Jessica Berg's Blog, page 3

Query Writing Hell

Ever wondered what Hell is for writers?  It’s not the hours and pain-staking wordsmithing.  It’s not even the dreaded writer’s block.  The epitome of hell is the query letter.

Seemingly innocent, this letter is anything but.  At 250 words it is the hardest thing an author will ever write.  It’s easier pumping out a 80,000 word manuscript than trying to pare down your ideas, characters, and intricacies of plot into a one page letter that will knock some editor’s socks off.  Keep in mind, in a query letter, the writer can’t be too specific, but specific enough to entice the editor.  Also, you need to be original but stay inside the “query letter box” that the publishing industry has created.  I’m sure the writing gods created the query letter just to prove they have a sense of humor.

This journey to Hell is one I am wading through as I write this blog.  I am currently in my 18th edition of my query letter, and finally said, “The h*ll with it, I’m sending it out!”  If eighteen revisions aren’t good enough, then maybe I better hang up my writing hat for good.

Hopefully, some editor will fall in love with my query!  Here’s hoping that my self-published book, A Place to Call Home, will soon be represented by a publishing company.  I’ll keep you all posted as the responses start rolling in.  All I ask of you, dear readers, is to pray!

Sister and Flowers

Sisters … different flowers from the same garden.  This is one of my favorite sayings about sisters, and it couldn’t be truer.  Some are sturdy, outweighing the petite.  Others are tall, towering over the short ones.  Some are frilly compared to the more practical ones.  Some are hardy while others are delicate, succumbing to the slightest breezes.  There are those that are useful and those that simply like to show off.  But, no garden would be beautiful or worthy of appreciating if the same flower monopolized the entire plot.  What makes a garden a feast for the eyes is the color and smells each and every flower brings, no matter its composition.

God has blessed me with two sisters, and I wouldn’t give them up for the world.  Just like a flower garden we are each very different from each other.  My sister Sarah is much like sunflower.  Bold and daring, attempting to climb to the sky, fearful of nothing.  My sister Rachel is strong and steady, holding fast to her standards and morals very much like I envision the wildflowers swaying in the grasslands.  Me?  I’d probably compare myself to a marigold, practical and useful, but not renowned for its beauty or grace!

In fact, I love the sister dynamic so much that it is a base for my first book A Place to Call Home.  Just like my characters, Grace and Phoebe, I’d be miserable without my sisters even though at times they can annoy me to no end.  My sisters impacted me so much that they are my models for my characters in my book.  So, thank you Sarah and Rachel for inspiring me to write a book about the strong and unique bond sisters share and the way that sisters can indeed impact each other’s lives for the better.

If you have an interesting sister story, I’d love to hear it!

Cures for Writer’s Block

What do you do when the dreaded writer’s block hits?  Panic!  No, wait … you must stay calm.  If you have to lock yourself in the bathroom and scream for awhile, that is fine, but you eventually have to come out, sit down at your computer, and wait for your fingers to work their magic.

As I am suffering from a bout of this horrid malady on my recent book, I’ve decided to compile a list of plausible cures.  No prescription required.

1.)    Stare into the eyes of your cat (or dog, or canary, or chinchilla, or neighbor’s hamster), hoping their unique insight about life teleports itself into your brain.

2.)    Let your children have your computer for awhile.  Maybe, just maybe, out of all the gibberish scrawling across the computer screen, there will be one gem, one word to keep you from falling into the dark abyss.

3.)    Watch Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives.  If your saliva starts flowing, it should jumpstart your imagination into flowing as well.

4.)    Go to Wal-Mart.  People-watching is a beautiful thing.  Need I say more?

5.)    Leave your computer and a good book such as Pride and Prejudice alone in a candle-lit room for several minutes.  They just might produce some attractive offspring you can use to get over the writing hump.

6.)    Print out copies of your useless pages and rub your computer’s screen in them, yelling, “Look what you just did, you naughty thing!”

7.)    Create a fun drinking game.  Every time you press the backspace button you take a shot of your favorite beverage.  By the time you are done, you’ll either be as brilliant as Ernest Hemmingway or you’ll be selling your manuscript to three-year-olds who can’t read anyway.

