For the month of March I have committed myself to vegetarianism. Not vegan, not pescatarian. Eight days in and I'm feeling alright. I don't feel any major physical changes and mentally, thus far anyway, has not been terribly difficult. I'm guessing that it would probably take several months, if not longer, for my body to start feeling the absence of the hormones, steroids and antibiotics that all of our meat has in it these days. I have had days where if I think about a burger too much a craving starts. The worst moment so far was when I went to Chipotle. The guy in front of me ordered a burrito with double chicken, as if to shove my meatlessness in my face. At this point, I cannot say what April 1 will bring.
The experiment began for several reasons. Emily, my wife, is a vegetarian. I wanted to see what would happen if she and I actually ate the same meals on a regular basis. Having her around also has helped with coming up with meal ideas and the like. Secondly, I watched the documentary "Food, Inc." The film is biased to be sure, but it opened my eyes to the lack of transparency in the food industry. As a journalist, I'm all for transparency and the striving of major companies, like Tyson and Monsanto, to hide their inner-workings disturbs and angers me. Thirdly, I believe a diet of little-to-no meat can be much healthier when done right.
At the same time I've started reading "The Jungle" by Upton Sinclair. Right now I won't get into its cultural significance, Sinclair's magnificent ability to craft emotion or how depressing the first two chapters are when compared to just about anything else. As most of you should know, the book is about the meat packing industry and the poor conditions of the immigrant workers in the early 1900s. Below is a paragraph from Chapter 3, where a group of people are on a tour of packing plant and have just witnessed the slaughter of pigs:
"It was all so very businesslike that one watched it fascinated. It was pork-making by machinery, pork-making by applied mathematics. And yet somehow the most matter-of-fact person could not help thinking of the hogs; they were so innocent, they came so very trustingly; and they were so very human in their protests--and so perfectly within their rights! They had done nothing to deserve it , and it was adding insult to injury, as the thing was done here, swinging them up in this cold-blooded, impersonal way, without pretence at apology, without the homage of a tear. Now and then a visitor wept, to be sure; but this slaughtering machine ran on, visitors or no visitors. It was like some horrible crime committed in a dungeon, all unseen and unheeded, buried out of sight and of memory."
That paragraph resonates because of density and reality. Humans and pigs do share similar biology. The lack of respect shown to the animals is something that vegans and vegetarians have been harping on for forever. Should not we be grateful to the animal for giving its life that we might live? The meat industry is cold-blooded indeed. The last sentence brings it all home, exposing the fact that this machinery is purposely "unseen and unheeded, buried." The meat industry knows what it does is nasty and they do their best to keep us from thinking about it.
Monday, March 8, 2010
Friday, February 19, 2010
Dreams and Narration
I had a dream. This dream occurred two nights ago and I still remember most of it quite vividly. It was not a normal dream. It involved violence and my own death. But weirdest of all, it contained voice-over narration.
I was living somewhere I've never been before with a roommate I do not know. I think he had an afro, blond. The dream gave me the feeling that we were in Colorado maybe, maybe Denver. My roommate and I ran a business, of what sort I cannot recall, in the lower story of our house, or apartment or whatever it was. Three men walked into our shop as we were locking up for the day. We told them politely that we were closing and that we couldn't help them. Two of them promptly walked back out the door. But one did not. The big guy. And he was big, I'm talking at least 6' 6" and built, perhaps Scandinavian in heritage. It got to the point that I was physically trying to push him toward the door, and those of you who know me, know that I'm no taller than 5' 6" on a good day.
Things got physical. We began to grapple with each other. The fight felt personal, like not only was this guy a mean guy, we hated each other for other reasons. I think I knew him. Eventually, the fight went to the floor, I landed on top of him and began to punch him in the face mercilessly, tirelessly. I paused a couple of times and asked him if he was ready to leave. He said no and I continued to hit him. Blood was spraying everwhere, on the floor and the bookshelves we had landed near (I inspected the stains later in the dream). It was like this scene out of "Fight Club" (beware, link is violent). Eventually, the guy was out cold. The roommate and I dragged him out the door and left him unconscious in the snow on the porch. We locked the door.
