Back to characterization...that nagging "make it or break it" part of most stories and novels, and at least for me as a reader (if not also a writer) the primary element that determines the success of said work. Back when I first started writing this blog, one of my early entries focused on this literary aspect, by referring to my grandmother's infamous evaluation of some of her various acquaintances as "real characters."
I published my seventh book, Reunion, recently and am currently working on number eight, That Old Cape Cod. Both of these novels have unique characterization challenges, one that would fluster (her word not mine) even my grandmother.
In the first one, I chose to write about a group of friends planning to attend a 50th high school reunion, which couldn't help but be based on my own experience, since it was one I just had. What better group to draw from, then, than my actual high school classmates? Most of the novel deals with the characters' memories, as well as the secrets they kept from each other. A parallel plot is the book one of the characters is writing, in which this experience becomes far more negatively exaggerated than the actual one (or does it?)
Unfortunately, this raised the eternal dilemma: how to create flaws and frailties in characters modeled after people I love (because, of course, this is how one creates successful characters...at least according to the "how to" books). The villains were far easier...after all who doesn't have some leftover rage for the bad guys of our youth? Still, the question of potential insult (if not downright libel) definitely looms in those circumstances, thus restricting one's level of poetic license.
The question is, how does one (as Hemingway so determinedly reminds us) "write about what you know," without crossing the line too far into what maybe not everyone you know wants everyone to know about them. I have concluded that no writer's characters are entirely fictional, despite the disclaimers, which even I have become guilty of including. But that doesn't mean you can't jumble up their personalities into composite beings (as I did in Reunion) or place older models in younger bodies, or make women you know into men and vice versa (a bit more of a challenge, but still possible).
This method of characterization can, however, have some unexpected consequences. When my husband complained that in my first book (Scraps of Eternity) I immediately kill him off (sorry, spoiler alert), for example, my daughter countered with the observation, "well at least Mom didn't turn you into a gay male lawyer." On the other hand, the fictional family who endearingly populate the Seaside Restaurant in Home to Trout River, may one day be sought after by several readers who claim the book inspired them to travel there, and thus put the place on the map...okay, maybe in a few photo albums at best, but I can dream, right?
The characters in my newest venture (still in its first draft), That Old Cape Cod, are a combination of old friends, lovers, and ghosts, and occasionally all of the above. Talk about challenging...imagine trying to create flaws for someone who is no longer living. I mean, what can they do about it at that point? And what possible message can come from the impossibility of change? This may take longer to write than I imagined.
But what the heck? Heaven knows, I've got the time, what with the current constrictions of an epidemic to keep me home and typing away. On the other hand, there's nothing like a good quarantine to release one's inhibitions in regard to "fictional" character creation. On the one hand, it's made me more aware of whom I genuinely miss when I'm not allowed to see them, as well as who I really don't; and undoubtedly, there are many who have come to similar conclusions about me.
Therefore, I rather expect there are other writers who have come to the same realization, even ones whose books are, shall we say, more widely read than mine, and perhaps this circumstance will inspire a whole new literary movement. I'm not talking about the inevitable flurry of apocalyptic novels (which I have to confess I might be looking forward to), but also (another result I happily anticipate) an abundance of fiction populated with more "real characters." My grandmother would be proud.
Tuesday, 9 June 2020
Tuesday, 28 April 2020
Here We Go Again...
Time for the annual plunge into the fiction writing contest pool. It happens this way every year, but for some reason, I still fail to recognize the annual signs of potential disappointment. Here's how it happens: usually I have just finished a novel, or am in the final stages of editing one and now facing the daily boredom of reading, for the fourth or fifth time, something I was last excited about at least six months ago. Then it is February on Cape Cod...need I say more? Those idyllic scenes of fluffy white snow dusting the lighthouses and blowing gently across deserted beaches that you see on all the calendars are pretty much taken on a single afternoon when the one picturesque ocean snowstorm breezes through. The rest of the time the sky is this kind of steel gray and spits frozen rain, and the wind never stops blowing.
But that's when they arrive: the cheery emails from a virtually unending stream of little known literary magazines and tiny publishing companies in Nebraska, offering you fame and recognition, as well as perhaps a $100 prize, and, more importantly, a subscription to said magazine. Occasionally, you are also given the "additional opportunity" for a "professional analysis" of your work, plus a "reduced fee" to attend their "renowned annual writing conference." This, too, is in Nebraska...where you'll share a rustic cabin "bonding" with three other "talented" attendees, and participate in "yoga and meditation groups, while watching the sun rise over distant mountain ranges." (Do they even have mountain ranges in Nebraska?)
The reason you get the emails, of course, is not because somehow these literary experts have come across your obscure Amazon author page (after misspelling the name of a sports writer in the search engine), or picked up one of your novels on a recent trip to Orleans, MA, where it rained for four days and they ended up in the only bookstore kind enough to stock your work. Nope, they got your name and email from your previous futile attempts at recognition when you entered their contest last year...and the year before...and perhaps, the year before that.
But my favorite sources for continuing to humiliate myself are not so much these ego-stroking communications (which basically, as my father used to refer to electronic birthday greetings, are "when you care enough to send the very least"), but publications and websites that I purposefully subscribed to. These insidious resources not only flood your brain with articles and links convincing you, the writer, that "you, too, can make a six figure income by just following a few simple tips," but also produce an annual list of how to further convince yourself that you can't.
Nonetheless, we writers are a frighteningly optimistic bunch...either that, or we have definitively short memories...and I, like others, find myself reading through the lists of annual contests seeking and circling the perfect recipients to offer me the above mentioned fame and recognition.
After being part of this potentially financially draining process for several years now, I now see myself as somewhat of an expert in the field. Here's what I've learned: (1) watch out for the fine print. One contest I entered seemed like an excellent choice, but it wasn't until after I sent my story about two sisters growing up in a Jewish neighborhood in New York (and paid the $20 entry fee) that I happened to notice the contest was based in Tennessee, and they were looking for stories and poems that reflected the "traditional values and lifestyle of Bible Belt culture."
Next, I learned that (2) it is important to look at the contest website carefully and if possible, read the winning stories from the previous year's competition. I only learned this after sending off a story about gardening with my grandfather, and then noting that the most recent winner had written a sensitive portrayal of her love affair with a mass murderer. How I missed the illustration of the large ax dripping blood, I'm not sure.
