Savannah Hendricks's Blog, page 17

The Joy of Writing

I’m excited. Okay, maybe ecstatic, about my latest WIP. I’m writing from the heart, from the past, and filling each sentence with so much of everything I have to offer as a writer. Have you had a story that came to you that you knew you had to write? I mean YOU HAD TO!! One that wouldn’t leave you alone even when you stopped typing?

Yes I have written over forty stories and if I bother to write them then they mean something to me. Each one is exciting and a joy to write, but then there is one, one that comes along that is far different from anything ever. THAT IS THE ONE I AM TALKING ABOUT!

THAT is what I am working on. While I want to share everything about it, I can’t, doesn’t work that way if we want to sell the manuscript one day, right?? I can tell you it’s a middle grade novel. It’s funny, it’s heartwarming, it’s real life, but not in such horrible harshness that gives one nightmares. It’s a story that says this is real life, but make lemonade out of it, because there is a way, it can be done. This story, my story does just that.

Sure I sound full of my self a bit. And I could be totally wrong, this story could be horrible. It’s not, I mean, it’s amazing, but it could be bad, but no it’s great. You will see.

I’m There, But I’m Not

I was apartment hunting in Mobile, Alabama the other day. I was looking for a place with a pool, and a dishwasher, that was built before 1990. I also needed it to be near downtown, close enough to walk to. I spent a good hour or so online looking for just the right place, for my character, from my laptop, in Phoenix. I needed this information for three sentences. THREE! AND…I WASN’T EVEN USING THE REAL NAME OF THE APARTMENT IN MY STORY!

I know a lot of authors put a good deal of research into their stories, whether they travel to the location, live in or once lived in the location, or do heavy-handed research. I once tracked down a prior teacher of a one room school-house in Washington. The school-house sat on a corner street out in the country where I lived. I drove past it every day on the way to work and was thinking of using as the setting for a book. I contacted the historic society, got in touch with the retired teacher, and played twenty questions over the phone. I still have pictures of the boarded up building and notes from my conversation to use someday. Yet, even if I don’t write the story, the research was a lot of fun.

Of course, in most cases very few readers will notice or even care if the story they are reading is in any way researched, unless it’s a non-fiction book. As a writer I feel the story is better, even if just for my sake, when things are as real as possible when it comes to location. If I can’t feel what it is like to be there, then how can I give that to my readers.

The Vegas Diaries ~ book review

The Vegas Diaries by Holly Madison is less juicy than her prior book, Down the Rabbit Hole. The book read as a recap of pearls, when her prior book read like a diamond, showing off the inside a bit more. The Vegas Diaries felt like the diary you might keep if your parents found it, while the real one was never out of your sight. You know the one where you put every little detail about how you really felt, while the decoy one says “I like Mike, Mike was nice.”

I was able to meet Ms. Madison for all of 10 seconds. You can’t tell a lot from a person in that time frame, and while she was nice, it was all so robotic, the smile, the head tilt. It’s funny, the fans go through the line, get their 10 seconds and then it’s over, done, they are still there signing, but your time is up. She was pregnant, so I’m sure that was the last place she wanted to be. Yet, it took the whole “you are a celebrity” and the flushed it right down the fancy toilet. Nice or not, robotic comes off as robotic.

If what we read is truth then I like to think that the importance of her reinvention is true. She carefully glosses up her life choices as poor. Any person should be able to relate. Hell, I can relate to making poor choices in my twenties. The stigma stays with you whether you made a stupid marriage decision or became Hugh Hefner’s number one girlfriend. The most important part of Holly’s entire story is her ability to intertwine Las Vegas and its constant need to reinvent itself with her need to remove herself as Hef’s GF. Yet, Vegas is still Vegas, an all niter-drunken-gambling-slutty collage of hotels, reinvented or not.

3 out of 5 stars – I want the real diary next time, not the decoy.

Taking Away…

This is me when I am at peace – Awesome

Awesome here to update you on my brother, aka Menace. Good news! His teeth fell out so he can only gum me, for now. Of course I overheard Mom talking on the phone about an appointment. I had this same appointment when I was Menace’s age. Mom had said the veterinarian was going to take the balls I never play with away. I’m not sure why Mom couldn’t have just thrown them in the trash like she did my other damaged toys. For some reason Mom has to take you to the vet’s office for the whole day, and they force you to take a nap. I remember I was really sleepy after they took mine away, so something is very different, because when Mom throws our toys away I am never tired like I was that day. Anyways, my brother is getting his balls that he never plays with taken away next week. So he is going to be gone for the day, and I am really excited about that! I will be able to have alone time with peace!

