Interested in Your Opinion...

Although I like the cover as it was, I thought there ought to be something I could do to make it a little more 'shipwrightish.' The woodcut version I originally designed accomplished that, but it looks too bland to me now. (However, I do think it would make a nice title page.)



So, this is what I came up with:

Do the ‘boat plans’ in the background look too cluttery, or does it add that little something extra that gives a better sense of the story being about a shipwright?

 Which do you like better?

Just Messin' Around

Yes, this is another cross over blog post. I just thought I'd try out a cover design, for the fun of it. Okay—to be honest, I have no other project I'm working on right now, so this is purely a dilatory maneuver.

Yes, I know, I know—just start typing or pick up the paintbrush…

Query Progress

Alright, so this isn’t agent news, however, it does pertain to my query. According to advice out there in the writing blogsphere, if one sends out a handful of queries and receives absolutely no interest, she ought to give her query another look before flooding the agent pool with uninspiring slush.

I could have sent my query back over to The Public Query Slushpile, where last spring, I swamped Rick with 5 revisions (and came up with something pretty good), but I couldn’t bring myself to break the record for the most compulsive poster over there. So, I decided to have a look at Elana Johnson’s, From the Query to the Call (which included a critique), and received yet more helpful advice.

At the same time, Weronika Janczuk launched a query contest of sorts, and I submitted my newly revised pitch. And Yay, she liked it, offered a couple suggestions, which I implemented, and she posted it on her blog as one of the Queries that Worked!

So, this is all progress—nothing monumental, (except to me!) but it is incremental success, for which I will be happy, if not bordering on optimistic—at least for the weekend…

...and can I mention that she'd like to read the entire manuscript?

Cover Art?

Okay, this is another cross-blogging post (from my Unsupervised & at Large blog), but it does have something to do with my novel, Story for a Shipwright. I just finished this painting*, Moorings, as a possible cover design element—you know, in case I exhaust every agent in the universe and resort to self-publishing. It puts me in mind of a scene from the story, where shipwright Sam Wesley is sitting in the local diner, looking out over the harbor on Sunday morning…

"It wasn’t truly the best seat, but the corner booth, partially overlooking the harbor and a few lobster boats suited me fine. While Billy perused his options, my attention wandered to the boats in the harbor—many of them were out for the day baiting traps, which is all they’re allowed on Sundays, from June through August. I thought about how consistent lobstermen are—they seem to recognize no distinction of day or season, heat or cold, rain or shine. Glancing around the diner, at old lobster traps hung from the ceiling, and picturesque scenes behind glass, I chuckled at how we who live here take their trade for granted. Funny, how tourists romanticize the industry, carrying it home in calendars or placemats, rarely appreciating the sweat that goes into the lobster on their plate."


*based on an image by photographer, Doug Wood, titled, stonington, sunday morning

My Stomach Doesn't Feel So Good

Okay, I haven’t found an agent yet, but my pitch did make the first cut for the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award. Probably they canned Story for a Shipwright last year because I pitched it as Women’s Fiction—go figure. This year, I called it General Fiction—“a character driven exploration of our needs versus wants in a world where ordinary converges with extraordinary.”

So, now I have to stave off nausea till the next cut.

Meanwhile, I'm going to paint up a storm...

...and congratulations to Julie Dao and Tiffany Neal, who also entered and made it throught the first round!

Good News

Okay, it's not what you think...
I figure I might as well do something while I’m doing nothing…Okay, I’m not doing nothing—I am querying agents after all. And no, no takers yet, but I’m not going to blog about how many rejections I get. Believe me, even if I get a request for a partial, I’ll post that.

Meanwhile, I’m back to painting, and I’m happy to say I finished another one.

Consider this a gratuitous cross-blog intermission from my writing…

Committing Myself

I’ve made a decision: I shall send my first query off this week! I have postponed it long enough, (although my dilly-dallying has yielded a finished painting [a year-long procrastination]).

There, I have committed myself publicly…

For a little confidence boost, I’m starting off my week with thanks to Mary Anne Gruen, at the Starlight blog, for passing this Superior Scribbler award on to me. I’m not sure exactly what the rules are for this one, but I feel compelled to share it with Glen, my Texan writer buddy over at Differences with the Same Likeness, whose charm and wit delight me not only in his generous comments, but on his blog where he shares anecdotes about his more than ordinary life.

I also want to thank Scott at 275 Words for sending the Happy award this way. I listed my 10 happy things over at my Unsupervised and at Large blog, where I’ve taken my brief reprieve from writing and the impending queries. Technically, I’m supposed to pass it onto 10 (or 15) other bloggers; I will, but I think I’ll procrastinate on that for a little while…

JB's Querying Blues

Here’s a poem, posted over at The Bilge, by Peter Radclyffe
It really made my day…

There must be some kind of way to publish this, said JB in The Bilge
It’s finished & I must find some way to pay these winter bills
Donn* has already been thru this & this might be his fate
So let us all wish her the best
The hour is getting late
All around the WBF** lookouts kept a view
While sailors, painters came & went
& a few well you know who
Outside in the distance, a Detroit diesel growled,
2 agents were approaching, the wind began to howl

(a little take-off of Bob Dylan's All Along The Watchtower)

Thanks Peter!
*Retired publisher in The Bilge
**Wooden Boat Forum

That’s Right, I’m Stalling…

I know I should be brushing up on my query and synopsis (and I have been), but as anyone who’s ever written one knows, they kill brain cells.

Consequently, I have given myself a short reprieve, just to remind myself that life does not—does not—revolve around writing, (and more to the point, getting published). I’ve been—yes, it’s true—painting.

