Flogging the Quill

FtQ’s first Show v Tell Clinic

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Updates
1. I saluted you guys in a post on Writer Unboxed yesterday.

2. My take on the show v tell question is below. Thanks for your suggestions.

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Some time back, I wrote about how to show and when to tell, and at the end of the post said this:

Do you have something from your own work that you suspect is telling but you don't know how to show? Tell me about it and I'll see if I can help.

Now, two years later, a writer has finally taken me up on it. Kathy wrote,

I hope this offer is still open. I'd like to submit a couple of instances where a critiquer wanted me to show, not tell, and I'm flummoxed how to do so.

The answer is yes. But first, a plug. There was a litblogger known as Mad Max who retired his mouse a couple of years back, and it turned out that he was an executive editor at Penguin Putnam. He then moved on to become a literary agent at The Writers House. Here's what editor/agent Dan Conaway said in a comment on my show-tell post:

"While it'd be crazy to suggest that a writer's performance in the 'show don't tell' drill is what separates amateurs from Olympians, there's no doubt that internalizing Ray's wonderful encapsulation of the principle will improve the chances of a reader (like this grumpy editor, say) reading more than a single paragraph of your manuscript before tossing it on the scrap-heap."

Well, I for one hate to see a writer being flummoxed (great word). Then I had the idea of expanding her request into a "Show v Tell" clinic, and she said it was okay.

So here's the deal

In comments, share your thoughts about whether or not Kathy's critiquer was right about the need in these two examples, and then offer your suggestions for unflummoxing Kathy.

I will let it run for a day, and then add my own reactions in an update. If I may be so bold, you might want to read the post on how to show and when to tell before you jump in. Kathy's critiquer's notes are in red.

But first, a minor rant on "felt." As you'll see, Kathy's critiquer focused in on her use of felt. Felt is a passive, lazy verb that doesn't do much for picturing. An example from a sample sent to me:

She felt radiant.

I know that there are times when you must use that verb -- I have -- but it borders on "telling." If it's possible to describe the sensation in a more active way, I think it's better. For example, instead of "felt radiant," what about:

Joy filled her.

Or maybe there's an interesting way to use "felt:"

Her body felt like a smile

Okay, are you primed and ready? You've read how to show and when to tell? Then unflummox Kathy.

Sample 1)
Over the next two days, Julie found several ways to get Peter to pay attention to her. She dropped her books right next to him. He helped pick them up for her. Then she "twisted" her ankle near him. He supported her to the nurse's office. And carried her book bag for her after school.

Melissa felt show how she felt, not tell she was watching a drama play out in front of her that she couldn't stop.

What does Kathy need to do in that last paragraph, or is "felt" an appropriate way to express this narrative?

Sample 2)
To the brisk music, they jumped and whipped their legs together, landing in either a tight fifth or coupé each time, depending on the number of beats they did.

"Over cross the fifth in the air," Miss Sylvia told them.

Melissa felt show, don't tell uncoordinated as her feet spazzed through the moves. Most of the other students fumbled through the exercise as well. A few stopped after assemblé, bewildered.

Okay, please chime in, and then I'll add my thoughts.

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In my view, the first "felt" example isn't a show versus tell situation. The narrative is about her feeling as if something else were happening, and I think that part of the narrative works. If there's anything missing, it would be a little "show" on the emotions or reactions that sense of watching an unstoppable drama causes. Is she glad about it, or the opposite?

The second "felt" is definitely a tell that needs to be replaced. My first step would be to do as Stace suggested in her comment:

Melissa's feet spazzed through the moves.

That eliminates the telling of "felt" and shows the lack of coordination, and I think the reader will get it. However, it could be expanded a little to include more of the feelings, perhaps with something like this:

Melissa's feet spazzed through the moves like a beginner instead of someone who'd spent years in dance classes.

A word of caution on helping other writers out with things like this: while it's okay to offer completely new ideas and language, as an editor I seldom do extensive rewriting. It has to do with respecting the writer's voice. But constructive criticism about perceived shortcomings and direction on what and how to correct them is good stuff, and I'm sure Kathy has gained a great deal of valuable insight from your comments.

What about you?

Do you have instances in your work where you see a need to show versus telling and would like some ideas on how to do it? Email me with the piece as Kathy has along with permission to use it for a Show v Tell Clinic on FtQ and I'll get you some help.

For what it's worth,

Ray

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ARCHIVES .

© 2008 Ray Rhamey

Rewind: jump-start your novel with kitty-cats in action

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I'm swamped by my day job, so today I offer a replay of what was has become one of my more appreciated notions, and the inspiration for the book I'm putting together of the best of Flogging the Quill's coaching and critiques. The title, not coincidentally, is Jump-start Your Novel with Kitty-cats in Action.

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Back when I had an agent, on a New Year's Eve he mentioned that he had just received a rejection for one of his other client’s novels from an editor with whom it had been for six months. I immediately pictured the editor zooming through a stack of manuscripts on his/her desk just before the holidays, trying to clear it for the coming year. Not gripped by the first quick, expert glance at the manuscript's first page, the  harassed editor moved on.

This brings home in a real way my belief that it is the very FIRST page that determines whether or not a busy agent or editor reads more. I think your opening page has to be COMPELLING. To the right is a typical agent/editor, terminally weary of openings that fail and dreaming of finding just one that grabs her by her furry little ears.

There are straightforward techniques for reaching out to a harried mind and provoking a moment’s attention. One is to open your story in the midst of something happening. Opening in the middle of action (versus placidly setting the scene) is a key to engaging a reader.

Hairball raced across the clover, leaping honeybees, never taking his gaze from Barfie, praying her grip would hold.

This opening raises immediate story questions that a reader will want to know the answers to—why is Hairball racing? Who is Barfie? What is Barfie? What do they have to do with each other? What’s Barfie's scary-sounding problem?

Unusual circumstances added to the action intensify interest. You’ve heard of “fish out of water” stories…how about “cat in water?”

Up to his dewclaws in the cold wetness of the stream, Hairball wanted to yowl his discomfort, but he had to choke back all sound and keep his eyes on his prey.

Opening with action that depicts a significant challenge to a character will keep a reader moving down the page, too.

Hairball eyed the tree trunk's towering height. It was an impossible climb. He was too small, too weak. But if he didn’t climb, Barfie would fall to her death.

