There aren't many things a writer appreciates more than positive feedback. Well, okay, there might be a few I could think of, like say a three-book contract with a half-million dollar advance, or a single-digit number on the New York Times Bestseller List. Maybe a call for advice on a thorny writing issue from Stephen King or Dan Brown. A spot on Oprah's Book Club.
Okay, there are some things better than positive feedback, now that I really think about it. But for most of us who aren't Stephen King or Dan Brown but are just struggling along, writing deep into the night after getting home from work or early in the morning before the kids get up or frantically typing away on our lunch breaks, the prospect of a little positive feedback is pretty cool in itself.
I've been fortunate in that regard, having had my first-ever published story included in Wolfmont Publishing's Ten for Ten, a collection of ten of the top stories culled from the Crime and Suspense Ezine which was published in the summer of 2008. And having two stories simultaneously end up as finalists for the Best Short Story Derringer Award this past spring.
But sometimes you have to wonder whether anyone is really paying attention, especially if you're not particularly adept at marketing yourself in an age when anyone and everyone seems to be screaming "Look at me!" at the top of their lungs.
That's why it was gratifying to find out this past weekend that my story, "PussyKat," which was featured in the premier issue of the online magazine House of Horror, has been selected to appear in a three hundred page anthology titled House of Horror Best of 2009. This book will be packed full of stories from some of the top up-and-coming horror authors and I am pleased and gratified that Sam Cox from House of Horror has chosen to include my little tale of an extramarital dalliance gone wrong.
My understanding is that this book will be available shortly, and although I have some other short stories out on submission to venues that I am awaiting decisions on, this news is a very pleasing way to end what has been an exciting and productive 2009 for me. I hope to continue the progress I have made over the last couple of years in 2010, and would be humbed and thrilled if you wanted to come along for the ride.
Thanks for checking out this post, and if you have taken the time out of your busy life to read even one story of mine, I would like to thank you from the bottom of my heart. You rock!
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Friday, October 30, 2009
If It's November, I Must Be Writing a Novel
A few years ago, I started a little sports blog at Foxsports.com, mostly as a way to combine my dual passions for writing and sports than out of any real notion that anybody might be interested in what I had to say.
It took a while, but eventually I built up a fairly decent following, not to mention discovering a number of very talented writers whose work I enjoyed reading. In October, 2006, one of those writers made an offhand comment on one of my blogs about something called "NaNoWriMo," telling me she was going to participate for the second year in a row and inviting me to join in as well.
I was pretty sure "NaNoWriMo" had nothing to do with sports, since I had never heard of it, but I had no earthly idea what it was. Honestly, it sounded vaguely menacing, in a science-fiction, aliens-taking-over-the-world sort of way.
When I asked this blogger what the hell she was talking about, she explained that "NaNoWriMo" was short for "National Novel Writing Month," where participants commit to writing a 50,000 word novel in the month of November. Just November. Seriously.
The concept sounded just crazy enough to be appealing and although I now knew it didn't involve aliens taking over the earth (Unless that's what I chose to write a novel about), it was damned scary in it's own way. Naturally, I decided to try.
I had been itching to try writing a book for a while - blogging about sports was a blast but writing fiction has really been what I wanted to do since I was a little kid. I was hooked when I discovered the Hardy Boys and Sherlock Holmes.
So on November 1, 2006 I began writing a tale about a professional assassin who really wants out of the life but isn't quite able to escape it. His downfall is that he's simply a sucker for anyone who has been wronged and requires his special talents in order to right that wrong.
To my utter amazement, by November 30 I had written the required 50,000 words, and was thus a winner in my first-ever NaNoWriMo attempt! The story wasn't finished, however, so I kept going, and by the time I wrote "The End", I was the proud owner of the first draft for a 95,000 word novel titled The Fixer.