I resurrected this unfinished portrait, and if I’m playing my shame card right, I should make pretty good progress on it, seeing as I’m posting my process incrementally.

Actually, one could draw some nice analogies between developing a character and painting a portrait…it’s all in the layering.

A Lovely Award

A while back—okay, it was all the way back in December—Liza, over at one of my favorite blogs, Middle Passages, gave me this Lovely Blog Award.

She did, in fact, give me permission to break the rules (which anyone who's ever awarded me with anything already knew I would).

I am posting it now, because it’s January and I was waiting for this particular time (when I’m feeling particularly glumpy) and knew I’d need a boost and a post that doesn’t require any creative output, (all of which is a testimony to my glumpiness and somewhat hard to reconcile with the lovliness of this award).

To be honest, if I had to pass the award on to 15, yes, 15 other bloggers, this would be completely overwhelming given the fact that it is January and I am in a slump. Therefore, I’m going to pass it on to 10 other bloggers whom I have awarded in my Unsupervised and at Large Blog (which actually feels like a better title for this blog lately—perhaps I ought to merge the two…)*

Thank you Liza for the award, and for sharing not only your comments here, but for all your delightful words over at Middle Passages.

* even if you're brave enough to go over there, I absolve you of any obligations incurred from either award, unless you want to dress up your blog...(remember there are no bloggy blah blah blah)

Has Anyone Seen My W.S.K.?

Okay, I’ll admit it—I’m in a slump. Have I mentioned that I hate winter? I know I had a Winter Survival Kit around here somewhere, but I can’t seem to lay my hands on it…sure wish I could remember what was in it… (note to self: compile WSK next October, before slump has a chance to set in)

Just when...

Just when you think you’re pretty much done, you can’t seem to rid yourself of the niggling doubt about that last chapter. ‘Now, now, it’s just that I don’t want to give up the story,’ you tell yourself. ‘It’s hard letting go, sending my baby off to make her own way in the big wide world of publishing. Stop obsessing and move on.’

But still…you just can’t sleep without replaying those last few scenes. Then you read something like this, and it cements the doubt. ‘Ugh,’ you’re thinking, ‘I’m so sick of this story—who cares about these imaginary people anyway. I wish they'd just get a life and leave me alone.’

Then, not only one reader, but two, hit on the very insecurity that keeps you from saying ‘it’s the best I can do.’

Deep breath. Step back. Talk it over with support team. And it’s back to the drawing board.

Suddenly, those synapses that you thought had exhausted themselves begin firing instantaneously. You no longer care that winter is here for another four months. Amazingly, the bed that felt like your permanent home this morning doesn’t look nearly as inviting as the office chair…

Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award, Anyone?

So, Amazon.com and Penguin Group are once again presenting the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award in 2010. Has anyone entered in the past? Does anyone plan to enter this year?

Me? I did last year. It was my introduction to fellow writers, where I first received a critique of a small portion of my work through the affiliated CreateSpace preview gallery. It was a wild and wooly adventure. And the Forum over there was a whole ‘nother experience!

This year? I’m thinking about it…the rules don’t prohibit querying in the meantime, and (don’t call me a pessimist, but) it’s unlikely I’ll acquire an agent in the first few months.

The big change this year is that the 10,000 entries will be split evenly between "Young Adult Literature" (defined as general or genre-based fiction primarily enjoyed by readers age 12 to 17) and "General Fiction" (defined as general or genre-based literature primarily enjoyed by readers age 17 and older). And, they are accepting previously self-published novels! And, entry is free

Submissions are open from January 25, 2010 to February 7, 2010. The prize? A full publishing contract with Penguin and $15,000 payment is an advance against the royalties. I think last year it was $25,000. And, professional reviewers from Publishers Weekly will provide full-manuscript reviews for novels that go on to the semifinalist round in April.

Either way, it’s something to think about…

A Little Bit of Marlena

This last excerpt is 19-year-old Marlena’s account, relaying her personal experience at a hospital, with her new friend, Dave.

They told me I had to take off the clothes that Dr. Phelps gave me, and put on another little shirt that tied in the back. New people asked me questions, ones I had already answered. They also stuck things in my mouth, listened to my heart, and hit my knee. Mostly they only annoyed me, but then they wanted to poke me with a sharp needle.

I jumped off the table and shouted, “No! I’m leaving right now!” Then I told Dave to take me to my people.

He took my hand and stepped between me and the others.

“Marlena,” he said in a gentle voice, “you don’t have anyone yet. These people don’t want to hurt you, they simply need to make sure your blood is healthy, and they can’t let you leave until they make sure you’re completely well.”

I took a deep breath and didn’t shout this time. I folded my arms tighter. “I am perfectly well. How would you like it if I poked all of you with a sharp stick?” I didn’t take my eyes off them, and I didn’t budge.

Dave made the others leave for a minute and then took my hand again.

“Marlena, this is something they have to do. It won’t hurt too bad, I promise.”

I wanted to believe him. “Then I want you to do it to me. I know you’ll be gentle.”

“Okay.” He quickly he tied a piece of rubber around my arm. Then he rubbed a spot with something cold. “Ready?”

I closed my eyes. “Yes.”

I cried into his shirt, not because it hurt, but because I didn’t have any people yet.

The Captain's Story—Told by Marlena the Peculiar

You'll notice this sample is significantly different from the last. Marlena is the storyteller, conveying it in third person POV. The voice is formal, heavily influenced by Daniel Defoe's Robinson Crusoe, which is Marlena’s favorite novel.
The characters—the Captain, a young Venezuelan woman, and a Black slave—are shipwrecked on an otherwise uninhabited island, in the late 1860's.

