By Beth Terrell
I debated with myself before posting this tonight.
"Self," I said, "I think I will write a blog post about Nathan Bransford's nifty new website, which is virtually brimming with information and advice for aspiring writers."
"Are you crazy?" myself replied. "Everyone already knows about Nathan Bransford's informative and exceedingly popular website. Heck, half the aspiring writers in the world have queried him, half are planning to query him someday, and half (I'm a writer, Jim, not a mathematician!) are trying to figure out how to write a query composed entirely of rhetorical questions."
Nathan is not a fan of queries that open with rhetorical questions, so naturally, there is at least a small contingent of writers who think they will be able to write their rhetorical question queries with such sparkling wit and brilliance that Nathan will immediately forget his aversion, commend them on having the initiative to do something so daring, and sign them up on the spot. Do not, I repeat, do not do this.
But I said this was a debate, didn't I? So, back to it.
"Self," I retorted, "It may be true that everyone knows Nathan has a wonderful and informative site, but do they also know that he has a nifty new web design, complete with interactive forums? Do they know they can find information about writing, queries, approaching agents, and a host of other topics related to getting (and staying) published? Do they know he has links to other agent sites, that he occasionally has contests, and that sometimes the prize is a query critique or an offer to read a few of the winner's pages? Do they know that they can ask a question on the Ask Nathan forum thread and the great man himself will answer it? The answer is no, I don't think they do."
I stymied myself with that very reasonable argument, so I went to his site and jotted down this (very incomplete) list of topics I found there. (Some are from the forums, and others are blog posts.):
New Blog Series: Interview with an Agent
The Complete Guide to Hiring a Literary Agent
Help with Query Letter Submission Guidelines
Genre Writing
Literary YA
Switching POVs
Can Authors Balance Publicity and Privacy in the Internet Era?
The Batch Querying Theory
It's a Great Time to Be a Writer
He also does a weekly "This Week in Publishing" post, in which he discusses the week's developments in the publishing industry, complete with links.
If you're a writer, or if you have any interest in the business side of publishing, this is a site you should bookmark and come back to again and again. It's: http://www.nathanbransford.com.
Happy writing!
Showing posts with label write. Show all posts
Showing posts with label write. Show all posts
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Thankful for Readers
By Beth Terrell
In one of this weeks' blog posts, Nathan Bransford asked his readers (I started to say followers, but that sounded just a little too messianic) what they were grateful for as writers. As you can imagine, the responses ran the gamut, from the ability to write to supportive spouses to paper clips. My list of things to be thankful for hasn't changed much since last year. I'm still grateful for my loving husband; the support of my mom, my brother, in-laws, and countless friends; our dogs (two papillons and a Tibetan Spaniel); my laptop; my terrific critique group; Night Shadows Press, the small press that believed in me enough to reissue my iuniverse mystery; and readers--everyone who has read my book and liked it, and everyone who hasn't read my book, but reads the books of my friends and my favorite authors, thereby enabling the publishing industry to keep on rolling, warts and all.
There is nothing like hearing from a person who says, "I read your book and loved it." One of my favorites came from a woman who said she was so anxious to see what happened that she was sneaking in paragraphs at stop lights. Another said, "When I'm not reading this book, I'm thinking about the people in it and wondering what they're doing." It just doesn't get any better than that.
We need the encouragement, because, as most of us know, few writers can make a living with their writing. I read somewhere that the average income of writers falls just above that of migrant workers. Thank goodness for the likes of Stephen King, Dan Brown, and John Grisham, who pulled the average up! Otherwise, we'd be at the bottom of the heap. One writer, responding to Nathan's blog, said she'd calculated her hourly wages and come up with a figure of approximately seven cents. It's hard to retire to Maui on that.
Then one day you're working out at Curves, and the chatter among the exercisers turns to books. The woman at the next machine, a woman you've never met and who has no idea you're a writer, says, "You know what book I love? I just read it, and it's terrific." And she names your book. You carry that glow home with you. Years later, you can still pull it out of your pocket and bask in it.
So on this beautiful (albeit chilly) Thanksgiving Day, I'd like to take a moment to thank you, the readers. You're the ones who make this crazy business work.
Happy Thanksgiving!
In one of this weeks' blog posts, Nathan Bransford asked his readers (I started to say followers, but that sounded just a little too messianic) what they were grateful for as writers. As you can imagine, the responses ran the gamut, from the ability to write to supportive spouses to paper clips. My list of things to be thankful for hasn't changed much since last year. I'm still grateful for my loving husband; the support of my mom, my brother, in-laws, and countless friends; our dogs (two papillons and a Tibetan Spaniel); my laptop; my terrific critique group; Night Shadows Press, the small press that believed in me enough to reissue my iuniverse mystery; and readers--everyone who has read my book and liked it, and everyone who hasn't read my book, but reads the books of my friends and my favorite authors, thereby enabling the publishing industry to keep on rolling, warts and all.
