Questions for you

by Pari

How are you?
Recovering from the Stupor Bowl?
Feeling self-righteous because you didn’t watch it?
I’m in a philosophical mood today, starting this blog for the 3rd or 4th time in two weeks. It’s not that I lack inspiration or subject matter. It’s that I’m not quite sure how to verbalize my latest train of thought. You see, I’ve been thinking about
competitions
winning awards
pushing toward goal after goal
judging others’ work.

And I haven’t come to any conclusions. I simply have several colorful — and related, I think — skeins of yarn that might, someday, knit into a nice something.

Skein 1:  During the last few weeks, I’ve been reading novels for a statewide contest. Having been on the other end of this type of activity, I know what it means to have bragging rights as a nominee for an award. But did those bragging rights really give me anything but pride or internal validation? And, nowadays, there are so many awards for just about everything that I am not sure they have the same power they once did. And who am I to judge anyway?

Skein 2:  I’ve been working to lose weight per doc’s orders (thank you, ldl — you bad cholesterol, you). When I reach one goal, I immediately think, “Wow. I could lose more!” What’s with that? The same thing happens with exercise, because achieving the same thing day in and day out seems somehow like a waste (and it’s not efficient for fat burning/cardio, now is it?)

Skein 3:  How does all of this relate to being here now? How can a person remain in the present or appreciate the present when all focus is on constant improvement, winning, pushing forward etc. etc.?

This isn’t existential angst at all. I’m merely continuing my journey of examining absolutely everything. Every. Damn. Thing.

So, what’s your take?
Are writing/literary contests meaningful?  
How does a person reconcile wanting to constantly improve with wanting to live in the Now?
When does a person gain enough expertise to judge another’s work?

 

That breakthrough moment

 by Alexandra Sokoloff

There’s a question authors often get in interviews – more so in the early professional years than later: “Can you tell us what was it like when you got ‘the call’?”

Meaning the phone call from your agent that your first book had sold.

I think people like to hear those breakthrough stories because it’s a little like rehearsing for your own “call”.  You hear in various New Age philosophies that you need to actually feel your own success inside you to draw it to you.

My own call happened first with a script. I wrote it with a partner I’d met in a writing class, and while we had both written before, this was the first all out effort at a spec script. And it was good. We knew it. It got us our pick of agents, and he took it out to the studios. 

Well, we got into a bidding war situation, which was both electrifying and terrifying. It lasted almost an entire week, which I know sounds like lightning speed compared to the glacial pace of publishing, but it was the longest week of my life. Studios were in, studios were out. Producers we’d never met were calling us trying to talk us into going with them. To say things were tense is the understatement of that decade; sometime in the middle of the second day I started crying and basically didn’t stop until the script sold. 

Well, that’s not exactly true. I did go to a party the night before we got the call. I cried all the way through getting dressed, then stopped crying when my friends picked me up. We went to the party and, well, partied, danced, whatever – I was laughing and sunny and enjoying myself. I don’t remember now how four of us ended up walking through a park in the early hours of the morning – we couldn’t possibly have walked all the way from the Westside of L.A. to my apartment in the Fairfax district. Probably a bunch of us went out to a nearby deli (Canters, one of the only open-after-midnight eateries in L.A. back then) and then these three guys walked me home from there. I remember feeling like Dorothy on the road to Oz with the Scarecrow, the Tin Woodsman and the Cowardly Lion; my friends were actors I’d gone to college with and we’d acted together in many more unusual configurations than that. But there was a numinousness about that night; I felt poised on the verge of something massive.

I hugged them all at my door, closed it, and immediately burst into tears again, and stayed up the rest of the night (morning) crying.

 I should have mentioned up front:  I’m not a crier.  It’s very rare for me. The fact that I had a week-long fit of weeping is still amazing to me. But that’s how long this writing journey had been for me, and how stressed out I was at being so close to what may or may not have turned into a breakthrough.

And the next day we got The Call. The script had sold for quite a bit of money, much more than I’d ever had before in my life.  It changed my life substantially –not having to constantly worry about finances was a huge relief. But more importantly, I was “in”. I’d always pictured the movie business as a city inside an enormous glass dome, with all of us film hopefuls circling the dome, trying to figure out how to get inside. From then on L.A. looked exactly the same, but it didn’t feel the same, ever again.

Since then I’ve had other variations of The Call, including my first book sale and the moment of Huntress Moon hitting the Amazon bestseller charts. I’ve never cried for a week straight since that first time; I don’t think anything after can ever be the same as that first concrete affirmation that yes, you’re doing the right thing and you really can actually DO IT. But there’s always a heady sense of exhilaration mixed with massive relief – relief that all that obsessive work was leading to something, relief that someone values that work enough to pay you enough to do more of it.

For me the feeling of this moment is much more easily captured in music than on film or on the page; I really love songs about this breakthrough or that are about an artist right before the breakthrough, songs that have that dual sense of poverty and struggling along with the sense that the breakthrough is coming.  And I wonder if collecting those songs had a little bit to do with my own breakthroughs: that I knew from songs how it was supposed to feel, and sought out that feeling for myself.

The best ever to me is Springsteen’s “Rosalita”. No other song has ever captured that exhilaration of that “through the looking glass” breakthrough so perfectly; when I hear it I feel I can do anything. And who can NOT dance?