One night, when a full moon broke through clouds, the Captain woke. He lay restless as a beam of light shone in upon him. Rather than idly torment himself, he went to the ledge overlooking the beach. The sparkling water faded in and out of the moonlight as clouds waltzed like bridal gauze.

Before long, he heard the rustling of Mrs. Lawson.

“Finally, a break in the rain.” She sat beside him. “Do you mind if I join you?”

The Captain glanced at her. Although he was enjoying his solitude, he would be hard pressed to find her an imposition. “Please, do.”

“Tell me Captain Wesley—”

“There is no need for formality. I am hardly a captain any longer.”

“William, then,” her voice lilted. “Tell me, what was it that woke you? The moon or your conscience?”

The Captain shot her a startled glance.

“Ah, the conscience,” she deduced. “The conscience is such a troublesome thing—sometimes it betrays you, condemning when it ought not, and sometimes it’s as lenient as an indulgent parent.”

Was she now reneging on her promise not to speak of his culpability regarding her husband’s death? Or, did she refer to something else?

“I have never been a man at ease with my conscience,” he said. “A calm conscience only serves complacency.”

“And the provoked conscience, a handy device to send men to war—to protect and provide for their families. Tell me, what verdict does it offer when family—when children—are left to fend for themselves?”

Her words grabbed at his heart, squeezing blood to his neck. “What do you imply? That it is better for a man to stand back and watch while others defend and provide for his family? That he should coddle them at any cost?”

“You misunderstand my intent. I mean no accusation against you.” She drew a solemn breath. “It is my own past that torments me.”

“Tell me, that I may gain some perspective.”

She turned to him incisively. “You want a woman’s perspective, but I shall give you a child’s.” Her eyes drifted toward the beach. “I was only ten when the caudillo came and took our plantation. I lost my father, brothers and uncles to the civil insurrections of those feudal lords. There was no one left to fend for me.” Her voice tapered, and her next words seemed to come with hesitation. “Had I not been a beautiful little girl, I would still be working the fields of those outlaws, used up like so many of the girls who had come of age.”

The Captain stared at her, aghast.

“Don’t be appalled,” she said. “Things took a turn for the better when I was thirteen. A fine, rich gentleman, visiting Venezuelan plantations noticed me, and it was he who essentially purchased me. He clothed me in the finest French linens and laces, placed me at his table and fed me exotic delicacies, and he educated me at the best institutions. Yes, he took my virginity, but my innocence was already lost. At least he had the decency to marry me.”

Neither spoke for a moment.

“And Tomas?” he asked.

“He acquired Tomas three years earlier, bestowing upon him many of the same privileges.”

“You make your husband out to be quite the philanthropist.”

She laughed. “Oh yes, he loved to conceal his shrewdness behind humanitarian deeds—that was the guise for luring his investors. That and his charisma—why, even you succumbed to it—to the gold, to the esteem.”

The Captain could not refute her words.

She continued, “As for me, I was merely an investment, as good as a title deed to my inheritance, once the Federalists took control again. A stock in commodities. With his beautiful wife at his right hand and imposing, fiercely loyal Tomas at his left, who would contend with him?”

“Did you love him?”

“I suppose I loved him as much as he did me.”

“He didn’t love you—he used you.”

“And there you have it, William. Now can you see?” she glanced at him. “I am left pondering what a person is willing to trade for security—no matter if that security is in the form of esteem, a home, gold, or…” she looked directly at the Captain, waiting for their eyes to meet, “…or love.”

While I'm Waiting...

I thought I’d post three samples of Story for a Shipwright. Three samples, because (as a handful of you already know), there are primarily three voices to this story. Samuel’s, Marlena the Storyteller, and Marlena. For those who haven’t read any of my ‘literary’ work, and may be a little interested, I shall post one excerpt for the next three days.The trick of it is not giving away the storyline.

The following excerpt is Samuel's. He's a 32 year-old boatwright, struggling with family responsibilities:

That evening, quite a few guests socialized at the house, so I grabbed a quick sandwich and ate it out behind the boatshed by the old marine railway. We called it the ‘working’ side of the yard, where we hid away the Travelift and wintering boats so as not to ‘clutter up’ the view from the bed-and-breakfast. Its seclusion offered the illusion of privacy, a good place for quiet conversation, or silent meditation. We also yanked out the ‘moaning chair’ beside the back door, when some project had gone to crap—when I’d measured three times and it was still too short. Sometimes Derek and I’d hang out there when guests overran the house. Back in high school, we used to light up a joint every now and then and felt as if we could get away with anything when out of my mother’s sight. Tonight, I just wanted some solitude.

The summer solstice had approached, so it stayed light until around nine o’clock. A little later than that, Billy appeared with a six-pack. I was sure he intended the gesture to soften me up, and I had to admit, it did slightly temper my dread. We each drank our first beer in silence and I waited to see if the next four were mine. When he reached for his second and took a long gulp, I joined him and could feel the alcohol diluting my resentment. He merely stared off and seemed to have no agenda—not that I believed it for a minute, but at least he deferred the pace to me. I took another swig. “How are you enjoying your visit?”

“Good.”

Beside us, fallen over on its side and half-buried in weeds, a dilapidated pram blistered and splintered, long relegated to the worthless, like old anchors, buoys, and decaying lobster traps, now as much a part of the landscape as the boulder into which it was disintegrating.

Tipping my beer toward it, I directed Billy’s attention. “You remember that summer, when I was nine, when Dad helped us build that?”

“Yeah,” he said, pensively, “I remember…but it was Buck who helped us build it.”

“No, man, I distinctly remember Dad—he had on that red hat and a plaid shirt.”

