Catherine Austen's Blog, page 17

Friday Fable: the Writer and the Missing Links

You may know the old story, “The Fox and the Goat:”

Prologue: A fox fell into a well and couldn’t get out on his own. He swam there for a while making plans…

5 hours later: A goat was walking through the farm, just minding his own business eating a shirt, when the fox called to him from inside the well, “Hey there, handsome, I bet you’re feeling thirsty after eating that shirt. Why don’t you try some of this delicious water?”

The goat peered into the well and saw the fox swimming on his back with a big smile on his face. “Jump in,” invited the fox. “It’s so refreshing on a hot day.”

So the goat jumped in without a thought. Immediately, the fox climbed onto the goat’s back, scooted up his horns, and hopped right out of the well. Once safe, he completely forgot that he’d fallen into the well like a dimwit this morning. He laughed at the poor floundering goat and said, “You didn’t think that one through, did you?”

And the moral is: Look before you leap, and think before you act. 

That is a good old tale, but if Aesop were a modern slave to the written word, he might have called his fable, “The Writer and the Missing Links:”

Prologue: A writer started a blog upon the publication of her first book. As well as her ever-shifting home page, she made a permanent page about herself, and another permanent page about her book. She blogged irregularly for a while, adding a new permanent page for each book she published….

5 Years Later: The writer was sitting at her computer, working on revisions, when her inner procrastinator called to her, “Why not reformat your blog? There are too many pages listed in the header. The titles don’t fit. It looks disorganized. You should streamline.”

The writer looked at her stack of red-lined pages and thought, “It is Friday, my blogging day, and I do so want to appear streamlined.” So she put her work aside and took an hour to cut and paste all the book pages on her blog into a single page titled “My Books.”

“The time for fun – or for tediously updating blog links – is when the work is done.”

Perfect, she thought – until she realized that every single blog post she’d written over the past five years linking to one of her book pages now had a link that didn’t work, and anyone who clicked on one of those links would be led to an automatic WordPress message that read, “Well, this is embarrassing but we can’t find the page you’re looking for…”

That is so not streamlined.

So the writer wasted another hour updating links from old posts that probably no one would ever read, but you never know, until her right index finger started to cramp and she finally called it quits because it was 5:15 and she hadn’t even written her blog post yet, let alone finished her revisions.

And the moral is: Plan before you set up web pages, and do your blogging after work.

Have a great weekend.

 

Filed under: authors, Friday Fables, writing Tagged: aesop's fables, blog format, blogging, procrastination

Dumb Ideas

“What will happen if she starts using 100% of her brain?”

My husband told me I had to let it go. I had to stop muttering at the TV whenever I see a trailer for the movie, Lucy (which is based on the idiotic myth that humans only use 10% of our brains – I’m not even going to link to any of the thousand articles that set this myth straight because it has been years and years since the fallacy was trashed and it’s too dumb to respectfully address). But I’m having trouble letting go, as is perhaps evident.

“Maybe she could learn a second language.”

I don’t know why it bothers me so much. Last Friday I happily went out to watch talking apes on horseback, and tonight I’m seriously considering checking out Dwayne Johnson wearing a lion’s head fighting hydras. So why does Lucy strike me as intolerably stupid?

Really, I would love to believe that there’s 90% of awesome I haven’t accessed in my skull. I want to take the Limitless pill and finish all my books in a weekend. I’ve always wanted to astral project. And telekinesis would be nice – I’d use my power for good instead of evil, I swear.

But none of that is going to happen. This is pretty much all I’ll ever be. I’m not working on 10% here – it’s taken all my reserves just to get this far.

I suspect – although the memory is hiding in the dimly lit portions of my brain – that I used to believe in the 10% myth. I probably hoped – and secretly felt it was a sure thing – that one day I’d unlock the rest of my intelligence (of which I’d had glimmers) and become a superhero or at least finish my books a lot faster. And now the reminder that such belief still exists just bugs the hell out of me.

I’m a curmudgeon, that’s all, stomping on the innocence of the ten-percenters, denying them their dreams of potential.

