It's Too Late Now...

for me to change a word, to move a sentence, to worry about timing, to obsess about the response - or the lack thereof.

The envelope (containing a one page query, a four page synopsis, and a nine page excerpt) is in the mail - somewhere in the bottom of a mail delivery truck, perhaps sitting between a contract and a love letter. 

On Monday, the mail man will deliver it to the receptionist or the assistant at the agency.  The agent will get the envelope before the day is over.  Maybe he'll open it, maybe he'll look at the name of the sender and throw it on top of the pile.

Someone will open it sooner or later - and it will either garner an immediate response (half a percent chance), be placed in a maybe pile (five percent chance), or land in the recycle bin (ninety-four and a half percent chance).

Next!

This one is about writing!

We often hear the old adage "actions speak louder than words," yet as writers we must rely on words and it is our task to select those words that will make the actions come alive and not just describe them.  Is this a difficult task?  Certainly!  But is it worth the effort?  Absolutely!

 

Showing versus telling was my staunch enemy when I first gave creative writing a try; I am not even sure I really understood the difference (and I still have trouble at times).  For decades I devoured books but I was usually so engrossed in the story and the words that I never thought to look at a novel as a whole or to consider its particular components. 

 

Both showing and telling have their rightful place.  Telling, by way of a description of a scene or by providing information, is essential to almost any story - imagine War and Peace without telling...

 

Yet, as the saying goes, actions generally speak volumes and can, often in one single motion, show us a trait or a consequence that may otherwise require a page full of exotic adjectives (which, if diligently employed page after page, could result in the loss of your readers). 

 

Thus, a meaningful balance of showing and telling is what we should aspire to - a task I hope to perfect one day. 

I was brushing my teeth last night when I looked at the almost empty tube of toothpaste I had just used.  The new tube had already been opened too, by my significant other.  I thought that a single and absolutely routine action like brushing one's teeth could perfectly demonstrated the difference in personalities and, with a healthy dose of fiction mixed in, would allow me to practice some showing versus telling and experiment with balancing the two.

Consider this:

Caroline liked to use up every last bit of toothpaste; leaving even half a brushtip's worth was a waste.  And to Caroline, waste, and especially waste of money, was quite simply the eight deadly sin.  She mended her clothes, vacuumed the rugs, and never odered take-out.  She often wondered how she and Larry, the epitome of wastefulness, lasted thirty years as a couple.  Larry left the lights on in every room of the house and had his undershirts laundered.  To Larry, doing something that he could pay someone else to do for him was nothing but a waste of his time.  

 

versus this:

 

Caroline rolled up the tube and replaced the cap before she squeezed every bit of paste towards the tip.  A smile of satisfaction spread across her face as she opened the cabinet and put the snail-shaped container on the shelf.  She wiped the drop of water that fell from her finger onto the glass shelf and closed it.  She hung the towel on the rack and anger replaced the peace in her brown eyes when she saw the open tube laying on top of the toilet tank, leaving behind a trail of red and blue paste. 

"Larry!" she yelled.  "How many times do I have to ask you to please close the paste when you are done with it!  Besides, there is still some paste left in the other tube," she said and her head shook with dissatisfaction as she fought to control her breathing.

"Whatever!" Larry mumbled under his moustache and washed his words down with a cold sip of Amstel. "Can't you just leave me alone?" he said and threw his sandwich in the garbage before he walked out.

Writing is fun, isn't it??

A Good Vacation... from Writing

I thought I would write and review and revise while I was away, but instead of reading my WIP I read Super Why's adventures with my daughter and my nephew's notebook took the place of mine.  Perhaps I should not have planned to work on my writing at all during an event as rare as a week-long vacation with the extended family (indeed, more infrequent but infinitely more precious than a hurricane in New York...), but the promise of one entire week off from work, with hours available to be dedicated to writing was just too sweet to pass up. 

Since returning to my real world three days ago, I have been struggling to recover from both jet lag and the lethargy caused by the break from writing.  Getting off track is effortless - getting back on is exacting.

That said, tonight was a good night for writing - my query letter is finally finished and ready to be sent out to the short list of seven agents I handpicked (yes, I know, a list that meager is certain to result in heartbreak).  Every one of them asks for a synopsis and a sample chapter, both of which are ready and standing by.

But what really happens next? 

Assuming the work is any good, what are the chances for a "request for more" for a no-name, wanna-be writer without credentials and without connections in the business?

