My WiP is out for its first beta read with my old critique group friend, Florence. (A beta reader is a person, usually a friend or a critique group member, who is willing to read and critique your novel. You usually trade services with each other.)
I feel a little bit like I just sent my baby to her first day of kindergarten.
Antsy, antsy, antsy!
I'm ping-ponging between "She's going to love it," "No, she's going to hate it," and "It probably wasn't ready to be read! Ahhh!"
The thing about Florence, though, is that she's a plot genius. Believe me, I've read her novels and she has given me such good advice in the past. With my last book, she recommended that I cut out a certain character. I didn't want to part with him, though. I thought he brought out a soft, sweet side to my main character that other characters didn't. So, I left him in.
When I got a request for a full for that book, and then the subsequent rejection, the agent in question said she felt the plot was too convoluted and mentioned THAT CHARACTER in particular as a reason why she couldn't tell where the story was going.
Lesson learned.
So, this time I'm going to take Florence's advice very, very, very seriously. I'm glad she's reading it at this early stage, too, so hopefully I can fix some of those bigger plot problems before I leave for the SCBWI conference (one month away and counting!).
In the meantime, I'm not bored. I'm reading another writing friend's WiP and it's fun, fun, fun. Not to mention that it keeps my mind off mine (which is a very good thing).
How about you? Are you currently reading any friend's work? Developing anything new? Eyeballs deep in revisions? Staying busy?
Wednesday, 30 June 2010
Tuesday, 29 June 2010
A Story A Week: Escape
Pen came in from the barn for lunch. Today he had Wallace with him, even though I swear Wallace had been in and out the front door seven times in the last hour. I call it like it is -- lazy.
“Daisy’s out again,” I said.
Pen squinted at me like he didn’t speak English. “Again?”
“The gate’s broke wide open,” I said. “She went and scratched around in your sand pile afterwards. You didn’t notice?”
“Oh, sweet petunia,” Pen said, heading back out the door. “C’mon, Wallace.”
Wallace had just plunked down at the kitchen table with a cold beer. Sweat trailed from his temple. “Now?”
“Sure now,” Pen said. He was generally a patient man, but I could see Daisy was trying him. Last time she got out we got a visit from the sheriff 'cause she clawed around in Mrs. Crabapple’s front yard, nibbling her ribbon winning cyclamen and frightening her granddaughter. Or so she said. Nasty old lady.
“That darn bird,” Wallace said, and set down his beer can with a clunk. “Myrna, put that back in the fridge for me, will ya?”
“Only if you promise to catch Daisy before she makes mischief,” I said, fixing him with my stern look.
“S’not my fault she got out!” Wallace had a smart aleck way about him sometimes. I didn’t like it. Sometimes I was about ready to take his sorry butt across my knee, no matter how big he thought he was, and give him a good switching, like I gave my boys when they were little. Kept them from talking smart. And they still don’t dare. Not to their mama.
But I guess, what else can you expect from a Shoemaker? They’ve been known in these parts as an impertinent bunch. I warned Pen when he first thought of hiring Wallace. I said to him, “That boy will give you nothing but sass, Pen Figgins.” But Pen don’t ever listen to me.
“You was the one that rigged up that new fence,” I answered Wallace. “And it didn’t hold right.”
“Why don’t you just shoot her?” Wallace muttered. “Why do you always got to keep her around?”
“'Cause,” I said, putting one hand on my hip. “I needs those eggs. They’s my business venture and you know it.”
“Not worth the trouble,” Wallace said and lumbered out the door after Pen.
“That boy!” I exclaimed, wiping my sweaty hands on my apron. Of course he knew those eggs were our bread and butter. They’re what gave him his paycheck every month, because this farm sure wasn’t supporting any of us. It was my carving rhea eggs and selling them on eBay for big money that brought in our cash flow.
I liked the idea of being an artist. Gave me a lift when I met with people in society. In the grocery store, sometimes I’d hear people whispering when I passed by. “That's Myrna Figgins, the artist,” they’d say.
Artists don’t need to put up with an overgrown Shoemaker boy’s sass, that’s for darn sure. I emptied half the beer from his can down the sink before I set it in the fridge, top shelf.
A big thank you to Myrna for her inspirational words: sand, broken and rhea. When I started this story, I didn't even know what a rhea was, so thanks for forcing me to find out. (To save interested parties a google search, rheas are similar to the Australian emu. They are found in South America, but some people raise them, usually for their eggs or their meat, which apparently tastes like low-fat beef. They are a bit nastier in temperament than emus.)
