By C.L. Beck
© 2008
My husband, Russ, and I walked into the living room, turning the lights out behind us as we went. It was past time for bed, and we were headed upstairs to our bedroom. Russ glanced out the front door as he usually did in passing, and then stopped. “Is there something in the door?”
He couldn’t really have meant in the door, because whatever it was would have to be the size of a sliver to be in it. He probably meant, “Is something between the front door and storm door?” But that takes way too long to say when a person is tired.
“Something in the doorway? How would I know?” I replied. I believe Russ sometimes thinks I have x-ray vision.
Russ opened it, picked up a box and turned to me with a question in his eyes. No doubt he thinks I can read minds as well as see through buildings.
“Just put it on the chair and we can check it in the morning,” I said, starting up the stairs. The contents were probably two dresses I’d ordered months ago, or shoes, or essential doo-dads no household should be without, or … or.
I stopped, my foot resting on the next step, and Russ almost rear-ended me. “Was that box heavy?” I asked.
He nodded. “Yup, it felt like books.”
Oh, books! Wonderful, glorious books! I almost leapt over him in my haste to get back down the stairs. “They’re here,” I shouted. “They’re here!”
Russ turned the light back on while I tore the tape off the box. Nestled inside were 15 brand-spanking new copies. Gold and copper text glinted in the soft glow of the Tiffany lamp. The title read, A Cup of Comfort for Horse Lovers.
My book.
Well, not exactly my book because it’s an anthology. But close enough. The first nationally published book carrying a story I wrote. The first one to pay me for my thoughts. The first one I would autograph at book signings.
I turned it over, loving the feel of its rectangular shape. Then the realization hit me. It might look like a book, but it wasn’t. What I really held in my hands were my hopes and dreams, perfumed with a paper and ink fragrance, and wrapped in a color cover.
(Some people have expressed an interest in a signed copy. Thanks so much for that! If you'd like one, you can order it at http://www.bythebecks.com/)
C.L.’s other work:
Cup of Comfort for Horse Lovers, "Horse on Lap"
Life is Like Riding a Unicycle by Shirley Bahlmann, "Priming the Pump, pg. 79 by C.L. Beck
Newspaper Column
Ensign Magazine, Dec 2007-Q&A
2007 League of Utah Writer's Award-Historical Fiction
Website
What books C.L. recommends:
Publishing Secrets by LDS Storymakers (BJ Rowley and others)
Writing for Story: Craft Secrets of Dramatic Nonfiction by Jon Franklin
Self-Editing for Fiction Writers by Rennie Browne & Dave King
Monday, April 07, 2008
Saturday, April 05, 2008
Getting a Flat Tire on the Information Highway
By Keith Fisher
Is it really Saturday? It can’t be! I'm not ready.
Did you ever have one of those weeks when you had too much to do and not enough week left to do it in? To top it off, I went online last night with two computers. I was attempting to get tickets for the Miley Cyrus concert at Stadium of Fire . . .
I felt like I was giving a dog a bath. I’m not talking about a nice, well-trained dog, the kind that loves baths. I’m talking about the independent happy go lucky dogs that won’t stay in the tub. If you ever try it, I recommend old clothes or a swimming suit, because you’re going to get wet.
To add insult to injury, I also went online yesterday to apply for a job. We live in an unusual time in the world. It’s a time when we don’t need to see anyone. We can talk to people, work with people, even date people, and we never have to leave the privacy of our home. It’s all very convenient, but I miss pounding the pavement dropping off resumés. Even when we had to physically stand in line to get tickets, at least we knew where we stood. We could see how far back in line we were.
The application was rejected, well, it was accepted, but some electronic gremlin told the system that according to my application, I wasn’t qualified for the job. How does it know? I guess I checked the wrong box, but then again, how am I supposed to find out? It's not like I can talk to a real person to discover the problem.
So, were you wondering what happened with the tickets?
I made it all the way through and gave my credit card number. When I clicked the button to finish, an error message popped up telling me something about my email address. While I went back over the form looking for the problem, another message popped up telling me my tickets were no longer available. Can you imagine my frustration? I slammed my fist down on my desk and almost made it collapse. Then I hit it again. I spent the next forty-five minutes trying to get back in, but it told me the tickets weren’t available.
I have been, and still am, a huge advocate of the information age. I was messing with computers at the end of the seventies and early eighties. But sometimes I wonder if we are losing something in our lives.
We even have online critique groups to help us with our writing. What a great service, but I’ve been involved in another, more personal group lately. Oh how nice it is to touch a paper manuscript. To read out loud and use a red pen. To talk to real people and find they have the same problems with writing I do. Above all, to get support. And if I get something wrong, I can find out what it is. All I have to do is ask.
Good luck with your writing—see you next week.
Is it really Saturday? It can’t be! I'm not ready.
Did you ever have one of those weeks when you had too much to do and not enough week left to do it in? To top it off, I went online last night with two computers. I was attempting to get tickets for the Miley Cyrus concert at Stadium of Fire . . .
I felt like I was giving a dog a bath. I’m not talking about a nice, well-trained dog, the kind that loves baths. I’m talking about the independent happy go lucky dogs that won’t stay in the tub. If you ever try it, I recommend old clothes or a swimming suit, because you’re going to get wet.
To add insult to injury, I also went online yesterday to apply for a job. We live in an unusual time in the world. It’s a time when we don’t need to see anyone. We can talk to people, work with people, even date people, and we never have to leave the privacy of our home. It’s all very convenient, but I miss pounding the pavement dropping off resumés. Even when we had to physically stand in line to get tickets, at least we knew where we stood. We could see how far back in line we were.
The application was rejected, well, it was accepted, but some electronic gremlin told the system that according to my application, I wasn’t qualified for the job. How does it know? I guess I checked the wrong box, but then again, how am I supposed to find out? It's not like I can talk to a real person to discover the problem.
So, were you wondering what happened with the tickets?
I made it all the way through and gave my credit card number. When I clicked the button to finish, an error message popped up telling me something about my email address. While I went back over the form looking for the problem, another message popped up telling me my tickets were no longer available. Can you imagine my frustration? I slammed my fist down on my desk and almost made it collapse. Then I hit it again. I spent the next forty-five minutes trying to get back in, but it told me the tickets weren’t available.
I have been, and still am, a huge advocate of the information age. I was messing with computers at the end of the seventies and early eighties. But sometimes I wonder if we are losing something in our lives.
We even have online critique groups to help us with our writing. What a great service, but I’ve been involved in another, more personal group lately. Oh how nice it is to touch a paper manuscript. To read out loud and use a red pen. To talk to real people and find they have the same problems with writing I do. Above all, to get support. And if I get something wrong, I can find out what it is. All I have to do is ask.
Good luck with your writing—see you next week.
Friday, April 04, 2008
A Convenient Passion
by G.Parker
We watched the movie Amazing Grace on Monday night with our children. It's a wonderful story about one of the men who was significant in abolishing the slave trade in England. While watching the movie it occurred to me that this man had more passion in his little finger than I did in my whole body.
I've often wondered about that aspect of myself. Why it is easy for me to get worked up about something, but it only lasts as long as the first letter or blog about it and then I drop it. Why don't I continue a cause? What is it that keeps me from doing anything big with my life?
It didn't take very long to come up with an answer. You see, I'm lazy. I know, it's not that unusual, but it's true. And, I'm afraid in my case, it's a dangerous habit. It's dangerous because I could possibly let my life go by without accomplishing what I want because I'm too lazy.
Of course, there are some things I simply can't be a part of because I don't have any money. I can't run away and join the Peace Corps or Green Peace -- they don't pay you. (Of course, I wouldn't want to leave my hubby and kids behind either, and that wouldn't go over very well -- I can see it now; "Um, ma'am? We don't allow 12 year olds to volunteer in Nigeria ...") I also don't have the funds to write fifty zillion letters and send them to all the people who don't read my blog about how I feel on the political future of our country. (As If.)
So I'm stuck in my corner of the world, wondering what I was meant to do with my life. I usually end up focusing on the idea that I only know two things: writing and painting. Unfortunately, I'm not yet the quality writer I want to be, and my art takes a back seat to everything else. So where does that leave me?
I've decided that my passion, or my writing, has become a convenient thing. I only do it when it's convenient for me. I do not fashion my life around when I write -- I write around the time slots available in my day. This doesn't make for a very consistent or productive time, and definitely makes it difficult to meet the goals I have set for myself. Welcome to the crowd.
It's not a nice picture when you realize that you are sabotaging yourself.
A couple of years ago I discovered that I have the ability to change habits. I decided there were a couple of things I was determined to do, and I committed to doing them -- every day. I am still doing them, though sometimes it takes a reminder. I have come to the conclusion that my writing needs to leave the convenient passion stage and enter the determined passion era. Unless I want my writing to continue in the "that's a nice habit" section of my life, I need to change how I view it. I hereby commit to you, myself and all heavenly witnesses, that from this day forth I will write everyday for at least a half an hour.
I realize that may not seem like much, but at least that's a chunk of time that I can guarantee won't be compromised by other things. Hopefully it will soon be an hour, but for now -- a half hour a day. In leaving the convenient passion behind, hopefully the passion part will grow so it becomes difficult to think of it only when it's convenient. That's when I'll know it's a true passion.
We watched the movie Amazing Grace on Monday night with our children. It's a wonderful story about one of the men who was significant in abolishing the slave trade in England. While watching the movie it occurred to me that this man had more passion in his little finger than I did in my whole body.
I've often wondered about that aspect of myself. Why it is easy for me to get worked up about something, but it only lasts as long as the first letter or blog about it and then I drop it. Why don't I continue a cause? What is it that keeps me from doing anything big with my life?
It didn't take very long to come up with an answer. You see, I'm lazy. I know, it's not that unusual, but it's true. And, I'm afraid in my case, it's a dangerous habit. It's dangerous because I could possibly let my life go by without accomplishing what I want because I'm too lazy.
Of course, there are some things I simply can't be a part of because I don't have any money. I can't run away and join the Peace Corps or Green Peace -- they don't pay you. (Of course, I wouldn't want to leave my hubby and kids behind either, and that wouldn't go over very well -- I can see it now; "Um, ma'am? We don't allow 12 year olds to volunteer in Nigeria ...") I also don't have the funds to write fifty zillion letters and send them to all the people who don't read my blog about how I feel on the political future of our country. (As If.)
So I'm stuck in my corner of the world, wondering what I was meant to do with my life. I usually end up focusing on the idea that I only know two things: writing and painting. Unfortunately, I'm not yet the quality writer I want to be, and my art takes a back seat to everything else. So where does that leave me?