Plenty of story questions raised there. But we can do better. Now let’s open with action combined with jeopardy for increased tension.

Barfie dug her claws into the branch, struggling to keep her balance. She dared not look down; her last glance at the dizzying height had almost sent her tumbling. Her ears caught a cracking sound…the branch was tearing away from the trunk.

Yeeks! Now to really create opening tension by combining  action and jeopardy with conflict.

Hairball arched his back and hissed at the beast. It was easily three times his size, an alien species that had been stalking him and now crouched, poised to spring. There was no place to run. He extended his claws…

Don’t get me wrong. Not all openings have to begin with physical action…but they MUST begin to raise story questions immediately. Remember that thoughts are action, too.

Hairball wondered if Barfie’s soul now rested on one of the puffy pillows in the sky, freed from her broken body. How would he face her mother after he’d sworn they would be safe?

The point of all this is that your opening page narrative has to first be vivid enough to catch the reader's thoughts and then compel reading on by raising story questions. I’ll tell you something else—I think that, for a new novelist to break in, every chapter ought to do the same thing.

Seems like a story about kitty-cats ought to have a happy ending, so here are Hairball and Barfie after their adventures are done. You supply the narrative in the comments.

For what it's worth.

Ray

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ARCHIVES . © 2008 Ray Rhamey

Yippee! I have to scrap half of my novel!

As some of you know, I have a novel titled We the Enemy that I've been giving away as an e-book because I think it has something to contribute to what we think about the right to bear arms and other concerns in today's society.

But that's not enough -- I want to get it published, even if I have to do it myself, so that perhaps it can reach more people. But I know that I have limitations as a reader of my own writing, so I've invested in an editor, a pro who is a former editor and publisher for a couple of major publishing imprints.

Some history

It's not that this novel hasn't been reviewed and worked on. It has

• gone through two critique groups
• been rewritten with direction from a literary agent
• scored a newbie literary agent who couldn't sell it
• been read by a number of people, garnering mostly very positive reviews and sometimes the word "inspiring"
• called a page-turner with interesting characters (though not for all)
• been tweaked, revised, polished, rewritten for years. Tens of thousands of words have been tossed, more tens of thousands added, characters have been cut, story elements trimmed…and on.

For most readers, this novel can be safely rated as "good," at the least. But, still, I'd never had truly professional eyes critique it.

There was good news and bad news

I thought I'd share portions of his editorial letter evaluating the manuscript as, perhaps, a way of helping you understand the real value of the fresh, professional eyes of an editor. First of all, I felt validated. Secondly, the value of a pro's insights became immediately clear.

Here's what my new editor says:

"I think you have a very strong premise here, that you write scenes crisply, and that you do a very good job of presenting the ambiguities of your scenario. You've offered a great deal to think about in this novel, and I think you will start quite a few conversations with it.

"Before you can get there, though, I think you need to take some steps to bolster the novel editorially.

"You had me fired up for most of the first third of the novel. You introduced me to interesting characters, you presented a compelling situation, you gave me a cause to care about, and you made me worry that this cause was at risk. I think you laid the groundwork for a high-concept speculative thriller. From there, though, I think you slipped off course.

"The deal you made with the reader in the early segments of this novel was that you were going to show us the story of a political revolution, the ramifications of that revolution, and what happens when the old guard attempts to squash the revolution. In some ways, you do deliver that story. The revolution suffers a great loss, and the old guard gets its comeuppance. However, I think the approach you took to get there makes the book feel smaller than it could be."

After specific notes on logic issues, character concerns, and plot issues, he concluded this way:

"I believe you have some work to do to take this to the next level, but I think it is worth doing. I like the concept for this novel very much and I think you can generate some passionate word-of-mouth with it. But you can only do this if you make the scenario intensely believable and you populate the novel with interesting and complex characters."

It's that last part that I think can be most instructional for all my fellow writers, especially of speculative fiction.

And here's the thing I think you can learn about having an editor critique your manuscript: I had this story pretty much the way I wanted it. And it seemed to be working with readers. I had good reason to be content. To be honest, I hoped for confirmation when I sent the manuscript to the editor.

Sound familiar? Now, because I know that any critique is subjective, it would be valid for me to ignore the input. I'm not going to because these particular "fresh eyes" are highly professional, and the mind behind them has vetted scores of published novels, and rejected scores more.

Even though I had things the way I wanted them, it turns out that my way may not be the most effective way of telling the story and engaging the reader. The editor found the opening third very involving, and wants the novel to end the way it does now, but the story road in between needs to be upgraded from two lanes to a freeway.

I guess the point is that when you feel satisfied with your novel, there's still plenty of room for doubt, and a need for a professional critique. I'm a member of a writers group that includes published authors whose agents provide that kind of input, and it often causes extensive revisions.

I have lots of work to do (like ripping out characters, re-imagining most of the middle of the novel, and making the older pieces still add up).

But I'm looking forward to it, and my mind is already bubbling with ways to do it. After my rewrite, the deal includes another read and review. Wish me luck.

For what it's worth,

Ray

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Public floggings available. If I can post it here,

1. send 1st chapter or prologue as an attachment (cutting and pasting and reformatting from an email is a time-consuming pain) and I'll critique the first couple of pages.
2. Please include in your email permission to post it on FtQ.
3. And, optionally, permission to use it as an example in a book if that's okay.
4. If you're in a hurry, I've done "private floggings," $50 for a first chapter.
5. If you rewrite while you wait you turn, it's okay with me to update the submission.

ARCHIVES .

© 2008 Ray Rhamey

Flog the flogger: Which opening to use?

There was some irony last week when I decided to change the opening of one of my novels, We the Enemy. The irony is that I had submitted to the BookEnds literary agency blog's contest for the best first 100 words in a thriller/suspense novel, and my entry was one of two honorable mentions selected by Jessica, one of the principals of the agency.

Update I queried Jessica by email, and she responded with a request for a partial. I sent the version with the first opening below. There's merit in entering competitions by literary agents, it seems.

By the way, a 100-word test of your hook is much tougher than the 16-line hurdle I use for the Flogometer. When I decided to enter the BookEnds competition, I edited lean narrative even further. Try it. Determine your first 100 words and see if you think it has a chance to grab a reader's interest.

