What is it? Writers aspire to describe things in ways that give readers  an Aha! moment  - a new phrase or word that flips our expectations and makes us go, “Yes, that’s exactly what an orange looks, tastes, feels, smells like.” Post pictures, text, video (or whatever) of a person, place, or thing to help us look at it in a new way.

Today: Arm’s Length by Kris Delmhorst

I write to music. It helps set the mood for my work, and it gets me into the writing mindset. But if you ask me what artist I’m listening to, quite frequently I wouldn’t be able to tell you. Most of my music choices come from Apple’s iTunes Genius feature or from Pandora. The song below I must’ve listened to 20 times while writing. Today was the first time I really listened to the lyrics, and they have some stunning moments I wish I’d written. This song is obviously about a break up and it’s aftermath.

Bloody onions - Such a simple image, but what’s left after a broken relationship – bleeding heart and tears

I’m lost in an arm’s length of space – I really wish I’d written that. Says so much in so few words.

I’ll leave it at that and let you enjoy the song for yourself! Happy Friday!

Listen here.

The Lyrics…

Arm’s Length by Kris Delmhorst

I thought about you today
Didn’t mean to, it was uninvited
That’s what this band-aid is for
I just looked down, saw bloody onions

Now go, don’t stay no more
I don’t know what to do with my hands
And I’m lost in an arm’s length of space
And I can’t find a good place to stand

I talked about you today
Kind of funny, a total stranger
I didn’t mean what I said
But it surprised me, felt so clean

Now go, don’t stay no more
You’ll have to find your own way to the door
Cause I’m lost in an arm’s length of space
And I just can’t smile like this anymore

You know that windows are for seeing through
Forget that they can show things back to you

And I had it coming today
Said all the things I made myself swear I would not say
And what goes into your ears is there to stay
So I got to watch it, but I can’t hold this tongue

So go don’t stay
I’m not really sure this is my life
But I’m lost in an arm’s length
And I need something I can pull in tight
Need something I can pull in tight
Is there something I can pull in tight

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In the last couple of weeks, agents and writers have been buzzing about the practice of a few agents and interns who critique queries via Twitter and the web. Some sites – like Query Shark – require writers to volunteer their work for review. I think these sites can be extremely helpful, especially for those who learn by example. Others are not voluntary. Any writer who submits to the – sometimes anonymous – agent or interns running these sites or hashtags could see their query pop up for critique and ridicule. While the agent/intern may intend to be helpful to writers, too often the tone of these query critiques can turn to ridicule. Regardless, I’ve seen many writers defending this practice, and the main defense has been that querying writers need to “toughen up.”

This “toughen up” philosophy makes me cringe every time I read it, especially coming from other writers. This business of writing is so difficult. Forget the actual work that goes into writing a book, and the heartache that goes into editing it. Forget how painful it can be to get your first and fifteenth beta critiques. Completely disregard how mysterious and difficult it is to hammer out that first query letter.

What about sending that query letter out and getting umpteen rejections from agents? Say you actually get an agent and you go on sub. Now you are in for a series of rejections from editors. Okay, you finally get an editor who loves it, and your book is published. Now, you get a bunch of book reviewers shredding your work.

Of course writers have to toughen up, but that happens naturally – trial by fire, if you will. My own skin has toughened – how can it not? BUT I don’t understand why we are so quick to throw other writers and their work under the bus – whether for our desire to learn or for pure entertainment – and justify it by saying writers need to toughen up or not be so precious about their work. The inference is that we’re helping this writer by tearing down their work in a public forum. Seriously? It sounds more like natural selection – only the thick-skinned writers will survive to the next round of horror. WTH?

Isn’t this business hard enough to navigate without criticizing people who dare to TRY? Why is it okay to learn at the expense of others? And how arrogant is it for us to decide when others should “toughen up” on their individual journey’s?

*steps away from soapbox*

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Bria Quinlan at Luv Ya is running an amazing contest ala So You Think You Can Dance, except this contest has a writing twist. Last week I made it through Round 1. I’d love to make it to the next round, so please vote for me – I’m entry #4 this week! If I make it to the final round, I will give away a five-chapter beta crit to one lucky winner. That’s a better campaign promise than kissing babies, right?

Vote here.

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I’m reading my work tomorrow night. In public. That sound you hear? It’s my knees quaking.

When: Tomorrow, August 28th at approx 6:00pm

Where:
Edinburgh Castle Pub
http://www.castlenews.com/
950 Geary St
San Francisco, CA 94109

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What is it? Writers aspire to describe things in ways that give readers  an Aha! moment  - a new phrase or word that flips our expectations and makes us go, “Yes, that’s exactly what an orange looks, tastes, feels, smells like.” Post pictures, text, video (or whatever) of a person, place, or thing to help us look at it in a new way.

