So, my therapist. . .psychologist. . .the new one, I mean—Voss, I think his name is; anyway, Dr. Voss told me to write down everything I remember. I know; it’s stupid. How can I write my memoirs when I don’t remember my life? That’s my problem, Voss: I’ve got a bad case of C.R.S., I know I do because that’s what Mike’s always telling me, “Beth, you’ve got a bad case of C.R.S.: Can’t Remember Diddly-Squat” and he’s right but hey, Mike, what about your problem: you can’t forget diddly-squat, not that it bothers you because I know it doesn’t and that’s why you’re always telling me. . .ah. . .
Anyway, the whole thing is just so stupid. I want to say, “Okay, Dr. Smart Ass, where should I start? I don’t have a fucking clue where to start.” If Mike were here, he’d help me. He’d say, “Seriously, Beth, what do you want to know?” Mike knows more about me than I know about myself. I don’t know how he does it, I swear to God, I don’t, not that it matters. . .at least, I don’t think it matters.
Maybe it started with that dream I had. I think I remember it because the thing was just so weird: just this weird conversation between two people and I’m stuck right in the middle of it. It went like this:
I looked at my right wrist. It was handcuffed to the right metal railing of the hospital bed. I hadn’t realized that, which was weird.
Mike sat in the one and only chair in the room: a dark blue, upholstered armchair pushed up against the right back corner. He wore that sweatshirt he liked so much: the black, hooded fleece with the words “Property of Cincinnati Reds” embroidered across the chest; “Property of” in white; “Cincinnati Reds” in red. Below that there were other words, but he was sitting too far away for me to read them and I couldn’t remember what they said.
He wore his favorite pair of jeans: the light blue ones that fit his butt and long legs so perfectly; comfortably snug against his body; not too loose and not too tight. They were just a tad too long, though; I knew because of the fray. He’d crossed his legs and I could see the fray at the bottom of his right pant leg, and his black socks, and his favorite pair of shoes: black Nike Reax Rocket High-Performance Running Shoes, a men’s size ten, which were one size smaller than his actual foot size; which I also knew, because he always wore his shoes one size smaller than his feet.
Despite good writing throughout and a voice I liked, no go for this reader. The prologue first caused me to trip over what “C.R.S.” meant. There’s a clue after it has been used a couple of times, but I didn’t pick up on it. I Googled it, and got “Congenital rubella syndrome.” Somehow I didn’t think that was what was meant. So I Googled “C.R.S. syndrome” and, this time, found “CRS Syndrone,” which means “can’t remember shit syndrome.”
This is a risk involved with using contemporary slang--if it's not defined in context, it will confuse readers who aren't familiar with it. If the bit following it had been, Yeah, can't remember shit and...etc. instead of can't remember diddley-squat, I'd have been fine. Remember to remove all possible speed bumps and obstacles to the reader flowing along smoothly with the flow of the story.
Second, and more serious, though, was a lack of tension. And the odds of that diminished to zero when the narrative started to take me into a flashback of a dream.
The first chapter did start with some juicy story questions--why is she handcuffed to a bed in a hospital? But it was problematic that more than half the first page went to describe what Mike looked like in miniscule detail. As I’ve said, first pages have a way of foreshadowing what is to come. I didn’t want more description of this sort.
So the tension caused by the handcuffs quickly faded, leaving me with no idea of what the story is about, what the narrator’s plight is, and detailed knowledge of someone’s clothing. I looked through the rest of the chapter for an opening that had more pull to it, but the remainder was Mike’s incredibly detailed reminicense of his mother teaching him to tie his shoes when he was four. Nothing more about the narrator other than that she--Beth--was almost nineteen.
As I said, good writing, but where’s the story? Find the point when Beth’s trouble starts--actually, it could be here in the hospital room--but get to her story, not what happened in the past to someone else.
Teachers and folks who know high school and community college students, this is a non-fictin (biography) contest that you might want to check out. Here's their press release:
Now in its second year, the Mayborn National Biography Writing Contest for young storytellers is expanding to include more educational sessions for high school and community college students on the art of narrative writing and literary biography.
The Contest aims to nurture the next generation of storytellers and journalists, and is part of the University of North Texas’ Mayborn Literary Nonfiction Conference. The Education Department at the George Bush Presidential Library and Museum Education Department, Big Thought and Biographers International partner with UNT’s Frank W. and Sue Mayborn School of Journalism to host the competition.
“Kids are fascinating storytellers,” said Vice President for Programs at Big Thought Margie Reese. “The world that they see is full of hope, aspirations and ideals, and we are pleased that our young people will have an opportunity to gain skills to raise their storytelling to a new level of professionalism.”
