Ancillary Justice

My office, left-center

With the advent of my newly indentured servitude in the dusty and shadowed corridors at the Great Institute of Secret Learning and Ancient Knowledge, I've had plenty of time to catch up on my reading while crammed into the moldy dark of the commuter cattle cars with the rest of the plebeian laborers.

And so, I recently finished Ancillary Justice.

It's the first book by Author Ann Leckie. You might have heard something about it not too long ago. It was making quite a splash in the genre-fiction world, gaining the type of pre-release hype a debut author only dreams about. This is how I heard of it and ended up picking it up.

But for our desert island readers, here is what the back cover synopsis had to say:

"On a remote, icy planet, the soldier known as Breq is drawing closer to completing her quest.

Breq is both more than she seems and less than she was. Years ago, she was the Justice of Toren--a colossal starship with an artificial intelligence linking thousands of corpse soldiers in the service of the Radch, the empire that conquered the galaxy.

An act of treachery has ripped it all away, leaving her with only one fragile human body. And only one purpose--to revenge herself on Anaander Mianaai, many-bodied, near-immortal Lord of the Radch."

Weird, huh? Kind of interesting though, right?

I certainly thought so.

So, maybe somewhat unsurprisingly, the synopsis has the long and short of it. The story is about Breq. Breq is a dead person filled with the last remnant of an AI which was once housed in a massive starship and the hundreds of corpses that made up its crew. Its only living crew members had been its officers. During this time, Breq was known as The Justice of Toren, part of a grand fleet on a continuing mission of annexing planets one by one for the galaxy-spanning empire that built her, all in the service of their nearly omni-present and conquering Emperor Anaander Mianaai. But then something happened--something bad, something blood-soaked--and now Breq is all that is left and she is consumed with a thirst for revenge on the Emperor she once bowed to.

So despite the initial odd edges and ideas, the book is actually a pretty basic set-up when you get right down to it, but also perhaps unsurprisingly, it's those odd edges that really make it stand apart. They are well-written and smart--if maybe somewhat light on the more exciting "action" descriptions, but that's really only a minor complaint. Ancillary Justice is a fun read, stuffed with ideas and coolness, but it moves at a quick pace.

The really interesting part about this book is that it's all written in the First Person. Okay, sure, that's not all that revolutionary at all, actually, except in this case the POV is from that of an AI that used to be a giant starship, and for a large part of the book, also inhabits multiple bodies simultaneously. It's a testament to Leckie's sure hand that the POV jump between the ship and it's many bodies (or Ancillaries... see what she did there with the title? Eh? Eh?) is not only smooth and easy to follow, but feels natural.

Another interesting aspect--very interesting actually--is that, as a result of being a spaceship in a human body, gender is a confusing idea to Breq, and not always readily apparent to her whenever she has to deal with other humans. It's a bit of an issue for her and she often worries if she's guessing right. And what's really great about that is that the default pronoun she uses in the story ends up being "she". Thus, gender is not only a bit opaque for Breq, but for the reader too. And, much like the multiple POV shifts between the same character in its multiple bodies, it feels very natural. In fact, it didn't take long before I didn't notice the lack of "hes" in the book at all. Really, despite Breq's confusion, the gender of the other characters is not only often easily distinguishable, but it quickly becomes apparent that it doesn't really matter.

It's all very well done. Very impressive.

In the end, I really enjoyed the book. The answer to what's going on and what happened to Breq and why she wants her revenge is interesting and fun. Some folks out there might complain that the book turns out to mostly be a prequel for a greater story yet to be told, but I didn't mind that at all. If that tale is ever shared, I will definitely show up for it. All in all, Ancillary Justice is worth the hype and worth the read.

Very recommended.

Buy it, read it,

Jon

The Little Words Can Throw You Too

I've been pondering since Claudia's last post, this idea of interrupted reading, of writing that throws the reader out of the story. We often talk about that as a flaw in the writing. But in this post (and my next couple) I'm trying to get a handle on throwing out that, in some writing at least, is just right.

Sometimes I'm reading a story and the writing is so _______, I just can't go on. And rather than the negative adjective that your brain may have supplied there, I'm thinking about when the writing is so beautiful or lyrical that I just need to stop and read the line again. Or when an author has chosen the absolutely perfect word to capture a feeling that is very hard to describe in words.

My most recent experience of the later example comes from Ursula K. Le Guin's The Dispossessed, which I was reading when Claudia's blog went live.

Shevek has just landed on Urras, the lush planet from which his species evolved. Only he has never set foot on it. (Four? Six?) generations ago a dissident group of Urrasti emigrated to Urras's desert moon, Anarres. There has been next to no communication between the two civilizations since that time.  He is surrounded by photographers. Le Guin writes:

"The men around him urged him forward. He was bourne off to the waiting limousine, eminently photographic to the last because of his height, his long hair, and the strange look of grief and recognition on his face."

The strange look of grief and recognition.

Reading these words I was instantly there with Shevek, perhaps I was Shevek just a little bit. Here I am, standing for the first time on the planet from which my deepest ancestors evolved. I have the eyes I do, the skin, the perceptions, my entire body and likely a good portion of my mind, all of these are the way they are because my species came to be, here. Right here. And I have been separated from my body's truest home my entire life. I am for the first time smelling the trees, feeling the winds, seeing the colors of the sky, being embraced by the world that made me the sort of being I am.

Grief. Recognition.

With just those two words, Le Guin captured for me the ephemeral of coming home to a place that one does not know.

Grief. Recognition.

And I cannot read on, because I want to sit with that complicated emotional state awhile. And layered in that state is something more, is awe. My appreciation of Le Guin's ability to do this to me. How not only has she nailed it in two words, she's also given the sentence a meter that moves you to those two words and punctuates them. And again I just need some time.

And as I savor the moment, more layers stack up. Recognition. Grief. Recognition of writing at its best. Grief that I am nowhere even close to that ability.

Yet.

On the Pleasure of Re-reading

There are many kinds of re-reading. The re-reading we do as we edit our work, letting the critical mind hover alongside the creative mind. The re-reading we do when we want to spend more time with our favorite characters. I'm often re-reading difficult philosophy passages to try to make some kind of sense out of them. Re-reading sentences of my student's papers trying to figure out what they meant to say so I can help them say it more clearly. There's a value and a unique pleasure to all these re-readings.

But there's another kind of re-reading that I find intensely satisfying. After reading a well-crafted story, after I've pieced it together as I read and then at the very, very, last moments of the tale, the whole thing falls into a different kind of place. The strands I thought were just pretty embroidery suddenly show themselves as the very stitching that holds everything together. And what I thought I knew is turned topsy and now I really, really know what was there all along.

