Well, they're going after R.L. Stine's Goosebumps series and it's news to the him because he never gave them permission to change the text. I'm unsure if this is 'sensitivity' writers or editors but they are changing things like crazy to silly and again going after unkind descriptions for the release of his new E-book editions. Scholastic's reason - "keep the language current and avoid imagery that could negatively impact a young person's view of themselves today, with a particular focus on mental health." Yeah, I'm sure the person reading Ghost Beach needs a handholding over mental health issues. Who are the kidding?
Well, the so-called 'sensitivity' readers are at it again. And have been working to change Dahl's new editions to remove everything from gendered language, to 'offensive' descriptions. Even something as innocuous as - The balcony belonged to an attractive middle-aged lady called Mrs. Silver - becomes - The balcony belonged to a kind middle-aged lady called Mrs. Silver. Even more peculiar Augustus is no longer described as fat. Having read Charlie as a morality fairy tale - with Augustus, Violet, Veruca, Mike TV, displaying the worst characteristics - gluttony, stupidity, selfishness, rudeness - making constant disrespectful demands on their parents, they are a direct contrast of selfless, good, respectful Charlie. Watering down Augustus's problem waters down the point. In this weird drive to be non-offensive people forget that not everything that cuts like a knife is offensive, sometimes it's just the truth that hurts. Buy hard copies of your favorite books.
Haven't really come across any writers talking about this and frankly I don't know what to say. I've seen cancel culture be brushed off on other writing sites, rudely dismissed as don't be a bigot and you don't have to worry, with little regard to the concept of who those gatekeepers of deciding what's bigotry will entail. Especially in a world that has weaponized politics. It was jaw-dropping to see so many writers advocate for pre-publication banning, or writer's being canceled for minor offenses as if their own manuscripts were so sanitized they need never worry, forgetting how many writers fought censorship to allow the erotica, graphic violence, or language - that often populates THEIR stories - to be published. Scarier then even the banning of Dr. Seuss's six books is the response of corporations (Ebay - so far) that are not allowing the reselling of old editions as if from now on the books don't exist. Considering these corporations helped to snuff out used book stores making it difficult to find exact books we now have warehouses where editions will rot rather than allow people to make up their own minds. What's next the endless digital tweaking of online editions?
I'm re-reading Pia Pera's novel Lo's Diary a kind of sidequel to Nabokov's Lolita only from Lolita's pov. It was written back in the 90s and she takes it more from the angle of a mother's hatred for her daughter and also incorporates some riot-grrl feminist vibes into the text - Emily Prager did a much better job of this with her Lolita-take book - Roger Fishbite. But it is an interesting read. I'll do a longer post but for now I'm just stunned that Pera took 90 pages to set up Lolita's life prior to meeting Humbert only to have him enter, takeover and this realization isn't shaking up Lolita. She's as acerbic before she met him as his complete takeover of her life. Huge mistake. What's your thoughts? Should major events shake up the mc even if they're a bit twisted or should you maybe tone down the twisted side of your character so you can have them appear shook? I feel like Pera is doing everything she can to have Lolita avoid a victim label.
Just read another story of a woman named Amelie Zhao having her book deal yanked after some people on Goodreads decided her book didn't meet up to certain standards? I don't know how else you'd call it. A fantasy novel - set in a fantasy world didn't mirror certain aspects of … reality. Not shocked … just uneasy. What did she do wrong? Apparently wrote about slavery without mentioning POC. My feeling on this is whoopdee-shit. If I read a book and no characters looked like me - who cares, if they don't represent certain religions, atheism, certain viewpoints, certain real world issues - again, who gives a shit. I'm there to read their take on their world and if it doesn't include anything of, or not of my world - who cares. Apparently though a noisy group of people care and seriously want to destroy a person's career before it even has a chance to flower. Some of the kooks accused her of being anti-black, a plagiarist (and if she's guilty of that she should be called out) and a flat out racist. I think the publishers have pulled publishing the trilogy temporarily which makes me think the books are probably being groomed and reworked to pacify the mob-squad before being sold. Scary. No concrete proof of racism, no proof of malicious intent, no proof of bias. But somehow still found guilty. And the writer apologized. Reminds me a little of Canada when someone bumps into you - you apologize before the person who bumped you. What I used to think as funny isn't so funny anymore. I have no idea what kind of message this sends to writers. I'm caught between terror that we're pre-banning people and possibly encouraging people to write with a certain mindset versus the exhilaration that it's forcing me to take a good look at what I believe in.
