Later this week I'm scheduled to receive the copy edited pages of Growing Up Ivy from the publisher. I will have one week to review them and to respond to any queries the editor has. Since that week also includes Easter, it's going to be a busy time!
I'm interested in seeing the editor's suggestions. A writer tends to lose objectivity when she's been this close to a project for a long period of time. (In my case, usually about two years.)
Before the file arrives in my email inbox, I'm trying to finish the latest revisions on the novel-in-progress. When that's done, I plan to put it away for a few weeks. It needs to "gel." And I need some distance from it, so that the next time I see it, it will be with fresh eyes. The same as I'll have when I get to read "Growing Up Ivy" this week.
Showing posts with label novel-in-progress. Show all posts
Showing posts with label novel-in-progress. Show all posts
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Monday, March 22, 2010
Raising the Stakes
A writer has to make the reader care about the outcome of a story.
In my novel-in-progress two kids, Delia and Sam, suspect a former neighbour of having murdered his wife. They set about to uncover the truth. It wasn't long before I began to have doubts about the strength of this story. Why would the kids even bother? Why would they care?
When I began to ask myself these questions, I realized that kids themselves needed a stake in finding the answer. How could I make solving the mystery a matter of life and death for these youngsters?
In order to answer that question, I had the boy's aunt, a young woman who plays an important role in the lives of both kids, begin to date the man with the deadly secret.
Now Delia and Sam had a reason for wanting to get at the truth.
To ratchet up the tension, I had the kids discover that the man had had not one, but two wives, who had died violent deaths. It became more urgent than ever that they act quickly to save the unsuspecting Aunt Esme from a similar fate.
Now, I can get on with the story.
In my novel-in-progress two kids, Delia and Sam, suspect a former neighbour of having murdered his wife. They set about to uncover the truth. It wasn't long before I began to have doubts about the strength of this story. Why would the kids even bother? Why would they care?
When I began to ask myself these questions, I realized that kids themselves needed a stake in finding the answer. How could I make solving the mystery a matter of life and death for these youngsters?
In order to answer that question, I had the boy's aunt, a young woman who plays an important role in the lives of both kids, begin to date the man with the deadly secret.
Now Delia and Sam had a reason for wanting to get at the truth.
To ratchet up the tension, I had the kids discover that the man had had not one, but two wives, who had died violent deaths. It became more urgent than ever that they act quickly to save the unsuspecting Aunt Esme from a similar fate.
Now, I can get on with the story.
Monday, March 15, 2010
Book Signing
I
've just spent an interesting weekend, representing the Spirit of the Hills Writers' Group with a table at the Warkworth Maple Syrup Festival. I was the only writer there, surrounded by vendors selling crafts and baked goods. It was a weekend of people-watching and non-stop smiling.Everyone was friendly.
There were plenty of children visiting the festival with their families, and it was rewarding to have a number of them recognize the books on my table. "Oh, we have that one, Mommy!" or "We read that one in school."
The three books that had been part of the Silver Birch reading program in the Ontario schools reminded the youngsters of the fun they'd had reading the books on the list that year, and finally voting for their favourite. I assured them that the authors whose books had been selected for the program had as much fun as the kids.
"I know you," one girl said. "You came to our library last year." Then she picked out all the books on the table that she could remember.
I enjoyed talking to a number of school teachers who happened by, a couple of whom were already familiar with my work and who expressed an interest in having me visit their classrooms.
To pass the time I scribbled notes on future posts for this blog and worked on a scene I'm writing for the novel-in-progress. I signed books that were going to a classroom in Nova Scotia and to grandchildren as far away as Texas. There was one lovely man who bought two books for his granddaughter, Maia, who lives in Bermuda. He came back later to take a picture of me to send to Maia along with the books. You've got to love that!
've just spent an interesting weekend, representing the Spirit of the Hills Writers' Group with a table at the Warkworth Maple Syrup Festival. I was the only writer there, surrounded by vendors selling crafts and baked goods. It was a weekend of people-watching and non-stop smiling.Everyone was friendly.There were plenty of children visiting the festival with their families, and it was rewarding to have a number of them recognize the books on my table. "Oh, we have that one, Mommy!" or "We read that one in school."
The three books that had been part of the Silver Birch reading program in the Ontario schools reminded the youngsters of the fun they'd had reading the books on the list that year, and finally voting for their favourite. I assured them that the authors whose books had been selected for the program had as much fun as the kids.
"I know you," one girl said. "You came to our library last year." Then she picked out all the books on the table that she could remember.
