Bio:
Victorine and her husband live in Nebraska where they manufacture rubber stamps for the craft industry. They own and operate Victorine Originals Rubber Stamps from their home, where they raise their four children. Victorine has a degree in Art from BYU Idaho, and designs many of the rubber stamps they sell. She has always loved to read, and in her spare time she writes.
When did you first decide to become a writer? What was that like?
Funny thing is, I never decided to become a writer. I wrote my novel to attain a goal I had set for myself. I have always loved to read. As a kid, I decided I wanted to write a novel, so I started writing and got about 10 notebook pages done before other things took my interest. As an adult, I found a renewed interest in this goal so I began another novel, but again I gave up after a few pages.
Then one day I was lifting my daughter from her car seat and my back seized up. I couldn't move. I decided that was the perfect time to try to finish a novel. So I typed on my laptop and finished the first draft of Not What She Seems in one week. Then after meeting that goal, I decided I would try to see if it was any good. I'm go glad I found some honest people. The book needed a lot of help. So I joined CritiqueCircle.com and submitted the novel through twice, and it has greatly improved.
Who were the writers who inspired you when you were younger?
I read anything I could get my hands on. I read Beverly Cleary, C.S. Lewis, George Orwell, Madeleine L'Engle, L.M. Montgomery, Edward Egar, and Ray Bradbury to name a few.
What kind of obstacles did you face when you first began writing? How did you overcome them?
The first obstacle I had to overcome was being afraid of criticism. I didn't want to hear anything bad about my work. But I soon overcame that through posting on CritiqueCircle.com. The next biggest obstacle would be finding the time to write. I'm still working on that one.
What kind of obstacles did you face when you first published? How did you overcome those?
Obscurity. I believe that is every authors largest obstacle. I had to let people know about my book. The best way to do this, IMHO, is to get active on the social networks that Kindle owners hang out on. (Because I published on the Kindle first.) It does take a lot of time, but it's not "hard" selling either. It's just getting to know people, and once they do, they'll naturally want to know more about your book. And they'll also want to tell more people about it if they liked it.
What are you working on currently? Can we see a bit of it?
I'm currently finishing up a novel titled "The Overtaking." It's a romantic sci-fi, with paranormal aspects. I posted the first chapter up on my website, if anyone wants a sneek peek at it. http://www.victorinelieske.com/ Just click Books and there's a link on that page.
What advice do you have for aspiring novelists?
My best advice is to join a critique group. Whether it's online like CritiqueCircle.com or in your area where you meet face to face, your work is going to improve through the critique process.
Where do you see yourself ultimately taking your career?
For me, it's about sharing my book with readers. If I can post my stories by myself to the Kindle and Nook, and earn a living doing it, that will make me the happiest person in the world.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Friday, February 18, 2011
Just give it up kid!
I would like to write a little bit today about the value of quitting. Yes, I know that sounds odd. Quitters ar not very popular with the mainstream. Quitting is frowned upon as a fault and not a virtue. However, as a young writer I found a hidden value in quitting and I'll tell you why.
The writing process was very difficult for me. I had absolutely no idea what I was doing. The "creative writing" classess I had taken were absolutely useless, the teachers had no idea how to teach creativity or even the fundamentals of the craft of writing. I was working a job I hated (7pm-7am driving a forklift, then going home to care for my son while my wife worked and getting at most 2 hours of sleep a day) all because I wanted time to dedicate to writing. You can imagine how frustrated I was. I understand how frustrated you might be in your efforts to write your novel. And, this is where quitting comes in.
I frequently gave up. I said, "I quit, I'm done, it's never going to happen." And then, one,two, three weeks down the line and I started up again. I could not quit. I had a deamon inside me that had to come out and would not leave me alone.
You see the nice thing about quitting occassionally is that it will prove to you who you truly are and what you are truly intended to be. If you quit your novel and never return, great. Not everyone was meant to be a novelist and there is no shame in that. It simply means that your life's path lies down a different road. But, if you tak up the pen again you know that you are doomed. There is no getting around it. THE NOVEL HAS CHOSEN YOU. IT IS YOUR MASTER AND YOU MUST OBEY.