I have participated in NaNoWriMo every year since. I won again in 2007 with what ended up being an 89,000 word horror novel titled Paskagankee, and in 2008 I completed an 88,000 word thriller titled Final Vector. I didn't win last year because I had already started the novel, and when I finished writing it in mid-November, I had nothing left to write.
I won't make that mistake again, though. This year I am planning a thriller about a regular guy who happens onto the attempted kidnapping of a teenage girl. He breaks up the crime and saves the girl, but in doing so, puts his own family squarely in the sights of the unhinged criminal.
If you're a writer, and maybe even if you're a reader, you have probably by now heard of National Novel Writing Month. If not, think of it as the Olympics for writer-nerds. As they freely admit on the NaNoWriMo website, "The ONLY thing that matters in NaNoWriMo is output. It's all about quantity, not quality. The kamikaze approach forces you to lower your expectations, take risks, and write on the fly."
When I completed my three previous novels, two of which I started during NaNoWriMo and the third of which I finished during it, all I had were very rough first drafts. All of them required extensive editing and rewriting before they ever reached the point where I would be comfortable having anyone else look at them.
But they all eventually reached that point and while I remain unpublished - at least as far as novels are concerned - I have received constructive criticism as well as encouragement from agents and independent publishers and remain convinced it is only a matter of time before I join the ranks of professional novelists.
If you're a writer and you are participating in NaNoWriMo 2009, feel free to add me as a writing buddy. If you're not a writer but have a morbid curiosity as to why anyone in their right mind would attempt to write 50,000 words in thirty days, you are welcome to use this link and follow my progress.
I fully expect to pop up from under my rock and post the occasional blog, but just in case our paths don't cross for the next month, enjoy November! I'll have my nose to the grindstone, or at least my fingers on the keyboard, composing fiction and wreaking havoc on the poor people who populate my new novel . . . I can't wait!
It took a while, but eventually I built up a fairly decent following, not to mention discovering a number of very talented writers whose work I enjoyed reading. In October, 2006, one of those writers made an offhand comment on one of my blogs about something called "NaNoWriMo," telling me she was going to participate for the second year in a row and inviting me to join in as well.
I was pretty sure "NaNoWriMo" had nothing to do with sports, since I had never heard of it, but I had no earthly idea what it was. Honestly, it sounded vaguely menacing, in a science-fiction, aliens-taking-over-the-world sort of way.
When I asked this blogger what the hell she was talking about, she explained that "NaNoWriMo" was short for "National Novel Writing Month," where participants commit to writing a 50,000 word novel in the month of November. Just November. Seriously.
The concept sounded just crazy enough to be appealing and although I now knew it didn't involve aliens taking over the earth (Unless that's what I chose to write a novel about), it was damned scary in it's own way. Naturally, I decided to try.
I had been itching to try writing a book for a while - blogging about sports was a blast but writing fiction has really been what I wanted to do since I was a little kid. I was hooked when I discovered the Hardy Boys and Sherlock Holmes.
So on November 1, 2006 I began writing a tale about a professional assassin who really wants out of the life but isn't quite able to escape it. His downfall is that he's simply a sucker for anyone who has been wronged and requires his special talents in order to right that wrong.
To my utter amazement, by November 30 I had written the required 50,000 words, and was thus a winner in my first-ever NaNoWriMo attempt! The story wasn't finished, however, so I kept going, and by the time I wrote "The End", I was the proud owner of the first draft for a 95,000 word novel titled The Fixer.
I have participated in NaNoWriMo every year since. I won again in 2007 with what ended up being an 89,000 word horror novel titled Paskagankee, and in 2008 I completed an 88,000 word thriller titled Final Vector. I didn't win last year because I had already started the novel, and when I finished writing it in mid-November, I had nothing left to write.
I won't make that mistake again, though. This year I am planning a thriller about a regular guy who happens onto the attempted kidnapping of a teenage girl. He breaks up the crime and saves the girl, but in doing so, puts his own family squarely in the sights of the unhinged criminal.