I also love the Counting Crows’ “Mr. Jones”, another fabulous dance song. This one is very personal to me because I know some of the band; as a matter of fact one of my favorite memories is a party during which one of the guys – pre-breakthrough – fell off my second floor balcony clutching a life-sized statue of St. Francis (neither were hurt – if you’re going to take a dive off a balcony, make sure to take a saint with you.) 

And as over-rotated as Billy Joel’s “Piano Man” is, I never switch channels when it comes on.  All those sad people in the bar with their big dreams, and you listen to it knowing that when the bar patrons tell the pianist, “Man, what are YOU doing here?” that he won’t be there for long.

So of course I’d love to hear stories about “The Call.” And does anyone have any  breakthrough or “on the verge” songs for me? 

– Alex

My love-hate relationship with writing

By PD Martin

I wrote this post before I saw Gar’s post yesterday – amazing synchronicity we have here at Murderati sometimes…

I’ve realised over the past few months that I have an ‘unusual’ relationship to my writing.  Or perhaps it’s pretty normal…you tell me. In some ways how writing makes me feel and my attitude towards it are contradictory. A love-hate relationship.

On the one hand, I love writing. I don’t get much time at the computer these days as a full-time mum to a young toddler, but the time I do get I cherish. I covet. I get cranky if something stands in the way of my writing day. My basic routine now is one full writing day (my husband works four days a week) and 1 hour on the other four days of the week during Liam’s naps.

The end of last year and the start of this year saw my limited writing time crunched even more…my daughter’s birthday, school holidays (21 December to 31 January here), Christmas, New Year, and our beach holiday. Three out of the first four weeks down at the beach I didn’t have my writing day (my husband was still working and commuting). At this point I was frustrated. Cranky, even. I needed to write. Finally on 11 January I had my first full writing day. And I wrote 7,500 words. Not surprisingly, I was pretty happy with that word count, and the words themselves. It made me realise how much I’d missed writing. It literally gushed out of me. And like Gar, I’m currently writing a story I want to write. I’m loving writing it and seeing how the characters and plot unfold. And while I do hope it’s commercially viable (which, of course, is code for a best seller), it’s probably not the best story to write from a business/marketing perspective. It’s a different genre (again) for a start!

Now, we’re still on the love part of my relationship with writing…I do love writing. I do.  But sometimes I feel hypocritical because I don’t write at night. Problem is, usually I’m just too plain tired to sit at the computer. I find a day as a full-time mother much more tiring than a day at a full-time job. Plus, this is my time with my husband. Our time to sit back and have a nice dinner and perhaps a glass of wine. And maybe catch up on our favourite TV shows (Dexter, Person of Interest, Homeland and our latest discovery is the UK’s Sherlock, which Alex blogged about here quite extensively and mentioned on Tuesday!) By the way, Alex, now that I’ve watched it I totally agree đź™‚ We’re loving Sherlock.

So now onto the hate part. At times, I feel like my chosen path has taken many things away from me (or at least denied me things). I look at my friends who are still in the corporate world, and I do notice the differences in our lifestyles. Bigger houses, better cars, dinners out…etc. etc. And on the one hand I feel: “No, that’s all material stuff. I’m living my dream — literally.”  Then I answer myself back: “No, your dream is to make a living from writing, or better yet be a best-selling novelist.” And I hate that my love and skill doesn’t equate to making a decent living.   

At times, I think I have to give up for my own sanity. Not to mention financial freedom.  If I went back into the corporate world (even part time) things would certainly be a lot easier financially. But if I’m this cranky when I’m only getting a few hours here and there to write, what would I be like if I didn’t write at all? Or if I wasn’t writing at all, wasn’t trying to finish a book and write that best seller, would I simply be able to let it go?

I’m thinking many of the writers out there can relate to this dilemma. There are at least a few of us at Murderati who’ve been circling or blogging directly about how hard it is to do what we love and make a living.

So, what’s the answer? Go back into the corporate world? Work harder at my writing? Maybe I need to force myself to write at night to add a couple of hours to my weekly quota.

I’m actually feeling pretty good about my current work in progress, but I usually do when I’m in the middle of the first draft. I have that writing high — which deserves a dedicated blog, so that will be in a fortnight’s time.

Safe to say, I’m in the love cycle of my relationship with writing, as long as I don’t think about the dream. The author’s dream.

So, Murderati if you’ve got answers or thoughts throw them my way. Is it normal to love writing but also resent it (almost kind of hate it) because of the financial repercussions of choosing this path? I’m thinking maybe that’s pretty normal for an author these days. And maybe there are no answers.

I’m going to try to focus on the love at the moment. You?

THE FUN FACTOR

by Gar Anthony Haywood

The book I’m writing at present is not the one I should be writing.  The book I should be writing is one far more likely to sell.  A book with a high concept, or one featuring a new character around whom I could build a “franchise.”  Instead, I’m writing the seventh book in my Aaron Gunner private eye series, a novel that fits the description of a can’t-miss bestseller about as well I fit that of an Osmond brother.

Why?  Because I want to.

Sorry, but that’s the only real reason I’ve got.  I haven’t written a book about Gunner in ages and I miss the man.  I had a great idea for an opening that turned into a great idea for a Gunner novel and I simply couldn’t find the will to put off writing it.  I’ve been far more calculating about my book projects than this in the past, on a number of occasions, but for the most part, this is how I’ve always operated: chasing the joy, not the dime.

I know I’m not alone in taking this ass-backwards route to success, but I wonder just how many bestselling authors have had it pay off?  Is anybody making real money and having fun writing at the same time?  Doing only what they want to do, without exception?