Who wants to be a curmudgeon? Not me. Not one moment longer.

I”m letting it go. Bring on the next trailer. I won’t mutter a single word. Instead I’ll shout, Go, Lucy!  Unlock it all! Take command of those brain cells, harness your chi, and you go, girl! For all of us who once believed! Learn that second language!

(But I won’t be going to the movie.)

(Unless a friend calls up and asks because, really, I could be persuaded if there’s popcorn involved.)

 

Filed under: Uncategorized Tagged: 10% of brain use, lucy, movie premises, myths

Friday Fable: The Writer and the Word Limit

You may have heard the old story, The Crow and the Pitcher:

A crow was nearly dead of thirst when he spied a pitcher of water on a picnic table just beside the dried-up river bed. He flew over and tried to take a sip but, alas, the pitcher was close to empty. Only an inch of water remained in the bottom, too far for the crow’s beak to reach. He tried to break the pitcher or knock it off the table but he was in too weak a state.

The crow gave a great sigh and thought, “Crap. It’s either die of thirst next to this jug knowing all the other crows will laugh about me for generations to come, or I’d better think up a way to get that water. Hmm. What would Archimedes do?”

The crow dragged himself to the riverbed and picked up as many stones as would fit in his beak. He dropped them into the pitcher, one by one, and the water rose to the brim and the clever crow quenched his thirst.

And the moral is: Necessity is the mother of invention.

That is a good old tale, but if Aesop were a modern slave to the written word, he might have called his fable, The Writer and the Word Limit:

A writer was nearly dead of neglect when he spied a call for submissions in a literary magazine in the mail just beside two form rejections. He was thrilled to read that his new short story fit the magazine’s theme of “how your mother ruined your life.” But, alas, the magazine had a 5,000-word limit for fiction submissions and his story was 8,000. He tried line-by-line editing, cutting out adverbs and hyphenating where possible, but after a week of revising, the story was still 7,200 words.

The writer gave a great sigh and thought, “Crap. It’s either never publish anything again, knowing all my writer friends will ask, “Still working on that story collection?” for years to come, or I’d better think up a way to reduce my word count. Hmm. What would my mother do?”

The writer dragged himself to the keyboard and read through his story pretending to be his own mother. “This bit’s stupid,” he muttered, chopping three paragraphs. “You made that point already,” he snapped, chopping two more. “Who the hell cares about this side character?” he said as he cut half a page. And so it went, all afternoon: “I saw this coming.” “I’ve read that a hundred times before.” “Nice wording but I couldn’t give a $#!+,” etc. He went through the story four times in his mother’s persona and, little by little, the length condensed to 3,000 words and the clever writer submitted his story. And the editors loved it.

And the moral is: Sometimes we need to be a little harder on ourselves. 

And that’s my Friday fable, sparked by writers’ guidelines that suggested, “Get someone who hates you to critique your work.” Good advice, but I’m too thin-skinned. (And if you’re wondering about my mother, nah, she was a sweetheart. She’d read anything I wrote and say, “That’s wonderful, dear.”)

May all your Fridays be fabulous. Have a great weekend.

Filed under: Friday Fables, short stories, writing Tagged: aesop's fables, creative process, critiques, editing, revising, short fiction, word count

The Writer and the Word Limit

You may have heard the old story, The Crow and the Pitcher:

A crow was nearly dead of thirst when he spied a pitcher of water on a picnic table just beside the dried-up river bed. He flew over and tried to take a sip but, alas, the pitcher was close to empty. Only an inch of water remained in the bottom, too far for the crow’s beak to reach. He tried to break the pitcher or knock it off the table but he was in too weak a state.

The crow gave a great sigh and thought, “Crap. It’s either die of thirst next to this jug knowing all the other crows will laugh about me for generations to come, or I’d better think up a way to get that water. Hmm. What would Archimedes do?”

The crow dragged himself to the riverbed and picked up as many stones as would fit in his beak. He dropped them into the pitcher, one by one, and the water rose to the brim and the clever crow quenched his thirst.

