Excerpt from Susan Cooper’s The Dawn of Fear March 29, 2007

I wanted to share this passage, which I came across in the book today. Cooper is a master at creating a sense of danger in children’s literature. She does this very effectively in The Dark is Rising series. Without actually putting the kids in physical danger, she creates the suggestion and anticipation of it which is more than enough. In this book, there’s a more concrete, pressing danger: it’s WWII and the Germans are bombing England.  And what a fabulous end to a scene? It sent chills down my spine.

Derek clambered across the foot of his bed toward him. Even without the blackout curtains, it would have been a dark room, for two large wardrobes were set across the French windows as protection against broken glass. But in the place where his father stood, you could see out of a window, through the apple trees in the garden, and over the fence to the eastern horizon. Lightening was still flickering at one side of the sky, but it was a small local storm and moving quickly away. Derek felt vaguely that his father had not been looking at the storm. He gazed ahead through the gap in the trees, to where the search lights were making their usual weaving crisscross pattern in the sky, blind white groping arms sweeping to and fro. And he saw suddenly that below the searchlights the sky above the horizon was red.

There in the east, it glowed with a reddish orange haze he did not remember having seen before, like a strange, misplaced sunset, glowing in the night sky. “What’s that?” he said.

His mother had quieted Hugh and come up behind them, and when she spoke, there was the same curious, taut note that he had heard in his father’s voice.

That’s London, burning,” she said.

screeching halt March 29, 2007

I started a short story a few days ago to try to dig my way out of this rut I’ve fallen into figuring if I had something that I could submit I’d feel a lot better (okay, until the rejection letters start rolling in). I got through about 4 pages… then this morning I was thinking about my story and realized my original climax was not going to make sense. Given the context and the people, it would just never happen.

So now I’m left with what feels like a rotten piece of wood, crumbling away from my fingers. Back to square one.  I wonder if I should try to salvage my story. It’s tempting to do so, yet I feel there’s danger in settling or forcing something  that shouldn’t be.

This feeling underscores a more general resistance I have with rewriting. When rewriting, I no longer see all the possibilities of plot or character development. I’ve already chosen a set path, and breaking out of it becomes increasingly difficult the more I’ve written. Part of it is the physical work that happens. If I alter this scene I’ve set off a cascade of plot and character inconsistencies that I now have to go and fix. And if I change those I’ve potentially set off a new batch. But the worse part is that I no longer can see as many alternatives. So I end up tinkering with what I have, and end up with something in between the original and what a proper rewrite should be.

I’d much rather start fresh, nothing but a blank page and an infinity of possibilities before you. Hence the drive to constantly start new projects, and maybe that’s where writers are forged, in the moment between giving up on a manuscript to start a new one and deciding, while battling nausea at the thought, to take on an existing piece for the second last time.

sluggish March 29, 2007

 This is my second post today, which is usually a sign that things aren’t going well. I’ve been writing, or trying to write, anyway, for the last few days, but its been like moving through overcooked oatmeal. And just about as delectable.

I’m frustrated because I don’t feel I have the skills to write how and what I want, because everything takes so much bloody time, because rewriting is like pulling teeth. I’ve lost sight of what feels right and of what I think constitutes good writing. I feel as if my hands are deformed, pawing at the keyboard so that the words that I intend to write aren’t the words that end up on the page, and I can’t seem to change them. I’ve tried writing in different genres, taking on a new project, or even writing in a completely different voice and style. But I can’t look beyond the triteness of my writing, my tired, insipid characters. I’m beginning to feel like one of them, trapped somewhere between concept and reality.

Maybe I need a break. Maybe I need a job. I could do with one of those. Oh yeah, and throw in a life-affirming experience too, while you’re at it, because I could definitely use one of those.

And still I plug away, trying very hard not to look back, and even harder not to look forward.

back to the formative years March 28, 2007

I’ve been reading a lot of kid’s books lately, some old favorites and some new ones I haven’t heard of.