Oh.
Oh!

And then I have to start over from the very beginning and re-read the whole damn thing and marvel at what was there and yet hidden from me.
Pure joy.

I've tried to do that in my latest short story, Supersedure. Scribblerati helped to point out all those sentences, paragraphs, passages where, like my students, I haven't said what I need to say clearly enough. But even with those more surface fixes, I'm mindful of how hard that story is to write. (And why writing mysteries seems impossibly intimidating to me).

How to weave and dye the fabric of the story so that on the first read through the reader thinks the story is blue, but once finished they realize it was green all along. How to write it so they don't feel tricked, or worse, don't see the green at all. How to write it so that they immediately turn back the first word, re-reading as they marvel at its blueness, its greenness.

Now that story. Writing that one, that would be something to treasure.

But Think of the Children!

I recently read a blog which featured artist Dave Devries’ The Monster Engine project, wherein he takes children’s original drawings of monsters, and paints them realistically. I think it’s really cool; the results are both surreal and somehow primal – and I think Devries taps into something basic about the way children think, and view the world, and translates it so we adults are transported back to a time when we were scared of what might be – what most likely was - under our beds.

According to the comment section, however, it seems there are a few parents who don’t feel the same way. These folks said that the project was cruel, dishonored the child’s vision, and two women stated that their children would be ‘devastated’ if someone ‘did that’ to their art. They accused him of twisting a sweet child’s sweet vision into something nightmarish.

Um.

Okay then, many other commentators commented – but… Devries is collaborating with the children. He isn’t asking them to draw a precious fwuffy bunny, and then turning it into a blood-soaked serial killer. He’s asking them to draw a monster.

No, no, the mommy brigade insisted. Twisted. Appalling. Heartbreaking for a child. The argument became so heated that the blog moderator eventually deleted some of the nastier digs, and shut down the comments section.

The whole thing got me thinking about children's and young adult literature, and what exactly is appropriate for children. And also, who is the best to judge?

First of all, I know that every child is different. One 8-year-old could be blithely watching Tales From the Darkside alone with the lights off, and the next could be unable to sit on the couch for a week after watching that one Muppet Show episode where the furniture starts eating people. (Yes, those are examples from the 70s and 80s, and yes, I was the latter kid.) Also, I know that a parent should be the person to choose what is appropriate for their child to read. No question. It’s their job. But I’d argue that authors, parents and, most importantly, children themselves all have different criteria about ‘what is appropriate.’

Of course, the question of appropriateness is not limited only to how scary a thing is. There’s sexual content, violence, adult themes, religious philosophies, even language and humor. The big question on all fronts is, “Is the child ready?”

I am not a parent. Barring some bizarre and/or tragic happenstance (knock on wood), I will never be a parent. One of the first times in my life I was awed by the protective instincts of a parent was at my friend Dan’s house. He was having a party in the back yard, grilling out. There was a gaggle of children tearing about the place. I was sitting on the deck, in a lawn chair, the hot charcoal grill a mere 6 feet or so in front of me. I was watching as a little girl, at that age where she had just started to walk, suddenly started careening, hands out, toward the grill. Dan, who was not the father of the girl, but who is a parent, was in a conversation all the way on the other side of the lawn, not directly facing the girl and her imminent charring. I don’t know how he did it, but Dan was over there, the girl’s wrists clasped firmly in his hands, stopping her short, before I had even managed to completely rise from my chair. Don’t be too horrified; I would have reached her in time. It’s just that Dan, distracted, and way farther away, nevertheless got there first. He had the advantage of finely-honed daddy instincts.

The protective instinct is so innate; it’s really a wonder to behold sometimes. Sometimes, however, it gets in the way of reality. Or, more specifically, manners.

My friend Shannon was on a plane, sitting in the window seat, and like any good Midwesterner, she didn’t want to disturb her neighbors, so she waited until she really had to pee before she climbed over them to go to the bathroom. When she got to the back of the plane, dancing from foot to foot, there was a line. As she was waiting, a mother and her approximately 7-year-old child got in line behind her. The door opened; it was Shannon’s turn, but the little girl walked in front of her and started to go into the bathroom. Shannon said, “I’m sorry, honey, I think it’s my turn.” The mother, in a loud, indignant tone of voice exclaimed, “She’s just a CHILD!” Shannon, not to be daunted, crouched down in front of the little girl and asked, “Sweetie? Do you need to go really bad?” “No,” said the girl, shrugging. “Then do you mind if I go first?” “No,” said the little girl, smiling. Shannon walked into the bathroom. The mother huffed and glared.

Okay, so. No parent I know would ever behave in such a way. The woman was rude. But it’s a good, albeit extreme example of that protective instinct gone bad. It’s a miracle that the little girl, despite her mannerless mom, didn’t behave like an entitled asshole – or at least a coddled little baby chick. In truth, she had more on the ball than even her mother cared to notice. Which I think is true for many young readers, as well.

I’ve heard the “She’s just a CHILD” argument applied to children’s lit, too. How dare they market this to children, how dare they put this in that section of the store, how dare they carry this at a school! When it comes to what parents want their own children to read: fine. When it comes to institutionalized ‘protection’ of children to exposure to ‘harmful’ works (I’ll stop air quoting now), that’s when we authors, avid readers, aunts, uncles, and erstwhile children get uppity – along with every savvy parent out there.

I sometimes wonder if people who never have children somehow remember more accurately what it was like to be one. No, we’re not necessarily exposed to kids every day, but then again, our memories of childhood are not filtered through the parental lens. My friend Rhoda, for instance, a mother, had to stop reading Philip Pullman’s children’s lit book, The Golden Compass, because it featured the kidnapping and torture of children. I knew Rhoda as a child, and I can guarantee she would have loved the book then. Likewise, she would have devoured it greedily at any point as an adult, before she had become a parent.

Childhood reading experiences are fundamental in the development of language, humor, imagination and knowledge of the world. I may have been terrified of Muppet ottomans (ottomen?) as a child, but I could take most anything in book form. I read the Lord of the Rings trilogy at 11, and the Thomas Covenant books when I was 13. War, rape, torture, sex, death, cruelty… I distinctly remember my wide-eyed fascination, reading ‘beyond my level,’ stretching my understanding… what I don’t remember is being traumatized. I read books at a time when I only had one digit in my age, books about terrorists, murderers, kidnapping, obsessive love and abuse. Sure, I also read about magic and friendship, kindness, beauty and true love. But I think I understood the good things all the better for the bad. Protecting children from books containing big ideas and big evil seems backwards… after all, what gentler way to introduce a person to the big bad world then through fiction?