And the moral is: Necessity is the mother of invention.

That is a good old tale, but if Aesop were a modern slave to the written word, he might have called his fable, The Writer and the Word Limit:

A writer was nearly dead of neglect when he spied a call for submissions in a literary magazine in the mail just beside two form rejections. He was thrilled to read that his new short story fit the magazine’s theme of “how your mother ruined your life.” But, alas, the magazine had a 5,000-word limit for fiction submissions and his story was 8,000. He tried line-by-line editing, cutting out adverbs and hyphenating where possible, but after a week of revising, the story was still 7,200 words.

The writer gave a great sigh and thought, “Crap. It’s either never publish anything again, knowing all my writer friends will ask, “Still working on that story collection?” for years to come, or I’d better think up a way to reduce my word count. Hmm. What would my mother do?”

The writer dragged himself to the keyboard and read through his story pretending to be his own mother. “This bit’s stupid,” he muttered, chopping three paragraphs. “You made that point already,” he snapped, chopping two more. “Who the hell cares about this side character?” he said as he cut half a page. And so it went, all afternoon: “I saw this coming.” “I’ve read that a hundred times before.” “Nice wording but I couldn’t give a $#!+,” etc. He went through the story four times in his mother’s persona and, little by little, the length condensed to 3,000 words and the clever writer submitted his story. And the editors loved it.

And the moral is: Sometimes we need to be a little harder on ourselves. 

And that’s my Friday fable, sparked by writers’ guidelines that suggested, “Get someone who hates you to critique your work.” Good advice, but I’m too thin-skinned. (And if you’re wondering about my mother, nah, she was a sweetheart. She’d read anything I wrote and say, “That’s wonderful, dear.”)

May all your Fridays be fabulous. Have a great weekend.

Filed under: Friday Fables, short stories, writing Tagged: aesop's fables, creative process, critiques, editing, revising, short fiction, word count

He Said/ She Sighed Part 3 – Enough Already!

“Enough already!” brayed the ibex.

Here’s one last rant sparked by a “how to write fiction” book that advised using “said/say” as the only dialogue verb (as in, “‘I spent thirty dollars on jelly beans at Mont Tremblant this weekend,’ she said.”)

(That is a true statement, sadly. They fool you with the $2.99/100g sign. I still think in pounds. “Grab a bag each,” I told the kids. Sigh.)

“Only use said in dialogue” is advice I’ve seen repeated in books and blogs all over the place and it’s advice I think is stupid – see Part 1 of this topic (really, I should have stopped there) and Part 2 backing up my opinion with random selections from my highbrow bookshelf.

“Must eat jelly beans,” chanted the zombie children in the candy store.

The same how-to-write-fiction book probably advised, “Cut out all your adverbs,” but I’m not sure because I stopped reading it. That’s another bit of writing advice I’ve seen dispensed in pithy tips all over the place. Using an adverb with a non-said dialogue verb (as in, “‘Thirty dollars for jelly beans?’ she  shouted hoarsely”) would be writing on the edge of madness according to these tip-dispensers.

But a quick glance at my bookshelf showed that most authors are writing on the edge of madness. Here’s an example from a book you may have heard of:

F Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby, page 85:

“he asked immediately” / “he inquired blankly”

“he remarked vaguely” / “I asked” / “he added hollowly”

Don’t people call Fitzgerald one of the greatest American writers of all time? Yet he seems to have strayed from the tip-sheet.

Even wordier was this random page from my 20-book sampler:

 Doris Lessing, “The other woman” in Collected Stories, page 116:

“he said” / “he asked carefully” / “she replied evasively”

“she hesitated and then said” / “she went on resentfully” / “she announced defiantly”

“he…suggested on an impulse” / “she began to explain”

That’s a lot of verbs and adverbs. And yet I do believe that Lessing won a prize for her writing. What was it again? Oh yeah. The Nobel Prize for Literature.

“Want a jelly bean?” the little boy laughed.

