Books About Writing Books For People Who Write Books.

Our chat at the Country House this time around will be quite a bit shorter than usual.  This is because I've finally finished the last b***-busting assignment (and the final exam) for my online college class and I really want to get the first draft of novel #2 moving again.

I've been spending quite a bit of time at my local libraries these days (mostly because of their free, high-speed wi-fi networks--gotta keep Windows and the new smartphone updated too, ya know), doing research and checking out their creative writing sections.

I've stumbled upon a trio of books that my colleague authors may find useful in sharpening their skills.

How To Write a Damn Good Novel by James N. Frey

I stumbled upon this book completely by accident while searching for something else at the local Half-Price Books store (hpb.com).  From the blurb: "This is a hard-hitting, no-nonsense approach to the craft of storytelling.  For writers who need to understand the basics of the traditional dramatic novel, who want to learn how to put together a novel that will grab a reader and not let go, this book will be invaluable."

Frey delves into the mechanics of characters, conflict, premise, storytelling, climaxes, POV, dialogue, and editing.  I must admit that I learned a lot from this little book and I plan on re-reading it frequently as I am prone to do with books I enjoy.

Writing Popular Fiction by Dean R. Koontz

Koontz's book was one of my community college library finds.  His emphasis centered more on the individual fictional genres and the intricacies involved in the writing of each.  He also devotes some time to the practicalities of discipline, the creative process, and marketing.  It should be noted, however, that this book was written in 1973; some of the material is noticeably outdated.  But his bottom-line nuts and bolts of sound writing still make for some worthwhile reading for any author whether trad, indie, newbie, or established.

While I don't completely agree with some of his viewpoints, I can't dispute Koontz's track record: the man has a list of best-sellers longer than my arm.  He and literary success are close friends.  When authors of his stature are willing to speak, I'm willing to listen.

Grammar Girl Presents the Ultimate Writing Guide for Students by Mignon Fogarty

This has quickly become one of my personal favorite writing reference books.  Let's face it: grammar can be one very dry subject, especially if it wasn't one of your strengths in school.  Fortunately for me, I've always had something of an "ear" for what sounded right and what didn't.  But I'll admit it: this cheery little book taught me a lot.  Using animal cartoon characters, Ms. Fogarty has rendered distressing aspects like tenses, plurals and singulars, phrases, punctuation, the dreaded preposition, and a host of other terrors into light-hearted, easy-to-understand guidelines that actually make sense once you understand them.  Even if I'm not researching some specific grammatical point, I find myself reading this book for the pure entertainment of it.

I'm the first to admit that the Grammar Girl books are not the ultimate reference materials for all things literary; volumes such as the Chicago Manual of Style--which I also found at a nice price at HPB--are better suited for grinding, heavy-duty research.  But for a quick lookup--and a few moments of humor--this book fills the bill very nicely.

I would suggest Googling these books if you're interested in picking up a copy.  Prices and availability are all over the map depending on the vendor, condition, and whether you buy new or used.  Many libraries stock them as well.

Overall, they're good reading about good writing.

DISCLAIMER: The views expressed in this post are solely my personal opinions based on my own experience and enjoyment of these books.  I received no compensation of any kind for this recommendation.  I have no affiliation or connection with the authors, literary agents, publishers, or retailers.  I either purchased these books with my own funds from a retail outlet or borrowed them from a library.  

So there.

Tweet

Farewell, 2G Cell Phone Dude.

“...You’ve been identified as the user of an older 2G cell phone.…”

Well, excuuuuuse me.

I’d signed onto my cellular carrier’s website to buy a data package; no big deal, I’d done it countless times since buying my older 2G cell phone many years ago.  But this is the first time I’ve been busted AND IDENTIFIED for the heinous offense of using an older 2G cell phone.

Is there a special place in obsolete electronics hell for guys like me?

The old - Samsung A-177

For those much more knowledgeable than I on the warp-speed subject of cell phones—and that’s just about everyone on the planet—I’ve used a Samsung A-177 basic messaging/cell phone for about ten years.  The old boy has served me well and honorably, never breaking, malfunctioning, or failing me at a critical moment.  This little workhorse wasn’t fancy or loaded with gadgets and doodads; nor was it high-tech, fast, or glitzy.  It made and received calls and texts (although I don’t text), took low-res but passable pictures, and performed some rudimentary web browsing.  My carrier’s prepaid usage plan worked for me as well; it fit my needs and budget without undue strain.  All in all, it was a satisfying working relationship. 

So, something naturally had to come along and screw it up; something called 4G LTE.

I kept asking myself what I did to deserve this expensive disruption to my life.  Was I being punished because I didn’t buy enough cookies from that perky, bright-eyed Girl Scout in the supermarket last weekend?  I was touched by the disappointment on her face when I bought only two boxes of Thin Mints from her.  For the record, I LOVE LOVE LOVE Thin Mints.  But two boxes were all I could afford at that moment … honest.

Was it the telemarketer who woke me from a sound sleep to inform me that my computer was infected with a disk-eating virus?  He kindly offered to rescue me and my computer from a fate worse than the blue screen of death if I would give him my credit card number, allow him to remotely access my trusty old machine, and deliver it from the scourge that was threatening its electronic innards.

Such a nice fellow, huh?

I suggested he perform a perverted act with a small barnyard animal and hung up on him.

Is that what doomed my older 2G cell phone?

Or was it because I’m one of those folks who won’t take an item from the front of the supermarket shelf?  As I’ve gotten older (and my digestive tract more persnickety), I’ve come to be acutely aware of food expiration dates.  Knowledgeable shoppers know the supermarket practice of placing the older merchandise at the front of the shelf in hopes of selling it to unaware shoppers.  The newer stock is usually lined up behind, and that’s where I go without hesitation.  I’ll unabashedly grope my way to the rear of the shelf and select my purchases from there.

If there’s ever an angry store manager, a shoppercam, a mousetrap, or a hungry animal hiding back there, I’m in big trouble. 

OUCH!

Is that what doomed my older 2G cell phone?