Finally (and please note I am only hitting the top three cautionary bits of advice): (3) just because you were one of the 120 semi-finalists in a contest where the promoters promised to make an Oscar winning movie out of the winning entry, doesn't mean you should send them three stories and a novel the very next year (at $50 a pop).
I'm sure by now you think this cynical portrayal of the world of literary competitions means I have deleted all those email invitations, and tossed aside the list of potential entries culled from the pages of "professional" websites and inspirational publications. Unfortunately, having just sent my seventh novel, Reunion, to press, and sitting here looking out on steel gray skies in the midst of an extended "stay at home order," this is not the case. Yup, I think, as I sign into "Submittable" and open my PayPal account, here we go again.
Maybe I should just sign up for the writing conference in Nebraska and be done with it.
But that's when they arrive: the cheery emails from a virtually unending stream of little known literary magazines and tiny publishing companies in Nebraska, offering you fame and recognition, as well as perhaps a $100 prize, and, more importantly, a subscription to said magazine. Occasionally, you are also given the "additional opportunity" for a "professional analysis" of your work, plus a "reduced fee" to attend their "renowned annual writing conference." This, too, is in Nebraska...where you'll share a rustic cabin "bonding" with three other "talented" attendees, and participate in "yoga and meditation groups, while watching the sun rise over distant mountain ranges." (Do they even have mountain ranges in Nebraska?)
The reason you get the emails, of course, is not because somehow these literary experts have come across your obscure Amazon author page (after misspelling the name of a sports writer in the search engine), or picked up one of your novels on a recent trip to Orleans, MA, where it rained for four days and they ended up in the only bookstore kind enough to stock your work. Nope, they got your name and email from your previous futile attempts at recognition when you entered their contest last year...and the year before...and perhaps, the year before that.
But my favorite sources for continuing to humiliate myself are not so much these ego-stroking communications (which basically, as my father used to refer to electronic birthday greetings, are "when you care enough to send the very least"), but publications and websites that I purposefully subscribed to. These insidious resources not only flood your brain with articles and links convincing you, the writer, that "you, too, can make a six figure income by just following a few simple tips," but also produce an annual list of how to further convince yourself that you can't.
Nonetheless, we writers are a frighteningly optimistic bunch...either that, or we have definitively short memories...and I, like others, find myself reading through the lists of annual contests seeking and circling the perfect recipients to offer me the above mentioned fame and recognition.
After being part of this potentially financially draining process for several years now, I now see myself as somewhat of an expert in the field. Here's what I've learned: (1) watch out for the fine print. One contest I entered seemed like an excellent choice, but it wasn't until after I sent my story about two sisters growing up in a Jewish neighborhood in New York (and paid the $20 entry fee) that I happened to notice the contest was based in Tennessee, and they were looking for stories and poems that reflected the "traditional values and lifestyle of Bible Belt culture."
Next, I learned that (2) it is important to look at the contest website carefully and if possible, read the winning stories from the previous year's competition. I only learned this after sending off a story about gardening with my grandfather, and then noting that the most recent winner had written a sensitive portrayal of her love affair with a mass murderer. How I missed the illustration of the large ax dripping blood, I'm not sure.
Finally (and please note I am only hitting the top three cautionary bits of advice): (3) just because you were one of the 120 semi-finalists in a contest where the promoters promised to make an Oscar winning movie out of the winning entry, doesn't mean you should send them three stories and a novel the very next year (at $50 a pop).
I'm sure by now you think this cynical portrayal of the world of literary competitions means I have deleted all those email invitations, and tossed aside the list of potential entries culled from the pages of "professional" websites and inspirational publications. Unfortunately, having just sent my seventh novel, Reunion, to press, and sitting here looking out on steel gray skies in the midst of an extended "stay at home order," this is not the case. Yup, I think, as I sign into "Submittable" and open my PayPal account, here we go again.
Maybe I should just sign up for the writing conference in Nebraska and be done with it.
Thursday, 26 March 2020
Go Amuse Yourself Quietly
My mother was not a typical 1950s woman...you know what I mean, the Barbara Billingsley (Beaver Cleaver's Mom) type who did God knows what all day long wearing a dress, heels, and pearls. Instead, my Mom spent her afternoons teaching piano lessons in our living room, and her evenings (and later mornings, after my brother and I were in school) teaching literature classes at the local college. She also spent a good portion of my childhood earning two advanced degrees and being more or less the entire secretarial staff for my grandmother's real estate and insurance business. (I should add that my grandmother was also not the typical 1950s woman).
Thus this phrase ("go amuse yourself quietly") was frequently uttered in our home. And if the truth be known, my brother and I were pretty good at it...amusing ourselves quietly, I mean...unless you count the experiments we tried with the chemistry set he got for Christmas one year, or the bike horns my father gave us which sounded more or less like wounded geese as we raced our bikes up and down the street in front of the house.
I don't mean to imply that my childhood was one long series of being chased out of the room so my mother could fulfill her professional goals...in fact, I often wonder how she was able to find the energy to also leave me with memories of vast amounts of quality time we spent as a family.
But I also have to admit that somewhere in the early 1970s, I found myself also directing my own children to "go amuse themselves quietly," all the while having the distinct feeling I had heard this expression somewhere before. Being that it was the more permissive 70s, though, added to this directive was the promise that "if you play by yourself quietly for a little bit, then Mommy will play with you after."
"Quietly," however was the operative term. Between my son's Star Wars battles and the unruly "students" in my daughter's doll-populated "school" (one I was quite convinced could be accredited by the state of Connecticut), this was not really the prevailing atmosphere that followed my decree. But mostly the concept worked fairly well, especially with the added invention of color TV.
Because I had my children young, I spent a good portion of their early years in part time pursuit of my college degree and then continuing on to get my Master's. I also worked evenings as a newspaper reporter, and once the kids were in school, started my teaching career and became involved in local politics. Must be genetic. In my case, however, I was (and still am) far too easily distracted not to have ended up wandering down the hall to play with the so-called quietly amused kids, instead of doing my own work.
So here we are again...being asked by a higher authority to go and amuse ourselves quietly, with the promise that if we'll be able to make all the noise we want later on. As writers, of course, why not just think to ourselves, let's make all the noise we want right now...but in a creative way. Since we can't go to those proverbial "day jobs" everyone says not to quit, or use the first moment of writer's block as an excuse to go to the mall, or pretend that going out to dinner with a bunch of friends could be considered "research," why not settle back on your comfy couch (or wherever you like to write) with your trusty laptop and do exactly that...write.