There is nothing like hearing from a person who says, "I read your book and loved it." One of my favorites came from a woman who said she was so anxious to see what happened that she was sneaking in paragraphs at stop lights. Another said, "When I'm not reading this book, I'm thinking about the people in it and wondering what they're doing." It just doesn't get any better than that.
We need the encouragement, because, as most of us know, few writers can make a living with their writing. I read somewhere that the average income of writers falls just above that of migrant workers. Thank goodness for the likes of Stephen King, Dan Brown, and John Grisham, who pulled the average up! Otherwise, we'd be at the bottom of the heap. One writer, responding to Nathan's blog, said she'd calculated her hourly wages and come up with a figure of approximately seven cents. It's hard to retire to Maui on that.
Then one day you're working out at Curves, and the chatter among the exercisers turns to books. The woman at the next machine, a woman you've never met and who has no idea you're a writer, says, "You know what book I love? I just read it, and it's terrific." And she names your book. You carry that glow home with you. Years later, you can still pull it out of your pocket and bask in it.
So on this beautiful (albeit chilly) Thanksgiving Day, I'd like to take a moment to thank you, the readers. You're the ones who make this crazy business work.
Happy Thanksgiving!
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Evolution of a Manuscript
By Beth Terrell
Thriller writer Gregg Hurwitz said the way to learn to write is not to write 50 books, but to write the same book 50 times. I take comfort in that, since that seems to be the way I'm heading with the second book in the Jared McKean series.
The first time I finished the book, I did several intensive edits followed by a final polish, then sent it to six trusted readers for feedback. Their reactions were overall very positive, but they had a number of excellent suggestions. Unfortunately, one small change often leads to another, which leads to another, and so on. What seemed like a series of minor changes turned out to be another extensive edit. Finally, I was done.
My agent submitted it to Warner Books. The editor he submitted it to loved it (hurrah!), but the higher-up editors decided it was too similar to another book they had coming out that summer. Alas, they decided to pass on it. After several more rejections, I suspected there was something missing and took a good look at the manuscript. It was pretty good. Close-but-no-cigar good. I knew it needed something, but I wasn't sure what.
Then I went to Don Maass's Writing the Breakout Novel workshop. I went in thinking my manuscript needed a little cosmetic surgery and left knowing it needed a heart-lung transplant. Fortunately, Don had given me the tools I needed to do that. I did a massive overhaul. The basic story remained intact, but suddenly it went to a deeper, richer place.
I took that "finished" manuscript to Don Maass's High Tension workshop. (Are you sensing a theme here? Seriously, if you get a chance to study with guy, take it. Take the Breakout Novel workshop first; it lays the foundation for the next one.) This time, my manuscript only needed liposuction, a nose job, and a couple of knee-hip replacements.
Another re-write, somewhat less extensive, but still substantial. Done! Right? Well...almost. I entered in a contest, and while I didn't win, I got some valuable feedback from the judge. The flaws she saw in the manuscript seemed like easy fixes, but when I sat down to do them, I realized that a manuscript is like a well-woven sweater. Each thread is entwined with the others. It's hard to tug on one without unraveling the whole thing. Still, I think it's almost there. I feel a sense of satisfaction with the manuscript that I haven't had before. Before, I knew the opening and the last 100 pages were strong, but there was something not working in the middle. I can feel that "something" changing, those flabby chapters taking on the right shape.
Just in the nick of time, too. With the first Jared McKean book about to be re-released in October, it's time to get that second one in the chute. The third one is still a shapeless mess, and the fourth and fifth ones are just loose outlines, but I have faith that they too will come along in time. Maybe it will get easier.
Or maybe it won't. I'm not a natural writer. I read John Hart's Down River and Dennis Lehane's Mystic River and despair of ever achieving that level of artistry. But what I lack in raw talent, I hope I make up for in tenacity.
So why am I telling you all this? If you've been struggling to become a better writer and wonder if you're the only one who has to work this hard, maybe knowing it's all part of the process will help you get over the next hump. Or if you're one of those natural talents for whom golden phrases flow like milk and honey from the promised land, you can go to bed tonight knowing that--even though the rest of us secretly hate you--you've been truly blessed.
Happy writing!
Thriller writer Gregg Hurwitz said the way to learn to write is not to write 50 books, but to write the same book 50 times. I take comfort in that, since that seems to be the way I'm heading with the second book in the Jared McKean series.