On March 8 (Thursday) and 9 (Friday) high school and community college students from Texas and the entire nation will be able to participate in a distance learning program on literary nonfiction writing at the presidential library. Author and executive director of Biographers International James McGrath Morris will lead sessions on the art of narrative writing before a live audience at the presidential library, and students and teachers from across the nation will have access to a live videoconference of the sessions as well as archived and video streaming recordings for later viewing.
“The competition is a remarkable opportunity for young aspiring writers in that it rewards the winners with a chance to sharpen their skills working with some of the nation’s best writers,” Morris said. “In connecting the new young writers with the seasoned older pros, this competition plays an instrumental role in creating the next generation of storytellers.”
To register a school for the March 8 or 9 programs, visit the ESC Region VI Distance Learning website. Contact Kimberly Taylor at ktaylor@esc6.net for additional information. Schools also can register to view the archived recording.
An application and contest rules for the 2012 Mayborn Biography Competition can be found online, and biographies should be submitted by May 7 (Monday). Ten winners will be selected by a jury pool of prominent biographers and narrative nonfiction writers.
To participate in the Mayborn Biography Competition applicants must register for either the March 8 or 9 program, or view the recording afterward.
Each winner and a teacher or mentor of his or her choice will be awarded scholarships to the 2012 Mayborn Literary Nonfiction Conference, which will be held July 20 – 22 (Friday – Sunday) at the Hilton DFW Lakes Executive Conference Center in Grapevine, Texas. Winners will be recognized during the conference’s Literary Lights dinner on July 21 (Saturday), and the winning biographies will be published in The Dallas Morning News.
“We are pleased to present ‘The Biography’ distance learning program by James McGrath Morris, who explains non-fiction research methods,” said Shirley Hammond, George Bush Presidential Library and Museum director of education. “This program enhances student writing skills. We look forward to reading the winning essays in The Dallas Morning News and at the Mayborn Literary Nonfiction Conference.”
Regular conference attendee Lee Hancock conceived the initial idea to involve young people in the conference, and looks forward to the Biography Competition’s continued success.
“Last year it was tremendously exciting to see a group of kids so engaged and so changed by their experience at the Mayborn Conference, and we’re hopeful that will continue this year with more submissions and more interest,” Hancock said. “We’ve known for a long time how successful the Mayborn is at inspiring and encouraging all ages of writers, and we’re looking forward to seeing what this year’s group will do.”
The months and weeks since the ravaged body of Ruthie’s daughter was found on the school bleachers had spiraled down to this cold January day.
All Ruthie thought about was how she despised the man who had desecrated the extraordinary miracle that had been her daughter. As she waited in the over-heated courtroom for the jury to return, she ignored the two bag ladies who whispered together on the back bench and the noisy confusion of the reporters and gawkers who filled the corridors beyond the small Boston courtroom. She didn’t care that her brain was as numb and cold as her hands and feet were icy, that her hair hung in greasy strings around her face or that her unwashed body had a sour odor.
Ruthie braced her shoulders against the back of the pew and gazed at the Massachusetts State Seal behind the judge’s podium. A stylized image of an Algonguin Indian stood in the center of the shield, with his arrow pointed downward in peace. Her eyes followed the outline of the shield. From grade school civics classes, she knew the Latin words written in gold on a blue ribbon around the bottom meant: “By the sword we seek peace, but peace only under liberty.”
She knew that there would be peace and liberty in her heart only after she heard the jury condemn the man who had murdered her little girl.
The writing is just fine, the voice strong, and the last paragraph--because we, as readers, know that stories often turn things on their heads--creates some suspense. But, for this reader, not a compelling level of suspense. The only real story question at this point is what the verdict will be. We already know how she will feel if it is “Guilty.” There are readers who are fine with a leisurely opening, especially a well done one, but I can’t honestly say that this reaches the level of compelling.
So I went through the chapter, took the first line from this opening, and wedded it to something I think would make a truly compelling opening. Other details can be woven in. See what you think. A new poll follows.
The months and weeks since the ravaged body of Ruthie’s daughter was found on the school bleachers had spiraled down to this cold January day. Her vision was a black tunnel with the stout, bearded jury foreman standing in the light at the end of it. She stopped breathing to better hear the words he would say. She wanted to remember every nuance for the rest of her life.
The man cleared his throat as he unfolded the paper. Without looking at Ruthie, he said, “We the jury find the defendant, Dr. Harold Greenly, not guilty of murder in the first degree.”
The words smothered Ruthie. She gripped the back of the bench, laid her forehead on her hands and panted for breath. She pressed her fingers into her eyeballs. The pressure made red and black sparks behind her lids, but the pain did not lessen her rage.
