Louis Arata's Blog, page 21
April 1, 2014
Review: An Idea Whose Time Has Come
I received a free advanced reader’s copy through GoodReads.
The book covers the complicated history of the Civil Rights Act, from the plans of the legislative branch through the debates in the House and Senate. Purdum works well with a wide cast of actors, drawing their character and their history to give context to their political and social views. He’s at his best when he focuses on a principle actor, such as Robert F. Kennedy, Ev Dirkson, and LBJ, but it’s very clear that the Civil Rights Act is not the brainchild of a single person. This was definitely a group effort, with lots of opinions and conflicts.
The topic is fascinating and culturally important, particularly when you compare it to the current workings of our government. It’s amazing that anything ever gets done when so many people with such different opinions are involved.
But for all the importance of the subject, there are times that the book drags. Purdum drills down into minutiae, which is not always enlightening. I don’t need to know where a Senator when on vacation, only that he wasn’t present for a vote. Also, I wanted more analysis and less narrative description, e.g., the Senate did this on this day, and on the next day did something else. Probably Purdum does a good job describing the machinery of government, but I confess I couldn’t always follow the process.
There were a few quirks in the writing that may be corrected by the time the book is in print. Purdum occasionally referred to Martin Luther King as Martin King, and he alternated using Robert and Bobby when referring to Kennedy.
Overall, an important topic that I’m glad I got to learn more about.
The book covers the complicated history of the Civil Rights Act, from the plans of the legislative branch through the debates in the House and Senate. Purdum works well with a wide cast of actors, drawing their character and their history to give context to their political and social views. He’s at his best when he focuses on a principle actor, such as Robert F. Kennedy, Ev Dirkson, and LBJ, but it’s very clear that the Civil Rights Act is not the brainchild of a single person. This was definitely a group effort, with lots of opinions and conflicts.
The topic is fascinating and culturally important, particularly when you compare it to the current workings of our government. It’s amazing that anything ever gets done when so many people with such different opinions are involved.
But for all the importance of the subject, there are times that the book drags. Purdum drills down into minutiae, which is not always enlightening. I don’t need to know where a Senator when on vacation, only that he wasn’t present for a vote. Also, I wanted more analysis and less narrative description, e.g., the Senate did this on this day, and on the next day did something else. Probably Purdum does a good job describing the machinery of government, but I confess I couldn’t always follow the process.
There were a few quirks in the writing that may be corrected by the time the book is in print. Purdum occasionally referred to Martin Luther King as Martin King, and he alternated using Robert and Bobby when referring to Kennedy.
Overall, an important topic that I’m glad I got to learn more about.
March 28, 2014
Too Many Notes
Right now I’m reading a paranormal-werewolf-romance-action novel. The author has an engaging style, so it’s an enjoyably easy read. Her large cast of characters could be overwhelming, but she knows how and when to introduce each person, so I haven’t had trouble keeping the plot lines straight.
I’m only a quarter of the way into the book, so I’ll reserve my full critique until I’ve finished. But there’s one aspect of her writing that does give me pause. It’s what I call the “answering the phone” approach to description. Here’s an example (this is an exaggerated fabrication and is not a passage from this novel):
She was reading a book while lounging in the recliner. The phone rang. She put down her book, gout out of the chair, and walked across the room. When she got to the phone, she picked up the receiver and said into the mouthpiece, “Hello?”
When I read a passage like this, my editor-brain kicks into hyper-drive. There is no need to describe the character walking across the room unless there is something unique about it:
The room is in a humongous mansion, so the character has to run to get to the phone before it goes to voicemail.The character has difficulty walking, so this is a miraculous moment that she could do so unassisted.
The writer has used four sentences (45 words) to describe action that could be condensed into two sentences:
While she was reading a book, the phone rang. “Hello?”
It’s pretty utilitarian language, I admit, but keeping this description brief allows you to more fully dissect a more important scene later on.
Given that the first draft of my novel Dead Hungry was over 280,000 words, I certainly can be verbose. And in an early draft, it’s sometimes useful to describe each step of the action because it allows your brain to work out the details. But your reader doesn’t need to see this. The reader relies on the writer’s ability to be concise and precise.