I've decided that my passion, or my writing, has become a convenient thing. I only do it when it's convenient for me. I do not fashion my life around when I write -- I write around the time slots available in my day. This doesn't make for a very consistent or productive time, and definitely makes it difficult to meet the goals I have set for myself. Welcome to the crowd.
It's not a nice picture when you realize that you are sabotaging yourself.
A couple of years ago I discovered that I have the ability to change habits. I decided there were a couple of things I was determined to do, and I committed to doing them -- every day. I am still doing them, though sometimes it takes a reminder. I have come to the conclusion that my writing needs to leave the convenient passion stage and enter the determined passion era. Unless I want my writing to continue in the "that's a nice habit" section of my life, I need to change how I view it. I hereby commit to you, myself and all heavenly witnesses, that from this day forth I will write everyday for at least a half an hour.
I realize that may not seem like much, but at least that's a chunk of time that I can guarantee won't be compromised by other things. Hopefully it will soon be an hour, but for now -- a half hour a day. In leaving the convenient passion behind, hopefully the passion part will grow so it becomes difficult to think of it only when it's convenient. That's when I'll know it's a true passion.
Thursday, April 03, 2008
Get to Work!
By Nichole Giles
Nearly two weeks have passed since the LDStorymakers conference, and still my creative juices are flowing strong. I’ve been editing like crazy, mostly, but also jotting down ideas that come to me randomly, knowing that someday—when I’m finished with my three current projects—I’ll take the time to flesh them out.
This week I’ve had a hard time trying to decide on a blog topic. I learned a lot of things at the conference and was also reminded of things I knew but hadn’t thought about for a while. Mostly though, I’ve decided that even though the classes were outstanding, the most helpful part of going to a conference is the inspiration you get from spending time with other writers. Other writers understand our craft like no one else can. We encourage each other, we help each other, and we support each other.
And then we play April fools jokes sending out big announcements about contracts with six figure advances and trick all our friends into congratulating us for nothing until we pull out the big whammy. April Fools! Big meanies.
Sorry, I’m rambling. The point is, I’ve decided to share a few bits of advice I gleaned from the conference—sort of like I did after the last one, I guess. These little pieces of advice are the ones that remind me to keep moving forward with my work—even when I’m feeling down.
Gordon Ryan says:
1.The overall concept of fiction is suspension of disbelief.
2. Antagonists could be admirable, loveable, and strong. If your villain isn’t capable, the end result will not be as satisfying.
Tim Travaglini, Editor for G.P. Putnam and Sons says:
1. The harder you work, the luckier you get.
2. You can improve your craft. Training and instruction are important, yes, but you have to read, read, read. It is impossible to cut that corner. If you don’t love to read, it’s impossible to love to write.
3. Your words are not gold. Find the sentence you are most proud of and delete it. Part of the craft is not being afraid to revise and change things.
Kirk Shaw, Editor for Covenant says:
1. Editors are looking for a good read.
2. Editors love characters that aren’t polar. Make them good and bad to feel real.
3. Never start your story with eating, dreaming, sleeping, blogging, mirrors, flashbacks.
4. Create conflicts that are meaningful toward the climax.
5. Have someone look for your pet words: actually, literally, suddenly, that….
Lisa Mangum, Editor for Deseret Book says:
1. By the time a trend is identified it’s over. Be the first of what’s coming next.
2. Submission starts with your mailing envelope. Do not make it hard to open. The manuscript inside is paper. It will survive.
3. Any personalized touch on a rejection letter is a very good sign.
Jessica Day George, Whitney award winning author says:
1. It does not matter that you didn’t go to college.
2. Do not be afraid.
3. Write something, submit it, write something else.
4. Best advice she can give: go to writing conferences! Networking is key.
5. Never submit to an agent named Rodney Pelter. He is a mean, mean man with bad handwriting and he uses crayon.
Jamie Weiss Chilton, Andrea Brown Agency says:
1. I never read cover letters until after I’ve read the first few pages of the submission.
2. I love voice. If your manuscript is great, mistakes MIGHT get overlooked.
3. An agent is the advocate between you and the editor. He/she will become the buffer for all the nitty gritty, and also do your book keeping.
Oh, how I’d love to go on. I have so much more advice to share, not to mention pages and pages of notes. But I’ve taken way more of your writing time than I should have. Stop reading blogs and get back to work! Remember, only you can decide the best way to write your story.
“Today is where your book begins.” (In case you weren’t there, that was the conference theme for 2008.) Ready…set…GO!
Nearly two weeks have passed since the LDStorymakers conference, and still my creative juices are flowing strong. I’ve been editing like crazy, mostly, but also jotting down ideas that come to me randomly, knowing that someday—when I’m finished with my three current projects—I’ll take the time to flesh them out.
This week I’ve had a hard time trying to decide on a blog topic. I learned a lot of things at the conference and was also reminded of things I knew but hadn’t thought about for a while. Mostly though, I’ve decided that even though the classes were outstanding, the most helpful part of going to a conference is the inspiration you get from spending time with other writers. Other writers understand our craft like no one else can. We encourage each other, we help each other, and we support each other.
And then we play April fools jokes sending out big announcements about contracts with six figure advances and trick all our friends into congratulating us for nothing until we pull out the big whammy. April Fools! Big meanies.
Sorry, I’m rambling. The point is, I’ve decided to share a few bits of advice I gleaned from the conference—sort of like I did after the last one, I guess. These little pieces of advice are the ones that remind me to keep moving forward with my work—even when I’m feeling down.
Gordon Ryan says:
1.The overall concept of fiction is suspension of disbelief.
2. Antagonists could be admirable, loveable, and strong. If your villain isn’t capable, the end result will not be as satisfying.
Tim Travaglini, Editor for G.P. Putnam and Sons says:
1. The harder you work, the luckier you get.
2. You can improve your craft. Training and instruction are important, yes, but you have to read, read, read. It is impossible to cut that corner. If you don’t love to read, it’s impossible to love to write.
3. Your words are not gold. Find the sentence you are most proud of and delete it. Part of the craft is not being afraid to revise and change things.
Kirk Shaw, Editor for Covenant says:
1. Editors are looking for a good read.
2. Editors love characters that aren’t polar. Make them good and bad to feel real.
3. Never start your story with eating, dreaming, sleeping, blogging, mirrors, flashbacks.
4. Create conflicts that are meaningful toward the climax.
5. Have someone look for your pet words: actually, literally, suddenly, that….
Lisa Mangum, Editor for Deseret Book says:
1. By the time a trend is identified it’s over. Be the first of what’s coming next.
2. Submission starts with your mailing envelope. Do not make it hard to open. The manuscript inside is paper. It will survive.
3. Any personalized touch on a rejection letter is a very good sign.
Jessica Day George, Whitney award winning author says:
1. It does not matter that you didn’t go to college.
2. Do not be afraid.
3. Write something, submit it, write something else.
4. Best advice she can give: go to writing conferences! Networking is key.
5. Never submit to an agent named Rodney Pelter. He is a mean, mean man with bad handwriting and he uses crayon.
Jamie Weiss Chilton, Andrea Brown Agency says:
1. I never read cover letters until after I’ve read the first few pages of the submission.
2. I love voice. If your manuscript is great, mistakes MIGHT get overlooked.
3. An agent is the advocate between you and the editor. He/she will become the buffer for all the nitty gritty, and also do your book keeping.
Oh, how I’d love to go on. I have so much more advice to share, not to mention pages and pages of notes. But I’ve taken way more of your writing time than I should have. Stop reading blogs and get back to work! Remember, only you can decide the best way to write your story.
“Today is where your book begins.” (In case you weren’t there, that was the conference theme for 2008.) Ready…set…GO!
Wednesday, April 02, 2008
Good Job
By C. LaRene Hall
One thing that stood out in my mind at the LDStorymaker’s conference last month was the comment, “You are here to recharge your batteries and to be inspired.
In the presentation by Lael Littke, she reminded everyone about some of the potholes we should avoid in our writing such as a dead-battery beginning. I agree with her completely that you will sit at home all day if your starter doesn’t work. If you want your reader to hop on for the ride, you need to make the action move. She used many terms familiar to all of us. Don’t carry too much baggage. Don’t let your plot run out of gas. Don’t leave home without a destination.
There was something at the conference for every writer. Classes taught on almost every topic you could imagine such as step by step basics, writing a synopsis, how to get your story noticed, creating a new world, tips from editors, and the list goes on and on.
The only problem I saw was there was so much offered it was hard to choose where to spend my time. To me my time is valuable and I don’t ever want to waste even one minute. The classes I enjoyed the most where the ones that taught me something I needed, rather than having the instructor tooting their horns.
I know every person needs something different, so it must be hard for those in charge of these writing conferences to pick competent writers to teach. For the most part, they did a great job and those that couldn’t come missed out on a great opportunity. Three cheers for a job well done.
One thing that stood out in my mind at the LDStorymaker’s conference last month was the comment, “You are here to recharge your batteries and to be inspired.
In the presentation by Lael Littke, she reminded everyone about some of the potholes we should avoid in our writing such as a dead-battery beginning. I agree with her completely that you will sit at home all day if your starter doesn’t work. If you want your reader to hop on for the ride, you need to make the action move. She used many terms familiar to all of us. Don’t carry too much baggage. Don’t let your plot run out of gas. Don’t leave home without a destination.
There was something at the conference for every writer. Classes taught on almost every topic you could imagine such as step by step basics, writing a synopsis, how to get your story noticed, creating a new world, tips from editors, and the list goes on and on.
The only problem I saw was there was so much offered it was hard to choose where to spend my time. To me my time is valuable and I don’t ever want to waste even one minute. The classes I enjoyed the most where the ones that taught me something I needed, rather than having the instructor tooting their horns.
I know every person needs something different, so it must be hard for those in charge of these writing conferences to pick competent writers to teach. For the most part, they did a great job and those that couldn’t come missed out on a great opportunity. Three cheers for a job well done.
Tuesday, April 01, 2008
Blankets Made by Dead People
By Darvell Hunt
Three of my most-prized possessions are blankets.
My maternal grandmother, who died in 1976, made my first prized blanket. My mom passed it onto me about three years ago. It's so old and worn that it has a hole that you can put your fist through, but I don’t care.
My paternal grandmother gave the second one to me for graduation from high school. I used this blanket throughout much of my college career. The maker of this blanket died last year, but I still snuggle with it on the couch to keep warm on cold Utah mornings.
The third is an afghan knitted by my mother about five year ago. It was, as far as I can tell, the last craft item made by my mother before scleroderma destroyed the use of her hands and cancer destroyed the use of her body. She passed from this world in 2006.
