I was interviewed by the talented Rachel Hanley. A few thoughts on writing and editing and persevering. With many thanks and yes, my head shot is dated.
Keep writing, Keep dreaming, Have heart
I was interviewed by the talented Rachel Hanley. A few thoughts on writing and editing and persevering. With many thanks and yes, my head shot is dated.
Keep writing, Keep dreaming, Have heart
The fact of storytelling hints at a fundamental human unease, hints at human imperfection. Where there is perfection, there is no story to tell.
Potent fiction beginnings sweep readers far from their armchairs, or airplane seats, or beds. The first words yank, tug, propel them into a new world or a familiar world that offers new insights. Potent openings introduce characters readers start caring about immediately. Or at least wonder or worry about. Openings begin an immersive experience for readers.
Openings awaken curiosity.
And opening paragraphs need to deliver a hefty dose of information:
So here’s an example of a potent beginning, Tomato Red by the incomparable Daniel Woodrell:
You’re no angel, you know how this stuff comes to happen: Friday is payday and it’s been a gray day sogged by a slow ugly rain and you seek company in your gloom, and since you’re fresh to West Table, Mo.,and a new hand at the dog-food factory, your choices for company are narrow but you find some in a trailer court of East Main, and the coed circle of bums there spot you a beer, then a jug of tequila starts to rotate and the rain keeps comin’ down with a miserable bluesy beat and there’s two girls millin’ about that probably can be had but they seem to like certain things, and crank is one of those certain things, and a fistful of party straws tumble from a woven handbag somebody brung, the crank gets cut into lines, and the next time you notice the time it’s three or four Sunday mornin’ and you ain’t slept since Thursday night and one of the girl voices, the one you want most and ain’t had yet though her teeth are the size of shoe-peg corn and look like maybe they’d taste sort of sour, suggests something to do, ’cause with crank you want something, anything, to do, and this cajoling voice suggests we all rob this certain house on this certain street in that rich area where folks can afford to wallow in their vices and likely have a bunch of recreational dope stashed around the mansion and goin’ to waste since an article in The Scroll said the rich people whisked off to France or some such on a noteworthy vacation.
That’s how it happens.
keep writing, keep dreaming, write potent beginnings
It’s a drizzly morning in Oregon and I was gazing out my window at a raised bed of tomatoes, drooping in the wet, with many fruit still on the vine. Peering into the gloom and wondering how many are ready to pick. I was wondering about my next gardening steps since this autumn seems too wet to plant fall crops. Should I let the bed go fallow over the winter, plant a cover crop?
And then I returned to my computer and clicked on this insightful, thoughtful and practical piece by Kate Angus at LitHub. I believe you’ll find reassurances and wisdom as you read along. Especially if you’ve felt stalled or stymied lately.
“I understand my process as a field–sometimes I’m harvesting and sometimes I must let the field lie fallow or seed it with new experiences so new growth can germinate.”
Keep dreaming, keep finding inspiration wherever you go
A writer is someone who spends years patiently trying to discover the second being inside him, and the world that makes him who he is: when I speak of writing , what comes first to my mind is not a novel, a poem, or literary tradition, it is a person who shuts himself up in a room, sits down at a table, and alone, turns inward; amid its shadows, he builds a new world with words. ~ Orhan Pamuk
More from Pamuk: his Nobel prize lecture My Father’s Suitcase
The weather is warm these days, but bearable and I’ve got a sprinklers running. My tomatoes are ripening so fast I need to check them every morning. Which isn’t that easy because one bed is an untidy jungle of branches, no matter how often I trim suckers. I love the smell of tomato leaves on my hands, though the scent is hard to describe. My harvest overfloweth, so I’ll have plenty to give away.
If you don’t have a lot of time for reading because you’re so busy writing, one thing you can always do is read and analyze story openings and ask yourself why the opening works or doesn’t. Here’s one worth studying from the talented Karen Russell, Haunting Olivia.
My brother Wallow has been kicking around Gannon’s Boat Graveyard for more than an hour, too embarrassed to admit that he doesn’t see any ghosts. Instead, he slaps at the ocean with jilted fury. Curse words come piping out of his snorkel. He keeps pausing to adjust the diabolical goggles.
The diabolical goggles are designed for little girls. They are pink with a floral snorkel attached to the side. They have scratchproof lenses and an adjustable band. Wallow says we are going to use them to find our dead sister, Olivia.
My brother and I have been taking midnight scavenging trips to Gannon’s all summer long. It’s a watery junkyard, a place where people pay to abandon their boats. Gannon, the grizzled, tattooed undertaker, tows wrecked ships into his marina. Battered sailboats and listing skiffs, yachts with stupid names–Knot at Work and Sail-la-vie–the paint peeling from their puns. They sink beneath the water in slow increments, covered with rot and barnacles. Their masts jut out at weird angles. The marina is an open, easy grave to rob. We ride our bikes along the rock wall, coasting quietly past Gannon’s tin shack, and hop off at the derelict pier. Then we creep down to the ladder, jump onto the nearest boat, and loot.
I’m in (and practically swatting at mosquitoes), how about you?