Here's the submission:

Jake Black stretched in his car seat and imagined the suspected terrorist charging out of the house across the street, AK 47 spewing bullets. Anything to break up the boredom -- in Jake's business, drowsy equaled dead.

His cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He flicked it open -- damn, he'd made it clear that his daughter's nanny was never to call him on the job.

"What?"

Gretchen's whisper shook. "Your wife -- she's here."

Impossible. "How?"

"I don't know. The doorbell rang, and there she was."

Dear God. "Does she have Amy?"

"I tried to stop her, Mr. Black, I tried."

Jessica said this about the sample:

"I love the idea of a stakeout or a sting operation, so already I'm interested in this, but when you throw in the possibility of this man's family getting caught in the middle you have my attention. That's a twist you rarely see in something like this and definitely has me interested in more."

But the story has a larger element

Meanwhile, I'd become dissatisfied with the opening. While I liked it (and still do) as a dramatic opening, the novel is basically a political thriller, and the opening above communicates nothing like that. So I moved things around and put a different chapter at the front of the novel. Here are the first 93 words of that version:

Scowling at a rosebush, President Leo Beaumont clicked the blades of his clippers. He said, "I fear what will happen to America in the hands of the opposition."

Kurt Dengler had heard that polls were tight, but it couldn't be that bad. "It's not going anywhere you don't want it to."

"Part of it already is. Noah Stone and his Alliance will cost me Oregon for sure, probably Washington. You're going to help me. . . He reached out to a rose that had just opened and decapitated it. ". . .destroy him."

So now I don't know which opening to go with. Personal drama, or political intrigue?

Your thoughts?

Ray

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Public floggings available. If I can post it here,

1. send 1st chapter or prologue as an attachment (cutting and pasting and reformatting from an email is a time-consuming pain) and I'll critique the first couple of pages.
2. Please include in your email permission to post it on FtQ.
3. And, optionally, permission to use it as an example in a book if that's okay.
4. If you're in a hurry, I've done "private floggings," $50 for a first chapter.

ARCHIVES .

© 2008 Ray Rhamey

Don’t be generous

For a recently flogged novel opening, commenter ing said, "I would probably have read on," even though overall the writing craft and storytelling were not yet professional. He said that because a character resonated with him. It's okay to be generous for a page or two, right?

Wrong.

When you evaluate the opening of a novel in a Flogometer session, don't be generous. Be demanding. Don't give a second, make the reader force it from you. The same goes when you're looking at your own work.

Be generous (meaning kindly) when you offer a critique, but not when it comes to turning the page. I talk about "compelling," and I mean it. Here's a definition:

com-pel
verb
a: to force; b: to urge irresistibly

What's wrong with being generous? What's wrong with allowing a reader to peel a story like the petticoats on a 1950s teeny-bopper, revealing character and plot layer by layer, in all their fullness and richness? I mean, there are plenty of famous novels and current bestsellers by top authors that take their time for the story to surface, right?

Well, famous works and established authors face a different reality than unpublished writers. Reputation or a history with readers can buy their stories the time to ease into things.

But if you're unpublished and trying to land a literary agent, your reality is the hundreds of submissions an agent receives and the chore it becomes to crawl through them, looking for reasons to reject while at the same time hoping for a story worth reading. They're looking for professional-level storytelling.

Let's say you do land an agent, and the agent sends your novel to an acquisitions editor. The same grim reality opens its maws -- an audience of one who has sharp, particular tastes, who has an agenda that your story may or may not fit, who wants a great story but has a pile of submissions to go through, and quickly finding a reason to pass is a good thing.

Your first page is all your pages

The odds are excellent that an editor or agent will see all the reasons they need to pass -- or to keep reading -- right there on your first manuscript page. Just like agents and editors who see rivers of submissions, I can tell you from seeing scores of opening pages for novels that the first page typically foreshadows what's to come, storywise and writingwise. One quick skim over that page usually provides all the reason I need to decide whether to turn the page or set the manuscript aside. I can't think of an instance when the pages that followed redeemed inadequate writing on the first page.

Generosity is a disservice to the writer

What agents and editors and I are looking for is narrative that will be compelling to as many readers as possible. That's why a personal resonance like ing's isn't enough. We need to see writing that is professional. A strong, confidant voice. A hook that engages us and pulls us forward. If I, or you, vote to turn the page because some element "interests" us -- versus compels us -- then we're doing the writer more harm than good.

Denial is a natural response

I use Google Alerts to track when people post something about Flogging the Quill, and more than once I've come across a post on the blog of a writer who has been flogged who has said that, really, his/her opening didn't have to be all that compelling because…(fill in your own excuse here). Sometimes they justify that conclusion with a generous comment by an FtQ reader. Maybe their writing doesn't have to be compelling to succeed with one critical reader somewhere -- but why take the chance?

If the opening page, and the second page, and the third page, and every page of your novel isn't truly compelling, then you are at risk of losing your reader. If you're trying to break into publishing, that reader is an agent or an editor. You don't want to lose that reader on any page.

You only have seconds

Even when you're published, the prospect of rejection still hovers over your story. As publisher/editor Sol Stein reports Stein on Writing of his observations in a bookstore:

"In the fiction section, the most common pattern was for the browser to read the front flap of the book's jacket and then go to page one. No browser went beyond page three before either taking the book to the cashier or putting it down and picking up another to sample."

What did those readers see in the novels they chose to purchase, and what did they fail to see in the ones they rejected?

You know. Ask yourself what readers buy novels for. Is it

• Lush descriptions?
• Great dialogue?
• Fascinating characters?
• Deep themes?
  

Nope. Just one thing.

• Story.
  

Those bookstore browsers either saw signs of a story they wanted to read, or they did not. They felt compelled to keep reading, or not. That quickly. You do it too, don't you?

A few seconds. A page or three. That's how long you have to snare a reader's interest. It's not like when you ask a family member, or a friend, or even a critique group member to read your new novel -- they sorta have to. No, in the real world, you have a page or two. And if it's that difficult with a bookstore browser who is on the hunt for a story to read, how tough do you think it is with a jaded, weary agent or a jaded, way-to-swamped acquisitions editor?

So when you examine the work of another writer, and especially when you examine your own work, DON'T BE GENEROUS. Be inordinately, aggressively, stubbornly resistant to a narrative that just doesn't have what it takes to force you to turn the page.

Comments, anyone?