Sadly, I’ve tried almost all of these over-the-counter methods, and here’s to hoping I never resort to #7.  But if I do, who’s willing to join me?

Happy writing!

 

Mr. Darcy Went Commando

Delicious news for all Darcy lovers everywhere:  Mr. Darcy wore neither boxers nor briefs; he wore nothing underneath those tan, tight breeches.  (Feel free to pause here and drink in this information.)  In fact, no one in Jane Austen’s world, real or fictional, wore underwear.  In such a society where a woman’s purity was second to her wealth, we even have the creation of crotch-less underwear (or as the British put it, knickers).  It wasn’t until the late 19th to early 20th centuries that designers of ladies’ lingerie began sewing up the crotches of underwear.  Scandalous!

Where did I retrieve such shocking news?  PBS ran a documentary entitled, Pride and Prejudice:  Having a Ball.  This television show depicted a team of professors from England who put on a real-life ball as Jane Austen would have seen and wrote about.  Remember the Netherfield ball where Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth dance and verbally spar?  This is the dance that is recreated … down to authentic underwear.  Even as an English major, English teacher, and lover of anything with words, I never realized how little information is given about the actual ball.  We forget that Jane Austen’s silence on the matter can be attributed to the fact that her contemporaries had no need for Austen to go into minute detail about a ball;  two hundred years later, however, we are quite ignorant on the subject and have no idea the actual implications that Austen assumed her readers would understand.  So, allow me to shed some light on the ball, a function that created a playground for physical interaction and flirting between the opposite sexes.

If we were suddenly transported into the height of Regency England, we would be dancing buffoons.  In fact, the dances were so intricate and difficult that even the financially skinny Bennet family would have splurged on a dancing instructor.  Dancing was so important during this time that it was thought that if someone was a good dancer, they’d be pretty stellar in the bedroom.  Poor, poor Charlotte Lucas who ends up with the incompetent Mr. Collins!  No wonder she encourages him to be in the garden all the time.

Laughing and showing one’s teeth was the modern-day equivalent of a neon sign flashing “I’m sexually available.  Come and get some!”  I certainly would have been in big trouble.  I find this ironic, however, beings the tops of every woman’s breasts swelled out of their dresses.

Besides the ostentatious parade of clothes, balls were venues for a wealthy landowner, such as Mr. Bingley, to show off his wealth.  Oftentimes the meal during the ball featured around sixty different dishes from game meats to beautiful jellies and molds.  To screw this up would have ruined and tarnished the host’s reputation.  Not only was the food a way of saying “Look how cool I am” but the candles were also a status symbol.  Wax candles were the staple of every high-ranking estate, but tallow candles which were made of beef fat or pig fat were all that the poor and destitute could afford.  It is estimated by experts that Mr. Bingley might have used 300 candles to light the ballroom.  That would have cost fifteen pounds, a manservant’s yearly wage!

So, the next time you read Pride and Prejudice remember that a ball was the place to “try” on partners and show off one’s physical and monetary assets.  And always remember that Mr. Darcy did not wear underwear!

Does My Future Include a Bird Sweater?

Old age.  That term alone strikes fear into nearly every human person on this planet.  What is it about going grey or having body parts start traveling south that gets us wound tighter than the knot on my pajama pants string?  It’s not like we’re going to start strutting around naked when we reach 40 … or at least most of us won’t.  There’s a solution for every age ailment.  Need your hair colored?  You’re covered.  Need to keep the illusion that your bosom is where it was when you were twenty-one?  There’s a fix for that.  Want people to think you’re still relative and cool in today’s society?  There’s a car dealership that I’m sure can fix you up with the ultimate “cool” factor.

So, what has us scared of old age?  Well, I think I found the answer a couple of weeks ago.  My husband is a Mason and we attended a chili and oyster soup feed at the local lodge.  Most of the attendees were people well into their golden years.  As I sat there and ate and watched, I couldn’t help but get a little misty-eyed.  These white-haired ladies were once my age.  They once had little ones underfoot.  They, too, probably wanted to lock themselves in a closet and resign the house to the disaster that only small children can bring.  They once wanted to feel like a wife and lover instead of a mother all the time.  They once had looked at their grandmother and thought, “Wow, I wonder what she was like as a young woman.”  This idea didn’t terrify me.  I’m actually okay with getting older.  What did cause skitters of terror up and down was my spine was how quick the years actually do go by.