I enjoyed talking to a number of school teachers who happened by, a couple of whom were already familiar with my work and who expressed an interest in having me visit their classrooms.
To pass the time I scribbled notes on future posts for this blog and worked on a scene I'm writing for the novel-in-progress. I signed books that were going to a classroom in Nova Scotia and to grandchildren as far away as Texas. There was one lovely man who bought two books for his granddaughter, Maia, who lives in Bermuda. He came back later to take a picture of me to send to Maia along with the books. You've got to love that!
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
When the Writing Goes Well
I love it when the writing goes well, when the hours fly by and I look up to discover it's already past noon. That's the way it was for me this morning.
Now that I'm nearing the end of my novel-in-progress, the pieces are starting to come together more quickly. This morning I was working on the dialogue between four characters, hearing their conversation as if I were with them in Alicia's sunny living room. The words just started to flow. I didn't bother with dialogue attributes (I'll go back and fill them in later, where necessary). I knew who was speaking by what they said. Besides, I didn't want to interrupt the flow of conversation.
I felt exhilarated by the time I stopped writing, had lunch and went for my usual walk. But the characters didn't stop talking. Their conversation continued in my head. There's still a lot of writing to do, but we need days like this to keep us slogging ahead.
Cheers!
Now that I'm nearing the end of my novel-in-progress, the pieces are starting to come together more quickly. This morning I was working on the dialogue between four characters, hearing their conversation as if I were with them in Alicia's sunny living room. The words just started to flow. I didn't bother with dialogue attributes (I'll go back and fill them in later, where necessary). I knew who was speaking by what they said. Besides, I didn't want to interrupt the flow of conversation.
I felt exhilarated by the time I stopped writing, had lunch and went for my usual walk. But the characters didn't stop talking. Their conversation continued in my head. There's still a lot of writing to do, but we need days like this to keep us slogging ahead.
Cheers!
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Good-bye, Bella Stone
After two drafts and almost a year of writing, I find I have to rename one of the main characters in my novel-in-progress. This character, a fifteen year old girl, has turned out to be rather immature and gullible. She's naive and easily led. It is this personality that gets her into trouble.
I've been calling her Bella Stone. That's a good solid name, a no-nonsense kind of name. But as the story goes on and Bella's personality develops, that name keeps getting in the way. It just doesn't suit the girl who is emerging.
I need a more light-weight name for her. Maybe something like Daisy Feather? To me, a name like that suggests airiness, a bit of fluff. I imagine a dandelion seed, drifting like a tiny parachute, trusting her fate to the wind.
Hello, Daisy Feather. Now, that should help me get on with the story.
Write on!
I've been calling her Bella Stone. That's a good solid name, a no-nonsense kind of name. But as the story goes on and Bella's personality develops, that name keeps getting in the way. It just doesn't suit the girl who is emerging.
I need a more light-weight name for her. Maybe something like Daisy Feather? To me, a name like that suggests airiness, a bit of fluff. I imagine a dandelion seed, drifting like a tiny parachute, trusting her fate to the wind.
Hello, Daisy Feather. Now, that should help me get on with the story.
Write on!
Saturday, September 26, 2009
True Confessions
I'm working on a talk I have to deliver next week. Until that is behind me, I'm not ready to get back into the novel-in-progress. I need to keep writing, though, and so I'm taking Anne Lamott's advice.
In her book, Bird by Bird, Lamott says that you should write short assignments. It's important to get something down, she says, and to finish it. Write about your childhood; write about birthdays, school, family members, (even) school lunches. There may be only one usable sentence in the piece, she says, or there may be nothing. But it could reveal something interesting about you, your family and the times in which you live.
This is what I wrote yesterday:
My mother didn't like to make school lunches. She never said as much, but all these years later, I know it to be true. I cannot remember her ever suggesting we make our own.
Mom refused to buy sliced bread but preferred hearty loaves which she sliced herself, calling anything like "Wonder Bread" soggy and devoid of any nutrition. "You might as well eat the wrapper it comes in."
No crust was ever removed from Mom's sandwiches, and the margarine would be applied so sparingly that the sandwiches were often dry. How I envied my friend Marja's pretty lunches: sandwiches made of thin slices of roasted chicken breast on crustless, soft white bread. No great leaves of lettuce hanging out anywhere. And real butter!
I especially hated to open my waxed paper wrapped sandwich to discover today's surprise was egg salad. Mom never let the eggs boil long enough to become hard, and there was always some runny yolk inside.
