Beem Weeks's Blog, page 13

What's In A Name?

They might be the least thought-about aspect of a story, but they are quite important. I'm talking about names. Characters, to be fully developed and memorable, must have distinct names.

Think about some of the great characters in fictional writing and surely you'll recall those names: Atticus Finch, Boo Radley, Jem and Scout Finch, Dill; these are not simple, common names. They're easily recognizable, though--to those who've read To Kill A Mockingbird. But even the simple, common names can carry weight in the literary world. Just speak on the ghost of Tom Joad, and surely intelligent readers will recognize the hero of Steinbeck's The Grapes of Wrath. Doctor Frankenstein, Count Dracula, Tarzan; these names call to mind familiar characters, well over a century after their stories were first told. Ahab, Ishmael, Gatsby--amazing what a name might conjure.

When writing my stories, I try to craft names that stand out, names that sound interesting, avoiding the plain, steering clear of what's been used by other authors. Case in point: Michael Weston is the name of the lead character on the USA cable network series Burn Notice. Mike Weston is also the name of a lead character on FOX Network's The Following. Hmm. Not much creative thought going on there. When writing my novel Jazz Baby, I chose an old-fashioned name for my lead POV character--the story takes place in 1925, after all. But let's face facts: Some old-school names just aren't pretty-sounding to the ears. When I hear a name like Maude or Bertha or Myrtle, I picture an overweight old woman with cataracts and bad hips.

I decided on Emily Ann "Baby" Teegarten because that name fit my mental image for this creation: young teen, small in stature, emerald-green eyes, hair the color of thick brown honey. Will her name become as familiar as, say, Lolita or Holden Caulfield or Lady Chatterley? Only time and sales will determine that sort of fate. The point of this posting is to shine a little light on that somewhat overlooked aspect of storytelling. Names ought to fit personalities.

I just finished reading the novel Bridge Ices Before Road by Sienna Rose. A wonderful story. One of the main characters, a tough eleven-year-old-girl named Madeline Malone, sports the moniker Mad-Dog Malone. For an adult character, a name like Mad-Dog is kind of ho-hum. But this belongs to a young girl who's not easily intimidated. That's fantastic! And it fits the girl the same way the name "Alfalfa" perfectly fit the Little Rascal.

Names are impotant in the literary world. They offer a reference point, sometimes even transcending the story itself. Just mention the name Holden Caulfield. What comes to mind? A classic novel, sure, but also a horrible December night in 1980, when the world lost a legend. So take your time when choosing names. Nobody will recall a character named Bob Smith or Steve Jones--at least not as quickly as they'll conjure recollections of, say, the quiet Boo Radley. What's in a name? Everything.

What Are You Writing For?

I love a well-written story. There are certain authors who possess special God-given talents for telling tales of the fictional sort. Daniel Woodrell owns an amazing skill with the narrative voice. Read Winter's Bone and tell me he's not brilliant. Stephen Geez operates in another realm when it comes to plotting and dialogue.

But what about emotion? Who are those masters that are able to translate honest emotion onto pages? By honest emotion I mean, a story so real and so raw, the reader is powerless to hold back tears or anger or that laugh-out-loud moment that draws attention to self. With movies it's easier. A good actor becomes that emotion and draws the audience in, daring them not to cry or be filled with righteous indignation. See Sean Penn in Mystic River when he finds out his daughter is lying dead in the park.

A novel or short story, well, that's a difficult thing--making a reader cry. Words are indeed strong enough to jab and scar and hurt. But the author must be skillful in pulling it all together to be worthy of my tears.

Every so often I find a story that holds a scene or two that puts a lump in my throat and has me reaching for the Kleenex box. Barbara Kingsolver got me with her masterpiece The Poisonwood Bible. The scene involves the death of the youngest daughter in a missionary's family doing the Lord's work in 1950s Congo. The five-year-old, narrating the moment in her own words, is bitten by a black mamba. Kingsolver skillfully lures readers in, introduces us to this family, allows us to grow fond of this little girl, before snatching her from the very pages of her book. We mourn with the mother as she lovingly washes her baby's body, preparing her for burial. It's heartbreaking--even without film footage, photos, or illustrations. Those words are powerful. This is the skill I'm talking about.