In thirty-two years, I’ll be sixty-four.  That doesn’t seem like a quick blink of the eye, but considering how fast the first thirty-two years went, I’ll be looking at an “old” woman in the mirror all too soon.  I can’t help but wonder what I’ll look like.  Will I follow the most traveled path and cut and perm my hair, or will I be a rebel and keep my hair long.  I can’t help but think white hair is distinguished, but maybe when I’m the one with white hair, my mind might change.  Will I still be stylish and squeeze my varicose-veined legs into jeans, or will I resign myself to polyester pants the color of an Easter egg dyed by a three-year-old.  Now for the jackpot.  The sweater.  I hope and pray that I will not relinquish my torso to anything with birds, snowmen, or jack-o-lanterns.  I’ve already given my husband permission to take me out to the nearest pasture and shoot me if at any time these fabric objects are even close to my breasts!

Rewind back to the chili and oyster soup feed.  I saw both scenarios represented:  white-haired ladies who had embraced and took pride in their age and wore clothes and jewelry to accentuate their wizened years and white-haired ladies who had succumbed to old age, allowing its polyester fingers to touch their bodies.  The difference between the two is simple.  The ladies who embraced their age looked radiant.  Whether they were in their sixties or in their nineties, they looked beautiful in their jewelry and sophisticated outfit.  The ladies who succumbed to age look tired and, frankly, old.  It didn’t make a difference whether they were sixty or ninety, these poor women looked frumpy and tired in their bird sweaters and polyester blend pants.

So, whatever age you are embrace it.  Love it.  It’s who you are.  A faster car isn’t going to make you look cool.  You’re just that creepy old guy driving with the top down.  Those suck-you-in-and-pull-you-up underwear to keep your figure the way you think it should be will still have to come off at the end of the day.  The hair dye to keep the greys away?  The grey is still there, marking every second of your life.  Want the answer to feeling young?  Be like most of the ladies at the Masonic center … dress like you mean it.  Dress like you love life.  Dress like you’re not old.  And never, never, never surrender your body to a bird sweater!

The Death of “I”

Sadly, the “I” has passed away.  Its birthday has been lost to time, but the beginning of the 21st century started its sad demise.  “I” enjoyed standing in for proper nouns and taking long walks in a sentence with its two partners, “am” and “was”.  Not only was “I” the foundation of most sentences, but people depended on this stoic and tall pronoun to represent them in all areas of life.

Now some upstart has superseded this grand pronoun, leaving some in a wake of chaos and disgust.  “Am” and “was” aren’t sure what to think of their new partner; in fact, they are so upset about this phenomenon that they refused to give a quote for this obituary for their friend “I”.  The new replacement is none other than “i”.  This little pronoun has taken over and all but obliterated “I’s” place in the English language.

Careless, texting teenagers and irresponsible adults are not the only ones to blame for “I’s” deterioration.  McDonald’s has certainly chipped in with their slogan, “i’m lovin’ it.”  Some institutions of higher learning are even joining in killing the “I”.  Lake Area Technical Institute in Watertown, South Dakota, has joined in with one of the slogans, “it’s your world.”

“I” is preceded in death by its cousins their/they’re/there, you, are, accept/except, fewer/less, quiet/quite/quit, were/we’re, and many other second cousins twice-removed.

The memorial service for “I” has yet to be planned, but not many are expected to show up.  Please, hold off on sending flowers and any memorial money should be sent to schools for extra English language courses.

Put Your Dangling Participle Back in Your Sentence

Dangling participles make grammar geeks blush.  It’s true.  We’re not quite sure where to look or what to say as you stand there with your participial hanging out of your sentence.  Not quite sure to what I am referring?  Then you, dear reader, have been victim of having this embarrassing language faux pas happen to you.  Never fear, however; I am here to explain what this dirty little mistake is and how to fix it.