It’s truly an amazing feat to leave something behind so valued by others when you depart this earth.
I also enjoy books by dead people. The plot of a 1989 movie starring Robin Williams was about enjoying the writing of poets who had since died.
Artists, including writers, can become almost immortal by creating works that live well beyond their bodies. Think of Shakespeare, Mozart, Emily Dickinson, Pablo Picasso, Mark Twain, or even Homer of ancient Greece. These people no longer breathe air, but yet they still breathe life into the lives of those who continue to enjoy their works.
Some people create art for fame, others for money, but the truly great artists create their works for the love of their craft. These people are remembered for their art because what they created goes well beyond pigment on canvas, ink on paper, or the blowing of wind through a musical instrument.
The Bible says that faith without works is dead, but I also contend that life without works of art is dead. May our lives be full of art, full of life, and full of purpose, so that when we are gone, the world will be a better place for having hosted our existence.
Three of my most-prized possessions are blankets.
My maternal grandmother, who died in 1976, made my first prized blanket. My mom passed it onto me about three years ago. It's so old and worn that it has a hole that you can put your fist through, but I don’t care.
My paternal grandmother gave the second one to me for graduation from high school. I used this blanket throughout much of my college career. The maker of this blanket died last year, but I still snuggle with it on the couch to keep warm on cold Utah mornings.
The third is an afghan knitted by my mother about five year ago. It was, as far as I can tell, the last craft item made by my mother before scleroderma destroyed the use of her hands and cancer destroyed the use of her body. She passed from this world in 2006.
It’s truly an amazing feat to leave something behind so valued by others when you depart this earth.
I also enjoy books by dead people. The plot of a 1989 movie starring Robin Williams was about enjoying the writing of poets who had since died.
Artists, including writers, can become almost immortal by creating works that live well beyond their bodies. Think of Shakespeare, Mozart, Emily Dickinson, Pablo Picasso, Mark Twain, or even Homer of ancient Greece. These people no longer breathe air, but yet they still breathe life into the lives of those who continue to enjoy their works.
Some people create art for fame, others for money, but the truly great artists create their works for the love of their craft. These people are remembered for their art because what they created goes well beyond pigment on canvas, ink on paper, or the blowing of wind through a musical instrument.
The Bible says that faith without works is dead, but I also contend that life without works of art is dead. May our lives be full of art, full of life, and full of purpose, so that when we are gone, the world will be a better place for having hosted our existence.
Monday, March 31, 2008
The Whitney Awards—From Someone Who Wasn’t There
By C.L. Beck
© 2008
No schtick, no humor. For once, I’m going to talk about something serious—the Whitney Awards. Fellow blogger, Keith Fisher, attended and he wrote about the experience yesterday (Sunday). However, I thought you’d also like the viewpoint from someone who wasn’t there.
Being old fogies, my husband, Russ, and I collapsed in our hotel room, three floors above the Whitney Gala Awards, just before they started. Our minds and bodies were totally worn out from the intensive schedule of the LDStorymakers’ Conference.
I was certain I wouldn’t miss climbing into a dress, squeezing into a pair of panty hose and trying to walk in a pair of heels to attend the awards. Doing the "dress up" routine once a week on Sunday is one day out of seven too many, in my book. And I haven’t been interested in a big awards ceremony, like the Academy Awards, since Ben Kingsley (Ghandi) defeated Dustin Hoffman (Tootsie) for best actor. Remember, I’m a humor writer, so I wouldn’t be as awed by some guy running around with a shaved head and wearing a sheet, as I would be by some guy running around with a coiffed, red wig, and wearing a dress.
But I digress …
To my surprise, I felt bad missing the Whitneys. Authors that I knew well, and some not known so well, were down there, three floors below. They were being honored for contributing to LDS literature. It was a big deal. In my opinion, a much bigger deal than the Academy Awards have ever been.
Just by sheer luck, I clicked on Marsha Ward’s blog, The Writer in the Pines, and discovered that Tristi Pinkston, Matthew Buckley, Jaime Theler, and Hilary Blair were running a live blog of the event, complete with photos and comments.
As I lay in bed, reading their words, I could hear muffled sounds below where Rob Wells emceed, Jeff Savage told jokes, presentors declared nominations . . . and after tense moments, announced the winners. If my pajamas had buttons, I would have burst them—that’s how proud I felt of everyone. From our room high above the events, Russ and I cheered when some of our favorite authors won, moaned when some of our favorites lost, and became teary-eyed as we read that Jennie Hansen, Anita Stansfield and Dean Hughes were given life-time achievement awards.
It was the best awards ceremony that I’ve never attended.
I’d like to express appreciation to the Whitney committee for thinking of live blogs, and thank Marsha for posting the link. Lastly, I am so grateful to Tristi, Matthew, Jaime and Hilary for willingly taking their eyes off the resplendent gowns, smart-looking tuxedos, and glowing faces long enough to share the joy with those who sat reading the live comments, three floors above.
© 2008
No schtick, no humor. For once, I’m going to talk about something serious—the Whitney Awards. Fellow blogger, Keith Fisher, attended and he wrote about the experience yesterday (Sunday). However, I thought you’d also like the viewpoint from someone who wasn’t there.
Being old fogies, my husband, Russ, and I collapsed in our hotel room, three floors above the Whitney Gala Awards, just before they started. Our minds and bodies were totally worn out from the intensive schedule of the LDStorymakers’ Conference.
I was certain I wouldn’t miss climbing into a dress, squeezing into a pair of panty hose and trying to walk in a pair of heels to attend the awards. Doing the "dress up" routine once a week on Sunday is one day out of seven too many, in my book. And I haven’t been interested in a big awards ceremony, like the Academy Awards, since Ben Kingsley (Ghandi) defeated Dustin Hoffman (Tootsie) for best actor. Remember, I’m a humor writer, so I wouldn’t be as awed by some guy running around with a shaved head and wearing a sheet, as I would be by some guy running around with a coiffed, red wig, and wearing a dress.
But I digress …
To my surprise, I felt bad missing the Whitneys. Authors that I knew well, and some not known so well, were down there, three floors below. They were being honored for contributing to LDS literature. It was a big deal. In my opinion, a much bigger deal than the Academy Awards have ever been.
Just by sheer luck, I clicked on Marsha Ward’s blog, The Writer in the Pines, and discovered that Tristi Pinkston, Matthew Buckley, Jaime Theler, and Hilary Blair were running a live blog of the event, complete with photos and comments.
As I lay in bed, reading their words, I could hear muffled sounds below where Rob Wells emceed, Jeff Savage told jokes, presentors declared nominations . . . and after tense moments, announced the winners. If my pajamas had buttons, I would have burst them—that’s how proud I felt of everyone. From our room high above the events, Russ and I cheered when some of our favorite authors won, moaned when some of our favorites lost, and became teary-eyed as we read that Jennie Hansen, Anita Stansfield and Dean Hughes were given life-time achievement awards.
It was the best awards ceremony that I’ve never attended.
I’d like to express appreciation to the Whitney committee for thinking of live blogs, and thank Marsha for posting the link. Lastly, I am so grateful to Tristi, Matthew, Jaime and Hilary for willingly taking their eyes off the resplendent gowns, smart-looking tuxedos, and glowing faces long enough to share the joy with those who sat reading the live comments, three floors above.
Sunday, March 30, 2008
Recognition and Rejuvenation
By Keith Fisher
Since there are so many blogs about the Whitneys I wasn't going to post this. I was persuaded, however, by C. Larene Hall. So if you don't like it, blame her. Make sure you also check out the other blog below
Since I post on Saturday, I guess I’m going to be one of the last ones to say something about the latest LDStorymakers Writer’s Conference. It was fantastic. I posted from the hotel room last week while getting ready for boot camp. I was tired from the day before, but I had a smile on my face. Even though I was late, I still didn’t have to do pushups.
I was also very proud to witness history in the making as the Whitney Awards Gala unfolded. Robison Wells and his staff are to be commended for listening to the spirit and making it a reality. Recognition for LDS writers has been sorely needed for some time. When we gave Dean Hughes a standing ovation, I cried. He and others deserve high praise for being the pioneers of the LDS fiction market.
Before the awards were presented, Robison read from the talk given by Orson F Whitney that inspired the Whitney Awards. I looked around the room and could not see any writer who was not touched by those powerful words. Bishop Whitney was speaking to us when he said,
We will yet have Miltons and Shakespeares of our own. God's ammunition is not exhausted. His brightest spirits are held in reserve for the latter times. In God's name and by his help we will build up a literature whose top shall touch heaven, though its foundations may now be low in earth.
It touched my heart when Robison read, Ye are the "hope of Israel." The heavens are watching you, and the earth is waiting for you.
And this is our charge,
But remember this, ye writers and orators of the future! It is for God's glory—not man's. Let not vanity and pride possess you. Without humility there is no power. You must be in earnest. You must feel what you write, if you wish it to be felt by others. If the words you speak are not as red-hot embers from the flaming forge of a sincere and earnest soul, they will never set on fire the souls of your hearers.
Bishop Whitney’s inspired words from out of the past are rejuvenating to me. They help me remember the reasons I chose to write in the LDS market. I want to set on fire the souls of my readers. Great job with the conference LDStorymakers, and kudos to Robison and the others. It is worth all the rejections just to be able to rub shoulders with God’s brightest spirits.
Good luck with your writing—see you next week.
Since there are so many blogs about the Whitneys I wasn't going to post this. I was persuaded, however, by C. Larene Hall. So if you don't like it, blame her. Make sure you also check out the other blog below
Since I post on Saturday, I guess I’m going to be one of the last ones to say something about the latest LDStorymakers Writer’s Conference. It was fantastic. I posted from the hotel room last week while getting ready for boot camp. I was tired from the day before, but I had a smile on my face. Even though I was late, I still didn’t have to do pushups.
I was also very proud to witness history in the making as the Whitney Awards Gala unfolded. Robison Wells and his staff are to be commended for listening to the spirit and making it a reality. Recognition for LDS writers has been sorely needed for some time. When we gave Dean Hughes a standing ovation, I cried. He and others deserve high praise for being the pioneers of the LDS fiction market.
Before the awards were presented, Robison read from the talk given by Orson F Whitney that inspired the Whitney Awards. I looked around the room and could not see any writer who was not touched by those powerful words. Bishop Whitney was speaking to us when he said,
We will yet have Miltons and Shakespeares of our own. God's ammunition is not exhausted. His brightest spirits are held in reserve for the latter times. In God's name and by his help we will build up a literature whose top shall touch heaven, though its foundations may now be low in earth.