I was proud of myself. Glowing. But I was also scared. What would happen when he wakes? I remember the roommate and I discussing this in worried tones, as well as reliving the fight, but I don't remember specifics. I remember going to bed afraid to hear him banging on the door.
But when I woke the next morning he was still lying on the porch, although it looked like he had shifted. Here the dream gets fuzzy. We attended a wedding and reception, but I only remember bits from the reception. I bragged about the triumph over the "Scandinavian." At one point the bride came up to me and told me that my friends and I couldn't party afterwords because we had to hang out with some of the really little kids (I have no idea why). All of this is just fragments in my memory.
Things clear up for the ending. I've returned home and the big guy was not on the porch. He left, great. I sat down to do something, maybe read, maybe get on the computer, not important. I sound comes from the open room behind me and there stands the "Scandinavian." I stand to face him, but he apologizes and regrets being a jerk. I apologize for tearing his face up. We shake hands.
Enter narrator. As we shake hands a voice, not in any reality present, begins to describe what is happening. A male voice. It describes the hand shake and how the big guy's grib firms. His thumb is beginning to dig into the side of my hand, he says. And then the man swings something, it could be anything, and strikes my skull, thereby sending brains flying. The narrator describes it all. I have just enough time to realize I've been tricked and that I'm dead when everything goes black. I wake up and within 20 seconds my alarm went off.
I wish I could remember everything that the narrator said. I wish I had at least one direct quote, but I don't. All I know is that there was a narrator. I'm not disturbed by the fact that I died. I'm disturbed that someone was describing it. I can't find anything, at least via a Google search, about narrated dreams. I've typed enough now, but will go into some of my hypotheses on the next post.
I was living somewhere I've never been before with a roommate I do not know. I think he had an afro, blond. The dream gave me the feeling that we were in Colorado maybe, maybe Denver. My roommate and I ran a business, of what sort I cannot recall, in the lower story of our house, or apartment or whatever it was. Three men walked into our shop as we were locking up for the day. We told them politely that we were closing and that we couldn't help them. Two of them promptly walked back out the door. But one did not. The big guy. And he was big, I'm talking at least 6' 6" and built, perhaps Scandinavian in heritage. It got to the point that I was physically trying to push him toward the door, and those of you who know me, know that I'm no taller than 5' 6" on a good day.
Things got physical. We began to grapple with each other. The fight felt personal, like not only was this guy a mean guy, we hated each other for other reasons. I think I knew him. Eventually, the fight went to the floor, I landed on top of him and began to punch him in the face mercilessly, tirelessly. I paused a couple of times and asked him if he was ready to leave. He said no and I continued to hit him. Blood was spraying everwhere, on the floor and the bookshelves we had landed near (I inspected the stains later in the dream). It was like this scene out of "Fight Club" (beware, link is violent). Eventually, the guy was out cold. The roommate and I dragged him out the door and left him unconscious in the snow on the porch. We locked the door.
I was proud of myself. Glowing. But I was also scared. What would happen when he wakes? I remember the roommate and I discussing this in worried tones, as well as reliving the fight, but I don't remember specifics. I remember going to bed afraid to hear him banging on the door.
But when I woke the next morning he was still lying on the porch, although it looked like he had shifted. Here the dream gets fuzzy. We attended a wedding and reception, but I only remember bits from the reception. I bragged about the triumph over the "Scandinavian." At one point the bride came up to me and told me that my friends and I couldn't party afterwords because we had to hang out with some of the really little kids (I have no idea why). All of this is just fragments in my memory.
Things clear up for the ending. I've returned home and the big guy was not on the porch. He left, great. I sat down to do something, maybe read, maybe get on the computer, not important. I sound comes from the open room behind me and there stands the "Scandinavian." I stand to face him, but he apologizes and regrets being a jerk. I apologize for tearing his face up. We shake hands.
Enter narrator. As we shake hands a voice, not in any reality present, begins to describe what is happening. A male voice. It describes the hand shake and how the big guy's grib firms. His thumb is beginning to dig into the side of my hand, he says. And then the man swings something, it could be anything, and strikes my skull, thereby sending brains flying. The narrator describes it all. I have just enough time to realize I've been tricked and that I'm dead when everything goes black. I wake up and within 20 seconds my alarm went off.
