Carol Newman Cronin's Blog, page 39

Hurricane: 80th Anniversary of 1938

Tonight I’m taking part in an 80th anniversary remembrance of the Great Hurricane of 1938 at the Jamestown Library, giving a short talk entitled Fact to Fiction: Oliver’s Surprise. The real stars of the evening will be the firsthand accounts from 80 years ago, when Conanicut was a true island; hanging down the middle of Narragansett Bay, connected to the rest of the state only by boat. Anyone heading to Newport from the south and west would take a ferry across West Passage, walk or drive the one mile across the island, and hop onto another ferry. Two boat rides, with a stop for ice cream or even a movie in between!

West Ferry after the Great Hurricane of 1938. Photo courtesy Jamestown Historical Society

“Thirty-Eight,” as it was called by those who lived through it, took the ferries out of service for long enough to spark the collective will needed to build the Jamestown Bridge. That span opened in 1940, changing this island forever; within just a few years, the ferries across West Passage faded away. Today, the still-solid pier is a destination for pleasure boaters and harbor gawkers.

Ever since 1996 when we moved into a house just up the hill, I’ve gazed out the window and imagined streams of ferry passengers walking or driving up the road. In 2007, we bought a boat that was first launched in 1938—which made me wonder how she’d managed to survive that year’s horrific storm. Wouldn’t it be cool, I thought idly, to go back in time and see what it was really like down at the end of the street, back when ferries still ruled? Later that year, when my 12 year old nephew expressed interest in my stories, my imagination found its narrator. The result—after a lot of research—was Oliver’s Surprise.

Today we can “see” weather coming, right from our phones. Last week we watched Hurricane Florence march across the Atlantic and flood North Carolina, right on schedule. In 1938, there was no living memory and hence no expectation of a hurricane hitting New England—which meant a lot less stomach-churning dread ahead of time, but also no time to prepare. There were no evacuations; people rode out the storm wherever they were.

I’m looking forward to hearing those firsthand letters and to learning more about the ferryboats from local Archie Clarke. I’ll also have books for sale, so join us at the Library tonight from 7-9pm! Directions and more information are available on the Jamestown Library website. Hope to see you there.

Breaking News: Got an Agent!

A wise author friend predicted it would take me a year to find an agent, and she turned out to be spot on. I started querying literary agents in September 2017, and I’ve just signed a contract: I’m now represented by April Eberhardt! 

April and I met at a writer’s conference  in—of course—April of 2018. She was already on my query list, but I was pleasantly surprised by the magical way we connected; it was, in the words of a watching writer-friend, “meant to be.” A few days later I sent her the manuscript, daring to dream that she’d love it as much as I did.

Instead her response was a gut-wrenching “no,” but not because she didn’t like it; she just didn’t feel it was ready to publish. When I shared my disappointment with the writer-friend who’d witnessed that magical first meeting, she said, bluntly, “If it isn’t a freaking glittering diamond, then keep working.”

So I wrote back to April to ask, somewhat cheekily, if she’d be willing to read a revision. The answer was “YES!,” along with more specific suggestions that clicked; she obviously “got” the story. So I dove into editing once more, hoping to be done in month. (I’m always overly optimistic with such estimates.) Along the way, I hired a developmental editor, which turned out to be a fantastic shortcut to the book I was really trying to write. And four months later, when I finished, I was finally sure in my heart of hearts that it was the strongest story I could’ve possibly written.

April agreed. “You’ve achieved what we talked about,” she said, after devouring the manuscript in an afternoon. She was also impressed that I’d completed the revision in only four months. This “glittering diamond” had taken more time to polish than I’d hoped, and yet less time than she’d expected.

One week later, we signed a contract. April has already submitted the manuscript to her first choice of publisher; I’ll keep you posted on what happens next.

In all of my sailing, I was always grateful for the support and good humor of my teammates. Now, after a long year of querying, I’ve got a writing and publishing teammate. Which means it’s time to get started on the next WIP.