Today: Hope is a thing with feathers…

Emily Dickinson is one of my favorite poets. It was not a fast and furious love affair. Her work is not always easy to understand. But if you are patient and you read it several times, her words sink into your soul.

A couple of years ago my friend Laurie – who is that person that always gives you the perfect gift you didn’t even know you needed – gave me a necklace charm with a snip of one of Emily’s poems. It’s still my favorite piece of jewelry because it reminds me how fragile hope is, how necessary it is in the direst time, and how hard it is to put into words what we are hoping for. Note: the brackets are entirely my interpretation of the poem.

a

Hope is the thing with feathers
by Emily Dickinson

Hope is the thing with feathers [think of a bird - flitty, fragile and FREE]

That perches in the soul, [those same characteristics are how hope lives in us]

And sings the tune without the words, [sometimes we don't even know what we are hoping for]

And never stops at all, [even when we think we've lost hope, it's still there singing]

And sweetest in the gale is heard; [hope is most necessary in the face of a storm/bad times]

And sore must be the storm [how awful are the bad times]

That could abash the little bird [that can make us ashamed to hope]

That kept so many warm. [when before the storm the hope kept us going]

I’ve heard it in the chillest land, [hope happens in all places, times]

And on the strangest sea;

Yet, never, in extremity, [But never, even in the most extreme times]

It asked a crumb of me. [has hope ever asked anything in return]

a

Sigh. I love this poem.

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I’ve made no secret about my love for my school. I heart it all over the place until people are sorry they brought it up in conversation. I’ve been very happy in my time there. And now… they’ve made the Poets & Writers 2011 Top Ten Low-Residency MFA Programs. I couldn’t be more pleased! The staff – Sena, Kathleen, Katy, Karen, and more – have worked so hard to make this a program that works for its students.  Congratulations!

**On a personal note: I was accepted into 3 of the top ten programs! I’ve never doubted I’m at the right school, but that kind of makes my day.

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Deb recently wrote a post about the types of swimsuits our favorite YA characters would wear. This made me wonder what tattoos some our favorite YA characters might get.

Bella Swan of Twilight infamy

Love her or hate her, everyone can agree Edward owns her heart.

Katniss Everdeen of the Hunger Games trilogy

An evening primrose. Because she loves her sister Prim the mostest.

Tiny Cooper of Will Grayson Will Grayson

Really, does this need explanation?

Mary of The Forest of Hands and Teeth

It was this or a lovely bite mark.

What tattoo would your favorite literary character get?

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Another teaser from Interior of a Heart, my literary YA novel. Note: there is some nudity in the scene below.

I was supposed to be at Carey’s.

In those days, I was one of the boys. We had plans to build a fort, and he’d invited Blake, the new boy in town to join us. Carey and Blake were twelve. They should have been too cool to play with me, but I wasn’t like other eleven-year-old girls. For one thing, I was a better shot with Blake’s BB gun than both of them put together. I could snag the head from one of Mrs. Murphy’s tulips from the oak tree in Carey’s yard. For another, I thought bows and ruffles were the devil’s invention and dressed like a boy, except when my mother got her hands on me.

My birthday had been the week before. My father hadn’t been able to make it to my party, but my mother had said he’d called last night while I slept and told her to wish me a happy birthday. She said this every year but the two he managed to make it home, and it took me until my ninth birthday to figure out the truth. Her heart wasn’t in the lie anymore or mine in my response.

My Uncle Eddy had given me a digital camera. My mother had argued the gift was too expensive for a child, but Uncle Eddy just laughed and ruffled my hair. Carey wanted me to take pictures of the fort when we were done building it, but I had forgotten my camera at home.

I rode my pink banana-seat bike all the way back to get it.

When I arrived, I looked down at my dirt covered jeans and knew my mother would kill me if I trailed mud through her house. I kicked off my shoes and brushed the worst of it away. In a hurry, I snuck into the house in my socks, tiptoeing around the two spots in the hall that creaked when you stepped on them.

I passed the open door to my parent’s room. If the bedsprings hadn’t squeaked, I never would have peeked through the doorway. My uncle lay in my parent’s bed, his blonde head on my father’s pillow next to my mother’s darker head.  In his sleep, he shifted and threw an arm around her waist, curving against her back. A sheet covered them, but I could see they were naked beneath the crisp white cotton. A mysterious musky scent hung in the sun-dappled air.

A small sound of confusion escaped me.

My mother’s eyes flew open and met mine. Her mouth formed a small O, and she sat up, exposing her breasts before she grabbed for the sheet.

“Sophie!”

I ran. I didn’t stop running until I reached Carey’s house. By the time I arrived, I was crying so hard my words came out in a wave of hiccups and gasps. Blake had already gone home, but Carey sat next to me on his front steps, his muddy shoulder bumping mine, as he waited for me to calm down.