 

Lily and Dunkin – book review & personal story

Me, age 13, throwing a fit before leaving for middle school. You can see my father taking the photo in the mirror, he found my middle grade stress humorous.

I’ve read all four of Donna Gephart’s books and loved them all. Which meant when her latest book landed on the book shelf I had to read it. Lily and Dunkin is a middle grade book centered around being transgender and bipolar disorder.

For me, middle grade was horrible (and I was dealing with neither of the above mentioned)! Flat out worst time of my life. My friends from elementary school were starting to smoke and we went in different directions leaving me alone in a big scary building. I was in search of a female role model (my mom had passed at this point and I didn’t have a relationship with my step-mom) and located one. Her name was Sarah, and she was great at everything and pretty too. She played every sport the school offered! And she was nice enough to befriend me before she went off to high school. Yet, because of me looking up to her I got called a lesbian more times than I could count. I would sit outside Mrs. Adam’s classroom door and cry at least once a week. I had boyfriends non-stop and so if I said “I’m not a lesbian I have a boyfriend” then they would call me bi-sexual. I started spending a lot of time napping in the nurses office with a “stomach ache.”

I loved the private thoughts of Lily and Dunkin that covered the first several chapters. Even as adults we have these conversations with ourselves about other people, when we don’t know what others are thinking, we assume. Gephart showcases this brilliantly. (I will say I saw cheering for Bob more than anything).

When I first heard the summary of this book I was a bit surprised. While I know children at this reading age group have these experiences, I was thinking more like “the publishing company didn’t say no?”

Gephart has courage, her agent, editors and publisher have courage. As an author I have thought about topics to write about that would spark both sides. I didn’t know if I would have the courage to put something out there and “see”, maybe now, I might.

 

Raymie Nightingale ~ book review

I had read a few interviews with Kate DiCamillo and was looking forward to her newest book Raymie Nightingale. I loved Flora & Ulysses: The Illuminated Adventures and Because of Winn-Dixie, and thought that The Tale of Despereaux was rather fun. (I am making my way through books DiCamillo has authored).

The chatter around Raymie Nightingale was that DiCamillo had poured a lot of her childhood history into the story. For me, the story lacked an arc, of any kind, and underdeveloped characters.

Raymie Nightingale is about three girls who to enter the Little Miss Central Florida Tire competition. Raymie feels that if she wins her father, whom left town, will return after he sees her in the paper for winning the competition. Yet, the focus shifts to an animal shelter and a nursing home. Both of which are stronger story lines than the one intended to be. Alas, everything falls short with these three half-hearted-half-developed story lines.

Maybe the story didn’t resonate with me because I didn’t have friendships at Raymie’s age. I felt that DiCamillo’s writing, although still excellent, lacked the fun and structure of her past stories. Maybe putting too much of herself into the story caused it to read sub-par for me.

2 out of 5 stars

Until You Get It “Right”

I have been heavily editing two manuscripts over the last several weeks with some direction from my agent. It surprises me how much a story can change, even if it’s 300 words. It also surprises me how a story can go from amazing to wait…no…now that’s amazing.

For me I find it refreshing to have support and guidance when I run into a dead-end. I have stacks of rejections that say “thanks, no thanks” and I have, against industry standards, shot back a reply a few times saying, well what was wrong. How can a writer improve without direction??? I need to know what works, and what doesn’t work. I need someone to say, that ending doesn’t work change it. I don’t need the ideas…I have plenty of those, I just need a big red circle around what is wrong.

Yet, what is wrong is clearly what is right also. WHAT?

Just because we like our story doesn’t mean it’s right. Just because our agent likes our story doesn’t mean it’s right. Just because one publishing house doesn’t like it, doesn’t mean they are right. Outside of poor grammar and lackluster story arcs, stories can be right for some and not for others. It all depends on who is reading it at the time. (Don’t tell me you have never picked up a book, for any age, read it and said…HOW DID THIS GET PUBLISHED!?!?) Or (Why was this rejected so many times!?!? – Winn Dixie)

Make your manuscripts right for you, study your craft, step away from it, come back to it, send it out, revise it, rewrite it, cut paragraphs, add paragraphs. Just make it right for you, the rest will follow.

