Monday, December 7, 2009
Update on the Flatiron Writers Short Fiction Contest
As of this morning, the Flatiron Writers Short Fiction Contest has not yet reached its cap of fifty entries and is still open for submissions (see contest rules on the home page). Once we receive fifty entries that meet all eligibility requirements (word count, genre, file type etc.), or reach the December 31, 2009 contest closure date, we will notify the people who are entered in the contest. Thanks to everyone who has sent in a submission to date. We will post any necesseary contest updates on our blog--become a follower!
Friday, November 20, 2009
What’s In A Title? Everything.
When I was pregnant, my husband and I negotiated about what to name our child. He was flexible about boys’ names, but would not budge on the girl’s name. He wanted a little red-haired daughter named Madeleine. He had even had some kind of mystical vision about her, and he would not consider any other name. Our discussions went something like this:
Me: How about Colleen?
Him: Madeleine.
Me: How about Rose?
Him: Madeleine.
Me: How about Kathleen?
Him: Madeleine.
You get the picture. And then when our daughter was born, and she did have red hair despite all the genetic odds, the name Madeleine settled on her as soon as I held her in my arms and I could not imagine her being anyone else.
The right name brings a person to life and allows you to see who they truly are and all the potential stretching out in front of them. The right title does the same for a novel.
For most of the many years it took me to write my novel, its working title was “Looking for Lenny.” I got points for alliteration, but in addition to being uninspiring, the title didn’t accurately tell what the novel was about. Yes, brother Lenny in the story had disappeared, but in truth the novel wasn’t so much about what had happened to him as it was about his family members’ struggle to come to terms with regrets of their own. The title set readers up to expect a mystery, and some were disappointed when instead they got a family drama.
The next title I tried was “Solace Fork.” I wanted to combine the family’s surname with some term that evoked place. All the good titles with “[Fill-in-the-blank] Falls” were already taken, so I chose Fork, which referred to a central place in the story where water branched, and also to a choice my main character had to make. I assigned “Solace” as the family surname to hint at the peace I hoped my characters achieved by the end of the novel. The title really didn’t work at all. The fact that the “Quantum of Solace” James Bond movie came out around the same time didn’t help, and I had to do all kinds of contorted revisions to try to get the title to fit the novel, which should have been a clue that I hadn’t chosen the right one.
When I found an agent, she sent me back to the drawing board to come up with a title that would reflect the novel’s central theme of redemption and second chances. I brainstormed a list of several dozen, but nothing on my list satisfied my agent or me. It had occurred to me that old-time hymns might be a good source of title phrases, since the novel is set in the rural south, but I hadn’t been able to find much on my own. Fortunately my mother, a devoted shape-note singer, was coming to town for my sister’s birthday party. I told my agent I would get my mom to bring all of her Sacred Harp hymnals with her and we’d spend the weekend on one last marathon quest for the perfect name for my book.
My mom arrived, laden down with hymnals. My idea was that she and I would read the lyrics silently to ourselves. My mom, however, loves a good sing, and proceeded to sing each hymn she turned to, until finally I had to tell her gently that we just did not have time to do it that way. We hunted for phrases about grace and redemption and rebirth and being washed clean. At one point she suggested “Sufficient Grace” and my ears perked up, until I remembered that writer Darnell Arnoult had just published a novel by that title. Finally, we came to a hymn called “From Every Stormy Wind That Blows” by Hugh Stowell. It spoke of “a calm, a sure retreat” to be found “beneath the Mercy Seat.” The words “mercy seat” grabbed us, and I put “Mercy Seat” and “The Mercy Seat” at the top of my new list of titles. That night, the rest of my family came over, and the womenfolk sang Mr. Stowell’s hymn. We sounded pretty darn good if I do say so myself.
In the morning, frowsy with sleep, my mom wandered into the kitchen and said, “I’ve been thinking. How about ‘The Mercy Tree’ instead of ‘The Mercy Seat’?” I loved it. That Monday I emailed a list of possible new titles to my agent, including “The Mercy Tree” and “The Mercy Trees.” My agent added the finishing touch when she emailed back, “How about ‘Under The Mercy Trees’?” For the first time ever, with this title, I could envision the cover of the book. And when I went back through the novel to see what revisions I might need to make for the title to fit, I hardly had to make any–the mercy trees were already in place, waiting for me.
My novel, UNDER THE MERCY TREES, has been accepted for publication. In the spring of 2011 I will hold the finished book in my hands, and I will not be able to imagine it ever being called anything else.
Copyright 2009 by Heather Newton
Me: How about Colleen?
Him: Madeleine.
Me: How about Rose?
Him: Madeleine.
Me: How about Kathleen?
Him: Madeleine.
You get the picture. And then when our daughter was born, and she did have red hair despite all the genetic odds, the name Madeleine settled on her as soon as I held her in my arms and I could not imagine her being anyone else.
The right name brings a person to life and allows you to see who they truly are and all the potential stretching out in front of them. The right title does the same for a novel.
For most of the many years it took me to write my novel, its working title was “Looking for Lenny.” I got points for alliteration, but in addition to being uninspiring, the title didn’t accurately tell what the novel was about. Yes, brother Lenny in the story had disappeared, but in truth the novel wasn’t so much about what had happened to him as it was about his family members’ struggle to come to terms with regrets of their own. The title set readers up to expect a mystery, and some were disappointed when instead they got a family drama.
The next title I tried was “Solace Fork.” I wanted to combine the family’s surname with some term that evoked place. All the good titles with “[Fill-in-the-blank] Falls” were already taken, so I chose Fork, which referred to a central place in the story where water branched, and also to a choice my main character had to make. I assigned “Solace” as the family surname to hint at the peace I hoped my characters achieved by the end of the novel. The title really didn’t work at all. The fact that the “Quantum of Solace” James Bond movie came out around the same time didn’t help, and I had to do all kinds of contorted revisions to try to get the title to fit the novel, which should have been a clue that I hadn’t chosen the right one.
When I found an agent, she sent me back to the drawing board to come up with a title that would reflect the novel’s central theme of redemption and second chances. I brainstormed a list of several dozen, but nothing on my list satisfied my agent or me. It had occurred to me that old-time hymns might be a good source of title phrases, since the novel is set in the rural south, but I hadn’t been able to find much on my own. Fortunately my mother, a devoted shape-note singer, was coming to town for my sister’s birthday party. I told my agent I would get my mom to bring all of her Sacred Harp hymnals with her and we’d spend the weekend on one last marathon quest for the perfect name for my book.