God, I hope so.

Because I can’t write worth a damn if I’m not having fun.  I’ve tried writing like an adult, with the detached efficiency of a plumber running pipe or an insurance salesman hawking life-term policies, and I hate it.  Writing for me is a slog under the best circumstances, and having fun — yes, fun — is the only way I get through it.  My need to write is all about the stories I feel compelled to tell, not the bills I’m obligated to pay.  The long-term dream for me has never been as simple as to make a living writing; the dream has always been to someday have it both ways: to write exactly what I want to write, each and every time out of the box, and make a damn good living doing it.

Evidence to date would suggest I’m just kidding myself, but that’s okay.   Hope springs eternal.

So I’m writing Gunner Number 7 and loving it.  It’s hard work, and some days it feels like I’m trying to pull a cow on a leash through a field of quicksand — but I don’t mind.

It’s my cow, and it makes me feel good.

Come on Downton

by Alexandra Sokoloff

(No spoilers!)

You knew I’d end up doing this, right? I can’t help myself, I get addicted to a show and it ends up on the blog. I’m hardly alone on this one, either: Downton Abbey is the most successful British TV show in the history of British TV. Oh, I see the Facebook posts, people complaining that they don’t know what people see in the show. Hah, where do I start? So grab yourself some tea, or champagne, or even better, one of those newfangled cocktails that The Dowager Countess says are “too exciting for before dinner” even as she gazes longingly toward the tray – and let’s talk Downton.

 

I’ve been a big fan of writer/creator Julian Fellowes since his sparkly, pitch-perfect murder mystery Gosford Park, so I was primed to like Downton.  Put the best of British TV (and film) stars together with stellar writing and what’s not to like?

On a writing level, the show had my undying attention from the moment Mr. Bates, painfully disabled from the war and dependent on a cane, looks up that endless staircase (that we have seen all the other servants rushing up and down since the opening of the show) and we realize that the valet job that means both survival and redemption for him is completely dependent on his climbing those stairs dozens of times per day.  Talk about establishing HOPE, FEAR, and STAKES in one perfect camera pan!

As a writer I have always been mystified and envious at the manipulative addictiveness of soap opera writing. When I first moved down to L.A., I’d not only never been into soaps, I totally disdained them. I didn’t even really watch television. But it seemed like every actor I got to know in those early film career years ended up with a gig on “Days of Our Lives.” You can see what’s coming, right? I started watching the show a time or two just to support my friends – and ended up worse than a crack addict over it; it took me years to break the habit.

Downton uses every soap opera trick in the book. It’s gleefully melodramatic; full of deaths and near-deaths, plagues and miracle cures; I’m still waiting for someone to fall into an extended coma. No one is allowed to stay happy for more than a few shows at a time. Everyone, postitively everyone, is always on the verge of a romantic entanglement, or a devastating breakup. The villains, Miss O’Brian and Thomas, positively skulk, and I love their seething-over sexuality. O’Brien especially is a study in repressive rage.

And every major historical event of the times is woven into the plot, giving you a false sense of virtuousness even as you’re gorging on eye candy.  And OH, is there eye candy to gorge on.

I have this theory that people like literature and movies from periods that they most admire the clothes from. Me, as much as I love noir as a genre, I could never pull off that style. With this hair? Renaissance, yes, Edwardian, fine, Regency also works. But my hair is too big and my waist is too short for the fashions of the 30s and 40s, it’s just the way it is, so those periods of time have always felt alien to me. But I’d feel right at home in Downton. Never mind the house porn, this is unabashed clothes porn. I am not above freezing frame just to marvel at details of stitching. And I love that the VERY best clothes are always on the older women, who would naturally have HAD the best clothes.  Maggie Smith wears this teal velvet dress that does things with light I’ve never seen before, and makes her skin translucent and those blue eyes of hers as luminous as jewels. And Elizabeth McGovern wears some net things that fit her like tattoos and are every bit as intricate.

The lighting design is as stunning as the costumes and shots are regularly reminiscent of masterpiece paintings.

And then there are the men.

Hugh Bonneville is delightful in everything I’ve ever seen him in, from Hugh Grant’s hapless failed stockbroker friend in Notting Hill to a charming sociopath in The Commander. While I’m cynical about the uber rich being moral people at heart, I love to BELIEVE that they could be, and Bonneville’s Lord Grantham can always be counted on to do the right thing.

Brendan Coyle absolutely slays me as Mr. Bates, the archetypal “man with a mysterious past,” a valet with demons. What catnip, right? And clever, steadfast Anna is the perfect woman to save him. I haven’t been so committed to a love plot in I don’t know how long. I must mention Bates’ estranged wife – Maria Doyle Kennedy, in a small but pivotal role, was a striking embodiment of evil and madness; I am almost sorry we won’t be seeing more of her.

Dan Stevens as heir apparent Matthew heads up the younger eye candy. With a sexy diffidence that recalls a young Hugh Grant, he is lovely as this character – but if you haven’t seen the extras that come with the i Tunes season pass, I highly recommend a viewing. Stevens is almost unbearably charismatic just as himself; I predict we’ll be seeing him cast in everything until the end of time.

I’m more enamored with the idea of an Irish revolutionary chauffeur than I am with the actual character, but there is some occasional heat between Branson and Lady Sybil that keeps me rooting for him.

I love the women, too. I liked Anna from the start but she also snuck up on me; I just wasn’t expecting her to be such a pillar of the show.