Anne Lamott was right. That piece did reveal something about myself: I too hate making lunches. While I sit scribbling at the kitchen table, the pages of my novel stacked in front of me, my husband quietly makes his own sandwich.
Pity the writer's family!
In her book, Bird by Bird, Lamott says that you should write short assignments. It's important to get something down, she says, and to finish it. Write about your childhood; write about birthdays, school, family members, (even) school lunches. There may be only one usable sentence in the piece, she says, or there may be nothing. But it could reveal something interesting about you, your family and the times in which you live.
This is what I wrote yesterday:
My mother didn't like to make school lunches. She never said as much, but all these years later, I know it to be true. I cannot remember her ever suggesting we make our own.
Mom refused to buy sliced bread but preferred hearty loaves which she sliced herself, calling anything like "Wonder Bread" soggy and devoid of any nutrition. "You might as well eat the wrapper it comes in."
No crust was ever removed from Mom's sandwiches, and the margarine would be applied so sparingly that the sandwiches were often dry. How I envied my friend Marja's pretty lunches: sandwiches made of thin slices of roasted chicken breast on crustless, soft white bread. No great leaves of lettuce hanging out anywhere. And real butter!
I especially hated to open my waxed paper wrapped sandwich to discover today's surprise was egg salad. Mom never let the eggs boil long enough to become hard, and there was always some runny yolk inside.
Anne Lamott was right. That piece did reveal something about myself: I too hate making lunches. While I sit scribbling at the kitchen table, the pages of my novel stacked in front of me, my husband quietly makes his own sandwich.
Pity the writer's family!
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Keeping a Travel Diary
I've been away for three weeks, on a road trip to Jasper, Alberta. Although I didn't take my novel-in-progress with me, nor the one I'm currently revising, it was not a holiday from writing.
I kept my notebook handy in the car, jotting down the new sights and impressions all along the way. Each morning, while I sipped coffee in our hotel room, I wrote a longer entry in my journal. By then, the events of the previous day had had a chance to seep into my writer's soul. I could reflect on what I'd seen, and I took the time to choose the best descriptive words I could.
I wrote about the brave swimmers bobbing up and down in the choppy waters of Lake Nipissing, how the wind blew our umbrellas inside out in Thunder Bay, how the land approaching Winnipeg flattens out. I'd forgotten that. The trees along the streets in my old neighbourhood in Winnipeg have grown so big that it is like driving through a leafy, green tunnel.
I wrote about the wide skies in Saskatchewan, the fields of happy yellow sunflowers, how you see the cloud of dust coming down one of the many sideroads towards the highway, long before you see the vehicle that is causing it.
As we drive into the Badlands, there are no trees, only sagebrush and huge eroded formations called hoodoos as far as the eye can see. A lunar landscape.
The grandeur of Rocky Mountains takes my breath away. They appear like a mirage on the horizon before we leave Calgary. At Canmore, they come out to meet us, wrapping around our shoulders until we are completely surrounded by them. We drive all day, and still they are on all four sides. A day in Jasper and then, at Hinton, Alberta, we have to stop for one last look at the Rockies fading into the distance behind us.
Happy trails!
I kept my notebook handy in the car, jotting down the new sights and impressions all along the way. Each morning, while I sipped coffee in our hotel room, I wrote a longer entry in my journal. By then, the events of the previous day had had a chance to seep into my writer's soul. I could reflect on what I'd seen, and I took the time to choose the best descriptive words I could.
I wrote about the brave swimmers bobbing up and down in the choppy waters of Lake Nipissing, how the wind blew our umbrellas inside out in Thunder Bay, how the land approaching Winnipeg flattens out. I'd forgotten that. The trees along the streets in my old neighbourhood in Winnipeg have grown so big that it is like driving through a leafy, green tunnel.
I wrote about the wide skies in Saskatchewan, the fields of happy yellow sunflowers, how you see the cloud of dust coming down one of the many sideroads towards the highway, long before you see the vehicle that is causing it.
As we drive into the Badlands, there are no trees, only sagebrush and huge eroded formations called hoodoos as far as the eye can see. A lunar landscape.
The grandeur of Rocky Mountains takes my breath away. They appear like a mirage on the horizon before we leave Calgary. At Canmore, they come out to meet us, wrapping around our shoulders until we are completely surrounded by them. We drive all day, and still they are on all four sides. A day in Jasper and then, at Hinton, Alberta, we have to stop for one last look at the Rockies fading into the distance behind us.
Happy trails!
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