Playing Along Nicely

Yvonne Osborne, over at The Organic Writer tagged me for The Next Big Thing blog tour. I really enjoyed reading the concise breakdown of her work in progress, Black River.  Yvonne's prose is layered and lyrical--I can't wait to read the completed novel.  I don't usually do blogfests and tours, but the questions seemed straightforward enough that I could come up with some answers, seeing as I actually have a ‘next big thing’. So here goes:

• What is the working title of your next book? Spilled Coffee

•  Where did the idea come from for this book? I had in mind a snippet of a scene—a man who clumsily bumps the elbow of a woman sitting at a diner counter, spilling her coffee all over her sketchpad. From there, it was a matter of figuring out who each of the characters are and why they were in the diner.

•  What genre does your book fall under? Adult literary fiction, though a large portion has a Young Adult appeal. I guess it's a little Romancey, too.

•  What actors would you choose to play the part of the characters in a movie rendition? That’s really hard—I guess I don’t watch enough television of movies to choose anyone in particular. Any tall, quirky, attractive, dark curlyish-haired guy, and a pretty, petite curly redheaded young lady could audition for the main characters.

•  What is a one-sentence synopsis of your book? Ben Hughes buys back the lake cottage his family lost eighteen years ago, and for the next twenty-four hours, he is committed to reliving that summer when his life blew apart.

• Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency? I simply can’t resist fulfilling my dream of self-publishing.

•  How long did it take you to write the first draft of the manuscript? I started it back in April of 2010. It sat dormant for nearly a year—I added a few hundred words and it again sat until last winter. I wrote the bulk of 80K words over the course of a couple months—I’ve never been that productive in my life!

•  What other books would you compare this to in your genre? Oh goodness, I haven’t any idea. I guess the best I can say is it’s a coming-of-age story, and there are so many of them out there…

•  Who or what inspired you to write this book? Of course any characters, places, or situations are purely coincidental and the product of my imagination, but my husband may disagree…

•  What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest? Although Spilled Coffee delves into family dysfunction, it is against the backdrop of the 1960s and experienced through the eyes of an innocent fourteen-year-old boy. Anyone who grew up during that time period will appreciate the nostalgic snapshots, yet the awkward emotions of adolescence are universal and will strike a chord with many, especially as we so often look back on those years with mixed feelings. 

I'm not sure if providing a snippet is part of the rules, but since my predecessors have done so, here's something:

The odor of rotting pine needles, decaying asphalt shingles, and mold stirs a nondescript memory—a fleeting sense of childhood—of me as a child, the innocent who had not yet gained a broader perspective. That child inserts the key and turns it. The adult, the man who understands that nothing stays the same, pushes the door open.

I'm also supposed to tag a few others--Yvonne already tagged Liza Carens Salerno, but I'm still going to! and I shall also nudge Robynne Rand (aka, Anne Gallagher) and she can fill us in on what she's up to over on her Women's Fiction blog. And finally, Jayne Ferst—A Novice Novelist, who has been working on a novel and I'm dying to find out about it!

A Boatload of Inspiration!

A number of years ago, I was the recipient of a wooden model boat, handcrafted to scale. My father built it when he was a kid, using plans he found in an old Rudder or Yachting magazine from the late ’40s—the Pavana, designed by naval architect, Philip Rhodes. It has always held my fascination and when I set out to write Uncharted: Story for a Shipwright, I incorporated the refitting of a boat from that era with the Pavana in mind. I gave her a new history and renamed her Mary-Leigh, built by Buck, the old-timer shipwright of Uncharted.

In my research, I found that the Pavana still exists and bears the distinction of once belonging to L.Corrin Strong, a U.S. Ambassador to Norway. She has sailed between Port Moresby, Papua New Guinea and Australia, was dry-docked in Maryland USA, and is currently undergoing refitting by a shipwright in British Columbia’s Gulf Islands, where she continues to pique the imagination.

One piece of research that continues to fascinates me is the Pavana’s log*. It captures the tail end of the pre-fiberglass, wooden boatbuilding era, with all its romance.  One of my favorite images from the log is a photograph from May 29, 1949, with the caption, ‘We serve cocktails onboard’, accompanied by a charming description of one of Pavana’s first excursions. I love the description of how ‘four youngsters of assorted ages…swarmed all over the boat but did no damage and got into no trouble’.

And this one—final inspections just before she launches:

Another is of the owner and friends, sailing at a good heel with the mizzen mast in the background.

But my most favorite photos are from an old magazine, The Chesapeake Skipper, (June 1948). They are of the Pavana (previously named Mansurah and changed before launching) under construction. Although Pavana’s builder, H. K. Lagare of the Balco Yacht Co. is pictured, I envision old Buck posing for the photograph, beaming with pride and imagining voyages and adventure.