Three sisters are always a great character cluster and it works like a charm in the show. I disliked Lady Mary in the beginning but have admired how Fellowes grew the character to make her grow on me. Same with stunted middle sister Edith, who I’m now completely rooting for. Of course I instantly saw myself in crusading youngest sister Sybil (yeah, I took the “Which Downton Abbey Character Are You? quiz and it was Sybil all the way).

Mrs. Patmore and Daisy are a duo straight out of Shakespeare as the earthy cook and long-suffering kitchen maid; one of my favorite scenes of the whole show is Mrs. Patmore trying to explain to Daisy why Thomas is “not the boy for you.”

But the real heart of the show, as I’m sure no one will disagree, is Maggie Smith.  I would happily watch her read the phone book; she is perfect in everything she touches, but just as with Benedict Cumberbatch in Sherlock this is a priceless alchemy of actor and role. You spend half the show not breathing, just waiting to see what she’s going to say, or who she will simply LOOK at, next. Even if the rest of the show wasn’t so stellar, I would be grateful to Julian Fellowes until the end of time for creating a role so perfectly matched to her talents that will allow the world to enjoy her at the height of her talent – for as long as we have broadcast devices.  I get teary just thinking about it.  

Oh, all right, maybe I’m teary about something else, too.  But remember – NO SPOILERS!!!!

So how about you? What do you love – or hate – about Downton?  What do you think has made it the smash it is? 

– Alex

 

 

Confidence (Revisited)

by Tania Carver (Martyn Waites)

Yes I know you may have seen this post before. That’s because it’s a repeat. The dealine had caught up with me and I havne’t been able to do anything new this week. Apologies, but it’s either this or a blank space. And while I’m sure some of you will prefer that to my ramblings, here’s the repeat. 

I was talking to a writer friend recently, a famous, bestselling writer friend, and the question of confidence came up. ‘I love it when a reader tells me how much they’ve enjoyed my book,’ my friend said, ‘because until I hear that I think they’re all rubbish.’

I know I shouldn’t have been surprised at this but I was. It reminded me of another conversation I’d had with a writer friend – again famous and bestselling – who said after handing their new book in, ‘This is the one. This is the one where I’m going to be found out.’ It wasn’t.  The book was another bestseller.

I don’t know why I was surprised by what they said, really. Because I don’t think it matters what level you’re operating at, sales-wise, as a writer, you’re always prey to the same doubts and fears.  Last week was the publication of J K Rowling’s first novel since her Harry Potter series. Some of you may be aware of this, it didn’t happen without notice. I would say its had mixed reviews but I don’t think that’s the right word.  Polarised would be a more accurate one.  Some people loved it, some hated it.  The ones who hated it did so mainly because Rowling had written the novel she wanted to write and not the one they had expected her to.  Fair enough. There was a fantastically angry review by Jan Moir in the Daily Mail – which I’m not going to link to as I don’t believe in giving that rag any more publicity – which slated the novel as a socialist tract and left wing propaganda. Considering the Daily Mail is the British newspaper to have supported Hitler and old habits die hard, I would think Rowling would be massively pleased by that. I would be. Some reviews on Amazon complained because characters, just like people in real life, swore.

But other more fair and balanced reviews appeared in other papers. By and large, her book would be judged a success. Despite all the numpties and their negative reviews, others were more positive and sales were, of course, huge.  Well done her.

We were talking about Rowling the other night at home. We’ve been doing that quite a lot recently since she now has the same publisher as the Tania books (In fact the release date for Choked was moved so as not to coincide with hers). Linda is firmly of the opinion that she doesn’t know why Rowling has bothered. ‘If I’d been that successful and made that much money,’ she said, ‘why would I want to open myself up to that kind of scrutiny?  Why would I put my head above the parapet just to have people take a pot shot at me?’ She’s got a good point. But my response was, ‘What else is she going to do? She’s a writer. Why write and not be published?’ Both valid viewpoints but over the last few days I’ve been thinking more about what Linda said. And this reminded me of the two conversations at the start of this piece.

 

The three of us were all together recently, talking about the same thing.  Confidence in our work. I confessed that I was still waiting for the tap on the shoulder and someone to say, ‘Come on son, you’ve had your fun. But now it’s time to let the real writers in. There’s the door.’ My friends said they felt exactly the same. One of my friends even admitted that they thought they had a double whose place they had taken and who should have been getting all the acclaim. And yet, we still keep doing it.

It’s hard enough to write in the first place. To put your work out there, fearing – and often expecting – the worst, work that you could well have spent at least a year of your life working on, work that’s become precious to you. To let it go and have people hurl whatever they want at it. I’m always amazed when I get a good review. Or rather relieved. I always think about what my friend said earlier: They haven’t found me out yet. Phew. I’ve dodged a bullet this time. But next time . . .

I know, when you examine it, it’s a stupid way to think, behave and conduct a career. But I honestly believe that writers have to do it. You’re driven to write. Compelled to do it. And when you have written you want to be read. You need to be read. Because without a reader a book is just a lump of paper. So you have to do it. And to tell you the truth, if I know any writers who think differently to what I’ve outlined above I doubt I would want to read their books. Feeling that your work is terrible is, I think, a necessary part of the process. It’s what drives you on, keeps you going. Makes you strive to improve, to stretch yourself. To go deeper into that character, further with that situation, make that dialogue better, that description more succinct. You have to. And that’s why I think J K Rowling is no different, despite the slight disparity in earnings with the rest of us. She’s a writer with a writer’s heart and a writer’s drive. And a writer’s willingness to put her work out there and be judged by it when she doesn’t need to. And I love her for that.