Hyperion

First of all, to those of you who thought this was an obituary blog, this post has nothing to do with anyone who has died. So, my apologies.

For the rest of you – score! Once again this blog is about writing!

Sorta.

Actually, this particular post is about reading. Specifically, the fact that I actually read a book. I think this is my second or third book this year, which is both shocking and exciting. Shocking for the obvious reasons, and exciting because with Two Kill the Goddess out of the way I actually have time to do something besides work, say hi to my lovely wife, sleep, eat, write, and do a bit of yoga.

So what did I choose for this momentous occasion? An old book, one I've talked about before: Dan Simmons’ Hyperion.

I first read this book – when was it? Let's see… Looks like this edition was printed in March of 1990. That would be after it won that year's Hugo Award. Let's just say it was a long time ago.

Now, with some of the things I've gone back and recently reread, I have been somewhat disappointed. Case in point: Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman’s Dragon Lance saga. Holy crap did I geek out over those when I was a teenager. I mean, who doesn't love Raistlin? Another good example would be Melanie Rawn’s Dragon Prince, etc. which was a staple of my early college years. None of those really turn my crank the way they used to. I still like the stories and they do have sentimental value, but now whenever I read my Scribblerati brain turns on and I begin to critique. That was especially detrimental in the case of Dragon Lance, somewhat less so with Melanie Rawn’s work. Some of that, I think, is maturing, but a lot of it is that I now recognize that those books weren't as well-written as I thought they were. They were great stories, but they weren't as well executed as my Scribblerati brain would like.

Dan Simmons’ Hyperion has none of those problems. In fact, I'm even more in awe of this guy's writing now that I was a bajillion years ago. My book, To Kill the Goddess, with its multiple character viewpoints and sprawling world building, rivals Hyperion in complexity, but Dan Simmons takes what I've struggled with and makes it look easy. Hyperion is at once horrifying, mesmerizing, inspiring, and beautiful. And I’m jealous. ;-)

Go buy a copy while you can still find one to put on your bookshelf. You'll be glad you did.

Beginnings

In my last post, I wrote about killer endings for chapters.

Another thing I've been trying to pay attention to in my own reading is how authors start their chapters and what techniques really pull me in.

I noticed a great one while reading To Kill a Mockingbird this past winter. (For the first time!) Now, TKaM exemplifies many writerly skills to engage the reader, not the least among them, create characters who are real, flawed, and who you can't help cherishing. But for now, I'm just concentrating on this one thing that really stood out for me: you don't have to start a chapter at the beginning. Instead you can start it after some action is already underway.

That's counterintuitive to me as a writer-funny, how so many of my lessons in learning to become a better writer have to do with throwing out what initially makes sense. Case in point: it doesn't make sense to confuse your readers. This is true, and so you might then think: Well, I should start at the beginning; if I throw the reader into a scene that has already begun, they won't know where they are or who's there with them. They'll be lost; being lost is scary; they'll be angry at the one who got them all confused, frightened, and lost-like; they'll throw the book across the room and let the cats gnaw on the corners.

But, it turns out, sometimes plunking your reader abruptly into a scene can work. And work brilliantly.

Here are a nice example from the start of chapter 9:

"You can just take that back, boy!"

This order, given by me to Cecil Jacobs, was the beginning of a rather thin time for Jem and me. My fists were clenched and I was ready to let fly. Atticus had promised me he would wear me out if he ever heard of me fighting any more; I was far too old and too big for such childish things, and the sooner I learned to hold in , the better off everybody would be. I soon forgot.

Cecil Jacobs made me forget.

We know hardly anything about the setting. Are Scout and Cecil inside or outside? Are they alone or surrounded by other children? Maybe there are adults there too? And most importantly, we don't know what Cecil has said that's pissed Scout off. And that not-knowing is a large part of the force that drives the reader on. (So much the better that Harper Lee's also got the humor-drive and the Scout-drive going at the same time.) Had Lee explained it all chronologically, it would have been flat in comparison.

Lee only uses this particular method of pulling the reader in a couple other times in the book. Which probably speaks to not overusing any one technique. Significantly, she employs it in the first chapter:

When he was nearly thirteen, my brother Jem got his arm badly broken at the elbow. ...

When enough years had gone by to enable us to look back on them, we sometimes discussed the events leading to his accident. I maintain that the Ewells started it all, but Jem, who was four years my senior, said it started long before that. He said it began the summer Dill came to us, when Dill first gave us the idea of making Boo Radley come out.

And right off the bat we have mystery: what happened? how did it start? who's Dill? making Boo Radley come out from where, and who is Boo anyway? That's a lot of questions for the first two paragraphs, but those lot of questions motivate us to keep reading so we get the answers.

My own opening raises a lot of questions as well. And many of my writing workshop readers haven't liked that. My guess is that if the writing is good enough, and you start answering some of those questions right away, they'll stick around. So, in the end, I'm suggesting we provoke questions, but have our characters, language, setting strong enough that those questions create reader-quests, rather than reader-confusion.

And now I'm off to make my writing good enough for the questions I want to raise.

Motivation

Hi-ho, Jon here!

I can't help but notice, on this fine and overcast morning, the near constant tittering blurts of "TGIF!" echoing up and down the long gray rows of cubicles here at the day prison, the gasping voices tinged with equal parts desperation and a sickly relief, and that can only mean one thing... it's Friday! Yay! Which also means... it's New Blog Day! Double yay! Not only that, but the spinning bottle has finally wobbled its way down to a slow stop and it's pointing right at me again, so strap yourself in, you lucky ducks, because you're about to spend seven minutes in heaven with yours truly, no ifs, ands, or buts about it...

(wink)

The bad news is, I wrote something up just the other day on my own personal blog: This is Mine, mostly concerning the status of my current projects, so I'm a bit tapped out. Consternation, folks. Consternation has nearly been on my mind for almost the last day or so... what shall I blog about...

And then... inspiration struck! Suddenly, I recalled the little conversation the Gentleman Scribblerati had at the end of our last meet! We talked and we chatted, mostly concerning the status, level, consistency, and quality of our group in general (In short: Good!) and the effort that we've all put into obtaining that level, (in short: A lot!) and that put me in mind of a blog posted by Sci-fi writer and longtime blogger Jon Scalzi.

He put this up a few months back and it stirred some muck up and down the internet for a bit. It was funny watching the camps square off. One side agreed with him, the other most vehemently did not, offering a litany of excuses as to why, and in the end, somehow missed the irony, while a third side complained about the swearing. I fell in with the formers, as Scalzi's stance is really just a longer version of what I've decided, after taking various classes, meeting multiple authors, and reading countless blogs, is actually the only real, practical, and applicable piece of writing advice out there, the only real way to "become" a writer, which is...

