Writing

Making Good Art – With a Vengeance

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Sorry for the radio silence.  This has been a week.  And not the good kind.  It started when Brian and I spent Sunday in the vet’s office with a very sick dog.  I was babysitting the pack of two for my mother when she was visiting in Nipomo. Spunky, golden Molly waddled out of the bushes Sunday morning, threw up on the red bricks of the patio twice, and then collapsed.  We spread a sheet in the back of our white Chevy Malibu and took her right in.  She’ll live, but she needed surgery for the plastic shards of the dental floss box that she ate, as well as all the floss that tangled in her tract.  She’s already been informed that she’s not allowed to eat weird things anymore.

Monday culminated in probably the worst rejection I’ve ever received.  My senior thesis will not be published.  The representatives from the journal were not just discouraging.  They were outright vitriolic.  They were mean-spirited and self-righteous in ways only academics can achieve.  I cried a few times.  I tried to figure out if it could be re-written.  Without the funds of the school behind me, additional research to do re-writes will be nigh impossible.  I don’t know any Deaf historians who would critique it for me, and I hate asking favors of even people I know.

I called it a day on non-fiction.  I read Neil Gaiman’s Make Good Art and was able to edit four chapters of my novel.  I realized how much I enjoyed being a historian again, if only for fifteen minutes or so, and how much I’d like to go to grad school.

Halloween opens at Disneyland today.  The new fiscal year starts in 2 weeks.  To say that I have been busy at work would be an understatement.  I have been running around frantically, arms full of costumes and fabric and shipping documents, and still failing to get a full third of all the things done.     At the second job, I still can’t figure out how to order office supplies.  I don’t have paperclips, or even a pair of scissors.  I have to go three buildings over if I need to use the copier.  I can’t get the temperamental data reporting system to work for me, either.

Brian read Clutter Busting by Brooks Palmer for book club at his church this week.  Then he made me read it too.  It’s been a good thing, but we spent most of our time this week talking about what is emotionally wrong with us that we have to collect all this stuff.  Clean out day is Sunday, and I have a feeling we’ll be trashing a lot of things.

I hope this weekend is better.  I don’t think I can take another week like the one I just lived through.  I’m charging on, though.  I’m making good art.

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Brown Birds and Journals

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Writers Keep Journals.  That’s what they tell me.  I don’t doubt the veracity of this claim, but I know that I am terrible at this.  They never seem to stick.  For a while, I kept an electronic version.  This was good when I was in school and almost always had my laptop with me.  It was more of an emotional dump space, though, and grew to become a 75 page document.  I had to go through later and edit the literary bits into a separate document so I could find them.  A teacher I had insisted that we keep a hard copy, and carry it with us always.  Inevitably, I wouldn’t transfer it from my school bag to my purse, or forget it for weeks as it mingled with my D&D books between games.  Sigh.

I’ve decided to try again.  I bought a red Moleskein, purse-sized, and so far have written nothing but a quote in it.  “Bury your body in the constellations.  ~Zen Proverb.”  I don’t know if this is really a Zen proverb, but Twitter says it is.  The internet is always right, right?

I went through my old hard copy the other day, a blue Moleskein – the inexpensive kind with the paper cover.  On the first page, I found an entry about a bird I saw when I parked in front of my grandfather’s house for breakfast one morning.  It was perched on my father’s car, a black Nisan Rogue.

It was one of those brown birds, small and speckled.  The kind that are everywhere, mobbing your at the National Mall in Washington DC, and hopping ever closer at the local café, always eyeing your french-fries.  It seemed to be in some sort of fight with its reflection in the passenger side mirror.  It perched with its feet tucked beneath the mirror, clinging as it puffed its feathers and pecked at the brown reflection, and then falling back as its feet failed to gain purchase on the plastic.  It’s wings fluttered, and it landed on the roof.  Then it hopped back to the mirror, fell back, and returned to the roof.  I watched it from my car, sweat trickling down my forehead.  It was determined to drive the interloper from its territory.  It kept hopping.  I smiled.