More later. I’ve got to go answer the phone.
I’m only a quarter of the way into the book, so I’ll reserve my full critique until I’ve finished. But there’s one aspect of her writing that does give me pause. It’s what I call the “answering the phone” approach to description. Here’s an example (this is an exaggerated fabrication and is not a passage from this novel):
She was reading a book while lounging in the recliner. The phone rang. She put down her book, gout out of the chair, and walked across the room. When she got to the phone, she picked up the receiver and said into the mouthpiece, “Hello?”
When I read a passage like this, my editor-brain kicks into hyper-drive. There is no need to describe the character walking across the room unless there is something unique about it:
The room is in a humongous mansion, so the character has to run to get to the phone before it goes to voicemail.The character has difficulty walking, so this is a miraculous moment that she could do so unassisted.
The writer has used four sentences (45 words) to describe action that could be condensed into two sentences:
While she was reading a book, the phone rang. “Hello?”
It’s pretty utilitarian language, I admit, but keeping this description brief allows you to more fully dissect a more important scene later on.
Given that the first draft of my novel Dead Hungry was over 280,000 words, I certainly can be verbose. And in an early draft, it’s sometimes useful to describe each step of the action because it allows your brain to work out the details. But your reader doesn’t need to see this. The reader relies on the writer’s ability to be concise and precise.
More later. I’ve got to go answer the phone.
March 27, 2014
Space Chronicles
I'm definitely a fan of Neil deGrasse Tyson. He is thoughtful, enthusiastic and passionate about space exploration of all kinds. In his recent Space Chronicles, he explains what it means to humans (and sometimes specifically to Americans) that we continue to explore the cosmos.
The book is a collection of his essays, keynote addresses, and interviews from the last several years. He addresses the question of why we're perpetually fascinated with exploring the universe, but he comes down hard on the fact that the U.S. has essentially stalled since the lunar landings. His point is that we accomplished a marvelous feat but haven't done anything to top it since then. The space shuttle and our participation in International Space Station certainly are high points, but we haven't tried to exceed the bar we set in 1968.
Because the pieces were not written as a homogeneous whole, there is a fair amount of overlap across the essays. I took my time reading it, but still toward the end I was getting a little tired of the repetition.
Still, I hope deGrasse Tyson succeeds in igniting people's fascination for the cosmos. I'd definitely support more of our tax dollars going to NASA.
The book is a collection of his essays, keynote addresses, and interviews from the last several years. He addresses the question of why we're perpetually fascinated with exploring the universe, but he comes down hard on the fact that the U.S. has essentially stalled since the lunar landings. His point is that we accomplished a marvelous feat but haven't done anything to top it since then. The space shuttle and our participation in International Space Station certainly are high points, but we haven't tried to exceed the bar we set in 1968.
Because the pieces were not written as a homogeneous whole, there is a fair amount of overlap across the essays. I took my time reading it, but still toward the end I was getting a little tired of the repetition.
Still, I hope deGrasse Tyson succeeds in igniting people's fascination for the cosmos. I'd definitely support more of our tax dollars going to NASA.
March 25, 2014
So Long, Ross
Over the last few months I’ve been revising (re-writing) an as-yet-to-be-published novel called Reston Peace. It was originally entitled Come Undone, but like many things, there have been changes.
As I’ve mentioned previously in this blog, this is my third version of this novel. It focuses on Kenny Reston, an adult survivor of incest. His story becomes a case study in a book about sexual abuse, and that book proves so popular that it gets optioned as a movie. So, Kenny watches as his life is translated into entertainment.
In the original version of the story, Kenny not only has to deal with an incestuous relationship with his mother but also with the physical brutality of his stepfather, Ross. Ross is the worst-case scenario of a stepparent – prone to physical violence – and partway through the novel he loses it and kills his wife in a murder-suicide.
In other words, very melodramatic. Not that these tragedies don’t happen, but I kept finding that Ross’s presence was becoming a distraction from Kenny’s story. I was spending more time on his cruelty than on the sexual abuse. Initially it was meant as a social smoke-screen: the characters in the novel could recognize Ross’s terrible nature and its effect on Kenny, but somehow overlook the clues to the sexual abuse.