“Didn’t say he wasn’t there…he was. Except, he was passed out in the corner. Remember? Buck was the one who taught us how to use the drawknife…’cause Dad cut himself and had to sit down.”

I vaguely recalled it…remembered how Dad didn’t get up from that chair for the rest of the day. Billy didn’t say anything more about it, only that it was Buck who’d taught us how to build a pram.

There's a BIG Difference

I can’t help but ponder the similarities and differences between sharing artistic and literary endeavors with others.

Here’s what I’m thinking about:

See this painting? What do you think of it? Do you like it? Of course, that all has to do with perspective. If you were my mother, or even a close friend, it wouldn’t matter if it were stick figures, you’d think it was wonderful. That’s like sharing our literary efforts with family and friends, our alpha-readers. They make us feel good and provide the needed reinforcement that moves us forward as writers.

An avid appreciator of art will come along and recognize that the medium is watercolor; they’ll observe that it’s not typical of the ‘genre,' but it seems to work. They may even notice the little bit of reflected backlight on the bottom side of the egg, and say ‘cool.’ But they are just as likely to say, 'what’s left to the imagination?' 'The composition is good, but it feels stagnant'. They are our beta-reader who may not be writers themselves, but know what they like and why they like it.

At some point, a fellow artist with a discriminating eye will come along. They may recognize all the above, but they may also notice the ridge of the copper kettle, how it trails off in distortion just above the spout, and think—what went wrong there? Or how the folds of fabric are overworked and muddy. They may object to the incongruities of the background and foreground. Thus the fellow-writer beta-reader.

Those are the similarities; now the differences, and in my opinion, they’re are huge.

• The painting is finished and I’m never going to go back and change any of it. No revising.

• And here’s a real biggy: How long did it take you to make a decision about the painting? Maybe 2 seconds? If you have a discriminating eye, maybe, oh, say 5-10 seconds—okay, I’ll give you 30. Less than one minute to decide if, in your opinion, it’s any good or if you'd hang it on your wall.

How long did it take your beta-readers to make a determination on your literary work? Especially if it’s a novel? Hours and hours. Not to mention the mental expenditure. We are asking them to trust us for a long ride that may or may not be to their liking.

And here’s a final difference

• What does this painting reveal about the artist? She has an eye for detail. She may have some control issues. Perhaps she likes domesticity and old stuff. Maybe she’s studied art—maybe she’s only read how-to books on painting. What else does it truly reveal?

Now think about how much of yourself you reveal when you write. Ever feel naked? I know I do.

Just sent my manuscript to a reader I don’t know, for technical support, but when he’s done, he's going to know a whole lot more about me than I ever will about him.
Feeling a little naked today…

Writers Lurking in The Bilge

When I stumbled down into The Bilge, to ask my Question for a Work of Fiction, I had only meager hopes of acknowledgement. After my eyes quit burning and adjusted to the dark, and my olfactory senses deadened, I found that not only had my boat question been answered, but I came across something I had not anticipated.

Writers.

They don’t advertise themselves as such, but under the premise of ‘takes one to know one’, they’re not hard to detect. I quoted TerryLL aka Terry Lavallee a few posts back, and you tell me if this doesn’t sound like what you’ve read on writers’ forums and blogs:

“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.”

Although his profile reveals only that he is in Textile Equipment Manufacture, I had a strong hunch he might be holding back. When I posted a quick excerpt from my novel (a sailing race), he responded this way:

“Authenticity is important in a work of fiction, as I've mentioned before, so you should strive to be factually accurate. But there comes a point, when one small detail is heaped upon a vast pile of other small details, that a narrative begins to sound somewhat like a documentary.

One of the most important vehicles to carry your narrative along, and to make your tale tangible and personal, is the imagination of the reader. If you leave no room for imagination, by supplying every last minute detail, the reader is often left on the sidelines, an observer rather than a participant.

Where is the sound of the sails flapping, the whistle of the wind through the stays, the cold spray on the face, the smell of the sea, the thump of the waves against the hull? You need only hint at the visceral, and then let the readers conjure up for themselves those sounds and aromas. When the reader can imagine that cold spray on the face, and hear the whine of the wind, then you have succeeded in drawing the reader into your tale.
BTW, lovely blog.” (oh, I meant to edit-out that last bit)

Now, you tell me—does that sound writerly to you? Inquiring aspiring novelist that I am, I had to ask. You guess right! He has a WIP, a who-done-it set in Seattle, and he’s 80K words into it.

Here’s another:

In my Moaning Chair post, I provided a link to Norm Bernstein’s eloquent description (one I found by Googling “moaning chair”). Come to find out, he is a prolific poster down in The Bilge. In fact, back in early 2001, he came up with a plot for a novel about a terrorist cell in the US, and wrote the novel, his first. He was in the process of shopping it to literary agents, when 9/11 happened… and the similarities of his plot line, and actual events, rendered his novel probably un-sellable.

A good time for the Moaning Chair.

These are just two of the aspiring novelists I came across in my short time down in The Bilge. Many more writers co-exist down there—both published and unpublished. Even those without aspirations of becoming novelists often produce posts that are a delight to read (yes Mr. Left, I'm including you in the mix).

In your travels, have you come across writers in unsuspected places?

Honest Scrap Award

My fellow blogger Laura Martone must think I’ve recovered sufficiently from my award-winning-recalcitrance, because she has graciously extended this award to me, (at great risk to herself).