“Daisy’s out again,” I said.
Pen squinted at me like he didn’t speak English. “Again?”
“The gate’s broke wide open,” I said. “She went and scratched around in your sand pile afterwards. You didn’t notice?”
“Oh, sweet petunia,” Pen said, heading back out the door. “C’mon, Wallace.”
Wallace had just plunked down at the kitchen table with a cold beer. Sweat trailed from his temple. “Now?”
“Sure now,” Pen said. He was generally a patient man, but I could see Daisy was trying him. Last time she got out we got a visit from the sheriff 'cause she clawed around in Mrs. Crabapple’s front yard, nibbling her ribbon winning cyclamen and frightening her granddaughter. Or so she said. Nasty old lady.
“That darn bird,” Wallace said, and set down his beer can with a clunk. “Myrna, put that back in the fridge for me, will ya?”
“Only if you promise to catch Daisy before she makes mischief,” I said, fixing him with my stern look.
“S’not my fault she got out!” Wallace had a smart aleck way about him sometimes. I didn’t like it. Sometimes I was about ready to take his sorry butt across my knee, no matter how big he thought he was, and give him a good switching, like I gave my boys when they were little. Kept them from talking smart. And they still don’t dare. Not to their mama.
But I guess, what else can you expect from a Shoemaker? They’ve been known in these parts as an impertinent bunch. I warned Pen when he first thought of hiring Wallace. I said to him, “That boy will give you nothing but sass, Pen Figgins.” But Pen don’t ever listen to me.
“You was the one that rigged up that new fence,” I answered Wallace. “And it didn’t hold right.”
“Why don’t you just shoot her?” Wallace muttered. “Why do you always got to keep her around?”
“'Cause,” I said, putting one hand on my hip. “I needs those eggs. They’s my business venture and you know it.”
“Not worth the trouble,” Wallace said and lumbered out the door after Pen.
“That boy!” I exclaimed, wiping my sweaty hands on my apron. Of course he knew those eggs were our bread and butter. They’re what gave him his paycheck every month, because this farm sure wasn’t supporting any of us. It was my carving rhea eggs and selling them on eBay for big money that brought in our cash flow.
I liked the idea of being an artist. Gave me a lift when I met with people in society. In the grocery store, sometimes I’d hear people whispering when I passed by. “That's Myrna Figgins, the artist,” they’d say.
Artists don’t need to put up with an overgrown Shoemaker boy’s sass, that’s for darn sure. I emptied half the beer from his can down the sink before I set it in the fridge, top shelf.
One More Wordle
I'm officially a Wordle addict.
I've been working on a short story called The Tiffin Box (adult literary fiction) for months and months. It's been in hibernation and I brought it out tonight to read it over again.
Then I decided to Wordle it. And I love the result, so I had to share.
(Click on the picture if you'd like to see a bigger version.)
Any comments? I know the last time I Wordled a lot of people said they wanted to try it. Did you? How'd you like it?
I've been working on a short story called The Tiffin Box (adult literary fiction) for months and months. It's been in hibernation and I brought it out tonight to read it over again.
Then I decided to Wordle it. And I love the result, so I had to share.
(Click on the picture if you'd like to see a bigger version.)
Any comments? I know the last time I Wordled a lot of people said they wanted to try it. Did you? How'd you like it?
Monday, 28 June 2010
Calling All Pitch Experts
Okay all you pitch experts, I know you're out there....
I don't usually do this type of thing, but I thought I would THIS ONCE.
First, a confession. I struggle horribly with pitches. Especially one-sentence pitches. Today I was messing around with my WiP and decided to write a brand new one-line pitch. If anyone happens to be reading (I know it's summer and you're all insanely busy) and would like to give feedback on my attempt, I'd be thrilled!
SCBWI LA conference is coming up at the end of July and I want to have an elevator pitch ready so that when someone asks, "What's your book about?" I'll have an awesome answer.
So without further ado, here's BACK:
When Heather gets back to rural America after five years in China, she’s hit with a lot more than culture shock: sister shock (because her older sister and former best friend is impossible to live with now that she’s pregnant and contemplating single motherhood) and I-so-don’t-want-a-different-boyfriend shock (because she loved her rocker boyfriend in China and is not ready to fall for the holier-than-thou farm boy next door).
Feel free to give feedback in any way, shape or form. I have pretty thick skin, I promise. You will not make me cry unless you go out of your way to be mean (which I'm sure none of you will).