 

So how do we keep the balance? Well, there’s something I always tell creative writing students. It refers to an old interview with Martin Amis when his (some would say last good) novel The Information was about to be published. The book concerns two writers, one who is successful, one who isn’t. The interviewer asked which one he was. ‘Both,’ he said. ‘Usually at the same time.’ When I read that I thought, ‘What a load of pretentious bollocks.’ But the more I thought about that, the more I thought he was right. As a writer when you’re working you have to be both. At the same time. It’s a balancing act, a seesaw, with the brilliantly successful writer at one end and the abject failure at the other. You have to be able to write stuff that you think is absolutely sparkling deathless prose yet at the same time the worst piece of dross ever written and you’ve got to strive to improve on that. It’s an odd way to think but it works. For me, at least. It’s a confidence trick. It keeps me in check while simultaneously making me work harder.

It stops the book I’m currently working on being the one where I’m found out.

Hopefully.

 

THE LONG AND SHORT OF IT

By Stephen Jay Schwartz

So, I’ve been reading short stories lately. Hundreds of them. All contemporary, mystery-thrillers. I’m judging another competition, so I’m deep in it.

I kind-of forgot about the short story format. Like many of you, the short story is where my writing career began. It started with “Sammy the Dinosaur,” the four-page story I pecked out on our Selectric typewriter when I was eight years old. “Sammy the Dinosaur” was new and original to me, though I’ve heard that there was some other series with the same name that preceded me. My wife mentioned this recently, saying she assumed I stole the idea from the original author. This is simply not the case, however. When pressed, she softened her accusation, suggesting that my eight year-old mind was merely susceptible to ideas originated by others and that I imagined the story as my own. What she doesn’t know is that “Sammy” was the name of every pet I had as a child. Every fish, whether it was a beta or catfish, was “Sammy.” For a short time I had a salamander named Sammy. “Sammy” actually became something of a cursed name, since each fish never survived more than a month and the salamander disappeared after a massive, New Mexico dust storm lifted its cardboard home into the sky.

After the salamander debacle I began naming my pets with “B” names, a tradition that continued all the way to our recently deceased (seven years ago) dog Bandit and ultimately to the names of my ultimate pets, Boulevard and Beat.

It started with my first bullsnake, which was given the amazingly original name, “Bull.” The snake was a gift from my father, who brought him home to face the violent protests of my mother and sister. My dad held his ground and, for this, I gave him the honor of choosing its name. My father was a doctor and this moment proved that he was a man of great skill and no imagination. “Bull,” he said. “You know, for Bullsnake.” As though it needed an explanation.

Ultimately I had four bullsnakes: Bull, Belle, Billie and Bess. Bull was the only male in the group, so the rest was his harem. I had other pets during this time, too. They were the mice my snakes didn’t eat. It was weird, but if a mouse looked at them wrong, or if one accidentally kicked a snake in the jaw before the fatal strike, the snake turned tail and ran. The mouse went from pastry to pet.

I’ve been a vegetarian since I was seven years old, so feeding mice to snakes became pretty hypocritical after a while. One day I tried to get Bull to eat an egg. I dropped the egg out of the familiar “feeding container” (a Folgers Coffee can punctured with air holes) and watched as the snake crawled OVER the egg to get a better view into the empty can. I then had the bright idea of picking up the egg and dancing it around the cage so that it would appear “mouse-like.” Needless to say, my hand became that night’s meal.

When I got older I bought an iguana. Because iguanas eat salads.

It’s time to stop this tangent. We were talking about short stories.

After “Sammy the Dinosaur” I graduated to long form. When I was fourteen I wrote my first screenplay, with my writing partner Seth Gardenswartz. Together we were Schwartz & Gardenswartz Productions. He wanted us to be Gardenswartz and Schwartz Productions, but I told him it sounded clunky. Schwartz & Gardenswartz worked because it was “two Schwartzes separated by a Garden.” It took a full afternoon to convince him that my intentions were good and that I wasn’t trying to steal the spotlight. Finally, he agreed. I remember snickering softly, within earshot, “My name is fi-irst, my name is fi-irst…”

So we wrote that screenplay, a sci-fi thriller called “Battle of the Gods.” Written in long-hand, because neither of us typed. We gave it to my sister, who turned it into a typing class pet project. It came back as a 65-page paragraph. Really. All the dialogue, descriptions, name slugs, transitions, everything, wrapped into one gigantic paragraph. Thanks, Sis.

High school was four years without thinking about stories or writing. High school was four years of thinking about girls. I can’t remember if I read a thing. Wait, there was Steinbeck’s “The Pearl.” I remember hating it. They could have at least assigned Nabokov’s “Lolita.”

College came around and I started reading, and appreciating, good writing. The first writings that caught my attention were short stories. Flannery O’Connor. Katherine Anne Porter. “The Jilting of Granny Weatherall.” Fantastic stuff. And then there was Hemmingway, and “The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber.”

And Amy Hempel. My God, have you read Amy Hempel?

Stories by Bernard Malamud. Stories that lit the fire.

After college I got lost in screenplays, writing at least ten feature scripts before ditching the film world to set my sites on the novel. I began by tackling the short story. I wrote seven or eight pieces that I kept to myself. Just getting used to the process. Then I dove into long-form with my first novel, Boulevard.