In Uncharted, Buck’s grandson, Samuel, stuck in a rhythm of mediocrity, is restless for that adventure. Buck insists, “The sea is in your blood, surging with all its turbulence and as subject to longing and discontentment as the sea is to the tide.” Sam used to laugh it off as the romantic notions of an old man. He assumed that over the generations his seafaring blood had thinned, had been adulterated by the contented sort who stuck around. That he, a shipwright himself, would be one of the guys who married some local girl and carried on the family business, placating himself with the occasional weekend sail. As the story unfolds, he isn’t so sure. What Samuel Wesley does know is that there’s a romance to living on the water and being skilled in a trade that, for centuries, has been the backbone of the maritime industry, and the Pavana captures that romance.

* Thanks Henry Strong, grandson of L.Corrin Strong for permission to share this log. The remainder of the log may be viewed here.

I Had a Crush on Gilligan

Yes, it’s true, back when I was seven or eight, when most girls swooned over one of The Monkees, I had a thing for Gilligan. It always bothered me that all their foiled attempts to get off the island were somehow Gilligan’s fault. I was naïve enough to believe that one day, they would be rescued and I always felt a tinge of disappointment at the end of every episode of Gilligan’s Island.

Thus began my fascination with stories of uncharted islands and survival. As a kid, I loved Swiss Family Robinson and any other story that centered around that theme. It wasn’t until Castaway (with Tom Hanks) hit the big screen that the seeds of Uncharted Story for a Shipwright germinated. If I could actually manage to wash ashore on an uninhabited island in the middle of nowhere and still be alive, would I be able to survive with nothing but natural resources? What inner resources could I draw on?

Realistically, I didn’t think I would do too well—I mean, with enough determination and time, I could probably start a fire and cook some crabs. I might even be able to remember some of the principles involved with water condensation and collection, but I didn’t think I’d last very long. Now, after having researched shipwrecks and survival, I might be slightly more competent, but not much….Unless…unless someone had been on the island before me! What if someone had left behind some useful things—and not only things, but a few instructions! Now I’m cookin’! Imagining myself under such aided circumstances seemed like cheating in my little fantasy, but…what if…what if I turned out to be pregnant! Holy granola! That would add a huge complication. Now my imagination had shot past a sprout and began to bloom.

So, now you know the soil upon which the seeds of  UNCHARTED sprouted. 

Time to Fly

I have been edging ever closer to Internet/Blogger Burnout lately. But in the back of my mind, I have visions of rolling hills, meandering dirt roads lined with Lily-of-the-Valley, the sound of the Atlantic within a two hour drive, the Isabella Gardener and Boston MFA, quiet time for contemplation and writing—and all only a few days away.

Yes, it’s that time of year again, heading to the hills of New Hampshire where the only Internet service is over a telephone line or at the local McDonalds. I won’t be visiting too many blogs while I’m away, but by the time I return, I will look forward to catching up. I may even try to post a time or two between now and then…

Getting Through February

I've come up with a homegrown remedy to get me through February, and keep me writing at the same time. I have a bunch of watercolors I painted—each one I chose because I found it evocative in some way. So, I’m going to brave it and write a piece of flash fiction to go with a few, and try to keep it up for the next few weeks. If you’ve visited my Website, JBChicoine.com, and there is a painting in particular that you’d like me to use, leave a comment or e-mail me. Or, if you’d like to write your own, I’d love to hear it! I’m not saying there will be prizes involved, like a free print (on really nice 140lb Arches Infinity watercolor paper), but I’m not saying there won’t, either.

Tomorrow, I shall start with a popular painting that I’ve posted here before: Deb’s Kitchen.

'Lady Writer' at The Bilge PUB

While studiously researching at The Bilge, I recently received a 'private message' from one of the ‘Senior Members’. Now, I’m used to the bloggy way of doing things, and wasn’t sure what to do about the ‘private’ message. Who was this stranger? I had not seen his avatar on the only place I ever posted—the Question for a work of fiction thread that I started.

The message said: “For some really good stuff come to the pub. ”

Very mysterious…I mean, how would you take that?

Well, I wasn’t quite sure how to take it. What exactly is ‘The PUB?’ I wondered. Sure, I was curious as all get out, but what exactly would I be getting myself into? I was just too chicken to respond.

A day or so later, I received another ‘private message,’ this time from an avatar I recognized, Mrleft8 (he knows a lot of boat stuff). He said that over at the pub, there was ‘a little bit that might be of interest to me in describing a dive bar.’ He was also kind enough to provide directions. It is located on the seedier side of town—it is The Bilge, after all—so I was still hesitant, which, as most of you know, is much a part of my nature.