The first time I finished the book, I did several intensive edits followed by a final polish, then sent it to six trusted readers for feedback. Their reactions were overall very positive, but they had a number of excellent suggestions. Unfortunately, one small change often leads to another, which leads to another, and so on. What seemed like a series of minor changes turned out to be another extensive edit. Finally, I was done.
My agent submitted it to Warner Books. The editor he submitted it to loved it (hurrah!), but the higher-up editors decided it was too similar to another book they had coming out that summer. Alas, they decided to pass on it. After several more rejections, I suspected there was something missing and took a good look at the manuscript. It was pretty good. Close-but-no-cigar good. I knew it needed something, but I wasn't sure what.
Then I went to Don Maass's Writing the Breakout Novel workshop. I went in thinking my manuscript needed a little cosmetic surgery and left knowing it needed a heart-lung transplant. Fortunately, Don had given me the tools I needed to do that. I did a massive overhaul. The basic story remained intact, but suddenly it went to a deeper, richer place.
I took that "finished" manuscript to Don Maass's High Tension workshop. (Are you sensing a theme here? Seriously, if you get a chance to study with guy, take it. Take the Breakout Novel workshop first; it lays the foundation for the next one.) This time, my manuscript only needed liposuction, a nose job, and a couple of knee-hip replacements.
Another re-write, somewhat less extensive, but still substantial. Done! Right? Well...almost. I entered in a contest, and while I didn't win, I got some valuable feedback from the judge. The flaws she saw in the manuscript seemed like easy fixes, but when I sat down to do them, I realized that a manuscript is like a well-woven sweater. Each thread is entwined with the others. It's hard to tug on one without unraveling the whole thing. Still, I think it's almost there. I feel a sense of satisfaction with the manuscript that I haven't had before. Before, I knew the opening and the last 100 pages were strong, but there was something not working in the middle. I can feel that "something" changing, those flabby chapters taking on the right shape.
Just in the nick of time, too. With the first Jared McKean book about to be re-released in October, it's time to get that second one in the chute. The third one is still a shapeless mess, and the fourth and fifth ones are just loose outlines, but I have faith that they too will come along in time. Maybe it will get easier.
Or maybe it won't. I'm not a natural writer. I read John Hart's Down River and Dennis Lehane's Mystic River and despair of ever achieving that level of artistry. But what I lack in raw talent, I hope I make up for in tenacity.
So why am I telling you all this? If you've been struggling to become a better writer and wonder if you're the only one who has to work this hard, maybe knowing it's all part of the process will help you get over the next hump. Or if you're one of those natural talents for whom golden phrases flow like milk and honey from the promised land, you can go to bed tonight knowing that--even though the rest of us secretly hate you--you've been truly blessed.
Happy writing!
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Time to Write
by Beth Terrell
The soap opera Grandma watched when I was a child opened with a big hourglass that filled the screen. "Like sand through the hourglass," the voice-over actor intoned, "so are the days of our lives."
Remember how time used to stretch out in front of us like a never-ending landscape? Summers lasted forever. We had all the time in the world to be artists and astronauts, teachers and rodeo riders, circus performers and writers. But time is fuller than it used to be. And it seems so much shorter. In the past two weeks, when I've been working both shifts at work and dealing with the death of our beloved Tibetan Spaniel, Karma, I've also been feeling the ache of not writing.
This morning, I saw a book on my kitchen table called Time to Write by Kelly L. Stone. In it, Stone interviews more than 100 professional writers from all genres. Among them are Tess Gerritsen, Hallie Ephron , C.J. Box, Jodi Picoult, Sherrilyn Kenyon, Rick Mofina, and Rhonda Pollero. I picked up the book and flipped through it. I'd read it before, but just skimming the pages made me feel better.
The book reminded me that there are as many ways of carving out writing time as there writers. Roxanne St. Claire (Thrill Me to Death) wrote her first published novel betwwen 4:45 and 7:00 AM. Sabrina Jeffries (Only a Duke Will Do) wrote after her husband and son went to bed. Bestselling author Tess Gerritson was a physician who wrote whenever she could--"weekends, early mornings, and late nights. After I got home, as soon as the kids were put down, I'd start writing."
Jodi Picoult used to "do a little work," close her office door, and then write. (I don't advise this for anyone who actually needs his or her job!)
Life sometimes seems determined to get in the way of writing. A child needs help with a science project; a parent or grandparent is diagnosed with Alzheimer's; a big project with a looming deadline crops up at the office. It is, as my friend Christina once said, like being nibbled to death by geese. For any writer who struggles to find time for the writing amidst job obligations, family time, housekeeping (what's that?), yard work, pet care, and all the other geese life throws our way, Time to Write delivers a simple message: If you have a Burning Desire to Write, there is a way.
Today, I scribbled a few paragraphs on the back of a memo. Tomorrow, I'll scribble a few more. It's the only way to defeat the geese.