The only way to "become" a writer

as learned by Jonathan Hansen

1. Sit down

2. Shut up

3. Pen to paper

4. Repeat

Everything else seems to be details which may or may not apply to your own personal situation. It seems like every author has started differently, they've learned differently, they've written differently, and they've edited differently. It seems like every one of them advises you to follow the querying guidelines and yet, it also seems like every one of them has specifically NOT followed those guidelines on occasion. Every person you talk to, every account you read, it's all different, except for one thing.

1. Sit down

2. Shut up

3. Pen to paper

4. Repeat

In short: If you don't have a product, no one's going to buy.

Here's Scalzi's blog. It's good and funny and profane and insightful, like most of his stuff. Go check it out, if for no other reason that he is current SFWA president. If you don't regularly read his blog or his books, you should.. I recommend Old Man's War, which has one of the best opening lines ever:

"I did two things on my seventy-fifth birthday. I visited my wife's grave. Then I joined the army."

Nice. Anyway, here's the link.

Whatever: Finding the time or don't.

Until next time, kids,

Jon

Cruel, Cruel Authors You Must Read

In my last two blogs, I wrote about authors who have influenced my writing. Much of whatever is good in my WIP owes a great debt to these foremothers and fathers. As a newbie writer, there's still I lot I don't know about crafting a great novel, so this time around I'm writing about some folks who I need to learn a lesson from.

A while ago, Claudia wondered what it would mean for the story if my main character, Beryl, died. A (small) part of my brain can see the merits of her suggestion, but honestly, at the time I came very close to crying into my tea. (Just to be clear: we are a very congenial bunch and I can't imagine any of us ever bringing another to tears over our critiques of each other's writing.) "But I love Beryl!" my brain screamed, "I can't kill her! I would miss her! I couldn't! I couldn't possibly!"

In the Loft class out of which Scribblerati formed, Lyda Morehouse gave a graphic representation of her plots. Picture a big u-shaped curve. The protagonist starts out fine, but then bad things happen, and more bad things, and more and more and more, and with each catastrophe, the protagonist refuses to learn/change/grow/act until she or he hits the bottom of the curve. Then they start actually learning from their mistakes, or start protaging rather then passively accepting their punishment. At which point they climb gradually out of the hole. In other words, Lyda likes to beat up on her protagonist. A lot. I took the class, I listened, took notes, respected Lyda's advice, after all, she's not only a published author, she's a really good one. But even so, I clearly didn't really learn this lesson, because I still catch myself being too nice to Beryl.

A number of the books I read over the summer have helped me see more clearly how my own tendency toward not wanting to hurt, while likely a virtue in real life, is not always a virtue in fiction. The best two, and the ones I demand/suggest/plead that you all read, if you haven't yet, are as follows:

1. The Knife of Never Letting Go. Patrick Ness. I'm a slow reader. It's a pretty hefty book. I read it in two days. I never read anything in two days. It is non-stop. Lyda's u-shaped curve becomes a cliff that Todd Hewitt free falls down. Patrick N. is cruel--very cruel--to Todd, but I'm not sure I've ever rooted for a character like I rooted for Todd. Plus, the language is amazing. The talking dog? He's incredible. Please, please, read this book.

2. The Name of the Wind. Patrick Rothfuss. At this year's Wiscon, I went to a session that was facilitated by Patrick R. He was so funny and charming that I decided to read his book. Where Knife is a frakking adrenalin rush, Name is a book for savoring. It does have lots of action and suspense, but paired with an intricate storyline, and a careful, detailed telling of the wizard Kvothe's coming of age. While Todd Hewitt plummets into the ever-deepening abyss of badness, Kvothe has many good things happen along his journey. But the material benefits of each success are all very short-lived; we think that now, finally, things will work out for Kvothe, but no, the benefits keep disappearing, and more obstacles arise. It's kinder and gentler than The Knife of Never Letting Go, but Patrick R. still knows how to kick his protagonist and keep him down. I haven't done it justice here, so I'll just repeat: please, please, read this book.

Both these Patricks have mastered what I am just learning: that in order to have your readers fall in love with, care about, root for, and feel like they want to protect your main character, you have to hurt them. You can be gentle, you can be fierce, but you need to cause them pain.

It's so unlike real life, this being mean to someone so that other people will love them as much as you do. Warped.

And so I struggle.

Lisa's Second List of Stupendous Literary Stuff

If you missed it, see here for LFLFLF (the first list). Now on to LSLSLS:

Dystopias

I love them on film. I love them in writing. Can't think of any I've loved in song.... I love how in a good dystopia, you can see how we could get from, say, a rising trend in fundamentalism right here, right now to The Handmaid's Tale. It's not surprising that I love dystopias, given that I love retellings from a different perspective (see LFLFLF). That's what I think a dystopia really is: it retells our present from the perspective of our future.

Favorite examples:

Oryx & Crake - Margaret Atwood. Full of amazing detail and research, and of course, amazing writing. Full of tough, tough stuff that usually I wouldn't be able to immerse myself in, but I was completely pulled in by her complicated characters. There's no simple good vs. bad here. Only lots of hard questions and fallible humans. This is the first in a series. The second, The Year of the Flood, is on my soon-to-be-read list.

Parable of the Sower - Octavia Butler. Devastating. Amazing. A very, very dark vision of our future as experienced by Lauren Olamina, a young, black girl who creates a new faith which holds Change as its core principle. As a friend of mine once said after seeing me reading a Butler novel: "Nothing like a writer of color to show us a devastatingly bleak future." I liked the second in the series, Parable of the Talents, less well. I think because it is slightly less bleak, and I could never figure out how we moved from the chaos of the first into the (relative, but still brutal) order of the second.

Things go Badly with the Best of Intentions

I like seeing how badly we can muck things up, especially when we're trying our very best to make things better. Again this connects to my love of dystopias, and my love of retellings from new perspectives. If we were omniscient maybe we wouldn't make the mistakes we do, but because we're often trapped in our own limited perspective we get ourselves into lots of trouble.

Favorite examples:

The Sparrow and Children of God - Mary Doria Russell. You need to read both of these to get the full effect of the stunning miscommunications and misunderstandings between a Jesuit interplanetary expedition and the two species they encounter on Rakhat. A splendid, cautionary, anthropological tale.