I wish I could remember everything that the narrator said. I wish I had at least one direct quote, but I don't. All I know is that there was a narrator. I'm not disturbed by the fact that I died. I'm disturbed that someone was describing it. I can't find anything, at least via a Google search, about narrated dreams. I've typed enough now, but will go into some of my hypotheses on the next post.
Friday, February 12, 2010
Cormac McCarthy and a Discussion of Motivation
No one does anything without a reason. Even if you sit at home and do nothing it is with a purpose: to do nothing. Therefore it is important that our characters have motivation to do what they do. I remember one of the staple questions in fiction workshops was "Why?" Why is the character doing this? But since we are good writers we don't just want to write, "Jack killed the neighbor because he was mad." We want to show why he did it. The reader should be able to discern a reasonable motivation for a character's action.
Currently, I'm reading "Blood Meridian or the Evening Redness in the West" by Cormac McCarthy. The book is about a band of renegade cowboys who travel through Mexico slaughtering Apaches and Mexicans. It's not a story for the faint-hearted and the violence will make you gag more than once. On the surface it's about the racial hatred and land-ownership disputes in the 1840's and 50's in west Texas.
I thought I understood this basis of the motivation, a sign of the times, hatred between Texas and Mexico. But still the violence (killing women, children and infants; scalping them all) didn't quite seem justified. I felt frustrated and was beginning to feel McCarthy just wanted to write about violence. And then I came to a particular passage last night.
One of the band of "warriors" simply referred to as "the judge", a leader among the men, had a habit of collecting samples of the land they passed through. He would kill birds and stuff them, press leaves of newly discovered plants and sketch the landscape. When one of the others asked him why, he explained:
"Whatever exists, he said. Whatever in creation exists without my knowledge exists without my consent....These anonymous creatures, he said, may seem little or nothing in the world. Yet the smallest crumb can devour us. Any smallest thing beneath yon rock out of men's knowing. Only nature can enslave man and only when the existence of each last entity is routed out and made to stand naked before him will he be properly suzerain of the earth."
He goes on for a little while and sums up thusly, "The freedom of birds is an insult to me. I'd have them all in zoos."
After reading that it came to me. This is all about control and dominance. To these men the Indians and the Mexicans are nothing but something that is beneath them, anonymous creatures. The world will not be theirs until each Apache is discarded and scalped for collection. No life but their own is sacred. In saying all this the judge exposed the motivation for the entire group's actions.
And that is what we are all after, isn't it? Control. To varying degrees, of course. Some of us want to be commanders of our destiny. Some just want to know that they can control where they are sleeping from night to night. So where is your character's sense of control, and how much do they want? Where is your sense of control, and how much do you want?
Currently, I'm reading "Blood Meridian or the Evening Redness in the West" by Cormac McCarthy. The book is about a band of renegade cowboys who travel through Mexico slaughtering Apaches and Mexicans. It's not a story for the faint-hearted and the violence will make you gag more than once. On the surface it's about the racial hatred and land-ownership disputes in the 1840's and 50's in west Texas.
I thought I understood this basis of the motivation, a sign of the times, hatred between Texas and Mexico. But still the violence (killing women, children and infants; scalping them all) didn't quite seem justified. I felt frustrated and was beginning to feel McCarthy just wanted to write about violence. And then I came to a particular passage last night.
One of the band of "warriors" simply referred to as "the judge", a leader among the men, had a habit of collecting samples of the land they passed through. He would kill birds and stuff them, press leaves of newly discovered plants and sketch the landscape. When one of the others asked him why, he explained:
"Whatever exists, he said. Whatever in creation exists without my knowledge exists without my consent....These anonymous creatures, he said, may seem little or nothing in the world. Yet the smallest crumb can devour us. Any smallest thing beneath yon rock out of men's knowing. Only nature can enslave man and only when the existence of each last entity is routed out and made to stand naked before him will he be properly suzerain of the earth."
He goes on for a little while and sums up thusly, "The freedom of birds is an insult to me. I'd have them all in zoos."
After reading that it came to me. This is all about control and dominance. To these men the Indians and the Mexicans are nothing but something that is beneath them, anonymous creatures. The world will not be theirs until each Apache is discarded and scalped for collection. No life but their own is sacred. In saying all this the judge exposed the motivation for the entire group's actions.
