Get me--updating so much lately. Feels pretty good really.
In June I didn't meet most of my goals, although I was close on a couple and did get all my critiques done. This month we don't have any submissions to critique for CWC. I'm going to take it a bit easier on myself, calling it summer break.
So for July I have:
--Rewrite of MMG with new-old structure
--Finish writing room makeover
--Do bio for CWC website
--Look up agents
--Write query letter
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Critique Group (And Critique) Love
Last night was another example of why I love my critique group. And it wasn't just that we all were a little slap-happy, running off on tangents and giggling about Vampire Eric.
We critiqued two great submissions last night. The submissions are always great, which is another reason I love this group. I always look forward to doing the critiques, because I know I'm going to enjoy what I'm reading. Ali gave us another installment of her (literally) kick-ass book with the smart-ass voice. Way too much fun, and having to wait until September for the next installment is heartbreaking. Jenny's first installment of the novel she thought would be her under-the-bed book sets up what promises to be a creepily fun ride through a fictional Colorado county.
And as great as the submissions were, we all had a few problems with each of them. No surprise. Even in published works by my favorite authors I can find things that I think would work better a different way. Or I find typos that weren't caught by any of the edits. Something.
Here's the difference between this group and others I've been part of: these two excellent writers accepted the feedback and asked for more. There may have been explanations of "This is what I trying to say," but those were quickly followed by "Obviously, I need to clarify." At one point, Jenny pleaded, "Just tell me what to do!" This doesn't mean that they'll be writing something different from what they set out to write. It means that the changes will help them tell the story they wanted to in a way that readers will get it.
One of my earliest critiques of a short story went fairly well. But the climactic scene was of a man with terminal cancer being told by his family that it was okay for him to let go and die. Just about everyone in the room commented on whether they agreed with euthanasia or not. One person even called it the euthanasia story (I had submitted two that night). When it came around to a friend of mine, he defended it, saying that HE understood what was going on and that I shouldn't change a thing. Of course, I left that night secure in the fact that if this person got it and if I respected this person's opinion (which I do) and thought he was a good writer and editor (which I do) then I didn't need to change anything in my story. But by the time I got home, I realized that I wasn't writing the story for just him or people like him. That if only one person in twenty understood what I was going for, then I failed and failed miserably. I needed to rewrite the story so that it was clearer.
You may not agree with all of the critiques you get. You may get contradictory feedback--even in CWC we don't always agree and that's a good thing. You may think the negative feedback is dead wrong. But don't discount it completely. Think about WHY you are getting the feedback you are. "He just didn't get it." Okay. So why didn't he? Were you unclear? Were your facts wrong? Have you set up a character in such a way that she would never ever do what you've just had her do? That can work, but you have to show the reader a really great reason for her to act against her character. Have you not done enough world building? Sci-fi and Fantasy are not the only genres that require you build the set for your characters to act on. Are those characters realistic whether they are aliens or zombies or lawyers?
None of us write perfect first drafts. Well, some of my colleagues come close and I hate them a little for that. Shhh. Don't tell them. Even they have to revise, though. Everyone revises. At least, the really good ones do. Edittorrent addresses this on her blog as well. [Hyperlink supplied to further impress Oliver]
Embrace the critique! Embrace the revision! I'm learning to. It's not always easy. But you'll be glad you did.
We critiqued two great submissions last night. The submissions are always great, which is another reason I love this group. I always look forward to doing the critiques, because I know I'm going to enjoy what I'm reading. Ali gave us another installment of her (literally) kick-ass book with the smart-ass voice. Way too much fun, and having to wait until September for the next installment is heartbreaking. Jenny's first installment of the novel she thought would be her under-the-bed book sets up what promises to be a creepily fun ride through a fictional Colorado county.
And as great as the submissions were, we all had a few problems with each of them. No surprise. Even in published works by my favorite authors I can find things that I think would work better a different way. Or I find typos that weren't caught by any of the edits. Something.
