Alice K. Boatwright's Blog
January 31, 2015
The things worth writing about
The poet Jack Gilbert said the only things worth writing about were: ”Love, death, man, virtue, nature, magnitude, excellence, evil, suffering, courage, morality. What is the good life. What is honor. Who am I.”
So what about women? I suppose many subjects I would add to the list fit under virtue, magnitude, etc. But only a man would still use “man” in that way.
I’m reading a book about women in 17th century England that starts off with an intro in which the author says a “distinguished man” asked her, “Were there any women in the 17th century?”
This is the thinking we’re still up against today. This is worth writing about.
So what about women? I suppose many subjects I would add to the list fit under virtue, magnitude, etc. But only a man would still use “man” in that way.
I’m reading a book about women in 17th century England that starts off with an intro in which the author says a “distinguished man” asked her, “Were there any women in the 17th century?”
This is the thinking we’re still up against today. This is worth writing about.
January 22, 2015
Enjoying what you do IS the cash and prizes
This is excerpted from a blog written for the series called "Monday blogs" and posted in June 2014.
How does my work differ from others of its genre?
I love cozy mysteries, so I set out to write a good one that used all the expected elements of the genre well. At the same time, I wanted to write a book that created the kinds of challenges that make writing interesting to me, and some of these choices may set my book apart.
There are a couple of American mystery writers who “pose” as English… they don’t hide their nationality in their bios, but they write “as if” they were English. I could not imagine doing this, especially after living in England for several years and finding myself ever the foreigner, no matter how well liked and assimilated. I wanted my heroine to be an outsider, an American, in this same way. You may have noticed that Americans are frequently portrayed very unfavorably in English mysteries, so that was another part of my challenge. Could I write an American that English readers would accept and like? So far, the answer is yes!
Another figure almost universally mocked in fiction is the English vicar. Why, I sometimes asked myself, did I insist on writing a book that took two such reviled stereotypes and married them to each other? For the answer, see question 3. For now, suffice it to say, that I wanted Graham Kent to be a vicar who was wise, kind, and thoughtful, but also sexy, funny, and human. A man that a woman like Ellie, who is also smart and sexy and funny, would enjoy spending her life with.
So, flying in the face of the conventional wisdom that vicars are daft, unworldly chaps who could never make it in the real world, and that Americans are boorish and conceited with loud voices and bad taste – I bring you Graham and Ellie Kent.
I also like to think that, unlike some cozy mysteries, my characters and my story are layered and resonant. I worked hard to write a cracking good plot, but underneath that, I hope, is a reflection on otherness and belonging, on taking risks in life and love, on doubt and faith, grief, loss, and renewal.
Why do I write what I do?
I became a writer because being an actress was too limiting. I wanted to write the plot, play all the parts, direct and create the sets, costumes, and special effects. In life, I may be powerless over many things, but in fiction, I rule! Writing is my personal playground. Always open, day or night.
I also like to set out to do what seems to be impossible when I start – and see if I can pull it off. I think this is good exercise for the mind and spirit. In my first book, Collateral Damage I wrote one section in the first person from the point of view of a young guy who stages a suicide attempt to stay out of the Vietnam War, ends up in a psych ward, and then has to figure out how to get out of there. Why did I choose to write this – which went completely against the advice to “write what you know”? Partly because it was a story that got under my skin. I felt it needed to be told. But also, I wanted to know: what is it like to be in a position where you have to do something so brave, so crazy to stand up for your beliefs? Writing is a way for me to explore what I think is important in life – whether or not it involves situations I have personally experienced. I find that a great freedom and a totally fascinating occupation.
How does your writing process work?
My writing process begins when I am doing something else. Washing the dishes. Driving the car. Listening to music. Something attracts, tickles, or irritates my imagination and that sets me off. I definitely relate to the story that Henry James was inspired to write Portrait of a Lady by the sight of a woman coming down the stairs. My work is often inspired by such transient moments.
I write my first draft very fast, like a quick sketch covering the whole canvas. I like to capture that fresh intuitive structure and then slowly develop the story from that. Who is that character? What does she want? What’s really happening in that scene? Where are they? What are they doing – and why? Is it believable that she would say this or do that? What is the point of all this? What was the real underlying impulse that brought about this story? I never use an outline. I like not knowing where something is going – that discovery is all part of the fun. I am also a believer in “how will I know what I think until I see what I say?”
I write many drafts — about seven full drafts, plus lots of fiddling. Even with my mystery, where I knew the basic plot from the beginning, a lot of work went into fleshing this out and developing the characters and their relationships as the drivers of the events, not an outline that pushed them from point A to point Z.
And, of course, I hope it goes without saying that I love and respect my tool: the English language. I love creating worlds with words and do my best to live up to the principles of E.B. White, while aspiring (in my own small way) to the virtuosity of other writers I admire from Virginia Woolf to William Gass.
Hemingway said he re-wrote the end of A Farewell to Arms 37 times, because he was “just trying to get the words right”. I know I am a writer because this makes me smile, not grimace, and I find myself wanting to re-write everything I’ve just written again. And again. And again. Trying to get the words right, because nothing makes me happier.
How does my work differ from others of its genre?
I love cozy mysteries, so I set out to write a good one that used all the expected elements of the genre well. At the same time, I wanted to write a book that created the kinds of challenges that make writing interesting to me, and some of these choices may set my book apart.
There are a couple of American mystery writers who “pose” as English… they don’t hide their nationality in their bios, but they write “as if” they were English. I could not imagine doing this, especially after living in England for several years and finding myself ever the foreigner, no matter how well liked and assimilated. I wanted my heroine to be an outsider, an American, in this same way. You may have noticed that Americans are frequently portrayed very unfavorably in English mysteries, so that was another part of my challenge. Could I write an American that English readers would accept and like? So far, the answer is yes!