So rare are those types of talents, coming along only every-so-often. And that doesn't mean you're great when and if you can make readers cry. There are plenty of amazing authors worthy of highest praise. It's going that extra mile, though, that raises a story into rarefied air, lays separation between it and other fine tales. Alice Sebold grabbed me with The Lovely Bones when Susie Salmon, the dead girl narrating her life and death, laments the loss of first love, senior prom, her wedding, or the birth of her own children. The reader, in only a handful of sentences, feels every one of those losses. It takes a special talent to pull this off.

I've not accomplished this yet. I'm still learning, still trying. And I'm still looking for that next novel to come along and make me angry or make me cry or make me laugh out loud. Emotion is a hallmark of brilliant writing. Aim high, writers. Don't cheat your readers. Don't cheat yourselves.

Famous For Nada

You know the names--even if you've never watched the shows. Honey Boo-Boo, Kim Khardashian and family, Snookie and J-Woww. These are the current crop of "people" making money in the recently invented world of Reality Television--though it's far from real. What people won't do for fame today!

I refuse to watch these idiots-on-parade programs, but I am aware they exist. What little I have seen shocks me. Not the content itself, mind you, but that there's actually a viewing audience faithfully tuning in each week. What would tempt grown men and women into watching a little piglet mumble and squeal about how wonderful she truly is? And yet that's what happens. Honey Boo-Boo even scored a larger audience last season than the brilliantly written and acted AMC series Breaking Bad.

What happens when said little piglet reaches maturity as a wallowing sow and suddenly nobody cares what's going on around her trough? Honey Oink-Oink is being set up for a serious letdown once she realizes she's a train wreck--not a talented star!

That's another point of contention for me: What exactly is Kim Khardashian's talent? What are the Khardashian's known for--besides being well-paid parasites? I lost all respect for Bruce Jenner--a one-time hero to me--long ago. A recent TV commercial posed the question: Who is your favorite Khardashian? Mine is Robert Kardashian, the father of that talentless brood. Why Robert? Because he's dead. Harsh, sure--I don't wish death on anybody--but I'm tired of seeing these parasitic grubs feeding off the stupidity of dumbed-down Americans.

And speaking of stupidity, just what the hell is a "Snookie" anyway? This strange little rat-like creature crawled up out of a New Jersey sewer line and quickly found work on MTV. She and her pack of fellow rodents gnawed their way into the scarcely working brains of Zombie Nation--oh, wait, I don't want to give Zombies a bad reputaion. My point is: There is no point to garbage.

So, America, I ask you: Why? Why would anybody bother with this trash? Why would we, a supposedly civil nation, encourage this sort of mindless sludge?

The days of well-written, well-acted series television are over. The Learning Channel once offered quality, educational, intelligent programming. Now, they give us Honey Boo-Boo, Toddlers & Tiaras, and Mega-Couponers. (TLC, Totally Lame Crap.) A&E--officially called Arts & Entertainment--promises an exciting season this year on Duck Dynasty! Discovery Channel, The History Channel: We're drowning in garbage. The dumbing-down of America continues. Stop supporting your own demise, people. But you won't. Why? Because only in America are people free to be stupid--and get paid for it!

Reading

Just so much stuff to read! I'm drowning in reading material. New issues of Rolling Stone, National Geographic, Smithsonian, and Esquire all arriving in my mailbox in just the past few days. I'm currently reading two novels--which I'll be reviewing right here on Goodreads--with a stack of books in my closet waiting their turn. And did I mention my nightly Bible reading? I'm also doing edit work on a short story anthology. Where do I find the time? But I'm not complaining. I'd rather be swamped by too much than to not have enough. I'm just grateful for the written word. Now if I can only find time to write! Good reading, everybody.

Research Your Story

You've finished writing your book, allowed an editor to comb through it, even invited a few trustworthy colleagues to proofread the manuscript. Everything checks out. You send it to the publisher. It's only after it's been published, made available through Amazon, and been reviewed by a site or two, that you suddenly realize the world didn't have laptops back in 1969!