And that is what we are all after, isn't it? Control. To varying degrees, of course. Some of us want to be commanders of our destiny. Some just want to know that they can control where they are sleeping from night to night. So where is your character's sense of control, and how much do they want? Where is your sense of control, and how much do you want?
Saturday, January 2, 2010
Time
I think it's time to get serious again. I've been overwhelmed and will continue to be, no doubt. This is not a New Year's Resolution. So much to write, too much, too little concentration. So much to do, so much I want to do, so much I don't want to do. Struggling desperately to become well-versed in everything.
It's time for change...seriously.
It's time for change...seriously.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
What I've Read...
Here for whatever reason, I am posting a list of books that I've read and affected me enough that I remember reading them. I know I've read more than this and as of now the list does not include any Shakespeare, Tennessee Williams or Eugene O'Neill plays or any of the myriad of short stories of my past. I have a long list of to-read books. I am always adding to that list (it's real) and would love input on else I should add to it. Let me know if I'm missing anything important. These are in no particular order:
Jurassic Park by Michael Crichton
The Lost World by Michael Crichton
Bad Twin by Gary Troup
Lisey’s Story by Stephen King
The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon by Stephen King
The Canterbury Tales by Geoffrey Chaucer
Lord of the Flies by William Golding
Hard Times by Charles Dickens
The Da Vinci Code by Dan Brown
The Fall by Albert Camus
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man by James Joyce
A Year of Living Biblically by A.J. Jacobs
Insomnia by Stephen King
I Am America (And So Can You!) by Stephen Colbert
The Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka
Paradise Lost by John Milton
The Robe by Lloyd C. Douglas
The Idiot by Fyodor Dostoevsky
Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoevsky
The Divine Comedy Vol I, II, III by Dante
The Iliad by Homer
The Odyssey by Homer
The Aeneid by Virgil
The Case For Christ by Lee Strobel
On Writing by Stephen King
Jesus Under Fire by Michael J. Wilkins and J. P. Moreland
The Bible Jesus Read by Philip Yancey
Candide by Voltaire
Moby Dick by Herman Melville
This Present Darkness by Frank Peretti
The Oath by Frank Peretti
The Road by Cormac McCarthy
Dracula by Bram Stoker
The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger
Refresh, Refresh by Benjamin Percy
As I Lay Dying by William Faulkner
Blue Highways by William Least Heat-Moon
Nine Stories by J.D. Salinger
The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald
Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone by J. K. Rowling
Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets
Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban
Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire
Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix
Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince
(and no, I haven't finished The Deathly Hallows yet)
Jurassic Park by Michael Crichton
The Lost World by Michael Crichton
Bad Twin by Gary Troup
Lisey’s Story by Stephen King
The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon by Stephen King
The Canterbury Tales by Geoffrey Chaucer
Lord of the Flies by William Golding
Hard Times by Charles Dickens
The Da Vinci Code by Dan Brown
The Fall by Albert Camus
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man by James Joyce
A Year of Living Biblically by A.J. Jacobs
Insomnia by Stephen King
I Am America (And So Can You!) by Stephen Colbert
The Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka
Paradise Lost by John Milton
The Robe by Lloyd C. Douglas
The Idiot by Fyodor Dostoevsky
Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoevsky
The Divine Comedy Vol I, II, III by Dante
The Iliad by Homer
The Odyssey by Homer
The Aeneid by Virgil
The Case For Christ by Lee Strobel
On Writing by Stephen King
Jesus Under Fire by Michael J. Wilkins and J. P. Moreland
The Bible Jesus Read by Philip Yancey
Candide by Voltaire
Moby Dick by Herman Melville
This Present Darkness by Frank Peretti
The Oath by Frank Peretti
The Road by Cormac McCarthy
Dracula by Bram Stoker
The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger
Refresh, Refresh by Benjamin Percy
As I Lay Dying by William Faulkner
Blue Highways by William Least Heat-Moon
Nine Stories by J.D. Salinger
The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald
Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone by J. K. Rowling
Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets
Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban
Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire
Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix
Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince
(and no, I haven't finished The Deathly Hallows yet)
Monday, September 28, 2009
Corporate Breakdown
He kept checking to see if it was in his pocket. Looking back, his fellow employees will recall that he stroked the left side of his pants often. They’ll also remember frequent trips to the bathroom. After the third trip he simply explained that his stomach was terribly upset and that he couldn’t quite help it. But he never stopped smiling.