And, so when that happens you must take up the pen and resolve yourself with the stoicism of a, hmm, let's see, with the stoicism of a Stoic to write and revise, write and revise, write and revise until what must be has come to pass.
The writing process was very difficult for me. I had absolutely no idea what I was doing. The "creative writing" classess I had taken were absolutely useless, the teachers had no idea how to teach creativity or even the fundamentals of the craft of writing. I was working a job I hated (7pm-7am driving a forklift, then going home to care for my son while my wife worked and getting at most 2 hours of sleep a day) all because I wanted time to dedicate to writing. You can imagine how frustrated I was. I understand how frustrated you might be in your efforts to write your novel. And, this is where quitting comes in.
I frequently gave up. I said, "I quit, I'm done, it's never going to happen." And then, one,two, three weeks down the line and I started up again. I could not quit. I had a deamon inside me that had to come out and would not leave me alone.
You see the nice thing about quitting occassionally is that it will prove to you who you truly are and what you are truly intended to be. If you quit your novel and never return, great. Not everyone was meant to be a novelist and there is no shame in that. It simply means that your life's path lies down a different road. But, if you tak up the pen again you know that you are doomed. There is no getting around it. THE NOVEL HAS CHOSEN YOU. IT IS YOUR MASTER AND YOU MUST OBEY.
And, so when that happens you must take up the pen and resolve yourself with the stoicism of a, hmm, let's see, with the stoicism of a Stoic to write and revise, write and revise, write and revise until what must be has come to pass.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Interview - Marva Dasef
Marva Dasef is a writer living in the Pacific Northwest with her husband and a fat white cat. Retired from thirty-five years in the software industry, she has now turned her energies to writing fiction and finds it a much more satisfying occupation. Marva has published more than forty stories in a number of on-line and print magazines, with her stories included in several Best of anthologies. She has six published books. See a complete list of her work at http://marvadasef.com/.
Her most recent release is "The Tales of Abu Nuwas." She'll be giving away a free ebook to blog visitors who leave a comment.
Q: When did you first decide to become a writer? What was that like?
I decided to become a professional writer in college. I was actually forced into it by getting a student job at the Computer Science Department. The head asked if I'd write technical manuals for using the various computer equipment. In addition, the student programmers were working on an NSF (National Science Foundation) grant to develop user-friendly software. That was one big reason the department head wanted an English major. I ended up taking computer science courses along with my lit and writing courses. Voila! I received the first technical communication degree (I think anywhere) with an English major and Computer Science minor.
I scattered some fiction writing here and there over the intervening years until I retired from a programmer/analyst job and decided to write stories instead.
Q: Who were the writers who inspired you when you were younger?
Science Fiction writers like Heinlein, Clarke, Asimov, Niven, and many, many more. SF combined my interests in science and literature. How perfect is that?
Q: What kind of obstacles did you face when you first began writing? How did you overcome them?
Not really an obstacle, but I had to overcome my learned terseness as a tech writer. Description in tech documentation tends to be sparse. "The cursor is shown as a blinking underscore." Ahem. Boring, eh?
Q: How long and how many drafts does it usually take to finish a novel?
I don't count drafts. I have a first draft, then I revise, but rarely rewrite huge chunks of material. Mostly, I add that color writing I tend to skip when getting the plot down.
Q: What kind of obstacles did you face when you first published? How did you overcome those?
Naivete. I thought any publisher was a good publisher. I had to wait out two-year contracts to get my rights back on two books. When I did, I went with self-publishing since nobody wants a reprint.
Q: What are your thoughts on self publishing vs. the traditional route?
I learned to self-publish from necessity. In addition to the two books I wanted to re-issue, I had a book of related short stories based on my father's boyhood in West Texas during the Depression. Again, nobody wants a book of short stories. I did submit the individual stories to magazines and sold seven of them. That's when I decided to put all the stories together in a single book and came out with "Tales of a Texas Boy." This is still my best-selling book. It's funny and nostalgic, reminiscent of Huckleberry Finn in that it's written in first person as an eleven-year-old boy. With dialect.