Then write, and write some more, and write some more...cheerfully jumping back and forth between unrelated documents as if you could care less if they ever see the light of day on some editor's desk, or if your friends ever read what you've created, or if that pompous bookstore owner ever considers your work worth her front window display. Because who cares? You're making yourself happy in the way you always have (by writing) when lots of other people have never actually been able to do that...that is, go and amuse themselves quietly.
Thus this phrase ("go amuse yourself quietly") was frequently uttered in our home. And if the truth be known, my brother and I were pretty good at it...amusing ourselves quietly, I mean...unless you count the experiments we tried with the chemistry set he got for Christmas one year, or the bike horns my father gave us which sounded more or less like wounded geese as we raced our bikes up and down the street in front of the house.
I don't mean to imply that my childhood was one long series of being chased out of the room so my mother could fulfill her professional goals...in fact, I often wonder how she was able to find the energy to also leave me with memories of vast amounts of quality time we spent as a family.
But I also have to admit that somewhere in the early 1970s, I found myself also directing my own children to "go amuse themselves quietly," all the while having the distinct feeling I had heard this expression somewhere before. Being that it was the more permissive 70s, though, added to this directive was the promise that "if you play by yourself quietly for a little bit, then Mommy will play with you after."
"Quietly," however was the operative term. Between my son's Star Wars battles and the unruly "students" in my daughter's doll-populated "school" (one I was quite convinced could be accredited by the state of Connecticut), this was not really the prevailing atmosphere that followed my decree. But mostly the concept worked fairly well, especially with the added invention of color TV.
Because I had my children young, I spent a good portion of their early years in part time pursuit of my college degree and then continuing on to get my Master's. I also worked evenings as a newspaper reporter, and once the kids were in school, started my teaching career and became involved in local politics. Must be genetic. In my case, however, I was (and still am) far too easily distracted not to have ended up wandering down the hall to play with the so-called quietly amused kids, instead of doing my own work.
So here we are again...being asked by a higher authority to go and amuse ourselves quietly, with the promise that if we'll be able to make all the noise we want later on. As writers, of course, why not just think to ourselves, let's make all the noise we want right now...but in a creative way. Since we can't go to those proverbial "day jobs" everyone says not to quit, or use the first moment of writer's block as an excuse to go to the mall, or pretend that going out to dinner with a bunch of friends could be considered "research," why not settle back on your comfy couch (or wherever you like to write) with your trusty laptop and do exactly that...write.
Then write, and write some more, and write some more...cheerfully jumping back and forth between unrelated documents as if you could care less if they ever see the light of day on some editor's desk, or if your friends ever read what you've created, or if that pompous bookstore owner ever considers your work worth her front window display. Because who cares? You're making yourself happy in the way you always have (by writing) when lots of other people have never actually been able to do that...that is, go and amuse themselves quietly.
Monday, 16 March 2020
Fame and Fortune
When we were kids, my best friend, Sue and I were always waiting to be "discovered;" you know, a la Lana Turner at the soda fountain. Never mind that we lived in a tiny suburban town nearly 3000 miles from Hollywood and even if I flashed my most endearing smile, there would be no disguising my pathetically crooked teeth. Somehow we just knew that one day, while we sat gently twirling back and forth on the soda fountain stools at "Bo-Bo's" a California talent scout would appear and beg us to accept roles in his newest block buster film. Nowadays, of course, should this occur, our pictures would be more likely to show up on the side of a milk carton than a theater poster, but back then it was every young girl's dream.
Needless to say, neither one of us (nor any of our friends, for that matter) were ever "discovered," and despite the fact most of us went on to have successful careers and raise happy families, the nagging sense that this opportunity somehow passed us by never truly goes away. Even now, when I read People magazine in the waiting room at the dentist, I can never quite convince myself that those celebrities "aren't truly happy." I'd even settle for being able to wear that tiny bikini, the heck with snagging the staring role in a major film.
But I do think that basic recognition, and the attainment thereof is a whole different thing, as well as one that is not always beyond our expectations. Why else would refrigerator magnets been invented, for example, if not with the idea that some A+ spelling quiz or "Student of the Week" certificate would need this item to display such achievements to anyone passing through the kitchen? And what mother doesn't have (tucked away in a drawer somewhere) the first (if not one and only) super-sentimental birthday card given to her by the least likely child to have purchased one?
Writers have that same need for acknowledgement, and it usually takes very little time before one who cheerfully plunges into this creative field to recognize this painful reality, as well as become familiar with the roller coaster of emotions that accompanies its arrival. This amusement park analogy ranges from the initial outpouring of support (and purchases) of your first published novel, to one of your once closest friends announcing he/she never reads fiction, to the email identifying one of your short stories as a semi-finalist in a literary contest, to discovering one of your novels (complete with a personalized "signing" inside the front cover) selling for fifty cents at the local church bazaar.
But of all the ego-busting, recognition struggling experiences for a writer, I would have to rank the bookstore consignment process at the top of the list. For those of you who have not yet entered this maelstrom of rejection, it is probably one of the most humbling experiences of what you may previously have considered your writing "career."
My first venture into the world of bookstore marketing began with a small local bookstore, with a strong connection to the school in which I used to teach. Not only did they offer teacher discounts, but also participated in the annual Parents' Association fundraising book sale. The owner, who appeared to be a kindly gentleman, welcomed me warmly, introduced me to his dog and then firmly refused to carry my books because they only purchased books through their "distributer," the reason being that then they could return unsold copies. This might have made more sense to me had I had not been standing there with a physical box of books (which could come or go as often he wished) and also had not just mentioned that I lived in the same town.
Ah well, onward, I thought, as I patted the dog's head and departed. My next stop was a larger bookstore in a popular local shopping complex. Here the owner spent considerable time touring me around the store in what appeared to be some sort of educational effort on her part, which would ultimately culminate in my understanding of how inferior my books were to the ones she carried. Then for some reason, she thought I should leave her one of my lame attempts at literature as a sample, keeping in mind of course, that she "has very little time for reading so probably won't" (read it, that is.)
Thinking that a more touristy locale might work better, I then drove to the Cape's most historically prestigious enclave of summer visitors and stopped by the main street's charming book seller. After working my way through several underlings whose main job seemed to be to cluster around the cash register and smile inanely, I was finally introduced to the manager. He examined my novels briefly, then smiled pleasantly and told me that even though he would not be stocking my books, I would be welcome to come and sit on the sidewalk outside the shop's front door and accost passersby in an effort to sell autographed copies of my work (provided I brought my own chair and card table, of course).