It touched my heart when Robison read, Ye are the "hope of Israel." The heavens are watching you, and the earth is waiting for you.
And this is our charge,
But remember this, ye writers and orators of the future! It is for God's glory—not man's. Let not vanity and pride possess you. Without humility there is no power. You must be in earnest. You must feel what you write, if you wish it to be felt by others. If the words you speak are not as red-hot embers from the flaming forge of a sincere and earnest soul, they will never set on fire the souls of your hearers.
Bishop Whitney’s inspired words from out of the past are rejuvenating to me. They help me remember the reasons I chose to write in the LDS market. I want to set on fire the souls of my readers. Great job with the conference LDStorymakers, and kudos to Robison and the others. It is worth all the rejections just to be able to rub shoulders with God’s brightest spirits.
Good luck with your writing—see you next week.
Saturday, March 29, 2008
I’m Lost in the Genre Jungle
By Keith Fisher
I was going to post an article about the Whitney awards but I’m sure everyone is tired of that. Maybe I’ll save it and post later, when I’m too busy to write. Until then, here is something else.
I entered the LDStorymakers first chapter contest again this year. Since I placed third in the Mystery/Suspense category last year, I thought I had a chance. My manuscripts are so much better than last years, how could I lose?
I lost! Yeah, I lost because everyone else’s manuscripts were better. It’s a fact . . . you learn to deal with those things . . . I guess . . . seriously though, congrats to all the winners. I know you did a great job. After the contest, I picked up my packets and found some interesting comments from the judges. Some were good, some bad—all of them were helpful.
I learned much from those comments and I was reminded that every writer and reader has different tastes. The same paragraph can get a wide range of criticism depending on who is doing the judging. The same applies to teaching and books about writing. Everything is subjective but it is valuable—even if only for a good laugh. The important thing is to believe in your writing—glean what you can from a critique, be honest with yourself, learn from the good suggestions, and disregard the rest. From my critique packet, I discovered I’m genre-less.
No, its not a disease . . . well maybe . . . depends on which group . . . let me explain. In the past, when people asked me what I write, I told them I write contemporary LDS, adult fiction. When someone presses further, I say it's like Dean Hughes. Not necessarily historical, but have you ever read Midway to Heaven? Or his new book Before the Dawn? Basically, it’s the feel good type of coming of age or dealing with life kind of story that we all love.
Since my manuscripts weren’t mysterious or suspenseful, I asked if I could still enter the contest this year. I was told to submit it in those categories anyway. I did, and that brings us back to the comments. It was suggested by many of the judges that I put more suspense in the hook.
In the prologue of one of my entries, there is a man on death row with no explanation as to why, only vague regret and the emotions of brothers saying goodbye for the last time. In the other entry, a man plunges to his death in a mountain climbing accident while his friend fights for survival in a blizzard, trying to get off the mountain. Would you read these books? I suppose I could put a serial killer in someplace, but I think it would mess up the plot.
At the Whitney Awards this year, I cried when we honored Dean Hughes for his achievements. In light of my dilemma, I propose we honor him further by naming a genre after him. Instead of mysteries, we could have Hughes-eries. Then everyone would know the kind of story I’ve written and I wouldn’t have to write the first chapter of a mystery in order to enter the contest. Like the two I started to enter the contest last year.
Good luck with your writing---see you next week.
I was going to post an article about the Whitney awards but I’m sure everyone is tired of that. Maybe I’ll save it and post later, when I’m too busy to write. Until then, here is something else.
I entered the LDStorymakers first chapter contest again this year. Since I placed third in the Mystery/Suspense category last year, I thought I had a chance. My manuscripts are so much better than last years, how could I lose?
I lost! Yeah, I lost because everyone else’s manuscripts were better. It’s a fact . . . you learn to deal with those things . . . I guess . . . seriously though, congrats to all the winners. I know you did a great job. After the contest, I picked up my packets and found some interesting comments from the judges. Some were good, some bad—all of them were helpful.
I learned much from those comments and I was reminded that every writer and reader has different tastes. The same paragraph can get a wide range of criticism depending on who is doing the judging. The same applies to teaching and books about writing. Everything is subjective but it is valuable—even if only for a good laugh. The important thing is to believe in your writing—glean what you can from a critique, be honest with yourself, learn from the good suggestions, and disregard the rest. From my critique packet, I discovered I’m genre-less.
No, its not a disease . . . well maybe . . . depends on which group . . . let me explain. In the past, when people asked me what I write, I told them I write contemporary LDS, adult fiction. When someone presses further, I say it's like Dean Hughes. Not necessarily historical, but have you ever read Midway to Heaven? Or his new book Before the Dawn? Basically, it’s the feel good type of coming of age or dealing with life kind of story that we all love.
Since my manuscripts weren’t mysterious or suspenseful, I asked if I could still enter the contest this year. I was told to submit it in those categories anyway. I did, and that brings us back to the comments. It was suggested by many of the judges that I put more suspense in the hook.
In the prologue of one of my entries, there is a man on death row with no explanation as to why, only vague regret and the emotions of brothers saying goodbye for the last time. In the other entry, a man plunges to his death in a mountain climbing accident while his friend fights for survival in a blizzard, trying to get off the mountain. Would you read these books? I suppose I could put a serial killer in someplace, but I think it would mess up the plot.
At the Whitney Awards this year, I cried when we honored Dean Hughes for his achievements. In light of my dilemma, I propose we honor him further by naming a genre after him. Instead of mysteries, we could have Hughes-eries. Then everyone would know the kind of story I’ve written and I wouldn’t have to write the first chapter of a mystery in order to enter the contest. Like the two I started to enter the contest last year.
Good luck with your writing---see you next week.
Friday, March 28, 2008
Virtuality
by G.Parker
Sometimes I feel as if we are living in a "virtual world". Things don't seem real, and I wonder what would happen if there was a reset button. Part of this comes from having gotten a Wii for Christmas and discovering it really is addictive and part of it comes from the regular lives we lead -- duality.
We are who we are -- writers.
And yet, we are other things as well. It's like the whole hat wearing thing. Which hat are you wearing today? Are you mom, dad, brother, sister, doctor, cook? Or are you simply writing? I feel sometimes as if our lives take on a surreal feel to them. Nothing really matters in this life outside the relationships we form, the knowledge we gain and the growth in our hearts. But we are so caught up in all the other trivial things, sometimes we forget that it doesn't really matter.
When I was living on my own many years ago, I used to have a pet phrase. "Is this really going to matter in the eternities?" I generally used this in reference to some mishap that went on between my roommate and me, or something that really made me angry. I haven't used it as much since I became married and had children, and I'm not sure why. I think sometimes we lose sight of the important things when we are dogged down with the mundane. Somehow it doesn't seem as if eternity will be thrilling if all it's going to be is diapers and throw-up. But after you get past that, and the sun starts shining, you realize there is more to life than the every day. You just have to look for it.
As a writer, one tends to look at everything with a different slant. That makes us a little strange to some people, but that's what we are. We think of the hidden meaning behind an exchange between two people -- what would have made them talk to each other in such a way, what if something else had happened?
So, eventually, our world becomes involved in the unreal. The what if. And suddenly you find yourself wondering if your life is just another re-run of the Twilight Zone and you really are out on some alien world thinking you're living here....
The trick is using that to your benefit. Our imagination is what sets us apart and enables us to dream of alternate realities, making them our own. These realities can seem as real as what we are now, and it's easy to get caught up in them. I've even heard some writers complain that the voices won't shut up when their they're in church -- they still want to talk. Hmmmm....that's a little strange. (grin)
Whatever you write, wherever you are in life, there is always going to be that moment of disorientation. Because no matter how we view it, this life is just a test and we are being given time to rewrite our final essays as many times as we can until we get them right. We just don't want to put it off till it's too late to make that final draft -- we won't have a reset button then.
Sometimes I feel as if we are living in a "virtual world". Things don't seem real, and I wonder what would happen if there was a reset button. Part of this comes from having gotten a Wii for Christmas and discovering it really is addictive and part of it comes from the regular lives we lead -- duality.
We are who we are -- writers.
And yet, we are other things as well. It's like the whole hat wearing thing. Which hat are you wearing today? Are you mom, dad, brother, sister, doctor, cook? Or are you simply writing? I feel sometimes as if our lives take on a surreal feel to them. Nothing really matters in this life outside the relationships we form, the knowledge we gain and the growth in our hearts. But we are so caught up in all the other trivial things, sometimes we forget that it doesn't really matter.
When I was living on my own many years ago, I used to have a pet phrase. "Is this really going to matter in the eternities?" I generally used this in reference to some mishap that went on between my roommate and me, or something that really made me angry. I haven't used it as much since I became married and had children, and I'm not sure why. I think sometimes we lose sight of the important things when we are dogged down with the mundane. Somehow it doesn't seem as if eternity will be thrilling if all it's going to be is diapers and throw-up. But after you get past that, and the sun starts shining, you realize there is more to life than the every day. You just have to look for it.
As a writer, one tends to look at everything with a different slant. That makes us a little strange to some people, but that's what we are. We think of the hidden meaning behind an exchange between two people -- what would have made them talk to each other in such a way, what if something else had happened?
So, eventually, our world becomes involved in the unreal. The what if. And suddenly you find yourself wondering if your life is just another re-run of the Twilight Zone and you really are out on some alien world thinking you're living here....
The trick is using that to your benefit. Our imagination is what sets us apart and enables us to dream of alternate realities, making them our own. These realities can seem as real as what we are now, and it's easy to get caught up in them. I've even heard some writers complain that the voices won't shut up when their they're in church -- they still want to talk. Hmmmm....that's a little strange. (grin)
Whatever you write, wherever you are in life, there is always going to be that moment of disorientation. Because no matter how we view it, this life is just a test and we are being given time to rewrite our final essays as many times as we can until we get them right. We just don't want to put it off till it's too late to make that final draft -- we won't have a reset button then.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
We All Win
By Nichole Giles
Last weekend, I was privileged to have the opportunity to attend the fifth annual LDStorymakers Writer’s Conference. For the first time ever, this year’s conference sold out completely—they even had a waiting list. As if the conference wasn’t enough, I was equally blessed with the opportunity to attend the first ever Whitney Awards Gala.
But what, you ask, is a Whitney Award?