My mom arrived, laden down with hymnals. My idea was that she and I would read the lyrics silently to ourselves. My mom, however, loves a good sing, and proceeded to sing each hymn she turned to, until finally I had to tell her gently that we just did not have time to do it that way. We hunted for phrases about grace and redemption and rebirth and being washed clean. At one point she suggested “Sufficient Grace” and my ears perked up, until I remembered that writer Darnell Arnoult had just published a novel by that title. Finally, we came to a hymn called “From Every Stormy Wind That Blows” by Hugh Stowell. It spoke of “a calm, a sure retreat” to be found “beneath the Mercy Seat.” The words “mercy seat” grabbed us, and I put “Mercy Seat” and “The Mercy Seat” at the top of my new list of titles. That night, the rest of my family came over, and the womenfolk sang Mr. Stowell’s hymn. We sounded pretty darn good if I do say so myself.
In the morning, frowsy with sleep, my mom wandered into the kitchen and said, “I’ve been thinking. How about ‘The Mercy Tree’ instead of ‘The Mercy Seat’?” I loved it. That Monday I emailed a list of possible new titles to my agent, including “The Mercy Tree” and “The Mercy Trees.” My agent added the finishing touch when she emailed back, “How about ‘Under The Mercy Trees’?” For the first time ever, with this title, I could envision the cover of the book. And when I went back through the novel to see what revisions I might need to make for the title to fit, I hardly had to make any–the mercy trees were already in place, waiting for me.
My novel, UNDER THE MERCY TREES, has been accepted for publication. In the spring of 2011 I will hold the finished book in my hands, and I will not be able to imagine it ever being called anything else.
Copyright 2009 by Heather Newton
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Flatiron Writers Short Fiction Contest
Followers of the Flatiron Writers Blog (and others): The Flatiron Writers Short Fiction Contest begins December 1, 2009. Check out the complete contest rules on our website home page at www.flatironwriters.com.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Legal Issues for Fiction Writers: Defamation 101
Admit it, you know you’ve done it, created a “fictional” character who is so much like your Aunt Betty you’ve been afraid to show the story to anyone in your family. Few of us go as far as Thomas Wolfe, who didn’t bother changing the names of the real people on whom he based his characters, but we do steal mannerisms, bits of dialog, exciting incidents, and unusual physical characteristics from the real life people we know. Sometimes we distort and change things around so much we no longer even remember which parts are based on fact and which parts we made up.
Fiction writers are not as likely to be sued for defamation as writers of non-fiction, but we aren’t immune, either. I’m going to give you some general rules about what is and is not considered defamatory in fiction. Any first year law student will tell you that for every rule there are exceptions, so as you read, insert the words “in general” before every sentence, and remember not to consider this blog piece as legal advice–consult your own attorney if you have specific questions. (How’s that for a disclaimer?)
One nice rule to remember is that you cannot defame a dead person. Claims for defamation die when the person dies. So if you want to write a novel that features George Washington in a compromising situation, go right ahead. One caveat: if the estate of a famous dead person is still commercially exploiting the celebrity’s image, other laws may prevent you from using the celebrity’s likeness.
Defamation is a written (libel) or spoken (slander) statement about someone which 1) is false; 2) subjects the person or organization to hatred, contempt, ridicule or loss of reputation; and 3) is published to a third party. In addition to these elements, famous people have to show “malice”-- that the person making the statement knew it was false or had reckless disregard for whether it was true or not.
For fiction, the question is whether readers can identify a real person from your description: if the reader knows Billy Bob, will the reader be convinced that the defamatory parts of your fictional work (the parts which are false and would subject someone to hatred, etc.) describe Billy Bob.
In general, the more preposterous your plot, the less likely it is that readers will believe you are describing a real person. So if your novel has aliens abducting your Billy-Bob-like character, or you have him murder his wife when in fact Billy Bob’s wife is alive and well, you’re probably in good shape. Other good guidelines to follow are to give your character a different name, different occupation and different physical appearance than the real person. The less like the real person your character is, the better, and really, if you are a fiction writer, it shouldn’t be that hard to make things up.
Some things that will not save you if you have defamed someone: putting the words “in my opinion” before a defamatory statement (“in my opinion Billy Bob stole money from his employer”) will not work, because you are really asserting fact, not opinion. And that little disclaimer you see at the front of every book (“any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental . . .”) also isn’t much of a defense.
One parting thought. Revenge is not a good motive for writing fiction, and probably doesn’t result in the best-written fiction. If you’re mad at your ex, or your mother, or your boss, toilet paper their houses instead of portraying them in your fiction. Your writing is yours, an escape from the people who have done you wrong. Don’t give them a place in it.
Heather Newton practices law and writes fiction in Asheville.
Copyright 2009 by Heather Newton
Fiction writers are not as likely to be sued for defamation as writers of non-fiction, but we aren’t immune, either. I’m going to give you some general rules about what is and is not considered defamatory in fiction. Any first year law student will tell you that for every rule there are exceptions, so as you read, insert the words “in general” before every sentence, and remember not to consider this blog piece as legal advice–consult your own attorney if you have specific questions. (How’s that for a disclaimer?)
One nice rule to remember is that you cannot defame a dead person. Claims for defamation die when the person dies. So if you want to write a novel that features George Washington in a compromising situation, go right ahead. One caveat: if the estate of a famous dead person is still commercially exploiting the celebrity’s image, other laws may prevent you from using the celebrity’s likeness.
Defamation is a written (libel) or spoken (slander) statement about someone which 1) is false; 2) subjects the person or organization to hatred, contempt, ridicule or loss of reputation; and 3) is published to a third party. In addition to these elements, famous people have to show “malice”-- that the person making the statement knew it was false or had reckless disregard for whether it was true or not.
For fiction, the question is whether readers can identify a real person from your description: if the reader knows Billy Bob, will the reader be convinced that the defamatory parts of your fictional work (the parts which are false and would subject someone to hatred, etc.) describe Billy Bob.
In general, the more preposterous your plot, the less likely it is that readers will believe you are describing a real person. So if your novel has aliens abducting your Billy-Bob-like character, or you have him murder his wife when in fact Billy Bob’s wife is alive and well, you’re probably in good shape. Other good guidelines to follow are to give your character a different name, different occupation and different physical appearance than the real person. The less like the real person your character is, the better, and really, if you are a fiction writer, it shouldn’t be that hard to make things up.
Some things that will not save you if you have defamed someone: putting the words “in my opinion” before a defamatory statement (“in my opinion Billy Bob stole money from his employer”) will not work, because you are really asserting fact, not opinion. And that little disclaimer you see at the front of every book (“any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental . . .”) also isn’t much of a defense.