Undeterred, I grabbed my paper and pad, smoothed my skirt against my trembling schoolgirl legs, sucked in some courage, and stepped through the door. Surprisingly, it was not as seedy as I expected.

Instead, the aroma of Welsh rarebit and a tasty vegetable soup, chock full of tender bits of assorted roots, stems, leaves, and fruits rushed my olfactory senses. I could smell boneless ribeye steak, grilling to perfection over charcoal, to be served with hand cut fries, and a Waldorf salad. The special on tap was Molson Brador. Honestly, just standing there I put on ten pounds!
The crew at the Pub—including Bobby, who first offered the invite—have built a virtual pub experience...and with only words! Imagine that!

When Bobby asked, “Ok, water, wine, beer what’s your drink? Welcome to the pub,” I was still a little nervous.

Hoping no one else would hear, I said, “Okay, please don’t' mock and ridicule—I drink the cheapest and lightest beer I can find. But I'm open to trying pretty much anything.”

Well, before I could flip my writing tablet open, he placed a frosty beer in front of me with a wink. Some of the locals sat at the bar beside me and started making small talk, asking me where I was from. They were a very congenial lot, and I recognized quite a few of them. We continued to chat for a bit as I drank my light beer, but mostly I just listened.

Then I told them, “I'm just going to sit quietly over here at the table in the corner. You just pretend I'm not here and talk about all sorts of boatsie things.”

I guess I didn’t make too bad of an impression, (although they speculated that I was a green apple martini, or cosmopolitan kinda gal, which I'm not).

They even posted the link to this Dire Straits, YouTube video for me, in spite of the fact that they did not get a special mention on my blog post about Researching at The Bilge.


Incidentally, the PUB boasts the most frequently visited and commented on thread over at The Bilge forum, and I consider it a privilege to hang out for a few minutes here and there.

I wonder, when doing research for your writing, have you ever had to go somewhere that made you a little nervous?

Research in 'The Bilge'

I was this close to thinking Story for a Shipwright was done. Problem was, I couldn’t quell that nagging little notion that the ending needed something more. Then a beta-reader confirmed it. So, like the good little progressive writer that I am, I began drafting out an extended ending, where I introduce a rather tense situation. To break it up a bit, I decided to have Samuel (the shipwright and narrator) engage in some boat work.

Now, this novel is not about building boats, so I haven’t gone all technical with it—in fact there are places where I think it could stand some expanded and authentic terminology. This, of course, requires more research. I do live in a state surrounded by water, but the likelihood of finding a boatyard engaged in launching a boat this time of year is, well, nil.

Of course there are all sorts of online encyclopedias out there, and I have downloaded volumes of information on nautical terminology and boatbuilding how-to’s. I also love pouring over our subscription to WoodenBoat magazine. And, they just happen to have an online forum for boat builder enthusiasts.

There were a number of forums on which I could have started a thread, but I stumbled down to the bottom of the list and found The Bilge. Honestly, I just love that word, and it seemed to be the catchall for things that don’t seem to fit 'Misc and Boat Related' (although I did end up posting there too).

In case you don’t know what a bilge is, here are two definitions that sum it up:
1.
a. either of the rounded areas that form the transition between the bottom and the sides on the exterior of a hull.
b. Also, bilges. an enclosed area at the bottom of a vessel where seepage collects.
2. Slang. foolish or worthless talk or ideas; nonsense.

As soon as I arrived, they politely informed me that I had probably posted in the wrong place. I felt like a schoolgirl walking into a seedy old dive amidst a bunch of salty, seafaring bilge rats looking up over their pint of brew at the new lad (due to the ambiguity of ‘jbchicoine,’ they though I was a guy).

“Real research is done ‘aboveboard’,” they informed me, as one of the other guys pulled out a chair.

“Awe, leave the lad alone—we should be flattered that he’s even asking our opinion,” he muttered.

All at once, they seemed to realize they had a new audience and the advice came pouring in like—well, like bilge water!

Once I collected enough information to get me started, I posted my rough draft and opened it up for embellishment:

I worked the railway winch, letting out the cable, inching it along the gentle incline as Derek and Mitch walked its length, out the back exit, toward the ramp. The cradle creaked and the cable groaned as the motor whined. Metal rollers screeched on the tracks where I hadn’t greased well enough, but it crept along, stuttering here and there. As soon as water lapped its keel, I took Derek’s place. I figured that if the whole thing were going to crash on its side, it might as well put me out of my misery. At the rate this day had been going, I half-expected it.