Another figure almost universally mocked in fiction is the English vicar. Why, I sometimes asked myself, did I insist on writing a book that took two such reviled stereotypes and married them to each other? For the answer, see question 3. For now, suffice it to say, that I wanted Graham Kent to be a vicar who was wise, kind, and thoughtful, but also sexy, funny, and human. A man that a woman like Ellie, who is also smart and sexy and funny, would enjoy spending her life with.
So, flying in the face of the conventional wisdom that vicars are daft, unworldly chaps who could never make it in the real world, and that Americans are boorish and conceited with loud voices and bad taste – I bring you Graham and Ellie Kent.
I also like to think that, unlike some cozy mysteries, my characters and my story are layered and resonant. I worked hard to write a cracking good plot, but underneath that, I hope, is a reflection on otherness and belonging, on taking risks in life and love, on doubt and faith, grief, loss, and renewal.
Why do I write what I do?
I became a writer because being an actress was too limiting. I wanted to write the plot, play all the parts, direct and create the sets, costumes, and special effects. In life, I may be powerless over many things, but in fiction, I rule! Writing is my personal playground. Always open, day or night.
I also like to set out to do what seems to be impossible when I start – and see if I can pull it off. I think this is good exercise for the mind and spirit. In my first book, Collateral Damage I wrote one section in the first person from the point of view of a young guy who stages a suicide attempt to stay out of the Vietnam War, ends up in a psych ward, and then has to figure out how to get out of there. Why did I choose to write this – which went completely against the advice to “write what you know”? Partly because it was a story that got under my skin. I felt it needed to be told. But also, I wanted to know: what is it like to be in a position where you have to do something so brave, so crazy to stand up for your beliefs? Writing is a way for me to explore what I think is important in life – whether or not it involves situations I have personally experienced. I find that a great freedom and a totally fascinating occupation.
How does your writing process work?
My writing process begins when I am doing something else. Washing the dishes. Driving the car. Listening to music. Something attracts, tickles, or irritates my imagination and that sets me off. I definitely relate to the story that Henry James was inspired to write Portrait of a Lady by the sight of a woman coming down the stairs. My work is often inspired by such transient moments.
I write my first draft very fast, like a quick sketch covering the whole canvas. I like to capture that fresh intuitive structure and then slowly develop the story from that. Who is that character? What does she want? What’s really happening in that scene? Where are they? What are they doing – and why? Is it believable that she would say this or do that? What is the point of all this? What was the real underlying impulse that brought about this story? I never use an outline. I like not knowing where something is going – that discovery is all part of the fun. I am also a believer in “how will I know what I think until I see what I say?”
I write many drafts — about seven full drafts, plus lots of fiddling. Even with my mystery, where I knew the basic plot from the beginning, a lot of work went into fleshing this out and developing the characters and their relationships as the drivers of the events, not an outline that pushed them from point A to point Z.
And, of course, I hope it goes without saying that I love and respect my tool: the English language. I love creating worlds with words and do my best to live up to the principles of E.B. White, while aspiring (in my own small way) to the virtuosity of other writers I admire from Virginia Woolf to William Gass.
Hemingway said he re-wrote the end of A Farewell to Arms 37 times, because he was “just trying to get the words right”. I know I am a writer because this makes me smile, not grimace, and I find myself wanting to re-write everything I’ve just written again. And again. And again. Trying to get the words right, because nothing makes me happier.
December 21, 2014
Where serious daring begins
"I am a writer who came of a sheltered life. A sheltered life can be a daring life as well. For all serious daring starts from within."
— Eudora Welty
— Eudora Welty
One wheelbarrow, please. Red would be nice.
When Edith Wharton bought a car with the proceeds from one of her books, her friend Henry James said he hoped he would be able to buy a wheelbarrow with what he’d make from his.
That sounds good to me. I might have enough left over for a rake too.
That sounds good to me. I might have enough left over for a rake too.
August 6, 2014
Math for writers (Lesson 5)
I suppose thinking about the number of books published in 2013 — 1.4 million, according to Bowker — is like thinking about how many babies were born. The exploding population of the planet does not change the individual importance of your own pregnancy, the birth of your own child.
Still, the numbers are interesting. Of the 1.4 million new books, only 304,000 were published by “traditional” publishers — the rest were produced by non-traditional publishers, including Lulu and CreateSpace.
The largest category was fiction, with more than 50,000 titles — but, of these, only some 8,000 were classified as “literature”.
8,000 out of 1.4 million. Suddenly the eye of the needle is smaller if writing literature is your goal. And if proportionally only about 20% of these books are published by traditional publishers, that would mean 1,600 were literature published in the way we dreamed about way back when…
1,600 out of 1.4 million makes the glass very nearly empty. But, flip it the other way… and the indie publishing movement fills it to the brim.
Still, the numbers are interesting. Of the 1.4 million new books, only 304,000 were published by “traditional” publishers — the rest were produced by non-traditional publishers, including Lulu and CreateSpace.
The largest category was fiction, with more than 50,000 titles — but, of these, only some 8,000 were classified as “literature”.
8,000 out of 1.4 million. Suddenly the eye of the needle is smaller if writing literature is your goal. And if proportionally only about 20% of these books are published by traditional publishers, that would mean 1,600 were literature published in the way we dreamed about way back when…
1,600 out of 1.4 million makes the glass very nearly empty. But, flip it the other way… and the indie publishing movement fills it to the brim.