Due to the nature of this award—and her unflappable optimism—I accept it in all humility. I honestly don’t deserve it—if I do, it's to a fault. Thanks for your confidence in my rehabilitative capacity, Laura. :)

Even more shocking, I shall comply with its rules, which are stated herein:

• Post award on Blog
• Link to the giver of said award
• Award five other bloggers
• Cite 5 personal tidbits about myself

Okay, I’m passing the award onto 5 others known for their honest blogs. I hereby absolve all of those previously awarded (and those not) of following the above cited rules:*

• Bane of Anubis at Bane’s Blogging Blues
• Simon C. Larter of Constant Revision
• Rick Daley of My Daley Rant
• Scott Daniel of 275 Words
• Lady Glamis of The Innocent Flower

Here are 5 things probably none of you know about me:

1. I have a cat named X for eXpendable.

2. I went to parochial school for grades 1-8. They insisted on calling me by my first name, Janice, despite the fact that I was known as Bridget at home. I had 2 identities. Demure, timid Janice, and bubbly, talkative Bridget. They exist side-by-side to this day, but for the record—I do not respond to Janice, so don't even try. (If you went to parochial school, you understand.)

3. We drive probably the only Saab in the state of Michigan. It has 300,000 miles. Every year, we wonder if it will last the winter. It. just. won’t. die.

4. I attended the Fashion Institute of Technology, in Manhattan for one semester. That’s all it took.

5. When I was a kid, my siblings and I had clam opening/slurping contests.

*Just the same, I would so like to know 5 personal tidbits about you all, and rest assured, the bloggy police have yet to catch up with me.

The 'Moaning Chair'

I just learned a new word over at The Bilge—it’s  not just a nautical word, but also a concept:

The ‘Moaning Chair.’
I know, that's 2 words (unless you include 'the', then it's 3).

Without getting all technical on you, here’s how Mr. Left summed it up for me:

“The origins of the "Moaning chair" is the need to sit down and hold your head from exploding after you spent a day and a half doing something completely bass ackwards. Or completely undoing in 30 seconds that it took you a week to do. The moaning chair often has a cooler of beer and a bottle of rum next to it.”
Here's another great description, by Norm Bernstein.

It occurs to me that not only do boat builders need a moaning chair, but so do we as writers, especially those of us who are in the middle of the learning curve. It’s for those times when we learn a new rule, especially something like ‘don’t use Past Participle Phrases.’ Then we realize (after we do the research so we can figure out what the heck the term even means), that our manuscript is loaded with them. Now we’re paranoid about adding ‘ing’ to any word.

Or when we’ve overextended ourselves on word count—we wrote a 150K YA novel without bothering to find out that 70-80K is the outside limit. Time to kill our little darlings.

And then we start second guessing our entire premise (or a good chunk of it), our characters’ motivations, our writing skills and true potential (or lack thereof).
Oh, what’s the use?...

And I won’t even talk about when it’s querying time and all we get is rejection after rejection, and it occurs to us that it could have something to do with the fact that our ‘Women’s Fiction’ is actually Commercial/General/Literary Fiction, and we just blew our chance with a bunch of agents. (I mean really, who ever heard of Women’s Fiction narrated in first person by a guy?! [I know, I know, don’t rub it in].) Surely, it was that and not all those Past Participle Phrases…
Oh, right, that’s only happened to me…

Probably a good time to pull out the moaning chair, cry our eyes out, then take a deep breath and consider all our options (likely, with the help of that beer or rum). I think every writer’s/critique group should have a moaning chair over in the corner so that when we make stupid mistakes, we can go sit in it and think about what we’ve done.

Yes, the moaning chair is there for pitying ourselves, but it’s also there so we can rest a bit, regroup and clarify out thoughts—it’s where we decide there is a solution, where our writing buddies come over and pull us up (or share that beer), and then we get back to work.

When’s the last time you needed a ‘moaning chair?’

'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.

What I'm Debating

Only a few days left—then I have to decide, one way or the other. I’ve written a few short stories in the past—that is to say, I started a few, but never finished them. It seems strange to me that the idea of writing a novel felt more doable than taking on a short story.

So much riding on so few words. One shot at getting it right.

I suppose I could research ‘How to Write a Short Story,’ the way I researched writing a novel (after the fact, of course), but I have the feeling that would be just as overwhelming.

Then I read a quick post by Scott G.F.Bailey, over at the Literary Lab (sponsor of Contest). He simply said, “Something has to change in a story. You don't need to supply all the formal elements of exposition, rising conflict, inciting incident and reaction, climax and the like, but something has to change or happen or you don't have a story. If there is no event in your story, you likely have a non-story. At least that's my take on it. My minimum standards for a story are that you must have the following elements: 1. An actor 2. An action.”

Sooo, if I just operate on that premise, I won't have to do gobs of research. I’ll just write it. What do I have to loose, right?

Nothing…except that there has also been a lot of talk over there at the Lab about honesty in writing, (in fact, Lady Glamis plans to do another post on that this Thursday), and I realized that my short stories (yes I have 2 candidates) make my stomach do flip-flops when I think of anyone reading them. Oh the dilemma—do I put myself out there? Well, realistically, no one but the Literary Lab Trio will read either of them, so I’ll be safe—relatively. But what if...OOooohhh there goes my stomach again…

Of course, this post is all about talking myself into doing it.
Are there any of you other brave souls who plan to, or have submitted a short to the Genre Wars?

How I Got Here

When I first started researching ‘how to get published’, I came across something I had never seen before. The Blog. I did not know what a ‘blog’ was, I only knew that reading blogs about writing made me realize I was a complete amateur and I could never absorb all that overwhelming information. It was months before I had the courage to look at another Website or blog on the art of writing.

It was while familiarizing myself with QueryTracker.net, and I subscribed to their newsletter, that I ran into The Blog again. Hmm, maybe the Blog is friendly after all, I thought. Why not give it another go?