Ender's Game - Orson Scott Card. Another cautionary, anthropological tale. When the pequeninos try to honor the xenologers later on in the series? Now there's a misunderstanding. A while back, Scribblerati were talking books, and Ender's Game came up. And I asked, all naive-like, about it. And Shawn said, "Oh, you really should read it; it's one of the classics of Sci-Fi." And although he said it in the nicest, non-shaming way, I thought "I am not worthy. I have not read the classics...I do not yet deserve a geek-grrl badge of honor...." But lo and behold, as I started to create my list of books that have inspired my writing, Ender's Game was right at the top. I read it long, long ago, and my mind wanders back to it often. But did I remember the title? or the author? No, I did not. After a bit of web searching, it all fell into place: I AM worthy, I DO deserve a geek-grrl badge...the badge of forgetfulness.

Unreliable Narrators

Narrators who don't know the whole truth. Or who won't tell you the whole truth. I guess I like being messed with a bit, but only when I know full well that I'm being messed with. There's something special, I think, about a narrator who has a bit of character, some flaw or feistiness to them.

Favorite example:

We Have Always Lived in the Castle - Shirley Jackson. You probably had to read "The Lottery" in High School. Castle is Jackson's brilliant novel. Narrated by Merricat, now an 18-year-old, who lives alone with her reclusive older sister, Constance, and ailing uncle, Julian. Merricat just might be magical, just might be insane, and just might have poisoned the rest of her family as a child when she was sent to bed without dinner. I love the slippery feeling I get reading this;I'm wrapped up in Merricat's perspective, but because her narrative is unreliable, I'm never on secure footing. But that's a good thing. A very good thing.

So how did the above influence my WIP? Once We Were Bears isn't a true dystopia, but it does have three Armageddons. And because I've loved how Butler and Atwood take from the now to give me the future, I've pulled most of the dystopic elements straight from disturbing environmental news stories I've heard on NPR. Next, although Beryl keeps destroying the world, she has the best intentions: to save her beloved wilds for the Animal Nations. But, oh my dirt clod, does she make some mistakes along the way. (Did I mention the Armageddons?) Finally, while Beryl's not the novel's narrator, she is an unreliable diarist. She just doesn't understand the limits of her own understanding of the human world, or the likely consequences of her actions well enough not to be. (The actual narrator of the novel is a potato--I hope a potato with a lot of character.)

You Are What You Read (The Q Version: Part One)

“I declare after all there is no enjoyment like reading! How much sooner one tires of anything than of a book! When I have a house of my own, I shall be miserable if I have not an excellent library.” Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice

Now that Lisa has posted her list of favorite books, it’s my turn. Viva la dos equis!

Time to get girly. Except not really so much.

You see, I’m a sci-fi/fantasy writer, and a self-proclaimed geek. I like a lot of 'boy' stuff: I’m a fan of Kurt Vonnegut. I love both R.R.s – Tolkien and Martin. I read the Thomas Covenant series when I was 12. I’ve even cracked open a comic book here and there.

Also, I’m happy to note that as thoughtful, intelligent female writers, neither Lisa nor I have included any sort of mooshy memoir from a high end domestic or intern or the like, nor any chicktastic books that are about people reading Jane Austen novels, and/or are themselves modernizations of Jane Austen novels. However, do you know who’s among the top of my list?

Jane Austen.

Yep. I’m a girl. But wait! Hear me out.

Jane Austen: In this order: Pride and Prejudice, Sense and Sensibility, Persuasion, Northanger Abby, Emma, Mansfield Park.

Ms. Austen is terribly misunderstood by humans of the broader, hairier persuasion. I think it’s because they’re forced to read her in high school or early college, and often they’re just not ready.

Kind of like when I watched A Clockwork Orange at age 18, and was traumatized for years. Only instead of scenes of graphic violence, these poor boys are subjected to elegant balls and class struggles between the upper class and the, ah … upper middle class. However, those 3 or 4 men I’ve convinced as adults to give Jane another try have been successfully converted, without the use of eyelid securing contraptions. Heck, I finally re-watched A Clockwork Orange when I was 30, and I liked it quite a bit.

Here’s the deal. Once you fall into her language, which doesn’t take long, Jane Austen is really, really, really funny. And not in a ‘oh how veddy veddy droll’ sort of way, in a sharp, cutting, whimsical, pointed sort of way. She does this thing, where she, as narrator, is a character herself; she manages to come across on the surface as the objective storyteller, but all the while she’s commenting on the selfish, ridiculous, and just plain stupid qualities of some of her characters, and society – without ever actually coming out and saying anything bad about them. It’s all in her tone, and it’s a brilliant balancing act. From Northanger Abby:

“She was heartily ashamed of her ignorance. A misplaced shame. Where people wish to attach, they should always be ignorant. To come with a well-informed mind, is to come with an inability of administering to the vanity of others, which a sensible person would always wish to avoid. A woman especially, if she have the misfortune of knowing anything, should conceal it as well as she can.”

Razor sharp. Of course, I also love her breathtaking use of language, her wonderful characters (WWEBD – What would Elizabeth Bennet do?), and oh yes, of course, the Romance. Has ever a book so utterly transformed the heroine’s and our opinions of the man in question so gradually and so perfectly as Pride and Prejudice? I guess you’ll have to read it to find out. Yes, you too, gentlemen.

J.K. Rowling: Harry Potter

When I was taking a class at the Loft, the teacher (an acclaimed author) asked us to write down what we’d done that morning, and I included on my list: ‘Read a chapter of Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban.’ I was soundly mocked. By the teacher. “Really? Harry Potter?” I looked around the room, and some of the students were pursing their lips and shaking their heads in condemnation, others were staring studiously at the floor. I’d bet you a pile of cold, hard knuts that the former group had never read the books, and the latter had, and loved them.

Because what’s not to love? They’re brilliant, and I don’t use that word lightly. (And to be clear, I’m talking about the books and not the movies.) “It’s a kid’s book; it’s for young adults, blah, blah, blah:” not really, and who cares? Not since I was a young adult myself have I been so completely transported into a series of books, into another world.

The series gets better as it goes along, both as Rowling becomes more accomplished in her writing, and as Harry’s understanding of his world expands – in other words, as he grows up. Adults disappoint. People die. Governments fail. And all of this hangs on a tale that Rowling crafted from start to finish, all seven books, before she ever started writing. The completeness of the story, and the little foreshadowing cookies she drops here and there for those who are paying attention (or rereading), are so satisfying, it’s hard to explain properly if you haven’t experienced it. Plus, the characters, and the world of Hogwarts are so likeable and well drawn, and, yes: magical, it’s hard to resist.

I’ve read all of the books multiple times, including twice out loud to friends (I do all the voices, don’t you know), and I’m sure there will be many more readings in my lifetime.

And by the way, my response to my teacher’s comment was, “Hell YEAH, Harry Potter!”

Jonathan Lethem: Motherless Brooklyn and Gun With Occasional Music

Mr. Lethem has other books worth reading, but the above two are my favorites. He is a clever, clever writer – and when you read interviews with him, he speaks almost as eloquently as he writes.