One parting thought. Revenge is not a good motive for writing fiction, and probably doesn’t result in the best-written fiction. If you’re mad at your ex, or your mother, or your boss, toilet paper their houses instead of portraying them in your fiction. Your writing is yours, an escape from the people who have done you wrong. Don’t give them a place in it.
Heather Newton practices law and writes fiction in Asheville.
Copyright 2009 by Heather Newton
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Consolation Theory
When I was senior in high school, I confidently told the selection committee for the John Motley Morehead scholarship to UNC Chapel Hill that I was going to be a southern novelist. I was going to join that club of writers, who at the time included Lee Smith, Anne Tyler, Reynolds Price, Doris Betts, Fred Chappell, Guy Owen, and a little later admitted Jill McCorkle, Clyde Edgerton, Josephine Humphreys, Kaye Gibbons and all those others I wanted to be like. The Morehead selection committee was apparently not impressed, and didn’t give me a scholarship. Since then, a fair number of editors, agents and others in the publishing industry also have not been impressed, and at age forty-something, I am still not a published novelist. Although I’ve now found an agent to help me out, there is no guarantee that she’ll be able to sell my novel, given the current economic climate and the oh-so-not-commercial nature of the novel I’ve written. So I’ve been wrestling with how I’m going to handle it if I never accomplish this goal that I was silly enough to set for myself at age seventeen.
As a practicing Christian, my first thought was to look for a spiritual solution. Failure is nothing new to Christians. The Bible is full of characters who failed magnificently, and repeatedly. Characters who, like Peter in Luke 5:5 have said, “Master, we have worked hard all night and have caught nothing.” So I embarked on a quest to learn how God wants us to respond to failure. The consensus seems to be that God wants us to redefine success and failure in Godly terms, and to measure success by our service to others, not by our list of publications in literary magazines with a circulation greater than five thousand.
And here is where I fail as a Christian. The spiritual solution just doesn’t comfort me. I’m all for service to others, but I still need a way to live contentedly in the gap between what I had hoped to achieve with my life, and what I am actually likely to accomplish. Somehow I have to come to terms with it.
Having failed to be a good follower of Christ, the next place I looked for consolation was in the theory of multiple, or parallel, universes. Yes, you heard me right.
As I understand it, based on one ninth grade physics class and a lifetime of watching too much Star Trek, the theory goes something like this: that whenever a situation occurs where there is more than one possible outcome, there is one outcome in this universe, and all the other outcomes flutter out in a fan of alternate realities in other universes. The depressing aspect is that if you have ever had a brush with death in this universe, you’re bound to be dead in some other universe. The upside is, all those times some editor or contest judge chose someone else’s manuscript instead of mine, in another universe they picked mine. In universe # 54382, the three novels I have written are on the shelves at Barnes & Noble instead of under my bed, I am happily typing away on a fourth one, and will take a break this afternoon to go teach creative writing to budding writers who, in universe # 54382, have not yet been published but are diligently working to improve their craft. I am a far better writer in universe # 54382 than I am in this one. I am also ten pounds lighter and have had Botox injections. So, if I go with the theory of parallel universes, then when I’m old and in the nursing home and my children are packing up boxes of my unpublished work to take out to the curb, I’ll find comfort in knowing that somewhere in another dimension I am sitting on a veranda discussing point-of-view with members of the Fellowship of Southern Writers.
If a steadfast, if slightly batty, belief in alternate realities doesn’t console me, there is one other approach that might. A couple of years ago I went to a reading by three women affiliated with www.hipmama.com, an online parenting magazine for progressive (anarchist, even) parents. The authors, all far younger and hipper and more tattooed than me, were great (though they made me think I should start my own online magazine, called “Oldmama” or “Tiredmama” or “Mama-that-grew-up-in-the Reagan-years-and-didn’t-know-there-was-an-alternative-to-getting-a-responsible-job.com”). One of the authors said something about writing that has stuck with me. I’m paraphrasing, but she said that it’s easier to keep on working toward your dream than it is to convince yourself that you never wanted it in the first place.
I think that’s a workable theory. I think I believe it to be true.
Copyright 2009 by Heather Newton
As a practicing Christian, my first thought was to look for a spiritual solution. Failure is nothing new to Christians. The Bible is full of characters who failed magnificently, and repeatedly. Characters who, like Peter in Luke 5:5 have said, “Master, we have worked hard all night and have caught nothing.” So I embarked on a quest to learn how God wants us to respond to failure. The consensus seems to be that God wants us to redefine success and failure in Godly terms, and to measure success by our service to others, not by our list of publications in literary magazines with a circulation greater than five thousand.
And here is where I fail as a Christian. The spiritual solution just doesn’t comfort me. I’m all for service to others, but I still need a way to live contentedly in the gap between what I had hoped to achieve with my life, and what I am actually likely to accomplish. Somehow I have to come to terms with it.
Having failed to be a good follower of Christ, the next place I looked for consolation was in the theory of multiple, or parallel, universes. Yes, you heard me right.
As I understand it, based on one ninth grade physics class and a lifetime of watching too much Star Trek, the theory goes something like this: that whenever a situation occurs where there is more than one possible outcome, there is one outcome in this universe, and all the other outcomes flutter out in a fan of alternate realities in other universes. The depressing aspect is that if you have ever had a brush with death in this universe, you’re bound to be dead in some other universe. The upside is, all those times some editor or contest judge chose someone else’s manuscript instead of mine, in another universe they picked mine. In universe # 54382, the three novels I have written are on the shelves at Barnes & Noble instead of under my bed, I am happily typing away on a fourth one, and will take a break this afternoon to go teach creative writing to budding writers who, in universe # 54382, have not yet been published but are diligently working to improve their craft. I am a far better writer in universe # 54382 than I am in this one. I am also ten pounds lighter and have had Botox injections. So, if I go with the theory of parallel universes, then when I’m old and in the nursing home and my children are packing up boxes of my unpublished work to take out to the curb, I’ll find comfort in knowing that somewhere in another dimension I am sitting on a veranda discussing point-of-view with members of the Fellowship of Southern Writers.
If a steadfast, if slightly batty, belief in alternate realities doesn’t console me, there is one other approach that might. A couple of years ago I went to a reading by three women affiliated with www.hipmama.com, an online parenting magazine for progressive (anarchist, even) parents. The authors, all far younger and hipper and more tattooed than me, were great (though they made me think I should start my own online magazine, called “Oldmama” or “Tiredmama” or “Mama-that-grew-up-in-the Reagan-years-and-didn’t-know-there-was-an-alternative-to-getting-a-responsible-job.com”). One of the authors said something about writing that has stuck with me. I’m paraphrasing, but she said that it’s easier to keep on working toward your dream than it is to convince yourself that you never wanted it in the first place.
I think that’s a workable theory. I think I believe it to be true.