Let me start at the beginning. In 1888, Orson F. Whitney gave a speech about the future of LDS literature. The speech was very long, and though I’d love to quote it word for word here (it is incredibly beautiful) I’ll paraphrase the meaning by quoting only the most pertinent paragraph. Whitney said:
“We will yet have Miltons and Shakespeares of our own. God's ammunition is not exhausted. His brightest spirits are held in reserve for the latter times. In God's name and by his help we will build up a literature whose top shall touch heaven, though its foundations may now be low in earth. Let the smile of derision wreathe the face of scorn; let the frown of hatred darken the brow of bigotry. Small things are the seeds of great things, and, like the acorn that brings forth the oak, or the snowflake that forms the avalanche, God's kingdom will grow, and on wings of light and power soar to the summit of its destiny. Let us onward, then, and upward, keeping the goal in view; living not in the dead past, nor for the dying present. The future is our field. Eternity is before us.”
Whitney’s words were the inspiration for Robison Wells when he embarked on the creation of the first ever LDS literary awards. Of course, Rob was not alone in this creation. There were a great many people who helped pull everything together to turn it into the amazing experience that it was.
And while I admit to feeling a little bit like a groupie as I dressed in my formal attire and snapped shots of all my favorite authors—or at least the ones who were able to attend—spending time with those brilliant people was not the most amazing part. Okay, that part was really cool, but even more amazing was the whole idea that I was able to witness something that will surely become a historical event.
Think about it. This is only the beginning. Whitney awards will likely be given out every year from now until the end of forever. And to me—besides recognition for all the best works of literature by LDS authors—that becomes an opportunity. It is one more goal toward which I can aim. It means a chance to be more than just an author—but an award-winning author known for clean content and excellent descriptive skills. A Milton or Shakespeare of the twenty-first century.
So thank you, Whitney committee, for all your efforts and inspiration. You’ve reminded us that someday we will all have the chance to be winners, even if we never receive a trophy.
Last weekend, I was privileged to have the opportunity to attend the fifth annual LDStorymakers Writer’s Conference. For the first time ever, this year’s conference sold out completely—they even had a waiting list. As if the conference wasn’t enough, I was equally blessed with the opportunity to attend the first ever Whitney Awards Gala.
But what, you ask, is a Whitney Award?
Let me start at the beginning. In 1888, Orson F. Whitney gave a speech about the future of LDS literature. The speech was very long, and though I’d love to quote it word for word here (it is incredibly beautiful) I’ll paraphrase the meaning by quoting only the most pertinent paragraph. Whitney said:
“We will yet have Miltons and Shakespeares of our own. God's ammunition is not exhausted. His brightest spirits are held in reserve for the latter times. In God's name and by his help we will build up a literature whose top shall touch heaven, though its foundations may now be low in earth. Let the smile of derision wreathe the face of scorn; let the frown of hatred darken the brow of bigotry. Small things are the seeds of great things, and, like the acorn that brings forth the oak, or the snowflake that forms the avalanche, God's kingdom will grow, and on wings of light and power soar to the summit of its destiny. Let us onward, then, and upward, keeping the goal in view; living not in the dead past, nor for the dying present. The future is our field. Eternity is before us.”
Whitney’s words were the inspiration for Robison Wells when he embarked on the creation of the first ever LDS literary awards. Of course, Rob was not alone in this creation. There were a great many people who helped pull everything together to turn it into the amazing experience that it was.
And while I admit to feeling a little bit like a groupie as I dressed in my formal attire and snapped shots of all my favorite authors—or at least the ones who were able to attend—spending time with those brilliant people was not the most amazing part. Okay, that part was really cool, but even more amazing was the whole idea that I was able to witness something that will surely become a historical event.
Think about it. This is only the beginning. Whitney awards will likely be given out every year from now until the end of forever. And to me—besides recognition for all the best works of literature by LDS authors—that becomes an opportunity. It is one more goal toward which I can aim. It means a chance to be more than just an author—but an award-winning author known for clean content and excellent descriptive skills. A Milton or Shakespeare of the twenty-first century.
So thank you, Whitney committee, for all your efforts and inspiration. You’ve reminded us that someday we will all have the chance to be winners, even if we never receive a trophy.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Focus on the Path
By C. LaRene Hall
Five years ago, when I first started thinking seriously about writing I posted a list next to my computer to help me avoid certain taboo words while writing. Some of those words included “was” and “were”. Until this past weekend, I never realized why they are wrong. I usually searched each document and tried to delete the words if I could, but didn’t understand why.
On Friday, while at the LDStorymaker’s Conference I learned that when you use was and were you are telling instead of showing. The entire concepts of changing “was” and “were” into action words such as “he was writing” into “he wrote” finally clicked for me. With this firmly in my mind, I searched for the unwanted words and now my story has more action.
The day was long, but worthwhile. We were encouraged to be persistent in our writing, and never give up. They told us that if we want to improve our writing we should read and read and read. The journey of writing is important and we should focus on what we are inspired to write.
Lisa Magnum from Deseret Book listed five things you as a writer cannot control.
1. Publishing is a business.
2. Number of manuscripts submitted in a year.
3. Other manuscripts that are similar to yours.
4. What other people are doing.
5. Her moods.
She then listed five things that we can control.
1. Do your homework.
2. Follow guidelines.
3. Write a killer cover letter.
4. Showcase your talent.
5. Deal with rejection letters.
Jessica Day George, the keynote speaker ended the general session on Friday by reminding us that we are encouraged to explore our talents because it’s part of our culture.
This conference helped me once again focus on the path I am headed toward. Thank you LDS Storymakers.
Five years ago, when I first started thinking seriously about writing I posted a list next to my computer to help me avoid certain taboo words while writing. Some of those words included “was” and “were”. Until this past weekend, I never realized why they are wrong. I usually searched each document and tried to delete the words if I could, but didn’t understand why.
On Friday, while at the LDStorymaker’s Conference I learned that when you use was and were you are telling instead of showing. The entire concepts of changing “was” and “were” into action words such as “he was writing” into “he wrote” finally clicked for me. With this firmly in my mind, I searched for the unwanted words and now my story has more action.
The day was long, but worthwhile. We were encouraged to be persistent in our writing, and never give up. They told us that if we want to improve our writing we should read and read and read. The journey of writing is important and we should focus on what we are inspired to write.
Lisa Magnum from Deseret Book listed five things you as a writer cannot control.
1. Publishing is a business.
2. Number of manuscripts submitted in a year.
3. Other manuscripts that are similar to yours.
4. What other people are doing.
5. Her moods.
She then listed five things that we can control.
1. Do your homework.
2. Follow guidelines.
3. Write a killer cover letter.
4. Showcase your talent.
5. Deal with rejection letters.
Jessica Day George, the keynote speaker ended the general session on Friday by reminding us that we are encouraged to explore our talents because it’s part of our culture.
This conference helped me once again focus on the path I am headed toward. Thank you LDS Storymakers.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Seven Unknown Writing Facts about Me
By Darvell Hunt
I got tagged for today's blog by a fellow blogger, but I thought I would take the challenge to write seven things about me as: “Seven Unknown Writing Facts about Me.” Here’s the short list:
1. I have written a total of 7 novels, none of which are published yet. An excerpt of one of them, however, placed in a short story contest and was published in the official magazine of the Association for Mormon Letters, The Irreantum, in 2006.
2. I first discovered my interest in writing in the 5th grade, when a student teacher brought a poet into class to broaden our interests. She encouraged us all to write our own poems, so I did. I fell in love with writing poetry and wrote many poems, most of which I still have. Unfortunately, I no longer have those that I wrote in the 5th grade.
3. I used to read a lot of children’s fiction up until about the seventh grade, at which point I concentrated more on schoolwork and considered fiction to be a waste of time—facts were more important than fiction to me. Throughout my high school years and beyond, I didn’t read much fiction, until after my mission, when I transitioned from writing poetry to writing fiction. I also started reading fiction again. Sadly, I write very little poetry any more.
4. The most significant change that affected my writing skill was getting a job that required a 400-Mile, 6-hour commute. I started listening to audio books and “read” a great number of books during my weekly commute. I felt that I had reached a plateau in my writing that I could not seem to overcome and was unsure if I should keep trying or quit altogether. Reading helped my writing more than any other single thing I have ever done and I continue to try to read as much as I can.
5. My grandfather wrote a lot of poetry throughout his life. I like to think a little of my writing ability was inherited from him.
6. My mother told me that I am a descendant of the poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. I like to think a little of my writing ability was inherited from him.
7. One of my novels was rejected by an LDS publisher, recalled, and then rejected again. The reason they told me it was rejected was that it was too much like Harry Potter. I didn’t know that could be a bad thing. I wrote the story because my kids were enjoying Harry Potter so much and I wanted to write something they would enjoy, because they couldn't really read anything that I had written thus far. They liked it; so did I. I’m still working on finding a publisher for it.
That's it. I'm supposed to tag somebody now, but, like the chain letters I get in the mail, I'm afraid I'm going to break this one and hope it brings me good luck. Well, actually, I don't believe much in good luck. I think luck is where opportunity meets preparedness and hard work.
I got tagged for today's blog by a fellow blogger, but I thought I would take the challenge to write seven things about me as: “Seven Unknown Writing Facts about Me.” Here’s the short list:
1. I have written a total of 7 novels, none of which are published yet. An excerpt of one of them, however, placed in a short story contest and was published in the official magazine of the Association for Mormon Letters, The Irreantum, in 2006.
2. I first discovered my interest in writing in the 5th grade, when a student teacher brought a poet into class to broaden our interests. She encouraged us all to write our own poems, so I did. I fell in love with writing poetry and wrote many poems, most of which I still have. Unfortunately, I no longer have those that I wrote in the 5th grade.
3. I used to read a lot of children’s fiction up until about the seventh grade, at which point I concentrated more on schoolwork and considered fiction to be a waste of time—facts were more important than fiction to me. Throughout my high school years and beyond, I didn’t read much fiction, until after my mission, when I transitioned from writing poetry to writing fiction. I also started reading fiction again. Sadly, I write very little poetry any more.
4. The most significant change that affected my writing skill was getting a job that required a 400-Mile, 6-hour commute. I started listening to audio books and “read” a great number of books during my weekly commute. I felt that I had reached a plateau in my writing that I could not seem to overcome and was unsure if I should keep trying or quit altogether. Reading helped my writing more than any other single thing I have ever done and I continue to try to read as much as I can.
5. My grandfather wrote a lot of poetry throughout his life. I like to think a little of my writing ability was inherited from him.
6. My mother told me that I am a descendant of the poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. I like to think a little of my writing ability was inherited from him.
