...until I return from the land of the technologically deprived and environmentally-imposed blogging hiatus. Yes, you've seen this picture before—it's where I'll spend whatever quiet time I can steal away from visiting with family and friends in New Hampshire.
I have been making some progress on the header artwork, and I hope to work on it a little while I'm gone, but that remains to be seen...
After looking at this header on my blog for well over a year (has it been that long?), I've decided that it's pretty much the most boring header I have ever seen. At the time I designed it, I suppose I thought it looked classic—sort of simple and understated, (like me). Now it just looks uninteresting and stupid. I don't think I like the title either. The J.B.Chicoine seems okay to me (even though probably none of you know how it's pronounced*), but I don't know about the rest of it...
So, anyway, I've decided to employ my artistic powers and design a new, bookish header, and I'm doing it over at my Unsupervised & at Large art blog...
*Currently, we pronounce it She-kwan'—with more of a silent 'n' at the end. Kinda French sounding, which is what it is. But when we used to pronounce it She' kwin... It's a long story...
Okay, this isn't just laziness—it's a matter of grammar that I can't seem to get a solid answer on. When referring to a style of music—blues to be specific—or is that Blues (could be jazz for that matter), is the 'B' capitalized, as in a proper noun?
As in:
"She would have paid more attention to the music, but blues always seemed somewhere in the background, such a familiar part of the noise in her head, that she paid it no mind."
Or is it a matter of whether it's preceded by a definite article? 'the Blues' or simply, blues in general?
Well, I’ve been busy putting together something for Notes From Underground, way ahead of time, which is a little unlike me. Actually, I’m not certain that it’s like or unlike me, seeing as I’ve never had to work under a writing deadline. I suppose that if I had to come up with something from scratch, it might feel entirely different.
At any rate, I’ve written a short story based upon a scene from an earlier unpublished novel of mine—that is, from a sequel to my second novel.* When I wrote Girl Running, and then, Portrait of a Protégé, I had absolutely no idea about writing rules and publishing. I only had a high school-level grasp of English—and the benefit of parents who had a fair handle on English grammar. That’s it. I couldn’t even claim to be an avid reader** Oh, and I had a huge imagination!
After several years of mulling over a particular scenario, and coming up with character backstory, I decided to wing it and simply get the story out of my head and into MS Word. I wrote it for my husband and I had a blast doing it! Impressing Todd was my only desire. I even printed and bound it for him—all 150,703 words!*** He’s the one who planted the idea of publishing, so I will blame all my angst, henceforth, on him.
It wasn’t until I began writing Story for a Shipwright that I investigated what the industry considers ‘good writing.’ I jumped through all the hoops. I read the agents' blogs, got beta readers and revised and revised and revised. I like the story—no, I love the story—I think it is sound and I will publish one way or the other. But I wonder if, in all the advice and critiques and revisions, I have somehow homogenized it...like chrome polished down to pot-metal.
So, here I am, between stories, and it’s my first love that still nags me. Rewriting just one scene, utilizing what I've learned, and then writing it with the liberty of doing it how I want has made me seriously reconsider Leila, a girl raised by a couple of mixed up guys—one black, one white—who just wanted to be Blues musicians and had no business raising a child on the road. I think her story as an adolescent on her own, breaking into womanhood, may be worth a complete rewrite—at least it’s a notion I’m toying with…
* I hesitate to claim my very first completed novel of 23 years ago—Relative Survival—but it qualifies in length.
** Yes, I know that’s blasphemy, but if I started reading anything, I did not have the self-discipline to put it down until it was done, and that can really mess up one's life--especially when one has a family. Borderline OCD? *** the sequel came in at only 123,753 words
Well, now I’ve gone and done it, I entered a contest—which goes directly against what I’ve learned about my non-competitive temperament—and have been selected for the Notes From Underground anthology over at The Literary Lab. That actually happened last week, but I held off posting this in case there was some sort of a mix-up—if there was, I haven’t been notified, so I suppose it’s safe to go ahead.* Mostly, I’m posting this because I didn’t want them to think I’m not immensely grateful, so I thought it proper protocol to publicly say, Thanks Lit Lab! And congratulations to the other 25 brave writers.