Lest you think the fancy verbs and adverbs are a thing of the past, I am right now reading the Journey Prize Stories from 2007 and in the first story, “Swimming in Zanzibar” by Krista Foss – which is great, BTW – the characters “ask,” “remark,” “bark,” “persist,” “repeat,” and “protest” their dialogue, plus they yell “angrily,” pick on people “mercilessly,” empty out of a van “groggily,” look at people “coldly,” move “quickly,” and do all sorts of things described in verbs and adverbs with absolute disregard for somebody else’s quick tips.

I’m on page 44 of Dionne Brand’s What We All Long For, where one character “frantically” sets things in order, another rings off “quickly,” a group of people “usually” head home, someone greets customers “effusively,” plus we get this dialogue verb: “’Girl, you look good!’ she would ooze…” Ooze. That’s a long way from the tip-sheet.

Okay, yeah, Brand is a poet. She doesn’t follow any “limit your use of words” advice. But when I grabbed Hemingway’s Farewell to Arms for contrast (that wasn’t in my original 20-book sample because I thought it would stack the deck against me), I found in the middle of page 173, “said the priest politely.” An adverb. In dialogue. Where it ought not to be, some say. (I thought it might have been Hemingway who first said that, actually, but maybe not.)

My point is this: Don’t take “rules of writing fiction” too seriously. (Nobody else does.)

“Got any jelly beans?” inquired the elk hopefully.

Think a little harder about those writing tips. Or don’t – instead of reading tips, read good books and then some and then some more, and write and write till it sounds just right. Worry more about your story and your characters and your scenes, and your dialogue verbs may take care of themselves. If a scene reads well, don’t revise it to eliminate all the alternatives to “said” thinking you have to. And please don’t get rid of your adverbs. I want to know if a character dies happily or kisses softly or laughs sadly or speaks angrily.

It is silly to think there are words denied to writers, that there are entire classes of words off limits to good writing. That is just crazy.

Lists of writing tips are shallow by nature – they will never tell anyone how to write well. We must dig deeper for that. Don’t get sidetracked checking off boxes for a paint-by-number book that follows tips like “don’t use adverbs” or “use said as your only dialogue verb.” You don’t have to do that. What you have to do is much, much harder.

And that’s enough already. This post is off schedule, but I was busy last Friday checking out this:

“Get lost!” growled the bear.

 

And I will be busy this Friday checking out this:

 

“Caesar is home,” said the ape.

So this is my in-between post. Must go eat jelly beans now. Only half a pound left.

 

Filed under: authors, friday form, writing Tagged: adverbs, creative process, dialogue, grammar, revising, writing, writing tips

He Said/She Sighed Part 2

I grabbed twenty books from the living room shelf, opened each to a random page, and checked out all the verbs used in dialogue. And here is what I learned:

Almost all the authors used a simple “said” at least half the time. But none of them used said all the time. None. Not one.

Okay, it’s not a statistically meaningful survey but, even if the dice are loaded by my taste in books, the verbs are there on esteemed pages, defying trendy writing advice.

Here is a typical page of dialogue verbs from my not-quite-random survey:

Graham Greene, Brighton Rock, page 80:

“Ida said”

“she said”

“Ida said”

“Mr. Corkery asked”

“Mr. Corkery implored”

“Ida said”

“Mr Corkery sounded her”

I don’t know what that last one means – “sounded” must be a British thing — but the gist of the dialogue, even without words, seems to be that Ida is keeping calm while Mr. Corkery is losing it. The point is, they are not just saying things. They are saying things in a certain way that brings their dialogue to life.