But here are a few things I'm wondering about:
P.S. You do not need to be a writer to comment. I'd love feedback from non-writers, too!!
I don't usually do this type of thing, but I thought I would THIS ONCE.First, a confession. I struggle horribly with pitches. Especially one-sentence pitches. Today I was messing around with my WiP and decided to write a brand new one-line pitch. If anyone happens to be reading (I know it's summer and you're all insanely busy) and would like to give feedback on my attempt, I'd be thrilled!
SCBWI LA conference is coming up at the end of July and I want to have an elevator pitch ready so that when someone asks, "What's your book about?" I'll have an awesome answer.
So without further ado, here's BACK:
When Heather gets back to rural America after five years in China, she’s hit with a lot more than culture shock: sister shock (because her older sister and former best friend is impossible to live with now that she’s pregnant and contemplating single motherhood) and I-so-don’t-want-a-different-boyfriend shock (because she loved her rocker boyfriend in China and is not ready to fall for the holier-than-thou farm boy next door).
Feel free to give feedback in any way, shape or form. I have pretty thick skin, I promise. You will not make me cry unless you go out of your way to be mean (which I'm sure none of you will).
But here are a few things I'm wondering about:
- Am I cheating? This is sort of a long sentence and the use of parentheses allows me to make it even longer.
- TMI? We all hate it when someone goes overboard, right? Am I giving too much information? An earlier version had less information, but then I was worried the whole books sounded like a big cliche.
- Am I trying to be too clever? I attempted to capture the illusive VOICE of my novel, but I might have gone overboard.
P.S. You do not need to be a writer to comment. I'd love feedback from non-writers, too!!
Sunday, 27 June 2010
The Food Post
I love food.My favorite food when I'm in Mainland China is Chinese food. Some of my favorites are stirfried eggplant (pictured), lamb kabobs, sweet and sour chicken, and broccoli and garlic.
Oh, but wait, there's also great Korean food in China, such as kimbop and Korean BBQ.
And they have the most amazing Teppanyaki restaurants in our former city of residence, too. Teppanyaki is a Japanese style of cooking, similar to Bennyhana's. Bennyhana's, however, IMHO, is a weak comparison to the restaurants we had in our city.
My favorite food when I'm in Hong Kong is Hong Kong food. The one dish I'm thinking about right now is a beef fried rice noodle dish (pictured). I'm not even going to try to spell the Cantonese name. Okay, I'll try. It's something like gong chau gnau hau. Now say that ten times fast. And your tones are probably wrong. *grin*My favorite food when I'm in America is Mexican food. I had a killer mondo burrito at Taco Del Mar this afternoon ... and in Prosser I'm in a love affair with our local taco wagon.
Now that my mouth is watering, I want to know: what's your favorite food? Does it change depending on where in the world you are? Please share!
Saturday, 26 June 2010
A Story A Week: The Demented King
I had never seen a ceiling so high, taller than five of my family’s huts stacked one atop another. The great hall was a cavern, with white pillars as broad and round as giant’s legs. The floor was laid with stone slabs, as pale as the tombstones in our parish graveyard.
I followed the man in the red cloak. One would think that any noise one made in a room this large would be swallowed by the cavernous ceilings. But every one of the red cloaked man’s footsteps struck with a sound like a pick ax against rock. For once, I was glad for my leather shoes. Every time he turned his head and snarled at me to hurry, his voice echoed like the voice of a hundred men.
The double doors of the throne room loomed before us, made from heavy wooden beams carved in the intricate designs I recognized as those unique to our region. My father – God rest his soul – had schooled me in these things. I barely had the sense to study their intricate beauty, however, my vision blurred as it was with fear.
As the minister pushed open one large door, I started back at the unnatural brightness within – the product of light from a thousand torches. People in my village whispered that the lights in the throne room never went out. The king ordered them to be kept burning all day and night. The bodies that hung from the castle walls, some said, had belonged to those servants who hadn’t tended their flames.
I wrung my hat in my fists, ruining the feather my mother had so lovingly attached to the brim only that morning. I had tried to get up the courage to argue with her, to tell her that sending me to a madman king would do nothing to further my chances in life. But the words stuck in my throat. They were treasonous, after all. Everyone knew the king was insane, but no one could speak of it.
Immediately within the doors, the red caped man sank into a low bow. I followed his example. We remained bent over in this posture for a time that seemed eternity, before he sprang up again, took a few steps more, and bowed a second time. I scampered after him. As we made our slow progress to the head of the throne room, I caught my first glimpse of the king.
