K.B. Inglee's Blog: The Shepherd's Notes, page 9

Reading Like a Writer

Sometimes I stop writing and just read. I had a spot like that in the summer, and now, again. Maybe it's seasonal. Since I am a writer, I figure that this is a cycle of learning something and then doing it.

Thursday: I am reading two books right now, both thrillers/mysteries. Book One is historical, urban, gritty, and PI. Book Two is contemporary rural, violent, and a police procedural. I have read books by both authors before. Both are set in places the reader can find on a map.

My own work is historical, usually urban, and PI or amateur detective, and for the most part the setting can be found on a map. It is not gritty or particularly violent. I like to think the problems can be solved by thought rather than action.

BUT… I have been long aware that I need something else in my writing. This morning I realized it wasn't the violence of the contemporary, but the grittiness of the historical.

I finished the historical yesterday and hit the contemporary in earnest. When I have finished it, I will try to tease out the difference in tone, and try to replicate it.

It may turn out that I just can't write gritty, but there is something to be learned in trying.

Saturday: Finished Book Two. What is it that makes me more drawn to the first and makes me want to bring some element of it into my own work? It isn’t enough to say “I want to write gritty.” I have to figure out how these two authors got the tone they were looking for.

One difference between them is humor. If there was anything humorous in Book One, it was merely men laughing and drinking in the tavern. Book Two had strangely named characters, OK, secondary characters named Moose and Squirrel, with no mention of Rocky and Bullwinkle. When things were most grim for the protagonist, he had a wry twist at the end of each terrible sentence.

Book One has a protagonist who is essentially a loner. He has a steady woman who takes care of him when he is hurt and feeds him when he isn't. Does he love her? They are more like a married couple, used to each other and caring about each other but not in the first bloom of love.

Book Two moves the protagonist to a place he doesn't know well and sets insurmountable obstacles in his way. Sometimes he over comes, sometimes he doesn’t. But throughout the book he is falling in love with the lady across the street.

Setting? Old Boston at night or the open fields of Pennsylvanian farm land. OK, so Boston is my hometown and a setting I use a lot. But I now live not all that far from the rolling farmland of Book Two, and some pretty horrible things can happen there, too.

Then there are the character's names. Book One is stuck with some real historical people and their names. The author can't change Hutchinson to Grough. But the fictional characters have names that are unfamiliar to most readers and contain hard sounds, or sibilant sounds. Rocks and snakes. Book Two has softer more familiar names, most are names your neighbors might have, names that roll off the tongue rather than being spit or hissed.

I’m not particularly afraid of dying by witchcraft, but I am sacred of modern plant cultivation with its airborne poisons and its genetic engineering. So Book Two should have been scarier than Book One, and in a way it was. More important was attitude of the two protagonists. In the darker book the hero himself is not sure he will succeed in anything he takes on, while the hero of Book Two never doubts himself in spite of the odds. The reader is never sure Ethan in Book One will get out of his predicament, but has no doubt Doyle in Book Two will, even if the reader can't figure out how.

Want to know what the two books are?

Thief's Quarry by DB Jackson is the first, the darker of the two. It is the second book in the Thieftaker series, set in Boston just before the Revolution. This book might be considered an historical PI with a sprinkling of supernatural.

The second is Drift by Jon McGoran. Set in modern Berks County Pennsylvania, it deals with bio engendering. The protagonist is a Philly cop who heads west to attend his parents funeral and finds himself in a mess.

I don't remember what it was like to read for the joy of the book. I have been reading for many years like a writer. I can't stop editing as I go along, or trying to figure out how an author made the reader feel a certain way. Or how hard it was for the author to work out a particular plot twist. I can't stop looking for errors in historicals. I have put many a book down when I come to the first awkward sentence.

But there is always something to be learned.

Homework: I'd love to know from my writer readers what they have learned from their reading, and from my readers who don't write, what their reading has taught them about writers.

 

Waldo and Lidia

I spent Saturday in the eighteenth century. That isn’t unusual for me, but this was the Fall Festival at Newlin Grist Mill. It’s my once a year trip back in time with a pair of chickens.