Q: What are you working on currently? Can we see a bit of it?
I have gotten too far into my next book because I've got four books already at a publisher. I'll be very busy working with the editors, cover artist, trying to get my publicity act together. My most recent release is the re-issue of one of those books released from contract. I added a frame story a la 1001 Arabian Nights to pull together the seven adventures of a girl and her genie. It's "The Tales of Abu Nuwas." I'm giving away an ebook or two to people who comment on this blog. I've included an excerpt below.
The four upcoming books are:
Missing, Assumed Dead - a mystery/suspense set in Eastern Oregon scheduled for release in July.
The Witches of Galdorheim series: Bad Spelling, Midnight Oil, and Scotch Broom. This is a MG/YA fantasy set in the real world of the Arctic, Norway, Finland, Siberia, Scotland, and other places you can find in an atlas, and some only in my mind. If I working on anything, it's a fourth book in that series, but is still in rough outline form.
Q: What advice do you have for aspiring novelists?
Do your research at places like Absolute Write, but don't discount small, independent publishers. Very few will get an agent and a contract with a big New York publisher. Certainly, give that route a good shot first. That is the ideal situation, but if a year goes by without getting an agent, decide whether you want a trunk full of unpublished books or do you want to be published.
Ebooks have made it easier to get contracts with up and coming small publishers. They're hungry for good writing.
Q: Where do you see yourself ultimately taking your career?
I expect I have achieved the height of my career already. I've learned a lot about writing fiction. I have a terrific publisher. I think I'll just keep on with what I'm doing.
“The Tales of Abu Nuwas”
Available in ebook format through:
Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/35634
(Use coupon DR46W to buy for 99 cents)
Book Trailer: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BGKf-yOGkXk
Blurb:
Abu Nuwas sits in the bazaar telling stories to the passersby he can tempt to pay. When Najda, a poor girl, offers him a packet of spice for a story, Abu Nuwas launches into a tale about a girl named Setara and her genie. As did Scheherazade, he leaves the girl hanging in the middle of each yarn to keep her coming back for more. While relating the fantastical accounts, Abu Nuwas learns more of the spice girl's life, then finds a way to save her from a forced marriage and find a better life.
Excerpt:
Setara slumped to the cave floor. What, she wondered, could these superstitious tribesmen think was a mountain demon? Cloistered she may be, but she was well educated and did not believe in demons. These were old men’s tales to frighten children. It made no difference, really. Dead was dead, whether by a demon’s talons or a mountain cat’s fangs.
She smacked her head against the rock wall and realized she had dozed off. How stupid of me. I’m waiting here for something to eat me and I take a nap! She edged toward the entrance, kicking herself mentally. Why hadn’t she simply tried to push the bushes aside and get out?
She found the answer in the inch-long thorns on the shrubs, tied down so she couldn’t move them. When she had pushed on them with her tied hands, she got a gash for her effort. Now, the mountain cats would smell blood, and it would be all over.
Backing away from the thorns, she pushed her body into the wall. At least she could face the lions when they came.
A loud crash, followed by a slither of loose gravel sounded no more than twenty feet from where she crouched. Setara pressed herself harder into the cave wall, closed her eyes tight and clenched her teeth.
Her eyes and mouth popped open simultaneously at what she heard next.
“Why can’t they clean up these blasted caves?” a deep voice rumbled.
Suddenly, a torch flared, and Setara could see the source of the voice. An eight-foot tall figure loomed in the light. A turbaned head nearly touched the now visible cave roof. Setara gaped at the man. Or was it a man? While his features were man-like, the three-inch fangs, sharp talons, and beastly snout belied his humanity. Dressed in the old style, with ballooning trousers tied at the ankles, a brocaded vest opened to reveal a broad, hairless chest.
The creature held up the torch, which Setara could now see was a flame jetting from his upraised index finger. The monster glanced around until his gaze rested on Setara.