The soap opera Grandma watched when I was a child opened with a big hourglass that filled the screen. "Like sand through the hourglass," the voice-over actor intoned, "so are the days of our lives."
Remember how time used to stretch out in front of us like a never-ending landscape? Summers lasted forever. We had all the time in the world to be artists and astronauts, teachers and rodeo riders, circus performers and writers. But time is fuller than it used to be. And it seems so much shorter. In the past two weeks, when I've been working both shifts at work and dealing with the death of our beloved Tibetan Spaniel, Karma, I've also been feeling the ache of not writing.
This morning, I saw a book on my kitchen table called Time to Write by Kelly L. Stone. In it, Stone interviews more than 100 professional writers from all genres. Among them are Tess Gerritsen, Hallie Ephron , C.J. Box, Jodi Picoult, Sherrilyn Kenyon, Rick Mofina, and Rhonda Pollero. I picked up the book and flipped through it. I'd read it before, but just skimming the pages made me feel better.
The book reminded me that there are as many ways of carving out writing time as there writers. Roxanne St. Claire (Thrill Me to Death) wrote her first published novel betwwen 4:45 and 7:00 AM. Sabrina Jeffries (Only a Duke Will Do) wrote after her husband and son went to bed. Bestselling author Tess Gerritson was a physician who wrote whenever she could--"weekends, early mornings, and late nights. After I got home, as soon as the kids were put down, I'd start writing."
Jodi Picoult used to "do a little work," close her office door, and then write. (I don't advise this for anyone who actually needs his or her job!)
Life sometimes seems determined to get in the way of writing. A child needs help with a science project; a parent or grandparent is diagnosed with Alzheimer's; a big project with a looming deadline crops up at the office. It is, as my friend Christina once said, like being nibbled to death by geese. For any writer who struggles to find time for the writing amidst job obligations, family time, housekeeping (what's that?), yard work, pet care, and all the other geese life throws our way, Time to Write delivers a simple message: If you have a Burning Desire to Write, there is a way.
Today, I scribbled a few paragraphs on the back of a memo. Tomorrow, I'll scribble a few more. It's the only way to defeat the geese.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Just for Fun
I was trying to decide what to write about tonight. “Write about dogs,” my husband suggested, partly because we were watching a dog show on Animal Planet and (I imagine) partly because dogs are among my favorite creatures in the world. While I liked the idea, my brain, which has, in the last few weeks, become something vaguely resembling butterscotch pudding, found it impossible to come up with anything more than a rambling monologue about how dogs make the world brighter. If I’m going to write anything readable about dogs, I think it will have to simmer a bit.
Finally, I remembered a “story starter” from an online class I once took a few sessions of. I thought you might enjoy trying your hand at it.
Here's the Story Starter. It’s just a simple situation: "A man dressed in coveralls and carrying a gym bag steps out of an alley."
For giggles and grins, here’s the short story I wrote from that beginning. I hope you'll try your hand at it and share yours too.
The Good Partner
"Hey, Buddy, what's in the bag?"
I shifted the wriggling duffel and looked up into the ruddy face of a uniformed policeman. Damn. I'd peeled off my blood-splashed boots and coveralls and exchanged them for jeans and a perfectly respectable chambray shirt. Stuffed the bloody garments into Tony Corelli's garbage chute. Surely they hadn’t been found already. My mouth was dry. I pressed the tip of my tongue against the space behind my lower teeth to get the juices flowing and said, "Excuse me?"
"The bag." The cop gestured. "What's in it?"
It was early, the street just beginning to wake. Only a few scurrying passers-by, and not a single hero among them. The cop had sixty pounds on me, most of it flab. I could probably outrun him, but that would attract attention.
"You don't want to know, Officer . . ." I peered at his badge. "Dougherty."
"You're an expert on what I do and don’t want to know?"
"There’s nothing illegal in here."
"I'm sure. Being's how you're such an honest-looking fellow."
He meant it sarcastic, but it was true. I am an honest-looking fellow. It's a useful characteristic, in my line of work. We appraised each other. Then he said, "I wanna see what's in the bag."
"If you say so." I handed it over. The contents shifted, and the side of the bag bulged out as if something inside had punched it.
He yelped and fumbled the duffel. I lunged to catch it. He yanked it away and set it awkwardly on the ground.
“Don’t move,” he said. “And keep your hands where I can see them.” He flipped up the safety strap and drew his weapon. Pointed it at my chest.
My heart thumped a smidgen faster. “No need for that.”
“Let me decide that.” He unzipped the bag.
I’m not sure what he expected. A kidnapped child. A small collection of severed heads. Whatever he expected, it wasn’t Emily.