The judge leaned forward. “You are free to go, Dr. Greenly.” With a sharp rap of the gavel, the judge stood. He glared at the men who whooped with laughter and slapped each other’s shoulders before he stepped from the podium. His robes swirled around his legs as he banged closed the heavy walnut door to his chambers.
As Harold strutted past in the aisle, she lifted her face like a lioness sensing prey. At the end of her pew, he turned his head to grin at her and mouthed, “You lose, bitch.”
The digital clock sat on a pedestal on level with the high priest’s eyes. 19:00:00, precisely. Sweat slicked down the side of his face and stung at his eyes, and a tremor of exhaustion ran through his arms as he raised them. The power radiating out from his core burned, like red hot pins prickling through flesh. Maybe it was not sweat or blood but liquid flame that oozed from his pores; he rather liked the image.
The bodies of lesser priests lay scattered around the inner circle. Bloody symbols trailed up the walls and twisted in spirals across the floor, all painted exactly to his specifications. The writhing sacrifice in the center moaned and scrabbled at the painted edges of its prison, battered by the palpable ripples of force echoing through the air as reality strained to accommodate the god. With a gurgling choke that sprayed blood from his mouth, the second-to-last priest collapsed. The blood splattered the high priest’s cheek. He did not even blink; he had not done so in almost ten minutes.
This would truly be the greatest achievement modern man had ever witnessed – something to match, even surpass, the magic of the crafters. He fought the urge to squirm with delight. Control. Control was key. Losing his composure now would place more than his own life in jeopardy – the ritual itself would collapse and render all of his efforts null.
Arine smothered a yawn with her sleeve as she set the pitcher down on the counter, the last plant watered. The sky had gone pitch black while she was still at work, the walk back home had been nightmarishly long, and she was ready for the day to be over. Several more yawns fought their way out of her throat as she padded down the hall to the bedroom. She swapped the overhead light for the lamp on the bedside table, and with a satisfied yawn she yanked the bedclothes back – then paused and tilted her head to one side, staring at the ground.
The corners of the shadow smoothed out and darkened. Slowly, the shadow peeled itself off the floor to hover in the air, forming a thin circle of darkness. Other shadows detached from pieces of furniture casting them and joined the floating shadow. A face molded itself out of the smooth surface: simple eyes, ears, mouth.
Arine folded her arms and sat down on the edge of the bed. “Did you not pay attention when your mother told you not to spy on girls?” she asked dryly, raising an eyebrow at the shadow-messenger.
The shadow construct’s mouth opened and a distorted voice emerged. “I wasn’t spying on you. This was just a happy coincidence.”
While I am ordinarily not a fan of prologues, with an opening line like “A god was ready to walk the earth,” how could I resist? The rest of the prologue was strong, and I ended wondering how it applied to the rest of the story. But, please, don’t use italics. Not necessary, hard to read.
However, if I were Alicia I would look at deleting the last paragraph of the opening prologue page so that this following paragraph could start on the first page:
An explosion rocked the heavy door separating the summoning chamber from the insanity raging outside. The high priest had been forced to let go of his remote viewing spell when the lesser priests began failing, but he already knew to expect the police. It seemed his guards had been unable to stop them from reaching the inner sanctum. Another thrumming boom, and the door (snip)
As for the first chapter opening, well done. I was intrigued, and story questions rose. The writing is very nice, and I like the voice. All in all, well done. The craft and writing are strong throughout.
I thought if might be interesting to you to see—and maybe do—one of the writing exercises from one of my workshops this last weekend. If you decide to try it, it might be helpful to first read through a post from my book on the topic of experiential description, which you will find here.
Setting snapshot: A small sandwich shop in the first floor of an older building in a small town. There is a lunch counter with stools, worn red vinyl seats on chrome pillars. Behind the counter are the beverage machines, etc., and a griddle where the cook works. There are five tables with red-checkered tablecloths. Most of the chairs are matching chrome with red vinyl upholstery, but two have black seat covers. A big whiteboard behind the counter gives the two specials of the day. It’s noon, and the lunch crowd has the place packed.
Ginny, a high-school junior who works Saturdays and Sundays as a waitress to help support her family. She is shy, and waiting on customers isn’t easy for her, but she puts on a smile and does the job. She loves to cook, though, and looks for chances to give the cook a break and take over the griddle for a while. She wonders why Marge doesn’t like her.
Marge is sixty-two, the shop’s other waitress. She likes people, and genuinely enjoys serving the customers. But her feet hurt despite her orthopedic shoes. She doesn’t like having to work, either, but has to in order to pay the mortgage after her husband lost his job at the car dealership. She also resents Ginny’s youthful energy and good looks.
