Vinnie Hansen's Blog - Posts Tagged "writing"
Infernal Editor
Dave Letterman often quips, “There is no off position on the genius switch.” Now that NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) has landed, I wish that were true for me. The only thing for which I have no off switch is my internal editor. I guess majoring in literature, teaching English for twenty-seven years, and writing on a daily basis will do that to a person. I can’t write without thinking: Does that verb punch? Is that modifying phrase correctly placed? Does that pronoun have a clear antecedent?
All this is not to say I write flawlessly. My writing groups and proofreaders ferret out an astounding number of errors! The point is that during NaNoWriMo one is supposed to kill those internal editors and just write.
One speaker at our local NaNoWriMo kickoff said when he gets stuck, he throws in a ninja attack. The hordes crest the hill with their swords drawn, the steal blades gleaming in the sun. My internal editor launches an immediate counter drone strike. Bits of black fabric and clods of dirt explode into the air. My internal editor obliterates the mass of ninjas. The stench of burning flesh rises in the smoke.
With this vicious internal editor, I doubt I’ll reach the NaNoWriMo goal of 50,000 words, but the truth is I have no desire for an off switch. My former volleyball coach used to say, “It’s not practice that makes perfect. It’s perfect practice that makes perfect.” If a person practices a volleyball bump with an arm swing, he/she will swing his/her arms during the game and shank the ball. I believe in my coach’s philosophy when I’m writing. I want to select the best words and to strive for perfect sentences even if I’m “practicing.”
Hemingway was content with a daily count of 500 words. He worked in the morning, standing much of the time because he suffered from leg wounds he sustained in WWI. He felt it was important to stop while he still had some juice, so he could pick up the next day without writer’s block. However, he had moments when he couldn’t get started, and he offered this advice in A Moveable Feast:
Sometimes when I was starting a new story and I could not get it going, I would sit in front of the fire and squeeze the peel of the little oranges into the edge of the flame and watch the sputter of blue that they made. I would stand and look out over the roofs of Paris and think, “Do not worry. You have always written before and you will write now. All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know.”
When Hemingway had the “one true sentence,” he’d go from there. Loaded as I am with an internal editor, one true sentence and 500 words per day seems much more doable during NaNoWriMo—a measly 15,000 words for November, instead of 50,000, but I would be satisfied. If that rate of writing was good enough for Hemingway, it is good enough for me.
All this is not to say I write flawlessly. My writing groups and proofreaders ferret out an astounding number of errors! The point is that during NaNoWriMo one is supposed to kill those internal editors and just write.
One speaker at our local NaNoWriMo kickoff said when he gets stuck, he throws in a ninja attack. The hordes crest the hill with their swords drawn, the steal blades gleaming in the sun. My internal editor launches an immediate counter drone strike. Bits of black fabric and clods of dirt explode into the air. My internal editor obliterates the mass of ninjas. The stench of burning flesh rises in the smoke.
With this vicious internal editor, I doubt I’ll reach the NaNoWriMo goal of 50,000 words, but the truth is I have no desire for an off switch. My former volleyball coach used to say, “It’s not practice that makes perfect. It’s perfect practice that makes perfect.” If a person practices a volleyball bump with an arm swing, he/she will swing his/her arms during the game and shank the ball. I believe in my coach’s philosophy when I’m writing. I want to select the best words and to strive for perfect sentences even if I’m “practicing.”
Hemingway was content with a daily count of 500 words. He worked in the morning, standing much of the time because he suffered from leg wounds he sustained in WWI. He felt it was important to stop while he still had some juice, so he could pick up the next day without writer’s block. However, he had moments when he couldn’t get started, and he offered this advice in A Moveable Feast:
Sometimes when I was starting a new story and I could not get it going, I would sit in front of the fire and squeeze the peel of the little oranges into the edge of the flame and watch the sputter of blue that they made. I would stand and look out over the roofs of Paris and think, “Do not worry. You have always written before and you will write now. All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know.”
When Hemingway had the “one true sentence,” he’d go from there. Loaded as I am with an internal editor, one true sentence and 500 words per day seems much more doable during NaNoWriMo—a measly 15,000 words for November, instead of 50,000, but I would be satisfied. If that rate of writing was good enough for Hemingway, it is good enough for me.
Blame It On My Mother
“If you don’t know what that means, look it up,” my mother would say. She was a schoolteacher.