Monday, February 14, 2011
Where does inspiration come from?
"An apple assed half appalosssa named Alice got booed 'cause she pooed in the back of the palace".
That is what one of my good friends, a musician, used to say in college.
His brother. also a muscician, used to say things like "Time to change my life, lay down some roots...makin' love in lizard skin boots".
Ah, college and the stupid things we used to say. But, these were the people who set the example for me to become a writer...musicians.
But, whether you are a musician or a writer, inspiration is a difficult thing. Where does it come from and, more importantly, how doe you harness it once it arrives?
Most of my drafts look something like this...
Many of these traditions began with the Mesopotamian celebration of New Years. The Mesopotamians believed in many gods, and as their chief god - Marduk. Each year as winter arrived it was believed that Marduk would do battle with the monsters of chaos. To assist Marduk in his struggle the Mesopotamians held a festival for the New Year. This was Zagmuk, the New Year's festival that lasted for 12 days.
Great, yet another piece of driftwood that I have to figure out how to fit into a novel.
I worked for years, hammering these things into a home, something presentable that I could show another reader. And, it literally took years before I had a draft that would make even the slightest bit of sense to someone other than me and the two or three other people who seemed to have taken up residence in my head in the time since I had begun writing. Know the feeling?
But, here is the thing. Human beings are physical manifestations of the universal mind, that great collective unconscious that we swim in when we dream. Most people don't realize this or, if they do, they don't care. Inspiration is all around us, we can't help but step in it like cow pies in a farmer's field. As artists, writers, musicians, whatever we have asssumed the task of taking this wift of wind called inspiration and crafting something that the rest of our species can understand. We are the translators of dreams. And our task is to determine what has meaning and what doesn't. That is why the poem above eventually made it into The Vagabond King...but so did the apples assed half appalossa named Alice.
That is what one of my good friends, a musician, used to say in college.
His brother. also a muscician, used to say things like "Time to change my life, lay down some roots...makin' love in lizard skin boots".
Ah, college and the stupid things we used to say. But, these were the people who set the example for me to become a writer...musicians.
But, whether you are a musician or a writer, inspiration is a difficult thing. Where does it come from and, more importantly, how doe you harness it once it arrives?
Most of my drafts look something like this...
I wanted to give Magda the stars in the sky and over the next few weeks I continued searching for a present for her. Though I continued looking for something for Magda over the next few weeks, it was no use. I wanted to give her the stars in the sky. But, I could find nothing, no matter how expensive it might be, that symbolized my true feelings for her. And so Chjristmas came and went and though I gave her something, it was nothing meaningful. PORTRAY HIS LOVE FOR HER AND THE THINGS SHE DOES.
The 12 days of Christmas, the bright fires, the yule log, the giving of gifts, carnivals(parades) with floats, carolers who sing while going from house to house, the holiday feasts, and the church processions can all be traced back to the early Mesopotamians.
Many of these traditions began with the Mesopotamian celebration of New Years. The Mesopotamians believed in many gods, and as their chief god - Marduk. Each year as winter arrived it was believed that Marduk would do battle with the monsters of chaos. To assist Marduk in his struggle the Mesopotamians held a festival for the New Year. This was Zagmuk, the New Year's festival that lasted for 12 days.
The sun is the king of time. But, day after day the sun sank lower and lower in the sky like the nodding head of an afed king whose crown had grown too heavy. To the ancients, Magda said, the sun was the one true God himself, the merciful source of all life, of all our blessings and everything we hold dear. So, it was cause for great concern when the radiance of the almighty grew weaker and the night grew longer and longer as if they would soon be swallowed by the universe itself.
...literary detritus, driftwood that has washed up on the shores of my mind. It means something, I just don't know what and it's my job, our job as writers, to translate these impulses and images that arise from the subconscious into something palateble for the masses.
Even though I am a novelist, I have always had an easier time writing poetry. It might take me 25 drafts to figure out what to do with all the disparate images that accumulate on the sea shore of my mind but, after reading Alan Ginsburg's Howl just once I said to myself "I can do that" and, in 15 minutes wrote.