7. One of my novels was rejected by an LDS publisher, recalled, and then rejected again. The reason they told me it was rejected was that it was too much like Harry Potter. I didn’t know that could be a bad thing. I wrote the story because my kids were enjoying Harry Potter so much and I wanted to write something they would enjoy, because they couldn't really read anything that I had written thus far. They liked it; so did I. I’m still working on finding a publisher for it.
That's it. I'm supposed to tag somebody now, but, like the chain letters I get in the mail, I'm afraid I'm going to break this one and hope it brings me good luck. Well, actually, I don't believe much in good luck. I think luck is where opportunity meets preparedness and hard work.
Monday, March 24, 2008
Home Away from Home, the Final Episode
C.L. Beck
© 2008
Just in case some of you might be interested . . . I have a short story titled, “Horse on Lap” coming out in April in the national publication, Cup of Comfort for Horse Lovers. You can order a signed copy from me at: author(at)bythebecks(dot)com. I'll also be doing book signings for it in the near future. Wahoo, it's exciting! More info to come in the next few weeks!
Now ... back to the last installment in the series: "Home Away from Home, the Final Episode"
It was evening. The last thing we wanted was to spend the night sleeping in a room the temperature of a meat locker. However, we wanted even less to spend the night in the company of a maintenance man, banging away on the heater, interrupting our rest and relaxation.
*******
The night before, in our hotel-room-the-size-of-a-closet, the TV hadn’t worked. Earlier that day, the maintenance man was standing in the lobby. I have a finely-tuned brain that picks up on vibes … the pleasure of someone eating rich, milk chocolate; the happiness of couples in love; the thoughts of serial killers.
The maintenance man definitely did not bring chocolate to mind.
“If that creepy guy shows up to fix the TV, I’m outta here,” I said as my hubby, Russ, called the front desk about the television.
Two men showed up. The first one started working on the TV, and the second one walked in through the open door a few minutes later. It was the man from the lobby. Neither the dog nor I could fit under the bed, so we hightailed it to the bathroom.
It got tiring, sitting on the commode for half an hour. And who in their right mind wants to lie down on the floor with all the germs? Corky Porky Pie and I finally reached a compromise. He settled his short, fat body on the floor, and I settled mine in the bathtub, fully clothed.
However, that was the night before. Any serial killers/axe murderers currently wandering the hotel had no clue we’d changed rooms. Not even the maintenance man. Still, we preferred to take our chances with the heater.
All night long I got up and down, first turning the thermostat on high so something akin to the fires of Hades radiated from the wall furnace. Then, half an hour later, turning it off—before the heating unit quit and the fan kicked on, freezing us into Sno-Cones.
After two days of this, we were ready to go home. I thought a nice, hot shower before we left would be the ticket. Moisture condensed in a fine mist on the cold, tile floor. Stepping out of the tub, I put on my flip-flops. Ooo, a little slippery, I thought as my feet slid a tiny bit. Then I walked out, got dressed and started packing.
What? You thought there’d be more drama? More slipping and sliding, bumping and ouching?
There wasn’t.
The drama happened fifteen minutes later when, wearing shoes with treads the size of a steel-belted tractor tire, I walked into the bathroom again. As soon as I hit the still-damp floor, my feet shot out from under me. One knee smashed into the toilet six inches away, while the other leg buckled at an odd angle. With arms flailing, I grabbed the only thing nearby, the shower curtain.
If my knee wasn’t throbbing, a goose egg wasn’t rising, and a contusion wasn’t spreading beneath my skin, I would have found it funny—as I lay in a heap on the floor. I’d have laughed that in a hotel where the elevator, TV and heater didn’t work, someone had anchored a shower curtain rod firmly enough to the wall to slow the descent of a hundred and . . . um . . . let’s just say hundred-and-something pound woman.
Russ came in and picked me up. Fearing we were jinxed, we vacated the hotel like the Looney Tunes’ Tasmanian Devil on amphetamines. Well, okay, Russ and Corky did that—I just limped away, hoping to get out while all my bones were still intact.
And despite the pain, I congratulated myself the whole way home . . . it’s not every day a story like that falls into a writer’s lap.
*******
The night before, in our hotel-room-the-size-of-a-closet, the TV hadn’t worked. Earlier that day, the maintenance man was standing in the lobby. I have a finely-tuned brain that picks up on vibes … the pleasure of someone eating rich, milk chocolate; the happiness of couples in love; the thoughts of serial killers.
The maintenance man definitely did not bring chocolate to mind.
“If that creepy guy shows up to fix the TV, I’m outta here,” I said as my hubby, Russ, called the front desk about the television.
Two men showed up. The first one started working on the TV, and the second one walked in through the open door a few minutes later. It was the man from the lobby. Neither the dog nor I could fit under the bed, so we hightailed it to the bathroom.
It got tiring, sitting on the commode for half an hour. And who in their right mind wants to lie down on the floor with all the germs? Corky Porky Pie and I finally reached a compromise. He settled his short, fat body on the floor, and I settled mine in the bathtub, fully clothed.
However, that was the night before. Any serial killers/axe murderers currently wandering the hotel had no clue we’d changed rooms. Not even the maintenance man. Still, we preferred to take our chances with the heater.
All night long I got up and down, first turning the thermostat on high so something akin to the fires of Hades radiated from the wall furnace. Then, half an hour later, turning it off—before the heating unit quit and the fan kicked on, freezing us into Sno-Cones.
After two days of this, we were ready to go home. I thought a nice, hot shower before we left would be the ticket. Moisture condensed in a fine mist on the cold, tile floor. Stepping out of the tub, I put on my flip-flops. Ooo, a little slippery, I thought as my feet slid a tiny bit. Then I walked out, got dressed and started packing.
What? You thought there’d be more drama? More slipping and sliding, bumping and ouching?
There wasn’t.
The drama happened fifteen minutes later when, wearing shoes with treads the size of a steel-belted tractor tire, I walked into the bathroom again. As soon as I hit the still-damp floor, my feet shot out from under me. One knee smashed into the toilet six inches away, while the other leg buckled at an odd angle. With arms flailing, I grabbed the only thing nearby, the shower curtain.
If my knee wasn’t throbbing, a goose egg wasn’t rising, and a contusion wasn’t spreading beneath my skin, I would have found it funny—as I lay in a heap on the floor. I’d have laughed that in a hotel where the elevator, TV and heater didn’t work, someone had anchored a shower curtain rod firmly enough to the wall to slow the descent of a hundred and . . . um . . . let’s just say hundred-and-something pound woman.
Russ came in and picked me up. Fearing we were jinxed, we vacated the hotel like the Looney Tunes’ Tasmanian Devil on amphetamines. Well, okay, Russ and Corky did that—I just limped away, hoping to get out while all my bones were still intact.
And despite the pain, I congratulated myself the whole way home . . . it’s not every day a story like that falls into a writer’s lap.
C.L.’s other work:
Cup of Comfort for Horse Lovers, "Horse on Lap"
Cup of Comfort for Horse Lovers, "Horse on Lap"
Life is Like Riding a Unicycle by Shirley Bahlmann, "Priming the Pump, pg. 79 by C.L. Beck
Newspaper Column--Awarded first place, "Best Feature Column," by Utah Press Association, 2008, for category 1 newspapers
Ensign Magazine, Dec 2007-Q&A
2007 League of Utah Writer's Award-Historical Fiction
Newspaper Column--Awarded first place, "Best Feature Column," by Utah Press Association, 2008, for category 1 newspapers
Ensign Magazine, Dec 2007-Q&A
2007 League of Utah Writer's Award-Historical Fiction
Website
What books C.L. recommends:
Publishing Secrets by LDS Storymakers (BJ Rowley and others)
Writing for Story: Craft Secrets of Dramatic Nonfiction by Jon Franklin
Self-Editing for Fiction Writers by Rennie Browne & Dave King
What books C.L. recommends:
Publishing Secrets by LDS Storymakers (BJ Rowley and others)
Writing for Story: Craft Secrets of Dramatic Nonfiction by Jon Franklin
Self-Editing for Fiction Writers by Rennie Browne & Dave King
Saturday, March 22, 2008
Counting Victories
By Keith Fisher
I’m writing from the LDStorymakers Writer’s conference this week, wish you were here. I’ll send you some pictures. I heard Tim Travaglini-Senior Editor, Putnam Books talk about some of the same things as I have written, but I wrote it three days ago, honest. So if you heard this at the conference, I hope it’s not a repeat for you.
Have you ever asked yourself what you would do if you knew you would never be published? Go ahead, I’ll give you a minute to think about it . . . good, hold that thought while I talk about victories for a moment.
I was inspired the other day by Marsha Ward. In her blog, she talked about our tendencies toward self-doubt and the bouts with depression even multi-published authors succumb to. It lifted me to know we all struggle to believe in ourselves.
There are many stories about writers who, after submitting their work umpteen times, finally get published. The lesson is simple: Never give up, keep writing, keep submitting, use rejections as proof to the IRS that you really are trying to get published.
Sometimes it’s hard to believe, especially when we see the great successes others are having. We wonder why we ever deluded ourselves into believing we could make a difference. I’m told there are thousands of would be writers with desires to write a novel, but they never actually begin.
If you are putting words together on paper with an end result in mind, you’re a writer. You have surpassed those who never start.
So, now we have established you are a writer, get on with your chosen occupation. Write for the sheer pleasure of it. If it turns out bad, file it away and start another story.
I found a quote in The First Five Pages by Noah Lukeman that is pertinent. " . . . become devoted to the craft of writing, for it’s own sake. Ask yourself what would you do if you found out you would never be published. Would you still write? If you are truly writing for the art of it, the answer would be yes. And then, every word is a victory."
Be victorious. Find joy in creation. You will notice that the more you write the better you will get, and someday you will be published, although it may be a great shock.
Good luck with your writing, wish you were here. See you next week.
I’m writing from the LDStorymakers Writer’s conference this week, wish you were here. I’ll send you some pictures. I heard Tim Travaglini-Senior Editor, Putnam Books talk about some of the same things as I have written, but I wrote it three days ago, honest. So if you heard this at the conference, I hope it’s not a repeat for you.
Have you ever asked yourself what you would do if you knew you would never be published? Go ahead, I’ll give you a minute to think about it . . . good, hold that thought while I talk about victories for a moment.
I was inspired the other day by Marsha Ward. In her blog, she talked about our tendencies toward self-doubt and the bouts with depression even multi-published authors succumb to. It lifted me to know we all struggle to believe in ourselves.
There are many stories about writers who, after submitting their work umpteen times, finally get published. The lesson is simple: Never give up, keep writing, keep submitting, use rejections as proof to the IRS that you really are trying to get published.