In general, you can tell the old classics by their copious dialogue verbs:

Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities, page 166:

“said the mender of roads” / “demanded Number One” / “returned Defarge”

“croaked the man with the craving” / “inquired the first” / “returned Defarge”

“the hungry man repeated” / “asked Jacques Two” / “returned Defarge”

“the man who hungered asked” / “said Defarge”

But it’s not just dead white guys who are so colourful with their choices. Check out these random-ish contemporary books:

J. M. Coatzee, Waiting for the Barbarians, page 91:

“confides a voice” / “I whisper” / “he says”

“I whisper” / “I whisper” / “he groans”

“I whisper”

 

Sherman Alexie, “Life and times of Estelle walks above” in Ten Little Indians, page 149″

“I cried and cried” / “my mother screamed at me” / “I shouted”

“I shouted at her” / “my mother screamed” / “she screamed”

 

Mary McGarry Morris, Songs in Ordinary Time, page 339:

“she said” / “she moaned” / “Norm groaned”

“Astrid gasped” / “she cried” / “Norm muttered”

“she said” / “she gasped”

Clearly these writers never got the “only use said” memo. I guess they’ll never go far.

For writers who like to use them, active dialogue verbs bring an active scene to life in the simplest way possible. Coatzee’s characters are tortured in prison, hence all the whispering and groaning. Alexie’s characters are having a big emotional family moment. And one of McGarry Morris’s characters is vomiting on the other. “Said” will not do in these circumstances.

Some people will tell you that it’s lazy to bring a scene to life through dialogue verbs and instead you should use “said” and change the dialogue or action around it to convey the sense of groaning or gasping or screaming.

Dickens might retort.

To this I say: why? Why is it better to complicate things in the name of some mythical “rule” that has no purpose and isn’t even borne out by a random survey of my bookshelf?

A simple line of dialogue like, “’It’s always the same,’ she cried” can carry a lot of weight without sticking weighty unrealistic words in your character’s mouth. Don’t feel like you ought to change that line to “’I hate you!’ she said, throwing the breakfast plates across the room.” Don’t rewrite a good scene for the sake of eliminating all colourful dialogue verbs. You’ll ruin your work.

Don’t feel like you must find a new way to describe the commonplace. You wouldn’t say, “He walked to the door with a straight back, raising his knees high and banging his heel to the floor with each step.” You’d just say he marched to the door. (Nobody has yet invented the “just say walk” rule.) Likewise, you don’t have to say, “He lowered his voice so she could barely hear it. ‘Take the stairs,’ he said.” Just let him whisper. It’s much clearer.

Sometimes “said” is just not enough.

Finally, don’t fall for the advice to separate a way of speaking from the actual dialogue, so that, for example, a character groans in a self-contained sentence and then says something in a separate sentence. This will ruin your scene. Don’t tell Sherman Alexie that his characters should shout before or after they speak: “She screamed. ‘Get up the stairs!’” Um, no. That’s not what’s happening in the scene. She is screaming the words, “Get up the stairs!” so have her scream them. Don’t have her utter some weird standalone scream first.

“’You’re in trouble,’ he growled” and “’Go home,’ she snapped” are clear. “’You’re in trouble.’ He growled.” and “’Go home.’ She snapped.” are jarring and bizarre, painting a scene of insane characters saying, “Grrrr. You’re in trouble,” And “Go home. Snap snap.” It’s like the hissing thing: the verbs have their own meaning when used in direct speech. They mean something different separate from the dialogue, something you may not intend.

Clarity first. Always.

Of my random survey, the page that came closest to meeting the “Only use said” non-rule was this:

A. S. Byatt, Possession, page 74:

“he offered” / “said the lady” / “said Maud”

“said the lady” / “said Roland” / “said Roland”

“said the lady” / “Maud said quickly”

Which brings up the subject of adverbs. Using said with an adverb is often frowned upon by the “Only use said” rule-inventors, who tend to double as “Never use adverbs” rule inventors.

I say, “Pshaw.” Good writers go by feel as to whether it’s better to have a character whisper something or say it softly. Either one is correct. If someone tells you to revise it, feel free to mutter, groan or even laugh, “I’m in the footsteps of giants so buzz off.”

Did I say laugh? Yes, I did. Because in my random survey I read on page 375 of Crime and Punishment: “laughed Svidrigailov.” And if it’s good enough for Dostoevski, it’s good enough for me.

My final post on this topic – on dialogue verbs and adverbs from Dostoevski to Hemingway to you and me – will come next Friday. Till then, feel free to leave a comment and have your say.