Here's the difference between this group and others I've been part of: these two excellent writers accepted the feedback and asked for more. There may have been explanations of "This is what I trying to say," but those were quickly followed by "Obviously, I need to clarify." At one point, Jenny pleaded, "Just tell me what to do!" This doesn't mean that they'll be writing something different from what they set out to write. It means that the changes will help them tell the story they wanted to in a way that readers will get it.
One of my earliest critiques of a short story went fairly well. But the climactic scene was of a man with terminal cancer being told by his family that it was okay for him to let go and die. Just about everyone in the room commented on whether they agreed with euthanasia or not. One person even called it the euthanasia story (I had submitted two that night). When it came around to a friend of mine, he defended it, saying that HE understood what was going on and that I shouldn't change a thing. Of course, I left that night secure in the fact that if this person got it and if I respected this person's opinion (which I do) and thought he was a good writer and editor (which I do) then I didn't need to change anything in my story. But by the time I got home, I realized that I wasn't writing the story for just him or people like him. That if only one person in twenty understood what I was going for, then I failed and failed miserably. I needed to rewrite the story so that it was clearer.
You may not agree with all of the critiques you get. You may get contradictory feedback--even in CWC we don't always agree and that's a good thing. You may think the negative feedback is dead wrong. But don't discount it completely. Think about WHY you are getting the feedback you are. "He just didn't get it." Okay. So why didn't he? Were you unclear? Were your facts wrong? Have you set up a character in such a way that she would never ever do what you've just had her do? That can work, but you have to show the reader a really great reason for her to act against her character. Have you not done enough world building? Sci-fi and Fantasy are not the only genres that require you build the set for your characters to act on. Are those characters realistic whether they are aliens or zombies or lawyers?
None of us write perfect first drafts. Well, some of my colleagues come close and I hate them a little for that. Shhh. Don't tell them. Even they have to revise, though. Everyone revises. At least, the really good ones do. Edittorrent addresses this on her blog as well. [Hyperlink supplied to further impress Oliver]
Embrace the critique! Embrace the revision! I'm learning to. It's not always easy. But you'll be glad you did.
Friday, June 26, 2009
The Room
As promised, a picture of the Writing Room before the end of the week. Actually, it's just a picture of the daybed. But you'll get an idea of the wall color. The colors on the bed are reminiscent of my bedroom when I was in high school. The lavendar is not, but what the hell. Bright colors to keep me awake while creating.
I have a few more, but I have to smaller them so they'll fit. And I want to get some after the rest of the shelves are installed and the pictures are hung, etc. Plus the poppets need to take up residence.
That's Spooky on the daybed, and she will tell you that it is her room. The dark blue pillow next to her has a picture of birds at a feeder with a cat looking out the window at them. Her Uncle Ron sent it for Christmas a few years back.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Wednesday Writing Prompt
Yeah, I know. It's Thursday. Whatever.
This is my take on Ali's weekly challenge. Here are the rules. The prompt, from Juanita's blog, is highlighted and links to said blog.
“I’m STILL waiting for my doll class.”
“Sorry?”
“My doll class. I’ve been waiting for it for ever so long.” The ragamuffin slumped between the craft store and tiny toyshop, her clothing reminiscent of a Dickens orphan.
The strip mall would close in just a few minutes. Certainly no doll class would be starting now. I scanned the window of the craft store for a class schedule, but found none. “Did your mother go into that store?” I pointed.
She shook her head. “My mother left me here ages ago, but she didn’t go into that store.”
“The toy store then?” I opened the door of the toyshop and strained to see. The lights were dim and no one was in sight. “Hello. Does anyone know this little girl?” I stepped back outside. “What’s your name, sweetie?”
Her head tilted down as if to hide her face. “It used to be Rebecca Louise. But then my mother started calling me Doody Head and Puke Face.”
Disgust for the woman who would do something like that to her own child filled me and almost choked off my next words. “I’m going to call someone to help you.” My cell phone blinked “no service” at me, and there was no sign of a security guard anywhere. “Stay right here, I’m going into the store to make a call.”
I dashed into the craft store. Maybe the horrible mother was inside it after all. At least that was the justification I gave for not just stepping back into the toyshop. The toyshop that felt off somehow.