I clicked on a few of the links in the newsletter—hmm informative—intriguing…
I found helpful and manageable suggestions. Too late to apply it to my entry for Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award submission, but that’s okay.

Then, as I skipped from link to link, I had a breakthrough—I read a post on The Innocent Flower directing me to the Public Query Slushpile. Since I hoped to query over the summer, I bookmarked it.

I went back to the Public Query Slushpile to figure out how it worked. I clicked on ‘Submit Queries Here’, which kept bringing me to the comment section. I had no comprehension of what commenting entailed, and it’s embarrassing to admit how many times I hit that, hoping for a different page to come up. That’s when I finally understood that I needed a Google account and a profile. (Writing the profile was a whole ‘nother obstacle.) It took weeks to get up the nerve, but I submitted my query for review. I received very helpful and supportive feedback, and Rick Daley even said something nice about the pages I submitted (even though I turned out to be a compilsive revisionist). Just what a neo-blogger/writer needs to muster courage.

I knew that when it came to my writing, I wanted—needed—help. I live in a rural area and love being at home, so joining a writers group seemed unlikely. Then I bumped into my pal Laura Martone, a fellow aspiring novelist willing to exchange critiques. I also started following Scott’s blog because, I thought, wow, this guy is going to write a novel over the course of a year, and he’s going to do it right here so I can watch. In fact, I could—get this—follow his blog so I know when he posts something new. Wow! What a concept!

I guess the rest is history. Now the hard part is coming up with things to post on my own blog. I’m just so curious. How and when did you come across the Blogshere?

Home at Last!

After 5 weeks of a location-induced blogging reprieve, I’m back from by big trip out East. I checked my Google reader and have nearly 600 unread posts! It’ll take me a month just to catch up.

Although I suffered limited internet access, I was still able to correspond with my beta-readers, and can’t tell you how much I looked forward to getting their chapters. Not only that, I received incredibly helpful feedback on my work. Thank you Scott, Susan, Bryan, and Laura.

I also want to acknowledge Lady Glamis’ post, Going Dark, over at the Innocent Flower. Michelle, I’ll miss your frequent presence on so many blogs, but I respect, no, admire your decision. I have confidence that you’ve got your priorities straight, and you’ll reap the benefits and blessing—not only in your personal life, but also in your writing.

Time to unpack...and then read, read, read...

Where I Am

I’m writing this post from atop Straw Hill, in New Hampshire, and this is ‘my’ little office. I have been here for a day short of two weeks—two weeks without blogging. Okay, there was that one afternoon when I commented on Davin Malasarn's post over at the Literary Lab, but it was no small feat! I traveled at great length to the Unity Library (combining the outing with a trip to the dump—sorry, the recycling center), to use the public computer with satellite internet access. Rain fade made it little faster than dial-up, but at least I could acknowledge Davin’s helpful answer to my question on tense—one of my issues in Story for a Shipwright.

While I miss reading my favorite blogs, and I miss commenting, the seclusion here on ‘The Hill’ has also been very refreshing. With few obligations, I’ve had concentrated time for revisions, in a pastoral environment that rivals a private rehab center and spa combined.

Imagine long walks down the stonewall lined road, gold and crimson set ablaze by shafts of early morning sun. Breathe in the crisp aroma of decaying foliage while rustling through fallen leaves.

That was last week; now imagine a constant barrage of siblings and old friends, trying to remember just how long it’s been since I’ve seen any of them. I have been visiting without letup for days. Consequently, I have so little creative juice running at this point that I can barely write this blog. I am, in fact putting forth the effort, because in ten minutes, we’ll be heading off to the Manchester area, to my sister’s, who has—imagine this—high speed internet, where I can upload this post; if only I can sneak away from siblings I haven’t seen in I can’t say how long.

What Writing Has Done to Me

I sit, feeling like one of those portraits with moveable eyes, watching, undetected. Some of the faces are different this morning. “You should have heard the snoring last night,” one pretty young woman says; I can’t imagine she’s speaking to me; after all, I’m invisible. I glance at her, just to make sure. She’s looking at the white-haired woman beside me, who responds, gesturing toward the row of recliners. “Yes, it was an orchestra of snorts, wheezing and growls, in three-part harmony.” Without a sound or change of expression, I laugh. They are joking in the midst of horror, in the midst of their lives suddenly blown apart. “How’s your husband this morning?” the older woman asks. “The helmet that saved his life caused a contusion at the base of his skull. They’re putting a shunt in—it’s a good thing.”

All at once, my diaphragm is in my throat and I’m breathing deep, allaying the burning sensation flaring through my sinuses. My vision blurs, and then the sensation passes. In comes in waves like that, has been for the better part of a week as I daily observe a new set of strangers reenacting the horror.

At the same time, a member of someone’s family embraces a newcomer, there in the hallway. I stare through a window as they cling to each other and begin to sob. I’m viewing tragedy on a split screen. My eyes are upon them as I eavesdrop on the impassive receptionist who answers a teenage boy. I switch to watching them as he repeatedly rakes fingers through his hair, nodding continuously. He’s breathing rapidly—I wonder if he’ll hyperventilate.

That sensation returns; I have scrutinized them long enough.

Loud accusations break the din, as a young man—he’s dressed like a gangster—jabs his finger at a mousey girl with an infant on her hip. I hope it’s her brother and not the child’s father. I wonder if the scene will escalate, and they’ll have to call security, like they did several nights ago. I don’t watch for long—I don’t want to see him strike her. All of this is bad enough, but I don’t want to see the violence on top of it.

I fiddle with the purse in my lap and close my eyes, but only for a moment. I can’t help but put a face to the new whisperer. First, I see balloon-like booties on his feet; he’s dressed in green with a surgical mask hanging like a bib. I watch their feet as he escorts the pretty young woman into a tiny room behind me; on their way, I see her hands tremble.