If you're a writer, and maybe even if you're a reader, you have probably by now heard of National Novel Writing Month. If not, think of it as the Olympics for writer-nerds. As they freely admit on the NaNoWriMo website, "The ONLY thing that matters in NaNoWriMo is output. It's all about quantity, not quality. The kamikaze approach forces you to lower your expectations, take risks, and write on the fly."
When I completed my three previous novels, two of which I started during NaNoWriMo and the third of which I finished during it, all I had were very rough first drafts. All of them required extensive editing and rewriting before they ever reached the point where I would be comfortable having anyone else look at them.
But they all eventually reached that point and while I remain unpublished - at least as far as novels are concerned - I have received constructive criticism as well as encouragement from agents and independent publishers and remain convinced it is only a matter of time before I join the ranks of professional novelists.
If you're a writer and you are participating in NaNoWriMo 2009, feel free to add me as a writing buddy. If you're not a writer but have a morbid curiosity as to why anyone in their right mind would attempt to write 50,000 words in thirty days, you are welcome to use this link and follow my progress.
I fully expect to pop up from under my rock and post the occasional blog, but just in case our paths don't cross for the next month, enjoy November! I'll have my nose to the grindstone, or at least my fingers on the keyboard, composing fiction and wreaking havoc on the poor people who populate my new novel . . . I can't wait!
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Freud Would Have a Field Day
I do some of my best thinking when I'm asleep, or nearly so.
Anyone who knows me would probably not be surprised by that admission, but it never ceases to amaze me. I can't tell you how many times I have been stuck on a plot twist, or have written my protagonist into a corner which I have no idea how to get him/her out of, or can't come up with an original idea for a short story or novel, and as I'm drifting off to sleep, something comes hurtling out of nowhere and smashes me over the head.
Sometimes, of course, it's my wife trying to get me to stop snoring, but just as often it's the kernel of an idea that helps me figure out where I want to go with my story or novel. In the beginning, it would catch me by surprise. I would have no conscious memory of even thinking about writing, and yet I would suddenly visualize the solution to my dilemma with a clarity which approached "vision" status.
It has gotten to the point where I now make a conscious effort to dwell on the problem I'm experiencing in my writing as I feel myself beginning to drift off to sleep. Now don't get me wrong; I'm not going to try to make you believe that it happens all the time, or even most of the time. But it happens often enough that I know I can rely on my subconscious mind to help me out a pretty fair percentage of the time.
At first I would have a hard time remembering my "vision" when I woke up the next morning. My wife told me to keep a pen and paper next to the bed and write down my ideas, but honestly I am so close to falling asleep when they hit that I'm really not able to wake up enough to write them down. I've even lost a few. Now, though, I have gotten to the point where I am usually able to recall my "visions" from the previous night with little or no trouble.
I have to admit it's equal parts comforting and disturbing to know my subconscious mind has so much control over me. I assume we are all in the same boat in that regard, although maybe I'm just telling myself that so I won't worry too much about how close I am to occupying a rubber room with my arms tied into a straitjacket.
Sometimes I wonder what Freud would say about this whole thing, but then again, maybe it's better if I don't know.
Anyone who knows me would probably not be surprised by that admission, but it never ceases to amaze me. I can't tell you how many times I have been stuck on a plot twist, or have written my protagonist into a corner which I have no idea how to get him/her out of, or can't come up with an original idea for a short story or novel, and as I'm drifting off to sleep, something comes hurtling out of nowhere and smashes me over the head.
Sometimes, of course, it's my wife trying to get me to stop snoring, but just as often it's the kernel of an idea that helps me figure out where I want to go with my story or novel. In the beginning, it would catch me by surprise. I would have no conscious memory of even thinking about writing, and yet I would suddenly visualize the solution to my dilemma with a clarity which approached "vision" status.