Whatever the cause, I resigned myself to the inevitability of my trusty older 2G cell phone’s passing.  My reluctant rite of passage into the Smartphone era had begun: fate had decreed that I would adopt an Android because there was no way I could afford anything whose name started with an “i.”

The next step in my odyssey brought me to the phone store where I was instantly overwhelmed by phones, accessories, plans, contracts, data packages, and a salesman named Eddie.  Lining the walls were phones of every description, color, brand, size, snob appeal, price, and capability.  There were phones capable of brewing coffee, brushing your teeth (necessary after drinking all that coffee), walking your dog, telling you your name and your location (like you need a phone for that?), lying to your spouse, filing your taxes, washing your car, soothing you to sleep with a lullaby (with commercials discreetly inserted), curing a hangover, teaching you a foreign language, measuring your body odor (smell-o-phone?), detecting any attempts by government agencies (foreign or domestic) to read your thoughts (saves money on those aluminum foil hats), or beaming you up to the nearest transporter-equipped spaceship (transport to Federation starships is free; extra charges apply for Ferengi, Klingon, or Romulan vessels).    

Although I was intrigued by the prospect of discarding my foil hats (especially my football helmet model … it made my head feel like a baked potato), I thoroughly spoiled Eddie’s day by selecting the Motorola Moto E, a euphemistically-termed “budget phone” which shouldn’t be obsolete for at least 2 days.  But he avenged my frugality by selling me a bagful of accessories I truly didn’t need.  (does a Smartphone really need its very own little rubber ducky to keep it clean?)

We’ll see.  Thanks, Eddie.  You’re definitely NOT on my Christmas card list … not now … not ever.

The new - Motorola Moto E

When I got home with my new phone, I quickly discovered that the Moto E—with its 4G LTE thingy--was a completely different animal from my old phone. 

Holy learning curve, Batman!

That point was driven home when I started mindlessly experimenting with the damned thing and burned through $50 worth of data in about 10 minutes.

Warning, older 2G cell phone user, warning!  You need a different data plan now!

Evolution is expensive, isn’t it?  The dinosaurs learned that lesson too late; and they weren’t even forced to deal with cell phones.

I was beginning to wonder if I’d ever make the transition from an older 2G cell phone user to a happening, with-it, and unbearably cool Smartphone dude.  I started plowing through the User’s Guide—all 68 pages of it.

OMG!

There were actions described in there that would’ve gotten me slapped if I’d tried them with a woman on a first, second, third, fourth, or even fifth date!: flicking, touching, holding, touching AND holding, tapping, double-tapping, twisting (ouch!), dragging (presumably intended for cavemen), pinching, rotating (I guess anything goes these days), squeezing, swiping, muting (for noisy partners?), vibrating (in which pocket do YOU carry YOUR phone?), and streaming (GROSS!).

What was this?  A Smartphone User’s Guide or a sex manual?  This phone and I had just met, and the book was already telling me to do all these things to it?  For cryin’ out loud: we barely knew each other.

Finally, the User’s Guide directed me to the Play Store.  The Play Store?  Uh-oh.  Danger, Will Robinson, danger!  What the hell was The Play Store?  At first glance, it sounded like Victoria’s Secret without the frills, lace, and see-through fabrics.  You know, to-hell-with-the-preliminaries-and-let’s-get-on-with-the-main-event.  I pictured it as one of those windowless little outskirts-of-town shops in which all the customers wore sunglasses (even at night) and were named John. 

An uncle of one of my grade-school classmates owned a store like that.  One day, Jimmy brought something from his uncle’s shop to school for show-and-tell.  As I recall, the boys immediately recognized it and thought it was the greatest thing since spitballs.  The girls—in unison--rolled their eyes, stalked out of the room, and made a run for the Principal’s office.  The nun simply sat there and blushed profusely.

Oh, the humanity!

Jimmy was immediately transferred to a nearby public school.  It wouldn’t surprise me if he were now a multimillionaire Internet marketing entrepreneur.  He had a knack for capturing attention.

Do you hide merchandise from The Play Store waaaaaaay back in your underwear drawer?  You know, along with that stash of brown-paper-wrapped items discreetly tucked beneath your vintage copies of Playboy?  Yeah, THAT stuff.  You may not have a clue what those gadgets are or how to use them ... but experimenting with them and considering the possibilities is a fun diversion on a rainy day.

Armed with my new data plan, my vibrating manual, er, User’s Guide, and diligently practicing to develop digital dexterity in my worm-fingers, I have resignedly taken the first tentative baby-steps toward becoming a happening, with-it, and unbearably cool Smartphone dude.  I’m slowly getting comfortable with my very own Android Smartphone—even respectfully flicking it--and should be an expert in a couple of hours.

Right.

The American poet Ogden Nash once wrote: “Ring out the old, ring in the new, but don’t get caught in between.”  It is with a sense of nostalgia that—during my spells of tapping, pinching, squeezing, et al—I remember my ol’ buddy and the many hours we shared together.  Through low and excellent signal strength, we communicated at 2G speeds without so much as a swipe or a double-tap.  But time and tide now dictate that I must mute the old and rotate the new, for technology waits for neither man nor older 2G cell phone.

So shall it be.

Disconnect. 

Tweet

A Writer Unwrapped.

We spend countless hours creating characters, situations, crises, and resolutions.  We anguish over storylines, plots, dialogue, subplots, personalities, twists and turns, and suspense arcs.  Ideas and inspirations pop into our minds at the damnedest times, and we hurriedly scribble them down in hopes of nurturing them into new and quirky characters, fast-paced and engaging chapters, and literary detours leading to even more suspense and drama.

The next day, many of these inspirational gems sadly end up being slam-dunked into the recycle bin or relegated to a “Bits and Pieces” folder to repose peacefully in Limbo.  If we're lucky, a handful of them will actually make it into the Word document where they'll fight to endure a seemingly endless succession of editing passes.  The survivors will be allowed to reside proudly on the pages of the final manuscript.

If the truth be revealed, every work of fiction includes a bonus--a piece of the author's psyche--as we truly do put ourselves out there along with our words. 