This is indeed, some bizarre variation on voyeurism.

I decide at this moment, that I don’t like tension. I don’t like drama. I don’t like conflict. I don’t like the realization that when I write, I will tap into these awful, private moments, into the nausea, at some strangers’ expense. This is what writing has done to me.

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.

On The Other Hand...

Okay! It is true that I do tend to rant, and I have been told that sometimes I’m too honest. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard TMI, Bridget; TMI. (Ironic for a private person, eh?)
When given sufficient time to analyze and weigh all things against reason and conventionality, I am capable of acquiescing. Therefore, I am accepting a roundabout award from Strange Fiction, and re-thanking Lazy Writer for the same award last week.

In view of the aforesaid, I shall, with all humility and sincerity, now nominate the following for the Splish Slash Award:

Lazy Writer
Strange Fiction
Laura Martone :)*
Lady Glamis
Fiction Groupie
Weronika Janczuk
THL
The Literary Lab**

Do what you wish with the award!

*While I'm at recanting: I shall now use emoticons only when commenting at Laura Martone, so that she knows when I'm teasing. ;)
**I notice, and I find it oddly heartening that the latter seems not to post awards that I’m certain they must have received.

Will Someone Please Create a Deviance Award!

Okay, I’m about to reveal just how hard it is for me to follow ‘rules’, especially award rules…

I received this commenting award a week ago, and was re-awarded by one of my awardees, Laura Martone—that means I have to nominate another 5 great commenters. So, I’m breaking 4 rules here by nominating 1 this time around. It goes to Scott, who from the time I posted this blog has offered helpful critique on my writing. He has been incrementally posting his WIP, Last Full Measure of Devotion, on 275 Words, One man, One Year, One Novel. Curious about how other writers proceed, I started following his blog from the start, and it has helped me develop a more discerning literary eye, and connected me with a writer who has an acute technical eye. He is gracious and cordial, always appreciative. So, Scott, this award is inevitable…do with it what you wish, just know that if you accept it, you have to give it to 5 others!

Next, Susan Mills, aka Lazy Writer, just nominated me for this 'Splish Splash' award, for my dazzling (not my word) blog. I accepted it with these self-indulgent words: “Thanks Susan…I guess I never associated the word ‘dazzling’ with my blog. Mostly I think of it as utterly self-indulgent (okay, well, there was that one post on embedding hyperlinks, but I think I was only patting myself on the back—again, self-indulgent. I think I should start a self-indulgent award…[I digress; again, very self-indulgent]) Anyway, thanks for the nice award.”

My obligation is to nominate 8 others with this award.

I’m in a quandary…8 others? Eight?
I follow some really interesting and informative, even entertaining blogs; but Dazzling? Surely, I’m just being too literal here, but words mean things. Do blogs actually dazzle? Do they overpower the vision of by intense light? Hmmm…maybe it fits in with definition 2. to astonish with delight. Or 3. to shine brilliantly. Or maybe 4. to excite admiration by brilliance…

Some of the blogs I follow are really, really good—maybe 1 or 2 are even inspiring, but then what is that saying about the other blogs if I don’t fulfill the whole number? If I do fulfill the 8 for the sake of following rules, aren't I being a wee bit disingenous? Besides that, I feel like I keep awarding the same bloggers over and over (not that I’ve received that many awards, and this will probably put the kibosh to any future awards).

And here's another thing: It just seems to me that as writers, especially ones who are supposed to veer away from excessive modifiers and melodrama…Well, do I have to say more?

I think I do.

I think whoever thought up these awards, and those who pass them on with such generosity are far better individuals than I am. I will accept the award in the kind and genuine spirit it was offered, because—as #3 in a family of 7 children—I am just so happy to be acknowledged by anyone.

Am I the only one who feels utterly overwhelmed by awards and completely inept when it comes to obligatory follow through?
Maybe I just need an attitude adjustment.

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.

Commenting Award!

I just received this Super Comments Award from Strange Fiction, over at Ranch Girl Ramblings.

Here’s the thing of it; I don’t have much in the way of helpful insights to offer here on my blog (trying to do better with that), but I do read a number of blogs and generally read every one of their comments. Many of them are thought provoking.

It took me a long time to muster up courage to leave comments, and I will admit that I give each one more than cursory thought before I post it.

The bloggers I’m awarding are ones who have made me feel comfortable. As a general rule, they graciously acknowledge each comment left on their posts. They even comment here at times (some with amazing consistency). I do not take for granted the time spent making your followers and commenters feel welcome.
Not to mention the fact that you stop by and baffle the echos here on my blog.

Laura Martone, Laura’s Simple Pleasures
Susan Mills, A Walk in My Shoes
Lady Glamis, The Innocent Flower
Bryan Russell, The Alchemy of Writing
Weronika Janczuk, * Home Weronika Janczuk

The only requirement for claiming your award, is pass it on to 5 other worthy commenters!

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.

Embedding Hyperlinks in Comments, for Dummies

I just figured out something very new and exciting, well, exciting for me in my stimuli deficient world.

I have seen a number of bloggers add a hyperlink in their comments, and I think, how cool is that. Problem is, I don’t know all the HTML lingo, but I had a hunch that comments are translated from that code—they just have that look about them. That is surprisingly intuitive for me.
So, on that premise, I decided to experiment…
I tried it out in a comment on my Unsupervised and at Large blog, and it worked

This is how I did it:
I type out my comment in MS Word (I always do this anyway—it often catches my spelling errors and allows me to use my ever so beloved em dashes). This is also where I embed a hyperlink, using the ‘Insert’ menu, hyperlink; or right click on the highlighted word/words and choose hyperlink from the popup menu. It shows up with the nice blue line now, so I know I’ve succeeded.