But this third time through the story, I jettisoned Ross altogether, and reinstated Kenny’s birth father, who has a very different temperament and purpose in the story. Ross’s departure gave me more room to focus on the important points of the story and not to get sidetracked into masochistic writing.
For a while, I considered reducing Ross to a fabricated character in the screenplay on Kenny’s life, something the director and screenwriter decide to make up to fit the needs of their story. In the end, I decided that Ross needed to leave the stage entirely. I recognize that I wrote the character from a very different viewpoint years ago, and he no longer serves a useful purpose in Kenny’s story.
So, so long, Ross. May you find peace and rehabilitation before you step on stage again.
As I’ve mentioned previously in this blog, this is my third version of this novel. It focuses on Kenny Reston, an adult survivor of incest. His story becomes a case study in a book about sexual abuse, and that book proves so popular that it gets optioned as a movie. So, Kenny watches as his life is translated into entertainment.
In the original version of the story, Kenny not only has to deal with an incestuous relationship with his mother but also with the physical brutality of his stepfather, Ross. Ross is the worst-case scenario of a stepparent – prone to physical violence – and partway through the novel he loses it and kills his wife in a murder-suicide.
In other words, very melodramatic. Not that these tragedies don’t happen, but I kept finding that Ross’s presence was becoming a distraction from Kenny’s story. I was spending more time on his cruelty than on the sexual abuse. Initially it was meant as a social smoke-screen: the characters in the novel could recognize Ross’s terrible nature and its effect on Kenny, but somehow overlook the clues to the sexual abuse.
But this third time through the story, I jettisoned Ross altogether, and reinstated Kenny’s birth father, who has a very different temperament and purpose in the story. Ross’s departure gave me more room to focus on the important points of the story and not to get sidetracked into masochistic writing.
For a while, I considered reducing Ross to a fabricated character in the screenplay on Kenny’s life, something the director and screenwriter decide to make up to fit the needs of their story. In the end, I decided that Ross needed to leave the stage entirely. I recognize that I wrote the character from a very different viewpoint years ago, and he no longer serves a useful purpose in Kenny’s story.
So, so long, Ross. May you find peace and rehabilitation before you step on stage again.
March 23, 2014
Unexpected Inspiration
I happened to be at a meeting yesterday. It was a small group – only eight people, including myself – and I didn’t really have any purpose there; I was tagging along with my wife, Kathy. The meeting was a sort of graduation for an eight-week seminar in which the participants learned how to express themselves through art and creative writing.
One of the attendees was David, a young poet who had run a session on writing poetry. To commemorate the graduation, he read one of his own poems. Afterwards, when we were all wiping away tears and applauding his powerful performance, he called the piece a “spirit-calling.” Other poems took months to craft, but this one came from within and came from above.
Later, Kathy, and I got to speak with him a little more. It took a bit of effort on my part because I tend to be shy, but this felt like a special occasion, and I didn’t want to lose the opportunity to tell him how beautiful the piece was. Kathy also added how the poem had moved her.
For a moment, David stood there, breathing slowly, as though inhaling a wonderful scent. Then I realized he was taking it in – our compliments. He didn’t rush to dismiss them or to give credit to someone else or to praise another poet as a much better writer. He looked nourished by the compliments without there being any danger of their going to his head.
Poetry is hit or miss for me. It’s kind of like the music of the Beatles: I can appreciate the cultural significance of a lot of it without being a huge fan. Then along comes that special song or poem, and I get it. I get why music engages us and why poetry rises from the soul.
One of my favorite poets in Wislawa Szymborska, who won the 1996 Nobel Prize in Literature. She said, “Each of us has a very rich nature and can look at things objectively, from a distance, and at the same time can have something more personal to say about them. I am trying to look at the world, and at myself, from many different points of view. I think many poets have this duality.”
I like to think that my “spirit-calling” was to be there, listen, and to be inspired.
One of the attendees was David, a young poet who had run a session on writing poetry. To commemorate the graduation, he read one of his own poems. Afterwards, when we were all wiping away tears and applauding his powerful performance, he called the piece a “spirit-calling.” Other poems took months to craft, but this one came from within and came from above.