Our deepest fears, our most terrifying nightmares, and those memories we'd dearly love to erase from our minds beget our plots and storylines.  Those formless, unseen things that go bump in the night, the monsters that lurk under our mental beds, and those childhood bogeymen that we never quite managed to outgrow evolve into our characters.  Our most secretive feelings and imaginings become the dialogue and thoughts of our characters as though we've silently appointed them as proxies to think and speak on our behalf.

We spend hours simply staring into space--by all outward appearances--or at computer monitors until our vision blurs (as does our consciousness) and we simply must back away in order to recharge our creative batteries.

Every line of dialogue becomes a point of obsession; every sentence is scrutinized for structure and readability; every paragraph is read and re-read in search of anything irrelevant or, worse yet, boring.  The intrinsic worth of every chapter is evaluated and re-evaluated until we can recite them from memory.

At our worst, many of us--myself very much included--actually grow to despise our own creations because we harshly question their worth, their appeal, and their sales potential.  Somewhere along the line, we stop looking at them as products of our creativity; we begin critiquing them as commercial commodities.

Every author's fear is that his/her work will join the endless parade of other best-seller-wannabes penned by an endless parade of other authors, only to be lost in that mind-numbing procession of book promos found on every social media platform.

At some point, self-doubt, despair, and frustration combine to effectively choke that creative flow we all value so highly.  Hopelessness fills our minds with fears that NOBODY wants to buy our books, NOBODY wants to review them, and--frankly, my dear--NOBODY gives a damn about them ... or us. 

For many of us, what follows is a self-defeating round of what-ifs powered by sheer despair: What if I'm wasting my time and energy?  What if only a select few of us will ever achieve a modicum of success as writers?  What if the vast majority of us simply don't have what it takes?

Then there’s the most gut-wrenching specter of all: What if it NEVER happens for me?

With heartfelt promises to ourselves to finally let go of our pie-in-the-sky dreams and rampant idealism, we store our Word files away somewhere and make at least a token effort to move on with our lives.

Then, next week, next month, or next year, a brilliant idea comes a-calling when we least expect it.  A few random notes are scribbled on a notepad, a napkin, a scrap of paper, or on the back of a receipt.  More ideas come barreling down that dormant pipeline.  A plot begins to assume an intriguing shape; characters emerge from the shadows and demand to be brought to life.  We sit back down at our computers and begin tentatively toying with a handful of newly-hatched concepts.

And the process starts all over again.

Why do we do it?  Because--like it or not--we can't quit.

I've been writing for audiences of varying sizes and shapes since my grammar school days.  Even at that early age, I knew that something inside me delighted in entertaining people through my words.  The term “entertaining” can run the emotional gamut from infuriation to delight, from revulsion to empathy, from sadness to soul-searching, from tension to laughter, and from disbelief to contemplation.  Whatever the reaction, it’s okay as long as the reader feels something after reading my words.

“Please, dear God, don't ever allow my writing to become boring.”

How many times, author colleagues, have YOU recited that prayer?

I'm energized by shining a bright light on the best AND worst of human nature and behavior.  I often state during interviews that I enjoy chronicling ordinary people meeting extraordinary challenges with extraordinary courage, strength, and determination.  There are billions of everyday heroes fighting personal wars in every corner of American life's vast panorama.  It matters little if you're surrounded by the best of everything as was Dana in Child of Privilege, or if simply scratching by every week is a life-draining crusade.  It is my duty--and my pleasure--to weave fictional stories drawn from those silent struggles, sculpt them into novels, and relate them to anyone who will buy a book of mine and read it.  Entertaining, enlightening, revealing, educating, and sharing are, to me, among the noblest of goals in this life.  If my words can move just one reader to think about my characters or stories after the final page has been read, then I've done a good day's writing and I'm happy.

But what about that old bugaboo: reality ... the bane of every indie author?

If the odds against my success are so staggering, why do I continue pursuing this unlikely dream?  Why don't I simply quit and move forward to the next chapter (pardon the pun) of my life?

Believe me, I've asked myself those questions a million times already.

Is it because I long to be another J. K. Rowling or Stephen King?

That's part of it.

Sure, it would be my fondest wish fulfilled to be considered an elite writer by reviewers, book-buyers, and author colleagues alike.  Book tours, signings, interviews, return visits to those bloggers who were kind enough to help me during the lean years, and interacting with fans would be one hell of a great way to live, IMHO.

Fate, any time you wish to tap me on my shoulder, I'm ready.

As many times as I've walked away from writing--or tried to--something invariably pulls me back: some indefinable urge to post just one more short story or ridiculous commentary to my blog; some nagging little voice that keeps chiding me in no uncertain terms that I'm not finished yet; or some gently-glowing ember of a hope that I just might be on the verge of placing my work before the right pair of eyes.

That's what keeps me going ... that and the novels I've yet to write ... the characters I've yet to bring to life ... and the stories I've yet to tell.

Then there's that one unavoidable truth: whether I like it or not, I need to write.  It's in my blood (along with considerable quantities of alcohol, chocolate, and caffeine).

In the true spirit of Rocky Balboa, I'll gamely shake off the latest knockout punch and stagger back to my feet.  I'll keep telling myself that the right pair of eyes is out there somewhere just looking for my writings.  I'll keep telling myself that there are still thousands of reviewers out there to impress and millions of readers to find and win over.  I'll keep telling myself that it ain't time to quit yet. 

Most of all, I'll keep telling myself that tomorrow may find Opportunity knocking on my door.

Rest assured, I'll be here.  I'll welcome him in, heat up a pot of tea, and we'll become close friends.

Then things will get really interesting.

Tweet

A Page-Hungry Bookworm In The Country House

Since my last interview post was received so well, I decided to invite another literary colleague to the Country House for a chat.

My guest for a cup of tea today is Saradia Chatterjee (better known as Sara): blogger, poet, author, reviewer, and student of literature.  She is the owner of the Page-Hungry Bookworm blog and an ardent activist for human and animal rights. 

Sara, welcome to my Country House and thanks for stopping by for a chat.

Thank you so much for the opportunity!

Let’s start out with a question about your blog.  How did the Page-Hungry Bookworm come into being?