Most of you who stop in here know about the anthology—that a shot at being picked required an anonymous submission of 5 pages of literally anything creative explaining why they should give me 10 whole pages in Notes From Underground, writing anything I want! Yes, it’s experimental and feels very risky. Perhaps they’re as nervous as me…
So, I’ve been messing around with some scenes from one of my earlier, unpublished novels, Portrait of a Protégé. Somehow, the familiarity of a beloved piece makes it feel less daunting. Besides, I love editing and the challenge of taking a scene and making it a stand-alone short story. Maybe, if I don’t go overboard with words, I’ll have enough room for some black and white artwork…anyway, I have until December 15th to put it all together.
*I don't mean to imply any sort of incompetence on the part of The Lit Lab, but I'm just so accustomed to rejection these days that I had a hard time believing it wasn't some sort of mistake...
...exept for the fact that this is what I've been up to while I wait for a response on my 5th request for my full manuscript of Story for a Shipwright. Besides, I'm entitled to crossblog when I feel like it. At any rate, I updated my watercolor Website with all the projects I've completed on my Unsupervised & at Large blog.
Anyway, in case you feel like it, here’s the link to JBChicoine.com.
Shriveled peas roll from my plate, into the pail where several crusts from morning toast await. Three escape into the sink and I chase them around the basin like piglets in a pen. I have trouble locating them as a shard of light pierces the tattered curtain, yet I can feel them, cornered. My fingers are still nimble enough to pinch and so they join the others.
On my way out, I pass her chair, pushed snug against the table. I stroke its back the way I used to caress the handrail as I stepped onto the porch of her parents’ house, my stomach twisting and turning with new love. Her barn coat still hangs from the old iron hook like dainties slung over the shower rod. Although the sight of it burns my eyes each time I come in or go out, I would die but for the yearning.
Then, the screen door slams behind me, echoing off every corner of the barnyard. On cue, they call to me like eager hatchlings waiting for their share.
Hanging a load of whites should have been a safe task, in spite of the accumulated heap awaiting the first bit of sun I had seen in days. I counted off each clothespin as I clipped consecutive washcloths, end-to-end; eleven in all. And then dish towels; still stained but clean to me. Bath towels next, trying to keep them from wrapping around me as a stiff breeze took control of three corners. Next row: cotton panties and a series of socks; anklets first and then knee-hi’s, each beside its mate. Finally, one last peculiar wad of cloth.
Distracted by the swoop of a barn swallow, I followed its ascent to the telephone wire overhead, amused at how the string of them, perched evenly between posts, resembled my weatherworn clothespins. I smiled, glad that I remembered how, and reached for that last bit of laundry. I didn’t recognize the T-shirt until I shook it out.
Damp. Clean—no, sterile. Not a trace of the man who wore it, and would never wear it again. I had desecrated the last bit of him, bleached out his scent, traded his sweat—the odor of wood shavings and freshly cut grass—for the smell of sunshine and warm breezes and I could not catch my breath over what I had done.
(I asked my husband if he thought I should change this from first person to third so that readers wouldn't think he died or something, and he said, "Nah—leave it as it is. Third person would ruin the intensity, doncha think?")
Okay, so I’m sitting here at a little café, with my spinach salad and a chilled stout, when this woman at the checkered-cloth table beside me pulls out a sketch pad. Well, maybe she’s just going to look over some stuff she’s already drawn, but no—she rifles through her bag and proceeds to unfold and assemble, right in front of her, a tiny field set of Windsor Newton watercolors—and not one of those plasticy new sets (like mine), but one of the old, out-of-production leather encased arrangements, with well-used pigments.
Oh, yeah, she’s serious—so serious about it that she’s oblivious to my eyes boring through the side of her head, down her neck and bare arm. The brush seems to slide between her fingers as if she held the wing of a butterfly, not cramped and controlled, like some unwieldy timber, not the way I grip mine.