Later, Kathy, and I got to speak with him a little more. It took a bit of effort on my part because I tend to be shy, but this felt like a special occasion, and I didn’t want to lose the opportunity to tell him how beautiful the piece was. Kathy also added how the poem had moved her.
For a moment, David stood there, breathing slowly, as though inhaling a wonderful scent. Then I realized he was taking it in – our compliments. He didn’t rush to dismiss them or to give credit to someone else or to praise another poet as a much better writer. He looked nourished by the compliments without there being any danger of their going to his head.
Poetry is hit or miss for me. It’s kind of like the music of the Beatles: I can appreciate the cultural significance of a lot of it without being a huge fan. Then along comes that special song or poem, and I get it. I get why music engages us and why poetry rises from the soul.
One of my favorite poets in Wislawa Szymborska, who won the 1996 Nobel Prize in Literature. She said, “Each of us has a very rich nature and can look at things objectively, from a distance, and at the same time can have something more personal to say about them. I am trying to look at the world, and at myself, from many different points of view. I think many poets have this duality.”
I like to think that my “spirit-calling” was to be there, listen, and to be inspired.
March 16, 2014
Patricia A. McKillip
I’d been writing stories for about a year – mostly Tolkien-esque, there-and-back adventures involving magical swords, wizards, elves and trolls – when I read Patricia A. McKillip’s The Riddlemaster of Hed. That changed everything.
I suddenly discovered a different style of fantasy story, in which the language was lyrical and the magic essential. Whereas Tolkien created a sense of history, McKillip fashioned a verdant world.
The Riddlemaster of Hed is the story of Morgon, the prince of Hed, who is born with three stars on his face (pre-Harry Potter’s scar). He lives in a world with a cryptic past, in which history is stored in riddles and the moral lessons of their strictures. It is a world where rulers are psychically bound to their lands – they feel the ancient history, the ghosts, the fertility of the fields, the presence of a trespasser. They embody the lands’ very nature – in some cases, capable of assuming the form of a tree or a wolf.
Against his better judgment, Morgon follows a path to face the mystery of the stars and the ancient riddles that foretold of his coming. It is a voyage of personal discovery: a young man facing an ancient destiny that forces him to confront who he is and how he chooses to live.
McKillip’s Riddlemaster series consists of three books: The Riddlemaster of Hed, The Heir of Sea and Fire, and Harpist in the Wind. I was fifteen when I first discovered them, and I’m currently reading them for … oh, probably the eighth or ninth time. They call to me every few years.
Last night I reached one of my favorite sequences in the book: Morgon, journeying alone in the wilderness, encounters a vesta, a white-furred, gold-horned, elk-like creature with liquid purple eyes. They are shy beasts, so the encounter is one of those magical moments where humans rediscover the natural world. Trapped in a blizzard, Morgon sinks his hands into the white fur:
“Shelter, a fire, impossible as they seemed, were his only hope. He straightened stiffly, realized that the tree, not his body, had been supporting him. An odd, moist warmth, frightening him more than anything else that day, touched his face; he startled, turning. The head of a vesta loomed over him out of the snow.
“He did not know how long he stared into the purple eyes. The vesta was motionless, the wind rippling through its fur. His hands began to move of their own accord, brushing over the face, the neck; he murmured things almost to soothe himself more than it. He inched away from the tree, his hands following the arch of its neck, its back, until he stood at its side, his numb hands curled into the thick hair on its back. It moved finally, reaching for a pinecone on the tree. Poised, his lips tight between his teeth, he leaped for its back.
“He was unprepared for the sudden, incredible explosion of speed that shot him like an arrow into the heart of the storm.”
Tolkien made me want to be a storyteller. McKillip made me want to become a writer.
I suddenly discovered a different style of fantasy story, in which the language was lyrical and the magic essential. Whereas Tolkien created a sense of history, McKillip fashioned a verdant world.
The Riddlemaster of Hed is the story of Morgon, the prince of Hed, who is born with three stars on his face (pre-Harry Potter’s scar). He lives in a world with a cryptic past, in which history is stored in riddles and the moral lessons of their strictures. It is a world where rulers are psychically bound to their lands – they feel the ancient history, the ghosts, the fertility of the fields, the presence of a trespasser. They embody the lands’ very nature – in some cases, capable of assuming the form of a tree or a wolf.