"You'll be surprised how many people stroll past here every day," he added encouragingly. It was currently mid-February and the temperature outside was a balmy 25 degrees.
I don't mean to suggest that all the responses to my marketing efforts were completely negative. For example, one book I wrote takes place in Northampton, a good three hour drive from where I live. Nonetheless, though, I thought it was worth the effort to try and sell it in one of that town's local bookstores...the fact that I even used this particular bookstore (in a rather complimentary way) as one of the settings in the novel itself, also made it seem like the proprietors might be interested. After immediately turning me down, they did, however, suggest that perhaps I could make a "poster" advertising my book and "drop it off the next time I was in the area"...which, as I previously pointed out, is three hours from where I live.
Then there was another Cape bookstore that cheerfully accepted my books as a "welcome addition" to their "local author section." Later I found out that in order to peruse this "special section" you had to be no more than three feet tall (as it is on the very bottom shelf next to the floor) and possibly bring a flashlight, (as it is located in the darkest corner of the back room). Nonetheless, they have sold some of my books, in particular one they displayed briefly in the front room, which was actually purchased the day after they moved it there. One would think this might be an incentive to try this approach again, but so far (based on my subsequent visits) this does not seemed to have occurred to them.
My work also was equally welcomed at another Cape bookstore, the owners of which were actually the parents of two of my students. "We love local authors!" they declared, and even suggested I might hold a reading and a book signing at their store, an event for which they would contact me "soon after the holidays." Perhaps I should have asked which holidays they were referring to, since a number of them have since passed since then and the only communication I have received is a recent form letter requesting me to come and pick up my books as they have been on the shelves "for more than six months" as their "space is limited." Keep in mind these books have been selling regularly and I have even been asked to bring replacements along the way.
So now, lest you think my attitude has become completely pessimistic regarding this marketing approach, here's my favorite thing to do on a sunny Cape Cod afternoon...drive to Orleans where in a relatively obscure shopping plaza there is an independent bookstore called The Booksmith. On the door is sign that notes how dogs are welcome and once inside, a spacious display of attractively arranged reading material of a variety of genres immediately appears...one that is frequently rearranged to highlight the store's diverse inventory. There is also a massive collection of music CDs on one side of the front room, and in a second room at the back of the store, an impressive collection of what is now known as "vinyl" (or what we aging hippies refer to as records). The rack of dog treats near the cash register is another added bonus.
And guess what? My books are here too, with the covers that all the above bookstores raved were "impressive" (after which the only part of the books they ever had facing outward were the spines) are, in fact, fully visible facing the customers. I sell a fair amount of books in this store, but as for fame and fortune, I have to admit I have yet to achieve that long awaited moment of "discovery" in Orleans, MA. What I can say, however, is that whenever I drop off more of my books at the Booksmith, the owner smiles at me and says "thank-you for allowing us to sell your books!" Eat your heart out, Lana Turner. This is what it's really all about.
Needless to say, neither one of us (nor any of our friends, for that matter) were ever "discovered," and despite the fact most of us went on to have successful careers and raise happy families, the nagging sense that this opportunity somehow passed us by never truly goes away. Even now, when I read People magazine in the waiting room at the dentist, I can never quite convince myself that those celebrities "aren't truly happy." I'd even settle for being able to wear that tiny bikini, the heck with snagging the staring role in a major film.
But I do think that basic recognition, and the attainment thereof is a whole different thing, as well as one that is not always beyond our expectations. Why else would refrigerator magnets been invented, for example, if not with the idea that some A+ spelling quiz or "Student of the Week" certificate would need this item to display such achievements to anyone passing through the kitchen? And what mother doesn't have (tucked away in a drawer somewhere) the first (if not one and only) super-sentimental birthday card given to her by the least likely child to have purchased one?
Writers have that same need for acknowledgement, and it usually takes very little time before one who cheerfully plunges into this creative field to recognize this painful reality, as well as become familiar with the roller coaster of emotions that accompanies its arrival. This amusement park analogy ranges from the initial outpouring of support (and purchases) of your first published novel, to one of your once closest friends announcing he/she never reads fiction, to the email identifying one of your short stories as a semi-finalist in a literary contest, to discovering one of your novels (complete with a personalized "signing" inside the front cover) selling for fifty cents at the local church bazaar.
But of all the ego-busting, recognition struggling experiences for a writer, I would have to rank the bookstore consignment process at the top of the list. For those of you who have not yet entered this maelstrom of rejection, it is probably one of the most humbling experiences of what you may previously have considered your writing "career."
My first venture into the world of bookstore marketing began with a small local bookstore, with a strong connection to the school in which I used to teach. Not only did they offer teacher discounts, but also participated in the annual Parents' Association fundraising book sale. The owner, who appeared to be a kindly gentleman, welcomed me warmly, introduced me to his dog and then firmly refused to carry my books because they only purchased books through their "distributer," the reason being that then they could return unsold copies. This might have made more sense to me had I had not been standing there with a physical box of books (which could come or go as often he wished) and also had not just mentioned that I lived in the same town.
Ah well, onward, I thought, as I patted the dog's head and departed. My next stop was a larger bookstore in a popular local shopping complex. Here the owner spent considerable time touring me around the store in what appeared to be some sort of educational effort on her part, which would ultimately culminate in my understanding of how inferior my books were to the ones she carried. Then for some reason, she thought I should leave her one of my lame attempts at literature as a sample, keeping in mind of course, that she "has very little time for reading so probably won't" (read it, that is.)
Thinking that a more touristy locale might work better, I then drove to the Cape's most historically prestigious enclave of summer visitors and stopped by the main street's charming book seller. After working my way through several underlings whose main job seemed to be to cluster around the cash register and smile inanely, I was finally introduced to the manager. He examined my novels briefly, then smiled pleasantly and told me that even though he would not be stocking my books, I would be welcome to come and sit on the sidewalk outside the shop's front door and accost passersby in an effort to sell autographed copies of my work (provided I brought my own chair and card table, of course).
"You'll be surprised how many people stroll past here every day," he added encouragingly. It was currently mid-February and the temperature outside was a balmy 25 degrees.