To make this a quickie lesson, we’ll just discuss the participle’s main function:  it is a verb with an –ing ending which acts as an adjective.  For example, take the verb “fly” in a sentence.  The pilot will fly at dawn.  Now take the verb “fly” and add an –ing.  The flying students will begin class at dawn.  The word “flying” is no longer a verb; it is an adjective.  In other words, the word “fly” went to his mom’s closet, grabbed her high heels, and began playing dress up.

Now that you have an idea of what a participle is (just think cross-dressing verbs), we need to discuss where the phrase comes in.  This happens when a cross-dressing verb decides to hook up with his buddies and go out on the town.  He can call up his buddies, the preposition, the noun, or the pronoun.  Together these troublemakers can really paint the town.  In fact, these guys are in charge of making the subject of the sentence a little more colorful.

Here are a few examples of participial phrases:

Browsing the aisles of Wal-Mart, the lady soon realized she’d forgotten to put on pants. 

Hiking up the mountain trail, the hikers were unaware of being stalked by a rabid bear.   

                In both examples, the underlined participial phrases are correctly telling us more about the subjects.

So what is so naughty about a dangling participle?  This …

Hammering the nails into the 2 x 4s, the sun beat down on his shoulders. 

I have a hard time believing that the sun itself was hammering nails.  All that’s missing is the proper subject of the sentence.  Who was hammering nails?  Let’s say Pete was hammering nails.  Our sentence would look slightly better.  Hammering the nails into the 2 x 4s, Pete felt the sun beat down on his shoulders.  See the difference?

                After shriveling in the sun for days, my sister finally cleaned up the rotted apples under the tree.

                                Rushing from the room, the bowl fell out of Eve’s hands and smashed to the ground. 

                                After stabilizing his patient, the ambulance left the accident scene with sirens screaming. 

                                Grabbing his backpack and rushing from the room, the bell rang. 

                You should be able to find the errors in the above four sentences.  Maybe you are blushing as you witness the sentence streaking across the page without its participle tucked in neatly within itself.  If you are, then you have crossed into the city limits of Grammar Geekville.  Embrace this new citizenship and be watchful for neighbors who like to expose their participles.

And This, My Dear Child, is a Comma

Oh, the pain!  As a self-diagnosed grammar geek, reading poorly edited work is as much fun as getting a root canal without nitrous oxide.  To add to the misery, I usually find such blatant attempts at first degree murder on the English language in children’s books.  Take for example my son’s Christmas present from his grandparents.  On the outside it’s an eye-appealing, colorful cover depicting Spider-Man and his many enemies.  On the inside, it’s the bane of my existence:  bad grammar.

Maybe the reason our children cannot speak their own language well is the fact that from an early age they are quietly and sneakily brainwashed into grammar stupidity.  Take for example the following excerpt from the recently mentioned book:

“Thanks Uncle Ben.  I just want to be a scientist,” … The mistake?  Do you see it, my fellow grammar geeks?  Of course you do.  There should be a comma after the words “thanks” as Peter Parker is directly addressing his Uncle.  Remember, commas can save lives, my friends.  Take for instance the following phrase:  “Let’s eat Grandpa!”  Cannibalism!  Now, Grandpa’s life could have been spared if someone would have simply inserted the tiny punctuation mark:  “Let’s eat, Grandpa!”  Instead of eating the man, you are inviting him to the table to partake in the meal, not be the meal.

Does this Spider-Man book stop at this mistake?  No.  Sadly, there are many more.  The following are just two of them.

“Then one day Peter’s life changed, on a school trip to the Science Hall.”  Again the misuse and abuse of the poor little comma.  Come on, editors of this book.  What did the comma ever do to you that you are putting it in places it doesn’t want to go?

“Spider-Man felt confident, because he had worked very hard at perfecting his abilities.”  Where do I start?  I want to cry … really, I do.  But tears will not solve grammar issues.  I just sit and silently judge these people on their grammar blindness.

I do whatever other sensible grammar geek mothers do:  I point out these errors to my five-year-old and three-year-old boys who sit there and look at me as if I’ve sprouted a comma out of my nose.  Maybe I have.  Maybe I’ve gone over the deep end into the grammar abyss.  But, hey, I like it down here.  At least I don’t have to deal with comma splices.