** This is a cut and paste poem I did a while back taking phrases from vintage Harlequin novels -- I love doing cut and paste. Then it happened; they kissed. Shock was like a needle to the irresistible pressure of his mouth sensual lips that knew no mercy Caught in the slowing down of time resistance took a tumble that shattered her fury So intense were her emotions Flame flickered deep burning, burning with a deep fire bodies were melting together to form a throbbing duet she knew the real danger lay within herself and tried to escape the hard demanding mouth “You brute!” she cried “Give in,” he growled. “You are aching to be my wife.”
* Clipped phrases from retro Sears catalogs and some phrases from Dylan Thomas's short stories collection - Adventures in the skin trade. I love doing found poetry. * The Garden of Sears Creation screamed forth in an enchanted garden Of non-conformist comfort. two available in your choice of colors He - lab-tested, excellent resiliency cling-free She - fully immersible, high polish, brass finish. He had been invisible Till, she opened eyes of handcrafted, leaded cathedral glass You were lonely before I came They stood fresh-as-spring It’s got bounce, he thought admiring her pompon elegance She ignored his big 10 “ swivel nozzle The fine-quality, vitreous china Classic had waited for this Sculptura But... One by one the funflowers died as the Fooler purred his way through “Take off your frock of freedom from defrosting and resistant to the effects of smoke, humidity, and harsh sunlight” a spark of wing and fire the safety shell drops leaving a hole in heaven she took his hand and lead him racing over the Magicube truly amazing, they move as though alive and multiply, multiply by 3,500,000 Pattern is protected under a hard glaze for long wear We are chip-resistant digi-matic shock protected! We glory in - a cool-down tumble complete with spill catchers trapping tiny tubular travelers What is death’s music? The stunning modern look! Push button-reverse
Was going to enter this in a contest here ( little black dress ) but as usual I went over the word limit and then haven't finished, yet. I would like to expand on the theme of cowardice & masculinity but I'm not too sure if it's too obvious. Prove Your Y Out of all of them, I kept my eyes on the slimy creature in the little black dress. He/she/it’s craftier than the others. He, I’ll call him he despite his get up, came slurging down the road yesterday like a seal, but when he noticed the others starting to imitate humans, taking bits of refuse to give themselves a frame, a mock skeleton, he broke branches off a tree. He used limbs to give himself limbs. I let out a wild donkey bray, something between a laugh and a cry of hysteria and had to back away from my watch at the upper floor window. ‘Cause whenever they hear noise, they move towards it. This thinking gelatin, this meteoric goo - that some dipshit CNN newscaster two weeks ago had laughed off as ‘watch out people the blob is here’ - had propped himself up, gave himself bones. This was no blob, this was something worse. There were about eighty of them in my neighborhood. A week ago, before their numbers had climbed into the double digits, the troops had come and banged on doors and most of my neighbors grabbed bundles and willingly vacated. Had to do with that Youtube video in which some teenage boy challenged by his friend had touched one of the blobs. That was before they’d begun taking shape, when they were just stewing and sliding along the gutters, like loogies, feeding off the water, ingesting whole puddles ... Growing. The boy convulsed and died. The trolls cried Hoax! Faker! But then the army rolled in. Other hospitalizations became public. News bulletins told the people to stop spraying the goo out of their yards with garden hoses, or trying to bang it into the gutters with rake ends and enough with the bleach. I stayed behind, with my wife Angela. It was her idea to stay. “Those bastards aren’t driving me out of my house. I just put up new wallpaper.” It was hard to tell who she meant by bastards; the invading troops or the invading goop. With Angela it could be either or both. I think there are three others on our block that stayed occasionally in the strange traffic-less quiet, beyond the sticky noise of the blobs traveling, you can hear the wheeze of a screen door. Ten o’clock. Angela is in the house opposite gently opening the window. She got stuck in the house a week ago looking for food. I tried insisting I go ( although I didn’t want to. ) I said stupid things like, ‘I’m the man.’ She just raised her eyebrow and said, “Bully for you. I suppose having a cock gives you an advantage in dodging intergalactic Jello, is it part compass?” I started to defend my angle by stating I’m in better shape but Angela glared reminding me if I finished that sentence her wrath would be ten times worse than whatever those blobs could dish out. I ate the last can of ravioli yesterday. The water still runs. Though I keep the bathtub full just in case. Angela tried throwing me new supplies. She tied them in a little black dress and threw them from the window across to me. I bungled the catch and her package dropped onto one of the blobs below and burst open. The blob spread out like a splat and worked itself out from under the contents. Then it spent most of the day examining the boxes, the cans, the dress and a magazine Angela had thrown in because it had one of my old modeling ads. Later, the same blob, I suppose, after he’d given himself arms and legs and shape and structure, and a mock head from a neighbor’s basketball, had put on the dress. Now it hobbled around like some freaking eerie Jack Pumpkinhead. “Pssst,” went Angela with a wave. How is she always so fearless? I opened my window reluctantly. A couple days ago the blobs started creeping up along the house like snails. Scared the shit out of me. I ran around locking every window, shutting every curtain. Shook for hours. Angela just got a Swifer Broom and tried to pry one off - “No, you don’t you slime balls!” Angela’s plump cheeks have been rouged and she’s done something to her eyes. Glued sequins on, I think. She’s been passing the time playing dress up with the neighbor’s loot. She blew me a kiss. I blew her one back. My eyes kept roaming. They’ve heard us, they’re coming. “How you doing for food?” Her stage whisper could travel blocks. “Shhh. Ate the last can yesterday.” “What? Oh, ouch!” I got the pun. “Funny.” “I’ll run something over.” Too late to find the pun in that -my stomach plummeted. “Don’t!” “Levi,” she began, her tone straining with impatience.”You have to let me try sometime or you have to come over here.” My hand wouldn’t stop shaking. It was sickening to be this scared in front of my wife especially while she remained rather calm. I slouched down out of sight, and turned my back on the window. Just squatted and thought. It wasn’t as if I was some he-man now reduced to a quivering mass with less substance than what was now creeping out there. I couldn’t feel the loss of courage like the cowardly lion. Who knew or rather had, or claimed a rightful place of authority in this world. Nor was I some sensitive journalist who would think it sexist to even entertain the thought and could bluff my sagging ego that this was the ultimate opportunity to show I have no sexist bone in my body and could embrace my cowardice, smug in the knowledge that as a right to equality, I owed my wife nothing, not an ounce of heroism. Bravo, pilgrim. But that was not my ideal to prove. I was no contriving actor counting on tears to earn me the Oscar that my lack of anything else couldn’t. I stood for no one but me, Levi Hammel, an ex male model who spent most of his days in underwear pouting towards cameras and fending off gropes from the photographers. And Angela still seemed to buck tradition even while embodying it. She created and sewed clothes - bohemian hats and dresses. A plump Tinkerbelle who always looked as though she was on her way to a seance. There was never a weirder, more wonderful match-up. Now I was Angela’s model both male and female. I was used to