The King is Dead!
And right and left, left and right,
upon two ragged and separating shoes,
the news is carried through the dying light.
The king is dead! The king is dead!
The word is muttered. It is said.
The word is heard but, like a ball
thrown into the wallless void beyond,
there is no customary response and call
proclaiming the sovereignty of the son.
With the click and the kick of Anarchy's gun
the lid slams shut upon the eye
and sends the regal orb a'rolling
down the pyramid's widening walls.
As in a pinball slot, or a ball gone bowling,
it wends its way upon a splitting fissure until finally it
falls
into the void
scattering pins and people in the sunken sun.
And I ponder now the point of a pyramid
who's very reason for being is pointless.
A multitude of headless chickens react and race,
like contracting atoms,
about the yard to cluck and call.
"The sky is falling! The sky is falling!"
No, not really.
But the universe, it is true,
at least as far as I can tell,
is shrinking,
and no longer extends beyond the finite boundaries
of a mess of mortal organs
wrapped in human skin.
The king is dead and we are
split,
like atoms,
by a trickster god.
You and I become me and you.
And hark!
Who goes there in the night?
One is black and one is white...
but only in the other's eyes.
And who is wrong and who is right?
Who can judge now that our ruler's lost
and Juliet would be a son
and not a daughter?
We've tossed the truth out with the water
and got each other's reasons crossed,
like the hairy legs of a woman
trapped inside the body of a man.
The king is dead!
The word filters through our window
from the senseless central boulevard.
The word is spoken.
It is barked and bleated 'round our table
as our father's words are now taken as a token
to spend on candy and cheap diversions
before each and every frustrated one of us
separates for bed.
Dissenting thoughts now fill the heads of man and wife.
We chant our mantras beneath closed coffin lids
before each of us, coming to his and her own conclusion,
rolls away from the empty center of the marriage bed,
and satisfied,
we turn out the light.
And continue rolling,
and continue rolling,
and roll away into the expanding night...
I worked for years, hammering these things into a home, something presentable that I could show another reader. And, it literally took years before I had a draft that would make even the slightest bit of sense to someone other than me and the two or three other people who seemed to have taken up residence in my head in the time since I had begun writing. Know the feeling?
But, here is the thing. Human beings are physical manifestations of the universal mind, that great collective unconscious that we swim in when we dream. Most people don't realize this or, if they do, they don't care. Inspiration is all around us, we can't help but step in it like cow pies in a farmer's field. As artists, writers, musicians, whatever we have asssumed the task of taking this wift of wind called inspiration and crafting something that the rest of our species can understand. We are the translators of dreams. And our task is to determine what has meaning and what doesn't. That is why the poem above eventually made it into The Vagabond King...but so did the apples assed half appalossa named Alice.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Revision, revision, revision
Before I get started I'd like to welcome Dawn and Marva, thanks for stopping by. I hope you find it enlightening.
In order to provide some encouragement for all those would be novelists struggling to come up with exactly the right word I thought I’d post some various drafts of my soon to be published novel The Vagabond King. So, if you are ready, get ready to watch how some really bad writing gets a lot better.
Here is the first page of my 5th draft.
It was an age. It was an age of great confusion. In one hundred years the world had changed more than in all of Human history.
In one hundred years, a quick tick of the clock, the world had gone from sailing the untamable seas in wooden ships to navigating the cosmos itself. But, there was no longer a star in the sky for a sailor to guide by. For it was a fatherless age, an age conceived in the philosophy that God is dead, and the world was come to the place where cartographers were once tradition bound to write “here there be monsters”.
It was as if Columbus, overestimating his horizon, had pushed further and further beyond the boundaries of human limitation and sailed off the edge of the world, plunging into chaos. For, as the boundaries of human limitation expanded and then dissolved before our eyes, the world began to shrink and the boundaries of our universe no longer extended past the confines of our own individual skins. Right and wrong no longer existed except to be determined by the individual just as he chose a favorite color or a shirt to wear. For what was true yesterday was no longer true today.