As a child I hated reading. In fact, my mother would drag me through the house, force me to sit at my desk and read. I’m not sure why I hated it so much, maybe it had more to do with my mom’s aggressive attitude than anything else, but probably too it seemed such a chore, and I would much rather have played with my stuffed animals (my sister and I had boxes and boxes of them).

I remember one of these nights, tears in my eyes, resentfully opening a new book required by my English class. I read the first page. I liked it, though I didn’t want to admit it to my mother, who was sitting on my bed watching me. After I had done the assigned reading and my mom left me in peace I reopened the book and read some more. I couldn’t put it down. The book was Lloyd Alexander’s The Book of Three, and it changed my life.

As an adult I read the rest of the series (there are 5 in all), and was astonished by how mature some of the themes were: sacrifice, loss, hope against all odds, but also faith, hope, and love. It’s no mystery this book hit a chord with me–these are the same themes that move me now.

Currently I’m reading Howl’s Moving Castle by Diana Wynne Jones, and am thinking to myself, gosh darn it, this is the book I wanted to write. Because in some way children’s literature will always be the holy grail for me, and if I can write a good kid’s book I’ll feel my life is complete.

Next on my list, The Dawn of Fear, by Susan Cooper (I love The Dark is Rising series). I read the first chapter–it’s a dark story, as conveyed by the title, taking place in WWII Britain. I admire authors who take on a difficult topic like war and make it understandable. The first scene starts out with a air raid, but the miraculous thing is, kids are kids are kids, and these are completely believable. Also will read Redwall by Brian Jacques.

Any recommendations? What were some of the books that moved you as a kid?

Thank you, thank you very much… March 27, 2007

I am touched that Fluent awarded me with a thinking blogger award, and glad that my ramblings here are of use to someone other than me.

It also makes me realize that writing is writing is writing. That is, the owner of Fluent is working on a memoir. I’m working on fantasy fiction. And yet, we can share much about writing. Genre doesn’t matter – pursuit, intent, and heart that do.

contests, and such March 26, 2007

To date I have not entered a single contest, nor submitted anything for publication. I guess I feel that as long as I don’t get rejected, I can pretend I’m a real life, breathing writer.

Right.

Well, this year I’m determined to enter at least one contest, or submit something for publication. The problem, of course, is that I don’t write short stories. I’m gonna try, but honestly, I’ve never felt comfortable with the genre.

Nevertheless, I’ve got to try, at least. So here it is, my promise to the world.

Oh, and the more I think about Pressfield’s The Virtues of War: A Novel of Alexander the Great the more I like it. Written in the first person, the book commands your attention. The Alexander Pressfield creates is entirely convincing, his voice valiant and braver than I could ever imagine being. At times, I felt like an eye on Alexander’s shoulder, watching these epics evolve. My only complaint was the intensity of the military language and descriptions – I felt I was taking Ancient Military History 101. But in reading more books on Alexander’s tactics I’ve gained a new appreciation for it, and will have to reread passages of it now that I have a clearer picture of the battles. Now, I only wish Pressfield’s Alexander hadn’t sounded like a 50-year-old veteran. Sure, people probably aged faster in those days, but Alexander was young, only 33 when he died, and I wish more of this had come through.

Sweet, sweet endings March 25, 2007

Everything, recently, has been ending. I’m reaching the ending stages of my magnum opus. I’ve finally critiqued the last chapter and epilogue for my writing buddy (it’s been nearly two years since we started exchanging works, one chapter a week), and, I’m approaching the end of my new writing project. Except that I keep evading it – according to my schedule, I should have been done two days ago. Still, I’m two chapters away, and just as I set about writing the end I find something else to do. Oh right, I wanted to add a scene where my character does this. Or I need to rewrite this scene – it’s really terrible. Or man, this table is dirty, I should clean it. And gosh, has the floor always been so scruffy looking?