Corelli had kept her in too small a cage, and when Dougherty opened the bag, she uncoiled like a spring. Eleven feet of angry python, albino scales all smooth and shiny in the light. Dougherty snatched his hand away, and her jaws snapped on air. Another day, she would have had him, but she was betrayed by metabolism--the small but tell-tale bulge in her belly where the rat Corelli had given her was slowly digesting.
Dougherty cursed and kicked the bag, which riled her more. It ticked me off, too. Snakes have delicate spines. He might have hurt her, kicking her that way.
I scooped her up and draped her around my shoulders. "She's perfectly gentle. And perfectly legal."
His ruddy face flushed even ruddier. He ran a trembling hand across his jaw. Trying to regain his sense of machismo. "Where’d you get that thing?"
"Reptile Palace, down on Seventh. Check with them."
"Why’s it in that bag?"
This was where it got dicey. I decided on the truth—or at least, a portion of it. "I've been out of town. A friend of mine was keeping her. His Rottie destroyed her cage. Almost got Emily."
It wasn't hard to look upset because, in fact, I was upset. Corelli had promised to take good care of Emily, and he had shirked his duty.
It took Dougherty mere minutes to verify my ownership of Emily and let me go with a stern warning.
I breathed a sigh of relief when he climbed into his patrol car. By the time they found Corelli's body, Emily and I would be basking on a beach in Mexico. In time, her marvelous stomach would digest the rat and expel a small of amount of uric acid, rat hair, and the stolen diamonds Corelli had stuffed into the rat. It was one of the frozen specimens I’d left with him. He’d warmed it in the microwave and dipped it in hot chicken broth, per my instructions, then fed the thing to Emily.
I was a bit worried about the diamonds, but I knew a good vet in Mexico, a discreet vet, who would know what to do if the diamonds caused stomach ulcers or an impaction.
It wasn't the smuggling I minded, or even the fact that Corelli had cut me out of his diamond deal. That was a clear violation of our arrangement, but Tony was a good partner, and I could have forgiven all that.
But to risk my Emily's life for a fistful of sparkling stones... well, that was going too far.
Now it’s your turn. Wanna play? Just take the initial situation--a man in coveralls steps out of an alley carrying a gym bag--and write a short story about what happens afterward.
Finally, I remembered a “story starter” from an online class I once took a few sessions of. I thought you might enjoy trying your hand at it.
Here's the Story Starter. It’s just a simple situation: "A man dressed in coveralls and carrying a gym bag steps out of an alley."
For giggles and grins, here’s the short story I wrote from that beginning. I hope you'll try your hand at it and share yours too.
The Good Partner
"Hey, Buddy, what's in the bag?"
I shifted the wriggling duffel and looked up into the ruddy face of a uniformed policeman. Damn. I'd peeled off my blood-splashed boots and coveralls and exchanged them for jeans and a perfectly respectable chambray shirt. Stuffed the bloody garments into Tony Corelli's garbage chute. Surely they hadn’t been found already. My mouth was dry. I pressed the tip of my tongue against the space behind my lower teeth to get the juices flowing and said, "Excuse me?"
"The bag." The cop gestured. "What's in it?"
It was early, the street just beginning to wake. Only a few scurrying passers-by, and not a single hero among them. The cop had sixty pounds on me, most of it flab. I could probably outrun him, but that would attract attention.
"You don't want to know, Officer . . ." I peered at his badge. "Dougherty."
"You're an expert on what I do and don’t want to know?"
"There’s nothing illegal in here."
"I'm sure. Being's how you're such an honest-looking fellow."
He meant it sarcastic, but it was true. I am an honest-looking fellow. It's a useful characteristic, in my line of work. We appraised each other. Then he said, "I wanna see what's in the bag."
"If you say so." I handed it over. The contents shifted, and the side of the bag bulged out as if something inside had punched it.
He yelped and fumbled the duffel. I lunged to catch it. He yanked it away and set it awkwardly on the ground.
“Don’t move,” he said. “And keep your hands where I can see them.” He flipped up the safety strap and drew his weapon. Pointed it at my chest.
My heart thumped a smidgen faster. “No need for that.”
“Let me decide that.” He unzipped the bag.
I’m not sure what he expected. A kidnapped child. A small collection of severed heads. Whatever he expected, it wasn’t Emily.
Corelli had kept her in too small a cage, and when Dougherty opened the bag, she uncoiled like a spring. Eleven feet of angry python, albino scales all smooth and shiny in the light. Dougherty snatched his hand away, and her jaws snapped on air. Another day, she would have had him, but she was betrayed by metabolism--the small but tell-tale bulge in her belly where the rat Corelli had given her was slowly digesting.
Dougherty cursed and kicked the bag, which riled her more. It ticked me off, too. Snakes have delicate spines. He might have hurt her, kicking her that way.