I must confess I didn’t start blogging solely due to the fact that I’m an avid reader who wants to share her thoughts on books. I was a clueless Indie writer trying to explore different websites that offered promotional services. That is when I was referred to several review blogs. I realized there are many authors in a similar situation and wanted to do my bit to help them. I also wanted to read the works of contemporary authors who don’t appear in popular media because of their decision to self-publish. I’m very glad I chose to be a book blogger. It’s been a wonderful experience so far.

One of your major passions is social issues, particularly animal rights.  I’ve seen the videos on your YouTube channel, and they are difficult to watch.  How did you come to be so deeply involved in this issue?

I have always been an animal lover but I wasn’t an active participant in any welfare project or something of that kind. My initial interest was wildlife conservation and protection of animals in the wild. While doing some research in that field, I had the chance to interact with some animal activists. I was shocked to learn about the numerous cases of animal cruelty around the world and thought that I should join others in spreading awareness. Many people don’t have much idea about the unthinkable plight of thousands of animals. I believe it is necessary to speak up about this issue as it is often ignored by those in power.

You mentioned that you prefer writing romantic stories rather than reading them.  Why is that?

I haven’t been able to explain that to myself either. Frankly, I used to read very few romances before I started my blog. But I wrote a romance novel and a couple of short stories which have romantic elements in them. I don’t enjoy reading romances because most of them are rather farcical. As I have mentioned in my blog, maybe I just didn’t happen to read that one romance novel that can change my viewpoint about the genre. As to why I like writing romances, I have only one theory. The first story I ever wrote was a romance and I suppose that is why I have some kind of attachment to it.

Please give us some examples of your “other-worldly" philosophy.

My other worldly philosophy consists of ideas such as poetic justice which are far removed from the reality of this planet. But I believe that faith in goodness and justice is absolutely necessary in the struggle for peace.

You’re writing a collection of short stories in which all the protagonists are animals.  Where did the inspiration come from?  How is the writing progressing?

The inspiration obviously came from my love for animals. I wanted to write about animal heroes and so I thought of this book. The writing isn’t really progressing well because I’ve been very busy. I really hope I can make time for this soon.

You have two works currently for sale on Amazon: “Beyond Tragedies” and “In The End.”  Tell us something about them.

Beyond Tragedies is the first book I published. It is general fiction bordering on romance. The main theme of this book is restoring faith in the power of hope.

In the End is a psychological short story. It’s just a few pages long and has a surprise ending. This story was inspired by a real life incident I learned about in a news article. The focus here is on a woman who is battling disease and depression and what happens after she chooses to give up on life.

When you’re comfortably curled up on your sofa and reading for fun, which authors are you most likely to read?

It changes from time to time. Right now, I mostly read Indie books. But if I’m reading for fun, I like to read non-fiction. A lot of people will find this odd but since I’m a student of literature I’m always dealing with fiction, and in this case, non-fiction books are like a breath of fresh air.

As a prolific reviewer on Goodreads, how do you handle the grind of reading an endless parade of books without losing your sanity?

I have grown so accustomed to reading that not reading will drive me to the edge of sanity. But yes, too much of it can become a chore. I don’t overburden myself with more books than I think I’m capable of reading. I read till the experience remains a pleasure. The moment I realize it is becoming a grind, I quit reading for a while. I do accept 90% of review requests if they are for genres I prefer. But that doesn’t mean I rush things. I take my time so that I can properly assess the books. Since you mentioned Goodreads, I would like to confess that I don’t admire it a great deal. This is a little unrelated to your question but I thought I might as well talk about it. Goodreads has too many rules and complications which I found very problematic both as a writer and a reviewer. It’s largely dominated by moderators which is not the case with other social media. I’m aware that many authors love Goodreads but I personally didn’t like my experience there. Now I visit Goodreads just to post my reviews.

Some closing thoughts of your choosing?

I look forward to reading plenty more Indie books and interacting with talented authors. Thanks to all the authors and readers who have made my blog possible! Thanks again, Ross, for this interview and good luck for your future projects!

Sara, it was a pleasure to chat with you.  Thanks so much for stopping by, and I wish you great success in all of your endeavors.

Some places where Sara can be found in cyberspace:

 The Page-Hungry Bookworm blog

 Twitter: https://twitter.com/sarabookworm91

 YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCBQmz2kCqRlbmqZpS8ThTDw

Works available on Amazon:

"In The End" 

"Beyond Tragedies"

 

Tweet

Who Should YOU Be Thanking?

In your pursuit of your dreams--whatever they happen to be--has someone helped you along the way or given you a boost up the ladder?

Was it a teacher?  A guidance counselor?  A family friend?  Someone who had already achieved success in your chosen field of endeavor?  A boss?  A member of the clergy?  A coach?  Or was it simply a caring stranger who saw some potential in you and felt compelled to help nurture it?

Those of us who have been blessed by the generosity of mentors will readily attest to the life-changing potential that even one helping individual can bring to our lives and our quests.

Perhaps the gift they gave you was encouragement when your energy was being sapped by failures and setbacks; perhaps it was confidence in you when your own was flagging badly; maybe it was stinging--but objective--criticism when you lapsed into arrogance and overconfidence; perhaps it was sage advice and wise counsel that empowered you to solve an "unsolvable" problem; or maybe it was a simple word to the wise when one was warranted.

In my life, I've been blessed with several individuals (outside of family) who took an interest in me and my endeavors.

Ed:
Ed was a longtime family friend and the musical director/senior organist of his church.  He was a frequent guest in our home during my grammar school years and had encouraged my awakening interest in playing keyboards.  One day--after a considerable amount of persuasion on my part (perhaps badgering would be more accurate), he invited me to stop by the church after Sunday worship services and check out their beautiful pipe organ.  It wasn't huge by modern pipe organ standards, but in my eyes, it was mammoth and far more powerful than any instrument I'd ever played in my young life.  With its pipe chamber housing thousands of pipes of every size and description, it easily monopolized one entire wall of the building and could effortlessly vibrate the choir loft floor with its sonic power, clarity, and beauty.

After giving his offer considerable thought--about two seconds' worth--I jumped at the chance. 