And now I’m studying the short story. Again. A good short story is a whole little novel in an itty-bitty space. I’m more intimidated now than ever. I’ve been asked to contribute to a short story collection for Red Hen Press, with some pretty impressive authors in the mix. I’m trying not to let it scare me. But it does. I’ve gotten used to the long format and, as exhausting as it is to write a novel, at least I have the comfort of knowing that I’m never really expected to finish one. Then there’s that great surprise at the end, when I actually do finish. (I assume I’ll experience that feeling again, someday). But these short stories…geez, there’s simply no excuse to not get one done.

I guess it’s fortuitous that I’m judging a short-story contest the same time I’m supposed to write a story for publication. I’m learning what works and why. And what doesn’t work, and what to avoid.

Short stories open a whole new world for me – at their best they’re magnificent dishes meant to be consumed in one sitting, yet remembered forever for their satisfying taste. At their best they influence our styles and give us something to emulate. And, as authors, they give us an opportunity to experiment with different styles and points-of-view and tense, without committing our careers to the kind of “risky” change that scares agents and editors. And, if a new style works as a short story it might signal a new direction for the course of our books. Or it might signal exactly what we shouldn’t do in our books; the canary in the coal mine. Something to think about.

What are your favorite short stories? Which ones have influenced your style? Do you prefer writing short stories or novels? Do you prefer reading short stories or novels? Why?

The not-so gentle art of the synopsis

Zoë Sharp

I’m sure I’m not alone when I say that I find writing a synopsis the most difficult part of being a writer. But it’s also the most vital.

Even if you’re a seat-of-the-pants kind of writer, who sets out with an idea and runs with it until the end, you may still have to produce a synopsis after the event, in order to sell your masterpiece to a publisher.

If you go searching the subject, you’ll find almost too many websites, blog sites and articles to count. I’ve been hunting around and tried to come up with a general consensus of the advice that’s out there. Please feel free to add, contradict or explain your own theories!

If you’re a plotter to begin with, then you will probably already have the original outline you used as the backbone of your story. If you’re anything like me, though, by the time you’ve finished it will be covered in crossings-out and pencil alterations. So, your first job is to produce a clean, accurate outline.

I go through my manuscript as I’m writing and do a summary of each chapter or scene. A few lines, an idea of who’s doing what, and what might be happening behind the scenes to be picked up later. This is more for my own consumption than anyone else’s, however. It will not make the story sound particularly exciting, but it’s extremely useful when it comes to edits, because I can make my alterations to the summary and then transfer them to the manuscript itself.

But, I also write the jacket copy synopsis. This gives me a tight view of the book as a whole, and reminds me of the thrust of the story. The jacket copy synopsis I wrote for DIE EASY: Charlie Fox book ten, is this:

In the sweating heat of Louisiana, former Special Forces soldier turned bodyguard, Charlie Fox, faces her toughest challenge yet.

Professionally, she’s at the top of her game, but her personal life is in ruins. Her lover, bodyguard Sean Meyer, has woken from a gunshot-induced coma with his memory in tatters. It seems that piecing back together the relationship they shared is proving harder for him than relearning the intricacies of the close-protection business.

Working with Sean again was never going to be easy for Charlie, either, but a celebrity fundraising event in aid of still-ravaged areas of New Orleans should have been the ideal opportunity for them both to take things nice and slow.

Until, that is, they find themselves thrust into the middle of a war zone.

When an ambitious robbery explodes into a deadly hostage situation, the motive may be far more complex than simple greed. Somebody has a major score to settle, and Sean is part of the reason. Only trouble is, he doesn’t remember why.

And when Charlie finds herself facing a nightmare from her own past, she realises she can’t rely on Sean to watch her back. This time, she’s got to fight it out on her own.

One thing’s for certain, though. No matter how overwhelming the odds stacked against her, or however hopeless the situation may appear, Charlie is never going to die easy.

A taster, yes, but this is NOT really a description of exactly what happens in the book, so not really a synopsis in its true sense. But at the same time it’s relatively simple, it mentions only two characters by name, so it’s not too confusing, and it gives you a pretty reasonable idea of who, what, where, why, and the conflicts faced by the main character, both physical and emotional. Plus the present-tense gives it an immediacy and impact.

At the beginning I include the detail about Charlie because I never assume people know the character. And I make sure I include the word ‘her’ so people don’t get confused from the start that she’s a woman.

But to take this and turn it into the kind of synopsis I could show to a publisher means a LOT more work.

For me, the main jobs of a synopsis are to get across the following:

The theme.

The basic elements of the plot and what makes it different from other, possibly similar storylines the editor’s seen before. And NEVER say ‘and there’s this great twist ending’ without actually telling them what the ending is. They’re the experts. They’ll decide if it’s great or another cliché they’ve seen a million times before.

The attraction of the protagonist to a jaded reader.

If the subject or setting is topical or different or otherwise interesting.

To show that the writer can put together a good story, and write it in a stylish and gripping way.

So, to this end a synopsis should include the following:

The Hook―why is this book worth reading?

The Characters―what are their motivations, their emotions and the crises that challenge them?

The Story―told in a brief but enthusiastic way, as you’d describe a great movie you just saw to a friend who you’re trying to convince to go and see it. What happens, how the characters react, and what are the after-effects. Not, ‘the bad guys robbed the bank and then the good guys caught them, the end’.