THE OTHER NIGHT ~ Poem

The other night
I stepped outside
Into the calm evening
The moon a nightlight
I thought of you
I missed you
Your soul is not too far away
In the same still air
The same nightlight casting shadows
The other night
I missed you just the same

Pie Makin’

My favorite pie is a tie between peach and strawberry rhubarb. I hit a home run with my first attempt at peach pie, but my strawberry rhubarb, has never been successful. My first attempt was in 1999, it was a stiff as a brick, and tasted like it too. My most recent attempt, last year, tasted like a water pie.

While grocery stores do sell strawberry rhubarb pie, it ends up tasting like a jam pie. For this pie you either have to make it yourself or head out to the country in search of a Mom and Pop restaurant to pick up one.

So yet again, I made my attempt at strawberry rhubarb pie.

This year I came the closest ever! It was a little runny, but just the right sweet and tart. Now that I was this close I think one more tweak and it will be perfect year after year.

Star

STAR

by Savannah Hendricks

 

My brand new, pearl white 1953 Chevrolet Corvette had blown a tire. I didn’t have a clue as to what I might do to change it. To be exact, Daddy had never taught me what to do. If that alone was not enough, my heels were not meant to for long distances. I started to walk north, staring at my heels with each step. I figured if my eyes met the horizon I would realize I had too far to go.

The clouds layered the black sky with their ruffled lines, the stars where hiding, the moon’s light obstructed. I continued walking, the dimming lights of Las Vegas behind me.

The Flamingo Las Vegas opened the day after Christmas in 1946, I was only twenty-three at the time. I learned my skills at other hotels on the strip to build my resume; finally landing a part in one of the most lavish shows when Champagne Towers opened in 1950. And it’s where I remained until today.

I had left my dressing room at nearly three-fifteen a.m. exiting through the bright lights of the casino floor. I glided through the hotel, my royal blue costume hidden under a tan pink glittery overcoat. Tonight was the night I had had enough of the drunken men, the sparkling lights, and the sequin costumes.

One would think that a showgirl from Las Vegas would not be lonely, or walking away from the famous lights on the strip. You would be surprised how bright lights can get to you.

To be honest I had no idea where I was going, other than north. Then my right heel gave way. I stumbled to the gravel.

“Damn it!” I screamed, throwing a handful of gravel.

I looked up at the sliver of a moon and noticed the clouds separating, and stars were reveled. But the stars didn’t twinkle like they did when Daddy would sing My Blue Heaven. He was always so loving, rocking me back and forth on the porch swing for all those years. The stars didn’t shine bright like they seemed to when I wished on them about Mama. Every night Daddy and I would find the brightest star and that was Mama. The star, never in the same spot. Daddy always said it was because Mama was encompassing the world with her love for us.

“Oh Mama, what am I doing? Where am I going?” I asked at the brightest one tonight.

A car coming down the freeway broke through my conversation with Mama. Pushing myself up off the gravel, I stood as graceful as possible with just one heel on.

The car slowed and the passenger window rolled down.

“Is that your Corvette back there Miss?” the voice from the shadows of the driver seat asked.

“Yes, the tire went down,” I replied, balancing steadily on my one heel.

“Your heel busted there too I see Miss?”

“Yes, I am afraid it did as well.”

“Do you have a spare?”

“No, I lent it to a friend, didn’t think I would be needing it anytime soon, it being new and all,” I mentioned, broken heel in hand.

“Can I give you a lift into town Miss?”

I thought, looked up at the bright star, and sighed. Then I looked back at the shadow of the gentleman in the car. “Thank you sir, but I will pass on your offer.”

“Mighty dangerous out here alone as a woman, if I do say so.”

“Thank you for your concern,” I said, back up from the gentleman’s car.

“Suit yourself Miss.” His voice had turned hostile.

The car tires squealed on the asphalt as desert dust kicked into the air.

I stretched my neck back up to the sky to Mama’s star. It seemed to me as though the star’s light was pointing away from the Vegas lights. I hobbled back to my car, and situated myself to sleep in the driver’s seat. Before I was able to completely doze off a loud engine revved towards my car, the lights blinded my vision.

The engine came to a stop, the noise of a door squeaked open, then slammed shut.

“Excuse me!” a man’s voice yelled. “Excuse me, anyone in there?”

I popped open the door and climbed out, barefoot. “Hi.”

“I see you have a flat Miss,” the man said, pointing.

He had climbed out of a tow truck.

“Can give you a lift Miss?” the man questioned. “Are you headed to or out of Las Vegas?”

With the moon, and Mama’s star bright I said, “out.”