Copyright 2009 by Heather Newton
Saturday, August 1, 2009
Writing a Novel
When I first began writing fiction, I wrote short stories. I never considered the possibility of a novel. I reasoned if I could learn to write a decent short story I would at least have the technical writing skills for a novel. While that reasoning was valid, it was a little naïve.
Writing a short story is like building a bookcase or a simple piece of furniture. You can build the basic framework in a weekend’s worth of work. Subsequently, what you do to finish the work can be as simple as sanding and finishing or as intricate as carving inlays, adding handmade knobs, making drawers with handcut dovetails, or applying multiple layers of color and finish.
To stay with the building analogy, writing a novel is more like building a house. Not only does it require multiple kinds of skill: masonry, framing, roofing, finish carpentry. It also requires perseverance: day after day, week after week of unending work. Years ago, I built a house and when the foundation and framing were complete, the shingles and siding were on, the doors and windows in, my wife said to me, “Oh good. It’s almost done. In reality, it was only half finished even though it looked complete from the outside. A novel can be like that. You get the basic framework in place, you know your characters. If you have single or multiple plot lines, you know how they fit together. Yet, there are scenes upon scenes of detail to be fleshed out with detail. It is, like the house, a project which can have no end.
With a house, once you start it, you know it has to be finished. Unless you have unlimited funds, there are simply too many financial considerations and consequences to leaving it unfinished. The completion of the novel for a beginning writer with no contract or deadline has no similar consequences. You can put it away for long stretches of time; move on to other projects.
I’m not quite there yet. Not quite willing to make the time commitment it takes. But I’m working on it. Somehow, I know that discipline of writing every day, of getting to the end of something big will be a stepping stone.
Copyright 2009 by Toby Heaton
Writing a short story is like building a bookcase or a simple piece of furniture. You can build the basic framework in a weekend’s worth of work. Subsequently, what you do to finish the work can be as simple as sanding and finishing or as intricate as carving inlays, adding handmade knobs, making drawers with handcut dovetails, or applying multiple layers of color and finish.
To stay with the building analogy, writing a novel is more like building a house. Not only does it require multiple kinds of skill: masonry, framing, roofing, finish carpentry. It also requires perseverance: day after day, week after week of unending work. Years ago, I built a house and when the foundation and framing were complete, the shingles and siding were on, the doors and windows in, my wife said to me, “Oh good. It’s almost done. In reality, it was only half finished even though it looked complete from the outside. A novel can be like that. You get the basic framework in place, you know your characters. If you have single or multiple plot lines, you know how they fit together. Yet, there are scenes upon scenes of detail to be fleshed out with detail. It is, like the house, a project which can have no end.
With a house, once you start it, you know it has to be finished. Unless you have unlimited funds, there are simply too many financial considerations and consequences to leaving it unfinished. The completion of the novel for a beginning writer with no contract or deadline has no similar consequences. You can put it away for long stretches of time; move on to other projects.
I’m not quite there yet. Not quite willing to make the time commitment it takes. But I’m working on it. Somehow, I know that discipline of writing every day, of getting to the end of something big will be a stepping stone.
Copyright 2009 by Toby Heaton
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Loose in the World
It’s Mother’s Day as I’m writing this. Mothers, among other things, are nurturers and caregivers – women who give life to their children, shepherd them through childhood, then send them out into the world
Our stories are a little like that. We create them, work and rework their language and content, then send them out into the world, hoping they will have an impact, that readers will find them. But when do we let them go? When is it time?
The Jan/Feb 2009 issue of Poets & Writers had a wonderful article about a writer named Beverly Jensen who wrote stories for sixteen years, working them over and over during that period but never submitting them to any publication. She contracted pancreatic cancer and died at a relatively young age. Her husband, Jay Silverman, got many of them published following her death. They were good stories.
There’s something pure about writing only for yourself. To spend years working at your craft with little or no acknowledgement. And yet, the good mother knows when it’s time, when she has done all she can do and her children have to make their own way in the world.
There have been many artists throughout history who have been unrecognized during their lifetimes. And undoubtedly many more, who were never known outside of a small circle and never celebrated for their genius. How many times have we heard a song from an unknown singer, picked up an old paperback from a stack in a used bookstore, seen a canvas in a rack at an art store and understood intuitively that here was undiscovered talent, here was creativity that should have had a wider audience.
I’m glad Beverly Jensen’s husband loved and believed in her stories enough to do what she herself could no longer do. But it makes me wonder how many stories, how many songs, how many poems are feathered away in obscurity because their mothers didn’t have quite enough confidence or push to set them loose in the world. It’s the first step, even if the journey may be short.
Copyright 2009 by Toby Heaton
Our stories are a little like that. We create them, work and rework their language and content, then send them out into the world, hoping they will have an impact, that readers will find them. But when do we let them go? When is it time?
The Jan/Feb 2009 issue of Poets & Writers had a wonderful article about a writer named Beverly Jensen who wrote stories for sixteen years, working them over and over during that period but never submitting them to any publication. She contracted pancreatic cancer and died at a relatively young age. Her husband, Jay Silverman, got many of them published following her death. They were good stories.
There’s something pure about writing only for yourself. To spend years working at your craft with little or no acknowledgement. And yet, the good mother knows when it’s time, when she has done all she can do and her children have to make their own way in the world.
There have been many artists throughout history who have been unrecognized during their lifetimes. And undoubtedly many more, who were never known outside of a small circle and never celebrated for their genius. How many times have we heard a song from an unknown singer, picked up an old paperback from a stack in a used bookstore, seen a canvas in a rack at an art store and understood intuitively that here was undiscovered talent, here was creativity that should have had a wider audience.
I’m glad Beverly Jensen’s husband loved and believed in her stories enough to do what she herself could no longer do. But it makes me wonder how many stories, how many songs, how many poems are feathered away in obscurity because their mothers didn’t have quite enough confidence or push to set them loose in the world. It’s the first step, even if the journey may be short.
Copyright 2009 by Toby Heaton
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
The Pros & Cons of Writing Contests, With Apologies to Stuart Smalley
It’s tax time, time to give my accountant a list of expenses incurred in connection with my so-far-not-profitable business as a writer. One category of deductions is entry fees for writing contests, and I’ve been pondering the deep question of whether writing contests are worth the money and aggravation they entail. If I look just at the money, dollars spent entering (several) and dollars won (a few), contests probably aren’t worth it. But if I consider the money I spend entering contests to be similar to the money I might budget for a trip to Vegas or Atlantic City, it makes sense to keep entering–I know I’m going to lose the money itself, but what I’m purchasing is the hours of entertainment I’ll get from playing the slot machines and black jack tables.