The throne stood on a pedestal, surrounded by an entourage of servants. The king sat, robed in a patchwork of velvets and satins, one leg swung over the arm of the throne. An ugly monkey perched on one shoulder, grooming the lice from his hair.
In the king’s lap sat a great, gold crown encrusted with precious stones. If I were to sell even one of those stones, I thought – remembering only at that moment to return my gaze to the floor – the price would feed my entire village for twenty years. The fear that such an idea could be read upon my countenance, however, made me bend my head still lower. Nothing to me was more frightening than a madman with power.
“Who do you bring, Minister?” The king’s voice was shrill. We were barely half-way down the hall to the throne, but at the sound of his voice, the red cloaked man sank to the floor. I followed with such a terrified abandon that my knees cried out with pain as they glanced against the stone. For a moment I feared I’d ripped my good pair of breeches, which would not only frustrate my mother, but might be the end of my life if the king noticed and took offence.
“A blacksmith’s apprentice,” said the red cloaked man, his head still bent low. “He has come to beseech an audience of your majesty, in accordance with the written law of our land, to beg to be allowed to begin work in the trade in which he has been trained.”
“He’s very small,” said the king. “How old are you, boy?”
My cheeks burned. Mother had told me to say I was fifteen, the legal age for beginning a trade, but I was really only twelve. To lie to the king – well, that was treason indeed. I whispered a goodbye to her under my breath; dear mother, who meant well, who had both our interests at heart when she sent me to petition here. It wasn’t her fault my father was dead and we had no other means to put bread on the table than by the blacksmith tools he’d left behind. “Fifteen,” I answered, making my voice as deep as I could muster. My life depended on it.
“He’s as big as the monkey!” roared the king. “Fifteen, indeed! I doubt he’s even as skilled as the monkey. Though you are very skilled, my small Abijon….” My head was bowed, but I could only guess he was speaking to the animal on his shoulder. The monkey screeched a reply and then fell quiet, busy, I had no doubt, grooming the king’s mane of ebony hair.
A silence as blank as the stone floor swept an ever tightening bond around my heart.
“Approach me!” cried the king.
I trembled, not sure to whom the king was speaking, until I felt the minister’s hand grip the top of my arm and yank me up.
“Approach the king, boy,” he hissed in my ear, his breath the foul odor of rotted sugarcane. “But, if you value your life, look him not in the eye!”
I kept my head bowed, and approached the throne.
"And your name?" he cried, when I reached the foot of the steps leading up to the throne.
I opened my mouth to speak the truth. My name was Christina. But only then did I remember I was meant to be a boy.
"Christian," I said.
Thanks to Christina who inspired this story with her words pompous, patchwork and entourage. If you'd like to provide three words of inspiration for a future story, click here.
I followed the man in the red cloak. One would think that any noise one made in a room this large would be swallowed by the cavernous ceilings. But every one of the red cloaked man’s footsteps struck with a sound like a pick ax against rock. For once, I was glad for my leather shoes. Every time he turned his head and snarled at me to hurry, his voice echoed like the voice of a hundred men.
The double doors of the throne room loomed before us, made from heavy wooden beams carved in the intricate designs I recognized as those unique to our region. My father – God rest his soul – had schooled me in these things. I barely had the sense to study their intricate beauty, however, my vision blurred as it was with fear.
As the minister pushed open one large door, I started back at the unnatural brightness within – the product of light from a thousand torches. People in my village whispered that the lights in the throne room never went out. The king ordered them to be kept burning all day and night. The bodies that hung from the castle walls, some said, had belonged to those servants who hadn’t tended their flames.
I wrung my hat in my fists, ruining the feather my mother had so lovingly attached to the brim only that morning. I had tried to get up the courage to argue with her, to tell her that sending me to a madman king would do nothing to further my chances in life. But the words stuck in my throat. They were treasonous, after all. Everyone knew the king was insane, but no one could speak of it.
Immediately within the doors, the red caped man sank into a low bow. I followed his example. We remained bent over in this posture for a time that seemed eternity, before he sprang up again, took a few steps more, and bowed a second time. I scampered after him. As we made our slow progress to the head of the throne room, I caught my first glimpse of the king.
The throne stood on a pedestal, surrounded by an entourage of servants. The king sat, robed in a patchwork of velvets and satins, one leg swung over the arm of the throne. An ugly monkey perched on one shoulder, grooming the lice from his hair.
