Posts tagged ‘fiction’
STRUGGLING TO GET IT WRITE: PEOPLE WATCHING
Reading as a writer, I am constantly in awe of details ‘good writers’ see in their characters. The emotions, mannerisms and body language, to say nothing of physical description, bring a writer’s characters off the paper and strut before you, and let you hear them speak when the tone of their voice is described. One of my favorite details, which I have seen a few times is: ‘His mouth smiled, but that smile did not reach his eyes.’ I can truly say that, in real life, I do not know if I am capable of detecting that emotion.
I’ve always thought of myself as more of an observer than a participant in this complex existence, but I’m beginning to find that my observations are lacking in detail, not adequately fulfilling my writer’s needs. I working on remedying that flaw, but can it really be corrected? Can your level of observation be actively increased or is it just something you’re born with?
To bring a character to life, the writer must have a clear picture of that character in his head, both physically and emotionally. The better the writer is able to accomplish this feat, the better the story. I’m in the process of struggling to slow the act of writing down, to expand on the details that bring the character to life. I tend to rush my writing and concentrate more on plot and action. I now seek a more balanced approach between character and action.
While recently watching a documentary by Ken Burns about the life of Samuel L. Clemens (Mark Twain). I’m sure PBS will provide ample opportunities for you to view it if you missed it. I highly recommend you watch it. One comment that struck me was how Clemens spent years observing the world around him and the people populating it long before he knew he would become a writer of fiction. For example, he would notice whether a man had his hands in his pocket or not, and what the contents of those pockets probably were.
NEED A BEACH READ?
Need that book for the beach you won’t be able to put down?
Give New Moon Rising a try!
Here’s a taste.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Pasadena
A phone ringing in the early morning hours is seldom a harbinger of good news. When Wade’s phone rang at two thirty-five in the morning, he came out of a peaceful sleep and with dread, reached for the receiver.
“Wade, this is Jeff at the lab.” The excitement in the young graduate student’s voice spoke of disaster before he revealed the reason for his early morning call. “It may have started. We have seismic activity along the whole Hawaiian chain. We have earthquake activity measuring 8.6 on the Richter scale. It’s the strangest earthquake, associated with the islands, anyone here has seen. The earthquake occurred at 4:20PM Hawaiian time. We cannot pinpoint the origin. It’s a series of earthquakes occurring simultaneously beneath the whole island chain. There have already been reports of tsunamis from Midway Island, the Marshall Islands, and the Samoan Islands. New Zealand, Australia, Central America, and China are all bracing for a giant wave. No one knows if the tsunami will be as bad as 2004.”
Jeff responded, “This is amazing! Earthquakes like this have never been described before. No one will know what to expect.”
“Jeff, try to calm down. Juliet and I will be at the lab as soon as we can.
Have the proper authorities been notified?”
“Are you kidding? Every lab in the world recorded this event. Damage reports are already coming in from Hawaii and the damage is widespread.”
“We are also getting signs of volcanic activity around the dormant volcano you instrumented on the island of Hawaii. There have been reports of ash spewing from several volcanoes on some of the islands that haven’t had activity for hundreds, or in some cases, thousands of years.
Wade’s thoughts instantly went to Foster on Oahu. “Is there any report of activity of Oahu?”
“Koolau volcano on Oahu is reported to be putting out ash and smoke.” Wade finished by saying, “We’re on our way, Jeff.”
Wade tried to control his own emotions as he turned toward Juliet. She had propped up her pillow and was listening to the conversation. Just from hearing Wade’s end, she knew that the news was not good.
With fear in his voice, he said, “It looks like it’s begun.” He went on to tell her all that he knew from Jeff as they hurriedly dressed and set out for the lab.
As they approached the Geology Building, every window was illuminated. Wade noticed that the parking lot was already half full as they pulled into his
organized and assigned specific tasks.
A group was told to keep track of earthquake damage and aftershocks. Another was told to track tsunamis, and a third group was told to monitor the Hawaiian Islands for volcanic activity. Constant contact was established with labs in Australia, New Zealand and their colleagues in Japan. There was an attempt made to contact the lab in Hilo at the University of Hawaii—but the lines were out.
With all the phones and computers manned, order began to emerge from the chaos. Wade had a chance to inspect the seismic tracings from the earthquake beneath the Hawaiian Islands. They represented not a single quake, but a long series of overlapping quakes. The location was difficult to determine. The earthquakes occurred at a series of points beneath the Pacific Ocean surrounding the Hawaiian Islands. The character of these quakes fit into the scenario along with the other events that occurred, supporting Professor Humphries’ theory. They were unprecedented in modern time.