Against his better judgment, Morgon follows a path to face the mystery of the stars and the ancient riddles that foretold of his coming. It is a voyage of personal discovery: a young man facing an ancient destiny that forces him to confront who he is and how he chooses to live.
McKillip’s Riddlemaster series consists of three books: The Riddlemaster of Hed, The Heir of Sea and Fire, and Harpist in the Wind. I was fifteen when I first discovered them, and I’m currently reading them for … oh, probably the eighth or ninth time. They call to me every few years.
Last night I reached one of my favorite sequences in the book: Morgon, journeying alone in the wilderness, encounters a vesta, a white-furred, gold-horned, elk-like creature with liquid purple eyes. They are shy beasts, so the encounter is one of those magical moments where humans rediscover the natural world. Trapped in a blizzard, Morgon sinks his hands into the white fur:
“Shelter, a fire, impossible as they seemed, were his only hope. He straightened stiffly, realized that the tree, not his body, had been supporting him. An odd, moist warmth, frightening him more than anything else that day, touched his face; he startled, turning. The head of a vesta loomed over him out of the snow.
“He did not know how long he stared into the purple eyes. The vesta was motionless, the wind rippling through its fur. His hands began to move of their own accord, brushing over the face, the neck; he murmured things almost to soothe himself more than it. He inched away from the tree, his hands following the arch of its neck, its back, until he stood at its side, his numb hands curled into the thick hair on its back. It moved finally, reaching for a pinecone on the tree. Poised, his lips tight between his teeth, he leaped for its back.
“He was unprepared for the sudden, incredible explosion of speed that shot him like an arrow into the heart of the storm.”
Tolkien made me want to be a storyteller. McKillip made me want to become a writer.
March 14, 2014
Act One Climax
What do you do when you’re stuck on a scene? Not full-out writer’s block but rather you know the scene you want, you can imagine it but when it comes to writing it, the language is okay – it’s workable (it’s a first draft) – and the scene is doing what you want it to do, and yet you can’t muster any enthusiasm for it.
I’m stuck on the Act One climax of Reston Peace. Kenny, on the verge of leaving home and starting college, is confronted one last time by his sexually-abusive mother. She is seductively wheedling, willing to go to drastic measures to prove her love. This is her last, desperate attempt to convince him to stay with her. In disgust, Kenny flees the house, only to return later to discover that his mother has committed suicide.
The story has been leading up to this climax. It feels like the natural culmination of what has come before, but the scene – no matter how I tackle it – smacks of melodrama. It’s on par with a bad soap opera.
But it’s essential that the story remain rooted in Kenny’s reality. This is the moment he fully faces the extent of his mother’s abuse and the fact that his father has known all along.
Part of the problem is my own sensitivity to writing about incest. It’s an uncomfortable topic, one that is not easy to get a handle on. I’ve been doing my research but now it’s time to translate that information into the human interactions of a dramatic scene.
Originally the novel was written in first-person, present-tense to give a sense of the immediacy. This was Kenny living his life as the reader reads it. He has no moment to self-reflect.
This time, however, the story is all about reflection. It is an older Kenny looking back on his life. But I feel that this climax is not the moment for him to ruminate on what this all means. That will come later. Right now, he’s in the midst of a very real crisis.
I think I have to trust that simpler is better. Over-writing the scene will crush it under pomposity. Kenny’s multiple emotions, while intense, are still grounded in basics: fear, anger, hurt, love. Of course there are nuances to these emotions but if I stick with these essentials, I trust the scene will have the proper balance of drama and realism.
I’d love to hear how other writers tackle tricky topics and how they avoid unnecessary melodrama. Please post a comment.
I’m stuck on the Act One climax of Reston Peace. Kenny, on the verge of leaving home and starting college, is confronted one last time by his sexually-abusive mother. She is seductively wheedling, willing to go to drastic measures to prove her love. This is her last, desperate attempt to convince him to stay with her. In disgust, Kenny flees the house, only to return later to discover that his mother has committed suicide.