For what it's worth,

Ray

Public floggings available. If I can post it here,

1. send 1st chapter or prologue as an attachment (cutting and pasting and reformatting from an email is a time-consuming pain) and I'll critique the first couple of pages.
2. Please include in your email permission to post it on FtQ.
3. And, optionally, permission to use it as an example in a book if that's okay.

ARCHIVES .

© 2008 Ray Rhamey

Maybe not all adverbs are bad guys

In a post long ago and far away, when writing about writing for effect, I talked about  "throwing out the adverbage." My view, and that of many editors and writers, is that adverbs are frequently the bane of creating writing that shows instead of tells.

I wrote back then that adverbs that modify action verbs are merely a form of telling. They are abstractions of action, pallid substitutes for the real thing, mere stand-ins. As a result, they rarely give the reader much of an experience.

Well, I was recently reviewing an older manuscript of mine and I spotted, gasp, an adverb. Here's the sentence:

She saw Murphy, like a big, round boulder parting a stream of girly secretaries cramming in a buzz of noontime shopping, staring blatantly at their bobbing chests.

"Staring blatantly?" Damn. Another case of making an adverb try to do the work of real description. In this case the answer lay, as usual, in the verb. After a moment's thought, I swapped out "leering" for "staring blatantly." Much better, give a clear picture with fewer words.

Having fixed that, I moved along, alert for more inept adverbial description. Then I came upon a pair of adverbs that worked…

He found Emmaline annoyingly cheerful but pleasingly proficient.

But wait, I thought, how come these seem right to me when I've preached loud and long to avoid the use of adverbs. Then I noticed that these were modifying adjectives rather than verbs.

Good cholesterol and bad cholesterol.

There was a time when we believed that all cholesterol was bad. Then we learned that there is good cholesterol and bad cholesterol.

Well, maybe I need to change my position that all adverbs are suspect, if not bad. Maybe there are "good" adverbs, the ones that add just the right flavor to an adjective, enhancing it with a more complete shade of meaning.

Consider the sentence about Emmaline above. Could I have achieved what I wanted, which was to give insight into one character's feeling and attitudes toward another, in a better, equally economical way? I don't think so. Without the adverbs we have:

He found Emmaline to be cheerful but proficient.

We've lost how the viewpoint character feels about Emmaline's personality. I went on a search for other adverbs (using Word's Find tool to locate "ly" in words).

I found this:

Her fair cheeks fetchingly reddened by the cold, she looked no older than a teenager.

Yep, for me this works as well. The pattern seems to be that adverbs are a positive addition when adding the nuance provided by a point-of-view character to what would otherwise be simple description. It would have been okay to write. . .

Her fair cheeks reddened by the cold, she looked no older than a teenager.

. . .and you would have gotten a picture. But with the addition of the adverb, you also get the character's experience, i.e. his emotional reaction to the appearance he sees -- fetching, attractive.

The pattern I was discovering seemed to be that adverbs are a positive addition when adding the nuance provided by a point-of-view character to what would otherwise be simple description. Another instance:

He loved the Staffordshire blue-and-white rose pattern, beautifully detailed and botanically accurate right down to the thorns on the stems.

Take "beautifully" and "botanically" out of that sentence and I think it loses both meaning and flavor.

Once more:

She changed her disguise to the queenly dignity of a white-haired society matron she'd met in Brussels.

Now, to "show" without the adverb would have required something like this:

She changed her disguise to that of a dignified, white-haired society matron with the manner of a queen whom she'd met in Brussels.

Not as effective, is it?

Here are a good adverb and bad adverb in the same sentence from a client's manuscript:

A young waiter with carefully streaked hair smiled suggestively at her.

For me, the first adverb expands the picture of the waiter's hair by giving a hint of precision in the arrangement of the streaks, which tells me something about him as well. But I'd like to see the second adverb usage replaced with something more truly pictorial.

So what do you think? Are we onto something here? I'd really appreciate your joining in.

Bottom line, now I'm thinking that when you go hunting for adverbs, as you should, it's action where you should consider looking for a better verb to do the job, and description where you may find adverbs to be good cholesterol.

For what it's worth,

Ray

Public floggings available. If I can post it here,

1. send 1st chapter or prologue as an attachment (cutting and pasting and reformatting from an email is a time-consuming pain) and I'll critique the first couple of pages.
2. Please include in your email permission to post it on FtQ.
3. And, optionally, permission to use it as an example in a book if that's okay.

 

ARCHIVES .

© 2007 Ray Rhamey

Writing saidless dialogue

There are so many "rules" about writing dialogue tags. One you hear most often is to use "said" instead of more colorful verbs. The theory is that the narrative should give the reader an idea of the nature of the speech, of how it's delivered, and that "said" becomes "invisible" and thus lets the dialogue and action do their thing.

In general, I agree with this, although there are times a verb other than said can be better. For me, "said" does tend to disappear. Especially in my own writing, where I hardly ever use dialogue tags.

In my workshop at the Writer's Weekend conference this year, a participant who is also an editor volunteered that she felt that the dialogue tag "said" was, in fact, far from the "invisible" dialogue tag device that many say it is.

It turned out that the manuscript that provoked her comment probably stemmed from it having too many dialogue tags, whether "said" or otherwise. But that got me to take a fresh look at my own work -- was I over-saiding or over-tagging in any way? So I reviewed a work in progress, an older manuscript going through a polish.

As I said, I'm a proponent of avoiding dialogue tags whenever possible. The first 3 manuscript pages are an action scene, and there was hardly a dialogue tag in sight.

For me, examples teach far better than theory does. I could prattle on about the notion of using action beats instead of dialogue tags, and I have before, but seeing them in action (pun intended) may work better for you.

So I offer to you an example of how to do a virtually "saidless, tagless" scene -- there are just 2 tags in 3 pages. This is not intended to be an example of amazing writing, but of dialogue technique. I hope you find it instructive. Here's the scene.

Jake Black stretched in his car seat and imagined the suspect charging out of the four-story apartment house across the street, AK 47 blazing, and then himself returning fire. Anything to break up the boredom -- in his business, drowsy equaled dead.

The cell phone in his pocket vibrated. He flicked it open -- damn, it was his home phone number. When he'd taken Gretchen on as his daughter's nanny, he'd made it clear to never call him on the job. "What?"

Her whisper shook. "She's here."

Impossible. "How?"

"I don't know. The doorbell rang, and there she was."