I don't mean to suggest that all the responses to my marketing efforts were completely negative. For example, one book I wrote takes place in Northampton, a good three hour drive from where I live. Nonetheless, though, I thought it was worth the effort to try and sell it in one of that town's local bookstores...the fact that I even used this particular bookstore (in a rather complimentary way) as one of the settings in the novel itself, also made it seem like the proprietors might be interested. After immediately turning me down, they did, however, suggest that perhaps I could make a "poster" advertising my book and "drop it off the next time I was in the area"...which, as I previously pointed out, is three hours from where I live.
Then there was another Cape bookstore that cheerfully accepted my books as a "welcome addition" to their "local author section." Later I found out that in order to peruse this "special section" you had to be no more than three feet tall (as it is on the very bottom shelf next to the floor) and possibly bring a flashlight, (as it is located in the darkest corner of the back room). Nonetheless, they have sold some of my books, in particular one they displayed briefly in the front room, which was actually purchased the day after they moved it there. One would think this might be an incentive to try this approach again, but so far (based on my subsequent visits) this does not seemed to have occurred to them.
My work also was equally welcomed at another Cape bookstore, the owners of which were actually the parents of two of my students. "We love local authors!" they declared, and even suggested I might hold a reading and a book signing at their store, an event for which they would contact me "soon after the holidays." Perhaps I should have asked which holidays they were referring to, since a number of them have since passed since then and the only communication I have received is a recent form letter requesting me to come and pick up my books as they have been on the shelves "for more than six months" as their "space is limited." Keep in mind these books have been selling regularly and I have even been asked to bring replacements along the way.
So now, lest you think my attitude has become completely pessimistic regarding this marketing approach, here's my favorite thing to do on a sunny Cape Cod afternoon...drive to Orleans where in a relatively obscure shopping plaza there is an independent bookstore called The Booksmith. On the door is sign that notes how dogs are welcome and once inside, a spacious display of attractively arranged reading material of a variety of genres immediately appears...one that is frequently rearranged to highlight the store's diverse inventory. There is also a massive collection of music CDs on one side of the front room, and in a second room at the back of the store, an impressive collection of what is now known as "vinyl" (or what we aging hippies refer to as records). The rack of dog treats near the cash register is another added bonus.
And guess what? My books are here too, with the covers that all the above bookstores raved were "impressive" (after which the only part of the books they ever had facing outward were the spines) are, in fact, fully visible facing the customers. I sell a fair amount of books in this store, but as for fame and fortune, I have to admit I have yet to achieve that long awaited moment of "discovery" in Orleans, MA. What I can say, however, is that whenever I drop off more of my books at the Booksmith, the owner smiles at me and says "thank-you for allowing us to sell your books!" Eat your heart out, Lana Turner. This is what it's really all about.
Monday, 17 February 2020
Truth or Dare
Back when we were kids (and later when my kids were kids), we (and then they) used to play a game called "Truth or Dare." As I recall, though, the rules of this game degenerated somewhat from the decidedly tame and inhibited 1950s and early 60s, once it was the 1980s. But the basic idea remained much the same. When it was your "turn," you had to decide whether you would tell the "truth" about something another player asked you, or whether you preferred to take "a dare" and do something they told you to do.
The more savvy players, of course, opted for the "truth" (because notoriously we lied, anyhow), as often the "dares" were far more undesirable. By the time I became a teacher, in fact, and this game often erupted on field trip buses, the "dares' could easily get you suspended, whereas the "truths," well, that depended on your individual level of naiveté (or perhaps more importantly, how good your poker face was).
I think about that game a lot, now that I've become a writer...or am trying to became one, at least. This is because I realize that I am not very daring...never was, and at my age, am likely never to become so. Many of my regrets, in fact, stem from times when I had the chance to to something impractical, outrageous, dangerous, or otherwise daring, and (sometimes at the very last second) turned down the opportunity.
As a parent, I would tell my children how wise that decision was, how proud I was of them, and so forth, and pat myself on the back for having raised them so well. But to be honest, I would also be secretly pleased that I didn't know about the all the daring things they did do, because (having survived these escapades, of course), these "dares" ultimately made them better, more experienced adults, who would eventually handle life ever so much better than I have.
But back to writing...again reminding myself that this is a blog in which I write about writing. I'm feeling like a lot of the weaknesses in my writing stem from the fact that I don't take enough risks..."dare," if you will, to tell the "truth" in my stories. What I mean is, that my books are very tame...i.e., they don't reach out and grab the reader with same startling realities as say, Lisa Genova in her harsh portrayals of brain disorders, or John Grisham in his gripping suspense-filled narratives, or even Stephen King in his bloody horror stories. And yet these are all books I love to read.
My characters tend to be real people, which I suppose is fine, living real lives with emotional dilemmas that many of us can relate to. Yet two of my favorite authors, Anne Tyler and Richard Russo also have these kinds of characters and are far more successful at weaving stories around them. So what is the difference that accounts for their success?
Okay, good agents and aggressive marketing aside (as well as a bit of just plain luck), I think it all goes back to "Truth or Dare." In other words, how much "truth" they "dare" to put into their writing. I always used to quote Hemingway to my students (and to myself, as well, I suppose), when his advice about writing was to "write about what you know." But is it what you "know" or what you "really know" that you should be putting into your work?
I am working on the final draft of a new novel called Reunion. Coincidentally, I started writing this right after (or perhaps, at least in my head, during) my own high school reunion, which I attended in 2018. And no, I'm not telling you which reunion it was; suffice it to say that enough time has gone by for a good many memories to be created and possibly surface in the process.
I started this project by creating a group of characters who were close friends and composites mostly of me, but also of some of my childhood acquaintances. It's impossible, by the way, for a writer not to put parts of him or herself in the characters he/she creates, which, in itself, tends to make one wonder about some of the lives of some of the best-selling authors we all know and love. It's also not possible to create a character that doesn't have at least some minor traits of other people the writer has encountered along the way. Otherwise, these characters would be incredibly flat and inspire little or no interest from the reader. In other words, if we can't relate to the characters in a novel, we don't care what happens to them.
This is where I think that my writing abilities diverge from those of truly talented writers. I care too much what happens to my characters; I'm happy to get them in trouble, or perhaps to behave poorly at times, but I can't seem to help but rescue them at the last minute, or imbue them with some totally redeeming (though perhaps briefly hidden) personal qualities that will allow the reader to forgive and truly admire them again. In other words, I don't "dare" leave them out there to deal with the "truths" of real life and its consequences.