Next, I go to my Blog Dashboard—New Post. I copy and past my comment from my Word doc. in the Compose window. I switch to the Edit HTML window.

Next, highlight and copy all that funny looking text, then, finally, paste it in the comment box of your choosing.

And, you can apply italics and bold lettering!

I know this is the Dummy’s way of doing it, but what can I say?

An Award

Oh, my, I’m feeling very queasy.
Weronika, this is such a nice gesture…what was it my mother was always telling me..oh yes, “Just say thank you when someone offers a compliment—don’t try to convince them why you’re a big ninny and don’t deserve it.”
Soooo…Thank you.

The rules are as follows:
1. Thank the person who nominated you for this award. Did that…
2. Copy the logo and place it on your blog. Okay, here it is...

3. Link to the person who nominated you for this award. I think that worked…

4. Name 7 things about yourself that people might find interesting. Ugh…

5. Nominate 7 Kreativ Bloggers. This is really hard because I don’t follow that many blogs.

6. Post links to the 7 blogs you nominate. Okay...

7. Leave a comment on each of the blogs letting them know they have been nominated. Whew, Done...

Here they are: well, 4 of them...
Laura's Simple Pleasures
A Walk In My Shoes (I know she’s already got one)
Weronika's Novel-in-Progress (I know this is re-gifting, and I hereby absolve you of any obligations stated herein.)
Elana Johnson, Author (I don't think she has this one…)

I know this is really cheating, but if I add any others, it would be disingenuous. These are the ones I have been following for a while; I enjoy their content and actually leave comments when I feel moved. I’m sure that in time, I will come to enjoy some of my recently added blogs, but I don’t want to come off sounding obsequious—so for now, I shall refrain.

Having said that, this is one blog I’m not nominating (‘cause he seems shy to me) but I’d like to drive some traffic his way: 275 Words

I'd nominate Rick Daley, but honestly, can you see this award on his blog?

I hope that taking liberties here doesn’t offend anyone…

Seven things about me…
I don’t have a lot on my profile, because I’m kind of a private person—and, it’s true, I hate the thought of boring people.

Nevertheless, I shall be daring:

1) This one’s easy, because there’s a link on my blog—I’m a watercolorist.
2) This one’s also easy because there’s an additional link on my blog—I’m a watercolorist who hasn’t finished a painting in over a year.
3) I’m relatively new to blogging. The first time I entered a comment on some forum, (back in March) I freaked out and couldn’t sleep until I deleted pretty much everything in my profile.
4) When people meet me for the first time, they think I’m gregarious and funny. They don’t realize that I simply get over-stimulated in social situations and then need a great big nap afterward.
5) My husband and I have moved quite a number of times. People think we have wanderlust or that we’re running away from something. The truth is, we’ve simply been left unsupervised for too long.
6) I had a nightmare once, where ‘They’ told my husband and I, “We’re sorry…It’s been brought to our attention that you have exceeded the ‘Lifetime Quota for Marital Bliss’. The two of you must separate immediately!” NOOOooooo!!!!
7) I used up all my best material writing this list.

Group Therapy Gone Wrong

Okay, I’m cheating here…I just posted this as a comment on Lazy Writer’s Blog, but this scenario has been jarring me for a while. I’m sure I can’t be the only writer with characters that gang up on them—like in a group therapy session out of control…

You know, like, Leila says, “It’s all about me!”
Kyle rebuts, “Hey, girl, you’re not the only one with a dysfunctional family.”
“Oh, yeah?” Ian interrupts, “Quit being whiny brats, you don’t know conflict till you’re a 27-year-old-coach in love with a student.”
“What’s the big deal,” old Artie interjects, “at least you’re not getting killed off in a month…”
“Would you all just shut up and wait your turn,” Myles shouts, “she’ll get around to resolving all your piddley issues if you just give her a little peace and quiet!”
“Thank you,” I say to Mr. Myles. I know I’m supposed to be the one in control, but ever since he showed up, I seem to have no voice of my own.

I love Mr. Myles…

'Lars and the Real Girl'—A Study in Character Development.

Last week my sister recommended Lars and the Real Girl, knowing I have a predilection for movies that intertwine unconventional relationships with strands of mental illness. (I’m sure that says far more about me than you need to know, but I love movies like Harold & Maude, Shine, Benny & Joon—stuff like that.) I think this may be one of my new, all-time favorites (it didn’t hurt that it featured music by Talking Heads).

Here’s the gist: Socially awkward Lars lives in a garage apartment beside the house where his brother and his sister-in-law live. It becomes evident that he has gone fully delusional when he accepts their dinner invitation, and arrives with his ‘date’, Bianca—she is a life-like version of an ‘inflate-a-date’ doll. The entire town becomes involved in an effort to help Lars work through his delusions.

What really struck me was Bianca’s effective character development, facilitated by Ryan Gosling, Emily Mortimer and Paul Schneider’s great acting.

Amazingly, with the help of Lars, his family and the townsfolk, Bianca takes on a whole personality and life by means of their ‘interactions’ with her. In the end, I just couldn’t believe that I was crying over a stupid manikin! Honestly, if you want your perceptions of character development challenged, watch this movie!

Director Craig Gillespie defines Bianca, solely by the use of supporting characters. That got me thinking about my own characters; about how much more efficiently I can reveal them by their interactions with each other as opposed to narration and rumination.

Now, as I rewrite Girl Running, I’m looking for all those places where I can breathe more life into my ‘imaginary friends’.