Soon he started to sweat.
“Leave me alone, bitch,” he told one of the female baristas after she asked if she could help him. He didn’t shout, but he threw an empty paper cup at her. No one else saw it.
When he started getting gruff with customers, the manager threatened to send him home early and not pay him for the day. He didn’t respond any further than pushing the manager out of the way with his shoulder as headed to the restroom again.
The sweat was running down the sides of his face and catching in his beard. A snotty, Gucci-wearing woman advanced on the register and complained to him that her latte was not in fact soymilk, but skim. At this he picked up the glass tray holding the last remaining bagels and threw it. The tray narrowly missed her head and shattered against the opposite wall.
“Then go somewhere else,” he said calmly as he cocked his head to the side. Everyone in the coffee shop was silent. All eyes were on the bearded employee, who stood like a rock. The woman stormed out and when the manager grabbed his arm to tell him to leave, he punched her in the face. She staggered backwards, her face instantly swelling around one of her eyes.
“Call 911,” she said through tears to the other employer, whose earpiece was slowly sliding off his head. “Call 911,” she repeated louder.
He began to stagger and flail, knocking as much off the counter as he could. Pastries flew about while the unruly employee laid waste to the store. He even tried to over-turn the espresso machine, but it alone stood up to him. Another barista, the only other male inside at the time, confronted him, but he took a pot of steaming water to the face. The doctors would later tell him he would never look the same again.
Having moved into the lobby of the coffee shop, he began over-turning tables and chairs. He kicked at one particular table that would not topple the way he wished and as he did so, he slipped and fell backwards. His head struck the edge of the counter and he did not get up again.
“I’ll need to see the tape,” said an officer as he pointed to a security camera in the far corner of the store. The employee lay dead at the officer’s feet, a ring of blood haloing his lifeless head. He nudged the body with his boot but felt a sensation not like that of flesh. The officer bent down and pulled a nearly empty flask out of the dead employee’s pocket.
Monday, September 21, 2009
A Quick One (While He's Away)
The door shook, rattled on its hinges. No answer. The man outside worked his way around to the back, peering in windows as he went. All dark. He slipped his gloved hand into his pocket and pulled out a key. It fit the lock. Inside he crept, careful not to worry about knocking things over. A lamp toppled when his foot hit it as he jumped a sofa. He stormed into the bedroom. No one was there, but...
Sure enough...
He turned and smashed a canvas on the wall with his fist. Back outside he toppled the trash bin and dug around. The man pulled out a to-go box with half of an old salad inside, covered in mold and slime. He threw the salad at the front door and smeared long streaks as gravity pulled it down. And thus he marked them for what they are.
(I want to say thank you to The Who for inspiring the title. I'm back at the blogging gig, and hope to stay that way. I know I've said it before. But I'll try.)
Sure enough...
He turned and smashed a canvas on the wall with his fist. Back outside he toppled the trash bin and dug around. The man pulled out a to-go box with half of an old salad inside, covered in mold and slime. He threw the salad at the front door and smeared long streaks as gravity pulled it down. And thus he marked them for what they are.
(I want to say thank you to The Who for inspiring the title. I'm back at the blogging gig, and hope to stay that way. I know I've said it before. But I'll try.)
Friday, July 10, 2009
What do you do when...
What do you do when you read a story that is similar to one of your own ideas and is perfect in almost every way? In some ways its depressing. I begin to think that there is no way that I could write something as strong as this. In some ways its encouraging, because if they did it and it worked well, then I can too.
I just read "Idols" by Tim Gautreaux in the June 22 issue of The New Yorker. One of the most powerful short stories I've read all year and it follows almost the same plot structure as my story, "Red Truck" (not that I'm bragging). Obviously his was done first, and certainly more powerful than mine is considering mine is still in the draft stages. The main character is torn down by his obsession and effectively alienates his only hope in friendship and help. Its beautiful. Depressing, sure, but beautiful in the way well-written stories are. Read it and revel in its greatness.