I scooped her up and draped her around my shoulders. "She's perfectly gentle. And perfectly legal."
His ruddy face flushed even ruddier. He ran a trembling hand across his jaw. Trying to regain his sense of machismo. "Where’d you get that thing?"
"Reptile Palace, down on Seventh. Check with them."
"Why’s it in that bag?"
This was where it got dicey. I decided on the truth—or at least, a portion of it. "I've been out of town. A friend of mine was keeping her. His Rottie destroyed her cage. Almost got Emily."
It wasn't hard to look upset because, in fact, I was upset. Corelli had promised to take good care of Emily, and he had shirked his duty.
It took Dougherty mere minutes to verify my ownership of Emily and let me go with a stern warning.
I breathed a sigh of relief when he climbed into his patrol car. By the time they found Corelli's body, Emily and I would be basking on a beach in Mexico. In time, her marvelous stomach would digest the rat and expel a small of amount of uric acid, rat hair, and the stolen diamonds Corelli had stuffed into the rat. It was one of the frozen specimens I’d left with him. He’d warmed it in the microwave and dipped it in hot chicken broth, per my instructions, then fed the thing to Emily.
I was a bit worried about the diamonds, but I knew a good vet in Mexico, a discreet vet, who would know what to do if the diamonds caused stomach ulcers or an impaction.
It wasn't the smuggling I minded, or even the fact that Corelli had cut me out of his diamond deal. That was a clear violation of our arrangement, but Tony was a good partner, and I could have forgiven all that.
But to risk my Emily's life for a fistful of sparkling stones... well, that was going too far.
Now it’s your turn. Wanna play? Just take the initial situation--a man in coveralls steps out of an alley carrying a gym bag--and write a short story about what happens afterward.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Sweet Dreams
By Beth Terrell
When I was a little girl, a family friend once told me, "If you tell your dreams before breakfast, the three bears will come down from the hills and eat you." This was enough to make me hold my tongue until after the table was cleared, but not enough to keep me from sharing my dreams.
I've been told that no one likes to hear other people's dreams. Apparently, I'm an exception to the rule. Dreams fascinate me--my dreams, your dreams, everybody's dreams. Listening to someone else's dream is like a glimpse into another person's mind.
They say everyone dreams, though not everyone remembers. I've also heard that you can increase the chances of remembering your dreams by keeping a journal by the bed and writing down everything you remember about your dream the moment you wake up. The more frequently you do this, the easier it becomes to remember your dreams.
Betty Webb, author of Desert Cut and Desert Wives, dreamed Lena Jones, the protagonist of her Arizona-based mystery series. I've heard of other writers who dreamed the plots of their novels. I don't remember all my dreams, and some of the ones I do remember aren't interesting enough to share. But every now and again, I have a dream that seems like a gift, a dream that has a plot and characters, a dream that makes me open my eyes and think, "Thank you, God."
I usually dream in close third person, and while there is a protagonist with whom I identify and whose emotions I share, it is more like watching a movie than anything else. Friends who don't write are often baffled by this. An artist friend dreams in pictures, all light and form and color. This makes me wonder if writers dream differently from accountants or architects or attorneys or visual artists, not only in content but in structure.
Because of this fascination with dreams, I put a dream journal on my website: www.elizabethterrell.com. I've been thinking of doing a Dream Project, in which people email me their dreams, genders, hobbies, and occupations, and we compare and contrast the types of dreams different people have.
Dreams can reveal character in our stories as well, but they must be used with caution. The action-packed beginning scene that turns out to be a dream is not only a cliche, but a sure way to make the reader feel cheated. Long, detailed dream sequences are more likely to interrupt the action and feel self-indulgent than to rivet the reader to the page. On the other hand, a few lines or a paragraph about a troubling dream can illustrate a character's inner turmoil: Even in sleep, Elise couldn't escape her ex-husband. He chased her through her dreams, his belly distended with other women's rotting flesh, so close behind her that his grasping fingers brushed the back of her shirt. She woke up gasping, voiceless, tangled in the bedclothes, the sour smell of fear and sweat rising from the sheets.
Okay, that's not great writing, but doesn't it show how much Elise fears her ex-husband? Much more than this, though, and we risk losing the reader. Not every story needs a dream, and even those that do rarely benefit from excessive detail. Dreams in fiction are like fine spices, which can enhance a good meal--or ruin it.
Sweet dreams!
When I was a little girl, a family friend once told me, "If you tell your dreams before breakfast, the three bears will come down from the hills and eat you." This was enough to make me hold my tongue until after the table was cleared, but not enough to keep me from sharing my dreams.
I've been told that no one likes to hear other people's dreams. Apparently, I'm an exception to the rule. Dreams fascinate me--my dreams, your dreams, everybody's dreams. Listening to someone else's dream is like a glimpse into another person's mind.