Decades later, the memories of that wonderful day still flood back to me so vividly.  I hope the Good Lord forgives me for rocking His house the way I did.  After several hours of pure bliss, I was still going strong, intoxicated by the soul-stirring sounds that thundered from those pipe chambers and echoed throughout the building.  Finally, Ed had to pry me away from those keyboards; even then, I surrendered them with the utmost reluctance.  As we were leaving, I asked him--in complete earnestness--about becoming one of the church's organists.  Unfortunately, there were already four highly-skilled musicians on his staff; another one was simply not needed.  Complicating the issue was the fact that I couldn't read musical notation to any useful degree.  In his wisdom, he advised me to concentrate on my schoolwork; there would be plenty of time for music later.           

Over the next several years, however, I was a very frequent visitor to Ed's choir loft.  He allowed me to practice any time the church was empty, and gave quite generously of his time and talents in helping me develop my keyboard technique, interpretive skills, and sense of music appreciation.  He introduced me to so many diverse and in-depth facets of musicianship and--in a very real sense--gave me a priceless musical education that I value to this day.

Wherever you are, Ed, thank you so much for a gift that will keep on giving for the rest of my life.


Mrs. Porter:
When we see teachers portrayed in the entertainment media these days, they are sometimes characterized as cool, laid-back, and near-buddies with their students.

Three strikes and you're out, Mrs. Porter.

Mrs. Porter was my eighth-grade teacher: a stern, old-school (pardon the pun), no-nonsense, you're-in-my-house-and-you-will-behave-by-my-rules educator who could easily scare the living hell out of Hulk Hogan, James T. Kirk, Donald Trump, Darth Vader, Arnold Schwarzenegger, J. R. Ewing, Mr. T., and anyone else crazy enough to mess with her.  Barely five feet tall, with piercing blue eyes that were the forerunners of today's lasers, she ruled her classroom with a withering glare, an autocratic demeanor, and a wooden pointer that could annihilate an army of Star Wars fighters armed with high-tech weaponry.

Looking back, she was fortunate that our classroom lacked a National Hockey League referee.  Otherwise, she would've surely been the most penalized teacher in North America.  That wooden pointer of hers was as lethal in her hands as a hockey stick wielded by the NHL's dirtiest player.  I can almost hear the referee now: "Porter ... two minutes for slashing"; "Porter ... two minutes for spearing"; "Porter ... two minutes for unsportsmanlike conduct"; "Porter ... five minute major penalty for roughing"; "Porter ... two minutes for high-sticking."

You get the picture.  In every student's life, there is a Mrs. Porter.

In the 21st Century, an incriminating video would be taken with a cell phone, posted on YouTube, and a lawsuit filed.  Mrs. Porter would soon find herself working at a fast-food shack.  But back then, teachers were free to rule their rooms with impunity ... not to mention pointers, rulers, blackjacks, baseball bats, brass knuckles, tear gas, flamethrowers, and anything else that helped maintain order. 

And there was inviolable order in the classrooms of that era.

After my first day in her class, I vowed to find her good side--assuming she had one--and do whatever was necessary to get on it as quickly as possible.

Thankfully, it didn't take long for me to find Mrs. Porter's sole vulnerability: creative writing.

She was returning some extra-credit essays to the handful of students who had chosen to write them. (Did you honestly think I'd pass up a chance to write?)  She approached my desk, handed my essay back to me, and actually gave me the slightest, almost imperceptible trace of a smile!  I couldn't believe it!  Mrs. Porter actually almost-smiled at me!  "This is very good," she said softly.  "The best one in the class."

Direct hit!  I was in.

I'm a firm believer in the philosophy of finding something that works and sticking with it.  Needless to say, I eagerly jumped on every extra-credit writing assignment she ever offered; each time I received the same subdued approval.  I devoted hours to polishing and buffing even everyday writing assignments until they were perfect in my admittedly self-serving effort to please her.  I even wrote some short stories (on my own initiative) and asked her to critique them.  Over the course of the school year, I would occasionally stay after school to work with Mrs. Porter on the rudiments of story construction, sentence structure, phrasing, vocabulary, dialogue, character development, and the joy of editing.

Yes, Virginia, there is joy in editing!

Like Ed had done for me musically, Mrs. Porter seemed to enjoy (or at least not scowl quite so intensely) helping me develop and refine this creative sense that comes so naturally for me.  I know I'm a more effective writer today because of her.

Thank you, Mrs. Porter, for showing me the wondrous power of words and the emotions, images, and entire worlds they are capable of creating. 


 
Mr. Peterson: 
Mr. Peterson's storehouse of knowledge amazes me to this day.  He was a high school English teacher who also taught American and English Literature, American Law, Civics, and American History.  One detail that stands out in my mind was his shaved head; this was decades before that look was rendered trendy by Jean-Luc Picard of Star Trek fame.

As something of a "hobby," he was also a Shakespearean scholar and could recite from memory the collective works of the Bard.  (I remember having one hell of a time memorizing just the Gettysburg Address and the preamble to the Constitution!)

His was a teaching style I'd never encountered before.  Perhaps succumbing to an unfulfilled acting urge, he would stand at the front of the classroom and literally "act out" significant events of the Revolutionary War era and the founding of America.  His knowledge of historic American and English court trials was encyclopedic, and he recreated those events with the fervor of a highly-trained actor.  He frequently presented one-man shows, deftly switching between the roles of the principals involved in that day's event.  Before attending his class, I'd never even heard of journalist John Peter Zenger who was tried for libel after publishing newspaper articles castigating the British colonial Governor for corruption; nor had I ever heard of Thomas Paine's historic pamphlet, "Common Sense," one of many documents written to incite the American colonists into breaking away from British colonial rule and establishing their own nation and government.  Mr. Peterson possessed an uncanny command of dialects and could transition flawlessly from one to another in an instant.  You were never certain of who he was at any given moment.  That only added to the fun of learning in his class.

While it brought incredulous stares and a few snickers from some of my classmates, I personally delighted in his Shakespearean performances.  I enjoyed my first tastes of Hamlet, As You Like It (Mr. Peterson's personal favorite), Macbeth, and King Lear thanks to him.  The man's capacity for knowledge was astounding.

