B.J. Neblett's Blog, page 2
March 8, 2013
New Poetry Post
I have a new poem posted on my poetry blog. It's about learning and where and from whom we learn. Enjoy, the link is below.
BJ
Here For A Season Poetry Blog
BJ
Here For A Season Poetry Blog
March 3, 2013
George (Part Two)
Part two of my short story George is now up on my blog site. Look for the conclusion next week. Enjoy and as always be sure to comment.
BJ
my link BJ's Blog
BJ
my link BJ's Blog
February 26, 2013
New Posts, Something For Everyone
I have two new posts up on my blog sites. The first is part one of a short story titled George. It is from my Fantastic Literature collection. Parts two and three will be posted in successive weeks.
I have also posted an older poem on my poetry blog site titled Where have You Gone To Godzilla? It is a nostalgic look back at youth and Saturday matinees.
Links are below.
Enjoy.
BJ
my link Writer's Blog
my link Poetry Blog
I have also posted an older poem on my poetry blog site titled Where have You Gone To Godzilla? It is a nostalgic look back at youth and Saturday matinees.
Links are below.
Enjoy.
BJ
my link Writer's Blog
my link Poetry Blog
February 3, 2013
January 24, 2013
POV by BJ Neblett
POV
by BJ Neblett
© 2013
Advice about using different voices and points of view is dead on target. I sight Before You Know Kindness by Chris Bohjalian. In it the author uses a different member of an extended family to voice each chapter. It is very effective. I especially liked the way a bird (get it: Bird's Eye View) caps one of the final chapters.
In my own novel Elysian Dreams, which is actually three interconnected stories, I use the somewhat unusual third person, present tense (he takes, she goes) in the first section; the more traditional third person past tense (he took, she went) in section two; and first person, past tense (I took, I went) in the concluding section. I have been told it works beautifully... I tend to agree.
As to why it works? In the first section Collin Crowly lives his live going back and forth between 1988 and 1928. I wanted the section to sound as if it were 'happening right now' regardless of where the scene took place. I believe it helps to put the reader into what is happening to Crowly (the plot). The second section is of course the more familiar and traditional form and since the action all takes place in the past, it gives the reader a deeper sense of 'having already happened'. Section three is told by a teenage girl as she writes a note of farewell to her mother. It is her own thoughts and recollections; therefore the only choice was first person, past tense. There are also chapters in the final section where her mother has found the note and is relating what has happened as she is aware. She tells her story, much the same story as her daughter has just related, through her own eyes and point of view. Naturally there are some subtle as well as sharp differences between the two accounts. (Remember the old childhood game of Passing the Secret?) The mother tells her story also from first person, past tense.
It's fun to play around with tense and point of view. Try rewriting sections, even whole chapters using a different voice and point of view. Even try having different characters tell the story.
In short... it is your story, you are creating the scene, the mood, the characters and everything else. Play the role of creator and do whatever feels best and natural to you.
BJ
by BJ Neblett
© 2013
Advice about using different voices and points of view is dead on target. I sight Before You Know Kindness by Chris Bohjalian. In it the author uses a different member of an extended family to voice each chapter. It is very effective. I especially liked the way a bird (get it: Bird's Eye View) caps one of the final chapters.
In my own novel Elysian Dreams, which is actually three interconnected stories, I use the somewhat unusual third person, present tense (he takes, she goes) in the first section; the more traditional third person past tense (he took, she went) in section two; and first person, past tense (I took, I went) in the concluding section. I have been told it works beautifully... I tend to agree.
As to why it works? In the first section Collin Crowly lives his live going back and forth between 1988 and 1928. I wanted the section to sound as if it were 'happening right now' regardless of where the scene took place. I believe it helps to put the reader into what is happening to Crowly (the plot). The second section is of course the more familiar and traditional form and since the action all takes place in the past, it gives the reader a deeper sense of 'having already happened'. Section three is told by a teenage girl as she writes a note of farewell to her mother. It is her own thoughts and recollections; therefore the only choice was first person, past tense. There are also chapters in the final section where her mother has found the note and is relating what has happened as she is aware. She tells her story, much the same story as her daughter has just related, through her own eyes and point of view. Naturally there are some subtle as well as sharp differences between the two accounts. (Remember the old childhood game of Passing the Secret?) The mother tells her story also from first person, past tense.
It's fun to play around with tense and point of view. Try rewriting sections, even whole chapters using a different voice and point of view. Even try having different characters tell the story.
In short... it is your story, you are creating the scene, the mood, the characters and everything else. Play the role of creator and do whatever feels best and natural to you.
BJ
:30 Minutes by BJ Neblett
:30 Minutes
by BJ Neblett
© 1992, 2013
It was Sunday night, the kind of night when windows were left open to a breeze that never came; a night before air conditioning, before locked doors, before fear, before apathy.