This year I had a pair of beautiful white Silkies. They are beautiful long soft feathered birds that come in white, chestnut or black. They have black skin and bones. I didn’t get to see the bones, since they stayed inside the chicken. I will have to believe Wikipedia. They are soft, and good tempered. Dutch traders tried to pass them off as a cross between a chicken and a rabbit.

They aren’t the kind of chickens that the Miller would have had on the farm. They are showy and not very practical. They aren’t great egg layers, but they make great broody hens. They will sit on any other hen’s clutch of eggs and raise the babies. They are not very meaty, but Silkie soup is an odd but cherished dish. Black bones, remember?

The best thing about them as far as I can see it that the two I brought, a hen and a rooster, are docile and affectionate, or at least not aggressive. Being farm animals they came with no names, but the first kids who met them decided the hen was Lidia, so of course the rooster had to be Waldo, after Ralph Waldo Emerson and his wife Lidia (later changed to Lidian).

Waldo and Lidia spent the whole day, one at a time, being held tightly so every kid on the property and many of the adults could pat them and feel how soft the feathers were. The chickens patiently put up with my telling everyone that they would not be part of the barnyard here.

Lidia took the morning shift. It rained ‘til about eleven so she didn’t have much work. When the sun came out and the people began to visit us at the far end of the property, she did her fair share of entertaining and educating. By noon when I carried Lidia across the street so I could get some lunch, she had fallen asleep in my arms. A sure sign that she was stressed and exhausted. I had been a bit reluctant to trade her in for Waldo, but I didn’t want to stress her any more. Last year the hen I had lost all her feathers and went home bald.

Waldo had been noisy at the beginning of the day, kept tipping over the water dish and pushing Lidia away from the food. Maybe she would enjoy a vacation and a quiet afternoon. So Waldo took his turn at entertaining the kids. I was surprised how good he was, allowing the kids to stroke him gently and me to turn up his feathers to show his black skin.

By then end of the day I was in love with them and sad when I saw their real owner come up the driveway to take them home.

But all day I felt like a bit of a charlatan, trying to pass these beautiful birds as the real thing. Yes, historically, the farmer at Newlin could have had these chickens, but why would he? The cost of such fancy chickens far outweighed their value to the farmer.

What Lidia and Waldo did for us at the festival was to create good will, and give people an experience they would remember.

Respite

Touching Greatness

Because I am a writer and belong to several writers' groups I know quite a few well regarded writers. Some of them would even admit to knowing me.

I have met and had conversations with many more. I'm sure Robert B. Parker, Sue Grafton, Lee Childs, and dozens more, had no memory of me once our conversation ended.

Was that name dropping? Well, this is going to be a blog about name dropping.

I often wonder why the near misses are the encounters I remember.

When I was newly married I worked on Cape Cod, an hour's ride from home. One of the people I worked with suggested we get our Christmas tree off her land. She had a stand of lovely cedars just the right size. Once we had chosen the tree and cut it she admitted that maybe we had crossed the line onto Kurt Vonnegut's place and actually stolen the tree from him.

One day walking past the Harvard Museum, I passed a man, clearly a professor, talking to parents about the use of the internet. This was back when I was doing my first draft longhand and my second on my typewriter. I knew that Stephen Jay Gould had an office in that building. I gobbled up his magazine columns and owned at least one of his books. I convinced myself that this man who was struggling to be kind to parents, was in fact SJG.

When I was in college I lived in Maine. I was in graduate school when my father died in a Maine hospital. Some years later I found out that at the time an unpublished Stephen King worked in the laundry in that hospital. Did he wash my father's sheets?

My favorite radio host keeps mentioning places on the air that are close enough for me to walk to. I know he is from around here and maybe lives here now, or his family does. Since he is a radio host all I have to go on is his professional photo, so I am sure I wouldn't recognize him in a restaurant or bicycling by my house.

When I joined Sisters in Crime, they sent me a list of mystery writers by zip code. I was able to track most of them down, but there was one I couldn't find no matter what. Charles Todd seemed not to exist at all. There was a perfectly good reason for that. It took me years to solve the mystery. Turns out CT is a mother and son writing team and neither bore the name Charles Todd. I did in fact track them down, and become friends.