My practice of recreating scenes during my writing sessions likely stems from my experience with Mr. Peterson.  While writing Child of Privilege, I actually acted out certain key scenes, scrutinizing my characters' dialogue, movements, positioning, timing, and vocalization.  Now, a scene must "feel real" in my living room before it's allowed into the final manuscript.

This innovative teacher also brought a roll of pennies to each class.  When you answered a question correctly, he would toss you a penny, along with the promise that it would bring you good luck if you worked hard at whatever you pursued in life.        

Thanks, Mister Peterson.  Thanks for the Civics lessons, the American History lessons, the Shakespeare lessons, and the life lessons.  Thanks for the lessons in the value and relevance of literature in our lives.  Most of all, sir, thanks for impressing upon me the value of lifelong learning and how much fun it can be.

 
Chuck:
There are bosses who are nothing more than that: bosses.  They tell you what to do and you do it while counting the minutes until quitting time. 

Then there was Chuck, a Data Processing Manager (that's what they were called back in those days) for a major publishing company.  He wasn't a company man; he wasn't a "yes" man; he wasn't a micro-manager; he wasn't a slave-driver.  Rather, he was a shrewd judge of people and a born leader ... and I thank my lucky stars for the good fortune of having worked for him.

When I first started working for him, I was taking computer theory and business programming night classes at a nearby community college and I thought I knew something ... and my treatment of my co-workers reflected it.  To this day, I suspect that more than one of them may have commented privately to Chuck about my condescending attitude toward them.  When I wasn't busy being a jerk, I could usually be found absorbed in one of the department's many technical manuals and programming books.

My stupidity lasted a grand total of five days until I pushed the wrong button at the wrong time on the computer and promptly plunged the department into eight hours of unplanned downtime.  It took hours of needless extra work by Chuck, myself, the in-house programmer, and the eight keypunch machine operators to get the computer operational again.

Time to start looking for a new job, I feared.

Once the department was functional again, Chuck called me into his office.  I knew what was coming.  I walked in, quickly apologized, and offered my resignation.  "Nobody quits on me," he countered.  "I fire people.  And I'm not in the mood to fire you today ... not even after that dumb-ass mistake you just made.  Besides, I've noticed how much time you spend with your nose in those programming manuals; and I've seen some of your test programs.  You show some potential, and I might be needing another programmer someday.  Who knows?  If you continue with your programming studies--and, more importantly, promise to stop being such an ass-wipe--I'll give you another chance."

Thanks ... I think.

"Now that you realize what a dumb s*** you've been, I'd suggest you get your ass out there and apologize for the extra work you made for the keypunch girls.  Then learn how to keypunch; they'll teach you, and they'll probably get a good laugh out of it.  Then learn our daily operations from top to bottom.  Learn how the department works and how we all get along and depend on each other to get our work done.  Put in your time, pay your dues, treat people with a little kindness, and it'll pay off for you in the long run."  He challenged me with a look that I came to know well through the years.  "You still wanna quit?"

With that inauspicious start began eight years of the best job I'd ever known with the best colleagues and the best boss I'd ever known.  Over the years, I came to regard Chuck as a friend as well as a manager.  It wasn't all that long before he did indeed promote me to in-house programmer where I remained for the rest of my tenure with the company. 

Our department eventually gelled into an extended family.  We celebrated holidays, birthdays, anniversaries, lunch-hour pizza pig-outs, "Secret Santa" parties, and the many funny moments that made life in a fast-paced, crowded, and noisy computer room a bit more tolerable.  Chuck managed the room sometimes with an iron fist, sometimes with kid gloves ... whichever was needed.  He was a capable, practical, seat-of-the-pants psychologist who instinctively knew how to get the best from his team.  And he made it easy for us to give him our best.

After Chuck eventually retired from the company, I moved on to other opportunities.  But I'll always be grateful to him for providing me with the foundation for a satisfying, twenty-plus-year career in software development as it's known today.

I was saddened to learn that Chuck had passed away a few years ago.  I think of him often and take a moment to realize just how lucky I was, especially when I read or hear about "bosses from hell" horror stories.

Thanks, Chuck for being the best damned boss I'd ever worked for ... even when I was so busy being an ass-wipe.   

I've been indeed blessed to know these--and many other--wonderful people who gifted me with their time, their wisdom, and their talents.  For the rest of my days, I'll value their kindnesses--and their memories--as precious possessions.

What about you?  Are there special folks like Ed, Mrs. Porter, Mr. Peterson, and Chuck in your past?  Maybe in your present?  Hopefully, in your future?  Take a moment to remember them--and thank them--either in person or in your thoughts.

A boost upward on life's ladder is a precious gift ...  almost as precious as the wonderful folks who give them. 

Tweet

See it ... Feel it ... Write it

I’ve always admired—and envied—those writers capable of envisioning futuristic civilizations and painting them in glorious detail on the printed page.  Specifically, I refer to those authors successful in the Sci-Fi, Apocalyptic, Dystopian, and related genres.  They not only perform the basic literary tasks of weaving stories, conceiving settings and locales, and fleshing out characters, but they also create in toto the yet-unknown societies in which their characters come into existence, live, love, fight, and die.  It takes a certain breed of writer to visualize an entire world and establish—with an acceptable degree of believability--the sights, morals, behavioral boundaries, smells, dangers, pleasures, sounds, and mores of existence for that world.  I’ve tried some tentative writing in these genres myself with less-than-pleasing results.  So, I must content myself with good ol’ current-day planet Earth.

But that doesn’t mean that those of us who choose to remain of this world are permitted to write shallow, empty, throwaway stories populated by shallow, empty, throwaway characters.  Regardless of whatever world a writer chooses to portray, the responsibility still remains to write worthy stories featuring characters endowed with vitality (positive OR negative), meaning, and depth. 

How?

Seeing, feeling, and writing are—in my humble opinion—three of the most critical skills necessary for an author to effectively convey a story (and its underlying message) to the reader.