Sometimes it’s hard to believe, especially when we see the great successes others are having. We wonder why we ever deluded ourselves into believing we could make a difference. I’m told there are thousands of would be writers with desires to write a novel, but they never actually begin.
If you are putting words together on paper with an end result in mind, you’re a writer. You have surpassed those who never start.
So, now we have established you are a writer, get on with your chosen occupation. Write for the sheer pleasure of it. If it turns out bad, file it away and start another story.
I found a quote in The First Five Pages by Noah Lukeman that is pertinent. " . . . become devoted to the craft of writing, for it’s own sake. Ask yourself what would you do if you found out you would never be published. Would you still write? If you are truly writing for the art of it, the answer would be yes. And then, every word is a victory."
Be victorious. Find joy in creation. You will notice that the more you write the better you will get, and someday you will be published, although it may be a great shock.
Good luck with your writing, wish you were here. See you next week.
Friday, March 21, 2008
You Are Where You Are Because That's Where You Want to Be
by G.Parker
Many years ago, my husband and I owned a business that sent us motivational tapes every week. These tapes, for the most part, were great entertainment as well as motivating and we still remember many of them. One of those was a man who was telling us how, despite the fact that he'd "arrived", he still had much to learn about choices and growth.
He told of how he'd gone to Boston to speak with the great motivator, Zig Ziglar. He was feeling a little intimidated, but also a little full of himself since he'd been asked to speak with the well known man. However, getting there was a problem. He drove his big new motorcoach, following the traffic signs and getting more and more lost. He kept remembering what someone had told him, "You are where you are because that's where you want to be." He was like, "No, I don't want to be lost on the freeways of Boston, I want to be on stage with Zig Ziglar."
He recounts that by the time two hours had gone by, his son was in the back window with a handmade sign that said, "Help, we're lost!"
That phrase is something that has stuck with my hubby and me. Many times we'll tease each other about being lost or doing something we don't want to do by reminding the other of that motto. I feel today it's particularly ironic.
Today is the start of the LDS Storymakers Writing Conference. All my fellow bloggers and members of Authors Incognito will be there, rubbing elbows with the gifted, the published, the who's who in LDS literature. Sigh. I'm telling myself, "You are where you are because that's where you want to be." It's a bitter pill to swallow in realizing that my choices over the past year have put me exactly where I didn't want to be.
There's no way I'd rather be home if I could be there. I'm a writer, after all, and desire to learn all I can about my craft. So, instead of shuffling around the house bemoaning the fact that I'm not there partying with the others and driving my family crazy with frustration, I'll be pulling out my notes from the previous two years and hearing the presenters voices in my head, pretending I'm there with them -- where I'd really like to be.
Hopefully next year, I really will be where I am because that's where I want to be.
Many years ago, my husband and I owned a business that sent us motivational tapes every week. These tapes, for the most part, were great entertainment as well as motivating and we still remember many of them. One of those was a man who was telling us how, despite the fact that he'd "arrived", he still had much to learn about choices and growth.
He told of how he'd gone to Boston to speak with the great motivator, Zig Ziglar. He was feeling a little intimidated, but also a little full of himself since he'd been asked to speak with the well known man. However, getting there was a problem. He drove his big new motorcoach, following the traffic signs and getting more and more lost. He kept remembering what someone had told him, "You are where you are because that's where you want to be." He was like, "No, I don't want to be lost on the freeways of Boston, I want to be on stage with Zig Ziglar."
He recounts that by the time two hours had gone by, his son was in the back window with a handmade sign that said, "Help, we're lost!"
That phrase is something that has stuck with my hubby and me. Many times we'll tease each other about being lost or doing something we don't want to do by reminding the other of that motto. I feel today it's particularly ironic.
Today is the start of the LDS Storymakers Writing Conference. All my fellow bloggers and members of Authors Incognito will be there, rubbing elbows with the gifted, the published, the who's who in LDS literature. Sigh. I'm telling myself, "You are where you are because that's where you want to be." It's a bitter pill to swallow in realizing that my choices over the past year have put me exactly where I didn't want to be.
There's no way I'd rather be home if I could be there. I'm a writer, after all, and desire to learn all I can about my craft. So, instead of shuffling around the house bemoaning the fact that I'm not there partying with the others and driving my family crazy with frustration, I'll be pulling out my notes from the previous two years and hearing the presenters voices in my head, pretending I'm there with them -- where I'd really like to be.
Hopefully next year, I really will be where I am because that's where I want to be.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Here it Comes!
By Nichole Giles
Every March, the volume of email exchange in our writer’s group expands like a balloon being held to the nozzle of a helium tank. It could be spring fever, or the end of a long (and freezing cold) winter. Maybe we’re all starting to recover from the sick season that always follows the holidays, or it could be that the additional hour of daylight has given us more energy. There are so many possible answers to this phenomenon, but only one that really, truly explains it.
It’s time for the annual LDS Storymakers Writer’s Conference.
Of all the conferences we attend each year, we love the LDStorymakers conference most. This is the one we can become involved in, and share ideas, and socialize with authors, published and unpublished alike. It’s our time.
Granted, it does help our excitement when we start writing skits to recruit more writers to our group. And when we talk about visits from the writing fairy (aka Tristi Pinkston) and door prizes, and the first chapter contest (open only to conference participants.)
So, we exchange a frenzy of emails, and we order t-shirts and hats and buttons in order to recognize each other. And we plan parties and pranks and get-togethers while we count down the days until the conference.
Well, it’s finally here. Today, authors all over the country are gathering their bearings and packing their laptops, notebooks and pens to prepare for boot camp early tomorrow. There is no big pressure, as it’s all in the spirit of learning and fun—even if they make us drop and give them fifty.
And if you happen to be staying in a hotel somewhere near Sandy City, Utah this weekend, don’t be alarmed when a group of crazed women who smell like popcorn and chocolate come knocking on your door in the middle of the night yelling, “The Stompers are coming!” and then run away laughing like goons. It’s just a bunch of brain-fried-exhausted authors letting off steam.
Oh, and also, don’t be alarmed if you happen to witness thirty or forty people running around in clothing from other eras in time, space, or stories, tagging each other with a fairy wand and screaming, “Cut that chapter!” We’re not crazy or drunk. We’re just learning to see the possibilities.
Stay tuned next week for highlights of the best of Authors Incognito and the LDStorymakers at the conference. Maybe I’ll even include pictures.
Every March, the volume of email exchange in our writer’s group expands like a balloon being held to the nozzle of a helium tank. It could be spring fever, or the end of a long (and freezing cold) winter. Maybe we’re all starting to recover from the sick season that always follows the holidays, or it could be that the additional hour of daylight has given us more energy. There are so many possible answers to this phenomenon, but only one that really, truly explains it.
It’s time for the annual LDS Storymakers Writer’s Conference.
Of all the conferences we attend each year, we love the LDStorymakers conference most. This is the one we can become involved in, and share ideas, and socialize with authors, published and unpublished alike. It’s our time.
Granted, it does help our excitement when we start writing skits to recruit more writers to our group. And when we talk about visits from the writing fairy (aka Tristi Pinkston) and door prizes, and the first chapter contest (open only to conference participants.)
So, we exchange a frenzy of emails, and we order t-shirts and hats and buttons in order to recognize each other. And we plan parties and pranks and get-togethers while we count down the days until the conference.
Well, it’s finally here. Today, authors all over the country are gathering their bearings and packing their laptops, notebooks and pens to prepare for boot camp early tomorrow. There is no big pressure, as it’s all in the spirit of learning and fun—even if they make us drop and give them fifty.
And if you happen to be staying in a hotel somewhere near Sandy City, Utah this weekend, don’t be alarmed when a group of crazed women who smell like popcorn and chocolate come knocking on your door in the middle of the night yelling, “The Stompers are coming!” and then run away laughing like goons. It’s just a bunch of brain-fried-exhausted authors letting off steam.
Oh, and also, don’t be alarmed if you happen to witness thirty or forty people running around in clothing from other eras in time, space, or stories, tagging each other with a fairy wand and screaming, “Cut that chapter!” We’re not crazy or drunk. We’re just learning to see the possibilities.
Stay tuned next week for highlights of the best of Authors Incognito and the LDStorymakers at the conference. Maybe I’ll even include pictures.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Caught Again
By C. LaRene Hall
I’m the victim of a tag game again. It seems I did this before, but it’s been awhile so I’ll give it a shot. I’m supposed to share seven random things about myself.
1. I’m the oldest of five children – a brother eighteen months younger than me, a sister almost four years younger, and two other sisters. One was born when I was sixteen, and the other when I was nineteen.
2. Before I was in the 5th grade, we lived in so many places that it would take all my fingers and most of my toes to count them.
3. I love to travel. It doesn’t matter where as long as I can see something new. I love this beautiful earth, and won’t be entirely happy until I can see every inch of it. The only problem is I only speak one language. I’ve tried to learn German, Spanish, and Samoan, but it never stuck.
4. I hate shopping. I will do almost anything to avoid going to a store. It doesn’t matter what kind of store – I hate them all. If the economy depended on me spending money in a store, it would be in trouble.
5. If I could choose somewhere else I would want to live, it would be in Virginia. I love that place. There are so many historical things that happened there I would never tire of exploring.
6. When I was young, I spent lots of time in front of an audience. It seemed I was always playing a solo on the violin or singing a solo or dancing for someone. I also acted in the plays at school. One year my brother and I learned ballroom dancing and performed in an all church musical festival.
7. I collect fairies. I read about them, I write about them, and I dream about them. If I could be anything but a person, I’d choose to be a fairy.
I think I should choose 3 other people to tag. I should probably choose my other fellow bloggers - Keith, G. Parker, and Karen. Let's hear from the three of you soon.
I’m the victim of a tag game again. It seems I did this before, but it’s been awhile so I’ll give it a shot. I’m supposed to share seven random things about myself.
1. I’m the oldest of five children – a brother eighteen months younger than me, a sister almost four years younger, and two other sisters. One was born when I was sixteen, and the other when I was nineteen.
2. Before I was in the 5th grade, we lived in so many places that it would take all my fingers and most of my toes to count them.
3. I love to travel. It doesn’t matter where as long as I can see something new. I love this beautiful earth, and won’t be entirely happy until I can see every inch of it. The only problem is I only speak one language. I’ve tried to learn German, Spanish, and Samoan, but it never stuck.
4. I hate shopping. I will do almost anything to avoid going to a store. It doesn’t matter what kind of store – I hate them all. If the economy depended on me spending money in a store, it would be in trouble.
5. If I could choose somewhere else I would want to live, it would be in Virginia. I love that place. There are so many historical things that happened there I would never tire of exploring.
