Revision Revulsion

I'm only on page 67 of Elizabeth Lyon's Manuscript Makeover. My eyes are glazing over and I'm thinking of taking up the violin. After trying to study at the park by the river again and becoming best friends with a two-year-old, and scaring a puppy into a near death experience, I came home to study. I know I shouldn't actually look at my manuscript for a few weeks (six is the time frame that comes to mind), but I decided I wanted to try out some of what I learned.

Did I cut out any of the 13,000 words I need to delete? Well, no. Instead, I changed the word "stood" to "towered" in the first paragraph and added the word "pretentious" to the second. Elizabeth Lyon would be proud. I think I'm all set now. Probably ought to buy a couple envelopes so I can send it off to an agent.

(Editor's note: Melanie Sherman is joking, in case you are an agent reading this blog. She really does intend to cut the excess words and has committed to taking out most of the word "look", some of the word "walk", and limiting exclamation points!)

Blockheads

Samuel Johnson was born in September of 1709 in Lichfield, Staffordshire, England. He is known for writing the Dictionary of the English Language, published in 1755, which some consider to have had a great influence on modern English. He wrote more than just the lexicon, of course, beginning his writing career by writing essays for The Gentleman's Magazine.

I bring this up today because I ran across a quote from him.

"No man but a blockhead ever wrote except for money."

I've thought a lot about this over the past couple of days and I think he is right. I mean, the man wrote a dictionary, for crying out loud. It took him nine years. That is pretty smart, don't you think?

I've decided I do not want to be a blockhead. I sit at my computer, day after day, pounding out these blog entries and I haven't made one dime from them. So, I'd really appreciate it if you'd send me a dollar every time you read one of my postings. Because I'm really very generous, as well as fair-minded, if you only log in by mistake and click off again in five seconds or less, you may send only two bits.

Thanks, Mr. Johnson. We learn from history.

(If you leave a nice comment about what a terrific writer I am, I would consider that a fair barter and accept it in lieu of cash)

Cheery Air Horns

On Monday, I intended to go to the beach, but instead I packed up my computer and my Manuscript Makeover book and sped to a meeting with Carol, my pre-read partner. I read her my last seven pages and got her critique. By the time we finished, it was nearly eleven and too late for a day trip to the beach.

Luckily we have the Columbia, the bluish-grey river dividing Oregon from Washington and I pointed my car to a park near the Interstate Bridge (I-5). I've written there before, with its quiet solitude, the gentle lapping waves as the sailboats race silently across the lazy currents and the rhythmic sound of traffic speeding over the bridge provides a white noise for zoning out. I hauled my computer and book out to a bench overlooking the water and propped my feet up on my bag, cracking open the textbook and setting my Starbucks beside me.

HOOOOOOOOOONK.

I came very close to spilling my coffee. The Chief side slipped toward the bridge and honked its air horn, sending a crowd of pedestrians spanning the bridge into a frenzy. The bridge tenders blasted out the horn used to warn the bridge is lifting. My eyes widened because the pedestrians spanned the entire bridge, hands joined. Instead of running to avoid the 531 foot lift span, they merely cheered and whistled and made a wild ruckus.

The bridge did not lift and The Chief split the warm air with its horn again. More passionate screams and cheering voices from the bridge. Behind me, as if on cue, a Burlington Northern engine pulled repeatedly on its horn, keeping time with the click, click, click of the wheels along the tracks.

Dogs barked. Crows squawked. A code three fire truck's siren whirred across the bridge toward Oregon, stopping ten feet from the firm solid ground on the other side. More siren wails joined in, from police and ambulance. The yellow flashing of the strobe light of a wrecker added to the fracas.

I slammed my book shut and squinted across the water. The only thing lacking were the porpoises jumping through hoops, for crying out loud. I downed my coffee, shoved my book into my computer bag and retraced my steps to my car.

At home, I could study with only Hobiecat and Schooner to disturb me.

And they did.