Seeing—or visualization, if you prefer—requires a mind’s eye with 20/20 vision.  If you cannot see a character, a setting, a scene, a locale, or an environment on that movie screen in your head, what hope do you possibly have of painting that image on the canvas of your reader’s mind?  This skill is perhaps the most important of the three in this discussion.  Precise vision enhances a character’s “fleshing out” process, giving him/her a face, a human (or other) form, and an image that the reader’s imagination can process and mentally place onstage.

Remember the live radio shows of the 1920s, 30s, 40s, and 50s?  Before the widespread availability of television, they were THE preferred prime-time entertainment option for the millions of Americans who tuned in every night for the latest episodes of Burns and Allen, Gunsmoke, Fibber McGee and Molly, The Shadow, The Life of Riley, Dragnet, The Great Gildersleeve, The Lone Ranger, and a wide assortment of others.

Why were they so successful?

Through the creative use of background music, sound effects, omniscient narrators, ingenious scripts, and the considerable talents of vocal performers, these programs utilized the principle of the theater of the mind: presenting their stories so eloquently through words, music, and sounds that each individual audience member was able to mentally “complete the picture” in his or her own mind.  For the creatives of that era, this was by no means a simple task; nor is it for the current-day author with only the written word as a medium.

For example, I formulated a clear and highly-defined mental picture of each principal setting in Child of Privilege: the Van Werner mansion; Dana’s bedroom; Richard’s study; Red’s, the rundown honky-tonk where Dana performed her impromptu nude dance to pay for a bus ticket; the cold, dehumanizing jail cell where she spent the night dreading her father’s arrival; Beckett Junction which was inspired by an actual rural community with which I’m familiar; and the college-dorm-room clutter of Greg Parmenter’s cottage.

The same precise visualization applies to characters as well.  An interviewer once asked me to select a cast for a hypothetical Child of Privilege movie.     

If only it were true!

I answered this question very easily because I had long ago formed exact facial impressions of my principal players.  I can still vividly see Richard’s pencil-thin mustache, slicked-back hair, and ubiquitous scowl; Maggie’s demure manner, excessive makeup, and feigned smile; Dana’s warm brown eyes, sandy-blonde tresses, peaches-and-cream complexion, and girl-next-door charm; Reavis’s vulgarity, drooling leer, and insatiable sexual neediness; and Angelo’s inner misgivings, hangdog expression, and hidden fear. 

Now that you can “see” your novel, the next step is to feel it. 

I’ve always believed that readers prefer emotionally-rich and multi-layered characters.  Let’s face it: we are emotional creatures.  Your players need feelings—whether evil or benign--to enable the rest of us to relate to them on some level.  Otherwise, they may project themselves from the page as cold, empty, and unappealing.

So, what kinds of emotions should they display?  And where should those emotions come from?

From YOU, of course.  Who is better qualified?  You created them; you gave them form; you gave them their raison d’être.  Who better than you to program their hearts and minds with emotions that’ll endear them to your reading audience?  A daunting task?  Not at all.

I accomplish this in two ways: First, I endow nearly every character I create with some personal attribute of mine, a tiny piece of myself, you might say.  This serves as the character’s emotional foundation.   I then use the rest of the novel to continually build—brick by brick, emotion by emotion--upon that foundation, creating an emotional portfolio that ultimately enlivens the player with a certain humanness that a reader can sense and relate to quite readily. 

Second, I place myself in my characters’ roles.  I ask myself what emotions I would be experiencing if I were personally living each role in the story.

In a single word: empathy.

Would I be able to breathe under my smothering feelings of powerlessness as I listened to my parents battering each other in the next bedroom?  How would I endure the trauma and pain of being pummeled by my father for no fathomable reason?  What emotions would be swirling through my mind as I abandoned the wealth, social status, and luxury of my past and found myself riding some dingy bus bound for nowhere?  How embarrassed would I feel standing onstage and taking my clothes off before a honky-tonk packed with drunken strangers?  How would I cope with the despair of spending a night in a jail cell waiting for my father to arrive and drag me back home to a certain nightmare?

What depths of fear and rage would drive me when I finally confronted the man whose hired thugs had pursued me—like a hunted animal--across the country?

This was undoubtedly the most challenging aspect of writing Child of Privilege: defining and molding into words the emotional imperatives of such diametrically-opposed personalities as Dana, Richard, Maggie, Reavis, and Angelo.

The question of how successful I was can only be answered by the world’s book-buyers.

The final element—write it—is probably the most bewildering for many writers to master.  Once the plots and subplots are finalized, the characters outlined and “fleshed out,” and the timing, sequence, and logistics issues resolved, the author then turns to the world’s largest toolbox: the English language.

With options from collective pronouns to adverbs (vigorously frowned upon in some circles), from compound subjects to independent clauses, from the dreaded preposition to split infinitives, and from participles to adjectives, a writer can become overwhelmed—and some do—by the sheer number of variables involved in constructing even the simplest cognitive sentence.  Every sentence seems to require 100 decisions and corrections before it flows properly from the page.  Then there are questions of verb tense.  And what about singular vs. plural?  POV?  Flashbacks?  Narrative vs. dialogue?  Dashes?  Hypens?  Semicolons?  Commas?  Spelling?

Writing is such fun!

That’s why—whether I’m composing an email, zipping out a short story, or stringing 96K words together—Mister Webster (both printed and online versions) and my trusty thesaurus are never far away.  I’ve also started devouring every grammar book carried by my local library.

Inquiring minds want to know!

And so the creative process goes: conceived by your mind’s eye, birthed by your emotions, matured by your writing skills, and given in marriage to your readers’ eyes.

If all of that were simple, everybody would be doing it!

A parting thought: For those who are curious, the hypothetical cast of the hypothetical Child of Privilege movie can be found here: http://whisperingstories.com/the-writing-life-of-ross-ponderson/

Tweet

I Got Your Expert Right Here

The experts have warned me that I'm doomed to failure.  The experts have warned me that I'll be lost among the tens of thousands of other author hopefuls all searching for the same pot of gold at the same end of the same rainbow: the best-seller list.  The experts have warned me that my books will probably gather more dust than readers.

Well, I guess I’d better heed their sage advice (after all, they are the experts!), fold up my writing tent, and take up a more realistic hobby like growing candy canes in my backyard. 