So, now, what do I do? Do I sit and wallow in the fact that my basic story idea has already been done, and most likely better than I could pull it off? Or do I use this as inspiration to make mine better and more powerful? It's daunting either way you look at it.
I just read "Idols" by Tim Gautreaux in the June 22 issue of The New Yorker. One of the most powerful short stories I've read all year and it follows almost the same plot structure as my story, "Red Truck" (not that I'm bragging). Obviously his was done first, and certainly more powerful than mine is considering mine is still in the draft stages. The main character is torn down by his obsession and effectively alienates his only hope in friendship and help. Its beautiful. Depressing, sure, but beautiful in the way well-written stories are. Read it and revel in its greatness.
So, now, what do I do? Do I sit and wallow in the fact that my basic story idea has already been done, and most likely better than I could pull it off? Or do I use this as inspiration to make mine better and more powerful? It's daunting either way you look at it.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Sober
These are humanizing days. All of us, even the wealthiest and most talented, are faced with the reality of Time. We've screwed ourselves over with greed and fame. Those of us who search for greatness, who dream of being everyone else's dream, will be squashed by the over-stimulation of the public. Sure, at best, a few million people might enjoy our song, our novel, but we'll be forgotten tomorrow. There is no more superstar. I might venture to say the reality of the superstar died with Michael Jackson.
We're all grappling for a place, a significance. I think this economy is sobering up the nation. Our over-spending has caused a return to the bare necessities. We can't all have the impact and the image that we strive for; this fact is hitting us hard. Still we try, it's part of the human condition.
I believe that we should all try, at the very least, to have an impact, a positive indentation in the lives whom we can reach and be content with doing so. What you say, do, create and share with others does have an impact on those who receive. Some may even be touched, in the most sentimental meaning of the word, by you. So, you might not feel that what your doing has any purpose, but it does.
For me, I might not have the job I want or yet be a published fiction author, but the friends and family whom I share my words with are changed because of it. No matter how visible your impact on them may be, you've had one. Always remember that. Without you, or me, or the funny looking bearded man across the coffee shop, this world would not be the same.
I apologize for being away for so long. I've been busy muddling through what feels like failed attempts at writing. Job applications happen here and there. Still no luck. I hope to have a story completed in time for the Esquire magazine fiction contest (due Aug. 1), but plot details evade me. I've been reading, also. Go about your surfing in peace and hopefully I'll be writing here again soon.
We're all grappling for a place, a significance. I think this economy is sobering up the nation. Our over-spending has caused a return to the bare necessities. We can't all have the impact and the image that we strive for; this fact is hitting us hard. Still we try, it's part of the human condition.
I believe that we should all try, at the very least, to have an impact, a positive indentation in the lives whom we can reach and be content with doing so. What you say, do, create and share with others does have an impact on those who receive. Some may even be touched, in the most sentimental meaning of the word, by you. So, you might not feel that what your doing has any purpose, but it does.
For me, I might not have the job I want or yet be a published fiction author, but the friends and family whom I share my words with are changed because of it. No matter how visible your impact on them may be, you've had one. Always remember that. Without you, or me, or the funny looking bearded man across the coffee shop, this world would not be the same.
I apologize for being away for so long. I've been busy muddling through what feels like failed attempts at writing. Job applications happen here and there. Still no luck. I hope to have a story completed in time for the Esquire magazine fiction contest (due Aug. 1), but plot details evade me. I've been reading, also. Go about your surfing in peace and hopefully I'll be writing here again soon.
Monday, May 25, 2009
Book Review On-The-Go and More!
Generally I prefer to avoid exclamation points, but I figured the one in the title is justified this time. I've decided to start a new segment of the blog: "Book Review On-The-Go." Instead of reading a book and the presenting you with a review, I will provide updates on my impression of the book as I read it. On the whole, I'm a busy reader with four magazine subscriptions (one weekly, one bi-weekly, two monthly, all of which I read extensively) and usually a couple books going at the same time. Therefore updates might not be as frequent as I'd like, but maybe this will speed me up.
The first book up for an "On-The-Go" review is Self-Editing for Fiction Writers: How to edit yourself into print by Renni Browne and Dave King. I had seen this book mentioned and praised on other blogs, and seeing how I'm editing myself at the moment, I decided to pick up a copy. An intro and three chapters in, I'm not entirely impressed. In general, I find their advice and explanations to be over-simplified. Occasionally they'll strike a chord and I'll have one of those, "I haven't thought of it that way before" moments.