The clock on my dashboard read 9:08.  I was already overdue.  I watched the bird make a few more circuits, and then I opened my car door and walked into the house.  The bird was not there anymore when we came out to drive to breakfast.

Perhaps keeping a journal is worth it after all, hard as it is.  I don’t know that I would have remembered the fierce brown bird had I not wrote him down all those months ago.

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Winner!!!

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Today is the last day of Camp Nanowrimo July, and I am officially a WINNER!  That certificate is fancy, and such nice validation.  What’s also nice is that now I know I’m capable of editing a novel.  If I can get through draft two, I can push my way through draft ten or beyond.  I know I can.  (But hopefully it will never be thirty.  Shannon Hale really shouldn’t have told us that it took her thirty drafts to complete Goose Girl.  Talk about no end in sight…)

There is still plenty wrong with the novel.  I’m beginning to realize that you can’t just take it all in one fell swoop like you can with a short story.  There are too many words, and too many skeins to hold onto as you weave the story.  My first draft was messy.  It was missing chunks of things, it was full of textbook-like explanation, and it kept repeating itself.  The story arc is better now.  There are no chunks missing, and the repeats have been rearranged to appear in their proper place. 

I haven’t read this draft as a whole document yet, so I can’t put my finger on exactly what’s wrong.  I know immediately that something is, though.  I learned in my Novel class last semester that there are several differences between a Novel and a Novella.  A Novel is a story over 50,000 words, and a Novella is a story between 25,000 and 50,000 words.  Beyond just word count, a Novella usually has one main story line, and maybe one sub-plot (maybe).  There is not time to do justice to more.  A Novel usually has a main story line and up to five sub-plots, although two or three is more common.  Blue Gentian currently clocks in at about 45,000 words.  It has three sub-plots.  You see?  I already know I’m not doing the sub-plots justice, that there is a lot missing.  Next is to find out why, where, and how to fix it.  

Draft four will be for Character and dialogue.  Draft five will be to make sure the threading and symbolism is working.  Draft six will be for anything else that I feel I missed, up to and including editing for chapter length.  Chapters with action should be shorter.  They’ll feel like they’re moving faster. 

After draft six, I’ll show it to people.  Brian gets first dibs.  He is my most thorough critic, and best source of advice. I have a feeling my father would also like to read it.  Once I’ve done draft seven (or maybe eight), I’ll put it on Critique Circle.  Then I’ll write draft nine…  

It sounds like a long row to hoe, right?  It really does.  But 50,000 words looks like a far cry from 0 words on day one of Nano.  In small chunks after thirty days, though, it mostly looks impressive.  I plan to be very impressed with my novel once it’s done, too.  I’m confident I can do it.  After all, I already have draft two under my belt.  What’s a few more?  

(Holy crap, what did I just get myself into?)

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First World Problems

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I’ve been reading a lot of blogs lately giving tips about what to write about in order to grow your blog audience.  I suppose I’m no expert, but I have found that there are a bunch out there that I vehemently disagree with.  This is one of them:

Don’t write about your first world problems.  Ok, I’m going to just say right now that I have no problems that AREN’T first world problems.  I live in an air-conditioned condo in Southern California.  My husband and I have two cars, two cats, supportive families, and eat regular meals.  We spent our summer vacation in Yosemite.  We have never gotten dysentery from the contaminated water supply.  We’ve never lost loved ones to treatable diseases.

If I can’t write about my first world problems, what am I supposed to write about?

I think what this person really means is “don’t be whiny.”  I agree that no one wants to read about how terrible your life is all the time, especially if you happen to be privileged as I am.  I don’t know if this writer just didn’t realize what they were saying, or doesn’t understand the definition of a first world problem, but they phrased it totally wrong.   While I realize that I’m a very lucky girl, I don’t think that my indoor plumbing makes me ineligible to comment on the imperfect world of American middle class suburbia.  Not all blogs are out there to solve world hunger.  Some are out there to say “isn’t it amazing to be an alive, quirky, imperfect human being? We share so much.”