The Climax―the event at which the protagonist overcomes or succumbs.

The Resolution.

But this is not often one linear story. There are different elements that have to be considered and combined. First is the basic story itself:

What’s the incident or action that kicks the whole thing into motion?

What are the main events that put obstacles into the path of the protagonist?

What is the climax to the story?

What is the resolution to the story? Not the same as the climax. The climax could be the big fight scene on a sinking riverboat on the Mississippi. The resolution is what happens once the characters get back to New York and events have had time to hit home.

Then there’s your protagonist’s story:

Who is he/she? What drives them. What do they want―or want to avoid―and what’s preventing them from achieving this?

What situation or incident brings about change in their life?

How are they affected by the events of the book?

What is the ongoing effect on the protagonist’s life at the end?

And, of course, the story of your other characters:

Who is the antagonist―what do they want?

How do they attempt to achieve their goals and what obstacles to they put in the path of the protagonist in order to do so?

Are they changed by the events of the story, or do they bring about change in the protagonist because of their actions?

The relationships within the story:

What are they at the start?

How do they develop or change during the course of the book?

How are they tested, changed or broken by the climax?

How are they different at the end?

And finally, people get hung up on the length of a synopsis. Brief is good, but not if it makes the thing boring. Better to go to two pages and grab somebody than stick to one and send them to sleep. Theme and effects are more important, I feel, than a blow-by-blow of the action. The main events should be enough.

Use readable font size rather than trying to squeeze as much in as possible by going to 6pt. Single or double spacing? I always use 1.5, but that’s personal preference. Some people also advocate putting a character’s name in capitals the first time it appears. Again, this is personal preference, but I would make sure that character is always described the same way throughout. Not by first name, profession, and then surname―too confusing.

 And just in case this has left you eager to put together a brief story of your own, I’m very pleased to mention the Flashbang Flash Fiction Competition 2013. Sponsored by CrimeFest. £2 entry free. 150 words maximum. Deadline March 1st 2013. First prize is two free passes to CrimeFest. Shortlisted and winning stories published online. Full details here.

This week’s Word of the Week is deus ex Meccano, which is a kit of metal bits and pieces which allows you to construct the ending to your book :))

The Art of Character

By David Corbett

It’s a bit of two-for-one day here at Casa de Corbett—I’m posting not just here but with Deborah Crombie over at Jungle Red, where we’re giving away a free copy of The Art of Character.

Why am I defying laws of physics by appearing in two places at once?

Because we’re a week away from the pub date for The Art of Character, and in between popping open the Dom Perignon and soliciting celebrity piggyback rides, we’re trying to amp up the volume on the book’s release.

If you want to know the story of how the book came about—Deborah’s preoccupation—trundle on over to Jungle Red.

Here I just want to speak briefly about why I think the book is helpful, and maybe even important.

Some of the best books on writing in recent years have emphasized structure—specifically Robert McKee’s Story and John Truby’s The Anatomy of Story. And though both books deal with character, Truby’s in somewhat more depth, I found there was something lacking in both that needed addressing.

Though both books and a few others deal brilliantly with the function of character, and discuss how the character is a crucial element in the story matrix, they leave largely unaddressed the trickier, subtler, more difficult, and thus most interesting parts of characterization—giving the character recognizable feelings and desires, contradictions and secrets, letting her think and feel and behave like a real and complex human being, not a plot puppet.

As I emphasize in the book, it’s important to think of the character not as just a cog in the story, but as a real individual, with a life “outside the narrative,” to whom the events of the story happen.

And it’s not enough to “take dictation from imaginary beings.” A great many clichéd characters sprang fully formed in their creator’s imagination precisely becaue they were derivative—vaguely concealed duplicates of other characters.

There’s no short cut. To create great characters you have to spend time. You have to feel deeply and imagine wisely. You have to ask a hundred questions and answer them not with your mind but with your heart and your intuition—and characters aren’t always quick or straightforward with their answers. Patience and attention are required.

The books I did find that dealt with this aspect of characterization didn’t take it far enough, in my opinion, or didn’t deal with it sytematically and comprehensively. On top of that, they were written in a style I found leaden, contaminated by “how-to.”

A character can’t be fashioned from ideas, or stitched together from parts, no matter how clever the tropes. You end up with a Frankenstein, not a Frank Galvin, or a Frank Pierce, or even a Frank Chambers.

But few if any of the books on writing I reviewed, even the ones I admired, offered any real guidance on how to conjure that organically whole yet emotionally complex hobgoblin we think of as a fully realized character.

I took only the mininum number of English classes in college and never took a creative writing course. I learned most of what I know about writing from trial and error—plenty of the latter—and breaking down scenes in acting school, where the importance of a physical and intuitive connection to the character was hammered into my over-analytical brain.

Writers lack the physical presence of the actor, and can’t rely on it. We have only words. How is it done?

I wanted to help writers figure that out by helping them move through each of the stages of characterization, from conceiving the character—and being wary of characters derived from the story, the finishing school for plot puppets—to developing the character, to understanding that character’s role in the story, to techniques for rendering her on the page.

I emphasize the importance of scenes, not information, in not just portraying your character but conceiving and developing her.

And I stress the need to plumb one’s own experience, emotions, and memory to create the intuitive facility you need to perceive your characters like figures in a dream, not pieces on a chess board—or the product of a checklist.

Last, I wanted to write the book in such a way the reader would feel not just informed but inspired. I wanted readers to feel compelled to put down the book and return to their desks and forge ahead with whatever they were writing.