It has gotten to the point where I now make a conscious effort to dwell on the problem I'm experiencing in my writing as I feel myself beginning to drift off to sleep. Now don't get me wrong; I'm not going to try to make you believe that it happens all the time, or even most of the time. But it happens often enough that I know I can rely on my subconscious mind to help me out a pretty fair percentage of the time.
At first I would have a hard time remembering my "vision" when I woke up the next morning. My wife told me to keep a pen and paper next to the bed and write down my ideas, but honestly I am so close to falling asleep when they hit that I'm really not able to wake up enough to write them down. I've even lost a few. Now, though, I have gotten to the point where I am usually able to recall my "visions" from the previous night with little or no trouble.
I have to admit it's equal parts comforting and disturbing to know my subconscious mind has so much control over me. I assume we are all in the same boat in that regard, although maybe I'm just telling myself that so I won't worry too much about how close I am to occupying a rubber room with my arms tied into a straitjacket.
Sometimes I wonder what Freud would say about this whole thing, but then again, maybe it's better if I don't know.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Groucho Marx Had It Right
I'm going to take a leap of faith here and assume you have a Facebook account. I tend to run roughly a half-decade behind the rest of the world in using the latest technological advancements, and I have a Facebook page, so I'm going to go ahead and assume you do, too.
So you know those little blocky ads that run down the right side of the Facebook page? I'm sure you've seen them, they promise a coupon a day to eat out cheap in [Insert name of the closest city to wherever your IP address is located here], or show some hot chick toting a machine gun in an attempt to get you to play Mafia Wars, or promise to teach you how to self-publish your book (Fifty marketing tips!)
As near as I can determine, they seem to run in a kind of rotation, depending upon some AI determination of what your interests are. Somehow the collective computer intelligence of the web determined that I'm a writer, so I get those self-publishing ones a lot. Or maybe they're completely random, I don't really know, although I doubt it - what would be the point of touting self-publishing to someone who doesn't even read books, much less write them?
Anyway, my favorite little blocky ad that shows up on the right side of my Facebook page every now and then is the one that advises me, "Authors Get Honored Now. Find out if you're eligible to be included in the prestigious Cambridge Who's Who Registry of Distinguished Individuals."
What an invitation! I can be "distinguished," perhaps even if I haven't actually done anything! Of course, if "Cambridge," whatever that means (Cambridge, England? Cambridge, Massachusetts? Some guy named Cambridge? Who knows?), is really willing to consider li'l ole me distinguished, isn't that sort of watering down the term to the point where it's damned near meaningless?
I've achieved a small amount of success placing short stories in print and online media, and I continue to write novels, feeling strongly that I will have success with them at some point, maybe even selling a few copies. But even I, as much as I like myself, find it hard to believe any of that makes me "distinguished."
Groucho Marx once famously said, "I don't want to belong to any club that will accept me as a member." That's more or less how I feel about angling to get myself placed in Cambridge's Who's Who Registry of Distinguished Individuals. What's the point, really? If you asked anyone who knows me to give you fifty separate words with which to describe me, I'm confident "Distinguished" wouldn't appear anywhere on anyone's list.
Disingenuous, maybe. Disappointing, perhaps, depending on who you asked. Distractable, certainly. Distinguished, not so much.
So, to the individual or individuals tasked with the unenviable job of determining just who the hell is worthy of inclusion in the the Who's Who Registry of Distingished Individuals (Author Division), I humbly offer this small tidbit of advice. Maybe you should stop paying for that little blocky ad in Facebook, and instead start, you know, actually reading people's work.
So you know those little blocky ads that run down the right side of the Facebook page? I'm sure you've seen them, they promise a coupon a day to eat out cheap in [Insert name of the closest city to wherever your IP address is located here], or show some hot chick toting a machine gun in an attempt to get you to play Mafia Wars, or promise to teach you how to self-publish your book (Fifty marketing tips!)