Steve and Mark and the Memoir

I probably should not admit I've only just clawed my way into modern times. A few years back I was shamed into becoming email literate when my mother complained she didn't have my email address. In the last four months I've joined facebook, twitter and blogging. I cannot imagine anyone wanting to read about my recent decent into digital cameras, but it was necessary because I cannot seem to find any film for my Polaroid Land Camera. And it only took three months to figure out how to get pictures into my daily blog entries. But when I learn how to do something I tend to plunge in with my fingers pinching my nose.



Which leads me to today's topic: Steve Jaquith



Steve was a finalist in the mainstream category of the PNWA Literary Contest. After hearing a little about his book, working title "Not Another Celebrity Memoir", I wanted to read it. I asked him to send me his contest entry (about 25 pages of his book) which he did. His humorous writing style reminded me of Mark Twain. In college I read one of Twain's short stories that so hilariously depicted a human flaw that I think of it whenever I find myself on the brink of displaying the trait myself. Steve captures the trait as humorously as did Twain, but with a modern slant.



I asked him if I could mention his book and he sent me a one sentence synopsis:



Faced with the unwelcome task of writing his memoirs, a one-hit-wonder Hollywood actor is stymied by his insecurities until a chance encounter with an unconventional heavy-metal cowgirl renews both his career-path and his self-worth.



The trouble with a one sentence pitch is it gives the reader no clue as to Steve's amusing writing style. Luckily, he went on to say:



You can also use words such as: hilarious, brilliant, and sure-fire best-seller.



That made me laugh, as did the 25 pages of manuscript.



Steve is a writer/actor who has written scripts for Home & Garden Television, interactive murder mysteries for fun and profit, and the occasional ransom note to thwart the Superfriends. He’s acted on film, television and stage and spent a decade touring with an improvisational comedy troupe. I think from this you can discern the man knows humor.


When I asked him to send me a picture to add to this blog, this is what he sent.
*





With a sense of humor like that, I'm sure we'll be seeing his book in print.

Triumphant Joy and Hazy Terror

Today I finished my novel. I went through two cups of coffee at Starbucks and one sandwich and I came to the end. I didn't even know I was that close, but there it was. The obvious and complete end. Unless it isn't. I have eight pages to read to my fabulous critique group on Thursday and they'll let me know if it is really the end or if I was hallucinating.

And what is more, I finished it exactly, to the day, two years after I thought about beginning it...or maybe three years. Well, maybe it was more like two years and seven months. Or maybe it was three years and two months. But anyway, what a coincidence, huh?

Actually, it took two and a half months of false starts before I could even begin. I'd come to work and say, "Okay, here is what happens..." I'd rattle off the beginning and they'd wrinkle their noses and shake their heads. "That doesn't even make sense."

Dang.

A week later I'd say, "I've got it!" I'd spew out my idea and they'd look pained. "That is stupid."

A week and a half later I'd say, "This is really it. It really is." They'd listen and when I finished they'd look at each other and assume a commiserative expression and say, "Well, your protagonist sounds like an idiot and it is completely unbelievable."

One day I spent an entire day at Powell's Books and found a great book, not on the subject I wanted, but on female pirates. I wish I had bought that book. I'll probably have to go back and get it when I get filthy rich. But then I happened upon a Time-Life book called "Fighting Sail". It had all the information I needed to give me the opening to my book.

I went to work, two and a half months after I came up with the idea of having a female adventure on the high seas, and said, "Okay, here is what happened." I told them.

They sat forward with wide eyes. "Really?"

I sat back and a smug feeling of excitement overtook me. "Yeah, really."

So I had my beginning. For the next year I did research. Brilliantly exciting, fabulous, enthralling research. Never had research been so breath-taking. Unfortunately, it consumed me and everyone I met got an earful of history. One day I was researching sailing ships from 1805 at the library when a retirement aged man stopped at my table. He leaned over the book I had open to the anatomy of a ship and said, "Those were wonderful ships, weren't they?"

"Yes," I smiled. "Quite thrilling."

He grunted. "I was an Able Seaman in the Navy. I'm retired now."

I raised my eyebrows and all sorts of questions popped into my head. Before I could ask any of them he said, "You know the old saying, 'A sailor has a woman in every port'?"