Dear God. "Does she have Amy?"

Gretchen's voice broke. "I tried to stop her, Mister Black, I tried to stop her."

He started his car. "I'm coming. Call 911 now!" He disconnected, slammed into gear and floored the gas. Driving one-handed, he called the Agency. "This's Jake."

"Kamura. Is he moving?"

"I am. Emergency at home. Get somebody out to cover for me, now. I'm gone."

Jake ended the call. How could Marcie have escaped from the sanitarium? Still locked in postpartum psychosis five years since he'd found her beating their four-month-old daughter, he couldn't even mention Amy's name to Marcie.

As he raced south on Lake Shore Drive, he called Gretchen. "How . . . how is Amy?"

"I'm so frightened, Mr. Black. I tried to grab Amy away, but your wife screamed she would kill her if I came closer. Amy was crying. But I don't . . . I don't hear her any more."

"Stay away from them." He rounded the corner and screeched to a stop in front of his brownstone. The afternoon sun dappled its bricks with the shade of trees lining the street. It couldn't have seemed more peaceful.

He yanked out his gun and raced toward the front door. It swung open before he got to it.

Gretchen pointed. "Upstairs!"

He ran up the stairs and through Amy's bedroom doorway. Toys and books cluttered the floor. Her window stood open; a breeze stirred the chintz curtains. His wife's laugh came from outside. He scrambled through the window and thundered up the iron fire-escape stairs.

On the roof, Marcie, as slender as ever, her long brown hair swirling in the breeze, held Amy over the parapet at the edge. Amy hung like a Raggedy Ann doll, her eyes closed. Marcie laughed as she swung Amy back and forth. Amy's head lolled with the motion. Her crucifix glittered at her neck.

When she'd asked to wear her necklace that morning, he'd said it was just for special days. And Amy had said, "Maybe today is a special day, and we just don't know it yet."

Marcie looked around at the crunch of Jake's steps on the graveled surface. She smiled. "Hi, honey, I'm home."

His heart ached at the madness in her eyes. "Please put Amy down, Marcie."

She frowned. "You like her better than me."

"No, honey, no way. You're the best. Just put her down."

Marcie brightened. "But she won't hurt me any more." She pulled Amy's limp form to her. "I fixed that."

He prayed that Amy was only unconscious. "Lay her down, Marcie, and step away from her."

She scowled at him. "No." She swung Amy back out over the parapet. "We're playing."

He aimed his gun. "Put her down."

She laughed and lifted Amy high and smiled up at her. "Isn't this fun, Sweetie?"

Amy swung inside the parapet, safe from the long fall -- he pulled the trigger. The bullet took Marcie below the ribs. Blood reddened an air conditioning tower behind her, and she staggered.

Marcie screamed at him, "Fuck you." She threw Amy over.

Too late, he pulled the trigger again.

The bullet spun Marcie to face him. Her expression softened. Her eyes cleared, and the woman he loved looked out at him. "I'm so sorry."

She threw herself over the edge.

Jake ran to the edge. Their bodies lay side by side in the alley below. It looked as if they held hands.

His heart locked up.

Comments?

For what it's worth,

Ray

Public floggings available. If I can post it here, send 1st chapter or prologue as an attachment (cutting and pasting and reformatting from an email is a time-consuming pain) and I'll critique the first couple of pages.

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© 2007 Ray Rhamey

Flashing back

Flashbacks are tough. When should you use them, if at all? Editors such as me and, I'm certain, most agents, see scores upon scores of manuscripts with openings suffocated by the weight of flashbacks and explanatory exposition.

Some say to never use them, and that's possible. But there are times a flashback can enrich a story, add depth and meaning, that would otherwise not be there. There are other times when, without prior knowledge, a character's actions will seem unmotivated, and thus not credible.

So when and how do you use flashbacks? I've always advocated only when the knowledge revealed in the flashback is ABSOLUTELY CRITICAL to understand what's going on in the story's present. Beginning writers need to be tough on themselves here. They'll feel like a reader needs to know things about a character that, truthfully, are not necessary for understanding the NOW. It's the NOW that readers want to be immersed in.

In my most recent wip, though, I discovered another reason for flashbacks. Or perhaps it's merely a variation on the one just cited. My protagonist is, at the novel's opening, planning on killing herself, and her voice is cold. Critique partners and readers let me know that the character wasn't sympathetic enough to engage them emotionally. The second reason for a flashback is necessary characterization.

We pause for notes on the how of creating a flashback.

1. Weave it as seamlessly as possible into the action. Words such as "remembered" and phrases such as "thought of the time when" are bright red flags that signal to many readers that coming soon to a page near them is a part to skip. Transitions are key.
2. Make the flashback a true scene with action, dialogue, tension, and all the storytelling elements that you use to keep a reader engaged. Avoid telling a past event (unless it can be done in one brief, crisp paragraph). Readers want to experience what's happening, not just receive information.

My solution was to break the flashback story into pieces and weave it into the action. In addition, I avoided flashbacks until the second chapter in order to give my story's action a chance to hook the reader.

Here's the first piece of the past and how I wove it in. The protagonist has entered the Chicago Art Institute for a last look at beauty before she ends her life. A key transitional element is that something that happens in the NOW triggers THEN.

A couple studies a directory, holding hands. Like a double exposure of life, I see Graeme and me on our last day together. After a visit to the Met, we had held hands as we strolled in Central Park, past trees bright green with new spring leaves.

I said, "The new sculpture exhibit was excellent."

Graeme shrugged. "Perhaps." He gestured at the people who plodded through the park. "But there's little else of excellence from that sorry race."

My contrary side reared its head. While I was not fond of our unskilled cousins, I rebelled at the unfairness of the bias Graeme inherited from his father. "There is plenty of good in the lessi, and you know it."

"I do not." He surveyed the people around us. Dozens wandered, for it was a sunny day. "See their colors, Ailia. Is there kindness or good will anywhere?"

I looked, and he was right. The lledri auras around their heads writhed with the nasty burgundy of hostility, the yellow-green of lies, the ash-violet of depression, and the bruised red of violence. That, of course, only served to rally my resistance. "Perhaps not here, not now, but there are many good-hearted lessi."