As near as I can determine, they seem to run in a kind of rotation, depending upon some AI determination of what your interests are. Somehow the collective computer intelligence of the web determined that I'm a writer, so I get those self-publishing ones a lot. Or maybe they're completely random, I don't really know, although I doubt it - what would be the point of touting self-publishing to someone who doesn't even read books, much less write them?
Anyway, my favorite little blocky ad that shows up on the right side of my Facebook page every now and then is the one that advises me, "Authors Get Honored Now. Find out if you're eligible to be included in the prestigious Cambridge Who's Who Registry of Distinguished Individuals."
What an invitation! I can be "distinguished," perhaps even if I haven't actually done anything! Of course, if "Cambridge," whatever that means (Cambridge, England? Cambridge, Massachusetts? Some guy named Cambridge? Who knows?), is really willing to consider li'l ole me distinguished, isn't that sort of watering down the term to the point where it's damned near meaningless?
I've achieved a small amount of success placing short stories in print and online media, and I continue to write novels, feeling strongly that I will have success with them at some point, maybe even selling a few copies. But even I, as much as I like myself, find it hard to believe any of that makes me "distinguished."
Groucho Marx once famously said, "I don't want to belong to any club that will accept me as a member." That's more or less how I feel about angling to get myself placed in Cambridge's Who's Who Registry of Distinguished Individuals. What's the point, really? If you asked anyone who knows me to give you fifty separate words with which to describe me, I'm confident "Distinguished" wouldn't appear anywhere on anyone's list.
Disingenuous, maybe. Disappointing, perhaps, depending on who you asked. Distractable, certainly. Distinguished, not so much.
So, to the individual or individuals tasked with the unenviable job of determining just who the hell is worthy of inclusion in the the Who's Who Registry of Distingished Individuals (Author Division), I humbly offer this small tidbit of advice. Maybe you should stop paying for that little blocky ad in Facebook, and instead start, you know, actually reading people's work.
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Nobel Peace Prize Marred by Controversy
In a shocking display, President Barack Obama's Nobel Peace Prize acceptance speech was interrupted yesterday by an angry outburst from singer Kanye West.
The man normally noted for his classy and graceful behavior at public events stormed out of the crowd gathered to hear the president's remarks, grabbing the microphone and ranting, "Barack, I'm really happy for you. I'll let you finish, but Beyonce had one of the most peaceful years of all time! One of the most peaceful years of all time!"
Security personnel rushed into action, escorting West from the podium and ejecting him from the Rose Garden. Witnesses reported hearing the furious hip-hop superstar mutter, "Jackass? I've got your jackass right here, Mr. President," as he was led off the White House grounds.
A few minutes later, Beyonce, on stage to accept some award or another, graciously ceded a portion of her acceptance speech to Mr. Obama, saying, "I remember when I was up for my first Nobel Prize and it was one of the most exciting moments of my life. So I'd like for Barack to come out and have his moment."
The remainder of the ceremony was uneventful, although insiders report that President Obama may not be done issuing Nobel acceptance speeches just yet. A member of the Nobel committee, speaking under condition of anonymity, said yesterday, "Our decision to award the peace prize to the U.S. President is based on our knowledge of just how badly the man wants peace in the world. So even though he has done nothing yet to actually, you know, achieve peace, we felt it appropriate to award him the prize. We have recently learned Mr. Obama feels just as strongly about eliminating cancer and other dread diseases in our lifetime, so we are seriously considering awarding the president the Nobel Prize for Medicine as well. Stay tuned."
The man normally noted for his classy and graceful behavior at public events stormed out of the crowd gathered to hear the president's remarks, grabbing the microphone and ranting, "Barack, I'm really happy for you. I'll let you finish, but Beyonce had one of the most peaceful years of all time! One of the most peaceful years of all time!"
Security personnel rushed into action, escorting West from the podium and ejecting him from the Rose Garden. Witnesses reported hearing the furious hip-hop superstar mutter, "Jackass? I've got your jackass right here, Mr. President," as he was led off the White House grounds.