Since she knew the word, or so I assumed, I was irked when she pointed at our fifty-pound Funk & Wagnall’s. Why couldn’t she just tell me the meaning?
This annoying habit of hers instilled in me an enduring lesson. Her response implied that I was not expected to know every word in a book. That was why God invented dictionaries.
In reading I encountered wonderful words like zeitgeist and Schadenfreude and discovered the Foreign Words and Phrases part of the dictionary. I also learned that some foreign words and phrases weren’t there. I learned to infer from context. I also eventually realized that my inferential powers could get meanings one hundred percent backwards. When The Eiger Sanction came out (1975), I thought for sure since it was a Clint Eastwood movie that a sanction must be a bad thing.
Now as a writer, I consider the dilemma from the other side of the page: Should a writer adopt my mother’s attitude, “If you don’t know what that means, look it up?” or should an author explain words and situations? How many context clues should be planted?
Recently I had the rewarding experience of working with an online critique group through the Guppies, a sub-group of Sisters in Crime. Black Beans & Venom, my mystery in progress, is set in Cuba, so many Spanish words and phrases are used. How much should I explain guayabera beyond that its loose fit allows my villain to stick a pillow under it and the big pockets are good for hiding stuff? Readers and writers alike know that too much description makes the action drag.
Another member of the critique group introduced a character in her book with an Hispanic surname, blonde hair and blue eyes. I liked this play against stereotype. I have lived in California since 1972 and have met many rubios. However, a member of the critique group from the Midwest, a good writer and astute reader, was pulled from the story by this seemingly discordant detail.
There are ways the writer could deal with this. She could, for example, have the protagonist note the unusual combination of Hispanic surname and fair features, although as a long-time Californian, the protagonist probably would not think anything of the combo. The writer could explain the occurrence. The writer could change the character to conform to the reader’s preconceived notions.
I didn’t like any of these options. Blame it on my mother. She ingrained in me that learning is part of reading. It is okay for the mind to leave a story and wonder. My choice in the above situation was for the writer to confront the reader with the anomaly of a fair Hispanic character and to let the reader grapple with the information—even if it pulled her out of the story.
I am probably in the minority on this dilemma. What is your über comment?
Since she knew the word, or so I assumed, I was irked when she pointed at our fifty-pound Funk & Wagnall’s. Why couldn’t she just tell me the meaning?
This annoying habit of hers instilled in me an enduring lesson. Her response implied that I was not expected to know every word in a book. That was why God invented dictionaries.
In reading I encountered wonderful words like zeitgeist and Schadenfreude and discovered the Foreign Words and Phrases part of the dictionary. I also learned that some foreign words and phrases weren’t there. I learned to infer from context. I also eventually realized that my inferential powers could get meanings one hundred percent backwards. When The Eiger Sanction came out (1975), I thought for sure since it was a Clint Eastwood movie that a sanction must be a bad thing.
Now as a writer, I consider the dilemma from the other side of the page: Should a writer adopt my mother’s attitude, “If you don’t know what that means, look it up?” or should an author explain words and situations? How many context clues should be planted?
Recently I had the rewarding experience of working with an online critique group through the Guppies, a sub-group of Sisters in Crime. Black Beans & Venom, my mystery in progress, is set in Cuba, so many Spanish words and phrases are used. How much should I explain guayabera beyond that its loose fit allows my villain to stick a pillow under it and the big pockets are good for hiding stuff? Readers and writers alike know that too much description makes the action drag.
Another member of the critique group introduced a character in her book with an Hispanic surname, blonde hair and blue eyes. I liked this play against stereotype. I have lived in California since 1972 and have met many rubios. However, a member of the critique group from the Midwest, a good writer and astute reader, was pulled from the story by this seemingly discordant detail.
There are ways the writer could deal with this. She could, for example, have the protagonist note the unusual combination of Hispanic surname and fair features, although as a long-time Californian, the protagonist probably would not think anything of the combo. The writer could explain the occurrence. The writer could change the character to conform to the reader’s preconceived notions.
I didn’t like any of these options. Blame it on my mother. She ingrained in me that learning is part of reading. It is okay for the mind to leave a story and wonder. My choice in the above situation was for the writer to confront the reader with the anomaly of a fair Hispanic character and to let the reader grapple with the information—even if it pulled her out of the story.
I am probably in the minority on this dilemma. What is your über comment?