Here are some of the things writing contests have done for me, besides every decade or so earning me some money. I’ve had four short stories published as a result of contests. I’ve made the finals or semi-finals in some novel contests that I could brag about in the query letter I send to agents. I’ve gotten my name in the paper, which marketing experts say is a good thing for budding writers to try to do. Perhaps most importantly, placing in a contest, even if I don’t win the grand prize, is validation that I’m producing good work, and that I shouldn’t give up–that I’m good enough, I’m smart enough, and doggone it, people like me.
Recently, my novel, Solace Fork, made the quarter-finals (top 500) of the Amazon.com Breakthrough Novel contest. I’ve heard people criticize this contest for being too much like American Idol and for trying to channel wannabe authors toward Amazon’s print-on-demand division, but I think it’s a good contest. For one thing, it was free to enter. Also, quarterfinalists got two "editorial reviews" of their work from people who review lots of books for Amazon, and mine were generally positive, so that was a nice perk. And whether I proceed any further, I get a review by Publisher’s Weekly, which I assume I can put on the back of my book cover if I end up self-publishing, with ellipses replacing any unflattering parts. So I’m happy. And if I do proceed to the semi-finals (top 100), it will be one more thing I can put in my agent query letter.
I’m talking to the members of the Flatiron Writers about our group sponsoring a short fiction contest, with an actual monetary prize. We have to work out the particulars, like, how many stories can we realistically read, what kind of prize can we afford to offer, what "celebrity" writer can we convince to be the final judge, and things like that, but I think it would be great. Keep watching our website for details. You may be our winner.
Copyright 2009 by Heather Newton
Here are some of the things writing contests have done for me, besides every decade or so earning me some money. I’ve had four short stories published as a result of contests. I’ve made the finals or semi-finals in some novel contests that I could brag about in the query letter I send to agents. I’ve gotten my name in the paper, which marketing experts say is a good thing for budding writers to try to do. Perhaps most importantly, placing in a contest, even if I don’t win the grand prize, is validation that I’m producing good work, and that I shouldn’t give up–that I’m good enough, I’m smart enough, and doggone it, people like me.
Recently, my novel, Solace Fork, made the quarter-finals (top 500) of the Amazon.com Breakthrough Novel contest. I’ve heard people criticize this contest for being too much like American Idol and for trying to channel wannabe authors toward Amazon’s print-on-demand division, but I think it’s a good contest. For one thing, it was free to enter. Also, quarterfinalists got two "editorial reviews" of their work from people who review lots of books for Amazon, and mine were generally positive, so that was a nice perk. And whether I proceed any further, I get a review by Publisher’s Weekly, which I assume I can put on the back of my book cover if I end up self-publishing, with ellipses replacing any unflattering parts. So I’m happy. And if I do proceed to the semi-finals (top 100), it will be one more thing I can put in my agent query letter.
I’m talking to the members of the Flatiron Writers about our group sponsoring a short fiction contest, with an actual monetary prize. We have to work out the particulars, like, how many stories can we realistically read, what kind of prize can we afford to offer, what "celebrity" writer can we convince to be the final judge, and things like that, but I think it would be great. Keep watching our website for details. You may be our winner.
Copyright 2009 by Heather Newton
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Finding, No, Making Time to Write
My mother (Suzanne Newton) is a writer, author of nine novels for young adults published by Westminster Press and Viking. Her first book came out in 1970 when I was six. My mother was thirty-four and had four children under the age of eleven, yet somehow she succeeded in doing something I still haven’t mastered. She knew how to claim her writing time.
My mom wrote in my parents’ bedroom, the only room with a window-unit air conditioner. She went in there every morning and stayed until lunch time, banging out prose on a manual Hermes typewriter that kept her fingers strong for piano-playing and opening pickle jars. From her room she could hear us playing outside, and come out if necessary, say, to wash our mouths out with soap for saying bad words like "pee pee head." She rarely came out. This was the 1970s, before hover-craft parenting was the norm, and mothers could get away with raising children by means of benign neglect. My siblings and I pretty much ran wild. While we were roaming as far as we could pedal on our bikes, eating all the candy our allowance would purchase at the local mini-mart, bathing every other night and only occasionally washing our hair, my mom was writing.
I have been far less successful than my mom at claiming my writing time. I try to carve out Fridays from 8:30 to 2 to write, but far too often it doesn’t happen. For me, the issue isn’t "time thieves" like television, video games, Facebook (or writing blog pieces for the Flatiron writers!). If these were the problems I could drop them cold turkey. The three things that most often shove writing off my agenda are 1) my child, 2) my law practice, and 3) church work. These are all good things that are important and that sometimes legitimately demand that I give them priority. Sometimes, though, I let them claim more of me than I should.
I love my kid to distraction, and perhaps because my parents were so hands-off, I’ve made a conscious decision to parent differently, to show up at every game and performance, to notice what she’s up to, to make sure she bathes and brushes her hair! But my child wouldn’t suffer if I chauffeured her fewer places or supervised fewer play dates. Heck, she might like me to leave her alone a bit more.
And then there’s work. When I was young I had my palm read twice. One psychic told me I was going to be a lawyer, the other said I would be a cosmetologist. (They both told me I would have five children, but that’s another story). I sometimes think it would have been better if I had gone to beauty school. Cosmetology is a career that you can leave at the salon when you go home. Clients come in to get their hair cut and then leave–their cases don’t drag on for months and years, with crises on Fridays. In many ways my legal career has been very rewarding, but someone told me recently you have to devote 10,000 hours to something to become really good at it. The career I’ve chosen has definitely stood in the way of my accruing 10,000 hours as a writer.
Finally, church work. It’s one thing to say "no" to my child or to work obligations. It’s another to say "no" to God! I’m involved in my church because I love it, but in the last few years church work has become almost another part time job. I don’t mind the meetings (I’m Baptist, we do everything by committee and you would not believe the number of meetings) because they happen at night when I wouldn’t be writing anyway. What bumps my writing time is preparing to teach adult Sunday School every week. I can never seem to get it done before Friday, so on Fridays when I’m supposed to be writing fiction, quite often instead I’m preparing Sunday’s lesson. Right now I’m finishing up an eight-week teaching commitment, and I think I’m just going to have to say "no" to any more teaching for the rest of this year so I can make some headway on the short stories I’m supposed to be writing. Sorry, God!
I don’t blame anyone but myself when a week (or more) passes with no time spent writing. I believe fundamentally that people make time for the things they really care about. In addition to writing during the day while her urchin children roamed the neighborhood, I remember my mother standing over her ironing board late at night after she had put us to bed, with an iron in one hand and her pen and writing notebook in the other. Real writers don’t moan about lack of writing time. Real writers write.