Browne and King have a nasty habit of taking a classic like Lonesome Dove or The Great Gatsby and suggesting 'better' ways certain passages could have been written. Maybe this is to make the young writer feel less over-shadowed by the greats. Maybe this is to simply use well-known examples. Or maybe this technique rose from over-grown editor egos. (Disclaimer: I love editors, have served as one myself, and believe many great journalists and writers had brilliant editors.)
Chapter One, "Show and Tell," focused exactly on what you might think it. You've got to show the read what's happening rather than tell it to them...at least most of the time. Of course some narration is necessary. This is their point. It's a great chapter to open with, because it's a problem we all deal with and definitely something that beginning writers might not even think about. If you've taken any creative writing classes you're not missing much by skipping this.
Chapter Two, "Characterization and Exposition." It's almost a continuation of chapter one and therefore its logical successor. Again, minimal help here for those who've had training, but it did hold some nuggets. The writers do a good job of stressing that characters should be defined and described mainly through their actions, rather than an introductory narrative description.
Chapter Three, "Point of View." Browne and King stress that the only points of view that need to be discussed or even considered are first, third and omniscient. I have always been taught that you should find a point of view (first, second, third) and a distance (how omniscient) and stick with it all the way through. Sure, there are great examples where authors broke this rule; Faulkner did it in As I Lay Dying, where each chapter was presented from a different character's perspective. However, these editors seem to say that as long as you don't get too confusing or intimate with one POV than another you can jump around. Sounds dangerous to me.
More general details and brief chapter reviews to come.
On that note: I have completed small revisions for the second draft of "Red Truck." But, having read it over a couple times and discussing the few others who have also, I have decided to re-write the whole thing in third person rather than first. I've only dealt with the intro couple of pages and things are already looking up. This story might have a future after all.
The first book up for an "On-The-Go" review is Self-Editing for Fiction Writers: How to edit yourself into print by Renni Browne and Dave King. I had seen this book mentioned and praised on other blogs, and seeing how I'm editing myself at the moment, I decided to pick up a copy. An intro and three chapters in, I'm not entirely impressed. In general, I find their advice and explanations to be over-simplified. Occasionally they'll strike a chord and I'll have one of those, "I haven't thought of it that way before" moments.
Browne and King have a nasty habit of taking a classic like Lonesome Dove or The Great Gatsby and suggesting 'better' ways certain passages could have been written. Maybe this is to make the young writer feel less over-shadowed by the greats. Maybe this is to simply use well-known examples. Or maybe this technique rose from over-grown editor egos. (Disclaimer: I love editors, have served as one myself, and believe many great journalists and writers had brilliant editors.)
Chapter One, "Show and Tell," focused exactly on what you might think it. You've got to show the read what's happening rather than tell it to them...at least most of the time. Of course some narration is necessary. This is their point. It's a great chapter to open with, because it's a problem we all deal with and definitely something that beginning writers might not even think about. If you've taken any creative writing classes you're not missing much by skipping this.
Chapter Two, "Characterization and Exposition." It's almost a continuation of chapter one and therefore its logical successor. Again, minimal help here for those who've had training, but it did hold some nuggets. The writers do a good job of stressing that characters should be defined and described mainly through their actions, rather than an introductory narrative description.
Chapter Three, "Point of View." Browne and King stress that the only points of view that need to be discussed or even considered are first, third and omniscient. I have always been taught that you should find a point of view (first, second, third) and a distance (how omniscient) and stick with it all the way through. Sure, there are great examples where authors broke this rule; Faulkner did it in As I Lay Dying, where each chapter was presented from a different character's perspective. However, these editors seem to say that as long as you don't get too confusing or intimate with one POV than another you can jump around. Sounds dangerous to me.
More general details and brief chapter reviews to come.
On that note: I have completed small revisions for the second draft of "Red Truck." But, having read it over a couple times and discussing the few others who have also, I have decided to re-write the whole thing in third person rather than first. I've only dealt with the intro couple of pages and things are already looking up. This story might have a future after all.
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