Set the scene by describing this setting first from one character’s point of view and then the other’s. How would each of these women experience this setting? Can you describe the place in an experiential way that also characterizes the women?
I’m still on the road, returning home today, so flogging should resume as regularly scheduled on Wednesday.
Well, I took great care to put all the files I needed to do floggings while away to do the workshops at the South Coast Writers Conference on a flash drive—and then left it sticking in the computer. Argh.
This morning I’d doing a marathon 6-hour writing-intensive workshop called Sharpen Your Storytelling Skills. What do you think of it?
First exercise: I give the students a scenario—a place and two brief character studies. They write two “experiential” descriptions of the place from within each character’s point of view. The goal is to make all of the narrative in a story contribute to the characterizations of the people in it.
Second: I’ll give a brief description of a character and the class writes four different ways to describe a point-of-view character. The goal is to avoid POV-breaking descriptions such as “She brushed her long blonde hair out of her eyes.”
Third: I’m going to solicit snippets of dialogue from the class. They’ll write them down, and then use a scene and two characters I provide to write a scene that uses dialogue beats to characterize and advance the story.
Fourth: we’ll tackle “telling” and “showing” by taking a brief scenario and writing first a “telling” version and a “showing” version.
Fifth: a brief foray into adverbs, exploring how to get rid of them when they hook up with a verb by finding a better verb, and then how to apply them to adjectives to achieve nuance in description.
Sixth is writing a killer first page. The class will be asked to write the first page of a story, about 200 words or so. I’ll give them a scenario to use, or they can work on something of their own.
The class will, of course, be reading what they write out loud for critique by me and the other class members.
I’m heading for the South Coast Writers Conference today, giving three workshops there. I’m looking forward to it--it’s fun to talk writing all day.
King Arlan showed impeccable timing in getting himself murdered tonight. Talyn could think of no better excuse to leave one of his mother's insufferable dinner parties than, 'My apologies, someone assassinated the king, and I must go bring him back to life.'
But now, as Talyn and his bodyguard strode through the palace halls, anxiety prickled the air. Guards watched him pass with uneasy stares. Servants lingered in doorways, only to scatter like roaches when he glanced their way. He didn’t blame them for their uncertainty. He became lifeweaver only a year ago, and self-doubt still churned in his gut. Especially now, before what would likely be the most important weave of his life. To fail would be akin to treason.
The tense atmosphere also spawned an unnerving thought: if someone wanted the king dead – permanently – then within the next few minutes, they had to kill Talyn too.
He shivered as he stepped through the dining hall's entry doors, a draft wafting past with the smells of citrus, stone, and blood. Shadows waited in every corner. But so did royal guards – at least twenty, spaced evenly about the room, like armored pillars wielding sword and spear.
The opening paragraph does a good job of characterizing and setting a strong hook. Story questions right from the start, with plenty of “what happens next” questions, including will Talyn escape danger. The writing is clean and strong, and I like the voice. I really don’t have much in the way of notes--“became” in the second paragraph should be "had become," and I wonder if the last line was meant to be “Maybe someone turned traitor.” Nice work, Gavin.
Wherin we continue to provide a space for published authors to share reviews. This one is for a story in an anthology, and it's a nice round of applause. If you have a review to share, there are directions for submissions below.
“Winter Twilight by Shannon O’Brien was definitely worth waiting for. The final story deserves 5 stars. Teagen is an interesting young lady who has more intellect than many contemporary heroines, but she isn’t spoiled either. O’Brien develops quite a bit more tension in her story than any of the other three authors in the anthology.”
It Makes Magic Believable They're around us. A small mutation gives them powers over natural life, akin to magic. They've been persecuted and burned at the stake. So they have withdrawn from humanity, but their genes continue to ferment in the populace.
When powers blossom, and no one can teach you what they are and how to use them, how do you cope? When you grow up different, when Homeland Security hones in on you because they see terrorists in every strange manifestation, what do you do? When your only child shows the same powers, how do you protect him when you feel like a lost child too?
Rhamey is an excellent storyteller who grabs you from the first page and builds the tension so that you don't want to put the book down. He's been honing his craft for years and this gem is the result.
Help wanted: I'm working up a book proposal for a book that would include about 70 "best of" floggings from the last few years. It would include the submission, my response, your votes, and my edits. I would also expand on the coaching side in many instances.
It should offer many insights into the how-to and how-not-to of creating a compelling opening, plus plenty of looks at how editing can improve a narrative.
Please type in an answer to the "how" question in the "other" box, or you can just use the regular Comments. I greatly appreciate your feedback and help with this.