They say everyone dreams, though not everyone remembers. I've also heard that you can increase the chances of remembering your dreams by keeping a journal by the bed and writing down everything you remember about your dream the moment you wake up. The more frequently you do this, the easier it becomes to remember your dreams.
Betty Webb, author of Desert Cut and Desert Wives, dreamed Lena Jones, the protagonist of her Arizona-based mystery series. I've heard of other writers who dreamed the plots of their novels. I don't remember all my dreams, and some of the ones I do remember aren't interesting enough to share. But every now and again, I have a dream that seems like a gift, a dream that has a plot and characters, a dream that makes me open my eyes and think, "Thank you, God."
I usually dream in close third person, and while there is a protagonist with whom I identify and whose emotions I share, it is more like watching a movie than anything else. Friends who don't write are often baffled by this. An artist friend dreams in pictures, all light and form and color. This makes me wonder if writers dream differently from accountants or architects or attorneys or visual artists, not only in content but in structure.
Because of this fascination with dreams, I put a dream journal on my website: www.elizabethterrell.com. I've been thinking of doing a Dream Project, in which people email me their dreams, genders, hobbies, and occupations, and we compare and contrast the types of dreams different people have.
Dreams can reveal character in our stories as well, but they must be used with caution. The action-packed beginning scene that turns out to be a dream is not only a cliche, but a sure way to make the reader feel cheated. Long, detailed dream sequences are more likely to interrupt the action and feel self-indulgent than to rivet the reader to the page. On the other hand, a few lines or a paragraph about a troubling dream can illustrate a character's inner turmoil: Even in sleep, Elise couldn't escape her ex-husband. He chased her through her dreams, his belly distended with other women's rotting flesh, so close behind her that his grasping fingers brushed the back of her shirt. She woke up gasping, voiceless, tangled in the bedclothes, the sour smell of fear and sweat rising from the sheets.
Okay, that's not great writing, but doesn't it show how much Elise fears her ex-husband? Much more than this, though, and we risk losing the reader. Not every story needs a dream, and even those that do rarely benefit from excessive detail. Dreams in fiction are like fine spices, which can enhance a good meal--or ruin it.
Sweet dreams!
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Why Write?
By Beth Terrell
A few years ago, I went to a small conference in North Carolina. In the drawing room of a lovely old hotel, several authors spoke about the process and business of writing. I talked about editing and the multiple drafts it takes to get a book to the polished level professional authors strive to achieve. (Granted, a privileged few get it perfect the first time, every time, but they are mutant geniuses who must be destroyed...um...of course, I mean "honored.")
Anyway, I spoke about editing and gave out a handout with a number of steps toward, one hopes, scintillating writing. Then another talked about the process of finding an agent or publisher and getting your book accepted. Still another spoke on marketing and what it takes to make a living as a novelist.
One woman in the audience finally raised her hand, and said in a voice of quiet desperation, "But what if I don't want to do all that? What if I just want to write?"
At another conference, a would-be novelist said to me, "Our critique leader said I needed to read a lot if I want to write. But I hate to read. Do you think she's right?" Over the years, I've heard multiple variations on this theme. I love to write, but it seems so hard. Do I really have to do all this?
My answer is always, "It depends on what you want from your writing."
Yes, if you want to be successfully published, you have to read, you have to write, you have to edit and polish and edit again. You have to pursue a writing contract (or publish your book on your own), and once the book is out there, you have to market the heck out of it. It's a lot of work, and if you want to be the next Dennis Lehane or Janet Evanovitch, you have to make a real commitment to do it. Jim Rollins was accepted by the fiftieth agent he submitted to. J.K. Rowling submitted the first Harry Potter novel over 100 times. If your goal is to be a professional writer, you must do what it takes to make your work as good as it can be, and then never give up.
But if what you want is to put ideas down on paper for your own enjoyment, for catharsis, or so your children and grandchildren will someday read your words and know who you are, then all you have to do is put pen to paper or fingers to keyboard and let fly. Writing is fun, and it's for everybody. There's no sign on the door that says "AMATEURS KEEP OUT."
That word, amateur, is sometimes used in a pejorative way, but it is not a pejorative term. My dictionary defines "amateur" as "a person who engages in a study, sport, or other activity for for pleasure rather than for financial benefit or professional reasons." That sounds like a great reason for writing--or doing any other form of art, for that matter. Oil painting, for example. I suspect there are millions of amateur painters out there, some of whom paint well, some of whom paint poorly, some of whom create exquisite works of art, but all of whom paint only for themselves or a few friends. No one thinks they should give up painting just because their work will never hang in a museum. The process of painting brings them joy, and that's enough.