A few minutes later, Beyonce, on stage to accept some award or another, graciously ceded a portion of her acceptance speech to Mr. Obama, saying, "I remember when I was up for my first Nobel Prize and it was one of the most exciting moments of my life. So I'd like for Barack to come out and have his moment."
The remainder of the ceremony was uneventful, although insiders report that President Obama may not be done issuing Nobel acceptance speeches just yet. A member of the Nobel committee, speaking under condition of anonymity, said yesterday, "Our decision to award the peace prize to the U.S. President is based on our knowledge of just how badly the man wants peace in the world. So even though he has done nothing yet to actually, you know, achieve peace, we felt it appropriate to award him the prize. We have recently learned Mr. Obama feels just as strongly about eliminating cancer and other dread diseases in our lifetime, so we are seriously considering awarding the president the Nobel Prize for Medicine as well. Stay tuned."
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Things I've Learned From Editing; or, "What the Hell Was I Thinking When I Wrote That?"
When I sat down to write my first novel, I had a pretty good idea what I wanted to have happen. I knew who all the main characters were going to be, I knew what sort of trouble they were going to get into, and - more or less - I knew how the characters were going to extricate themselves from these situations and how the book was going to end.
So I wrote it.
It really was that simple. That's not to say I didn't realize it was going to be a lot of work, because I did. And it was.
But it was also one of the most gratifying feelings I've ever had when I wrote "THE END" after 95,000 words worth of murder, deception, kidnappings, plot twists and other stunning developments. "A roller-coaster ride of thrills and chills," as one reviewer put it.*
There was one thing I didn't realize, though, when I started out to write a novel. It's the dirty little secret that none of the wonderful writers I admire so much ever told me.** And it's this: When you write THE END after 95,000 words of murder, deception, and all that other stuff I wrote in the last paragraph, your novel isn't really finished. Your work isn't ending, it's just beginning.
You see, there's an unassuming little word in the English language called "edit." Look at it sitting back there in the last sentence. Easy to overlook, right? It's short, it's the Napoleon of words. But it's mean, and it hangs over everything you do as a writer.
Because after you write THE END, you now have to go back over your masterpiece and clean up all the crap. It's kind of like having a baby, only not in the obvious, cliched sense where I talk about the labor pains of the creative process, of writing as giving birth. Please, give me a break. I was there for the birth of my children, and I have to tell you, if writing was anything like that, I wouldn't go near it with a ten foot pen.
No, when I say writing a novel is like having a baby, I'm talking about once you get the little sweetheart home from the hospital. And you realize that, okay, yeah, sure, you love her with all your heart, but . . . uh . . . there's an awful lot of . . . you know . . . shit inside her. And it's up to YOU to clean it all up.
That's where the word "edit" comes in. All that stuff that seemed so witty, or ingenious, or clever at two in the morning or during your lunch break at work when you were writing like mad because it was the only time you had all day to get it done, suddenly looks lamer than Kanye West at an awards show.
That snappy dialogue you had your protagonist whip out that made the female main character go all weak in the knees? Boring. Dude, If you talked like that in real life you would never have gotten a date, which would have given you plenty of time to write, which maybe would have helped you avoid stale, goofy dialogue like what you wrote that you now have to EDIT!
That clever method you used to help the aformentioned stud wriggle out of the tight spot you put him in while having no clue how to help him escape? Ridiculous. Even MacGyver couldn't make a semiautomatic pistol out of a lock of hair and a tampon, not on the best day he ever had. Whoever said "You can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear" was probably a writer editing something stupid he wrote.
And how about the paragraph you wrote in which you cleverly inserted the one clue that, when discovered, will break your whole mystery wide open? You already did that twenty pages ago, you idiot.
There might be writers out there who are so good, so talented, so goddamned savant-ish that they don't need to edit. The lyrical prose just flows out of their brains, through their fingers, and onto the page, or in this case, the computer screen. Their first draft is also their last draft.