wearing all types of crap and never blinked an eye, so I didn’t struggle and barely protested when Angela shaved my legs and put me in paisley leggings or broomstick skirts or gypsy blouses. Photographing me from the neck or waist down for her ads on Sign of the Owl boutique. This time I longed for a grope from this photographer and she always came through purring, “My very own compliant, anatomically correct, Ken doll.” “Ken Doll!” She hollared now, as if plugged into my thoughts. An idea so eerie and comforting I scratched at the goose pimples she’d raised, and bit my tongue to keep from shushing her. “Ken Doll!” I imagined them slurping into the window. Finding me. “Angel Doll.” My call was much quieter. “We need a plan.” My brain froze at the thought of leaving the house but I turned and looked out the window. They were thick on the ground all their makeshift heads - one used a melon from a garden down the block, another a ticking clock ( from inside a house - chilling thought ), another a trike wheel, an empty mayonaise jar, a wasp nest anything that was round or cylindrical - every makeshift head turned towards us. “What do you have in mind?” “Don’t you have any ideas?” “Have you tried the phones -” “The phones are dead, babe. Dead. We can’t count on anyone to help us.” “Who’s fault is that?” I quickly shot back. The wet flash of pain in her eyes made me instantly regret it. “I’m sorry.” “It is my fault.” “No, I could have - ” “You never give in when I want my way. ” She stopped and snuffed. I was glad she didn’t continue as it sounded rather accusing. It made me feel as though I’d always been weak but had never had to face a mirror and see the weakness. And this is all this situation was one big mirror revealing all my flaws. “Shit, they’re climbing up the walls again. 2 o’clock.” She says and closes her window. She draws the curtains. I follow her lead. I never sleep long any more. Maybe they’ll get in. Maybe I’ve forgotten something: the flue on the fireplace, a cracked window to let in a breeze, the dryer vent, the hole for the cable wires. Can they thin down to spit strings and find their way in like mice? What do they want? They just seem to wander.
A question on the forums had me dragging out my first book to see how far I’ve come ( or not *gulp* ) in my writing. It was definitely eye opening. I took some pictures. Check out this behemoth. I wrote it back in the early 90's when I was around 14. I’m having issues trying to date this ( I never wrote dates on anything. And there are about 4 10-30 page outlines I had done of the story previous to writing this draft which is throwing me off on the dates. ) I got inspired by Twin Peaks which was inspired by old movies and my ms bares a lot of similar themes ( both with old movies and Twin Peaks ) - There are serial murders, and a quirky detective, lots of strange folklore, an amnesia theme, and a sort of horror/surrealism. It took a year or two to write ( dates evade me. ) But the final result is a block of paper almost as high as your average Dr. Pepper can. Lol. Ew that yellow paper, you can tell I just grabbed anything because chapters written after look older. But I had a habit of grabbing any paper I could find. I’m really going to have to transcribe it onto a computer or something - Some of the paper is so cheap, ditto the pens that some of the words are pretty faded. Notice how I tabbed the chapters, I kinda like that. I’m terribly organized so I not only tabbed the chapters, I named them to keep track of things. There are 44 chapters. In later drafts I tried to whittle them down to 32 but they ballooned up to 53. Every time I got rid of something it seemed like some new character took it's place or a new scene filled the gap. The shortest chapter is 3 pages long and the longest chapter in the world - look at that sucker was - 665 pages. A novel within a novel. One thing that made me nostalgic for the time when I wrote this was how into the writing I got. I wrote so much so fast that the ink would run out in my pen and rather than search for another I’d grab