Motherless Brooklyn is not science fiction, although the majority of Lethem’s books fall loosely into that category. It’s a murder mystery, and the main character is low-level thug in the mob who grew up an orphan and also has Tourette Syndrome. It sounds like a gimmick, but it’s not, it’s amazingly powerful, thoughtful, and funny. I would recommend this book to anyone I know; I can’t dream up a person who wouldn’t love it.

The first conversation I ever had with my husband was about Gun With Occasional Music, so it holds a special place in my literary litany. The quote at the front of the book is from Raymond Chandler:

“There was nothing to it. The Super Chief was on time, as it almost always is, and the subject was as easy to spot as a kangaroo in a dinner jacket.”

Lethem uses this quote as a springboard for his futurist noir world, which contains, among other delights, an actual kangaroo in a dinner jacket. There are evolved animals, force-matured children (called baby-heads): objects come with their own soundtracks (thus the title of the book) and psychology has become a religion. Our main character is a private detective in a society where asking questions is a taboo. Tricky. But beneath all these fantastic incidentals (which Lethem manages to convey without ever coming across as Basil Exposition), there’s a great, gritty, classic noir mystery.

Wow. I just took up a lot of space, and I’m only three authors in. I do go on. Well, okay then. More next time!

You are what you read (Lisa's version)

Mark is brilliant. After surveying my dearest reading memories, it is so obvious that the writers and novels I've loved have absolutely filtered into the ways in which I'm telling Beryl's story. (Or at least the ways in which I'm trying to tell it.) And now, after following Mark's lead, I see my own history as a reader and a writer much more clearly. Again, that Mark: brilliant.

Creating my list, I realize that I'm drawn to certain types of books, certain ways of telling stories. Specific themes/ideas/narratives just push my pleasure buttons. So rather than a listing of authors, you're getting Lisa's First List of Favorite Literary Features (hereafter: LFLFLF). Subsequent lists will be forthcoming.

Telling The World from A New Perspective

These are stories that we all know. We probably know them by heart. Our elders told them to us; we tell them to our young. We know everything about them. Or so we think. Until we are told the story from the perspective of a minor character. Someone who hasn't yet been allowed to speak, someone we haven't been listening to. Like the story of the current world from, say, the perspective of a bear. And then we see the story, our world, with new eyes.

Favorite examples:

Till We Have Faces - C. S. Lewis. A retelling of the Cupid and Psyche myth from the perspective of Psyche's ugly sister Orual. It was Orual who convinced Psyche to look on Cupid (forbidden!) because she was so jealous of her sister's beauty and her scoring the luscious Cupid. Except that's not what REALLY happened, which you would know if you'd heard Orual's side of the story. This was the first book I read that switched a familiar story. It twisted my mind and it felt so lovely, twisted up that way.

The Astonishing Life of Octavian Nothing - M. T. Anderson. A retelling of the Revolutionary War from the perspective of a black boy/young man. I always catch myself trying classifying this series as an alternative history. But it's not an alternative history. It's my American history, fictionalized, yes, but not alternative history. But I never learned my history this way, from this perspective. So my brain has to do this dance with itself: Woah, imagine if this was our history. Uh, Lisa, this IS our history. But in high school I learned... and everyone always says...and we won the revolutionary war and.... Lies, Lisa, half-truths: Who won that war? Who was freed from imperialism? Not all of us. Woah, everything I thought was true.... Yup.

Nested Stories

Stories inside stories inside stories. Layers. Chocolate Cake, Ganoche, Raspberry Jam. So, so yummy. Obvious connection to Once We Were Bears: A potato tells the story of three teenagers who are reading a journal written by Beryl.

Favorite examples:

Cloud Atlas - David Mitchell. Six different stories, times, places, narrators, and even genres. Wildly different (futuristic sci-fi to mystery to farce to....) Each story emerges seamlessly from the previous until you've gone from the past to the distant future (which resembles the past in some very unsettling ways) and then back again. And throughout them all, a sustained exploration of a single set of questions.

The Orphan's Tales - Catherynne Valente. The most intricately interwoven stories. An orphan tells a story, the character in her story tells a story and on and on and on. The stories dive downward through many storytellers and then come back up through each again, only to dive down again. As I was reading them, I pictured the structure as a score, with notes running down and up a music graph. Down, down, down, up, down, up and up and up and down. Up. Down. File this one also under stories that twist, retelling familiar tales (princes questing, for example,) but turning them inside down and upside out. Breaking them in ways they were aching to be broken.

Choose Your Own Endings

Choose Your Own Adventures: a series of books first published in 1979 (I was eleven). The reader is the protagonist; you read a scenario and then get to choose what action you will take. I had this one (and many, many others):

I am giddy writing this! I so loved these books. I devoured them. I inhaled them. I systematically went through them to make sure I read every possible scenario--my system involved using my fingers as bookmarks so I could trace where I'd been, and where I still needed to go. It might seem hard to read a book when you've got all your fingers stuck into it in various places, but it sure didn't bother me one bit. What will happen if I make this choice? The logical choice seems to be the first option...oh no! Let's try the second option..ok, better, but now which option? Again, the connection to my WIP a strong one: when things go bad (very, very bad,) time travel allows Beryl to try another option by erasing her journal, (rather than flipping back pages.) Will she choose better this time?

I'd pretty much forgotten all about these books, until I saw a promo for a graphic novel that uses the technique: Meanwhile, by Jason Shiga. I'll be reading it soon.

Okay, I gotta close with that one. My brain is doing cartwheels. Whee!

You are what you read (The Jon version)

Awhile back, as you long time readers will no doubt remember, my fellow Scribblerati Agent Mark Teats wrote a blog titled: “You are what you read”, listing some of his long time favorite and most personally influential authors. A fun and insightful read, I thought it was a fantastic idea, one I fully intended to copy as soon as it was my turn to blog again.

Then I forgot all about it.

I forgot a couple of times, in fact, but now—thanks Google Calendar!—I have remembered!

Let’s begin:

(And, of course, there are many other authors and books that I love, even though they are not included on this list, which is transient and appears here in no particular order. Mmm-kay?)

Some of My Favorites, a list by Jonathan Hansen

1. On the Road: Kerouac

There are some who have a problem with this book and its style. There are some who have issues with the culture he helped create (issues I share), but still, this book speaks to a part of me, to who I used to be, to who I wanted to be, and I’ll always love going back to read it again. It’s like visiting old friends and good times.