Woolgathering Works

With so many distractions and fewer places that remain “undiscovered,” it’s increasingly hard to find the time and space to just sit and do nothing. No screens, no noise—not even a book.

We’re not doing nothing, of course; we’re doing what I call “woolgathering,” and it’s incredibly important to my quality of life—and my fiction. I’ve written before about being distracted by my imagination; the benefit is that when I’m not actively thinking about anything at all, I “learn” things about my characters. It could be just a small detail (Oh! He used to wear a pirate earring!). Or it could be as big as my next book idea.

Like any other skill, woolgathering takes practice. Sitting still is hard, and the less we do it, the harder it gets. There’s only one way to solve that; just, well, sit down with nothing in hand and try. (It will get easier, I promise.)

Woolgathering (for me at least) requires silence. No radio, no TV; just me and (with luck) a water view. My mind is free to drift away, thinking about people: friends, family, characters. Mulling over recent experiences. Puzzling through upcoming jobs, projects, regatta logistics. There’s no set agenda, no fixed goal; just me and my imagination, out for a mental walk around the block.

My novelist grandmother was an expert woolgatherer. I can remember asking her what she was thinking about, sitting in a chair, visibly doing nothing at all. I didn’t understand her answer then, but it makes sense to me now; “I’m writing.” It’s a different process from actually putting words on a page, but an equally important part of telling a good story.

These days, I admit, I often interrupt my woolgathering to check tomorrow’s weather or tide. But I make sure that screen-staring and reading don’t eat up all of my valuable down time, because screens, books, and magazines are not where I will find new characters or enrich the ones I’ve already dreamed up.  I don’t know where most of this stuff comes from, but I do know how to access it; by doing nothing.

First 250 Words: Then and Now

The first page of a novel is all a writer gets to hook a new reader. Below are two versions of the first page of my WIP; the first dates back to 2017, before I really understood what the book was about. The second is, as of August 2018, “final.” What do we learn from each?

First Page of WIP, April 2017

James couldn’t remember the last time he’d read a newspaper. Even now he wasn’t actually reading the Providence Journal—he was hiding behind it. Hiding from the sun’s glare off the harbor. Hiding from that empty town dock where the ferry should be. And hiding from all the chatter at the tables around him—especially Joey Chase, who was apologizing too loudly into his cell phone for not being at his bank desk this morning.

James should’ve delivered Joey and the two other commuters ashore more than two hours ago. And right now he should be backing the Homer away from the dock for the 1030 back to Brenton. On a light air clear morning like this one, the run would be quite predictable: idle out of Newport Harbor and bump the throttles forward to cruising speed off Fort Adams. At Castle Hill, turn the wheel one spoke to port onto a course of 180, when the bow would be pointing right at the Brenton Lighthouse. Three and a half miles and sixteen minutes later, James and the Homer would round Piglet Island to starboard and head for the end of the harbor breakwater—where he’d pull her throttles back to idle again.

The ferry docked on the east side of the town pier, so just before the bow hit the rocky shoreline he’d pull the starboard throttle into reverse, push the port throttle ahead, and spin the forty-eight footer in her own length.

What do we know?

1. James doesn’t usually read the newspaper

2. James should be somewhere else

3. The ferry’s exact route and docking procedure

First page of WIP, August 2018

James wasn’t actually reading the newspaper—he was hiding behind it. Hiding from the crowd surrounding him here on the outside deck of the Brenton Bean. Hiding from the blinding glare of May sun on glassy harbor. Hiding, most of all, from what lay in between: that empty ferry dock.

If only the flimsy paper could block out sound as well. Tucked into the most protected corner of the coffee shop’s open deck, chair backed up against shingled exterior, he was still well within earshot of the stranded commuters who’d washed up at tables along the outside railing. Their worrying pecked at his hangover like a seagull feeding frenzy: without the ferry, how would they ever get ashore to their jobs? They were all so desperate to get off this island. And for the first time in sixteen years, James was too.