6. When I was young, I spent lots of time in front of an audience. It seemed I was always playing a solo on the violin or singing a solo or dancing for someone. I also acted in the plays at school. One year my brother and I learned ballroom dancing and performed in an all church musical festival.
7. I collect fairies. I read about them, I write about them, and I dream about them. If I could be anything but a person, I’d choose to be a fairy.
I think I should choose 3 other people to tag. I should probably choose my other fellow bloggers - Keith, G. Parker, and Karen. Let's hear from the three of you soon.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
The Yard Work of Editing
by Karen Hoover
I was chatting with a neighbor the other day and the strangest thing popped out of my mouth. “Editing is like yard work,” I told her. The more I think about it, the more true it feels.
Every spring the snow melts and the weeds start to thrive and what do I do about it? Well, to begin with—nothing, but when it starts to overwhelm the yard I grudgingly pull out the rake and the hoe and get to work. I hack and rake and dig until I can find some beauty in the space. I lay fresh soil and fertilizer, maybe plant some seeds, and though the weeds are gone, all I see is a pile of dirt. The results don’t pop out right away. It takes some time and continuous work to see the beauty—effort that I really don’t enjoy.
The creative part is fun. A family picnic on beautiful grass on a glorious, summer day. It’s sheer joy—but the editing? Work, work, work.
Here’s the question: who wants to barbecue in a dead, weedy yard? Who wants to read an unedited book? Not me.
So, off to work I go. Gathering my thesaurus, critique comments, and laptop I’ll dig out the overused words and prune the bad habit of describing things in minute detail from my story. After that I’ll plant some seeds of emotion and adventure and wait for it to blossom into a publishable book.
The yard work of editing—the necessary evil of the writing life—but oh what joy it brings in the end.
I was chatting with a neighbor the other day and the strangest thing popped out of my mouth. “Editing is like yard work,” I told her. The more I think about it, the more true it feels.
Every spring the snow melts and the weeds start to thrive and what do I do about it? Well, to begin with—nothing, but when it starts to overwhelm the yard I grudgingly pull out the rake and the hoe and get to work. I hack and rake and dig until I can find some beauty in the space. I lay fresh soil and fertilizer, maybe plant some seeds, and though the weeds are gone, all I see is a pile of dirt. The results don’t pop out right away. It takes some time and continuous work to see the beauty—effort that I really don’t enjoy.
The creative part is fun. A family picnic on beautiful grass on a glorious, summer day. It’s sheer joy—but the editing? Work, work, work.
Here’s the question: who wants to barbecue in a dead, weedy yard? Who wants to read an unedited book? Not me.
So, off to work I go. Gathering my thesaurus, critique comments, and laptop I’ll dig out the overused words and prune the bad habit of describing things in minute detail from my story. After that I’ll plant some seeds of emotion and adventure and wait for it to blossom into a publishable book.
The yard work of editing—the necessary evil of the writing life—but oh what joy it brings in the end.
Monday, March 17, 2008
Home Away from Home, Part Two
C.L. Beck
© 2008
I repacked our belongings and loaded everything onto a luggage cart. Tossing Corky Porky Pie on top, I pushed-pulled the thing to the hotel’s elevator and rode down to the seventh floor, where a freshly cleaned room awaited us.
Except when I got there, the room was only half-ready and the maid cleaning it spoke little English. . . .
*******
With a lot of hand signals, the maid let me know she’d finish the room in a bit. However, what would I do until then? I couldn’t very well just go out for a cup’a Joe. There were two reasons for that. First—I drink hot chocolate. Second—short, fat dogs are not allowed in Starbucks.
Corky and I paced the halls, trying not to pressure the maid so much that she forgot to do something really important … like cleaning the room. When she finally finished, I pushmi-pullyued the baggage cart through the door. It felt a bit cool in there, but at least the noise of last night’s whining elevator was noticeably absent. I looked at the dog and he looked at me. “Ahhh, finally a decent place,” I said, flopping back onto the bed. Corky showed his agreement with the flying leap of a gymnast, and a four-point landing on my chest. All 35 pounds of him.
Darkness closed around me. A writer who wishes to live to write another day needs oxygen! I rolled the pooch off my chest and inhaled air into my flattened lungs. My vision cleared and I sat up. Now was the ideal time—once and for all—to put pen to paper. Or fingers to keyboard, as the case may be.
Just then, the lock on the door clicked and Russ walked in, done with his workshops for the day. And that’s when I noticed the room was cooling, like a fat strawberry in an ice cream churn.
I walked over to the thermostat. Ah, ha! The heat was off. I clicked it on. The fan whirred like a cricket on a midsummer’s night—no banging, no clunking, no rumbling floor. Russ and I congratulated each other on our good fortune. A hotel heater that worked quietly . . . I could only compare it to finding a bottle of vintage, port wine. Only I wouldn’t really know about wine, for two reasons. First—I drink Kool-Aid. Second—I like having a temple recommend.
Now, certainly, my writing time had come. I hurried to the desk and turned on the computer. The chair—one of those old-fashioned, square-backed, never-seen-a-roller-on-its-legs-in-its-life type—sat just a little too far away for me to reach the keyboard easily.
Sliding my fingers under the seat, I hopped the chair up and forward.
It could have been a thought on the breeze that warned me, but I’m thinking it was the intense pain that conveyed the message. I’d placed my fingers between the upholstered plywood seat and the chair’s frame. And I couldn’t pull them out because I was sitting on that seat.
Despite the fact that writers usually have a good vocabulary, the only word that came to mind was **@^%#@!#&**! Good thing the cold room had slowed my brain, or I might have come up with a real word.
I jerked my hand free and shook it, on the idiotic theory that shaking an injured part distracts the nerve endings. As I did, I stepped in front of the whirring heater. Air, the temperature of an ice cube, poured from its vent. The blast gave me goose bumps and turned my blood to slush—but there was an upside to it. At least my fingers were too cold to hurt anymore.
The downside was that it was now evening. The last thing we wanted was to spend the night sleeping in a room the temperature of a meat locker. However, we wanted even less to spend the night in the company of a maintenance man, banging away on the heater, interrupting our rest and relaxation.
What to do, what to do. . . .
(Last week I said you’d hear about the slip-and-fall in the bathroom this week. But …umm…I couldn’t overlook telling you about my war wound, could I? I promise, next week we’ll go to the bathroom.)
What books C.L. recommends:
Life is Like Riding a Unicycle by Shirley Bahlmann
Publishing Secrets by LDS Storymakers (BJ Rowley and others)
Writing for Story: Craft Secrets of Dramatic Nonfiction by Jon Franklin
Self-Editing for Fiction Writers by Rennie Browne & Dave King
C.L.’s other work:
Newspaper Column
Ensign Magazine, Dec 2007-Q&A
2007 League of Utah Writer's Award-Historical Fiction
© 2008
I repacked our belongings and loaded everything onto a luggage cart. Tossing Corky Porky Pie on top, I pushed-pulled the thing to the hotel’s elevator and rode down to the seventh floor, where a freshly cleaned room awaited us.
Except when I got there, the room was only half-ready and the maid cleaning it spoke little English. . . .
*******
With a lot of hand signals, the maid let me know she’d finish the room in a bit. However, what would I do until then? I couldn’t very well just go out for a cup’a Joe. There were two reasons for that. First—I drink hot chocolate. Second—short, fat dogs are not allowed in Starbucks.
Corky and I paced the halls, trying not to pressure the maid so much that she forgot to do something really important … like cleaning the room. When she finally finished, I pushmi-pullyued the baggage cart through the door. It felt a bit cool in there, but at least the noise of last night’s whining elevator was noticeably absent. I looked at the dog and he looked at me. “Ahhh, finally a decent place,” I said, flopping back onto the bed. Corky showed his agreement with the flying leap of a gymnast, and a four-point landing on my chest. All 35 pounds of him.
Darkness closed around me. A writer who wishes to live to write another day needs oxygen! I rolled the pooch off my chest and inhaled air into my flattened lungs. My vision cleared and I sat up. Now was the ideal time—once and for all—to put pen to paper. Or fingers to keyboard, as the case may be.
Just then, the lock on the door clicked and Russ walked in, done with his workshops for the day. And that’s when I noticed the room was cooling, like a fat strawberry in an ice cream churn.
I walked over to the thermostat. Ah, ha! The heat was off. I clicked it on. The fan whirred like a cricket on a midsummer’s night—no banging, no clunking, no rumbling floor. Russ and I congratulated each other on our good fortune. A hotel heater that worked quietly . . . I could only compare it to finding a bottle of vintage, port wine. Only I wouldn’t really know about wine, for two reasons. First—I drink Kool-Aid. Second—I like having a temple recommend.
Now, certainly, my writing time had come. I hurried to the desk and turned on the computer. The chair—one of those old-fashioned, square-backed, never-seen-a-roller-on-its-legs-in-its-life type—sat just a little too far away for me to reach the keyboard easily.
Sliding my fingers under the seat, I hopped the chair up and forward.
It could have been a thought on the breeze that warned me, but I’m thinking it was the intense pain that conveyed the message. I’d placed my fingers between the upholstered plywood seat and the chair’s frame. And I couldn’t pull them out because I was sitting on that seat.
Despite the fact that writers usually have a good vocabulary, the only word that came to mind was **@^%#@!#&**! Good thing the cold room had slowed my brain, or I might have come up with a real word.
I jerked my hand free and shook it, on the idiotic theory that shaking an injured part distracts the nerve endings. As I did, I stepped in front of the whirring heater. Air, the temperature of an ice cube, poured from its vent. The blast gave me goose bumps and turned my blood to slush—but there was an upside to it. At least my fingers were too cold to hurt anymore.
The downside was that it was now evening. The last thing we wanted was to spend the night sleeping in a room the temperature of a meat locker. However, we wanted even less to spend the night in the company of a maintenance man, banging away on the heater, interrupting our rest and relaxation.
What to do, what to do. . . .
(Last week I said you’d hear about the slip-and-fall in the bathroom this week. But …umm…I couldn’t overlook telling you about my war wound, could I? I promise, next week we’ll go to the bathroom.)
What books C.L. recommends:
Life is Like Riding a Unicycle by Shirley Bahlmann
Publishing Secrets by LDS Storymakers (BJ Rowley and others)
Writing for Story: Craft Secrets of Dramatic Nonfiction by Jon Franklin
Self-Editing for Fiction Writers by Rennie Browne & Dave King
C.L.’s other work:
Newspaper Column
Ensign Magazine, Dec 2007-Q&A
2007 League of Utah Writer's Award-Historical Fiction
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