Here's the other thing; I don't seem to mind creating villains...in fact, I can do that rather well (which often makes me wonder what that says about my own life). But more often than not, I then end up worrying about how harsh I have been in the creation of these "bad guys" and worse yet, how precisely they might resemble real life individuals I may have encountered along the way. Then, as my grandmother would have said, "what will people think?"
So imagine writing a book about a group of friends preparing for their 50th high school reunion. Sounds kind of boring until you actually start thinking how many memories these characters have amassed in this number of years, and thus how many ancient skeletons are rattling around in their respective closets. For those born after 1980, it might be a bit hard to imagine anything particularly steamy or regrettable that could have occurred back then. If this is the case, I suggest you watch "The Graduate" or perhaps a Woodstock documentary and broaden your perspective a bit.
Anyhow, suffice it to say that memories of the bad guys get worse over time, and the minor sins of the good guys become more embarrassing, and possibly more intensely regrettable. And, as a writer if you "dare" to put the "truth" out there about either or both, you could end up with a hell of a good book...but also a rapidly diminishing social circle. On the other hand, if you don't, then honestly, why bother? Because you just created 300 pages of bargain bin material, and don't have any more of a social life than you did before.
So... Good writing tip # 3,425,690: write about what you know, and don't be afraid to "dare" to tell the "truth." Especially since everyone knows that we writers are all notorious liars, right?
The more savvy players, of course, opted for the "truth" (because notoriously we lied, anyhow), as often the "dares" were far more undesirable. By the time I became a teacher, in fact, and this game often erupted on field trip buses, the "dares' could easily get you suspended, whereas the "truths," well, that depended on your individual level of naiveté (or perhaps more importantly, how good your poker face was).
I think about that game a lot, now that I've become a writer...or am trying to became one, at least. This is because I realize that I am not very daring...never was, and at my age, am likely never to become so. Many of my regrets, in fact, stem from times when I had the chance to to something impractical, outrageous, dangerous, or otherwise daring, and (sometimes at the very last second) turned down the opportunity.
As a parent, I would tell my children how wise that decision was, how proud I was of them, and so forth, and pat myself on the back for having raised them so well. But to be honest, I would also be secretly pleased that I didn't know about the all the daring things they did do, because (having survived these escapades, of course), these "dares" ultimately made them better, more experienced adults, who would eventually handle life ever so much better than I have.
But back to writing...again reminding myself that this is a blog in which I write about writing. I'm feeling like a lot of the weaknesses in my writing stem from the fact that I don't take enough risks..."dare," if you will, to tell the "truth" in my stories. What I mean is, that my books are very tame...i.e., they don't reach out and grab the reader with same startling realities as say, Lisa Genova in her harsh portrayals of brain disorders, or John Grisham in his gripping suspense-filled narratives, or even Stephen King in his bloody horror stories. And yet these are all books I love to read.
My characters tend to be real people, which I suppose is fine, living real lives with emotional dilemmas that many of us can relate to. Yet two of my favorite authors, Anne Tyler and Richard Russo also have these kinds of characters and are far more successful at weaving stories around them. So what is the difference that accounts for their success?
Okay, good agents and aggressive marketing aside (as well as a bit of just plain luck), I think it all goes back to "Truth or Dare." In other words, how much "truth" they "dare" to put into their writing. I always used to quote Hemingway to my students (and to myself, as well, I suppose), when his advice about writing was to "write about what you know." But is it what you "know" or what you "really know" that you should be putting into your work?
I am working on the final draft of a new novel called Reunion. Coincidentally, I started writing this right after (or perhaps, at least in my head, during) my own high school reunion, which I attended in 2018. And no, I'm not telling you which reunion it was; suffice it to say that enough time has gone by for a good many memories to be created and possibly surface in the process.
I started this project by creating a group of characters who were close friends and composites mostly of me, but also of some of my childhood acquaintances. It's impossible, by the way, for a writer not to put parts of him or herself in the characters he/she creates, which, in itself, tends to make one wonder about some of the lives of some of the best-selling authors we all know and love. It's also not possible to create a character that doesn't have at least some minor traits of other people the writer has encountered along the way. Otherwise, these characters would be incredibly flat and inspire little or no interest from the reader. In other words, if we can't relate to the characters in a novel, we don't care what happens to them.
This is where I think that my writing abilities diverge from those of truly talented writers. I care too much what happens to my characters; I'm happy to get them in trouble, or perhaps to behave poorly at times, but I can't seem to help but rescue them at the last minute, or imbue them with some totally redeeming (though perhaps briefly hidden) personal qualities that will allow the reader to forgive and truly admire them again. In other words, I don't "dare" leave them out there to deal with the "truths" of real life and its consequences.
Here's the other thing; I don't seem to mind creating villains...in fact, I can do that rather well (which often makes me wonder what that says about my own life). But more often than not, I then end up worrying about how harsh I have been in the creation of these "bad guys" and worse yet, how precisely they might resemble real life individuals I may have encountered along the way. Then, as my grandmother would have said, "what will people think?"
So imagine writing a book about a group of friends preparing for their 50th high school reunion. Sounds kind of boring until you actually start thinking how many memories these characters have amassed in this number of years, and thus how many ancient skeletons are rattling around in their respective closets. For those born after 1980, it might be a bit hard to imagine anything particularly steamy or regrettable that could have occurred back then. If this is the case, I suggest you watch "The Graduate" or perhaps a Woodstock documentary and broaden your perspective a bit.
Anyhow, suffice it to say that memories of the bad guys get worse over time, and the minor sins of the good guys become more embarrassing, and possibly more intensely regrettable. And, as a writer if you "dare" to put the "truth" out there about either or both, you could end up with a hell of a good book...but also a rapidly diminishing social circle. On the other hand, if you don't, then honestly, why bother? Because you just created 300 pages of bargain bin material, and don't have any more of a social life than you did before.
So... Good writing tip # 3,425,690: write about what you know, and don't be afraid to "dare" to tell the "truth." Especially since everyone knows that we writers are all notorious liars, right?
Friday, 24 January 2020
If a Tree Falls in the Forest...
...and no one is there to hear it, does it make a sound? Everyone who ever took a high school biology class, or for that matter, perhaps simply a walk in the woods, has pondered this question at some point. In fact, I can remember having a number of philosophical debates on the subject, back when I was young enough to actually have the time or inclination for such conversations.