She hasn’t glanced beyond her table and paints-at-hand since she sat. I want her to look at me, so that I can acknowledge what she’s doing, but at the same time, I don’t want her to see—to detect my envy. Now, she’s sipping her water glass down to half-full. She wets her brush between her pursed lips, drawing those fine sable hairs to a point. I wait, watching, knowing what comes next. She stares ahead for a moment, then plunges her brush into her sweating glass. That’s right, she means business.
All at once, I’m overcome with self-consciousness for her. I look around at the peripheral tables, at the others patrons whose eyes dart from their lunch to her and back to their main concern. She appears unaware of any of us as she dabs her brush, loading it with cadmium red and then dispersing it—with four loose strokes, flower petals spring to life from the vase onto her paper…
I thought I should probably post something so the blogosphere wouldn’t think I’ve abandoned ship. First, a few excuses and a brief update: I haven’t been ignoring your blogs, but after 2 three-week-long trips to NH (since my last post) and the current craziness of putting our house on the market, I’m a little distracted.
As far as Story for a Shipwright goes—I’ve had 2 requests for the full manuscript, and 2 subsequent declines. I’m just so tickled that someone found the premise interesting enough to ask for that much, but a little disappointed that I didn’t receive some sort of feedback with it…Oh well, that’s okay—we all know that’s the biz. So, rather than second-guess the entire project and assume it’s my writing that sucks, I’m getting ready to send out another round of queries.
I’ve also started a new WIP, but for now, all I have to post, literarily, is the result of a 7 minute prompt, provided by a fellow writer, (which I couldn’t post without turning into an hour-and-a-half revision).
The Prompt:
Evening sun reflecting off a ripe peach sitting on the porch rail.
(the picture probably gave it away)
It’s not as if I heard the porch boards creak or caught the fleeting shadow of a goldfinch darting from its nest in the corner lilac bush—it may have only been a flash of radiant hue from the setting sun that beckoned me. Whatever the impulse, it drew my attention from the single dish I had just set to drip-dry, and brought me to the front screen door, my damp hands patting my cotton skirt. I certainly didn’t expect to find anyone out there, nor anything for that matter. Why, scarcely anyone but the faceless mailman knew I had taken up residence in the secluded old farm house, with painted clapboards checked from the Southern heat.
I didn’t see it immediately. Not until I sat in my lone rocker did I discover it at eye level, within arm’s reach in front of me, on the railing. Ochre blazed against the viridian and burnt umber background, so perfect and ripe, absorbing and reflecting light as if the sun itself had studied that spot for an eternity before planting itself right there. Rather than scrutinize the bushes for a broken twig, or the dirt walkway for a footprint, I stared in astonishment for an eager moment.
Reaching for it with both hands, my fingertips met its downy texture. Fondling it, brushing it against my upper lip, I breathed in its summertime scent. In seconds, I pierced its skin sending a dribble down my chin, escaping from a smile I could not restrain. Abandoning my self-consciousness, I devoured the peach like an undisciplined child, and sucked any remaining flesh from the pit. The way I used my bare wrist for a napkin and smacked my lips would have earned the scorn of any mother.
At last, I held up the pit for inspection. Who had left such a delectable gift?
Perhaps the college student working a summer job at the paint store, who wouldn’t meet my eyes, but raised his feathered brow with intrigue when I objected to too much yellow: “No,” I had told him, “too apricot. More peach—a fleshier, more succulent tone.”
Or perhaps the old spinster lady with fingers bent at painful angles, tending her fruit stand, holding out the peach that would be past ripe by tomorrow, as I clutched a pint of dark, dew-laden cherries, while counting my very last pennies.
Maybe the John Deere-capped and pepper-chinned farmer on the road, whose mud-caked boots shuffled along, halfway between town and his truck, and declined a lift because, he said, “It’s a beautiful afternoon, and I ain’t as broke down as my ol’ Chevy yet! But you’re a peach for offering.”
Or, I hoped, the azure-eyed gentleman at Stan’s Art Supplies, with crisp white sleeves, twice folded, exposing thick forearms, who asked if I was interested in purchasing the Summer Peach watercolor. When I said, “No—I’m simply studying the technique,” he handed me an enrollment application for an upcoming workshop, which I filled out, even though I loathe classroom settings.