Lights were turned off.
Shades were pulled up.
Sheets were turned down.
It was a hot Sunday night in July. It was bed time but no one slept.
Outside, streetlights called to mosquitoes.
Inside, mothers called to children; lovers called to each other.
The small suburban community was close. The people worked, played and prayed together. They knew and took care of each other. They had grown up together. In a neighborhood where a single fence stretched for blocks and the only difference was the color of the houses, it only seemed natural.
Each house was the same; each house different.
Each occupant was an individual, each individual a neighbor; each neighbor a friend.
It was 10:45 on a hot Sunday night in July. It was bed time but no one slept. The summer silence was shattered by a car careening down North Street at top speed.
Rubber squealed on pavement.
Metal twisted against metal.
Glass exploded in the air.
Exhaust hammered.
It was a Sunday night in July. The residence of North Street lay sleepless and frozen in their beds by the sounds they heard coming from outside.
“Was that a car?”
“It sounded like trash cans.”
“Did it come from up the street?”
By the time reality seized the startled neighbors the car’s muffled exhaust had paused briefly then faded into the hot summer night. The momentary silence was broken by the sound of doors opening and closing up and down the street.
Mother’s were in robes.
Father’s were in pajama bottoms.
Children with runny noses pointed.
Each looked at one another, questioning, asking, puzzling.
“Two cars had been drag racing.”
“The police were chasing someone.”
It was the Kelly’s blue Chevrolet that witnessed the truth. Once shiny and stately, now crumbed and humbled, smashed against a telephone pole.
A spark ignited.
A flame caught hold.
A car blazed in the hot July night.
Bob Thompson ran to call the fire department. Mr. Parker held his wife. Everyone listened to Mrs. Johnson exclaiming it was all so terrible; everyone but the Kelly’s.
A shadowy figure appeared.
A man was running.
Mr. Martin carried a fire extinguisher.
In seconds the white chemical had choked out the red-yellow flames. A final gray cloud billowed into the black summer sky.
“How could such a thing happen?”
“Did anyone see anything?”
“Where are the Kelly’s?”
At that moment, Mr. Martin was pounding on the front door of the Kelly home. Lights hop scotched through the darkened house, ending at the front porch as the door opened. Mr. Martin put his arm around Mr. Kelly.
“It was an unidentified car.”
“It had raced down High Street.”
“It failed to make the turn.”
Mrs. Martin comforted Mrs. Kelly.
It was 11:05 on a hot Sunday summer night in July. No one slept. A police car rolled up silently to the scene of the accident. They had been in the neighborhood on a call.
It was one block over.
It had been a hit and run.
A young girl was walking with her mother.
Twelve year old Carrie Walker was dead. Everyone knew her. Her father had sold most of them their houses. Her mother was head of the PTA.
It was a hot night in July. But there was a strange chill. The small crowd shuffled about.
They felt the Walker’s loss.
They understood the Kelly’s anger.
Someone should be with the Walkers.
Mr. Martin offered his towing service.
It was silent and still. The police radio split the heavy night air. Twenty heads strained to hear. The accidents were related. An eye witness had seen a car traveling at high speed, its right front fender crumpled.
The car was a convertible.
It was dark green.
The license plate number was familiar.
The words struck like a hammer blow. The same thought was on everyone’s mind. Neighbors looked at one another questioning, asking, puzzled; in disbelief.
“Young John Martin has a convertible.”
“Didn’t he just paint it dark green?”
“There’s dark green paint on Kelly’s car.”
Mike and Louise Martin shrank from the crowd and slipped back to their house. Tom Kelly looked at his wife. Alice Johnson mumbled something about teenagers. Bob Thompson gathered up his children. Bill Hanks sighed, and Sam Parker took his wife’s hand in his.
No one spoke.
No one looked at the Kelly’s.
No one looked at each other.
The small suburban community was close. The people worked, played and prayed together. They knew and took care of each other. They had grown up together. In a neighborhood where a single fence stretched for blocks and the only difference was the color of the houses, it only seemed natural.
Each house was the same; each house different.
Each occupant was an individual, each individual a neighbor; each neighbor a friend.
It was a Sunday night, the kind of night when doors were closed, locks were turned; windows shut and shades drawn.
Outside, streetlights called to mosquitoes.
Inside, mothers called to children; lovers called to each other.
It was 11:15 on a hot summer night in July. It was bed time but no one slept.
Houston, Texas
July, 1992
by BJ Neblett
© 1992, 2013
It was Sunday night, the kind of night when windows were left open to a breeze that never came; a night before air conditioning, before locked doors, before fear, before apathy.