The story has been leading up to this climax. It feels like the natural culmination of what has come before, but the scene – no matter how I tackle it – smacks of melodrama. It’s on par with a bad soap opera.
But it’s essential that the story remain rooted in Kenny’s reality. This is the moment he fully faces the extent of his mother’s abuse and the fact that his father has known all along.
Part of the problem is my own sensitivity to writing about incest. It’s an uncomfortable topic, one that is not easy to get a handle on. I’ve been doing my research but now it’s time to translate that information into the human interactions of a dramatic scene.
Originally the novel was written in first-person, present-tense to give a sense of the immediacy. This was Kenny living his life as the reader reads it. He has no moment to self-reflect.
This time, however, the story is all about reflection. It is an older Kenny looking back on his life. But I feel that this climax is not the moment for him to ruminate on what this all means. That will come later. Right now, he’s in the midst of a very real crisis.
I think I have to trust that simpler is better. Over-writing the scene will crush it under pomposity. Kenny’s multiple emotions, while intense, are still grounded in basics: fear, anger, hurt, love. Of course there are nuances to these emotions but if I stick with these essentials, I trust the scene will have the proper balance of drama and realism.
I’d love to hear how other writers tackle tricky topics and how they avoid unnecessary melodrama. Please post a comment.
March 13, 2014
Auditioning
In a class on auditioning, the instructor Leslie encouraged actors to rethink the auditioning process. "It's not a popularity contest," she said. "It's problem-solving. The director has roles to fill, and she is looking for the best possible fit for the parts. An actor may be very talented but if he doesn't right for the role, there's no point in using him. The director is looking for the round peg to fit into the round hole."
I found it a helpful metaphor, so now when I audition, I try to present my best work in the hope that it will fit their needs. It's not about whether they like me as a person. It's about building the best cast to put on the best possible production.
What if you did the same thing with your novel’s characters? What if you tried them out in a few scenes to see if they fit the story’s needs?
When I was working on Dead Hungry, I stumbled upon this auditioning process. I had written a scene that takes places in an Ethics course, in which the professor and students are discussing Consequentialism – the theory that the consequences of a person’s actions are the ultimate basis for whether they are right or wrong. Given that the novel is about Ghouls in modern-day Chicago, of course the class discussion ends up focusing on the acceptability of cannibalism.
In the first draft of the scene, the main character Tucker was in the class, but no matter what, I couldn’t get him to engage in the topic. He sat on the sidelines while other students wrestled the problem. The fact that he refused to get involved told me something about how he faces (or doesn’t face) difficult ethical issues.
Next up was Samara; she took over Tucker’s spot in the class. She was more involved in the discussion, but because of her training as a social worker, she was all about providing practical services to the cannibals. Nice intention but it didn’t work.
Then came Darien, the philosopher in the cast of characters. Given his proposed trajectory in the novel – his curiosity about Ghoul Culture – it made sense for him to engage the subject. The scene is the catalyst for him to consider the ethics of Ghoulism: how and why different groups are accepted into society, and others are not.
Even though I considered the scene important to the overall story, I came close to cutting it. I kept it in because I needed the theoretical discussion of cannibalism in a classroom setting to contrast the later, life-on-the-streets experience of the Ghouls. Neither Tucker nor Samara had the motivation to get properly involved in the discussion; they had other issues on their plates.
But Darien was the perfect character to engage the topic. His contemplative nature helped save the scene from being cut. It leant it the legitimacy to stay in the book.
So, Darien won the part. He was the round peg for the round hole.
I found it a helpful metaphor, so now when I audition, I try to present my best work in the hope that it will fit their needs. It's not about whether they like me as a person. It's about building the best cast to put on the best possible production.
What if you did the same thing with your novel’s characters? What if you tried them out in a few scenes to see if they fit the story’s needs?
When I was working on Dead Hungry, I stumbled upon this auditioning process. I had written a scene that takes places in an Ethics course, in which the professor and students are discussing Consequentialism – the theory that the consequences of a person’s actions are the ultimate basis for whether they are right or wrong. Given that the novel is about Ghouls in modern-day Chicago, of course the class discussion ends up focusing on the acceptability of cannibalism.