Sounds silly, right? Everybody knows laptops are a recent creation. But what about other inventions, simple items we take for granted, like car radios? Here's the thing: I read a great novel from a really good writer several years ago. The story took place in 1928. The main characters spent a lot of time tooling around those dusty roads in various automobiles of that particular era, listening to the radio, singing along to the songs of the day. Then it happened. A month or so later, while watching a documentary on the History Channel, I found the truth of the matter. Automobiles didn't begin to have radios until 1932.

Hmmm! I hadn't known that while reading the book. It really stands out now. The point of this posting is all about researching a subject, an era, or a person before you set pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard). Nothing can kill a great story quicker than inaccuracy.

Younger authors today, those who are 20 or 25 years of age, can't comprehend that not-too-long-ago time when the internet was merely a nerd's ideal dream. The olden days saw pay phones on every corner, in most parking lots, and any other place the public might congregate. Why pay phones? Because cell phones didn't exist!

Imagine a 20-year-old author setting his/her story in, say, 1977. Not that long ago, really. The plot concerns the woman who found Elvis slumped on the throne. She tries to wake the king, gets no reaction; what does she do? She reaches into her pocket, snatches hold on her smart phone, snaps a picture, uploads it to her YouTube account, texts a message to the local paparazzi, and then finally calls 911. Sounds like a fine story--to a 20-year-old who failed to research the era. Most people will know that smart phones didn't exist in 1977. Neither did YouTube. 911 began it's life back then, but wasn't in every community at that time. Some cities had seven digit numbers for police, fire, ambulance.

When preparing to write my novel, Jazz Baby, a historical fiction piece set in 1925, I took a great deal of time researching the 1920s, Mississippi, New Orleans, Jim Crow racial relations, speakeasies, automobiles, the laws of prohibition, and many other relevant issues of the day. My protagonist, Emily Ann, is 13 years old in the Roaring Twenties--which is quite different from being 13 years old in, say, 2013. In 1925, a girl could be married off. College wouldn't likely have been an option. Careers for girls just didn't exist.

The world has changed a great deal over the past 88 years. Understanding what came before is key to writing a good, solid story. If I put Nike running shoes on the girl's feet, had her dreaming of owning a shiny Corvette, and tucked an iPod into her hip pocket, most readers would dump the book in the trash can after--or even before--the end of the first chapter. Why? Because if there are glaring inaccuracies afoot, it kills even the most entertaining of stories.

And even little things like lingo can detract from your novel. Emily Ann wouldn't greet a friend with, "'Sup, fool? Yo, peep this: Dog says Micky D's running a two-for-one on Big Macs. Wanna go get our grub on?" It's an awful lot of work to research such matters. But time and effort will be rewarded. Serious readers appreciate a solid read. Don't scrimp when it comes to getting the scene and the story right.

Catfish

How is it that people, in this day and age, can be so gullible as to fall for a complete stranger on the internet? How is it these same gullible suckers will then send their hard-earned money to said stranger?

Stories abound of losers so lonely they'll believe in these internet phantoms promising love, marriage, shared wealth. Sane, sober people will scatch their heads and say, "How can somebody be so foolish?" And yet, stories continue to surface of still another sucker going down for the count.

The problem--as I see it-- is technology. Technology is wonderful inventions that make our time on Earth much easier than it might have been in generations past. With the internet, knowledge of virtually any subject known to man is within reach of our key-tapping fingertips.

As a published author, I rely on this technology to let the world know about my work. But there is a darker side that I see all too often. Technology takes us away from being social people. We no longer write letters to friends and family when a quick email will suffice. Phone calls? What's the need if a fast text message is at hand? And, for many, going out and actually meeting other living human beings face to face is no longer a viable option. They "friend" people online and consider these "relationships" to be equal to the old-fashioned friendships we once cultivated back before Facebook, MySpace, and all those other sites.

Don't misread my words. I'm not saying Facebook and such are bad. Friending people has it's benefits. But there are those sorts of individuals who no longer function in the real world. They search for love on the internet, hoping to find that special someone to share their life with--even if they never actually meet the person.

The Notre Dame football player's story has been all over the news lately. But long before this schmuck fell prey to foolish endeavors, similar stories have filled broadcast news, newspapers, the internet, and a documentary film called Catfish.