Funny that I have saved up these near brushes with fame. I imagine everyone has them. I'd love for you to tell me some of yours.

Authentic Period Clothing?

[image error] Yesterday I baked all morning and at noon I put on my authentic period clothing and went to serve tea to 30 people.

Authentic period clothing…that's the magnificent dresses of Ann Boleyn, in any number of movies, or the finery of Martha Washington in the latest TV special, or the clothing from Downton Abby now on display an easy drive from my home. Oh, wait a minute those are costumes.

Most reinactors and interpreters are pretty picky about the difference. Costumes are made from a modern fabric that looks like to the proper cloth. They are made with modern methods, like sewing machines. They only have to look like the real thing, they don't have to be it. Costumes have to put up with a lot of rough wear and need to keep looking new and clean in spite of makeup perspiration and frequent cleaning.

Authentic clothing has to be authentic, not just look authentic.

At this tea several of us were in authentic period clothing, two from the 1700s and one from the Civil War period. We had a dress model wearing an 1820s high waisted empire gown.

One of the women said "I love your costumes." I whispered to her that they were authentic period clothing, not costumes.  For the rest of the tea she called them authentic period costumes. You really can't win. But she did love them and that was the point. We do try to slip in a bit of education around the lemon cake and the tea sandwiches.

Let me describe what I wear in an attempt to portray the miller's wife in 1739 or the shepherd of a flock of sheep sometime in the early 1800s. My clothing has to be sturdy, but it also has to look like I have been wearing it for some time. It has to be clean, but not necessarily free of stains. It has to be mended if necessary, and the patches don’t have to match.

Why do I take all this trouble? For me it's all about education. I don't have to talk about what I am wearing. I look the part and people often ask questions. “Why are you using pins instead of buttons?” This usually from men, “what are you wearing under it?”

Is it really authentic? Well, more or less. The long inside seams may be machine stitched. The cloth itself should be a lose weave linen, or a rougher fabric like hemp. Everything I wear is made from new cloth. Nothing is cut down, or turned. While my shortgown and petticoat are different colors, they go well together in accordance with modern sensibilities. I use safety pins where they don't show and long straight pins where they do.

Instead my clothing is made of the heavy cotton used in horse blankets, and the fabric is made in a factory instead of on a loom in someone's chamber (bedroom to you).. Some of my long inside seams are machine stitched. I try to hand stitch as often as I can, but there isn't always the time. The pins I use to hold my shortgown shut are modern factory made pins. My miller's wife would not have worn panties, or a bra. But I find it hard to do without modern undies. My stays, which I should wear in place of a bra, lace up the back so I need someone to help me get in and out of them.

I find the clothing to be comfortable, cool in summer and warm in winter. I can work in it easily. I wouldn’t mind being a farmer’s or miller’s wife all the time.

After THE END

After THE END

 

When I submitted my first manuscript to a critique group, I didn't know what to expect. I thought it was pretty good. I was shocked by the comments about how much the piece needed improving. Since my aim was to learn to write, I kept my mouth shut and swallowed my amazement. It didn't take me too long to figure out they were right.

Since that first eye opening experience, I have offered to read first manuscripts from many beginning writers. No, beginning isn't the right word. Anyone who actually finishes a manuscript is not a beginning writer.

Why do I continue to be surprised that their reactions are the same as mine were? Why do so many people, having overcome the first big step in writing, finishing a manuscript, think they are done with the process? No one expects to be a top player in any ball game the first time they step onto a court of filed. No one expects to be a good rider their first time on a horse. Everyone, including me, expects to be a great writer the first time out. The next lesson may be the hardest for any writer to learn. There are no perfect first drafts.

For me, the process of learning to take criticism came slowly. I got better at it and my writing improves as a result. I learned to listen to everything that was said to me, even if I didn't understand it yet. I might not be ready to hear everything my critique partners had to say. I had to work at making myself open to the process. "Nice, story, but it needs some story in it." Plotting has always been hard for me. A mystery writer who can't handle plot, either needs to learn how, or find something else to writer about. It was years before I learned to sift through the comments, to accept the ones that applied, save the ones I didn't understand, and reject the ones that were off the wall. I learned that any comment that made me angry was one I had to pay the most attention to.