From the response the book has garnered so far, I think I’ve been largely successful. Now the book needs to find its target audience: writers, whether just starting out or perfecting their craft.

If you’d like to try for a free copy, go to today’s posting on Jungle Red.

If you’d like to read an excerpt (“Serving and Defying the Tyranny of Motive”), check out this post on Zyzzyva. (Another excerpt will appear a week from today on Narrative Magazine’s Tumblr page.)

And if you’d like to pre-order the book, you’re only two clicks away, beginning with this one here.

* * * * *

What are the easiest and most difficult aspects of characterization for you?

Who is the most interesting character you’ve come across in a book, play, film, or TV program lately?

Among the characters you yourself have created, which one’s your favorite? Which one was hardest to create or get right? Which one was easiest?

* * * * *

Jukebox Hero of the Week: One of the points I make in The Art of Character is that a writer who writes for himself is “scribbling to a ghost.” We write for readers, because the reader makes us honest.

But it’s often important to personify the reader we’re trying to reach, and envision that reader as someone who expects our very best.

The actor Joseph Chaikin wrote that he never went onstage without imagining Martin Luther King, Jr., in the audience. Since we celebrated Dr. King’s birthday Monday, I thought it might be appropriate to choose this tribute to him from the late great Solomon Burke. It’s a beautiful song about persevering despite the gnawing doubts that plague even great men and women, and the humility that comes with true courage:

 

National pride on Australia Day…sort of

By PD Martin

This Saturday is Australia Day. Given I know many (most) of our readers are NOT Australian, you might be interested to know that Australia Day commemorates the arrival of the first fleet in 1788.

It’s a big day here in Oz, yet I’m feeling mixed about it all. There are so many layers to this day. Good, bad, and plain ugly.

First off, at the most superficial level I think most Australians will agree it’s a great day for a BBQ (a national past time, particularly in summer; and Australia Day is one of those days when pretty much everyone either has or goes to an Australia Day BBQ).  It’s also a public holiday, and let’s face it, who doesn’t like a day off? In fact, this year because it falls on Saturday, the public holiday is on Monday (in lieu), so we get a long weekend — bonus! Mind you, as a full-time mum public holidays don’t actually mean a ‘day off’ for me, but they do mean a day of family time, which is something I cherish greatly.

There’s also the part of me that’s incredibly proud to be an Australian and so it’s nice to have a day to honour this feeling. I love this country and while Australians generally have a low-key kind of patriotism, it’s still there, bubbling away underneath. You probably got a sense of my pride in Australia during my blog on our gun laws (yes, I think we’ve got it right). Plus our healthcare system is pretty damn good, I think. Then of course there’s the country itself (the cities, the outback, the bushland, the beaches). I also love how multicultural we are these days. And let’s not forget the weather. Having lived in Ireland for a year and a half, I think I appreciate our sunshine even more now. Looking out to blue skies and maybe a few puffs of cloud at least 6-9 months out of the year is extremely important to me. It sets the mood for the day and instantly makes me feel upbeat. Sure, the really, really hot days aren’t my favourites but I’d rather be hot than cold any day.

So, all of the above are incredibly positive things. Go, Australia. Yay, Australia. I love living here. Australia Day rocks. But then…

I think about the actual day it commemorates — the British declaring sovereignty over Australia (then New Holland), and everything that followed in terms of our indigenous population. In fact, most of our Indigenous population call Australia Day Invasion Day. And of course, that’s what it was. It’s all about perspective. Having lived in Ireland and studied some of its history extensively for Grounded Spirits, I often compare the two countries. Ireland is the most invaded country in the world. Its most recent invasion, of course, had massive consequences — consequences that were felt for centuries (and still are). After all, that’s how Ireland became Northern Ireland and the Republic of Ireland. (Note: I realise I have simplified a very complex issue with this statement. And yes, it is/was also very tied up in religion. But what you’ve got to remember, is that traditionally the Catholics were Irish and the Protestants were English.)

Anyway, part of Grounded Spirits takes place in the 1820s, when the Irish weren’t even allowed to own land in their own country. Ireland has been fighting invaders, either in the political arena or physically, for pretty much its entire history. The Irish fought their invaders over the centuries. What would have happened if Australia’s indigenous population had guns? Would a battle between Australia’s indigenous population and invaders (British or otherwise) still be going on today? Would the country be split in half?   

The final layer…In terms of Australia Day commemorating the British declaring sovereignty, I’d actually rather Australia was a Republic. I believe that the average Australian actually does NOT feel an affiliation to the UK or the Queen. Problem is, for better or worse we don’t fully understand that burning desire to legally be a Republic. As a result, most Aussies (non-Indigenous) are pretty apathetic about the whole issue.

However, many of the supporters of an Australian Republic believe it would (and should) be linked to Reconciliation. These two issues could be tied together — an Australian Republic that starts afresh, recognising that Australia has been built on the foundations of indigenous Australians, British settlers/invaders and the massive number of migrants that now form our multicultural population. Symbolically, a Republic could be a new start with an acknowledgement of this country’s true history.

Australia Day…see what I mean about the layers? The good, the bad and the ugly?

So, what will I do on Australia Day? I will celebrate all the positives of this wonderful nation, but the history and the need for both Reconciliation and an Australian Republic will also be at the forefront of my mind. We do have friends coming down for a BBQ, but I’ll make sure we talk about the layers of Australia Day.