But I don't want to know about it if there are. I find it comforting to think that somewhere out there right now, Lawrence Block is scratching his head, going, "Crap, I can't remember how I spell 'Dortmunder!'"
_____
*The reviewer was me. I haven't managed to find anyone to publish this masterpiece of fiction yet. Still, I stand by the review.
**Of course they never told me; I don't actually know any of them. It doesn't make my point any less valid, though.
So I wrote it.
It really was that simple. That's not to say I didn't realize it was going to be a lot of work, because I did. And it was.
But it was also one of the most gratifying feelings I've ever had when I wrote "THE END" after 95,000 words worth of murder, deception, kidnappings, plot twists and other stunning developments. "A roller-coaster ride of thrills and chills," as one reviewer put it.*
There was one thing I didn't realize, though, when I started out to write a novel. It's the dirty little secret that none of the wonderful writers I admire so much ever told me.** And it's this: When you write THE END after 95,000 words of murder, deception, and all that other stuff I wrote in the last paragraph, your novel isn't really finished. Your work isn't ending, it's just beginning.
You see, there's an unassuming little word in the English language called "edit." Look at it sitting back there in the last sentence. Easy to overlook, right? It's short, it's the Napoleon of words. But it's mean, and it hangs over everything you do as a writer.
Because after you write THE END, you now have to go back over your masterpiece and clean up all the crap. It's kind of like having a baby, only not in the obvious, cliched sense where I talk about the labor pains of the creative process, of writing as giving birth. Please, give me a break. I was there for the birth of my children, and I have to tell you, if writing was anything like that, I wouldn't go near it with a ten foot pen.
No, when I say writing a novel is like having a baby, I'm talking about once you get the little sweetheart home from the hospital. And you realize that, okay, yeah, sure, you love her with all your heart, but . . . uh . . . there's an awful lot of . . . you know . . . shit inside her. And it's up to YOU to clean it all up.
That's where the word "edit" comes in. All that stuff that seemed so witty, or ingenious, or clever at two in the morning or during your lunch break at work when you were writing like mad because it was the only time you had all day to get it done, suddenly looks lamer than Kanye West at an awards show.
That snappy dialogue you had your protagonist whip out that made the female main character go all weak in the knees? Boring. Dude, If you talked like that in real life you would never have gotten a date, which would have given you plenty of time to write, which maybe would have helped you avoid stale, goofy dialogue like what you wrote that you now have to EDIT!
That clever method you used to help the aformentioned stud wriggle out of the tight spot you put him in while having no clue how to help him escape? Ridiculous. Even MacGyver couldn't make a semiautomatic pistol out of a lock of hair and a tampon, not on the best day he ever had. Whoever said "You can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear" was probably a writer editing something stupid he wrote.
And how about the paragraph you wrote in which you cleverly inserted the one clue that, when discovered, will break your whole mystery wide open? You already did that twenty pages ago, you idiot.
There might be writers out there who are so good, so talented, so goddamned savant-ish that they don't need to edit. The lyrical prose just flows out of their brains, through their fingers, and onto the page, or in this case, the computer screen. Their first draft is also their last draft.
But I don't want to know about it if there are. I find it comforting to think that somewhere out there right now, Lawrence Block is scratching his head, going, "Crap, I can't remember how I spell 'Dortmunder!'"
_____
*The reviewer was me. I haven't managed to find anyone to publish this masterpiece of fiction yet. Still, I stand by the review.
**Of course they never told me; I don't actually know any of them. It doesn't make my point any less valid, though.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
The Girl on the Graveyard Shift
She was sixteen when we met. She hated me, and why wouldn't she? I was older, a college kid, and every time I came into the restaurant where I had worked the previous two summers my friends would hang out with me in the kitchen and when that happened she had to run around like a crazy person in the dining room trying to get everything done.