Or perhaps I’ll quote Vinnie Barbarino, TV’s eminent 1970s philosopher/Sweathog: “Up your nose with a rubber hose!”

I don’t care about the experts.  I can’t allow them to take something so precious—my dream of writing success--away from me.  Nor can I allow them to dictate to me.  Most importantly, I can't allow them to affect my writing.

My lifelong wish has been to succeed as a writer; not just a good writer; not just an average writer.  My Holy Grail is that golden circle of writing's elite, one of those iconic storytellers whose words mirror life and reflect it back to the reader--like a prism—in a kaleidoscope of varying hues and shapes.  Sometimes I worry that my mortality will catch up with me before I'm able to conceive, develop, and write down all the stories that dominate my imagination at times.  I surely hope that doesn't happen.

So many lives out there are—as Thoreau so aptly observed--being lived in silent desperation.  There are perhaps billions of people out there suffering in silence, fighting private wars against heartache, pain, disease, misfortune, cruelty, and, in some cases, themselves.  There are so many people out there for whom getting out of bed in the morning is a major accomplishment.  Rest assured, they have names, faces, and lives, and are all around us: they could be your co-worker, your best friend, your neighbor, the clerk at your local retail establishment, or the person sitting next to you in church.  They could even be a part of your own family. 

It is their stories that I want to tell as succinctly and honorably as my meager abilities will allow. 

I've always believed that life's most meaningful stories are those of oppression, of man's inhumanity to man, of fighting losing battles, and of sadness so paralyzing that dying peacefully in one’s sleep could be considered a blessing.  These are tales of inner conflict, of battle, and of fighting to the last ounce of one's strength.  As dark as that sounds, these stories can be transformed into tomes of overcoming, of victory, of finally beating down one's personal demons and living life in a productive, fulfilling, and joyous way.  I call them "people stories."  And some creative force I’ll never be able to define drives me to chronicle those battles and reduce them to words that the rest of us can take into our hearts, feel, and understand.

It's my goal to write about ordinary people beating odds that would terrify Las Vegas.  Look around you.  Everybody has a story; everybody is a story.  When I write a novel, a tiny piece of my soul is lovingly tucked between those covers along with my words.  I invest thousands of hours in the subtle nuances—the implications, the innuendos, the double meanings, and the hidden messages--of a novel.  If you promise not to tell anyone, I'll let you in on a little secret: sometimes I envision myself living the lives of my characters.  Sometimes I’ll cry as I'm writing; sometimes I’ll laugh hysterically; sometimes I’ll become a shadowy character standing silently in the background.  For me, emotions are the heart, soul, and the very core of all great writing: panic, joy, anger, love, sorrow, hatred, envy, loneliness, revenge, despair, and fear all reduced to words and painted on a page like so much human graffiti.

The deepest fear of every writer lies in writing a boring book: a book that is so hamstrung and hog-tied by political correctness, empty rules, meaningless traditions, and outmoded conventions that its true voice is stifled and choked to the point of rasping silence.

I ask you, dear reader: of what possible value is a book that doesn't move you?

Every word, sentence, paragraph, and chapter of Child of Privilege—and every other novel for that matter--is there to engage you on some level.  Did reading it bring about feelings of contentment and relief?  Did you feel uneasy?  Uncomfortable?  Disturbed?  Angry?  Were there moments that made you laugh?  Cry?  Wonder?  Empathize?

EXCELLENT!  Then I've succeeded as a writer.  On the other hand, if you found my words and ideas boring, formulaic, predictable, or passive, I sincerely apologize and will try my damnedest to do better the next time around.

I keep telling myself that success’s lightning bolt could strike at any time, that I’ll someday achieve elite writer status, that my impossible dream will actually come true and my books will indeed claw their way onto the best-seller list.  That's pretty much all I have to keep me going as a writer.  That’s about all many indie authors have.  Some days, it's enough; on other days, however, it isn't, and I’m sorely tempted on those blue days to chuck it all into a closet and forget about it.

Looking back on Child of Privilege, I readily admit that it’s a violent, disturbing, and frightening story.  The feedback I’ve received—for which I am very grateful and humbled—readily reflects the book’s dark tone.

But please ask yourself this question: How violent, disturbing, and frightening is it to be pummeled at any second by somebody living in your home?  It’s a sad but horrifying fact that Domestic Violence is pervasive in our society, undelineated by income, race, culture, or class.  It causes untold misery and heartache for millions of people and destroys individuals as well as entire families.

It’s a classic people story, one I deeply felt (and still do) needed to be told.  Thus onto Amazon’s shelves came a novel about a lovable debutante serving as a human punching bag for her mentally-unbalanced and sadistic father.  While it saddens me that discomfort and revulsion will deter some folks from ever reading it, I know I left my best on those pages.  I’ll always be proud of my literary firstborn Child of Privilege.  My conscience as a writer is clear.   

The rest, dear reader, is in your hands.

Writers’ imaginations are abundant with stories both wonderful and repulsive.  There are stories about lives productive and aimless, about fortunes made and lost, about loves found and squandered, and about the day-to-day battles we all know as "survival."  We indie authors live to tell those stories, albeit through occasionally imperfect prose and sometimes poorly-constructed sentences. 

But our literary hearts are in good places.

We’re anxious to tell you about the hidden lives unfolding in the next apartment, in the house across the street, on the other side of the country, and on the other side of the world.

What does it cost you?  With a trip to your local bookstore (assuming there is one!) or a log-on to Amazon to buy a tangible copy or a download, you can purchase your key to the world of people, stories, and ideas.

A true bargain if you ask me.

Allow me to convey to you--through my words--how it feels to ... whatever.  Allow me--and other writers out there--to be your looking-glass onto this huge, crazy world and the people who inhabit it.  I volunteer to act as your conduit into the thoughts and feelings so keenly felt by the people who surround you every day.

Yes, dear reader, I still want to be a writer, an elite writer.  With Child of Privilege, I've already begun that arduous journey.  I invite you to join me in exploring those roads less traveled that silently await us just over the horizon.

There's so much I want to tell you about.  Let's explore people, places, ideas, and life itself--through the written word--together.

I’m looking forward to your company.

Tweet