Then it hit me. I have ending anxiety. I’ve battled with these characters, shared their heart ache and triumph, encouraged them when all hope seemed lost – how can I leave them now? But more than that, I’m not quite sure how to end the durn thing. I had one ending all plotted out; I don’t think I have the heart to execute it at this point. After reading Maurice, I started toying with a happy ending… but neither of those options felt very satisfying.

And when it comes to endings, I’m tough to satisfy. Only about one in three books I read have an ending I feel I can really chew on. I wonder if writers just run out of steam or paint themselves into a corner. Struggling Writer is thinking about writing the ending first, an approach I think has merit.

So what makes a good ending?

I’m a firm believer in keeping the action, suspense, drama, tension, character development, or whatever is the driving force of your novel, tight and relentless until the last minute. I like books that keep me wondering, how the heck is this going to end? Good endings tie up the loose ends. There should be a sense of completion; the journey has ended, and we have reaped its rewards. Having said that, though, I do like books that have a touch of ambiguity at the end (will they live happily ever after??). After all, life never just ends. Well, unless you die. Which is another thing I hate, books in which everybody just dies. It’s a cheap way to end it.

But the best endings, by far, have a transcendent quality, as if the author has boiled down the essence of the book and taken it just one step farther. Tolkien’s The Return of the King has accomplished this (movie watchers, you’ll have to read the book to know what I’m talking about – its one event I can just only barely forgive Peter Jackson for omitting). Maurice another of those. I suppose it pays off to ruminate well on the ending. In some ways, the ending is the point of the entire piece. And on that note, I’ll end this, and get back to ending my darn story!

a writer, except for my ass, maybe March 24, 2007

I was talking to a writing friend of mine, who bemoaned the fact that her carpel tunnel syndrome would flair up quite quickly – usually within about 1,000 words of writing.

Look at you, she said, you can write for hours at a time without any injury. I have a writer’s temperament too, she continued, pointing out I’m reclusive, somewhat eccentric and particular. I don’t like to leave the house often, and I’m happiest when I have hours and hours with nothing to do but spend quality time with my lap top.

Okay, all that may be true,  but I have one major drawback. My ass. After I injured it bicycling, it starts hurting after about 10 minutes – by twenty, my whole lower back is stiff and sore, and I have to get up. Not very forgiving of long hours in front of a computer!

Forster’s Maurice March 20, 2007

Finished Maurice by E.M. Forster in perhaps record time for me. It was an easy read, the prose flowed smooth and uncomplicated, the pages were thick, providing a satisfying advance through the novel.

Written in 1914, the novel is shockingly bold, given the times. Protagonist Maurice is gay and must struggle with his attraction to other men and the homophobia of early 20th century England. Usually I shun romanticism, but I found this book quite charming and touching – the key, I think, is the light touch Forster uses throughout, and his honesty. He says he wrote the novel in a year, and one feels he has written straight from the heart, with nothing kept back

He also has some great one liners:
“He filled a pipe with the tobacco that he had smoked for the last six years, and watched Romance wither.”

“Out of some external Cambridge his friend began beckoning to him, clothed in the sun, and shaking out the scents and sounds of the May term.”

I should have written more down, but these are the only ones I remember the location of.

Most surprisingly, the book ends happily. I wasn’t quite prepared for it. My cynical heart has assumed beauty results from the bittersweet, from tales of sacrifice and loss. Not so. And, I will add, this books has the two best written ending paragraphs I’ve read in a while. My main beef with many books seems to be the endings, where the author flounders.

Of the ending, Forster writes:

“A happy ending was imperative. i shouldn’t have bothered to write otherwise. i was determined that in fiction anyway two men should fall in love and remain in it for the ever and ever that fiction allows, and in this sense Maurice and Alec still roam the greenwood. I dedicated it “To a Happier Year” and not altogether vainly. Happiness is it keynote – which by the way has had an unexpected result: it has made the book more difficult to publish.”

(He uses far fewer commas that I do, as well, and in transcribing the above I had to stay my finger.)