There were no customers inside, and the woman behind the counter knew nothing about a doll-making class. After reporting the lost girl, I went back outside to wait with her for the police and, I suspected, social services. She wasn’t there. I tried the door of the toyshop, but it was locked. Panicked, I ran the length of the mall, stopping at each of the six other stores. Most were already closed, but the few people remaining had not seen the little girl.
An hour later, the police officer finally seemed satisfied with my statement. “Maybe her mother picked her up while you were calling,” he offered for the fifth or sixth time.
“Maybe.” It was as much as I could manage. I had been watching out the window the whole time I made the phone call. No one had passed the store. And I hadn’t seen the little girl, Rebecca Louise, walk away. But I had my own children to get home to.
“Thank you for your concern,” the office said. “Not everyone would take the time.” He closed his notepad and walked back to his squad car.
I leaned against the window of the toyshop, going over the event, trying to figure out when the girl’s mother could have retrieved her without my seeing it. The interior of the shop was brighter than it had been when I’d been inside. It looked more cheerful as well.
As I gathered my bags, a display near the back of the shop caught my attention. One doll pointed at a blackboard. Three other dolls sat at desks facing her. One had short marcelled hair and was dressed like a flapper. One looked like she’d just come from settling the old west. And the one closest to the door looked like, she looked like, well like Rebecca Louise.
I shifted to see what was written on the blackboard. The teacher pointed at, “How To Find A New Mommy.”
This is my take on Ali's weekly challenge. Here are the rules. The prompt, from Juanita's blog, is highlighted and links to said blog.
“I’m STILL waiting for my doll class.”
“Sorry?”
“My doll class. I’ve been waiting for it for ever so long.” The ragamuffin slumped between the craft store and tiny toyshop, her clothing reminiscent of a Dickens orphan.
The strip mall would close in just a few minutes. Certainly no doll class would be starting now. I scanned the window of the craft store for a class schedule, but found none. “Did your mother go into that store?” I pointed.
She shook her head. “My mother left me here ages ago, but she didn’t go into that store.”
“The toy store then?” I opened the door of the toyshop and strained to see. The lights were dim and no one was in sight. “Hello. Does anyone know this little girl?” I stepped back outside. “What’s your name, sweetie?”
Her head tilted down as if to hide her face. “It used to be Rebecca Louise. But then my mother started calling me Doody Head and Puke Face.”
Disgust for the woman who would do something like that to her own child filled me and almost choked off my next words. “I’m going to call someone to help you.” My cell phone blinked “no service” at me, and there was no sign of a security guard anywhere. “Stay right here, I’m going into the store to make a call.”
I dashed into the craft store. Maybe the horrible mother was inside it after all. At least that was the justification I gave for not just stepping back into the toyshop. The toyshop that felt off somehow.
There were no customers inside, and the woman behind the counter knew nothing about a doll-making class. After reporting the lost girl, I went back outside to wait with her for the police and, I suspected, social services. She wasn’t there. I tried the door of the toyshop, but it was locked. Panicked, I ran the length of the mall, stopping at each of the six other stores. Most were already closed, but the few people remaining had not seen the little girl.
An hour later, the police officer finally seemed satisfied with my statement. “Maybe her mother picked her up while you were calling,” he offered for the fifth or sixth time.
“Maybe.” It was as much as I could manage. I had been watching out the window the whole time I made the phone call. No one had passed the store. And I hadn’t seen the little girl, Rebecca Louise, walk away. But I had my own children to get home to.
“Thank you for your concern,” the office said. “Not everyone would take the time.” He closed his notepad and walked back to his squad car.
I leaned against the window of the toyshop, going over the event, trying to figure out when the girl’s mother could have retrieved her without my seeing it. The interior of the shop was brighter than it had been when I’d been inside. It looked more cheerful as well.
As I gathered my bags, a display near the back of the shop caught my attention. One doll pointed at a blackboard. Three other dolls sat at desks facing her. One had short marcelled hair and was dressed like a flapper. One looked like she’d just come from settling the old west. And the one closest to the door looked like, she looked like, well like Rebecca Louise.
I shifted to see what was written on the blackboard. The teacher pointed at, “How To Find A New Mommy.”
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
How Do You Sing?
