness of his. "Is the feeling so rare with you?" he said. She blushed a little under his gaze. "You think me horribly sordid, don't you? But perhaps it's rather that I never had any choice. There was no one, I mean, to tell me about the republic of the spirit."
-
Edith
Wharton
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© 2006 ReadingWriters. All rights reserved. This ezine is a labor of love, and may not be reproduced without permission. All correspondence should be sent to Elizabeth Guy. |