 

Filed under: friday form, writing Tagged: dialogue, editing, grammar, revising, rules of writing

He Said/She Sighed – Part One

She spits her words.

I dislike lists of rules for writing fiction. There are many good writers whose work I can’t stand. And many books I’ve loved that were obviously flawed. I would not advise anyone to make a paint-by-number novel.

Big picture rules are good, like: A book should spend more words on important scenes and fewer words on unimportant scenes. That rule is hard to argue with.

Rules I roll my eyes at are nitpicky particulars like: Use “said” as your only verb in dialogue. That is a stupid rule. Or, rather, it is stupid to think of that as a rule.

It is important to know the effects of various writing techniques so you can use those techniques deliberately for greater effect. Knowing that readers barely notice the word “said,” so it’s okay to repeat it over and over on a page, is important.

He growls his words.

But the rule “only use said” is not telling you how to get the effect you want; it’s telling you what effect you should try to get. And that is not a matter of correctness; it is a matter of taste. And you and the rule-maker may not like the same books. Just because he can’t stand reading “he whispered” or “she yelled” doesn’t mean it’s bad form. It’s simply his pet peeve.

People whisper things they don’t want other people to hear. People shout things when they’re angry. People mutter when they’re passive aggressive. People stutter when they’re nervous, groan when they’re in pain. And there is nothing wrong with using such verbs when the circumstances of a scene call for it.

It is bad writing to have people shout and cry and whisper and moan about what’s for dinner. But it’s bad because the scene is sentimental or melodramatic not because the verbs are grammatically incorrect. When a scene calls for it, these verbs can say a lot in one little word.

It is bad writing to have people say something with a verb that makes speech impossible, like “he swallowed” (unless he swallowed his words metaphorically and didn’t say them out loud). And it’s bad writing to use a verb that is irrelevant to speech, like “he glared” (unless he is telepathic). Rewrite those.

But it’s okay to use metaphorical verbs like “babble” and “snap” and “croak” and, yes, even “hiss.”

“Ssstay away, sssstupid!”

Note to nitpickers: The hiss of speech doesn’t have to be on sibilants. Humans do not hiss. The meaning of “hiss” in dialogue is not “sssss. If someone is hissing “ssstay away sssilly” you’d better spell it out because no reader is going to assume the speaker is actually hissing the sibilants – unless you’ve already said they’re insane and one of their symptoms is hissing like a snake. Hissing in dialogue means to speak in quiet anger. Like the hiss of a snake or a cat, it is a small noise with a big angry warning attached to it. It is a perfectly good word for a whisper-shout. So please don’t show off your ignorance by calling out an author for saying a character hissed, “Pick that up” to her unruly child in church. You might not like the usage, but it is not bad grammar.

You can have people spew their words, spit their words, growl them, bark them, bray them if you like. None of it is grammatically incorrect. Just as you can have your character drag her heart to the door, once she gets there she can sigh hello if you want her to. Readers love a good metaphor; why bar them from dialogue? The question is not whether it’s correct usage. (It is.) The question is whether it works. If it enhances the scene and makes it clearer, more vivid, more real and alive, then it’s good usage. If it obscures the action and slows the understanding and annoys the reader, it’s bad usage.

Please your readers and your self.

Using the invisible “said” most of the time will make other verbs more effective when they are called for. If you as a writer never feel they are called for, that’s fine. But if you do feel like your character needs to shout or whisper – because, say, they’re actually shouting or whispering – just say so. And if you think it enriches the scene, the character, and the meaning of the dialogue to have your character screech or purr or ooze her words, then let her do so. If the scene is good, it will work. (It will annoy some readers but it will delight others. You can’t please everyone.)

I have more to say on this issue, but that’s enough said for this Friday.

Filed under: friday form, writing Tagged: creative writing, dialogue, editing, grammar

Friday Faves

I got an email from Goodreads informing me that I’d started reading The Complete Short Stories of Truman Capote 127 days ago and suggesting that I might want to update my progress.

Oh yeah, Truman Capote’s stories. Never finished them. Didn’t grab me.