What was true yesterday was no longer true today.
This is what I discovered shortly before my mother died of cancer. What was true yesterday was no longer true today.
She let me in on, what she referred to as “a little secret”. You see, she told me from her hospital bed, you are not who you have always thought yourself to be. You are not really your father’s son. They had never told me because, she said, my father, the man I had considered to be my father, did not want me to know. He wanted to keep the truth of my own existance hidden from me.
“You are at that age”, she said. “You are at that age when you want to start becoming a man”. That, she said, is why she told me.
And so the scene opens, so the story begins shortly after I had left my father’s house, vowing never to return, as I stood knocking on the door, seeking a place to live, of a woman I had met only weeks before.
These were lonely times for me. My mother was dead and ever since my she had fallen ill I had been neglected almost completely by my father.
He had expensive tastes: a palacial house in an exclusive subdivision, designer suits and luxery automobiles. But, now, without my mother’s income, he was financially over extended.
So, each day after school, while my father worked late so that he would not lose the level of status and regal lifestyle he demanded, I was left alone to wander down marble halls and beneath cathedral ceilings, while the sun sank beyond the distant edge of the world and the shadows crept like wolves from the corners of the lifeless house, through room after room until my father returned dragging his troubles, like a tail, behind him.
It was as if I had been swept into the corner with all the dustballs and ignored as life passed me by.
Without the placative presence of the mother, the father and the son had grown distant and edgy. As I got older I spoke less and less to my father and he spoke less and less to me. It was as if we were two primal and opposing energies that, if we happened to cross each other in the silent halls of the house, would erupt in anger.
Silence and avoidance were my only two weapons in my ongoing struggle with my father. As the silence became more dense and dangerous the battle became more threatening and vile. It was as if it were an unwritten challenge, complete with gauntlet and slap in the face, that one must vanquish the other.
As you can see, I had absolutely no idea what I was doing. I had a bunch of ideas floating around but I didn't exactly know how to weave them into a story. These ideas would eventually become maajor themes in the book. However, at this point I am just trying to portray them in a lump sum. Now, let’s fast forward 10 drafts and take a look at how the first page looks for draft 15.
Vast, black and ever expanding, a universe without center or circumference spins round me like some scratched and skipping record, some scratched and scratched and skipping record spinning round a central pin.
The present was not here long enough to consider, we already existed in the future…
Within one hundred years, a quick tick of the clock, a quick tick of the clock indeed we have named the volcanic mountains of Mars and discovered the frozen oceans of Jupiter’s moons as we have gone from sailing the watery oceans in wooden ships to navigating the celestial seas beyond.
Ours is a world of relentlessly expanding technological advancement and with each fleeting moment those ancient dreams and antique aspirations grow as quaint and passé as the belief in a God who rules the Earth from his heavenly throne.
We have become as the very gods themselves. For, with our knowledge of science we can split atoms, create life and manipulate genders. With each rocket we send ripping through the atmosphere and each satellite we send sailing past the stars, we transcend the cross of time and space to which we had, for so long, been crucified.
But, even as the boundaries of our universe expand and shrink from sight like passing islands in a spyglass, my soul is shrinking and collapsing in upon itself like a dying star.
“The world we live in is completely different from the world our ancestors lived in.” Magda said as she sat on a stool behind the counter thumbing through a well-worn paperback edition of a work by Nietzsche.
The diner in which I sat each night shone like a lonely jewel in the darkness that surrounded it. Beyond our world a hundred billion galaxies each with a hundred billion stars, countless other worlds with countless other realities and countless other truths floated like occasional islands in an even more infinite ocean of nothingness. Our world had been unmoored and cut adrift like a ship upon the black and rolling waves of some vast and uncharted ocean. Thrown by chance and the powers that be, we were sitting on a skipping stone and fear, not confidence, increased with the ripples of uncertainty, forever expanding outward through the universe.
“Modern man no longer has a standard by which to judge. Right and wrong no longer exist except to be determined by the individual just like you choose a favorite color or a shirt to wear.”
