How Do You Write?

When drafting a novel, the general recommendation is to sit yourself down someplace comfortable and write it straight through to the end in as short a time frame as possible - to get the damn story down, no matter how ugly it is, THEN go back and revise. I envy those who can do this, I really do, because I'm just not like that. I wish I were. It would make my writing life easier I suspect. I might even have my novel finished by now.

But no. I write, then backstitch and rework it. Then I write a little more, then backstitch and revise again. Sometimes I go waaaay back in the wayback machine to revise parts I wrote months ago - even segments I wrote last year. All the time, I'm still pressing forward toward the end. It just takes me longer.

Why write this way?

I think it's just the way I'm made. It's in my genetic makeup or something. In all our old family home movies taken during birthdays and Christmas, I'm the kid cleaning up. I wouldn't open the next present until I'd placed all the gift wrap and trimmings from the first present in a garbage bag. My sister claimed I had no fun. She ripped into everything with gusto.

I like all the underpinnings to be neat, without any bumps or wrinkles. When my husband "makes the bed" he just pulls the comforter up over the wrinkled sheet, plumps up the pillows a tiny bit and tosses them onto the bed in the general direction of the headboard. But not me. No, I have to smooth out the sheets until not a wrinkle shows and then make sure everything hangs evenly around all sides of the bed before I pull up the comforter and carefully arrange the pillows. Honestly, I wish I was different. My art instructor is always urging me to draw a little looser, not to grasp the pencil so firmly. But he can't change what he can't change.

So, how do you write? Are there any other anal retentive writers out there besides me?

Five Things On a Friday

Here are a few random thoughts.

1. My new principal thinks books will become obsolete in the future, although she didn't specify how far into the future she thinks this may happen. The thought horrifies me. There's still something very intimate and wonderful about holding a book - about nestling into bed with one or sharing a picture book with an enthusiastic group of first graders. You can take a book any place - to the beach, the doctor's waiting room, the airport terminal ...the unemployment line. Try plugging in your laptop in any of those places! I don't think books will ever become obsolete, no more than I think calculators will ever become a substitute for a solid knowledge of your math facts.

2. This winter has gone on long enough. Please, we need a sign of spring - a crocus or something! I still have a foot of snow in my yard. Ugh.

3. I was pleased to see a lot of teens in the YA section of Border's a few weeks ago. I heard a mother telling her daughter, "This time, don't leave it in your backpack." She was referring to her daughter's copy of Twilight. Somebody had apparently stolen it. Does this elevate books to the status of iPods and iphones? While I don't like thieves any more than the next person, I like the idea of somebody wanting a book that bad. It gives me hope, in a weird way.

4. My husband started remodeling the bathroom off our bedroom. The floors are coated with a fine gray dust and our bathroom vanity is sitting smack in the middle of my bedroom. Fortunately we have another bathroom we can use until this one is finished.

5. My eldest son is losing his job. Today is his last day and so far he has no job prospects. He is looking, however. Anybody have any job leads for a hard working, punctual, smart, literate college grad on Long Island? He does not want to sit around collecting unemployment.

Happy Friday!

Creating Suspense

I've never been a big mystery fan, preferring instead to read fantasy, contemporary and historical fiction. However, this doesn't mean that I don't recognize the advantage of borrowing some techniques from mystery writers when it comes to plotting. I recently finished reading two wonderful but very different novels - Graceling, by Kristin Cashore, and So B. It, by Sarah Weeks. The former is a young adult fantasy about a young female warrior named Katsa with an extraordinary talent or "grace" for killing, the second a middle grade novel about twelve year old Heidi, living with her mentally impaired mother in Reno, and her desire to learn something about her muddled past.

Although the two novels have little in common, except that they're both well crafted, beautifully written, engrossing reads, they share one common bond; in both books the authors create an air of mystery that keeps the reader turning the page.

In Graceling, Cashore leads the reader into her novel by immediately setting up an enigma. Who kidnapped harmless Prince Tealeaf and why? What could anybody possibly want from the father of the most peace loving king in the land? Soon, Cashore introduces yet another mystery; who is the handsome, graced fighter who confronts Katsa in the courtyard? Yet a third mystery concerns neighboring King Leck and the mystery surrounding him and the apparent abuse of small animals and young girls. Little by little, over the course of the novel, the missing pieces fall into place until we have a complete picture and each of the mysteries is solved. Cashore's writing is vivid, her characters well drawn but the mysteries she establishes early in her book are what pull the reader along to the end.

In So B. It, Sarah Weeks also sets up several mysteries. Heidi is 12 years old but because her mother is mentally disabled and only has a vocabulary of 23 words, there are gaping holes in her life and family history. For instance, what is Heidi's last name? When is her birthday? Who is her father? Her grandmother and grandfather? Where did she come from? Then there is her mother's word, "soof". What does it mean? One day while organizing a closet, Heidi comes across a camera containing a roll of film. When she has the roll developed, she finds pictures of her mother with other people. Could the woman standing next to her mother be her grandmother? Are any of the other people in the photos her family? Maybe they can help her fill in the missing holes. The only clue Heidi has is the pictures were taken in a group home in Liberty, New York. So, off sets Heidi in search of the missing pieces of her life and the meaning of the word "soof". Slowly, over the course of the novel, Weeks reveals the answers to the mysteries she established in the early part of her story. To ensure the reader keeps turning the page, she saves the most compelling information for last. The ending brought both a few tears and a sense of satisfaction to a well-crafted novel with believable characters.