World hunger is important.  So is unfettered expression.  Surely there is an audience for all of it on the internet.  Write about whatever you please.

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Tim, not Tam

I thought I’d post more fiction.  This was an assignment for a class I took last semester.  It had to be exactly 300 words, each word could only be a syllable long, and it had to mimic a sound.  It also had to be a complete story, with a beginning, middle and end, and I was given the first line.  I went for a typewriter:

The phone rang twice. Tim peaked at the time. It was too late for calls. Tim tipped his seat to take it.

“Tim. Talk,” he said.

“Tam…” the tone spat, “Tam’s time ticks.”

“No, not Tam. Tim,” said Tim.

“We stab Tam soon-”

“What?” Tim broke in, “Don’t you know it’s close to twelve? Trashy tales waste my time. This isn’t Tam. I’m Tim.” Tim hung up.

Night tickled the room. Tick, tock the clock clicked.

Tap, Tap. A tree branch hit the pane.

Tim touched his palms to his brow. I’m too tired for this, he thought. The clock struck twelve. Time to turn in. Tim stood, and stepped toward the stair.

Tap, Tap. The tree branch turned. It was a hand. It bent and twitched at Tim. “Tam…” it squeaked.

Tim turned. “No, not Tam. Tim.”

“Tam… you took it. You didn’t ask. You tried to take it by tricks, but now it will take you.”

The sill creaked. Many a piece of tall, trim Night met at the center of the room.

“My title is Tim, NOT TAM,” said Tim.

“Tim, not Tam?” the tone asked.

“Yes!” said Tim.

“Tsk, tsk. Sorry,” the Night squeaked. Then it left.

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Camp Nanowrimo July

It is Camp Nanowrimo this month.  I wasn’t going to participate because I don’t need to write any more horrible first drafts of novels until this current one is in shape.  And then I realized that I have exactly 31 chapters that are unedited.  That’s one for every day in July. 

I am officially giving myself 1615 words for every chapter I complete, for a total of the traditional 50,000 by the end.   Thanks to my Logic final exam I’m a chapter behind.  But I can totally catch up and win.  Giving myself a deadline has made the novel much better behaved.  I think I whipped it into shape with this scheme, opposed a little discipline.  I’m feeling like the enforcer. 

Well, I was until this morning, anyway.  I’ve been in editing mode for so long that I’ve reached a chapter which needs to be added and I’m feeling really loathe to write anything from scratch.  Make stuff up?  Out of my own head?  But it’s so haa-ard.

Ok, I’ll stop whining now and put my hands back to the keyboard.  Must make word count!

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The Kitchen

This week has just been full of defeat for me.  It seems that nothing can go right, from my job search, to my writing, to the kitchen remodel.  We are now dealing with a leaky dishwasher of epic proportions.  The kind of epic where everyone drowns in the sea. 

 I was on the computer, filling out my thousandth job application, when Brian walked into the room.

“Hey, come with me a second,” he said.

So I left the computer and went with him to the kitchen. 

“Just look,” he said.

I looked.  I had put the shelf up two nights ago for our cookbooks, hung my aprons on the wall, and replaced most the utensils.  The glossy cabinets gleamed white, the butcher block countertops gave it a homey air.  Under the window was the vast farmhouse sink, pot of pink flowers tucked next to the rubbed brass faucet. 

“You said you didn’t feel like anything was going right this week,” said Brian, “but isn’t it beautiful? I mean, it’s not perfect, but we’re making headway and it’s looking better than I ever imagined.”

I felt his palms spread lightly over my shoulders, and pressed my back into his chest.  I thought about the leaky dishwasher, the drawer that lost its support mechanism, how we don’t have handles on everything yet.  But he was right.  It looked good.

I felt just a smidgeon better.

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This should be easier

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Me: Why is writing a novel so hard?  It should be easier.  It should be possible for me to finish this.  I mean, people do it all the time, right?

Brian: Umm… actually no.

Me: Well some people do it all the time, right?

Brian: All the time? Maybe some people, but mostly – no.