This is what I ended up with (still open to embellishment, if anyone cares to do so). I think it's way better:

I worked the railway windlass, releasing the cable, paying it out along the gentle decline as Derek and Mitch walked the Marjie B’s length, out the back doors, toward the ramp. I had coated the cable, chains, and pulleys so heavily in grease that they couldn't screech or groan if they had to. Only the trucks grumbled on the tracks, occasionally crunching bits of gravel as they crept the length of the rails with barely a stutter. Surprisingly, the motor purred without any more misbehavior. Once water lapped her keel, I took Derek’s place. I figured that if the whole thing were going to crash on its side, it might as well put me out of my misery. At the rate this day had been going, I half-expected it.

Here’s a well-expressed response I received from one of the guys, TerryLL:

Not bad, but still could stand some tweaking. The danger in spending so much time burnishing one paragraph is that it shines like a jewel against the less-polished background of the rest of the narrative. It's often the case that the first two or three chapters of a novel radiate brilliance, thence to trail off like a dying comet, finally flickering out in some contrived ending.

The key to a page-turner is consistency, a plausible story, compelling characters, and a driving narrative. As for structure, let terseness be your mantra; pray for brevity. Words are a precious commodity; hoard them.

Gotta wonder if he’s in the biz. To be honest, they’re all rather articulate—eloquent even—for a bunch of ‘bilge rats’ (their term, not mine).

For me, hanging out at The Bilge has been the next best thing to the boatyard.

See Ya Later

Well, we’re headed out East for some unexpected 'stuff', (to the land of limited internet), so you won’t be seeing me around. Hard to say when we’ll return. Such is the life of the Unsupervised. Meanwhile I thought I’d post this disturbing picture.

It’s behind glass in my living room. Most adults avert their eyes in utter perturbation, yet children seem to absorb it without any long-term damage (of course I never stick around anywhere long enough to know for sure).

Comment if you wish—it will be without immediate repercussion.

Ironic, Isn't It?

Stuff I read in other writer’s posts and comments always gets me thinking.
A brief exchange I had with Strange Fiction got me pondering my ironic side, and thus irony in general, and why I love it so.

irony
/uy"reuhnee, uy"euhr-/, n., pl. ironies.
1. the use of words to convey a meaning that is the opposite of its literal meaning.
2. an outcome of events contrary to what was, or might have been, expected.
3. the incongruity of this.

Not to be confused with its close cousins SATIRE and SARCASM; while all three indicate mockery of a person or thing, IRONY is exhibited in the organization or structure of either language or literary material. It indirectly presents a contradiction between an action or expression and the context in which it occurs. One thing is said and its opposite implied, as in "Beautiful weather, isn't it?" said when it is raining. Ironic literature exploits the contrast between an ideal and an actual condition, as when events turn out contrary to expectations.
SATIRE, also a literary and rhetorical form, is the use of ridicule in exposing human vice and folly. Jonathan Swift wrote social and political satires.
SARCASM is a harsh and cutting type of humor. Its distinctive quality is present in the spoken word; it is manifested chiefly by vocal inflection. Sarcastic language may have the form of irony, as in "What a fine musician you turned out to be!", or it may be a direct statement, as in "You couldn't play one piece correctly if you had two assistants!"*

Watermelon Eaters

That said, I love Irony. In many ways, I epitomize the word. In fact, it is irony that makes this one of my favorite photographs.

It’s also the reason why I can’t seem to make myself use the ever-popular emoticon. They are so handy for conveying subtleties, clarifying intent when commenting. But for me, they would seem to suck the irony out of my words. I can’t help it. I like to leave people scratching their heads.

*from Random House, Webster’s College Dictionary.

A Possible Story?

Recently, a couple of posts, by Laura Martone and Lady Glamis, got me thinking about what inspires a story. Many ideas seem to spring from random whims, and some from snippets of real life.
Here’s a possibility…

A handsome young artist attends a soiree, where he notices a pretty newcomer. Alas, his scorned lover befriends her, thwarting his attempts to make her acquaintance.

Some time passes, during which he works to perfect his art. He hears she marries, and so does he.

More time passes. His marriage dissolves, as does his satisfaction with his painting. Consequently, he undertakes a study of an American Impressionist, copying his loose style, even replicating some of his work.

Through mutual friends, he hears about the young woman, that her marriage blew apart.

Maneuvering providence, he places himself in her company. He studies her face and falls in love with her countenance. Inspired, he returns to his studio and paints all night…

Of course, she marries him—how could a woman resist a man who, from memory, paints her face on a masterpiece?

...And they live happily ever after.

Sometimes real life situations inspire the best stories. I know there are many out there…





John Singer Sargent’s Mrs Henry White, with some alteration.