Wade stood in the lab, holding the tracings, and wondered about his brother and all the rest of the population of Hawaii, people in love with their paradise. So in love were the residents, that it may have cost countless lives to enjoy heaven on Earth just a little longer.
* * * *
Oahu
Foster continued to work at the surf shop and Heather at the bed and breakfast although each had little to do. Heather took her baby to work with her and found time to feed and care for him while she accomplished her tasks. The working conditions were ideal for caring for the baby. In fact, Lulu gave him so much attention, that if it weren’t for the fact Heather was breast-feeding; he would need no care at all.
Although life went on, there was a pall hanging over the islands knowing that its days might be numbered. Foster had become close friends with most of the surfers who congregated on the beach and shopped at the store. A few that were originally from the mainland returned home but all the native surfers chose to stay. For the most part, they were young men who loved the surf and sun and little else. When asked about their future, almost to a man, they talked about quality of life—not quantity.
Foster was working behind the counter one day while Joe was grabbing some lunch when his friend Rich Loana entered the shop.
“What can I do for you, Rich?”
“Just wanted to see if you’d be interested in doing some surfing later this afternoon. The waves are supposed to be great today.”
“I should be able to get away around four. I’ll meet you on the beach in back of the shop.”
“Sounds like a plan, Foster. I’ll see you then.”
After Rich left, Foster thought about a conversation he had with Rich months earlier, when the news of what might happen to Hawaii was released.
He had had similar conversations with a lot of the surfers he had gotten to know. One conversation with Rich stuck in his mind.
He’d asked Rich, “What will you do now, Rich?” “What do you mean—I’m going to surf.”
“No, you know what I’m talking about. When are you leaving?” “I’m not.”
“You can’t stay here, it’s not safe.”
“Listen Foster, I was born on this island, it’s my home, the only place I’ve ever lived. And surfing is the only thing I know how to do. I don’t have an education. I don’t have a skill. If I moved to the mainland, what would I do? I’d be a bum the rest of my life. I’m a bum here, but at least I have a chance to do what I love. If this theory is wrong – no harm done. If its right, I’ll be doing what I love doing right to the end.”
Foster found that most of the native-born Hawaiian surfers he talked to had a similar attitude. They were determined to embrace their ‘hang loose’ attitude of life right to the end.
* * * *
Traffic through the shop was light, had been for months. Three-thirty arrived and Foster told Joe he was thinking of riding some waves until Heather came home. “I don’t think I’ll be able to handle this crowd all alone,” Joe said as he looked around the empty store. “Go ahead; get your butt on the beach.”
Foster got a couple good rides before Rich showed up. They rode together for a while until Rich caught a wave that Foster missed. Foster paddled back out to deeper water turned toward the beach and was preparing to get up on his board
It was 4:20.
He could see Rich on the beach taking a breather, when his friend suddenly fell to the sand. Foster thought to himself, “What the hell is he doing now?” Then he noticed branches falling from the palm trees. In quick succession, the roof of the shop caved in leaving a pile of rubble where the shop and apartment had been. He quickly paddled to shore, and as soon as his feet made contact with the sand, he fell to his knees in the shallow water. He looked up and down the beach and the few people still standing were holding onto a tree or other stabilizing object with looks of shock and disbelief on their faces.
The trembling lasted minutes, but it seemed like hours. Time slowed as the Earth shook. The violent shaking subsided, settling down to series of lesser and lesser ripples of movement. Foster ran around front and found Joe sitting on the grass clutching a blood-soaked towel to his head.
“Is this what we’ve been waiting for?” asked Joe. Foster pointed to the south. “What’s that Joe, a fire?” “If it is, it’s one hell of a fire.”
Then they noticed pillars of smoke dotting the horizon.
“I think some of our dead volcanoes have come to life. Come on, we need to get to the B&B. Although the trembling had ceased, the trembling of both
men had not. A mixture of adrenaline, fear, and awe fed emotions waiting for months to be released. Both men knew in their hearts THIS WAS IT.
They hopped into Joe’s jeep and began the short drive to the bed and breakfast. A drive that should have taken minutes, took nearly an hour. The narrow road was littered with tree branches and debris from collapsed buildings and clogged with people walking, stumbling in a state of shock, and not knowing where to go or what to do. Screams could be heard from some of the partially collapsed structures, but for now, aid was nonexistent.
Joe could see the column of smoke issuing to the sky before his business came into view. As they turned the last bend in the road, there stood the B&B, or at least what was left of it, engulfed in flames. The men felt relief when they saw Lulu and Heather standing in the parking lot holding the baby. Their clothes were torn and they were both covered in soot, but they were safe.
They parked the jeep a safe distance from the fire and approached the women. Lulu was in hysterics, sobbing and could not be consoled.