And when the tears stopped, I told him what I saw. He held onto my hand, and we waited in silence for my mom to come find me.

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What is it? Writers aspire to describe things in ways that give readers  an Aha! moment  - a new phrase or word that flips our expectations and makes us go, “Yes, that’s exactly what an orange looks, tastes, feels, smells like.” Post pictures, text, video (or whatever) of a person, place, or thing to help us look at it in a new way.

Today: The Eiffel Tower

This is a quick video I took of the Eiffel Tower in July 2009. I wish I could say this was on purpose. That a higher artistic principle was at work. That, like Picasso, I have a unique skewed view of the world.

Sadly, that would be a LIE. I really thought I could turn the camera while recording video and have it work the same way. That laugh you hear is me realizing what a total horse’s ass I am.

So here is a “flipped” view of the Eiffel Tower in the most literal sense.

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The lovely and brave Sarah Enni offered herself up as a guinea pig for a little beta experiment. Six writers will take on beta reading a single page of her work “The Flute” so readers can compare and contrast beta styles.  Below is her text with my line edits inserted in brackets and italics. I also included summary notes at the bottom as I normally would with a beta. My notes are a little lengthier than they would normally be for a single page, but the idea was to let you see my beta style.

So without further ado!

If Hana Larkhill had her way, her father’s body would be in a sailboat, rope and a flute in his hands, and she would watch him embark one last time toward the unknown at the eternal curve of the earth

[Initial reaction to death is usually at a gut level. First we feel and then we think and rationalize. This passage sounds very intellectualized as if Hana is distant from the emotions she is feeling].

Instead, James Larkhill lay in a sterile metal box at Faraday’s Funeral Home. Someone who did it for a living

[I think you can strike this. Reader would assume.]

had caked his face with makeup. His delicate freckles were powdered out of existence [nice detail]. An old blue suit bound

[would love to see “anchored” instead of “bound” to carry through the seafaring metaphor]

his body; even the strawberry gold of his curls had faded.

Hana’s mother, Noa Larkhill, hasn’t

[change in tense]

fought these depressing conventions.

[makes me wonder who the narrator is. Can’t quite get a sense of it yet.]

But she had insisted on an open casket. James’ face and shoulders were in tact

[one word]

and the suit covered his abdomen. But Hana felt the looming specter of his ruined lower body, smashed into irreparable pieces by an anonymous fender

[specter sounds a little purple especially juxtaposed with fender].

Faraday’s was cold, clean and modern—everything was black or stainless steel. Everything had razor-sharp edges. It was the kind of place that gave Hana the feeling she was being blown through by unseen drafts

[watch state of being verbs like was and were. Try using more active verbs that add color to the narrative].

She longed for home. For his family James had provided a house with a door that shrunk up in the winter and bloated until it wedged in the door frame in the summer, a house with stairs that had predictable creaks and groans, a house that moved around them like a familiar friend.

James’ death three days earlier had crushed Hana underneath deep, prolonged silence

[like the silence compared to the noise in the house before. Maybe into instead of underneath?].

Her mother, whose loudest expression to this point had always been in the strength of her brush strokes on canvas, rocked and wailed. Hana felt like a ghost, alone and unseen, holding her mother’s tiny shaking limbs in a room full of people that, at least today, felt like strangers.

Thanks for sharing this piece, Sarah! I included notes in the text, but here are some gut reactions overall.

Narrator: Right now I’m struggling to get a sense of the narrator. The narrator sounds very distant from the action/emotion right now, which give me little insight into Hana. I think this would be more revealing across more pages, but it’s hard to attach to Hana in this short section.

Language: When in the midst of deep grief, we tend toward more one syllable words. As we intellectualize and gain distance from the emotion, we use more of those multi-syllabic words. Right now, the language is distancing me from the emotions of the characters. That may be okay depending on your longer goal, but I thought I would bring it up.

Marine Metaphor: You brought up a lovely metaphor in that first sentence with the marine imagery. I’d love to see this continued a bit more throughout. Sailing into the horizon is often equated with death in literature, but death also leaves the loved ones still alive feeling unanchored. Could be something to explore.

State of Being Verbs: I bring this up in EVERY beta because I do it. I do a mad search and destroy for them in my manuscripts.

Suggestion: One great advantage of third person POV is the distance. You can start far away and pan in closer to your character. In this scene, you could show us everyone in the room before you closed in on Hana. That gives us a nice basis for discovering who she is. You might check out the opening pages of Anna Karenina to see how Tolstoy does this really effectively.

Check out what the other beta readers had to say!

Kate Hart
Kathleen Peacock
Meredith Primeau
Alicia Gregoire
Windy Aphayrath

Filed under: Craft Discussions, Editing Tips, Uncategorized, Writing Life | 10 Comments »