It's a shame that some members of the human race are so lacking common-sense genes that they'll easily part with life savings, dignity, reality. And every case that comes to light should stand as a warning to the next befuddled doofus. But it doesn't. "This one is different," the fool says.

I just watched a woman on TV being shown the truth about an online love, being presented with facts of the man's fraud, and still she maintained he's a legitimate fellow with good intentions--even after being relieved of the $150,000 savings she'll never see again. "It's okay. We're in love." Sucker!

I don't pity idiots like this. Stupidity is treatable. I'm living proof of this statement. I committed all sorts of logic-defying lunatic acts in my younger days, alienated loved ones, ruined relationships. But I got better. These people can get better too. Just pay attention to the horror stories in the news, realize there are criminals out there looking for a sucker; don't trust anybody you meet online--or in person, for that matter. Technology makes fraud so much easier than in generations past.

So, as I watch this woman claim her love for a person she's never met before--while sending her savings to said person overseas--I scratch my head once again, wondering, Will they ever learn?

Probably not.

As P.T. Barnum so brilliantly noted: "There's one born every minute."

SNL

I'm just amazed that Saturday Night Live is still on the air. It lost it's mojo a long time ago. I remember those glory days of the 1970s, when John Belushi, Dan Aykroyd, Gilda Radner, Jane Curtin, Garrett Morris, Chevy Chase, and Laraine Newman actually made viewers laugh. They were fresh and relevant.

Politics ran sharp and smart, fads were lampooned, and characters became cultural icons. Rosanne Rosannadanna, The Blues Brothers, Samurai Warrior, Mr. Bill, Father Guido Sarducci; those were the best.

Even into the eighties the humor remained. But this version that hobbles around from week to week these days just isn't funny. The characters lack creativity, and Seth Myers is just plain awful doing Weekend Update. It's like that drunken uncle who used to be funny and wild, somebody you sort of looked up to. You know, he's your parents' age yet hip and easy to relate to. But now he's just pathetic, always coughing, laughs at his own jokes because nobody else will, and is in need of hip replacement surgery.

The mojo went bye-bye when they let Adam Sandler and other no-talent morons take to the air. That's when the standards went. And yet here we are, another Saturday night, and this dreck is occupying my TV. I don't know why or how I continue to watch. Habit, I suppose. Or maybe it's hope that still draws me in. Hope that this week will be the week where somebody steps up and writes a really funny sketch, creates a memorable character, and makes the world laugh again. Or maybe not.

Writing Reviews

I'm currently perusing that big box of books I've collected and read over the past twenty years or so, with the intention of reviewing them here on Goodreads.

Some are quite memorable, an easy review to post. Others, well, truth be told, I've forgotten plots, characters, or whether or not they were any good.

The cool thing is rediscovering a great read I'd let lapse from memory. In some cases it's as if I'm reading it again for the first time. I think that would be a phenomenal gift to possess: the ability to read a great novel, erase the mind, and read it again. And it would work for amazing movies as well. I'd use it for the Nicole Kidman film The Others. What a twist at the end--which is only a twist with that first viewing. If you haven't seen that film, I highly recommend it. (Yeah, it's a slow build, but the payoff at the end is worth every second invested.)

Anyway, I've read some really fantastic novels over the years--some awful ones as well. I used to order books by the bulk from a catalog some years back. The main thing I learned from that experience is that a hardcover book that sells for $1.99 is usually worth less. I didn't keep those bad ones around, so I won't be reviewing them. And that's a shame. It would have been quite fun to put the screws to truly horrible examples of writing--like the novel that began chapter one with the word "the" used no less that fifty times within the opening scene. (No joke. This scene only covered a page and a half.)

So as I continue digging out those dusty remains from decades past I'll post my recollections on my Goodreads page. Hopefully these reviews will encourage others to give a read to one or more of my favorites. Keep reading--and writing!

Things That Trigger Memories

There are a million of them, those smells, tastes, sounds, or songs that have a way of transporting us back to a time long ago. The smell of fresh-cut grass leads me back to the early 1970s, to a time when I'd watch my dad mow the lawn and dream of a time when I'd be trusted enough to do the chore myself. Of course when that time came, I no longer had that desire to do such a job on a weekly basis. But that smell still takes me back.