I nodded.

He rocked back on his heels. "Well it simply isn't true." I sensed I was about to learn a secret everyone would like to know, but doesn't have the courage to ask; kind of like finding out exactly what is worn (or not worn) under a kilt. "Yup. A sailor just doesn't get to every port."

That is when I started doing my research at home.

So tomorrow I'm taking my Elizabeth Lyon book, "Manuscript Makeover" to the beach to start reading how to write my book all over again. It is a totally scary project, but I've got to cut out 13,000 words. My friend, Paul, who has written and published a thesis for his masters and is therefore an authority on writing, said cutting out 13,000 words from a 113,000 word manuscript is simple. Just do a "search and delete" for the word "the".

I think I'll stick with Ms. Lyon's advice.

Novel Writing Boot Camp

I've had some great writing teachers, but one of my favorite classes, Novel Writing Boot Camp, was taught by a couple, Carolyn Rose and Mike Nettleton. When I signed up for the class here in Vancouver, I had about 75 pages written on a book that was kind of a cross between a genre romance and a genre mystery. The first class they talked about "information dump" and how most first-time writers begin with backstory. "Don't do that," they cautioned, "it is bad, bad writing."

I had read over my book the night before and I realized my whole first chapter was information dump. Fine, I thought. I'll just begin my book at Chapter Two. The next class they told us about some other item first-time writers do and, once again, cautioned us against it.

****

Chapter Two was gone.

*****
Week three, all but two paragraphs were gone of my Chapter Three.

*****

And so it went until the end of the class, I had only fourteen pages left of my original 75. Did I give up? Certainly not. In fact, I began an entirely new book, took heed of all I had learned and when I had about 100 pages written, I took Novel Writing Boot Camp over again, as remedial learning for the writing handicapped.

Surprisingly, I learned even more the second time I took it. Way more. And, at the end of the class, many of us formed a critique group and have been meeting every week for a year. Two of our group have finished their books and the rest are working on the final chapters or doing heavy revisions. Hard work, but still fun.

This week Carolyn Rose announced that she and Mike have signed a contract with Krill Press and will have "The Big Grabowski", out in the fall and a sequel, as yet unnamed, in the spring. Mike is now plotting the third book in that series and Carolyn is finishing a mystery that draws on her “career” filling in for high school teachers, "No Substitute for Murder". Carolyn is also the only writer from the Northwest to be selected to donate a holiday crime story to The Gift of Murder, an anthology due out from Wolfmont Press this fall to raise money for the Toys for Tots Program.

Three cheers for my instructors. They obviously know what they are doing. You can find more information about their books at http://www.deadlyduomysteries.com/

Sauerkraut Secrets from Belgium

My parents moved in to their "Independent Living Retirement Community" yesterday. I drove down there after work and helped rip boxes open, looking for a set of sheets. On Sunday, we stopped in so they could show me their apartment which is crammed packed with bright windows overlooking the woods.

A woman from Belgium, Josee Collins, wheeled up to us in the lobby. My father was excited to see her because during an earlier conversation he told her he had been in Belgium during World War II and had built airfields for the Army Engineers. He was in the aviation division. Josee said, "Oh, at Ashe?"

"Yes, we built the airfield at Ashe. How did you know?"

She must have lived near there. She met an American service man, Jim Collins, and married him, coming to America as a War Bride.

I think my dad looks forward to finding out more about Belgium then and now.

But on Sunday, Josee leaned over to me and asked, "Do you know what the secret to sauerkraut is?"

I didn't want to say the first thing that came to mind, which was...it stinks. "No," I admitted.

"Applesauce."

I stared at her blankly.

She nodded. "I'm serious. Applesauce or fresh apples. It takes the bitterness out."

I've only had sauerkraut twice in my life. I'm thinking they didn't use applesauce. I wonder if this is a secret only she knows, or if the people in Belgium know and simply don't tell the rest of us. Might be worth a try, though.

I'm looking forward to talking with others in my parents new community to see what secrets they hold. This could be quite an education for me.