Time after time we have had new members join a group, stay one session and never come back. I remember one guy whose writing was very funny, a great parody of the hardboiled detective story, but the plot made no sense. He really felt the humor was all he needed. He came so we would tell him how funny he was, and that we couldn’t understand why he had never been published. He could have been top notch if he had stayed and listened to the rest of what we had to say.

To read and comment on someone's work is to give them a gift. It is up to them if they wish to accept that gift.

A writer has to know the intended audience. A writer had to be prepared for an inbox full of rejections. A writer has to learn grammar and spelling, and update that knowledge as language changes. A writer has to know about points of view, character development, story arcs, and on and on. A writer has to practice the craft. I wrote seven novels and 50 or so short stories before I had anything published.

How many writers struggle through their first manuscript and give up because they are not willing to put in the hard work that comes after they have typed THE END?

Why I Always Read the Acknowlegments

I always read that part in the front or back of the book where the author thanked everyone they have ever met. Or at least everyone they can remember. I don't know why I enjoy these short essays so. I started reading the acknowledgements because they often contain the name of agents, so a writer can find agents who handle the type of work they write. I keep reading them because they are interesting, sometimes more interesting than the rest of the work.

I have long been aware that an author doesn't do it alone. Before I put my first Emily story on paper, I asked dozens of people about this that and the other. First there were the librarians at the Cambridge, Massachusetts Library, the interpreters at Plimouth Plantation, and the guides at the Longfellow House and the Old Manse.

These were the people who told me one way or another that I could write a story that people would like to read. I'm sure not one of them remembers me. Maybe because I didn't tell them I wanted to be an author.

There were the creators of Star Trek and Wild Wild West, who opened the world of fan fiction. Many writers start with fan fiction though most don't admit it. I long believed that I could never create an interesting character on my own. It was some time before I took the bull by the horns and came up with Emily and the others who lived in her boarding house. I am not convinced I made them up entirely. I am not going to tell you who I think the models were, since none of those people recognize themselves. OK, so some have been dead for a century or so, and probably wouldn’t care.

My family gets top billing. My mother's love for cozy mysteries made me wonder if I could write one for her. My husband was my first reader and a great critic in the best sense of the word. My daughter began to write her own brand of delight. Somehow I felt I had to keep up. So in her own way she is my most persistent encouragement. Look for her work under the name Elizabeth Inglee-Richards. No one in my family ever said, even once, I should be doing the dishes instead of writing.

I am always encouraging people to contact sources of information. I wanted someone to use a polo mallet for a weapon, but I didn't know much about polo. I had been to some games, talked to the people holding the strings of ponies. Each player needs six horses. I knew some of the rules.  But  I needed to know what went on in the stable, since that is where the murder was to take place. I looked up the local polo club on the internet and sent them an email. I got back a lovely response and suggestion for reading. Unfortunately, I was never able to make the story work, so it remains unfinished. I feel a tad guilty about that.

When I had my cast of characters, a setting and a complete novel, lacking a plot, and a few other essentials, I decide it was time to meet other writers.  I signed up for a writers’ conference. I was going by myself, so I vowed, before I got on the train, that I would be as outgoing as I could be, given that I, like most writers, am an introvert. I can get up and show off if I need to, but I can’t keep it up for long and I find it exhausting. I met some great writers and every one of them made it easy for me.

I took my first Emily novel to a critique group in fear and trembling. It helped that the person who ran it was the father of my daughter’s best friend. I had never shown it to anyone except my husband. I didn’t know how critique groups worked, and I wasn’t sure what would happen. What did happen was that the group taught me how to write. I was with them for years. Since then I have been in two more groups. The members of the one I am with now are all mystery writers. It is a great help to be with people who understand your genre.

Since I write mostly short stories I don’t get the chance to have acknowledgments at the front of my work. So I am taking this opportunity to share my thanks.

Though I have not named names, I thank everyone mentioned here, and those not mentioned, from the bottom of my heart. I would never be a writer without you.