In the first draft of the scene, the main character Tucker was in the class, but no matter what, I couldn’t get him to engage in the topic. He sat on the sidelines while other students wrestled the problem. The fact that he refused to get involved told me something about how he faces (or doesn’t face) difficult ethical issues.
Next up was Samara; she took over Tucker’s spot in the class. She was more involved in the discussion, but because of her training as a social worker, she was all about providing practical services to the cannibals. Nice intention but it didn’t work.
Then came Darien, the philosopher in the cast of characters. Given his proposed trajectory in the novel – his curiosity about Ghoul Culture – it made sense for him to engage the subject. The scene is the catalyst for him to consider the ethics of Ghoulism: how and why different groups are accepted into society, and others are not.
Even though I considered the scene important to the overall story, I came close to cutting it. I kept it in because I needed the theoretical discussion of cannibalism in a classroom setting to contrast the later, life-on-the-streets experience of the Ghouls. Neither Tucker nor Samara had the motivation to get properly involved in the discussion; they had other issues on their plates.
But Darien was the perfect character to engage the topic. His contemplative nature helped save the scene from being cut. It leant it the legitimacy to stay in the book.
So, Darien won the part. He was the round peg for the round hole.
February 27, 2014
Free Download
Available through Monday, March 3at NoiseTrade!http://books.noisetrade.com/louisarata/dead-hungry
Some reader responses from GoodReads.com:
"A lot of fun, in a horrific, zombie kind of way."
"The story was intellectually done and there was a lot of surprisingly gross stuff ... "
"The sometimes-gritty, urban setting appealed to me, as did the concepts of Ghouls and Feeders (as compared to the traditional undead zombie, or more modern viral-disease-afflicted zombie)."
Some reader responses from GoodReads.com:
"A lot of fun, in a horrific, zombie kind of way."
"The story was intellectually done and there was a lot of surprisingly gross stuff ... "
"The sometimes-gritty, urban setting appealed to me, as did the concepts of Ghouls and Feeders (as compared to the traditional undead zombie, or more modern viral-disease-afflicted zombie)."
February 26, 2014
Oh, Rob!
You want to know a good way to learn how to write dialogue? Watch a really well-written sitcom. The lines are crisp, efficient and still manage to convey character.
As a child of the 70s, I was definitely influenced by sitcoms: M*A*S*H*, All in the Family, The Mary Tyler Moore Show, The Odd Couple, Barney Miller, and The Dick van Dyke Show (this last one I discovered in syndication).
Of all these shows, The Dick van Dyke Show shines with a natural style of dialogue. While it can be goofy and slapstick, it never falls into the line-line-joke, line-line-joke formula of other sitcoms. The actors stay light on their feet, giving the show an effervescent quality.
Laura: Rob, if I thought that you sent this boat here to trap me …
Rob: Oh, honey, I ordered this long before we did the sketch. This is what gave me the idea. Honest.
Laura: Rob, I tried not to open it, I really did, but I – I guess I’m just a pathological snoopy-nose!
Rob: Oh, honey, everybody’s a snoopy-nose. We all like to know what’s inside things.
Laura: I guess so.
Rob: Why, I know so. You know something? I’m very, very curious about something right now.
Laura: What?
Rob: Well, I’m wondering how long we’re going to keep on with this polite talking before we get down to serious kissing!
Laura: About three seconds.
Rob: Three?
[Rob looks at his watch]
Rob: One, two …
Laura: I forgive you!
[they kiss]
[excerpt from “The Curious Thing About Women” (1962)]
Instead of maintaining a stony-faced decorum, the characters are allowed to banter and to laugh at each others' jokes -- which is more like real-life interactions than some of the sarcasm-laden approach of other sitcoms.
Mel (exasperated): Rob!
Rob: Buddy!
Buddy: Sally!
Sally: Mel!
Mel: Rob!
Rob: Sally!
Sally: Buddy!
Buddy: Go ahead, Curly. It's your turn. Say "Rob."
Mel: Rob!
[Buddy and Sally applaud drolly.]
Buddy: Beautiful.
Sally: Oh, wonderful, wonderful.
[excerpt from "Who Owes Who What?" (1962)]
The show makes me smile.