He should’ve delivered them to the dock in Newport just over two hours ago. Right now he should be motoring back to Brenton, spray flying and diesels rumbling, already tasting his daily bagel-and-coffee reward. But yesterday he’d been fired. So instead of clutching a wooden wheel, he was crushing limp newsprint.

The rumors were partly true; he had been caught with one tiny bag of marijuana, bought to ease a friend’s pain. But he hadn’t attacked his boss; he’d made a feeble attempt to reclaim the baggie. Reach, grab, hold up his hands as soon as Lloyd started screaming. Nothing that merited calling the cops—the guy just had a screw loose.

What do we know?

1. James got fired for carrying drugs, and now he’s hungover

2. It’s May

3. The commuters are worried

4. James is desperate to get off the island

Details matter. By filtering out the noise and focusing on James, the story is already underway.

Chapter One: Just Say No to Noise

When I pick up a book, the first chapter has to “hook” me or I’ll never make it to chapter two. I’ve been dropped into a new world; do I care about the characters? Can I keep track of what’s going on? Can I “see” what’s around me? And most important of all, am I distracted by the writing, or already lost in the story?

As a writer, trying to include just the right amount of detail to draw a reader into my WIP is the biggest challenge of all. I simply know too much about this world, and it can’t all be shoehorned into the first chapter. Details draw us into a story, but too many all at once make it impossible to find the focus.

Revising my way to a great read

I’ve just finished a major revision to my WIP, and since it’s all too easy to forget how much progress it’s made since I went public with that opening chapter in the spring of 2017, I thought it would be fun to compare Then with Now. (Thanks to Scrivener, the original was easy to find.)

The hard data

The first chapter now weighs in at 1400 words, pared down from 1800. And here’s an even more impressive statistic: the 2017 version mentions 21 proper names, while the new improved model includes only eight. As one of my faithful beta readers put it, all that revising has made it “a lot easier to read.”

Painting a word picture

The end goal hasn’t changed: to describe an entire island community, while drawing the reader into the story. I started off thinking that setting the stage was the first priority, but after a lot of consistent feedback (too many names and distracting details), I realized that the only job that counted was to get the party started. If a reader didn’t understand or care where this book was headed, they wouldn’t ever make it to chapter two.

Blurring the background

Over the course of fifteen months, I gradually sharpened the focus on the main character, while blurring out the background of his surroundings. The crowd around him became “the islanders,” singled out only as “the mayor” or “the banker.” Then I used my “authorly authority” to drop in a few scene details—stuff my narrator wouldn’t have noticed that the reader needed in order to visualize his world.

The result is, in the opinion of (me and) my beta readers, a much more effective “hook.” Want to see if you agree? Here’s a comparison of what we learn from the first 250 words of each version.

Winning a World Championship: 5 Life Lessons

As a writer and sailor, there are few chances for me to sit back and, well, CROW about a recent accomplishment. But that’s exactly what I’m going to do today, because supercrew Kim Couranz and I just won a World Championship! For those of you who don’t sail, these five lessons do apply to any of life’s challenges—and I promise to skip the sailing-speak.

The Snipe Women’s Worlds in Newport included four days of sailing in a wide variety of conditions, just as any world championship should. Sailors have different specialties, and though mine has always been light air we won the event on the final and windiest day because we’ve been working hard to get stronger and faster in big breeze. Lesson #1: Work on your weaknesses.

I am lucky enough to sail with Kim Couranz, an incredible teammate and friend. We first met as Snipe crews back in the late 1900s, passing time in the shower line chatting about our skippers’ quirks; I enjoyed her quick wit and positive outlook, while on the water I admired how hard she hiked. (Twenty-plus years later, all of this is still the case.) The Snipe is a crew-driven boat, and even though we idiots on the tiller get most of the credit we do only about thirty percent of the work.