Some advice. If you are a beginning writer, seek out the people who can help you. If you are more experienced, find someone you can help. You may find your name in someone’s acknowledgements. If you are a reader, find some authors to talk to.

I guess I had better go do the dishes now.

It's a Kids' Story//Surprise!

I write well to a deadline. If that date is looming, somehow things seem to come together better. Sometimes the results are startling.

On Friday, a collogue and I were brainstorming what to do for a story group later this week. She needed a story and an activity by Monday morning. Ah, a great deadline.

The audience is made up of 3-5 year olds, the subject is habitat. She brought out a box of hand puppets, and without a thought I began to write a story for them. Habitat seems like a pretty esoteric subject for that age, but it isn't really. Where do you live and why?

In about half an hour I had the bones of a 500 word story about habitat. I rewrote it in the afternoon and again on Saturday. Today I will show the finished work to my colleague and see what she has to say, then one final rewrite and off we go.

The big problem with it as a product is that I am not an illustrator. Kids' stories need pictures. In this case the hand puppets will illustrate the story.

I wrote stories for my daughter when she was little, I wrote a book about the family that lived in the house at the first museum where I worked. It was aimed at fourth graders and I think four or five people actually read it. But haven't done a real kids' story for ages.

OK, so it won't win a Newberry Medal, but it is serviceable. And I am proud of having written it.

 

 

 

To Read or To Write

Some time ago I said that writers need to be readers. When I wrote my first novel, I read only things that my protagonist would have read in the 1890s. I hope that now I am comfortable enough with writing so that I don’t have to immerse myself so completely in the era. A lot of my recent work is set in the colonial period. I am less happy to dive head first into the time. What my characters would read? The Bible and a few sermons. What music? Probably none except what they could produce for themselves. Hymns perhaps.

What I have found out about myself is that I can either write or read but seldom can I do both on the same day.

Right now I am in a reading phase. In May I was on a panel at a conference and I felt I had to read at least one book by each of the participants. In July I had to do it again. One comes back from these conferences with a pile of new books, some autographed by the authors who attended. Twelve books in two months isn’t all that much reading, but somehow in the middle of it I picked up one of the classics I had not finished when I was in high school. That one was a heavy slog. OK, it is still a heavy slog with about 75 pages to go, a tiny portion of the whole.

The members of my critique group seem to be in the opposite mode and are cranking out bits and pieces they expect me to read. Someone from my first critique group sent me to several thousand word on his latest fiction. I have an inch of single spaced, unpublished manuscripts to read.

During this flurry of reading I have sat at my computer staring at a blank screen, or the first paragraph or page of some languishing piece of fiction. Nothing. Five or six new words, no new ideas.

I know I have to change the beginning of the story that starts with a long interview with a detective before anything interesting happens. I can’t seem to tackle it. I have to come up with the middle section of a short story set on a sheep farm in the early 1800s. I can’t figure out how grandma finds her grandson’s murderer.  The more I think about it the fewer ideas I have.

I have one completed and rewritten short story that I sent out to be read. Now I need to make the suggested changes, but I can’t seem to pick it up.

On the other hand, when I am writing up a storm, I read very little. A page or two before I fall asleep at night.

I read in the afternoon but I can write only in the morning. So you would think the two things would fit well together.

The reading phase is easier than the writing phase. But there is something at the back of my mind like the thorn that is stuck in my tee shirt. I can’t find it but it keeps bothering me. I suspect that as soon as I finish the last few pages of Moby Dick I will switch back into writer mode. Then every morning back to the computer for a couple of hours. No more blank screens.

Late Again

Monday is blog day. I do both the one here on Goodreads and the one on my web site: kbinglee.weebly.com
But Monday is also work day. While my weekend job is more varied, my Monday job is to act as receptionist. I answer phones, talk to people who come into the visitors center, and do what ever odd jobs come my way. That leaves enough free time to dash off 250 words and post it here.
Yesterday was different. I had to do two extensive computer projects and take a family on a tour of the gistmill. Work is way more fun if I am busy, and giving tours is the most fun of all.
Check out where I work: www.newlingristmill.org