Copyright 2009 Heather Newton
My mom wrote in my parents’ bedroom, the only room with a window-unit air conditioner. She went in there every morning and stayed until lunch time, banging out prose on a manual Hermes typewriter that kept her fingers strong for piano-playing and opening pickle jars. From her room she could hear us playing outside, and come out if necessary, say, to wash our mouths out with soap for saying bad words like "pee pee head." She rarely came out. This was the 1970s, before hover-craft parenting was the norm, and mothers could get away with raising children by means of benign neglect. My siblings and I pretty much ran wild. While we were roaming as far as we could pedal on our bikes, eating all the candy our allowance would purchase at the local mini-mart, bathing every other night and only occasionally washing our hair, my mom was writing.
I have been far less successful than my mom at claiming my writing time. I try to carve out Fridays from 8:30 to 2 to write, but far too often it doesn’t happen. For me, the issue isn’t "time thieves" like television, video games, Facebook (or writing blog pieces for the Flatiron writers!). If these were the problems I could drop them cold turkey. The three things that most often shove writing off my agenda are 1) my child, 2) my law practice, and 3) church work. These are all good things that are important and that sometimes legitimately demand that I give them priority. Sometimes, though, I let them claim more of me than I should.
I love my kid to distraction, and perhaps because my parents were so hands-off, I’ve made a conscious decision to parent differently, to show up at every game and performance, to notice what she’s up to, to make sure she bathes and brushes her hair! But my child wouldn’t suffer if I chauffeured her fewer places or supervised fewer play dates. Heck, she might like me to leave her alone a bit more.
And then there’s work. When I was young I had my palm read twice. One psychic told me I was going to be a lawyer, the other said I would be a cosmetologist. (They both told me I would have five children, but that’s another story). I sometimes think it would have been better if I had gone to beauty school. Cosmetology is a career that you can leave at the salon when you go home. Clients come in to get their hair cut and then leave–their cases don’t drag on for months and years, with crises on Fridays. In many ways my legal career has been very rewarding, but someone told me recently you have to devote 10,000 hours to something to become really good at it. The career I’ve chosen has definitely stood in the way of my accruing 10,000 hours as a writer.
Finally, church work. It’s one thing to say "no" to my child or to work obligations. It’s another to say "no" to God! I’m involved in my church because I love it, but in the last few years church work has become almost another part time job. I don’t mind the meetings (I’m Baptist, we do everything by committee and you would not believe the number of meetings) because they happen at night when I wouldn’t be writing anyway. What bumps my writing time is preparing to teach adult Sunday School every week. I can never seem to get it done before Friday, so on Fridays when I’m supposed to be writing fiction, quite often instead I’m preparing Sunday’s lesson. Right now I’m finishing up an eight-week teaching commitment, and I think I’m just going to have to say "no" to any more teaching for the rest of this year so I can make some headway on the short stories I’m supposed to be writing. Sorry, God!
I don’t blame anyone but myself when a week (or more) passes with no time spent writing. I believe fundamentally that people make time for the things they really care about. In addition to writing during the day while her urchin children roamed the neighborhood, I remember my mother standing over her ironing board late at night after she had put us to bed, with an iron in one hand and her pen and writing notebook in the other. Real writers don’t moan about lack of writing time. Real writers write.
Copyright 2009 Heather Newton
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Literary Fiction – What is it?
Last week I was having coffee with a friend and the subject of literary fiction came up. What exactly is it? And what makes it different from mainstream fiction? We verbally explored the possibility that it might be related to the quality of the writing or that the stories were character-driven rather than plot oriented. But nothing we could come up with firmly established the genre if that’s what it is.
One of the definitions for literature is “writing of value.” Another, “writing that lasts.” Time tested in other words. But who is it that defines “value?” Charles Dickens and Jane Austen were the popular novelists of their day. Are we supposed to wait 50 or 100 years to see which of the best selling writers of today are still being read?
What if we ask a different question. Why are mainstream novels widely read (substitute best sellers) and literary novels regulated to the intelligentsia, so to speak? I think to some extent, the answer lies in story. The most popular writers, the ones who show up over and over on the best seller lists, are great storytellers. And readers love stories.
The craft of writing, for me, breaks down into three major areas of focus (and there is plenty of room for debate here). The first is just basic English, the stuff you learned in high school: nouns, verbs, punctuation, syntax etc… Every writer has to know these language forms and there are a zillion textbooks that teach it. When I was programming, there was a simple adage we used sometimes: form frees, which basically meant that you could break the rules if you knew the form because that implicit form was still there. Frank Lloyd Wright could never have designed Fallingwater without knowing the rules of cantilevered structures. Cormac McCarthy writes without a lot of punctuation. But he’s consistent with his misuse. Read a few chapters, and you’re on board.
The second area of writing I consider is imagination. To me this includes whatever it is in written expression and thought that make a writer unique. It’s something that can’t be taught though every writer has influences that push them in a certain direction. When I read someone like Ursula K. LeGuin, I’m struck (like a lightning bolt) by the ideas and imagination behind the writing. The world looks different though her eyes. I think you can still be a fine writer if you lack this quality. Writers are, above all else, observers and someone who can define a character with detail can go a long way. Outside of fiction and advertising, this is what most writing is about. Just getting it down.
The third is what I think of as “tricks of the trade.” These include techniques like ending chapters with an unanswered question or an unresolved situation. I would define these techniques as anything that creates tension in the reader. Put a gun on the mantle in the first chapter and the reader waits and waits for it to be used. Again, plenty of books documenting these techniques though I find reading the best way to discover them. I recently read Echoes from the Dead by the Swedish author Johan Theorin. In the prolog a small boy slips over the stone wall surrounding his cottage and out into the Swedish moor where, in the fog, he encounters a man who we discover is a serial killer. The boy disappears. Theorin writes the story in two threads: in one the boy’s mother and grandfather search for answers surrounding the disappearance, and in the other, Theorin shows us the life of the serial killer. As a reader you spend the entire novel waiting for these two threads to connect. A marvelous device.
So let’s get back to literary fiction. My supposition is that mainstream writers concentrate their efforts on basic writing and tricks of the trade to tell their stories, while literary writers focus on imagination and language. As a reader I ask myself, what is it I’d rather read (if I’m forced to choose): a good story or fine writing? I can’t tell you how many books I’ve put down after reading the first chapter because the writing just isn’t good enough to continue. On the other hand, I’m tremendously disappointed when I read a piece of fine writing where the author has made no effort to consider story structure or keep the reader guessing, depending solely on the quality of the prose to hold the reader. If some of these literary writers paid more attention to the techniques that raise storytelling to another level, I think they would find far more of their work on the best seller lists.