Graeme got the grin that I loved so, the way it painted his face with mischief. Behind it lived a wide-eyed, little-boy-lost wonder at the immensity of life that made me want to wrap my arms around him. Though he was a decade my senior, our hearts were not a minute apart. After a hundred and fifty years together, we knew that we were One, that rarest of blends that has a chance of lasting for the long centuries.

He made an exaggerated moue and said, "A wager?"

I picked up the gauntlet. "Yes." I pointed down a curving walk. "We'll go that way, and we'll find a worthy lessi."

"The stakes?"

I ran my hands over my breasts and down my belly.

Oh, that smile of his. He said, "It's a bet."

If only I had not taunted him. If only . . .

I shake off the vision as I pass exhibits of medieval armor that look like little metal men. They make me think of my former father-in-law, Drago -- short of stature and hard. I wonder if Drago's venom has abated. Though why should it? He has a right to hold me responsible for the loss of his son. I led Graeme to his death, did I not?

With luck, I've let the reader see a likeable version of my protagonist, saucy and lively. With luck, this snippet of the past was entertaining enough to be engaging. It has conflict, and it has a bit of a cliffhanger ending that raises a story question: what happened?

I hope the way I eased into the memory -- Like a double exposure of life, I see --doesn't trigger the part-to-skip alarm, and that my exit slips  my reader back into the action.

Here's the second part of the flashback. In terms of the characterization I felt was needed to create an empathetic character, there are two elements: the tragedy that struck her husband, and her nature as a healer. It also illustrates my take on the use of a natural kind of "magic," a core piece of the novel. Now we're inside a museum exhibit.

I move to a display of medieval Celtic swords, artful because of their wonderfully crafted grips, yet their blades are instruments of death.

Once again it's now and then -- in Central Park, Graeme and I came upon a woman pulling a two-wheeled shopping cart. She radiated a rosy gold, the rich hue of caring. Perhaps sixty years old, she was stout, anchored to the earth like an oak tree. I pointed. "See that, Mr. Skeptic?"

Graeme spread his arms in surrender, lifted his gaze to the heavens and said, as if to a higher power, "Why have you once again given Ailia victory over your poor servant Graeme?"

I poked him in the ribs and said, "I believe you owe me."

He pulled me into his arms and pressed me to him. "I'm ready."

His body let me know that he was indeed ready. My pulse quickened, and I wanted to take him by the hand, find a cluster of bushes, cast a shadow illusion for concealment, and make love.

The woman stopped before a trio of homeless men who sprawled on ragged blankets. She opened a brown paper bag from her cart and I caught the aroma of bologna. The woman took a paper-wrapped sandwich from the sack and handed it to one of the men. He sat up, ripped off the paper, and attacked the food.

I couldn't resist adding another straw to the camel's back. Pushing away from Graeme, I said, "If we're so advanced, we should help."

He laughed, and then put on a thick French accent. "But of course, ma cherie." Stepping to the woman's side, he gestured to the sack of sandwiches and said, "May I?"

She smiled and nodded, and Graeme took a sandwich from the bag and thrust it at a whiskery man whose bristles made him look like a wild boar.

The boar man scrambled to his feet, digging into a pocket. Too late I saw in his aura the acrid tornado of colors that means madness. He pulled out a knife, flicked it open and thrust it into Graeme's chest. Graeme collapsed as if a puppet whose strings had been cut.

I fell to my knees beside him. Widening my sight to see bright motes of lledri coursing around us, I gathered a stream and plunged it into Graeme's chest to heal the wound. But his heart had been sliced almost in two. There was no way I could mend him. I looked into his eyes and saw terrible fear . . . and then an even more terrible absence.

I sprang to my feet and sent lledri into the killer's torso to grip his heart. I could crush it or incinerate it. I had only to decide.

The thin yellow of fear streaked the man's whirling colors, mixing with jagged bursts of red-orange: his pain. I'd been a healer for too many years; reflexively, I probed his brain and found it ravaged by swarms of Borna virus, the cause of his schizophrenia.

My One had been killed by bits of malicious RNA.

I released my hold on the boar man's heart. Graeme would have chided me for being a do-gooder, but I couldn't resist my next impulse. I wielded lledri to break the viruses into harmless molecules. It would take time for the man's symptoms to abate, but he immediately looked down at Graeme's bloodstained chest, and then at the bloody knife in his hand. Horror twisted his features. He cried out, dropped the knife, and ran away.

My foolishness had killed my One.

If only . . .

Movement pulls my mind from the past. The stocky guard appears at the entrance to the Celtic exhibit, her full cheeks flushed, her body tight, clearly on the hunt.

I can't be discovered.

Once again I used a real-time stimulus to trigger the association and transition into the flashback, blades that cause death just as the boar man's knife ended her husband's life. This was the end of my flashbacking for this character. I used a similar approach for the other primary protagonist, breaking a key event in his childhood into two small pieces that are eased into the story in the same way.

That's my take du jour on the use of flashbacks. I hope these examples have proved both entertaining and helpful. Let me know what you think.

For what it's worth,

Ray

Free edit. Email a sample for an edit that I can post here.

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© 2006 Ray Rhamey

Guest article: how to start a novel

I'm deep in the throes of polishing a novel this week, so I'm going to rely on a guest article about how to start one to fill this week's FtQ post. I find how differently other writers approach the task of creating a novel to be fascinating. Some of this writer's techniques don't feel like they would work for me, but they do for her, and may for you as well.

How to Start a Novel: The Willingness to be the Best and the Worst
by Albyn Leah Hall
Author of The Rhythm of the Road: A Novel

Writing fiction is like allowing yourself to be the ugliest person in the room and the most beautiful person at the same time. The 'beautiful' you swans into the party, garnering admiration, presuming that everyone else will be interested in what you have to say -- about anything. The 'ugly' you would prefer to cower in the kitchen, scoffing leftovers in the dark.

It's a schizoid existence. The part of you that is dying to be heard is chronically at odds with the part of you that fears exposure, rejection, or being just plain bad, which brings me to my next point. In order to write a novel, you must be willing to be bad. This is especially true in the first draft; it is, arguably, what the first draft is for. (Or, in keeping with the analogy, in order to be beautiful, you must be ugly first.)

There is no easy way to do this. Every writer has his or her own way of wrestling with the demons, and I can't tell you how to wrestle with yours. However, I can suggest some techniques which I use when starting a novel; simple strategies which help to free me from my inhibitions and create a space for the work to emerge.