Kim and I first sailed together in 2005, but we really committed to a Snipe program in 2010 and are now recognized as one of the most “seasoned” teams on the international circuit. After so many races (and dinners, and even a few protests) together, we know each other’s weaknesses; we do our best to offset, rather than harp on them. We also know each other’s many strengths, and in tough situations we remind each other to focus on those and let the rest sort itself out. Lesson #2: Choose your best teammate, and then hold onto her with both hands.

Once Kim and I committed to sailing the Women’s Worlds, we both focused on reducing distractions. I finally crossed off all the items on my boat work list, and I also told clients I would not be available during the event (something I rarely do). When the regatta began we were rested and ready, and our first and only priority was going sailing. Lesson #3: Regattas are won (or lost) long before they start.

We’d both learned (over and over) that proper fueling and hydration could make or break our results. Hammer Nutrition keeps us fueled and hydrated on the water, but off the water we made sure to eat when we were hungry—rather than when the regatta organizers provided food. Lesson #4: Fuel right today to get ready for tomorrow.

I will be the first to admit that we didn’t sail a perfect regatta. Most of our starts were, to put it kindly, abysmal—another weakness to work on. It would’ve been easy to give up, but instead we quickly focused on the opportunities ahead. Fortunately the conditions—and our great boat speed, developed over eight years of working together—allowed us to move up through the fleet.

Just before the start of that last windy race, one point out of first place, I thought to myself: This is where all our hard work pays off. Right here, right now. And after a world-class start at last, we got the job done. Lesson #5: It doesn’t have to be perfect, it just has to be better than the rest.

PS A huge thanks to coach Paul Cronin for all his support, laughter, and perspective. After one of our worst races, he focused on our excellent comeback. At the end of day three he said, “That was a great race to get a sh*tty start.” (Another player had been forced to retire.) For a coach’s view of the win, read World Champions.

Next Novel: Work Not Yet In Progress

I’m getting ahead of myself. The current WIP is not yet finished, but I’ve already started an outline for the next one.

I’m terrible at outlining, so what that really means is woolgathering while doing something else entirely; thinking about where these characters might be heading, and what the “beam” of their story really should be. The only two things I’m absolutely sure of is that we will go off on a few mis-adventures together, and that I can’t tell you much about it yet because it’s still very much in the unknown phase. That is both terrifying and terribly exciting, the twisted strands that make up pure potential.

The reason this book came to mind earlier than expected is that it stems from the current WIP; a sequel of sorts, though focused on different characters. It will, of course, be able to stand on its own, just as Cape Cod Surprise built on Oliver’s Surprise but could be read independently.

It will all change several times by the time you read it, but I will tell you this: Two main characters, both creative types who decide to escape from their regular lives, find that more time and space doesn’t necessarily lead to improved creativity. They will succeed, since I love a happy—not sappy—ending. But their paths will be different than they expect—and also, of course, different from the way I see it now.

I already think I know their stories, and they’re eager to be placed on the page and speak up for themselves. There’s a lot of hard work ahead, but also a lot of joy, since I get to spend time with characters I really enjoy.

What could possibly go wrong?

Sparking Fresh Perspectives

Looking back through recent posts, I realize there’s a common theme that connects many of them—regardless of whether I’m writing about books or boats or both together. The biggest spark for ideas worth sharing is gaining a fresh perspective—whether that’s by seeing a familiar harbor in a different way, learning something new about a character, or traveling to a different country.

To see Paul’s perspective on the world, visit PaulCroninStudios (or just click on the photo).

I wrote about the value of seeing the same harbor upside down in SUP Yoga. Writing the same story through another character’s eyes was covered in Walking in Other Moccasins. Seeing just far enough into the future to keep moving forward provided the connection between a foggy paddle and turning my current WIP over to its very first reader. (Read Fog and First Readers.) And just last week, I wrote about the Black Toilet Seat that made my sister cry.