“Thank God you’re all safe. It’s only a building,” Joe said as he embraced his frantic wife.
All Lulu could say over and over was, “Oh no, no, no.”
Foster noticed Heather was also crying. He hugged her and his son. Through choked-back tears, she explained what had happened. “Lulu and I were in the kitchen. Thank God we had the baby with us. We were preparing tomorrow’s breakfast when everything began to shake. Things fell off the shelves and the ceiling started coming down. We made it out just in time before the whole place came crashing down and began to burn.”
Lulu stood listening, clutching herself and moaning.
“A few hours ago we had the first guests we’ve had in a long time check in, a young couple from California, along with their five year old son. They went upstairs to get some rest before they began their tour of the island. They never came out.”
They all watched the burning structure as it caved in further. As the flames singed the nearby palms, they knew it was also a funeral pyre. Both women sobbed as the men stood helpless. Oahu and the rest of the Hawaiian Islands were also helpless, caught in the grasp of a power that was no longer a theory.
Here’s where you can buy it.
Thanks.
http://www.melange-books.com/authors/walttrizna/triznanewmoonrising.html
STRUGGLING TO GET IT WRITE: EGO BLOCK – GETTING IT PERFECT
I once enjoyed writing a great deal more than I do now. Back then it was an escape from my ‘real job’. In the course of my current career, I may have developed a new type of ‘writer’s block’.
Leave it to me.
What I have managed to develop is a real fear of the rewrite. I have no problem developing ideas or writing the first draft. But when it comes to the editing process, I have an overwhelming desire to get it perfect, whatever that means.
I do a demented dance around the story or novel requiring the dreaded rewrite. I find anything to do that will keep me from that effort, root canal – bring it on. I’ll get to the rewrite later. Anything to keep me from getting my ass in the chair and getting to my work.
One of my favorite pastimes is reading. I can’t get enough. I find that now, as a writer, I closely examine the work I’m reading and find flaws that I see which I’m sure I would not if I wasn’t involved in the profession. I find errors in plot, or needless asides and descriptions bringing nothing to the story. In some cases slowing it down. Overwriting in authors far more successful than I will ever be. Sometimes lack of explanation which would enhance the plot where more detail would be beneficial. Yet, despite the fact that I see these faults I believe in being painfully honest. My work does not approach the quality of what I find lacking.
My work tends to be more of an outline, not offering enough detail to draw the reader into the world I am trying to create.
Okay, that’s off my chest. Time to silly-glue my ass to the chair and hope for the best. Time for the rewrite.
Wish me luck.
STRUGGLING TO GET IT WRITE: SELF-PUBLISHING AND PEER PRESSURE
Every journey down that rocky road of writing is different, unique, influenced by our past and drawing on the writer’s experiences. My first career was that of a scientist, 34 years’ worth, and that experience helps shape my approach to publishing and the hesitation to self-publish.
Let me explain.
In science, once you have completed a project which has merit and contributes knowledge to your field, you set out to publish a paper describing your work. I am coauthor on more than 40 papers. I didn’t do any of the writing but performed most of the experiments that went into them and am familiar with the process of publishing these papers.
When you want to publish your work there is an accepted process. No valid scientist takes it upon himself to publish his results. Rather, you seek-out a peer-reviewed journal which publishes in your field. The process involves your work being reviewed by, usually three, scientists working in your field and familiar with the techniques you used. After reading your work they may either accept it, suggest further experiments or reject it. Do you see the parallel with accept, rewrite or reject? Having spent my entire working life under this mindset, I find it has now carried over into my writing career. Perhaps it is a flaw, perhaps not, but with my fiction I do not feel comfortable with just putting it out there. I need confirmation from someone knowledgeable in my genre and able to judge the quality of my work. This need for approval does not make for an easy writing career, but I feel the rewards are well worth the effort.
So far I have published on novel, a novella and more than 25 short stories, all accepted by a publisher, in some cases by multiple publishers. To go this route is time-consuming and requires a thick skin. It’s not easy to send your baby out there and find no one sees its value.
Let me share with you the history of my novel, New Moon Rising, in finding a publisher. I began this effort in December, 2006, and in March, 2010 Melange Books asked to see the entire manuscript and decided to publish my book. During that interval, I contacted 28 agents and publishers. One reason this endeavor took so long was that I waited to hear back from each submission before submitting again. I won’t make that mistake again. But let me tell you. When a publisher says, ‘We’ll accept your work,’ that superb feeling cannot be matched.
So there you have my approach and reasons for taking the road I have chosen to getting my work published, and why I have not self-published – yet. My approach is not for everyone, but for better or for worse, that’s what it is.
Then you have to get someone to buy it.