anything that I could find- in this page it happens to be a navy pencil crayon - and kept going. Gah! The dedication. Here's the pen starting to fade - but it picks up and - says Nice to meet you Farrell is now in navy pencil crayon. And rather than loose momentum - here's the next page in pencil crayon ( lol ) - - *Groan* That dialogue! So cheesy. Notice the random note at the top of the page to remind me of something I missed. Ragged Robin, a flower, happened to be some important clue in the serial murders. Not quite sure what's it doing on this page. At first glance over my story, I cringed ( and am still cringing over that dialogue ) , then I kinda gave myself a break. It wasn’t the day and age ( for me anyway ) of computers, or backspace, erase, or delete. I just flooded the page and to hell with coherency. Plus, I wasn’t the best student in the world, I wouldn’t know an adverb or modifier if they angrily bit me on my skinny behind. On the page below, I circled and underlined some stuff. Note how I was doing the present tense thing back there ( doesn’t sound half as good though. It sounds very script-y. ) And apparently I loved hammy ideas - - lol. - Also, I loved the dash. Rather than indent a paragraph I just used a dash, same for the start of dialogue which I never bothered to use quotes on. And I hated speech tags ( huh, still do ) so they didn’t always show up, clouding who the hell was speaking. Notice the circled Help...me that's actually supposed to be a thought but there's no distinction. I didn't bother printing in italic. I attempted a second draft of this story and got as far as the 26 chapter - 600 pages in, oh I didn’t tell you how long this book was - 2178 pages. I decided to hunt up some paperbacks to show you the equivalent size wise. I chose some hefty horrors approx 400-500 pages a piece, but despite the fact that there are four paperbacks - I’m still 90 pages over them in length. I would love to say I got much more word concise but when I attempted a second draft - it wound up running almost parallel in length. Which doesn’t sound too bad until you learn that I ditched five characters, lots of scenes and I developed a nastier habit than the dash. Instead of using the dash I wrote everything in a huge block on the page. No paragraph indents, no distinction in dialogue patterns just words. That second draft is more unreadable than the first draft. Fortunately this all took place in the early to mid 90's. And I've gotten better with my layout, word choices and hopefully grammar. Good things I noticed - despite my awful spelling, fluky grammar, and tendency to slip into present tense - were those quirky touches I love which I thought had only come about recently. A lot of things didn’t work but I love that I tried and that I keep on trying. - Here’s one line - Just wanted to show everyone that even a bad, overwinded draft is better than nothing. I'm glad I kept it all these years. There were times when I wanted to burn it or throw it out but it's shown me that I was on the right track in finding my style, there were many years when I wanted to cave but somehow that same quirky voice has fought it's way through. And at the very least it's shown how much I've grown in my writing.
It’s cold out. But time for Pug to do his duty. He blinks big soft eyes at me as if to say, out there? Yes there. Small scoot with foot to help him out. The snow is thick. We’ve shoveled trenches from the house to the gate at the driveway. The pug paces in the trench like a solider. The walls of the trench are pee-stained. From the pug, the shitzu, the boston terrier. The pug takes his time. Then puts his face in the snow, the yellow snow, and emerges tongue out of his mouth doing a wild shimmy. Yuck, stop tasting pee! I yell. His computer-like-brain ( monkey with a broken abacus ) sorts the info while he aligns for a counter attack pee. He turns right no-not good enough more to the - leg lifts, he stumbles a bit. Steam wafts and the walls cave a little. He trots for the door, blinking threw snowflakes. Old fool, I say. But fondly.