The older and more set in our ways we become, the harder it is to find fresh ways of seeing our familiar world—even though that’s what keeps us from getting stale ourselves. Fortunately sailing and writing both continue to challenge me with a variety of experiences and insights, which I then enjoy sharing and rehashing with you.

What recently gave you a fresh perspective? Share it in the comments below. And thanks for reading.

The Black Toilet Seat

Before I was born, my parents went to Europe for a summer driving holiday with my brother (age four) and sister (two and a half). Family lore has it that my sister refused (loudly, and with terrible-two certainty) to use a French toilet because she was scared of the black seat. So my parents bought a portapotty (white seat), and set it up for her right in the store’s parking lot.

Every time I fly to Europe and notice the toilet seats (not always black, but definitely a different shape), I remember this family story and enjoy a private jet-lagged chuckle. We all expect the world around us to look a certain way, and things that we seldom think about at home are just different elsewhere.

A recent trip to Portugal was a great reminder of this. The first rental apartment came with three keys; one for the outside gate, one for the building’s front door, and one for the apartment itself. The key that went all the way into the outside gate’s lock would not open it; a second key, which only went in about a quarter of the way, worked fine when I finally (in desperation) tried turning that one instead. The actual door key was an old-fashioned shape that only fit in the lock one way. All of them worked, but each worked differently than I expected.

Traveling to other countries brings many challenges, but it is the little unexpected ones that I find most intriguing. At home, there are so many daily encounters we don’t even think about; how keys fit into locks, the shape of a toilet seat, understanding the conversations around us. Familiarity brings with it a level of comfort that it takes years to build in another culture.

Despite her childhood trauma, my sister eagerly embraces cultural differences wherever she finds them. Black toilet seats and other strange-looking things might scare us when we’re small; once we’re adults, physical details like keys and toilet seats—and anything else that doesn’t look “right” to us—should serve as reminders, that the way we do things in our own cultures isn’t the only possibility.

High Summer, 2018 Style

I have a sailing friend who—every time I see him—mentions a post from four years ago called High Summer. When I sat down this morning, I realized that I wanted to write that post all over again. So I’m going to revisit the theme and see if four summers of perspective have brought any changes.

Each summer is a promise of pleasure that brings different priorities and challenges, and yet the images that carry me through the winter are the same; long, lazy afternoons on the water. Watching the sunset dressed only in a light t-shirt and shorts. Diving into a glassy mirror of a harbor after a sweaty paddle around Dutch Island. Eating raspberries off a backyard bush. Heading to Maine for some cooler air, pine-scented harbors, and “getting away from it all.” Racing within easy driving range of home.

This year all of that was postponed as the rain and chill lasted well into June—and then started, quite suddenly, in Portugal at the Snipe Masters Worlds; perfect summer days, every single day. I came home to finish a big writing job and a much-postponed canvas job, and now that I have a little time to breathe, I am looking around and realizing: it is already mid-July. The sun is noticeably south of its all-time June high in the morning and evening sky. The days are noticeably shorter, though there’s still plenty of daylight to fit in that long lazy afternoon. The garden has rioted into mid-summer colors, and weeds. We’ve already eaten our first tomatoes (and quite a few raspberries), and lived through our first heat wave.

This is always the time of year when summer reality sets in; how many weekends (and weekday evenings) are left before the weather cools again, and how much have I already committed to that will take me away from lazy afternoons and sunsets at home? It’s all too short, this season of sun and fun. So I’m going to work toward achieving the same goals I had in July 2014:

Take advantage of living so close to the ocean.
Balance the demands of work with the seasonal potential for play.
Spend as much time on the water as possible without letting too many things slide.

Each summer is a gift, and though this one started late for me that’s no reason to let the rest of it slip away. By consciously reaching out for the joys of this playful season, I’ll once again build up a nice reserve of memories—which will definitely help keep me warm once February rolls around again.