Each night, as she moved through the diner taking orders and clearing plates, she reminded me of a jungle cat I saw once as a boy at the zoo pacing back and forth, back and forth; sleek, fluid, sexual, seeking release behind the bars of a cage. Occasionally she would stop and bend or twist so that the fabric between the buttons of her pink polyester uniform would pucker and reveal to my eager adolescent eyes a glimpse of the black lace mysteries contained within. Oh, I imagined the plastic buttons of her blouse melting like butter between the heat of my fingers and, each time she caught me staring, she would widen her dark, feline eyes at me before curling her lips into a cruel little grin that sent a shiver through my bones and set me off like a seismograph.
“The boundary of a person’s universe no longer extends past their skin.”
No longer was there a star in the sky for a sailor to guide by. Like Columbus, sailing further and further from the safety of the known world we had overestimated our horizon only to find that fabled place, the edge of the world, where cartographers in ancient times were tradition bound to write, “here there be monsters.”
As you can see I am still struggling with how to portray the confusion of the age which I wanted to serve as the setting for the adolescent confusion of the main character. (Unfortunately, the writer was just as confused as the character he wanted to portray). It seems like the only advance I had made was to introduce Magda, the love interest at the beginning of the book. I had numerous themes I knew I needed to portray but I just didn't know how to weave them together.And, this is ten drafts later.
I remember feeling so frustrated. I had this story that I knew must be told but I still couldn’t figure out how to tell it. I was absolutely certain that other writers would just whip their stories out in 2-3 drafts and be done with it. But, then I heard George Lucas say that he went through something like twenty drafts for one of his Star Wars movies. So, let’s fast forward almost ten more drafts to the 24th and final.
The morning after my mother’s death, I was surprised to see the sunrise. From behind the curtain of my bedroom window I was surprised to see the people leave their homes and begin the day. Downstairs, the hands of the grandfather clock continued to tick, marking each passing hour with a chime that echoed over the black and white chessboard tiles of the front hall. I was surprised to see the mail come at the same time as the day before and, later that evening, the sun set once more as it did since the beginning of time. My mother’s death did not disturb the planets in their courses. And, though everything kept moving like she never existed at all, my world erupted into chaos until the universe swirled around me like a whirlpool of scattering stars.
“The Egyptians buried their dead with what they needed in the afterlife, and instructions to help them find their way.” Magda said.
Each night, she moved through the diner taking orders and clearing plates. She reminded me of a jungle cat I saw once as a boy pacing back and forth, back and forth; sleek, fluid, sexual, seeking release behind the bars of a cage. Occasionally she stopped to bend or twist so that the fabric between the buttons of her pink polyester uniform puckered and revealed to my eager adolescent eyes a glimpse of the black lace mysteries contained within. Oh, I imagined the plastic buttons of her blouse melting like butter between the heat of my fingers and, each time she caught me staring, she widened her dark, feline eyes at me before curling her lips into a cruel little grin that sent a shiver through my bones and set me off like a seismograph.
She was very well-read and, over time I learned that, though she worked as a waitress for many years, she had a college degree in philosophy. Late at night, when I was her only customer, she spent her idle time reading on a stool behind the counter. She was interested in everything from ancient history to modern astronomy and, though I was afraid to talk to her at first, she was very friendly and, like Sheherezade, she entertained me with stories from her latest readings.
“Throughout the ages, whether it was the chariot of an Egyptian prince or the frying pan of a Mississippi slave, the dead were never buried without the things they needed in the other life.”
But many people told me many things and, as I sat with my father in the front pew of St. Columban’s Catholic Church, listening to the priest talk about how sin was the source of death, they all ran together and swirled around me like a whirlpool down a drain.
Ah, finally! I figured out a way to introduce the death of the main character's mother and the confusion of the world around him. But I don't feel as if I have to do it all at once. As you can see I have eliminated a lot of the ideas that I had regurgitated on to the page in previous drafts. The ideas are not actually eliminated; they still exist as themes that run throughout the novel. However, I have finally achieved a sense of pacing. I think that a lot of new writers struggle with this. It is not necessarily something you can teach. It is more nuanced than the difference between a 1st person and 3rd person narrator.