2. In Cold Blood: Capote

This last school photo of poor doomed Nancy Clutter still haunts me, as does the kind of runaway freight train inevitability of this book, the horrible tragedy and sadness of it all. I came to this book late in life and it simply dazzled me. It is fantastic, one of my very favorites. Capote writes the wide open spaces, perfectly realized, perfectly executed, it is brilliant. Brilliant.

3. Catcher in the Rye: Salinger

So much has been said about this book, about this author, about the culture and hype that surrounds it, that there is little that I can add, except: I read this in fourth or fifth grade and Holden Caulfield blew my mind—like out the top of my head, blew my mind. The quote: “People never notice anything.” That was it, man. In my young head… that was it.

4. Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas: Thompson

I think all young men of my particular ilk have a Thompson phase. I know I did, maybe still do. The trick is, once you can see the other side of it, is to not spend the rest of your life doing a poor imitation of the man’s signature wild man style... most are unable to do this and spend forever wallowing in mediocrity, because no doubt the man was a unique talent, one sorely missed these days. This here: “And that, I think, was the handle - that sense of inevitable victory over the forces of old and evil. Not in any mean or military sense; we didn't need that. Our energy would simply prevail. We had all the momentum; we were riding the crest of a high and beautiful wave. So now, less than five years later, you can go up on a steep hill in Las Vegas and look west, and with the right kind of eyes you can almost see the high-water mark - that place where the wave finally broke and rolled back.” Brilliant.

5. Among the Thugs: Buford

Man, let me tell you—if you want crazy... Have you ever wondered what would happen when a man sucked another man’s eyeball out of his socket during a fight? No? Dudes... don’t read this book then. And that is only ONE of the crazy ass things these crazy ass, real life Man U fans actually did... in real life! They practically burned Juventus to the ground! Why? Because they were there! Amazing book! Amazing.

6. Lyonesse: Vance

As a kid, I was... restless... so Mom would ship me off during the summer. Sometimes, I would visit my Aunt in Los Angeles and she lived in a zombie proof fortress, kind of near Little Tokyo, on the corner of Crack Head Street and Staff Infection Avenue... so, I didn’t get to play outside much. It was always a fun visit, the loft was spacious and we did lots of fun stuff, but still, sometimes there was down time and LA had weird TV and I was like...9 and it’s not like I had brought a bunch of my toys and stuff with, so one day in a B Dalton, I wanted to buy a book. I picked one with a Green armored Knight riding a Purple striped Tiger and was like: “Oh hell yes, this one.” (Paraphrased). And my Aunt said: “But that’s number two... Here’s number one.” And she picked up this one:


“You should get the first one in the series.” And I said: “...” There was no denying the logic, so with slumped shoulders and a last longing look at the Tiger riding Knight, I got it (Holden Caulfield hadn’t taught me rebellion yet) and took it back to the Loft. Since then, I’ve probably read it two dozen times. I read my first version to pieces. The story of the slowly sinking Elder Isles, the invading Ska, the Sorcerer Murgen, and young Dhrun, poor Princes Suldrun, evil King Casmir and Prince Alias one day washing up on the beach is simply... Great. High Adventure. High Fantasy. Tons of characters. Jack Vance is a mad genius. It's a fantasy to be swept away in. It may have even been the first "real" book I read as a kid. I Loved it. It was way better than the purple Tiger book...

7. The Road: McCarthy

Cormac McCarthy is so good, I forgive his lack of quotation marks and dialogue designators. The Road and No Country for Old Man blur by, so spare and yet so richly illustrated, while Blood Meridian is a literary ass kicking. He is brutal and beautiful and his work is staggering. He is so good, it’s intimidating.

8. True Grit: Portis

I’ll make an admission... I’ve never seen this movie. I’ve heard it’s good and once I come across it on DVD, I’ll totally watch it, but yeah... never seen it. So I went into reading this with only a slight image of John Wayne in my head and honestly, this book is amazing. Amazing. It’s one of those books that came flying out of left field and landed in my lap and I was like: “Huh...” Nothing but fun and written like a house a’fire. A total blast. The most amazing part is how aware the book seems, how honest and insightful, all while maintaining the classic tropes of the Western. And now the Cohen Brothers are making it into a film that is supposed to be faithful to the book? Sweet...

9. The Stand: King

So, maybe I’ve mentioned this before, either here or over at my own blog, but I love comics and one of my favorite things to do as a kid was when I would go visit my Grandparents in Boone Iowa, I’d slip away at some point with all of my crumpled bills and handfuls of coins and walk to “downtown” Boone to visit the Hallmark store. In the back they had the biggest shelf of comics my used-to-the-spinner-rack eyes had ever seen. In a time before my first comic shop... this place was heaven and I would carefully count all of my money, so I could buy the most amount of comics available. It took some time, effort, and arithmetic, let me tell you (especially since I was reading all the ones I couldn’t buy), but anyway, after much deliberation, I picked up my stack and started toward the front when a cover stopped me dead... "wha..?":


An extra 400 pages?!?! 400!?!? Now, you need to understand, this book, Star Wars, and the Road Warrior (I still didn’t have the guts, at the time, to watch Night of the Living Dead), they had awaken me to storytelling, opened doors in my head and lit my mind on fire. An extra 400 pages!!! I'd already read the edited version, devoured it, so without pause, without a thought, I left my comics behind and used my money to buy this book. I still have it too. The covers are gone and the first few pages of the front and back, I know it well. This is an end of the world, multi character, Good vs. Evil masterpiece.

10. A Game of Thrones: Martin

Here’s my second admission: I hate fantasy. I love Tolkien, because he’s Tolkien, but all the deformed bastard children he’s whelped in the time since... ugh. Bloodless, sexless, lame half wits, lacking... EVERYTHING that could be considered good...ugh... I had given it up, man. I didn’t want any more. I was done. I mean, I’ve since discovered authors who write kick ass, fantastic fantasy with realistic characters and are good and awesome and well done, like Joe Abercrombie or Richard K. Morgan, for instance, but George here, he was the first one on that road for me with this fat, sprawling monster of a series where powerful houses vie for the throne while an ancient evil grows behind a 300 foot tall wall of ice. The best part of these books is the fear, absolute best part... any character can die in these books, any one of them, and he’s more than proven his willingness to kill, maim, or just generally run through the ringer any character you might think would normally be safe... Let me assure you, they are not. Fantastic books, huge, involving, well-written, they are hardcore. If the idea of what hitting someone with a mace would actually do makes you squeamish, then don’t read these. Seriously brutal. But brilliant. The only (potential) problem is that there’s supposed to be six books and only four are out right now, and it's been awhile, so George is at that tipping point most long term fantasy series authors find themselves at eventually, the point where the story may spiral out of control and never end—fingers are crossed that he is able to land this beast, especially because HBO is doing a series next year. A season per book! WOOOO!