But I did finish some other books in the last 127 days. So I scrounged my memory for a handful of favourites to praise on Goodreads this morning. (I have a new writing schedule that devotes Friday mornings to stuff like that – and this. As it is 1:17, I’m technically already off schedule. No surprise there.)

Here are a few of the books that grabbed me recently. (You can read more via the Goodreads sidebar. In fact, I’m probably just repeating myself by posting the reviews here. But whatever, time’s up.)

Battle Bunny by Jon Scieszka and Mac Barnett, illustrated by Matthew Myers.

The best children’s book I’ve read for a while – and that’s saying something because I read a lot of great children’s books. A clever boy with a pencil transforms Birthday Bunny into Battle Bunny in this hilarious picture book. Read it if you are a bright kid or used to be one. It captures the energy and creativity of a young mind just perfectly. I loved it. Five stars. Outstanding.

The Hero’s Guide to Saving Your Kingdom by Christopher Healey

This is a fun book for 8-12-year-olds about the various Princes Charmings from folklore who, with the princesses of lore, work together to save their kingdom from a wicked witch. I read it to my son when he was 11 and we both loved it. (It’s long for a read-aloud but lots of fun.) Engaging characters, witty, action-packed and funny.

For the adults out there looking for something un-put-down-able that will scare the pants off them:

The Ritual by Adam Nevill

Riveting. Loved it. Especially the beginning. Want to read it again to figure out how he did it. Don’t know why I’ve reverted to sentence fragments… The book’s premise is the stuff of urban legend – four guys lost in the woods stumble onto something creepy hanging from a tree and start to think maybe they’re not alone - but he makes it fresh and gripping. You will reconsider that remote camping trip you planned for August after reading this, let me tell you. It was so much fun to read a good scare! I find most horror books gross or dumb or poorly written – but this one was none of those things.

For adults who prefer to read something more realistic (with their pants snugly in place)…

Corvus by Esther Woolfson

This memoir of home life with wild birds (injured and rehabilitated animals including a couple of clever crows) is beautifully written. Every scene is vivid – the birds come to life in all their splendid plumage and personalities. There is a deep love and humility here that touches the heart and makes me wish I shared my days more intimately with other natures.

And for the teen crowd…

I’m reading last year’s Governor General’s Award winner, The Unlikely Hero of Room 13B by the witty and wonderful Teresa Toten, and I am loving it.

I’ll try to get my review up on Goodreads before another 127 passes by.

And that’s all for this Friday. Have a great weekend.

 

 

 

Filed under: books, Friday faves Tagged: book reviews

Friday Fable: The Writer and her Publicist

You may know the old story of The Moon and her Mother:

The moon once asked her mother to make her a cloak.

Her mother snorted. “How can I make a cloak to fit you when you’re always changing from a new moon to a full moon to everything in between?”

The moon burst into tears and hung there, cloak-less, while her mother walked away rolling her eyes.

And the moral is: Some people are hard to get a fix on. 

Aside: That is not such a good old tale. First there’s the cloak issue: aren’t they one-size-fits-all? Isn’t that a cloak’s defining characteristic, the one thing that makes a cloak different from all other types of clothing? It just hangs there – if you have shoulders, it’ll fit.

One size fits all.

Then there’s the mother issue: moons don’t have moms. If they did, they’d be rocks – not the go-to guy when you need a cloak. And they’d know that the moon doesn’t actually change, she’s just in shadow, so a cloak would fit just fine. (Like duh, no wonder the moon cries. This fable needs a new moral about how parents never see children for who they really are.)

I think we can all agree that Aesop was not at his best with this one. He should have made this fable about a frog or a butterfly instead of a moon and a dress instead of a cloak. Then it would make perfect sense. Ish. And it would be a lot more fun for illustrators. (In the kazillion editions of Aesop’s Fables that I’ve read, this one is never chosen for illustration. A caterpillar and a shimmery dress would change all that.) But we can’t change history and I’m sticking with my schtick. So…

That is a good old tale (not), but if Aesop were a modern slave to the written word, he might have called his fable, The Writer and her Publicist:

A writer published a couple of middle-grade comedies and everywhere the writer went people said, “Your book is so funny, my kids just loved it.”