In the king’s lap sat a great, gold crown encrusted with precious stones. If I were to sell even one of those stones, I thought – remembering only at that moment to return my gaze to the floor – the price would feed my entire village for twenty years. The fear that such an idea could be read upon my countenance, however, made me bend my head still lower. Nothing to me was more frightening than a madman with power.
“Who do you bring, Minister?” The king’s voice was shrill. We were barely half-way down the hall to the throne, but at the sound of his voice, the red cloaked man sank to the floor. I followed with such a terrified abandon that my knees cried out with pain as they glanced against the stone. For a moment I feared I’d ripped my good pair of breeches, which would not only frustrate my mother, but might be the end of my life if the king noticed and took offence.
“A blacksmith’s apprentice,” said the red cloaked man, his head still bent low. “He has come to beseech an audience of your majesty, in accordance with the written law of our land, to beg to be allowed to begin work in the trade in which he has been trained.”
“He’s very small,” said the king. “How old are you, boy?”
My cheeks burned. Mother had told me to say I was fifteen, the legal age for beginning a trade, but I was really only twelve. To lie to the king – well, that was treason indeed. I whispered a goodbye to her under my breath; dear mother, who meant well, who had both our interests at heart when she sent me to petition here. It wasn’t her fault my father was dead and we had no other means to put bread on the table than by the blacksmith tools he’d left behind. “Fifteen,” I answered, making my voice as deep as I could muster. My life depended on it.
“He’s as big as the monkey!” roared the king. “Fifteen, indeed! I doubt he’s even as skilled as the monkey. Though you are very skilled, my small Abijon….” My head was bowed, but I could only guess he was speaking to the animal on his shoulder. The monkey screeched a reply and then fell quiet, busy, I had no doubt, grooming the king’s mane of ebony hair.
A silence as blank as the stone floor swept an ever tightening bond around my heart.
“Approach me!” cried the king.
I trembled, not sure to whom the king was speaking, until I felt the minister’s hand grip the top of my arm and yank me up.
“Approach the king, boy,” he hissed in my ear, his breath the foul odor of rotted sugarcane. “But, if you value your life, look him not in the eye!”
I kept my head bowed, and approached the throne.
"And your name?" he cried, when I reached the foot of the steps leading up to the throne.
I opened my mouth to speak the truth. My name was Christina. But only then did I remember I was meant to be a boy.
"Christian," I said.
Thanks to Christina who inspired this story with her words pompous, patchwork and entourage. If you'd like to provide three words of inspiration for a future story, click here.
Friday, 25 June 2010
Genre Comfort Zones
I have written part of a story this week. I sat down on Thursday afternoon to write a short inspired by Christina's three words ... but half-way through I found myself mentally listing, so tired I couldn't sit up straight.
So, I laid it aside and fell asleep on the sofa ... woke up a little while later with a neck ache! (Note to self: Stop sleeping on sofas! Go to bed!)
That's where my story for this week sits. I love it, but it's challenging, mainly because it's more of a historical fantasy type thing and I'm out of practice writing that genre.
Some fantasy/paranormal writers have said to me: "It must be so hard to come up with increased tension in your story when you're limited to real-world problems." Well, not when you're used to doing it. For me, I find the imagination required for fantasy worlds or situations more challenging.
Do you have a genre comfort zone? Do some worlds come easier for you than others?
(And the main point of this blog post was supposed to be to tell you my Story A Week IS coming, I promise, before the week totally ends. I'm sorry it's late. Look out for The Demented King tomorrow, at the latest! I'll try to get back on the proverbial ball next week ... after ballet recital is over. *grin*)
So, I laid it aside and fell asleep on the sofa ... woke up a little while later with a neck ache! (Note to self: Stop sleeping on sofas! Go to bed!)
That's where my story for this week sits. I love it, but it's challenging, mainly because it's more of a historical fantasy type thing and I'm out of practice writing that genre.
Some fantasy/paranormal writers have said to me: "It must be so hard to come up with increased tension in your story when you're limited to real-world problems." Well, not when you're used to doing it. For me, I find the imagination required for fantasy worlds or situations more challenging.
Do you have a genre comfort zone? Do some worlds come easier for you than others?
(And the main point of this blog post was supposed to be to tell you my Story A Week IS coming, I promise, before the week totally ends. I'm sorry it's late. Look out for The Demented King tomorrow, at the latest! I'll try to get back on the proverbial ball next week ... after ballet recital is over. *grin*)
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