Recalculating ...

I was recently asked to beta-read the first chapter of a new book. I understood going in that this was a rough draft, so I wasn’t really expecting perfection, but it had several glitches that got me thinking about GPS.

Huh?

Okay, bear with me.

I’ve rewritten and paraphrased some of what I read, but here’s the gist of it.

Ramrod stepped out of his spotless 2014 black Hummer and surveyed his new purchase. The concrete and steel condo rose up in front of him, its austere sense of security distinctly satisfying to him. This was the perfect place for him to pursue his obsession: flower-arranging. Except for his collection of Samurai swords, nothing gave him more pleasure than the delicate, meditative hobby he had practiced in secret for over 20 years. It would now be the secure base for his work, and no one would ever know about his alter-ego.

As we read, we generally find that the writing steers us in certain directions. One sentence leads to the next; each sentence builds on the one before to create a fluid forward motion. But with this sample, I found myself stutter-stepping backward and forward over and over, having to re-read and refigure what the author was trying to say.

It reminded me of a GPS unit that is constantly saying, “Recalculating.”

Here’s the process I went through:

Ramrod stepped out of his spotless 2014 black Hummer (lots of detail here—must be an important item) and surveyed his new purchase (the Hummer). The concrete and steel condo (oh, wait—recalculating. It’s not the Hummer that’s the new purchase, it’s the condo. Okay, got it.) rose up in front of him, its austere sense of security distinctly satisfying to him. This was the perfect place for him to pursue his obsession: flower-arranging. Except for his collection of Samurai swords, nothing gave him more pleasure than the delicate, meditative hobby he had practiced in secret for over 20 years. It would now be the secure base for his work (Recalculating—the last important noun was the hobby; but apparently It is referring back to the condo.), and no one would ever know about his alter-ego.

Reading a story should not require that much effort. As a writer, I believe my job is to lay down a nice, smooth highway that is paved with words, and my reader should be able to zoom down that highway in their readingmobile without so much as a pebble in the way. Any obstruction in the road, any detour in the story stops the reader and forces them to recalculate—to go back and try to figure out what, exactly, the writer is trying to say. Not only has the reader been knocked off that nice new highway, but now they actually have to go back and see what the problem was and even repair it—rewording the errant sentence or at least understanding it in a different context—before they can continue on so the story will make sense. After hitting two or three or five potholes like that, the reader is probably not going to be so keen on making this trip after all.

They may just take the next offramp and go find a smoother story road.

Originally published by Indies Unlimited on July 24, 2013

The Blank Page

Happy New Year! I love New Years. I love the feeling of resetting, starting from zero, nothing behind me but memories, everything in front of me. Everything is possible. Anything is possible. The world is wide open.

It's like starting a new book. I know some authors are intimidated by that startlingly white, blank sheet of paper. Not me. I love it.  It's so receptive, just waiting for my words. The only limits are the edges of the paper; beyond that, it will take anything I put on it. There are no judgments, no rules, no restrictions or restraints. 

What shall I do with that blank sheet of paper? Start a new novel? Keep working on my current WIP? Start a new photography blog for the local newspaper? Start blocking out a photography book? The possibilities are endless, bounded only by my imagination and that niggling thing called time. But the good news is that I have no deadlines. If I don't get it done today, there is tomorrow, and beyond that, the days after. 

Endless. Boundless. Open. Leading me into the future.

What direction will YOU go?

Happy New Year!

Giving: Not Always Easy

'Tis the season for giving. We all know that, just like we all know that 15 minutes could save us ... well, you know. But I've been thinking a lot about giving lately, mostly because of my dog. 

My husband and I got this new Airedale puppy. We love her, but Airedales are scary smart, stubborn, independent, stubborn, hard-headed, stubborn, and described in their breed standard as "willfully disobedient." Did I mention they're stubborn? Ours is no different. She can be a total love (still wants to be a lap dog at 30+ pounds), or a total maniac. Her choice. We've been brushing up on our training advice in order to mitigate the problems, and the answers to many of the issues are: keep them busy. Dogs need jobs, and if we don't give them jobs, they will find their own--and we may not like them. Tire them out. A tired dog is a good dog. That means, for now, our lives revolve around this pup. We take her for walks. We play with her in the house. We play with her out in the yard. We teach her manners and tricks. We hide treats and have her find them. When she's in an agreeable mood, it's all fun. When she's not, it's harder than hell. 

Annie the Airedale

So the other day she was being a brat and I was getting short-tempered. I was resentful for not being able to do what I wanted to do and mad at her for doing all the things puppies do: jumping up on me, getting dirty paw prints on my pants, biting me, thinking I'm playing when I'm trying to discipline her, you name it. Aggravated, I kept doing the things I thought she needed, and she kept being a brat. 

Finally I had to walk away.

And then I remembered. Ages ago, I read somewhere (can't remember where) one book of many about taking care of ourselves. About mental health. I don't now remember what book or who wrote it, I remember nothing but one line:

Giving out of less than fullness is giving poison.

I realized I was doing that. I was trying to meet the pup's needs but I was neglecting my own, and it showed. I wasn't connecting with her, I wasn't being effective, I was just making myself mad and her crazy for all the wrong reasons. I wasn't giving out of fullness. 

It occurred to me that this same principle can apply to everything we do in life. It certainly applies to writing. Not completely committed to the book you're writing? It shows. Writing commercial fiction to meet a deadline, please a publisher or make a buck? It shows. But writing from the heart, writing from fullness, that shows, too. Writing from fullness means pouring ourselves into the story, it means giving fully what the story needs for no other reason than that the story requires it, and it means not putting anything down on the paper until we, ourselves, are topped off completely in all the ways that matter. Mentally, emotionally, intellectually, spiritually full. Anything less diminishes the story and diminishes us as writers. Easy? Hell, no. (You did read the title of this post, right?) But it's a valuable concept, one well worth considering.

And something for which I need constant reminding. Luckily, I have this dog ...