In fact, in the midst of one such conversation, I can also recall a friend of mine throwing her hands up in the air, and saying, "of course it makes a sound! Because there's always someone there! How else would you know it fell?" At which point another friend smiled smugly and added, "ah, someone may have been there, but in order to hear it, they also had to be listening."
It struck me the other day that this is also very true of being a writer...or the attempt to be recognized as such, I suppose; the analogy being, of course, that you (the writer) are the tree and the sound of you falling over is the novel, story, poem, etc. that you have written. And by extension, does it actually exist if no one reads it...i.e., if no one experiences it; if no one, philosophically speaking, is listening.
Among other shocking discoveries I have made in the course of my brief literary journey is that the majority of acquaintances I understood to be readers (listeners, if you will, to keep with the analogy, that is), actually aren't. This is not to say they don't read anything at all, but that they follow a rather narrow path of selection when they do. I confess, of course, that I am much the same, in that I have my favorite authors...Anne Tyler, Richard Russo, Lisa Genova, John Grisham, etc....but I also pride myself on being able to try someone new and different once in a while; i.e., as in take the road not taken, as Robert Frost so blithely insisted we do.
Granted, it's not always a successful path, at least as far as reading goes. Just as when one sets out on an unknown hiking trail, you never know how many obstacles there might be, or how steep or difficult the trail might become before you reach the end. On the other hand, if you don't make the trek, you might possibly never experience something truly special. Thus it is with reading; and I have now learned it may also be with writing, except as a writer, you are the trail they may or may not be willing to take, even if they are your friends and relatives, who you always thought trusted your judgment.
Okay, my first book was not that great. I mean, I actually thought it was a good story with great characters, but it definitely needed some more careful editing in terms of style and presentation. Eventually, I did so and put out a second edition. The first edition sold better than anything I've written since; the second new and improved one, hardly at all. And with my subsequent novels, the response also dwindled. This is because at first, everyone was startled to hear I'd actually written a novel, and did so perhaps out of sheer curiosity (and even hopefully, supportiveness). But then, because the first one had flaws, no one went back to read more of what I wrote after that. Meanwhile, the next five books became progressing better works, and it's frustrating that few have dared to try more...to continue on the trail, as it were, despite minor obstacles.
Returning to the aforementioned tree in the forest, this might be kind of like coming to a tree after it had already fallen and was lying there, beginning to decompose. In other words, the dramatic sound of it falling was past, so it now is largely ignored, when in truth, the next stage of its development (when perhaps small animals begin to inhabit its remains, or wildflowers and moss grow from its fallen trunk) is perhaps more fascinating or beautiful than the original tree was to begin with.
Okay, I admit it, it's a stretch. But if you write, you probably get it. You are on the road to that beautiful, unexpected view, or wildflower meadow or striking waterfall...or even to the perfect sound of a tree crashing to the forest floor, but everyone else decided to turn back...or worse yet, they stopped listening. After all, with so many trees falling out there, who really has the time?
In fact, in the midst of one such conversation, I can also recall a friend of mine throwing her hands up in the air, and saying, "of course it makes a sound! Because there's always someone there! How else would you know it fell?" At which point another friend smiled smugly and added, "ah, someone may have been there, but in order to hear it, they also had to be listening."
It struck me the other day that this is also very true of being a writer...or the attempt to be recognized as such, I suppose; the analogy being, of course, that you (the writer) are the tree and the sound of you falling over is the novel, story, poem, etc. that you have written. And by extension, does it actually exist if no one reads it...i.e., if no one experiences it; if no one, philosophically speaking, is listening.
Among other shocking discoveries I have made in the course of my brief literary journey is that the majority of acquaintances I understood to be readers (listeners, if you will, to keep with the analogy, that is), actually aren't. This is not to say they don't read anything at all, but that they follow a rather narrow path of selection when they do. I confess, of course, that I am much the same, in that I have my favorite authors...Anne Tyler, Richard Russo, Lisa Genova, John Grisham, etc....but I also pride myself on being able to try someone new and different once in a while; i.e., as in take the road not taken, as Robert Frost so blithely insisted we do.
Granted, it's not always a successful path, at least as far as reading goes. Just as when one sets out on an unknown hiking trail, you never know how many obstacles there might be, or how steep or difficult the trail might become before you reach the end. On the other hand, if you don't make the trek, you might possibly never experience something truly special. Thus it is with reading; and I have now learned it may also be with writing, except as a writer, you are the trail they may or may not be willing to take, even if they are your friends and relatives, who you always thought trusted your judgment.
Okay, my first book was not that great. I mean, I actually thought it was a good story with great characters, but it definitely needed some more careful editing in terms of style and presentation. Eventually, I did so and put out a second edition. The first edition sold better than anything I've written since; the second new and improved one, hardly at all. And with my subsequent novels, the response also dwindled. This is because at first, everyone was startled to hear I'd actually written a novel, and did so perhaps out of sheer curiosity (and even hopefully, supportiveness). But then, because the first one had flaws, no one went back to read more of what I wrote after that. Meanwhile, the next five books became progressing better works, and it's frustrating that few have dared to try more...to continue on the trail, as it were, despite minor obstacles.
Returning to the aforementioned tree in the forest, this might be kind of like coming to a tree after it had already fallen and was lying there, beginning to decompose. In other words, the dramatic sound of it falling was past, so it now is largely ignored, when in truth, the next stage of its development (when perhaps small animals begin to inhabit its remains, or wildflowers and moss grow from its fallen trunk) is perhaps more fascinating or beautiful than the original tree was to begin with.
Okay, I admit it, it's a stretch. But if you write, you probably get it. You are on the road to that beautiful, unexpected view, or wildflower meadow or striking waterfall...or even to the perfect sound of a tree crashing to the forest floor, but everyone else decided to turn back...or worse yet, they stopped listening. After all, with so many trees falling out there, who really has the time?
Thursday, 9 January 2020
A Tisket, A Tasket
Okay, I admit it, I'm one of those people who loves Christmas letters...and Christmas cards with pictures. I don't know if it's because I love reading and writing, or if I simply need to get a life. Whatever the reason, I honestly look forward to getting these communications every year, despite all the jokes about "brag letters" and "is that really the best picture you have?" type comments. I even like getting these from my kids...what does that tell you, right? It isn't that my kids don't tell me about their lives, I just like getting the official version that everyone else hears as well.