But with writing, for some reason, there's a sense that, if you aren't writing for publication, you might as well hang up your laptop. Want proof? Every year, thousands of people join in a joyful frenzy of writing called NaNoWriMo (National Novel-Writing Month), in which the goal is to write a 50,000-word novel in a month. And every year, like clockwork, the "I-Hate-NaNoWriMo" blogs spring up like mushrooms. "These people have no business writing," they say. And, "The flood of horrible books makes it harder for us real writers to get published."
You never read rants by fine artists about how the millions of people for whom painting is a hobby are screwing it up for the real artists. So why do some writers think putting words on a page is the sole purview of the professionals?
There are a million reasons to write: creating characters that come to life on the page, building a world that once only existed in your mind, setting down a history of family stories that will otherwise be lost, getting an email that says, "I was reading snatches of your book at stoplights; I couldn't put it down." Of course, we mustn't forget the accolades and the six million dollar movie deal.
Me, I want the whole shebang--to be a full-time, published author, making a living doing the thing I love the most. The woman in my North Carolina audience wanted something different, and that's okay too.
That's the great thing about writing. Amateur or professional, we are richer for having done it.
A few years ago, I went to a small conference in North Carolina. In the drawing room of a lovely old hotel, several authors spoke about the process and business of writing. I talked about editing and the multiple drafts it takes to get a book to the polished level professional authors strive to achieve. (Granted, a privileged few get it perfect the first time, every time, but they are mutant geniuses who must be destroyed...um...of course, I mean "honored.")
Anyway, I spoke about editing and gave out a handout with a number of steps toward, one hopes, scintillating writing. Then another talked about the process of finding an agent or publisher and getting your book accepted. Still another spoke on marketing and what it takes to make a living as a novelist.
One woman in the audience finally raised her hand, and said in a voice of quiet desperation, "But what if I don't want to do all that? What if I just want to write?"
At another conference, a would-be novelist said to me, "Our critique leader said I needed to read a lot if I want to write. But I hate to read. Do you think she's right?" Over the years, I've heard multiple variations on this theme. I love to write, but it seems so hard. Do I really have to do all this?
My answer is always, "It depends on what you want from your writing."
Yes, if you want to be successfully published, you have to read, you have to write, you have to edit and polish and edit again. You have to pursue a writing contract (or publish your book on your own), and once the book is out there, you have to market the heck out of it. It's a lot of work, and if you want to be the next Dennis Lehane or Janet Evanovitch, you have to make a real commitment to do it. Jim Rollins was accepted by the fiftieth agent he submitted to. J.K. Rowling submitted the first Harry Potter novel over 100 times. If your goal is to be a professional writer, you must do what it takes to make your work as good as it can be, and then never give up.
But if what you want is to put ideas down on paper for your own enjoyment, for catharsis, or so your children and grandchildren will someday read your words and know who you are, then all you have to do is put pen to paper or fingers to keyboard and let fly. Writing is fun, and it's for everybody. There's no sign on the door that says "AMATEURS KEEP OUT."
That word, amateur, is sometimes used in a pejorative way, but it is not a pejorative term. My dictionary defines "amateur" as "a person who engages in a study, sport, or other activity for for pleasure rather than for financial benefit or professional reasons." That sounds like a great reason for writing--or doing any other form of art, for that matter. Oil painting, for example. I suspect there are millions of amateur painters out there, some of whom paint well, some of whom paint poorly, some of whom create exquisite works of art, but all of whom paint only for themselves or a few friends. No one thinks they should give up painting just because their work will never hang in a museum. The process of painting brings them joy, and that's enough.
But with writing, for some reason, there's a sense that, if you aren't writing for publication, you might as well hang up your laptop. Want proof? Every year, thousands of people join in a joyful frenzy of writing called NaNoWriMo (National Novel-Writing Month), in which the goal is to write a 50,000-word novel in a month. And every year, like clockwork, the "I-Hate-NaNoWriMo" blogs spring up like mushrooms. "These people have no business writing," they say. And, "The flood of horrible books makes it harder for us real writers to get published."
You never read rants by fine artists about how the millions of people for whom painting is a hobby are screwing it up for the real artists. So why do some writers think putting words on a page is the sole purview of the professionals?
There are a million reasons to write: creating characters that come to life on the page, building a world that once only existed in your mind, setting down a history of family stories that will otherwise be lost, getting an email that says, "I was reading snatches of your book at stoplights; I couldn't put it down." Of course, we mustn't forget the accolades and the six million dollar movie deal.
Me, I want the whole shebang--to be a full-time, published author, making a living doing the thing I love the most. The woman in my North Carolina audience wanted something different, and that's okay too.
That's the great thing about writing. Amateur or professional, we are richer for having done it.
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