Feeling dark. My poems are coming out weird and dark. Skull-Castle My head, My castle, My torture chamber cavernous, cobwebbed, carved with jaguars Conclusions all dark Watch the monsters sink beneath my eye moat. Epitaphs Tongue like a tombstone carver’s chisel gouging dreadful things: how are you? Slamming all advent doors. Pleasure-wrong A tongue bridging between mouths as ash from a corpse blows red across the water A thought-bred briar rose blooming/pricking rejoice Blood petals rejoice
When I first heard of Nanowrite ( which I think was last year ), I was like uhuh, not for me, who could write 50,000 coherent words in 30 days? I’m lucky if I can manage 10,000 coherent words in three weeks. But this year I thought - what the hell, what have I got to lose. I signed up maybe five days before it started and hadn’t even settled on a project. I was currently tinkering with my Doll’s novels and thought about trying that out and even entered that as my project until I read the rules - ( Yes, first things first, Peach. Dive in then read the rules. ) - You must start from scratch. Not wanting to ditch an entire chapter, I dusted off a screenplay, ditched most of the characters, scenes, outcome - lol. Not much left but the idea and main character - perfect. With a couple days to go, I cranked out a 17 page outline. Nanowrite is kinda like setting out on a cruise there’s a lot of fanfare before hand, ticker-tape curls thrown and bon voyagies. Imagine Elvis Costello crooning his approp ‘Everyday I write the Book’ and when the shiphorn blew at midnight - cast off time - ah, the excitement, the adrenalin! My fingers flew across the keyboard. The next day I couldn’t wait to get started again and update my word count. For the first week I seemed to operate on a pure high. It was part the novelty of belonging to this cruise-like, clubby atmosphere - I’m with nanowrite! Part the sharing of a similar experience - look at all these people who want to write a book - how cool is this! Mainly, though it was being immersed in a fresh project. Second week the novelty begins to wear off. Not necessarily a bad thing. Can anyone write a book on a high of sheer novelty? Whoever you are out there, let me know. I hit some rough patches. Some might scoff how can you call them rough patches if you consistently made your goal each night and more than your goal. Because some of that writing was done down to the wire. Seconds to the clock an hour left to midnight and I’m taping away, my the little-turtle-that-could pace - a hour and a half = 1 page ( if I’m lucky. ) I practically pulled my hair wondering what comes next. Outline aside, I still had to come up with fresh dialogue and little things on the fly. And there were moments of complete chicken-little panic noticing glaring inconsistences. I forgot my mc smoked and given his position in quarantine he should be going up the wall. Some characters are supposed to go to the bathroom ( don’t ask but it’s essential to the plot ) and they’ve been holding it for over a week - lol. And then I’d write some winning sentence that made me wonder if I really knew what I was doing. A real hum-dinger like -‘ the creatures’ appetite was so fierce they were resorting to cannonbalism.’ Mmm -Yes, I suppose that’s where they shoot themselves out of their paddock with a cannon. Well, at the very least it’s good for a laugh. But what have I learned? Firstly, a routine. Which is definitely not to be under rated, Before, I merely wrote whenever I felt like it letting precious days slip by. Weeks even, dare I admit months? But I had the time just nobody to push me. Secondly, I discovered when my best writing times are - afternoons ( when I can spare them ), and late evenings. Thirdly...Oh, to Hell with the numbers. Here’s the list. * Daft Punk can add a David Lynch-like twist to your writing. * Love your first draft - it’s the diamond before it gets cut so don’t be so hard on it! * Keep your forum chat to a minimum. My best writing days were the ones I didn’t go on the internet. * Attempting the lambada, in the middle of writing a scene, just because the song came on, is mere procrastination. * End your writing day in the middle of a scene and even in the middle of a sentence. It’s so much easier to start the next day filling in a scene. By the time you’re ready to begin a fresh one you’re already in a groove. * I’m off track, my creatures have planted a vegetable garden and for the last five pages I’ve forgotten their big mysterious project. Panic time? No. I keep going. I decided if the problem doesn’t work itself out to cut and paste for the second draft. * Open a document a day. For Nano, I named each one Nov 1, Nov 2 and so on. It made keeping track of everything easier, plus, I wasn’t as tempted to reread what I wrote the day before. Oh, also, at