1) When you begin a novel, rather than thinking you must write for, say, a minimum of four to six hours a day, try only to write for one hour maximum. This means you may write for no more than one hour! Most of us harbor an image of the tortured writer; the pacing, hair-pulling novelist locked up in a chicken shed while the world spins without him. And yet, while writing inevitably entails some pain and struggle, the stereotype of the suffering, workaholic writer is your enemy. The first draft is when you must pull something out of nothing: words from the ether, or from your unconscious. If you impose a tough regime upon it before it has had a chance to breathe, you will stifle it. If, rather, you write in bite-sized pieces, tantalizing yourself with just a little each day, then eventually you will want to write more, and take delicious pleasure in breaking your own rule. (However, while you don't have to write much each day, it is important to write every day, including Sunday, even if that means just a quick scribble before brushing your teeth -- you've still observed the rule.)

Lest you think this sounds frivolous -- a hobbyist approach to writing -- I must confess that there was a time when I thought the same thing. I didn't understand why I couldn't write for hours, or even, sometimes, minutes; why I spent most of my time staring at my computer screen longing to be anywhere but there. It was a severe blow to my sense of identity; I was a writer who could not write! When a friend suggested the hour max rule, I tried it with reluctance. A year later, I had written my first novel.

In later drafts, you will probably want to write for longer. This is great, so long as you bear in mind that good writing doesn't always come from abundance. I can think of many days in which I have produced far more inspired writing after one hour than on other days when I wrote for six.

2) Write your first draft in longhand. This doesn't mean you have to write the entire draft this way, but write each chapter or section by hand before transferring it to the computer. The computer tends to make us feel that we must be excellent immediately. We are daunted by the pristine white space before us, which we think we must fill with something polished and literary. Writing by hand, ideally in some tatty old notebook, gives you permission to be messy and primitive. (The notebook is also far more portable. If you're sick of your four walls, shake up your routine; write in cafes, parks, trains. Occasionally, the noise of the natural world can help rather than hinder, a welcome relief from the more punitive voices of your own head.)

It isn't until my second or maybe third draft that I do what I tastefully call "mining the vomit for gold," transferring the work to computer, and in the process, honing the quality of the writing itself. But for now, it's a mess, and if it isn't, it should be. Scrawl and scribble; spew it out. This is as true for work that is autobiographical and work that isn't remotely autobiographical; as true for comedy as an epic period novel. Like good dreams and bad dreams, it all comes from the same place. If you give yourself time to dwell there, "literature" will follow when it is good and ready.

3) Stay away from the phone, internet and emails until you have written for the day. In keeping with this, it is a good idea to write early, not only because you will be less distracted by the clutter of the day, but because you will be closer to your unconscious mind and dream state. Even if you only write for fifteen minutes, the quality of your attention will be much, much better if you have not yet filled your head with other people and the many things you have to do. Even something as prosaic as shopping for lunch or having the car fixed can throw you off completely. You'll be amazed by how difficult it feels at first, removed from your social 'fixes.' This is a sobering reminder of just how addicted we are to these things, and how often we use them to procrastinate! (Yet it is also a liberating, if humbling, experience to realize that our friends, colleagues, and household chores can usually hang on without us for a little longer.)

4) When you start a novel, do not worry about having a great story. The search for the 'great story' is, in my view, overrated. I speak only partly in jest when I say that there are roughly half a dozen stories in the world and most books are variations upon them. The story is only as interesting as the person who is telling it. If you have a strong voice, the reader will follow it through anything. You can write a wonderful book which, on the surface, simply describes a party (think of Mrs. Dalloway, or The Dead) or a dreadful book about a prison break or espionage. When people ask how I worked out the story for my latest novel, The Rhythm of the Road, I reply that I didn't, to start with. I found Josephine, my young heroine, and she told me the story. How did I find Josephine? One night, I was watching a documentary about a middle-aged housewife who stalks a young priest, convinced that he shares her obsession. I wondered what it would take for a person to become so delusional that she is driven to behave this way. Josephine, a teenage truck driver's daughter, has little in common with this woman, but the first glimmer was ignited on that evening, by my own curiosity. Like giving birth, I conceived her, but she seemed to develop in her own right. She did so partly through my research, (I'm a great believer in research, which will also help to develop the story), but also from a place within myself, a place that could empathize with a young girl so lonely that she must conjure a fantasy relationship to fill the void.

In the end, it seemed to be she who was introducing me to her lonely Irish father, to the hitchhiker who becomes the object of her attention, and so on. When I could finally see how the book was unraveling, I did sit down and work out an outline for the entire story. But I could not do this until I had Josephine's voice. So remember that a story can begin in all sorts of ways, no matter how prosaic: with a question, with the way a piece of music makes you feel, with a joke, a dream, a memory, a three minute conversation you overhear in a bus. You can find an entire universe in a single moment.

Of course, I am only one writer and this is only one set of tools. Yet whether they work for you, I believe that the underlying philosophy applies to all writers of fiction; to write anything good, you must first be willing to take the ugly, messy, chaotic self out into the light, take it for a run, let it tell you where to go. One of the greatest compliments ever paid to me as a writer was "you must feel pretty good about yourself to let yourself feel this bad." And yet, the funny thing is that once I do allow myself to feel 'this bad,' it doesn't feel too bad at all. At the very least, I've gotten a novel or two out of it.

Albyn Leah Hall is the author of two novels: The Rhythm of the Road and Deliri.

For what it's worth,

Ray

Free edit. Email a sample for an edit that I can post here.

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© 2006 Ray Rhamey

Review: "By the Time You Read This," by Giles Blunt

I haven't done reviews here on FtQ, mostly because I haven't thought of it as that kind of a blog. But a publishing company has begun sending me ARCs of their books. I'm sure they just created a list of litblogs and are shotgunning in hopes of reviews. If they'd visited FtQ, I don't think they would logically have chosen it to receive books.

On the other hand, say I, why not review a book from a story editor's point of view? Since they sent it to me, I figure I can assume that they knew the nature of this blog and that it's fair game. The first book they sent was a memoir, an area that I'm not particularly interested in reading nor exceptionally qualified to judge, other than as a reader. But this month they sent a novel. So here's FtQ's first review.

By the Time You Read This, by Giles Blunt, to be published February 2007.