So I suppose it's not entirely accurate to say she hated me; she didn't even know me, and most people don't hate me at least until after they get to know me. But she sure didn't like the extra work she had to do when I showed up.
After I graduated college - in an economy more or less similar to the one we've been saddled with the last couple of years - and couldn't find a real job, I went back to the restaurant to earn a few bucks there while I searched. She was a high school senior by then, working overnight shifts on the weekends. Graveyard shifts, we called them.
As it so happened, those were the shifts I was working, too. I got to know this slim, pretty brunette on those long nights in the nearly empty restaurant on the Maine Turnpike. We would sit at a booth drinking coffee for five hours or so and then work like mad to get everything done before the day shifters came in.
I decided this was a girl I wanted to date - unfortunate because although she no longer hated me, she certainly didn't want to date me. I didn't consider that a big deal, though; I had been convincing girls who didn't want anything to do with me to give it a shot for quite some time.
Eventually I wore the girl down and she agreed to go out with me, more to get me to stop bugging her than anything else, probably. About a year-and-a-half later we walked down the aisle together, an almost twenty-four year old groom and a bride who had just turned nineteen.
I would have loved to have superpowers for just that one day, to be able to read people's minds. How many people in the church and the reception hall whispered their suspicions to each other that the girl must be pregnant? (She wasn't) How many people shared cynical grins, convinced we would last maybe a year; two at the most?
I don't blame them, I would probably have done the same thing in their shoes. But what they may not have realized was that we were two people who knew exactly what we wanted out of life and were lucky enough to have found it at a young age.
That was twenty-six years ago today, and it hasn't all been easy. There have been plenty of bumps in the road, as there are in every relationship. But every bruise and every scar has added a little depth to our relationship, and we're still going strong.
So this is for the girl who has believed in me when no one else did; who has given birth to my children; who has moved all over New England with me as I pursued my career. Thanks for twenty-six wonderful years. Happy Anniversary to my wife Sue...
So I suppose it's not entirely accurate to say she hated me; she didn't even know me, and most people don't hate me at least until after they get to know me. But she sure didn't like the extra work she had to do when I showed up.
After I graduated college - in an economy more or less similar to the one we've been saddled with the last couple of years - and couldn't find a real job, I went back to the restaurant to earn a few bucks there while I searched. She was a high school senior by then, working overnight shifts on the weekends. Graveyard shifts, we called them.
As it so happened, those were the shifts I was working, too. I got to know this slim, pretty brunette on those long nights in the nearly empty restaurant on the Maine Turnpike. We would sit at a booth drinking coffee for five hours or so and then work like mad to get everything done before the day shifters came in.
I decided this was a girl I wanted to date - unfortunate because although she no longer hated me, she certainly didn't want to date me. I didn't consider that a big deal, though; I had been convincing girls who didn't want anything to do with me to give it a shot for quite some time.
Eventually I wore the girl down and she agreed to go out with me, more to get me to stop bugging her than anything else, probably. About a year-and-a-half later we walked down the aisle together, an almost twenty-four year old groom and a bride who had just turned nineteen.
I would have loved to have superpowers for just that one day, to be able to read people's minds. How many people in the church and the reception hall whispered their suspicions to each other that the girl must be pregnant? (She wasn't) How many people shared cynical grins, convinced we would last maybe a year; two at the most?
I don't blame them, I would probably have done the same thing in their shoes. But what they may not have realized was that we were two people who knew exactly what we wanted out of life and were lucky enough to have found it at a young age.
That was twenty-six years ago today, and it hasn't all been easy. There have been plenty of bumps in the road, as there are in every relationship. But every bruise and every scar has added a little depth to our relationship, and we're still going strong.
So this is for the girl who has believed in me when no one else did; who has given birth to my children; who has moved all over New England with me as I pursued my career. Thanks for twenty-six wonderful years. Happy Anniversary to my wife Sue...
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