THE NOVEL by JAMES A. MICHENER
Just finished reading The Novel by James A. Michener. I’ve read many of his works, my favorite is The Source, a book dealing with the excavation of a well in the Middle East and detailing the life of the people surrounding the well from ancient times to the present.
Michener, who died in 1997 at the age of 90, published The Novel in 1991, but it was far from being his last book. The work, divided into four parts The Writer, The Editor, The Critic and The Reader explores the publishing world of a different era. The world of publishing has changed a great deal since Michener wrote this book and continues to rapidly change with self-publishing and social media becoming important tools for today’s authors. In Michener’s story, the editor plays a significant role in the life of the author and the progression of his career. Having never been published by a major house, yet, I don’t know if that portrayal holds true today.
The section of this novel which I found most interesting was that of the critic, Karl Streibert. He finds the work of the main author in the book, Lucas Yoder, shallow and not worth reading. The funny thing is that the work of Lucas Yoder reminds me of Michener’s. The critic judges Yoder’s work as to accessible, fit only for the common reader, and is of the opinion that writers should write for the reading elite, intellectuals who demand the highest quality and deepest thought.
This lofty insight reminds me of a comment I once read in Poet & Writers where the poetry of Billie Collins was considered mediocre because it was too accessible. I happen to find Collins’ poetry extremely enjoyable. I wonder what that says about me.
A difference in values is what makes life interesting, and at times argumentative. I strongly suggest reading James A. Michener’s The Novel.
THE STRUGGLE TO GET IT WRITE: A NEW SERIES
Is that a clever use of the homophone, or what?
In this new series, I hope to engage writers who follow my blog or anyone else who has an interest in the art of writing, about questions and problems I’m having about my writing and observations I have made in my reading of work by successful writers.
Recently, I’ve run into some new kind of block. It’s not writer’s block; to be honest I don’t know what the hell kind of block it is. Leave it to me to be on the forefront of a new problem for writers. But I’m having a real problem getting my butt to sit down and write. Story ideas, no problem there. I’m constantly taking notes on what my bizarre brain produces, but that’s about as far as it gets.
I’ll discuss some specific problems and some writing insights in the pieces that follow, and if any of you out there can lend advice, I’m all ears.
THE BEAST AWAITS, AN UPDATE, SORT OF
Still sucking up library WiFi.
In reference to the last piece, The Beast Awaits, a novel I often refer to is written and already made the rounds to agents with a 100% rate of rejection, so far.
I had one publisher show interest in publishing the novel but, upon doing my homework, found they did not have a good reputation, so I declined.
You have to watch your ass, no one else will.
MY WRITING STYLE
Presently, I’m in a quandary about the subject of this piece, my writing style.
Every writer has his or her own style, the way of expressing in word the thoughts they are trying to convey. How does this characteristic of the author originate? Is it some deep-seated voice that represents your essence, or is it merely a manufacture of all the authors whose works you have read?
My reason for pondering this question is that I am in the process of editing my novel, Sweet Depression, and in this endeavor I am attempting to cure what others have pointed out to me as a major fault – my brevity. I tend to concentrate on the core of the story and leave out details that would give the story more life. But where is the line you must be careful not to cross when that life would morph into a boring existence?
Take a look at your bookshelves. If you’re as voracious a reader as I and share my fault of not being able to part with a book once read, those shelves are overflowing. Science fiction and horror are my writing genres, but lately some of my stories have spilled into the murky boundaries of the thriller. But back to science fiction. I look at the science fiction novels of fifty or more years ago and those of today and see a distinct difference. Older science fiction is more concise, more to the point. Of course, you have the epic series Dune written by Frank Herbert and continued by his son which are massive in length, tomes of a complex series. But I look at H.G. Wells’ War of the Worlds which is little more than a novella and see the more typical length of science fiction of a bygone era.
Recently I have talked to writers whose work are massive and needed to be cut for publication. My work doe not require deletion but rather addition. But how much to add without diluting down the story or slowing the action, that’s the quandary.
While thinking this piece through I may have come up with the answer to my problem. It is not the length that is important, rather the content and the skill of the writer. Talent is the bottom line. The writer must take the readers by the hand and lead them down a path without detours causing them to lose their way. And when the readers reach the end of that path, if the writer has been successful, they are left with a treasure.
ERIN McCOLE CUPP BOOK SIGNING AT BARNES & NOBLE
For all my local readers.
Erin McCole Cupp will discuss and sign her book, Don’t You Forget About Me, at the next meeting of my writers group, The Wordwights.
We will meet at the Barnes & Noble on Main Street in Exton, PA on February 20th at 7:00PM.
All local writers and readers are invited. I hope to see you then.
Here is a link that offers more information about the author.
http://www.fullquiverpublishing.com/index_19.html
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