I also have to confess that I write my own Christmas letter every year, send pictures of my family, and then feel the necessity to add personal notes to each one, just so no one feels they are less important to me. It's not that my life is so exciting and I think everyone I know is dying to hear about it; it's more like if I know I'm going to write these letters every year, I subconsciously find myself putting additional energy into making my life more interesting.
Truthfully, though, this process can be a less than rewarding experience. My husband and I send out 40 some Christmas cards every year in three basic groupings: family (both of us have rather small ones), local friends and neighbors, and old friends we rarely see, but that we want to remind of our existence. The latter two categories occasionally overlap. Here are the categories we receive cards from: family, local friends and neighbors (many who, having heard from us, feel guilty and dig out and send one of the generic cards they've collected over the years), and old friends who, when reminded of our existence, also want to remind us of theirs.
Okay, these communications are all nice in their own way; regardless of my minor bouts of cynicism, I do feel that the intent behind sending them is genuine, and in a world where being "so busy" has become a badge of honor rather than a complaint, I have to appreciate the time and effort it took for those I know and love to celebrate the season in this way. Plus, it's just simply nice to get something in the mail besides offers to have my hearing tested "absolutely free of charge," invitations to retirement seminars, and weekly communication from the Pella Replacement Windows rep.
But what does all this have to do with writing, you may ask? (Since, after all, this is a blog in which I am supposed to be writing about writing). Actually, I think the reason I like getting Christmas letters so much is that it indicates the fine art of letter writing is not totally lost...and thus perhaps, neither is the art of writing itself (and by extension, reading, which is the one thing writers most hope for and cherish).
Despite the fact that I have been informed by their parents that my grandchildren prefer texts and/or very brief emails from me (as opposed to the longer newsy emails I persist in sending them in an effort to be more a part of their lives), I still find written communication rewarding. Unlike conversation, it can be revised, edited, and rephrased many times before the recipient actually hears it. This eliminates all the "I should have said" or "I wish I had just said" moments we are all the least proud of. And, at least as far as email goes, you have a copy of what you wrote, and should your recipient lose, delete, or interpret what you said inaccurately, you can always set the record straight.
I suppose writers feel this way in general about their work and this could be why we all try so hard to be published and, of course, widely read and appreciated. In other words, we are trying to be part of our readers' lives in some meaningful way, and at the same time we are sharing something about ourselves. Perhaps that's what makes the whole process so frustrating at times; i.e., here we are putting ourselves out there in the best way we know how, seeking to personally communicate, but often we can't get someone to read what we write and thus hear what we have to say; get to know who we really are, in other words.
My grandmother always used to recite silly nursery rhymes to me when I was a kid, even when I used to think I was way too old to be hearing them; but nowadays I realize that these little poems and songs were actually rather philosophic, as well as quite often applicable in the most unexpected ways. When it comes to writing, for example, I remember how sad I was to hear about that girl who put the "letter to her love" in a "green and yellow basket" but then "lost it" on her way to delivering it.
Of course, the older and more cynical I became (no doubt in my teenage years), I began to think this was more upsetting to the girl who lost the letter than the intended recipient. He, of course, never read the letter so had no idea what the girl thought and felt, nor with how much love it was written.
I also have to confess that I write my own Christmas letter every year, send pictures of my family, and then feel the necessity to add personal notes to each one, just so no one feels they are less important to me. It's not that my life is so exciting and I think everyone I know is dying to hear about it; it's more like if I know I'm going to write these letters every year, I subconsciously find myself putting additional energy into making my life more interesting.
Truthfully, though, this process can be a less than rewarding experience. My husband and I send out 40 some Christmas cards every year in three basic groupings: family (both of us have rather small ones), local friends and neighbors, and old friends we rarely see, but that we want to remind of our existence. The latter two categories occasionally overlap. Here are the categories we receive cards from: family, local friends and neighbors (many who, having heard from us, feel guilty and dig out and send one of the generic cards they've collected over the years), and old friends who, when reminded of our existence, also want to remind us of theirs.
Okay, these communications are all nice in their own way; regardless of my minor bouts of cynicism, I do feel that the intent behind sending them is genuine, and in a world where being "so busy" has become a badge of honor rather than a complaint, I have to appreciate the time and effort it took for those I know and love to celebrate the season in this way. Plus, it's just simply nice to get something in the mail besides offers to have my hearing tested "absolutely free of charge," invitations to retirement seminars, and weekly communication from the Pella Replacement Windows rep.
But what does all this have to do with writing, you may ask? (Since, after all, this is a blog in which I am supposed to be writing about writing). Actually, I think the reason I like getting Christmas letters so much is that it indicates the fine art of letter writing is not totally lost...and thus perhaps, neither is the art of writing itself (and by extension, reading, which is the one thing writers most hope for and cherish).
Despite the fact that I have been informed by their parents that my grandchildren prefer texts and/or very brief emails from me (as opposed to the longer newsy emails I persist in sending them in an effort to be more a part of their lives), I still find written communication rewarding. Unlike conversation, it can be revised, edited, and rephrased many times before the recipient actually hears it. This eliminates all the "I should have said" or "I wish I had just said" moments we are all the least proud of. And, at least as far as email goes, you have a copy of what you wrote, and should your recipient lose, delete, or interpret what you said inaccurately, you can always set the record straight.
I suppose writers feel this way in general about their work and this could be why we all try so hard to be published and, of course, widely read and appreciated. In other words, we are trying to be part of our readers' lives in some meaningful way, and at the same time we are sharing something about ourselves. Perhaps that's what makes the whole process so frustrating at times; i.e., here we are putting ourselves out there in the best way we know how, seeking to personally communicate, but often we can't get someone to read what we write and thus hear what we have to say; get to know who we really are, in other words.
My grandmother always used to recite silly nursery rhymes to me when I was a kid, even when I used to think I was way too old to be hearing them; but nowadays I realize that these little poems and songs were actually rather philosophic, as well as quite often applicable in the most unexpected ways. When it comes to writing, for example, I remember how sad I was to hear about that girl who put the "letter to her love" in a "green and yellow basket" but then "lost it" on her way to delivering it.
Of course, the older and more cynical I became (no doubt in my teenage years), I began to think this was more upsetting to the girl who lost the letter than the intended recipient. He, of course, never read the letter so had no idea what the girl thought and felt, nor with how much love it was written.
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