Writing Out the Hurricane

As a Manhattanite, I am not used to hurricanes.  Although we have experienced some major storms, flooding, and other significant man-made disasters in our city, the effects of this approaching hurricane are unusual for most of us.  The shut down of the New York City mass transit system (trains, buses, subways) as a result of a (potential) natural disaster is unprecedented.  The airports are also closed, and the tunnels, bridges, and certain highways may be next.

The Whole Foods at Time Warner Center is busy on an average day, and many times I stood on line for twenty minutes.  Yesterday and this morning, I held my produce and other nonperishables in my arms and waited for my turn, for more than two hours combined - perfectly calm madness ruled every store I went to.  No impatience, no pushing; as a matter of fact, most of us New Yorkers were more civilized today than on a nice sunny day running errands after work.

Foodshopping complete, we taped some of the windows, made bags of ice, put fresh batteries in the flashlights, filled bottles and pitchers with water, and charged the iPhones, iPads, and the MacBook. 

What's left?

Baking some muffins.  Those will last for a few days even if we have no electricity or gas.

And tonight, when the storm rolls in, I will be too nervous to sleep. 

That is where the fully charged MacBook comes in.  Let's hope "The Muse" will cooperate.

Am I "Forcing" A Genre?

Reading M.J's post about not being able to get started made me think of my inability to climb out of an exceptionally deep hole I dug for myself. 

When I work on my "normal" contemporary/literary pieces, I can generally manage even after a rough start or a break of sorts.  The ideas start coming, although usually at the worst of times (like during a meeting at the office...), and once I know where I want the story to go, the words keep coming.  This could be a full-length work (admittedly, I am only on my second) or, more often, a short story.

But when I switch genres and (try to) write a piece of YA, more often than not, I fail.  First, I think I have a genius plot or an unusual idea, but once I start writing it all goes up in smoke.  My characters, the settings, the voice - everything. 

Yet I keep going back to writing YA because I like reading it, and because I like a good challenge.

Well, I'll let you know when I finish my current YA short - or not....

Give and Take, and Then Some

I am waiting.

Although I am not exactly sure yet what it is I am waiting for (it could be inspiration, story lines, inner peace, a break in the rain, or bedtime), here I am, sitting in front of my MacBook, thinking, reading, typing, and chewing the inside of my cheeks.  I should be giving a final read to the last couple of chapters of my first novel, the synopsis, and the query letter, or maybe work on the outline of my second novel, or perhaps find inspiration for the two short stories I want to write and enter into the WD competition in October.  I should not waste the little time I have - my real life will awaken together with the rising sun.

But I guess there is value in (almost) everything we do:

- if I do not get signed by an agent, I will not be destroyed, and, instead, will become stronger.
- if my first novel ever get published but does not sell, I can always say that the novel was a great success, but the audience was a disaster.  
- as I gear up for my second novel, "imagination is more important than knowledge." 
- I cannot give up because without art and the world it creates, reality could make my world unbearable.  
- I must keep writing to ensure I do not die without having really lived.

Yes, I know.  Instead of poaching the words of others, I should find my own.  But tonight, their wisdom gives me peace.

I guess that is what I was waiting for. 

The First Paragraph of My Second Novel Now on "Paper" - But Which PoA?

I realize it is only one paragraph each and neither the message nor the theme can be devised or understood from passages as short as these, but if you have an opinion on which one sounds or is better, first or third PoV, I'd love to hear from you!  This is all I have written so far - the rest is in my head.  And I will (try to) stay true to my word and start with (some version) of a synopsis first.

WiPv1

The massive lock jolted open with a sudden thud, as if it had just awoken from an unexpectedly long and restful sleep. I gave the handle a gentle push and stepped inside.  Although the air was stale, the mellow rays of the afternoon sun lent the room its familiar warmth.  For a moment I thought she would come out of the kitchen carrying a trey of poppyseed beigli in her hand and a reassuring smile on her face.  Knowing that soon I would be cleaning and packing up my grandmother's house felt like she died again; I felt guilty having to remove the memories that witnessed her long and adventurous life. 

WiPv2

Julianna pressed down on the rusty handle and it gave way with a sudden thud.  She pushed it gently and stepped inside.  Warm afternoon sunlight flooded the living room and the hallway and Julianna took a deep breath.  She turned toward the kitchen and, for a moment, a smile full of expectation and sadness flashed though her face.  Here she was, two years after her grandmother's death, ready to clean the house and remove Teresa's personal belongings so that the new owner could put his mark on the house that witnessed her long and adventurous life.