I then placed the naked pit back on the rail, wondering if I ought to plant it, or if it might sprout, right there, overnight, of its own volition.
Well, I’m headed off to the hills—to the land of the technologically deprived and environmentally-imposed blogging hiatus—for a few weeks. Happily, I will have plenty of time to work on a new project or two…in a pretty little office…
Well, in case anyone’s wondering—I didn’t make it through to the quarterfinalists of the ABNA. Disappointing, yes—but surprisingly, a relief. I won’t have a tense month, laboring over whether or not I made it through to the next round, worrying about a good or bad review from Publishers Weekly. One thing I’ve confirmed is that I do not have a temperament that fares well with competition.
Another thing the ABNA confirmed is that opinions are very subjective, on every level. A few of those who visit this blog have also read Story for a Shipwright—the entire thing. Therefore, I thought I’d go ahead and share the feedback I received from the two Amazon’s Vine Reviewers who read the first 5,000 words of my novel:
Feedback Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award Reviews
ABNA Expert Reviewer What is the strongest aspect of this excerpt? The knowledge of ship building and restoration, and the hints of nautical history, provide an interesting theme -- one that can appeal to both male and female readers. My favorite character in this excerpt is Buck; he is the one who seems most "real" at this point.
What aspect needs the most work? The main character, Sammy, seems very distant. He will be hard to get to know. I am having difficulty understanding his perspective -- he is alternately dismissive and intrigued.
What is your overall opinion of this excerpt? This excerpt is a good start, but I don't have a feel for where it might be going. So far there isn't a compelling "hook", or a strong connection to a character, to make me want more.
------------
ABNA Expert Reviewer What is the strongest aspect of this excerpt? The mystery that surrounds the characters - who is Marlena and why is she so odd. Why hasn't Sammy been on the sea? What is the relationship between Buck and Sammy? I also found the voice used to be authentic - Sammy has a certain gruffness that you would expect from a single man in rural Maine. The author seems to be true to the region and the people who live there.
What aspect needs the most work? A few passages seem to be over-written, such as, "As I approached, plodding through deep and unavoidable furrows of softening earth, she glanced up at me with delight" While the prose looks nice it just doesn't seem natural. Ultimately, to me, it serves as a distraction - I am not saying that it needs to be watered down to a 5th grade level, but could be a little less dramatic. Again, this is my opinion, but the heavy prose slows down the plot development.
What is your overall opinion of this excerpt? My criticism may seem harsh, but ultimately it is minor point. The author has done a great job at delivering an unique and original premise which is delivered in an authentic voice. The msytery surrounding each of the characters quickly captures the interest of the reader. I walk away being very impressed with, "Story for a Shipwright."
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?
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…
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?
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
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.
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…
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…
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
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 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)
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 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…
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.
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.
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.”
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.
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…
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?
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:*
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.
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?’
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 fictionthread 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?
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.
At any rate, I’ve written a short story based upon a scene from an earlier unpublished novel of mine—that is, from a sequel to my second novel.* When I wrote Girl Running, and then, Portrait of a Protégé, I had absolutely no idea about writing rules and publishing. I only had a high school-level grasp of English—and the benefit of parents who had a fair handle on English grammar. That’s it. I couldn’t even claim to be an avid reader** Oh, and I had a huge imagination!
...exept for the fact that this is what I've been up to while I wait for a response on my 5th request for my full manuscript of Story for a Shipwright. Besides, I'm entitled to crossblog when I feel like it. At any rate, I updated my watercolor Website with all the projects I've completed on my Unsupervised & at Large blog.
Hanging a load of whites should have been a safe task, in spite of the accumulated heap awaiting the first bit of sun I had seen in days. I counted off each clothespin as I clipped consecutive washcloths, end-to-end; eleven in all. And then dish towels; still stained but clean to me. Bath towels next, trying to keep them from wrapping around me as a stiff breeze took control of three corners. Next row: cotton panties and a series of socks; anklets first and then knee-hi’s, each beside its mate. Finally, one last peculiar wad of cloth.
So, this is what I came up with:
Which do you like better?
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.
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?