NPR again, although it seems to have been a while since I referenced them. This morning, I heard an obituary piece about Ali Akbar Kahn. He played the sarod, a 25-string Indian instrument. Along with Ravi Shankar, he popularized Indian music in the west and influenced generations of musicians.
The journalist talked about visiting the musician in his studio. Kahn's rebuke to students was, "You're singing like a typewriter. Sing like handwriting."
Maybe that's why there's so much talk about pens and other tools on this blog and the ones I link to. If I'm missing the pretty in my writing, I turn off the computer and pick up a notebook and pen. Is there a way to sing like handwriting on a typewriter (or computer)?
Where else in your life can you learn to sing like handwriting?
The journalist talked about visiting the musician in his studio. Kahn's rebuke to students was, "You're singing like a typewriter. Sing like handwriting."
Maybe that's why there's so much talk about pens and other tools on this blog and the ones I link to. If I'm missing the pretty in my writing, I turn off the computer and pick up a notebook and pen. Is there a way to sing like handwriting on a typewriter (or computer)?
Where else in your life can you learn to sing like handwriting?
Monday, June 22, 2009
Writing Books Galore!
Not as in "I'm writing a lot of books," but as in "Holy crap, I have a boatload of books about writing!"
Saturday I put up shelves in the newly painted Writing Room (I think of it in capitals). I need to get some more. My plan was to use those shelves--as opposed to the ones in the family room downstairs or the ones in my bedroom--for my writing books, my metaphysical books and any researchy-type books I am currently using. There are separate spaces for books and journals. I figured I'd have empty shelving for spillover from my to-be-read pile. I figured wrong. The shelves are full to bursting. There will be another trip to Wal-mart.
I have a handful of metaphysical books to add, but I probably have two dozen or more writing books that I still need to schlep upstairs and find a place for. Who the hell bought all these books? Oh, right. That's what I do when I'm interested in something. I research the bloody bejeebers out of it. Correction: I collect research on it, read like mad for a while then jump in with both feet while there is still a pile of research to be read.
The good news? I have lots of resources to tap into. And I now have one place to look when I need a refresher or I'm stuck. It's also a good source of inspiration. Not just the "here's a prompt" or "how I did it" books either. Sometimes just a skim through one of the craft honing books can dislodge something.
How do you go about learning something new? Take a class? Are you a reader? Do you learn by doing?
***I promise pictures of the Writing Room progress before the end of the week. I have to get a cable to upload from camera to laptop. ***
Saturday I put up shelves in the newly painted Writing Room (I think of it in capitals). I need to get some more. My plan was to use those shelves--as opposed to the ones in the family room downstairs or the ones in my bedroom--for my writing books, my metaphysical books and any researchy-type books I am currently using. There are separate spaces for books and journals. I figured I'd have empty shelving for spillover from my to-be-read pile. I figured wrong. The shelves are full to bursting. There will be another trip to Wal-mart.
I have a handful of metaphysical books to add, but I probably have two dozen or more writing books that I still need to schlep upstairs and find a place for. Who the hell bought all these books? Oh, right. That's what I do when I'm interested in something. I research the bloody bejeebers out of it. Correction: I collect research on it, read like mad for a while then jump in with both feet while there is still a pile of research to be read.
The good news? I have lots of resources to tap into. And I now have one place to look when I need a refresher or I'm stuck. It's also a good source of inspiration. Not just the "here's a prompt" or "how I did it" books either. Sometimes just a skim through one of the craft honing books can dislodge something.
How do you go about learning something new? Take a class? Are you a reader? Do you learn by doing?
***I promise pictures of the Writing Room progress before the end of the week. I have to get a cable to upload from camera to laptop. ***
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Wednesday Writing Prompt
Ali is at it again. She has started a new weekly challenge. The quick explanation is to take inspiration from any blog using a post made in the previous week. Bold the phrase in your scene, poem, dialogue, etc. with a link to the original blog.
Here is my contribution:
Sure, you can pummel
Vegetables to death, but
Hollandaise is best
Here is my contribution:
Sure, you can pummel
Vegetables to death, but
Hollandaise is best
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