So, you be the judge.  Am I being too geeky?  Or am I right in my grammar righteous anger?

The World Wide Story

Happy Writing Wednesday!  As I said in my “Let Your Imagination Soar … Characterization” blog, everybody has a writer hidden deep inside.  I thought it would be fun to do a round robin story this time around.  I will start the story, and then someone else can chime in with a few lines, and then someone else can add until we have a story with an ending.

As we write, keep in mind the last lesson about characterization.  It is important to show and not tell the audience.  Don’t tell us that Bambi, the lead cheerleader, is a walking contradiction.  Show us.  Every good story needs good, likeable characters.  However, stories need more than just characters.  They need a place to interact in.  That’s right … setting.  At times, setting can be a character in itself.  Think of Jack London’s short story, “To Build a Fire”.  The terrible cold and inhospitable climate kills the character (sorry for the spoiler alert).  The Titanic?  She wouldn’t have sunk without the proper setting.  The Perfect Storm is another great example of how setting plays an important role in the lives of people and characters.

Again, I’ll refer back to showing and not telling.  Remember kindergarten and the dreaded show and tell hour?  It wouldn’t have been too exciting if your wee-sized classmates only told you about their new toy.  When showing the reader the setting, use details.  The reader should feel as if he or she were in the story, experiencing the rain, feeling the sun beat upon their heads, or drinking from a cold spring.

So, enough lecture.  Let’s start!  Please feel free to write as much or as little as you’d like.   The only rule is that your addition needs to somewhat match the previous writing.  I’m so excited to see this world wide story in action.

Nick slapped an ace of spades on the table.  His grunt of satisfaction echoed in the dingy, back room.  His brown eyes surveyed his opponents behind a pair of aviator sunglasses.  He risked a smile, hoping it came off as sincere.  If they suspected him, it was all over …  

Confessions of a Stay-at-Home Mom

I am not a perfect mom, and I often look on in jealousy as “perfect” moms herd their “perfect” children with precision-like efficiency.  Does she ever yell?  Ever?  Does this woman always look as if she walked out of a Vogue cover shoot?  When night descends, does this woman ever smell the t-shirt she wore all day and decide it’s clean enough to wear the next day?  Stupid question, of course.  She’d never be caught dead wearing a t-shirt!

Before resigning from my teaching position, I never knew being a full-time mommy would be so darn difficult.  The following confessions are just a snapshot of the crazy world that often sucks me in and takes me for a spin.

1.)    That cool time out bottle making its way virally around Facebook … yeah, that doesn’t work for my kids.  Drat!

2.)    I want my own time out bottle that lasts for two hours … and a secret room to escape to.

3.)    I wish macaroni and cheese had some nutritional value so I don’t feel guilty about serving it about twice a week.

4.)    I’m starting to hate jeans and t-shirts.

5.)    My husband just might come home one day to find me wearing a fancy dress and heals … just because.

6.)    Going to the grocery store (by myself) is a special treat.

7.)    Cleaning the house from top to bottom in the morning and then having to do it all over again the next day because three men (1 tall, 2 short) live in my house.

8.)    If I have to color one more picture, I’ll find a very convenient place to start sticking crayons!

9.)    I wish they sold “I don’t care”, “doesn’t matter to me”, or “make whatever you’re hungry for” at the grocery store; meal planning would go so much smoother.

10.) Putting mascara and lip gloss on makes me feel like I’m ready for a night on the town … too bad I’m just going to WalMart!

For all the crazy in my house though there is plenty of love to transcend it all.  Never having to say goodbye to my baby girl is one of those small miracles of being a stay-at-home mommy.  And even though Gabriel, the 3-year-old, manages to pee on his pants nearly every time he uses the potty, his quirky little personality makes up for the extra laundry he creates.  And when Caiden, my first born, allows me to hold him even though he is five and in kindergarten and he’d never tell his friends, my heart feels as if it will overflow.

So here’s my biggest confession of all:  I love my job!

I love to hear other mom’s stories.  If you’re that perfect mom, how do you do it?  If you’re like me, just trying to cling to the coattails of perfection, what are your confessions?

Men, I don’t mean to exclude you … I bet you could tell a tale or two.  Do share!