Winter is coming.

I’m so excited.

Anyway, what are you reading?

Jon

If it works, it works

I’ve been writing all my life. At the start, my cousin and I filled yellow legal pad after yellow legal pad with a rambling Dungeons and Dragons type Sword and Sorcery story; it went on and on and on. I hesitate to call it a novel, at this point, since it had no real over-arching plot, but hey… at least we were dedicated to it.

What I’m saying is: Writing has always been something that I do. It’s been natural and flowing and carefree, but ever since the four or so years ago when I decided to get serious about my favorite pastime and try to turn it into a career, the idea of a “suggested” word count length has hung over my head like a guillotine ready to drop. In fact, if I had to choose, the “suggested” word count would be the one thing I really worry about.

Everywhere you turn, the numbers shake out about the same:

90,000 to 100,000ish for a first time novel.

120,000 to 130,000ish, maybe, if it’s a genre book.

And what was my final draft before this last batch of edits?

177,823

Huge.

But here’s the problem: I’m just telling the story. Sure, I have since gone back and cut extra words and a few scenes that never really did what they were supposed and a few moments that repeat themselves, yadda, yadda, yadda, but still, even being generous, in the end, let’s guess that I’ll end up cutting about 25,000 words, give or take. That’s a ton, true, but once all of the dust and the hoop-la settles?

Final word count: 152,823

That’s still in the stratosphere as far as the commonly held belief goes. But what options do I have? I consider myself very open to suggestions, critiques, and edits, at least… I try to be. My end goal here is to put out the best product I can, and I recognize that you need outside eyes to accomplish this, but I’ll be honest with you…

After this initial 25,000 is gone, I do not believe there will be a significant number of words left to still cut out. And another 20,000? No way. Not without cutting the story too deep and sacrificing in a “bad” way, in my opinion. At that point, I think I’d be risking the book’s soul, doing more harm than good. It’s a fine line, I know, between being cautious and being obstinate, but really, I’m honestly trying to walk on the side of angels here and I don’t see how it can be done.

In fact, I’d go so far as to say that it can’t be done. Can Not.

Ballsy? Yes, but that’s me, baby.

Anyway, I’m paranoid enough about this, this goddamn word count thing (and don’t people say it so snooty to? Like it’s fucking gospel? “Oh, it has to be 100,000 words or no one will even look at it, blah, blah-blah…” Ass.) …anyway, I’m so conscious of it that it is consistently the one thing I do not do, despite the fact that the majority of agents request that the word count be included in queries, but fuck that. No way am I just showing my ass like that.

Why would I?

Agents and publishers are very busy, they’re swamped with requests from people who look, walk, talk, and act just like me, and they will straight out admit that the first round of cuts is based off of arbitrary first impressions and what is more arbitrary that the “preferred word count”? So yeah, no way am I going to just hand them a free “Denied” card like that. If they ask, I’ll tell them, but otherwise… Mum’s the word.

Besides, like all how to get published “rules” go, there’s a big old BUT attached at the end and that is, in a nutshell: “If it works, it works.”

And that gives me hope.

Case in point: Joe Abercrombie.

Joe writes fantasy books, dark, bloody and brutal, they are epic tales of well drawn “real” characters in a fantastic world of magic and murder and massive armies. 100% good time. Loved ‘em. I devoured them. And here’s the kicker:

The Blade Itself? 190,000 words.
Before They Are Hanged? 195,000 words.
The Last Argument of Kings? 230,000.
Best Served Cold? 225,000.

Now sure, the later books will usually give an author more leeway word count-wise because they have established themselves, but still… Look at that! First book, 190,000 words, but it reads like a house on fire! Blistering, baby.

But how did that happen? How did that monster manuscript land on someone’s desk (and probably break it due to the weight) and then actually get read despite its size? Short answer? I don’t know. Right day, right time, right person, luck and magic (shrug). The point is, it did get read and it got published.

So here’s hoping…

Mark's March Writing Update

My novel BLACKHEART (3^rd revision) progresses, ever slowly. I’m working on Chapters 3 – 5 now. Progress has been impeded as usual by life (an anniversary, work, sick kid—all important stuff) and my nature to procrastinate—but I’m doing my best to get back to the editing grind.

Beyond editing I’ve also managed to squeeze in a screenplay workshop at the Loft (http://www.loft.org/) and a reading at the University of Minnesota (http://creativewriting.umn.edu/ ).

I enjoyed both and give full credit to the talented instructor (in the case of the class) and the entertaining poets, memoirist and novelist (in the case of the reading).

Here are a few tidbits I took away from both these experiences:

• Less is more. Overwriting is bad form. (No need to choreograph or describe everything that happens in a scene.)
• Write something that you would want to read or see. Don’t write toward trends.
• Money can be hard to come by as a writer, so write it for yourself, write what you love.
• I am more original than I think I am. So are you.
• Structure, premise, dialogue, character attitude and voice all matter in good writing.
• Your main character is always best when she/he is strong, is smart, takes chances, acts upon the world and overcomes obstacles and conflict
• We in the audience are sophisticated. We’re willing to piece things together to figure things out.
• Never use two words where one would suffice.
• When proofing, read it out loud.
• Try to make things clear the first time—so your viewer/reader doesn’t have to try to “rewind” to see what they are missing.
• To make your work stand out to agents and editors: write well, be in a critique group, and rewrite as needed
• Novels can be subtle; screen plays are not.
• Novels can ramble on forever, screenplays are expected to be 120 pages.
• Detail is for novelists, sparseness for screenplay writers (I have come to the realization I am much more of a novelist.)
• Can you name any famous screenplay writers? Name any that aren’t directors? (Not sure I can, but I certainly know I appreciate them every time I see a movie that blows me away.)
• At the U of MN reading, it was fun hearing the guest agent’s perspective on publishing. She was happy when the writer decided to work with her over a rival agent. She also said she got great enjoyment (and sounded very sincere) about helping first time authors get published.
• “Everything,” was the reply one of the authors had to say about what was hardest about writing a book. I have to agree J
• What’s selling now (again, per literary agent): short story collections are gaining some minor popularity; vampires are big (and sexy); zombies are the next vampires (although, not sexy); there is a resurgence in historical fiction now; post-apocalyptic/Sci-Fi has been gaining more acceptance.
• The biggest hurdle to getting published for the 5 authors at the reading? Getting an agent.
• On getting published in the face of many potential rejections? “It only takes one Yes.”
• On being a beginning writer: Savor the little things, the small moments.
• Advice on books? Buy them. If you truly love reading or one day want to be an author, support authors.

Until Next month!