My main computer has crashed and I'll be going insane today, so there won't be the flogging I had hoped to post (all submissions were on that computer). Meanwhile, would you please respond to the poll below? Update: it looks like the hard drive is okay. Am having the computer rebuilt and all may be well by Monday. But I still hope you'll answer the poll below. I'll be running it again.
Here's what's behind the poll--I'm working up a book proposal for a book that would include about 70 "best of" floggings from the last few years. It would include the submission, my response, your votes, and my edits. I would also expand on the coaching side in many instances.
Without forewarning, the frantic screams and riotous jeers that had engulfed Aaron like a wind-blown wildfire ravages a forest, died away in an abrupt instant; they left only the faint but terrifying echoes of an infinite, wretched multitude and the fading pleas of the newly departed.
In his immediate state of bewilderment, he was unaware that he stood in the master bedroom of a two-story house nestled comfortably in the shadowy recesses of a wood-shrouded enclave. It sat tucked in amongst the towering evergreens and dying shrubbery that dotted the picturesque Great Falls neighborhood–the latter, a dire reality in stark contrast to the hopeful former. It was shortly after midnight, and darkness swallowed every fixture and corner of the home. Blackened silhouettes stood defiant against the pale street light that sneaked through barely parted window dressings; instead of reflecting the luminous glow, their shapes seemed to trap it like black holes.
Sweat poured over Aaron’s brow in cascades and the thunderous cadence in his head was nearly crippling; still, his shallow breaths started to take on a more normal, rhythmic fluidity. His muscles were worn and fatigued, but he could still feel constricting tension throughout his body like the taut cables of a suspension bridge. Nevertheless, the screaming had stopped and eventually so would the throbbing pain in his head; experience taught him that. He sensed that Emily was gone, and that was a very good thing. The thought spread his trembling lips into a (snip)
The writing is pretty strong (a couple of little hitches), but for this reader there was just a little too much of it. That doesn’t mean it won’t work for someone else. There was a lack of clarity here and there for me, which I’ll point out in my notes. For me, there’s just too much interior stuff and not enough of what’s happening in this character’s world. I can tell you that the rest of the chapter was much the same (as always, first pages foreshadow the remainder), with lots of writing taking a long time to let the reader know what is going on. Yes, the character is confused and in shock, but this isn’t first-person narration--the author could, in my view, do more to get on with it by having less. Notes:
Without forewarning, the frantic screams and riotous jeers that had engulfed Aaron like a wind-blown wildfire ravages a forest, died away in an abrupt instant; they left only the faint but terrifying echoes of an infinite, wretched multitude and the fading pleas of the newly departed. Okay, I don’t know yet what all of this means, particularly the wretched multitude, but I’m interested. He definitely has a problem. Scott, note the deleted comma.
In his immediate state of bewilderment, he was unaware that h He stood in the master bedroom of a two-story house nestled comfortably in the shadowy recesses of a wood-shrouded enclave. It sat tucked in amongst the towering evergreens and dying shrubbery that dotted the picturesque Great Falls neighborhood–the latter, a dire reality in stark contrast to the hopeful former. It was shortly after midnight, and darkness swallowed every fixture and corner of the home. Blackened silhouettes stood defiant against the pale street light that sneaked through barely parted window dressings; instead of reflecting the luminous glow, their shapes seemed to trap it like black holes. Point-of-view glitch: in close third person, and we’re very close here, the character should not see, hear, feel, experience, know, or think anything he ordinarily would or could not. In this case, if he’s unaware of where he is, then where he is shouldn’t be in the narrative. I don’t think his lack of awareness contributes anyway. He doesn’t have to know where he is, but that doesn’t mean he’s unaware of his physical reality. Clarity: I didn’t know what the blackened silhouettes were--the trees and shrubbery? Unclear. For me, the reference to the former and latter took me out of the flow to parse out what was meant.
Sweat poured over Aaron’s brow in cascades and the thunderous cadence in his head was nearly crippling; still, his shallow breaths started to take on a more normal, rhythmic fluidity. His muscles were worn and fatigued, but he could still feel constricting tension throughout his body like the taut cables of a suspension bridge. Nevertheless, the screaming had stopped and eventually so would the throbbing pain in his head; experience taught him that. He sensed that Emily was gone, and that was a very good thing. The thought spread his trembling lips into a (snip) Clarity: what is the “thunderous cadence” in his head? The screams and jeers have died away, so there’s know way of knowing to what this refers until later we discover it’s throbbing pain (I guess). Point of view: a character would not be thinking of his “trembling lips” in this way--this is what is seen from an external point of view, the author’s.