And of England…

“The book certainly dates and a friend has recently remarked that for readers today it can only have a period interest [I would vehemently argue not]. I wouldn’t go as far as that, but it certainly dates – not only because of its endless anachronisms…. …but for a more vital reason: it belongs to an England where it was still possible to get lost. it belongs to the last moment of greenwood.”

This romanticized, nostalgic vision of the greenwood, something like Robin Hood’s Sherwood forest, is a place where heroes and rogues dwell, and peculiarly English, analogous to the hero-absorbing sunsets of the West. Threads of the greenwood still crop up – in Rowling’s Hogwart’s, for instance, and gives Forster’s tale just a whiff of myth and fairy tale.

but which story? March 15, 2007

Just returned from a brief trip from Japan, complete with a nasty virus. Not the kind that will have you snuggling in bed with a loved one cooing over you, but the kind that has you dripping, sneezing, and rubbing vaseline on a nose rubbed raw by kleenex.

Nothing, however, like 9 hours on a plane for a bit of thinking. My laptop battery is only good for some 2 hours, which meant I had a cool 7 hours to, well, stew. Since my main novel is – well, shall we say, “coherent”? – I’ve been dying to start on a new project. So I tried my hand at outlining.

One of my writing reference books, Plot & Structure by James Scott Bell, has a decent guide on outlining. He divides writers into two categories, outliners and non-outliners, and acknowledged every shade of grey in between. Where you fall is a matter of preference. I’ve already tried being a non-outliner – I gave birth to my main novel during Nanowrimo 2003. It’s full of false starts, frustrations, dropped plot lines, and plot lines developed half-way through (note to self: weave this concept throughout!). It was, quite simply, one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. Outlining seems like a good way to circumvent some of that.

So I flipped through the book trying to find my own flavor. There are the Borg type outliners, who must have everything outlined and worked out in full detail. Okay, so not me. He also suggests a method using index cards where you write down scenes as they come to you and then you play around with their order, inserting new scenes as necessary. With the “headlights” system, you write only as much as you can see ahead – so you jot notes about chapter one, revealing a certain bit of information, then jot notes about chapter two using the info you’ve just revealed, and so forth. Hmm, this seems more along the lines of what I, who can scarcely plan what to have for dinner, can handle.

Most promising, I thought, was the narrative outline. You write your plot as a brief story: “One day Jim was walking to the store when he found a dead body. Shocked, he called the police, only to have the police arrest him…” It immediately gets you thinking about your novel as a story, and not as an accumulation of scenes.

More advice that sounds valuable (I’m still testing it out): know what you what the story is. Bell suggests writing the back cover copy – you know, that little blurb on the back that makes you either take up the book or return it disdainfully – well in advance, and keep referring to it to focus you. In journalism it’s the same thing – know what your story is. Write the meat of it in one or two sentences, post it on your monitor, and keep your eye on it. The key to good writing is focus.

Okay, but here’s my problem with all of this. First, I think in scenes. The seed of a novel for me is usually a brief image – two people locked in combat, say – and then I’ll start wondering who they are and how they got there, etc. Or I’ll want to evoke a feeling or idea with my story – I want to write a story about the sadness of sacrificing friendship for a higher purpose, for example. Such things, unfortunately, are ideas, not stories. So I try to work out scenarios that might evoke the sort of feelings I’m going for. But then I get stuck. There are infinite possibilities, but which one is the right one? Which one is the right story, the one that should be told? I could have Jim be a dour man, which means he might not give money to Lisa, which means Lisa can’t get her medicine which means…. but what if Jim is generous and wants to give the money but Lisa is too proud and won’t take it and then… well, you get the picture.

I suppose this is where the focus comes in. Remember what I’m trying to write about, where I’m trying to take the story. So I got one good outline written for a pretty simple, dare I say unoriginal idea for a novella that I’ve been toying with all set and ready to go, and I really really tried to get an outline for a more nebulous story I only have wisps of. But that didn’t come together. Ah well, perhaps for another plane trip!