Copyright 2009 by Toby Heaton
One of the definitions for literature is “writing of value.” Another, “writing that lasts.” Time tested in other words. But who is it that defines “value?” Charles Dickens and Jane Austen were the popular novelists of their day. Are we supposed to wait 50 or 100 years to see which of the best selling writers of today are still being read?
What if we ask a different question. Why are mainstream novels widely read (substitute best sellers) and literary novels regulated to the intelligentsia, so to speak? I think to some extent, the answer lies in story. The most popular writers, the ones who show up over and over on the best seller lists, are great storytellers. And readers love stories.
The craft of writing, for me, breaks down into three major areas of focus (and there is plenty of room for debate here). The first is just basic English, the stuff you learned in high school: nouns, verbs, punctuation, syntax etc… Every writer has to know these language forms and there are a zillion textbooks that teach it. When I was programming, there was a simple adage we used sometimes: form frees, which basically meant that you could break the rules if you knew the form because that implicit form was still there. Frank Lloyd Wright could never have designed Fallingwater without knowing the rules of cantilevered structures. Cormac McCarthy writes without a lot of punctuation. But he’s consistent with his misuse. Read a few chapters, and you’re on board.
The second area of writing I consider is imagination. To me this includes whatever it is in written expression and thought that make a writer unique. It’s something that can’t be taught though every writer has influences that push them in a certain direction. When I read someone like Ursula K. LeGuin, I’m struck (like a lightning bolt) by the ideas and imagination behind the writing. The world looks different though her eyes. I think you can still be a fine writer if you lack this quality. Writers are, above all else, observers and someone who can define a character with detail can go a long way. Outside of fiction and advertising, this is what most writing is about. Just getting it down.
The third is what I think of as “tricks of the trade.” These include techniques like ending chapters with an unanswered question or an unresolved situation. I would define these techniques as anything that creates tension in the reader. Put a gun on the mantle in the first chapter and the reader waits and waits for it to be used. Again, plenty of books documenting these techniques though I find reading the best way to discover them. I recently read Echoes from the Dead by the Swedish author Johan Theorin. In the prolog a small boy slips over the stone wall surrounding his cottage and out into the Swedish moor where, in the fog, he encounters a man who we discover is a serial killer. The boy disappears. Theorin writes the story in two threads: in one the boy’s mother and grandfather search for answers surrounding the disappearance, and in the other, Theorin shows us the life of the serial killer. As a reader you spend the entire novel waiting for these two threads to connect. A marvelous device.
So let’s get back to literary fiction. My supposition is that mainstream writers concentrate their efforts on basic writing and tricks of the trade to tell their stories, while literary writers focus on imagination and language. As a reader I ask myself, what is it I’d rather read (if I’m forced to choose): a good story or fine writing? I can’t tell you how many books I’ve put down after reading the first chapter because the writing just isn’t good enough to continue. On the other hand, I’m tremendously disappointed when I read a piece of fine writing where the author has made no effort to consider story structure or keep the reader guessing, depending solely on the quality of the prose to hold the reader. If some of these literary writers paid more attention to the techniques that raise storytelling to another level, I think they would find far more of their work on the best seller lists.
Copyright 2009 by Toby Heaton
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
How to Get There: Thoughts on Writing Stories
Before I became a writer, I was a computer programmer. In many ways the two professions are remarkably similar: long hours of isolation, attention to detail, and the ability to process and consider multiple threads of information at the same time. Computer programming might seem like an almost mathematical kind of profession – you’re essentially writing instructions to be executed by a machine, a computer. In reality, nothing could be further from the truth. A generic computer program has, on one side, the inputs: the data from a source (e.g. keyboard input); and on the other, the outputs: reports, data feeds to another program, or calculated results. Everything in between, the code, is a black box, a cipher to the outside environment. Inside that black box there are a thousand ways to get from the inputs to the outputs, from the beginning to the end.
I write stories in the same way I wrote computer code. With stories, the inputs include characters, setting, and plot. The outputs could be what happens, the events of the story, or a transformation of some kind. I want to discover that transformation when I’m thinking about the story, not when I’m writing. Writing is too hard, too much work to end up somewhere I don’t want to be. It would be like coding a computer program without knowing the outputs. I want to write towards something, some goal I know about. I believe in the axiom: Begin with the end in mind.
Maybe this kind of approach makes the writing more calculated. I don’t know. There are plenty of writers who write to discover the characters and their story; who end up with something wonderful. But the consequences of failure for that technique are dire. I abhor stories that leave me in the desert without water, or abandoned at the side of the road, or even recumbent in some palatial estate – all with the word “so?” on my lips. Asking the storyteller “Why did you bring me here? It’s one thing to do this with a twenty-page short story, quite another to write 300 pages of a novel. Writing the novel is a long and arduous process. What happens when you get to a place where you can’t quite figure out the ending and your creative energy is gone? Read Annie Lamott’s Bird by Bird if you want an insight from the writer’s side.
That said, there are as many ways to write a story, to discover a story, as there are writers. In some of the writing workshops I’ve been in, the instructor will create three grab bags: one for place, one for names, and a third for verbs. You reach your hand in and pull out: TRAIN STATION, MARY, and DANCE. Thus, your writing assignment is to create a story about someone named Mary, dancing in a train station. Give this assignment to a hundred writers and, of course, you get a hundred different stories. Yet, for each story, the inputs are identical. Discovering the outputs, now there’s the key, the creative separation that imagination can bring; and the difference between writing and computer programming. With stories, the writer creates the ending.
I’m not a big fan of outlines, though I understand their value. I like the free flow association diagrams whose purpose is to encourage your subconscious. Books about writing are full of ideas on how best to create a finished story and each writer has to find a technique that works for them. Terry Brooks, the fantasy writer, generates an outline, then checks each new idea for the story against the outline to make sure everything works out. Though I don’t use outlines, I do need to know the ending for a story. Then everything in the story leads there. I’ve never discovered those endings when I’m writing. For me the breakthroughs have come when I’m walking or running, or those few minutes before sleep when logical mind is diffused. Something, perhaps, about endorphins.
In the final analysis, we, as writers, aren’t saving the world, except maybe in some indirect way. What I reach for in my own stories and hope for in the stories of others is that when I come to the last page, the last paragraph, the last word, I went through something: a rainstorm, an earthquake, a car wash. And that the world looks a little different on the other side.
Copyright 2009 by Toby Heaton
I write stories in the same way I wrote computer code. With stories, the inputs include characters, setting, and plot. The outputs could be what happens, the events of the story, or a transformation of some kind. I want to discover that transformation when I’m thinking about the story, not when I’m writing. Writing is too hard, too much work to end up somewhere I don’t want to be. It would be like coding a computer program without knowing the outputs. I want to write towards something, some goal I know about. I believe in the axiom: Begin with the end in mind.