Tasting fresh strawberries drops me into summertime 1983 and 1984. Dad's third wife made a mean strawberry shortcake.

During my nightly workouts with my weight-set I play CDs (Yup! I'm still kicking it old-school). Music has that amazing quality of time and era built right in. A song can come on the radio and take us straight back to the first time we heard it, the summer or winter it was released, or stir up memories of that special someone we once were convinced was the ONE.

We lived on Pine Street until I turned three years old, moved out during spring of 1970. And still I have a headful of memories from that house. Many of those reminiscences are tied to songs. Particular songs. Johnny and June Carter-Cash songs, to be specific. My dad loved that outlaw country sound--Cash, Waylon Jennings, Willie Nelson.

Bob Seger was perhaps his favorite, though. Old Time Rock and Roll. To this day, Seger music has a way of pulling me into summers of the 1970s, when Live Bullet first came out, and Dad played the heck out of it all the time.

My dad passed away just last May. I miss him so much. But in that music I find him again, remembering moments I believed would last forever.

I lost my little brother two years ago. Today he became a grandfather and he's not here to meet his grandson. But there are songs he and I used to jam out to. Any Led Zeppelin album brings my brother back to me. Queensryche, Pink Floyd, Metallica; it all has meaning and memory attachment.

The other day I bought a few new CDs. Eighties metal. Cinderella--the hair band, not the fairy tale--is the one that inspired me to write this particular blog entry. Their first album came out in 1986. That is still my favorite year in my life. Freshly graduated from high school, money in my pocket, girlfriend by my side; it couldn't get any better. Carefree and young, we spent our free time at the local heavy metal club (The Silver Dollar Saloon) or seeing the biggest bands of the era in concert. Concerts were social events nobody wanted to miss out on. I went to dozens of shows, still have all but one of those ticket stubs to prove it.

So anyway, Cinderella. They were the big deal for that summer of 86. I delivered pizzas while playing the heck out of that first Cinderella album.

But somewhere over the years I lost that original cassette tape. Probably hadn't heard it in well over twenty years--until I found a copy on CD the other day. I popped it in the player and immediately my mind drew up recollections of friends I hadn't thought about in quite some time.

Some of those friends are no longer among the living.

We all got married, started having children, and began living our lives in different worlds. We lost touch somewhere along the way. And just how does that sort of thing happen? Usually with a "I'll talk to you later" or "Give me a call Friday" and that call is never made. A week turns into a month, a month becomes a year. We're too busy being married, being parents, living this new adult life where concerts and clubs no longer factor in. We forget the past and focus on the here and now--until a long lost CD is rediscovered.

Often, when I talk with my sister or older brother, the phrase "Hey, remember that time..." enters the conversation. My sister is good for "I forgot all about that." It's never really forgotten, though. It's still there inside the mind, just waiting for that someone, that something, that certain smell, or a special song to pull it into the forefront of the mind. Then it's fondly remembered, examined, and talked about, before being filed away again for another few years.

Thank God for memories.

Was (Not Was)

(Was: first and third person singular past of BE.) So says the Oxford American College Dictionary. I just call it lazy writing.

The use of the word "was" is the easy way out from having to actually prime the creative pump and come up with vivid descriptions that treat your readers to verbal delicacies of the story type. It's so disappointing to pick up a highly touted novel only to stumble over five, ten, or twenty uses of that dreadful word "was" within the first three paragraphs.

"Was" is a cheap way to get a description across. For example: "She was short and mean." YAWN! What dreck. Spruce it up a bit, toss some color into the mix. Write it something like this: "Short and squat, this girl; like a gumdrop with limbs--only not as sweet." Description is such a vital key to telling a great story.

Yeah, there are places where "was" is the word that fits. But such places ought to be limited in usage. Never settle just because it fits. Challenge yourself as a writer and you'll likely draw fans to your work. Fans buy books.

And sure, there are a handful of uses of that lazy word in my novel Jazz Baby. But you could probably count them on both hands. Slay those "WAS" monsters and watch your work take on flavors you never tasted before.