The writer’s publicist was so pleased with the recent reviews, she asked, “Is there something you’re working on now that we could tie the book into to get readers excited for your next one?” To which the writer replied, “I’m working on a collection of short fiction for adults about domestic violence.”

The publicist frowned. “That’s not really suited to our audience. Is there something for young readers in the works?” The writer nodded. “I’ve got a draft of a horror novel about this kid who rescues an orphaned wolf that turns out to be evil and the boy gets possessed and starts killing people at the wolf’s command.”

“Hmm. Not what you’d call a comedy,” the publicist muttered. “Anything else?” “You bet,” the writer said. “I have a picture book about farm animals who go on an adventure to the beach.”

“Always a crowd-pleaser in grade 6,” the publicist said. The writer smiled. “I also have a teen romance, two non-fiction picture books, an easy reader about a mosquito who faints at the sight of blood, and a memoir of my travels through the back yard which I think is pretty funny.”

The publicist sighed. “How can we build your platform when you’re always changing genres?” The writer knew better than to say, “I don’t need a platform. I’m afraid of heights, actually.” She just shrugged and hung around, brand-less.

And the moral is: Some authors are hard to get a fix on.

For all the writers who like to try new things and shudder when branding comes up in conversation, and for all the editors and publicists who are stuck with the job of marketing us, that’s my Friday Fable.

To all the readers who’ve asked if I have another comedy on the way, I will definitely return to that genre eventually (after a phase or two). For now, here’s a link to a review of my new middle-grade comedy, 28 Tricks for a Fearless Grade 6, from today’s issue of CM Magazine. Have a great weekend.

(Picture credits: The moons are from FreeDigitalPhotos.net: the phase montage is by “vectorolie” and the howling wolf is by “nixphotography.” The cloaks are modelled for sale on the website of Half Moon, a shop that specializes in wool cloaks, capes, and ponchos – and they don’t ask your size.)

 

Filed under: authors, books, Friday Fables, writing Tagged: 28 tricks for a fearless grade 6, aesop's fables, author platform, book promotion, children's books, publishing

Thank you, Nova Scotia Schools!

I was charmed by the students of Pictou Landing First Nation School, who made this wall display of dumb jokes and zombie survival tips taken from my website – awesome!

As I begin the last day of my tour of schools, libraries and bookstores in Nova Scotia, I want to say thank you to all the students I’ve met along the way.

Thanks for listening. Thanks for laughing. Thanks for asking great questions. Thanks for saying I look younger than my photographs.

Thanks for the opportunity to speak in a devil voice (while reading a scene from 28 Tricks for a Fearless Grade 6). And for the opportunity to share everything I’ve learned about writing books.

I had great fun with the students of Sacred Heart School in Halifax who were reading 28 Tricks in class.

Thanks for telling me your stories. Thanks for adding to my collection of dumb jokes. Thanks for reassuring me that the country has a fresh crop of writers growing up right now.

A huge thank you to all the teachers, principals, and librarians who helped prepare their students for my visit. It was wonderful to go to a school and hear, “Are you the author?” as I passed through the halls and, “Oh, this is a good scene,” as I began to read. Thanks for introducing my books to your classes. Thanks for taking me to lunch. Thanks for welcoming me to your neighbourhoods and giving me directions onward.

And for all the kids who asked if they could write me with more questions or animal stories, I’d love to hear from you. Write me at .

Thanks for the cards and pens and book bags, too!

And of course a big thank-you to everyone at the Canadian Children’s Book Centre for arranging this tour, one of many taking place across the country right now during TD Canadian Children’s Book Week 2014.

This has been a great week. (And it’s not over. I’m on my way to Digby County this morning and then over to Greenwood before I head back to Halifax. Gotta go…)

 

Filed under: authors, book week 2014, children's books, school visits Tagged: 28 tricks for a fearless grade 6, author visits, Canadian Children's Book Week, elementary schools, writers