the end of the day copy and paste the last few sentences so you’ll know where to start in the morning. * Don’t tell a lot of people you’ll be busy writing. As soon as they think you’ll be unavailable for a while they’ll panic and become extra pesty. * Laugh don’t cry at your flaws - Cannonbalism - lol. * Argue with yourself later. Normally, I could spend fifteen precious minutes tinkering with a simple line like - “Write that symbol.” Arguing, shouldn’t it be, draw that symbol? Put the second option in brackets and power on. * Set a writing goal. Nothing absurd like I will write a 600 page historical novel about African bush tribes in two weeks. Be practical. How much time can you spend a day writing and what would be your average output for that time be - three pages a day? Five hundred words? Pick it and stick with it. Always undercut - that way you’ll be jazzed when you surpass it. Overall, I discovered I’m still that kid who loves a gold star. Maybe everyone in Nanowrite is that kid beaming over a badge for a job well done. I think that’s what’s been missing. I’m so busy trying to write a novel, tell my story and have it be perfect that I haven’t even allowed myself to feel pleased about the actual act of writing of conquering small goals. The more I give myself kudos for getting stuff down on paper, the more I put on paper. Whether or not it's garbage is worry for another day -
Decided to try out Nanowrimo this year and I'm feeling jittery and nervous. That same feeling I got in track and field just before a sprint. You'll never make it! Well, I never did get a ribbon in running. Standing long jump was my specialty. God, I hope there's no writing metaphor in that?! I have no idea if I can keep up my writing goal especially since I'm going in on this with my usual mode-of-operandi - fly by the seat of my pants. I'm not sure that's the smartest position but I do have a loose - read extremely flimsy - outline. Technically how I roll is to sit down jot some ideas about the scene before actually writing it. I haven't got a pov yet. I'm torn between using the I pov because I think perhaps it might be easier but I don't especially like I pov so I'll probably fall back on deep third. I can feel those filter words creeping up on me already - Phineas felt this Phineas felt that. I don't even have a location nailed down. I initially picked a farm in Minnesota but I know doodlysquat about Minnesota so I'm considering some unnamed town in Canada and fake my way through - only trouble is I need a government contamination squad to swoop down. Me thinks Canada wouldn't be as fast on the ball as the U.S. Two days to go - Arghhhh!
GHASTLY To-mourn/tomorrows sulphur laden clouds dead trees black limbs filtering burned bulb of sun sick pools floating apocalyptic babies who grin, stare-stuck into forever amputated from yester-era futurepeek...hellyuh GIRL LANDING A foreign body is lovely you think finger-climbing up twin hills plunder valley cleft tangle in thicket entwine and orbit cosmic fall in reflecting -self -reflecting mark your claim watch it shift from under your grasp no path for your trumpeting footprint TENDER ABUSE tender abuse this tongue of flame saying, speaking, ordering do something about yourself after the words brand a seal enclosing a scored heart he becomes chill as wax smoking silence has frozen him grotesque as a half melted saint
Am I nailing it when I fullfill what I want to say? This thought came to me while contemplating a critique on someone’s story ( not here ) and then working on my own. I found myself doing what I was shaking my head at. Guilty! During the dialogue exchange, the physical reactions had been reduced to stock motions; he laughed, he grinned, he raised an eyebrow, he looked. Simple phrases that in the end dragged the story down an ordinary path. The occasional interesting event or phrase would catch my eye, but for the most part the author coasted on ‘what I want to say.’ Using ‘What I want to say’ is not necessarily a bad thing. In the paragraph above I used vague phrases like ‘occasional interesting event’, ‘catch my eye’ and ‘coasted.’ I grabbed for them like a cook grabbing for familiar ingredients. In fact a good many writers feel relieved - I know I do - just by discovering what they want to say and getting it down or paper ( or word doc. ) But ‘what I want to say’ can often lead to cliches. In one self published story that I read recently, I found a cliche and a tired phrase in nearly every sentence; greatest idea since sliced bread, without a hitch, out this jam, truly wished a loved one was there ( during a moment of crisis ). And on and on. The writer was saying what he/she wanted to say without going deeper. By the end of the story, I felt as though someone had written it with a Mad Libs, fill-in-the-blanks form. Can a writer write a novel and publish it by saying ‘what I want to say’? Definitely. But should he? Are you finishing it or did you you nail it ( get it right. ) Why not go deeper and discover what you really want to say. I’m going to pull apart opening sentences to two well-written books, Lolita and Z is for Zachariah, to show you what I mean. Let’s start with Nabokov, now, imagine he’s a newbie whose first drafts could be posted for critique. Here’s the end result, what he’s striving for - Lolita. Light of my life. Fire of my loins. - Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov. But, lets say he starts by putting down a sentence that gives his opening chapter the general idea he needs - Lolita was the most important person in my life. No snickers. Whose to know genius doesn't start this way. And this could be his ‘what I want to say’ moment. After all it does what it’s supposed to. But then he thinks about it and admits, okay, it’s to the point but rather drab, and it feels familiar. Everyone has someone important in their life so why should the readers think the mc feels something special? And by its vagueness Lolita could be a mother, a sister, an aunt or a friend. I need to clarify the relationship. See, by continuing to ask questions - Why is this revelation special? How does Lolita affect the mc? The writer is really asking - is this what I really want to say? He’s going deeper and deeper until finally, he tweaks the sentence - Lolita had me, body and soul. Maybe this is the author’s ‘what I want to say’ moment, or as it’s clearer than the previous sentence, maybe it could be the author’s ‘what I really want to say moment.’ Then again he could think meh, body and soul is an ordinary phrase I want something special. He goes deeper, asking more questions. What am I trying to convey? The mc’s obsession/ focus for Lolita and his lust. What is a symbolic focus? Light is an element, a focus point. It’s also a spiritual symbol. Aha. And lust begins in the loins. Fire is also an element. Lust is a heat. Light and fire create an echo by their similarities. Now, echo the sentences to highlight that connection. Lolita fire loins light life. Lolita. Light of my life. Fire of my loins. - Vladimir Nabokov. I’m not saying this is how he did it, heck these lines could’ve been the first thing he wrote down, but it makes for an interesting experiment. Going deeper is not just about swapping vagueness for clarity. It’s about finding what you really want to say by how you want to say it. It’s the very conception of your writer’s voice. If Lolita’s not your thing lets try the same go-deeper experiment with an amazing Ya book. Here’s the end result - May 20, I am afraid. Someone is coming. That is, I think someone is coming, though I am not sure, and I pray that I am wrong. - Z is for Zachariah by Robert C. O’Brien. A great opening. But let’s say Robert in his first instinct types out his general idea - I’m trembling like a leaf because I saw someone up on the ridge. Perhaps he looks it over and tweaks it - I’m trembling like a leaf because I thought I saw someone up on the ridge. Maybe he’s having a ‘what I want to say’ moment. After all it’s showing fear and the cause of it. But he’s not satisfied. It’s not really what he wants to say. Often what you really want to say has to challenge convention to truly nail it. He cuts trembling like a leaf, it’s cliche, plus, he wants to use the telling word 'afraid' so there will be no doubt in the reader’s mind. He reworks it. I’m afraid because I thought I saw someone up on the ridge. Still unsatisfied, he asks himself what is wrong with the sentence. He reads it out loud. What do I want to convey? Fear. But also confusion in the reader. I want to draw it out. How can I do that? I have to chop up the sentence. I’m afraid. Still not right but what’s wrong with it? She’s afraid, that’s serious business. Aha. He’ll remove the contraction - I am afraid. Much better. I am afraid. I thought I saw someone on the ridge. Now the following sentence doesn’t mesh well. It must be reworked. He asks himself questions about fear, and why she’s afraid. Because she saw someone/ thought she saw someone. Keep it simple. Let’s focus on the person and remove the ridge as unimportant. Now she’s just spooked. There in is the truth. Fear comes by movement, being certain you saw something first before the doubt. The next sentence has to be as assuring as the first. I am afraid. Someone is coming. I won’t go deeper on the rest as you can see where it’s going. These exercises are mainly for fun but they do allow writers to see, by breaking it down, just how the author came to craft these amazing sentences. Going deeper, asking questions, is something to keep in mind even when writing the first draft as it will keep it clearer, cleaner.