You don't need to be a "mystery writer" to create intrigue and suspense and compel the reader through to the end, but certainly as writers we each have something to gain by weaving a little mystery into our stories and novels.

The Poetry of Prose

I try to squeeze in as much reading as I can when I can but between my job, trying to maintain some sort of an exercise routine and trying, also, to write and work at art projects, it ain't always easy. Anyhow, I recently finished reading The Underneath, by Kathi Appelt. It's truly one of the most lyrical and beautifully written books I've ever read so it came as no surprise to me when it won a Newbery Honor Medal this year. My only surprise was that it didn't win the gold medal for it truly deserved it. There was some discussion about this book holding little appeal for children, about the language being inaccessible, but every one of my students who has read it has finished it and absolutely loved it.

For anybody who hasn't delved into this book yet, it's the story of a dog and a cat and her kittens who live beneath the house of a cruel man in a backwoods bayou. The story of a giant crocodile, two young lovers and a giant shape-shifting snake are also seamlessly woven into the story. At the end, all the stories come together. And that's all I'll tell you about the ending, except that it was emotionally satisfying. All I could say was, wow!

Kids, I've discovered, love beautiful language - words that roll off the tongue and paint a vivid picture for them. I love to read aloud stories that captivate their imagination and slowly reel them in. This year I have a squirmy bunch of fifth graders and as I started reading The Underneath aloud to them, they were moving around in their seats, whispering, flicking little wads of paper, etc. Slowly, they stopped to listen and as they did, they stopped squirming and tuned into the story. I knew I had them. At the end of the period, they groaned. Somebody even asked if she could come in during her lunch period to hear more!

I've read novels written in poetic prose before, but not recently and none that I remember for children (although Cynthia Rylant's books come close at times). A lot of books today are written in free verse. Sometimes it comes off sounding a little artificial, though, and I think the story would have been more effective if it had been written in narrative form.

Some outstanding free verse novels that work well for me include Karen Hesse's Out of the Dust (one of the first written in this style), Susan Taylor Brown's lovely novel, Hugging the Rock and Sharon Creech's book, Love That Dog. I'm sure there must be more.

Practicing the art of crafting poetry can lend your prose more beauty. But, more on this another time. Anybody else out there practice writing both poetry and prose? If so, I'd love to hear about it.

Billy Collins -

My son, Derek, shared this recording of Billy Collins reading his poem, "The Lanyard", with me and I loved it. So, thought I'd share it with you. Enjoy!

Hope

Watching the inauguration yesterday of President Barack Obama, I felt moved and inspired and once again proud to be an American. It's hard to admit that for the last 8 years I've felt embarrassed to call myself an American. I barely recognized the country I was born in. I was so ashamed of the last administration - ashamed of their violation of human and Constitutional rights and their disregard for the treaty of the Geneva Convention. I was appalled by Bush's apparent disdain and neglect of the environment, by the way he and his administration favored big business and big oil over the common man and the poor people of this country and Bush's apparent disrespect of gays. I was almost dumbstruck by his attempts to create a theocracy out of a democracy, by the way he thumbed his nose at science. He was almost too bad to believe.

When Bush was handed the presidency 8 years ago (I still don't think he earned it), I knew we were in for a bumpy ride. But never in my wildest dreams could I have envisioned the total hell he'd put our country through. Thanks to him, our country is embroiled in two useless wars, the economy is in shambles, unemployment is at a record high, we're once again saddled with a national debt and most of us have been left wondering what happened to that nest egg we'd put away for our retirement. I'm beginning to wonder if I'll even have a job next year.

With Barack Obama in charge, I once again feel there's hope for our country. I by no means think the next year or two will be easy. If anything, things will probably get worse before they get better. But at least we now have a man of intellect and vision at the helm, somebody with regard for history, an understanding of the Constitution and endowed with a sense of what makes America great. I hope he can get our country back on her feet.

Back To Art

I enrolled in a life drawing class this semester. It's been a while since I've drawn a living person and I didn't realize how much I'd missed it until I sat down at the easel with my pencil case, measuring, drawing and erasing and drawing again. I hadn't taken an art class since early last year.

Robert moved LIAFA to a new location down the road (in Riverhead) and it's charming. It's in an old office building above a pizzeria and a few other businesses. The new space has tall ceilings, oak floors, is clean and well maintained, and actually has running hot water and a radiator that works. In the old building, we suffered all winter without adequate heat and had to wash our paint brushes in ice cold water, turning my hands numb and white. When I drove in to paint on a Sunday afternoon, I often chattered with the cold as I sat mixing my colors on my palette.

There's much to love about drawing - the feel of the pencil between your fingers, the smooth, creamy surface of the paper, the meditative solace it brings as you strive to capture the curve of the model's back, the gesture of the hands, the turn of the head. I love the comforting quiet of the studio and the mingling odors of paint, charcoal pencils and mineral spirits. Sometimes drawing from life is incredibly frustrating. After a break, it's hard to get the model positioned in exactly the same pose. Sometimes I get a stiff neck or I can't quite capture the pose or work out the proportions. Still, I keep on.

Drawing helps to train the writer's eye. It helps the writer to cultivate patience with himself and his craft. Most artists, like most writers, work hard at what they do. Success often comes slowly after many years of hard work.

Really, isn't that true of anything that requires skill, whether it's wrestling, running, building a piece of furniture, cultivating a garden or composing a poem? Few of us get it right the first time. And that, after all, is makes makes success so sweet when we finally hold it, plump, ripe and juicy, in our own two hands.