Maybe this kind of approach makes the writing more calculated. I don’t know. There are plenty of writers who write to discover the characters and their story; who end up with something wonderful. But the consequences of failure for that technique are dire. I abhor stories that leave me in the desert without water, or abandoned at the side of the road, or even recumbent in some palatial estate – all with the word “so?” on my lips. Asking the storyteller “Why did you bring me here? It’s one thing to do this with a twenty-page short story, quite another to write 300 pages of a novel. Writing the novel is a long and arduous process. What happens when you get to a place where you can’t quite figure out the ending and your creative energy is gone? Read Annie Lamott’s Bird by Bird if you want an insight from the writer’s side.
That said, there are as many ways to write a story, to discover a story, as there are writers. In some of the writing workshops I’ve been in, the instructor will create three grab bags: one for place, one for names, and a third for verbs. You reach your hand in and pull out: TRAIN STATION, MARY, and DANCE. Thus, your writing assignment is to create a story about someone named Mary, dancing in a train station. Give this assignment to a hundred writers and, of course, you get a hundred different stories. Yet, for each story, the inputs are identical. Discovering the outputs, now there’s the key, the creative separation that imagination can bring; and the difference between writing and computer programming. With stories, the writer creates the ending.
I’m not a big fan of outlines, though I understand their value. I like the free flow association diagrams whose purpose is to encourage your subconscious. Books about writing are full of ideas on how best to create a finished story and each writer has to find a technique that works for them. Terry Brooks, the fantasy writer, generates an outline, then checks each new idea for the story against the outline to make sure everything works out. Though I don’t use outlines, I do need to know the ending for a story. Then everything in the story leads there. I’ve never discovered those endings when I’m writing. For me the breakthroughs have come when I’m walking or running, or those few minutes before sleep when logical mind is diffused. Something, perhaps, about endorphins.
In the final analysis, we, as writers, aren’t saving the world, except maybe in some indirect way. What I reach for in my own stories and hope for in the stories of others is that when I come to the last page, the last paragraph, the last word, I went through something: a rainstorm, an earthquake, a car wash. And that the world looks a little different on the other side.
Copyright 2009 by Toby Heaton
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Importance of Story
If you’re a writer, the end-of-the-year holiday season can be a kind of wakeup call – stories coming at you from every direction. Stories so ingrained in our culture, we take them for granted: the birth of the Christ child, Santa Claus, A Christmas Carol, and on and on. Some of the stories are religious, some folklore, some movies, some in song. During the year, it’s easy to forget how important stories are to every human culture that has ever existed.
We know each other through story. To say a man is 6 foot 2 inches, 200 pounds, with brown hair and brown eyes is to describe a million men. When you add a limp from an accident with a bear trap when he was thirteen and a broken nose from a bar-fight in Sidney, Australia, you begin to construct a story. If you have any imagination at all, you can’t help yourself. When your eight year-old daughter comes home from school and you ask her how her day was, you’re asking for the story of her life for that short period. Television news media understand the importance of story implicitly. The news anchor reads the headline: SEVEN PEOPLE DIE IN FREEWAY ACCIDENT. Then, they switch to a reporter at the scene, interviewing an onlooker or a passenger in one of the cars, for the personal story that makes it all too real.
In the first line of her essay, the White Album, Joan Didion wrote, “We tell ourselves stories in order to live.” The “we” she references is the societal “we,” the cultural collective. We are long past the stories of the caveman, the wall drawings known only to a singular group; or the stories of a tribe, passed from generation to generation through oral narrative. The stories we tell and hear now come from every nook and cranny of the earth we live on. They cross every boundary, even the ones we, as writers, sometimes seek to impose upon ourselves. A number of years ago I had a conversation with a classical violinist who lamented the decreasing number of new classical compositions. Then, I heard recordings of the London Philharmonic with Pink Floyd, and the Siegal-Schwall Blues Band with Seiji Ozawa and the San Francisco Symphony. The composers were still out there. They had simply switch mediums. Likewise, many of our storytellers have moved into graphic novels and video games. It’s no accident that the best porn movies have story lines to go along with the sex.
As writers we can see the consolidation of the publishing industry, the demise of our independent small bookstores. Yet, the world still craves stories. Maybe they won’t come in the ways we have done them in the past. Maybe it’s a YouTube skit you write and get a friend with a video camera to record; or a one-act play for your child’s third grade class.
As writers, we have the same advantage as the one-eyed man in a world of blind people. We know stories. We just need to tell them in any way we can.
Copyright 2009 by Toby Heaton
We know each other through story. To say a man is 6 foot 2 inches, 200 pounds, with brown hair and brown eyes is to describe a million men. When you add a limp from an accident with a bear trap when he was thirteen and a broken nose from a bar-fight in Sidney, Australia, you begin to construct a story. If you have any imagination at all, you can’t help yourself. When your eight year-old daughter comes home from school and you ask her how her day was, you’re asking for the story of her life for that short period. Television news media understand the importance of story implicitly. The news anchor reads the headline: SEVEN PEOPLE DIE IN FREEWAY ACCIDENT. Then, they switch to a reporter at the scene, interviewing an onlooker or a passenger in one of the cars, for the personal story that makes it all too real.
In the first line of her essay, the White Album, Joan Didion wrote, “We tell ourselves stories in order to live.” The “we” she references is the societal “we,” the cultural collective. We are long past the stories of the caveman, the wall drawings known only to a singular group; or the stories of a tribe, passed from generation to generation through oral narrative. The stories we tell and hear now come from every nook and cranny of the earth we live on. They cross every boundary, even the ones we, as writers, sometimes seek to impose upon ourselves. A number of years ago I had a conversation with a classical violinist who lamented the decreasing number of new classical compositions. Then, I heard recordings of the London Philharmonic with Pink Floyd, and the Siegal-Schwall Blues Band with Seiji Ozawa and the San Francisco Symphony. The composers were still out there. They had simply switch mediums. Likewise, many of our storytellers have moved into graphic novels and video games. It’s no accident that the best porn movies have story lines to go along with the sex.
As writers we can see the consolidation of the publishing industry, the demise of our independent small bookstores. Yet, the world still craves stories. Maybe they won’t come in the ways we have done them in the past. Maybe it’s a YouTube skit you write and get a friend with a video camera to record; or a one-act play for your child’s third grade class.
As writers, we have the same advantage as the one-eyed man in a world of blind people. We know stories. We just need to tell them in any way we can.
Copyright 2009 by Toby Heaton
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