Me: *sigh*

Shannon Hale, whose work I love, talks about Forrest Born as being the hardest book she ever had to write.  As difficult as it was, she felt like someone out there needed this book and she had to write it.  That conviction kept her struggling toward completion.

I realized today that, even if the world does not need my book, I need my book.  I’ll keep going, if only to make myself happy.  And that’s the only real reason to do anything to begin with.

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Gaiman

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The signed copy of Neil Gaiman’s book arrived on my doorstep yesterday.  I didn’t get a ghost, scrawled around ink blots on the ivory page, but I wasn’t disappointed after all.  There was just something about the shiny gold-ness of the sticker on the front proclaiming “Signed First Edition.” I opened up the front cover to see Neil’s scribble in blue, and I just felt warm gladness.  It is a slimmer volume than I thought it would be from the pictures online. 

I have nothing more to say about it, because I’m afraid to read it.  It’s been lauded as his best book yet, and I don’t know what will happen to me if I don’t love it too.  Loss of the title ‘Fervent Fan’ is probably one of the things.  The other reason I’m afraid to read it is because I read so terribly fast.  On average, I get through 100 pages an hour.  The book is so slim.  If I finish it, then it will all be over and done.  It’s a terrible catch-22. 

Brian said to me the other night, “you know, I really think I would like Neil Gaiman’s stuff, but I feel like you’re such a fan that it’s spoiled it for me.  What if it turned out I didn’t like a book of his?  You’d be so disappointed.”

Evidently, I’m even spoiling it for myself now.  That’s me: Casey Hamilton, Ruiner of all things Neil Gaiman.  I’m going to read it soon.  Probably.

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Thoughts About Craft: Keeping Attention

cropped-img_0501.jpgAs a writer, your competition is not with Dan Brown, Stephanie Meyer, JK Rowling, or whomever is at the top of the NY Times best seller list.  It is with them too, but your most difficult competition is much closer to home.  Every time there is a new post on Facebook or an extra episode on Hulu, that is a second your reader is potentially putting the book down and not returning.  If they do not return, that is the moment you have lost the war for attention.  It’s easy to lose attention to football, Walking Dead II, Angry Birds, Transformers, The Black Keys, Pinterest, the Game Show Network, or any other myriad of things that people like to do in their spare time.  Competition is steep, so play dirty.  Here are some tips for how to engage your reader’s attention and keep it:

Use hooks.  A hook gives a tantalizing glimpse of information that makes the reader want to know more.  For instance: “Johnny didn’t suspect, as he sat in the forest, that his life was about to change for the worse.” How does it change for the worse?  I have to find out! A hook is also a promise to reveal this information eventually, so be sure you pay up.  The amount of hooks in a book is often directly proportional to the age of the audience.  Adult books have some hooks, Young Adult books have many more, and Children’s books have the most.  At the very least, placing hooks at the end of the first few chapters can really help the reader propel themselves into the next chapter.  Hooks also keep your reader thinking about the unanswered questions after they have put the book down to check Facebook really quick. 

Think about chapter length.  The shorter the chapter, the faster the reader feels like they are moving through time and space.  It is easy to manipulate this perceived flow of time to serve the narrative.  Exciting action scene?  Very short chapters.  Homey scene in picturesque setting? Make the chapters longer.  Manipulate time to keep readers interested and engaged in what is happening.  If your readers feel like the story is moving forward, they will be less likely to want to check Facebook in the first place.   

Try threading.  Threading is similar to foreshadowing, but something less tangible and therefore harder.  It is the use of items to link images and themes in the reader’s mind.  Each threaded item has a meaning, such as the milk in John Fante’s Ask The Dust.  Every time the reader sees milk, they think of all the other times milk has appeared in the story and that image takes on a meaning.  In this case, milk is the connection between life and death.  Threading can give your novel the air that you are purposefully weaving a story toward something worthwhile.  Readers will want to find out what that is, and marvel at your craft while they get there.

Remember, it is your Novel vs. Facebook and a million other things, and we all know how much time we spend on Facebook. Use anything you can to keep a reader’s attention.  Fight dirty.

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