Lights were turned off.
Shades were pulled up.
Sheets were turned down.
It was a hot Sunday night in July. It was bed time but no one slept.
Outside, streetlights called to mosquitoes.
Inside, mothers called to children; lovers called to each other.
The small suburban community was close. The people worked, played and prayed together. They knew and took care of each other. They had grown up together. In a neighborhood where a single fence stretched for blocks and the only difference was the color of the houses, it only seemed natural.
Each house was the same; each house different.
Each occupant was an individual, each individual a neighbor; each neighbor a friend.
It was 10:45 on a hot Sunday night in July. It was bed time but no one slept. The summer silence was shattered by a car careening down North Street at top speed.
Rubber squealed on pavement.
Metal twisted against metal.
Glass exploded in the air.
Exhaust hammered.
It was a Sunday night in July. The residence of North Street lay sleepless and frozen in their beds by the sounds they heard coming from outside.
“Was that a car?”
“It sounded like trash cans.”
“Did it come from up the street?”
By the time reality seized the startled neighbors the car’s muffled exhaust had paused briefly then faded into the hot summer night. The momentary silence was broken by the sound of doors opening and closing up and down the street.
Mother’s were in robes.
Father’s were in pajama bottoms.
Children with runny noses pointed.
Each looked at one another, questioning, asking, puzzling.
“Two cars had been drag racing.”
“The police were chasing someone.”
It was the Kelly’s blue Chevrolet that witnessed the truth. Once shiny and stately, now crumbed and humbled, smashed against a telephone pole.
A spark ignited.
A flame caught hold.
A car blazed in the hot July night.
Bob Thompson ran to call the fire department. Mr. Parker held his wife. Everyone listened to Mrs. Johnson exclaiming it was all so terrible; everyone but the Kelly’s.
A shadowy figure appeared.
A man was running.
Mr. Martin carried a fire extinguisher.
In seconds the white chemical had choked out the red-yellow flames. A final gray cloud billowed into the black summer sky.
“How could such a thing happen?”
“Did anyone see anything?”
“Where are the Kelly’s?”
At that moment, Mr. Martin was pounding on the front door of the Kelly home. Lights hop scotched through the darkened house, ending at the front porch as the door opened. Mr. Martin put his arm around Mr. Kelly.
“It was an unidentified car.”
“It had raced down High Street.”
“It failed to make the turn.”
Mrs. Martin comforted Mrs. Kelly.
It was 11:05 on a hot Sunday summer night in July. No one slept. A police car rolled up silently to the scene of the accident. They had been in the neighborhood on a call.
It was one block over.
It had been a hit and run.
A young girl was walking with her mother.
Twelve year old Carrie Walker was dead. Everyone knew her. Her father had sold most of them their houses. Her mother was head of the PTA.
It was a hot night in July. But there was a strange chill. The small crowd shuffled about.
They felt the Walker’s loss.
They understood the Kelly’s anger.
Someone should be with the Walkers.
Mr. Martin offered his towing service.
It was silent and still. The police radio split the heavy night air. Twenty heads strained to hear. The accidents were related. An eye witness had seen a car traveling at high speed, its right front fender crumpled.
The car was a convertible.
It was dark green.
The license plate number was familiar.
The words struck like a hammer blow. The same thought was on everyone’s mind. Neighbors looked at one another questioning, asking, puzzled; in disbelief.
“Young John Martin has a convertible.”
“Didn’t he just paint it dark green?”
“There’s dark green paint on Kelly’s car.”
Mike and Louise Martin shrank from the crowd and slipped back to their house. Tom Kelly looked at his wife. Alice Johnson mumbled something about teenagers. Bob Thompson gathered up his children. Bill Hanks sighed, and Sam Parker took his wife’s hand in his.
No one spoke.
No one looked at the Kelly’s.
No one looked at each other.
The small suburban community was close. The people worked, played and prayed together. They knew and took care of each other. They had grown up together. In a neighborhood where a single fence stretched for blocks and the only difference was the color of the houses, it only seemed natural.
Each house was the same; each house different.
Each occupant was an individual, each individual a neighbor; each neighbor a friend.
It was a Sunday night, the kind of night when doors were closed, locks were turned; windows shut and shades drawn.
Outside, streetlights called to mosquitoes.
Inside, mothers called to children; lovers called to each other.
It was 11:15 on a hot summer night in July. It was bed time but no one slept.
Houston, Texas
July, 1992
January 23, 2013
Almost...
My new memoir Ice Cream Camelot about my growing up during the Kennedy administration should be available shortly. I'll be finish proofing it soon, then out in E Book followed by paperback.
I'll keep you posted.
BJ
I'll keep you posted.
BJ