As any good critique should, I'll start with the positive stuff. Having read By the Time You Read This (enjoyed it over a weekend), I was glad I had. It's a mystery, but character-driven, and I liked that. I have recommended the book to a mystery-reader friend.

Blunt does something well that I have to work on in my own writing -- "lingering" in a productive way to build the reader's bond with a character. I liked his primary protagonists, and connected with them. I cared about his characters, and he made me feel things about them. Fine work there.

The writing was, for the most part, first-rate -- check out the descriptions in the opening that follows and you'll see what I mean.

However, I did have a bone to pick about the way the novel opens. Here it is:

Nothing bad could ever happen on Madonna Road. It curls around the western shore of a small lake just outside Algonquin Bay, Ontario, providing a pine scented refuge for affluent families with young children, yuppies fond of canoes and kayaks, and an artful population of chipmunks chased by galumphing dogs. It's the kind of spot -- tranquil, shady, and secluded -- that appears to offer an exemption from tragedy and sorrow.

Detective John Cardinal and his wife, Catherine, lived in the smallest house on Madonna Road, but even that tiny place would have been beyond their means were it not for the fact that, being situated across the road from the water, they owned neither an inch of beach nor so much as a millimeter of lake frontage. On weekends Cardinal spent most of his time down in the basement breathing smells of sawdust, paint, and Minwax, carpentry affording him a sense of creativity and control that did not tend to flourish in the squad room.

But even when he was not woodworking, he loved to be in his tiny house, enveloped in the serenity of the lakeshore. It was autumn now, early October, the quietest time of the year. The motorboats and Sea-Doos had been hauled away, and the snowmobiles were not yet blasting their way across ice and snow.

Autumn in Algonquin Bay was the season that redeemed the other three. Colors of scarlet and rust, ocher and gold swarmed across the hills, the sky turned an alarming blue, and you cold almost forget the sweat-drenched summer, the bug festival that was spring, the pitiless razor of winter. Trout Lake was preternaturally still, black onyx amid fire. Even having grown up here (when he took it completely for granted), and now having lived in Algonquin Bar again for the past dozen years, Cardinal was never quite prepared for how beautiful it was in the fall. This time of year, he liked to spend every spare minute at home. On this particular evening he had made the fifteen-minute drive from work, even though he only had an hour, affording him exactly thirty minutes at the dinner table before he had to head back.

This opening -- and it went on in this vein, detailing a fairly ordinary domestic scene between Cardinal and his wife for a couple more pages -- runs counter to what I talk about in FtQ. The narrative was hardly compelling (for this reader). Nothing happens. BTW, all that detail that establishes his carpentry? I never noticed a reference to it thereafter.

Yes, the first paragraph did foreshadow doom, but then the author left it hanging for a long, long time. I've been wondering why this author "got away" with a tranquil opening to a mystery. Perhaps because he's an award-winning, published author with several successful novels under his belt? Who am I to argue with his accomplishments? And his editor, being familiar with his work, would surely be willing to breeze through a few pages of not-so-compelling narrative because he/she knew the author would deliver the goods. And he does.

But you and I, I still believe, need to sink in as many hooks and open as many story questions as soon as possible. In By the Time You Read This, I thought there was a much more gripping opening on page 10, where Detective Cardinal is summoned to a crime scene where a woman lies dead. Here it is, with a tiny modification to make the continuity make sense:

The body was just beyond the Dumpster behind the apartment building, face down, dressed in a tan fall coat with leather at the cuffs.

The young cop said, "Probably the super'll be able to give us an ID."

"Her ID's in the car," Cardinal said.

The young cop looked around. There were two cars parked along the side of the building. "I don't get it," he said. "You know which car is hers?"

But Cardinal did not appear to be listening. The young cop watched in astonishment as Sergeant John Cardinal -- star player on the CID team, veteran of the city's highest-profile cases, legendary for his meticulous approach to crime scenes -- went down on his knees in the pool of blood and cradled the shattered woman in his arms.

The woman, we learn, is his wife. For this reader, that's a provocative opening. In my view, much of the previous ten pages were either not needed or could have been woven into the narrative that followed the above scene.

There were writerly nits I would have noted as an editor. Too many uses of participles (the "she was sitting" formulation) rather than stronger, past-tense verbs for my taste. But it wasn't egregious.

Another technique Blunt used was to slip out of his character's close point of view to a more omniscient pov right in the middle of a scene. It may be that his approach would never bother a "normal" reader, but it jarred me whenever it happened. I may be too sensitized to that kind of thing, though. However, I would have suggested that he avoid it, as it did take me out of the story, briefly breaking the bond I had with the character.

Here's an example. A character is watching a scene of himself and another person on a television. We know we're close in the character's pov because the narrative tells us that seeing the scene will cheer him up. Then, as he watches the scene, this author inserts this:

The Character on the TV is all patience and understanding. The one in the office made masturbating motions in the air.

Clearly that's not from within the character's point of view. The story is no longer looking out of the character's eyes but the author's, standing several feet away. I believe it distances the reader emotionally from the character when a narrative takes this turn. And the action could have been done from within the character's pov. For example, a quick pass at a way to do that:

Character watched himself embody patience and understanding. He made masturbating motions in the air.

Perhaps because I'm also a novelist, I spotted the very first clue to who dunnit the second it was planted. Blunt did include a well-done red herring, but I was convinced that it was a false lead from the start.

One other "soft spot," for me, was when he had a character act below her level of intelligence -- like in a horror movie when the teenage girl climbs the stairs to the dark attic after several gory murders have already happened. I don't think I'll spoil it for you when I tell you that someone close to the murderer suspects him/her of committing several murders and then takes incriminating evidence from him/her in a way that's sure to be noticed. Dumb. This was, for me, an example of the author molding a character to a plot need rather than the other way around. If you read the book and see this, let me know what you think.

All in all, By the Time You Read This is a good read. We writer types can get several extra things out of it:

• Good storytelling (after the lazy opening is out of the way)
• Excellent characterization (though I wished the antagonist had been a more sympathetic character in some aspect)
• A chance to see good writing that works very well, including a few places it maybe doesn't (keeping in mind how subjective reading is).
  

If you read By the Time You Read This, let me hear from you.

And please let me know if you'd like to see more reviews like this one.

For what it's worth,

Ray

Free edit. Email a sample for an edit that I can post here.

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© 2006 Ray Rhamey