I won't tell you how long it took me to get from draft 1 to draft 24, but it was a long time. So, if you are feeling frustrated with how long your novel is taking, don’t. It will take as long as it takes. This is not the first time this has ever happened, it is just the first time it has happened to you. You will get to the end, just keep plugging away.
In order to provide some encouragement for all those would be novelists struggling to come up with exactly the right word I thought I’d post some various drafts of my soon to be published novel The Vagabond King. So, if you are ready, get ready to watch how some really bad writing gets a lot better.
Here is the first page of my 5th draft.
It was an age. It was an age of great confusion. In one hundred years the world had changed more than in all of Human history.
In one hundred years, a quick tick of the clock, the world had gone from sailing the untamable seas in wooden ships to navigating the cosmos itself. But, there was no longer a star in the sky for a sailor to guide by. For it was a fatherless age, an age conceived in the philosophy that God is dead, and the world was come to the place where cartographers were once tradition bound to write “here there be monsters”.
It was as if Columbus, overestimating his horizon, had pushed further and further beyond the boundaries of human limitation and sailed off the edge of the world, plunging into chaos. For, as the boundaries of human limitation expanded and then dissolved before our eyes, the world began to shrink and the boundaries of our universe no longer extended past the confines of our own individual skins. Right and wrong no longer existed except to be determined by the individual just as he chose a favorite color or a shirt to wear. For what was true yesterday was no longer true today.
What was true yesterday was no longer true today.
This is what I discovered shortly before my mother died of cancer. What was true yesterday was no longer true today.
She let me in on, what she referred to as “a little secret”. You see, she told me from her hospital bed, you are not who you have always thought yourself to be. You are not really your father’s son. They had never told me because, she said, my father, the man I had considered to be my father, did not want me to know. He wanted to keep the truth of my own existance hidden from me.
“You are at that age”, she said. “You are at that age when you want to start becoming a man”. That, she said, is why she told me.
And so the scene opens, so the story begins shortly after I had left my father’s house, vowing never to return, as I stood knocking on the door, seeking a place to live, of a woman I had met only weeks before.
These were lonely times for me. My mother was dead and ever since my she had fallen ill I had been neglected almost completely by my father.
He had expensive tastes: a palacial house in an exclusive subdivision, designer suits and luxery automobiles. But, now, without my mother’s income, he was financially over extended.
So, each day after school, while my father worked late so that he would not lose the level of status and regal lifestyle he demanded, I was left alone to wander down marble halls and beneath cathedral ceilings, while the sun sank beyond the distant edge of the world and the shadows crept like wolves from the corners of the lifeless house, through room after room until my father returned dragging his troubles, like a tail, behind him.
It was as if I had been swept into the corner with all the dustballs and ignored as life passed me by.
Without the placative presence of the mother, the father and the son had grown distant and edgy. As I got older I spoke less and less to my father and he spoke less and less to me. It was as if we were two primal and opposing energies that, if we happened to cross each other in the silent halls of the house, would erupt in anger.
Silence and avoidance were my only two weapons in my ongoing struggle with my father. As the silence became more dense and dangerous the battle became more threatening and vile. It was as if it were an unwritten challenge, complete with gauntlet and slap in the face, that one must vanquish the other.
As you can see, I had absolutely no idea what I was doing. I had a bunch of ideas floating around but I didn't exactly know how to weave them into a story. These ideas would eventually become maajor themes in the book. However, at this point I am just trying to portray them in a lump sum. Now, let’s fast forward 10 drafts and take a look at how the first page looks for draft 15.
Vast, black and ever expanding, a universe without center or circumference spins round me like some scratched and skipping record, some scratched and scratched and skipping record spinning round a central pin.
The present was not here long enough to consider, we already existed in the future…
Within one hundred years, a quick tick of the clock, a quick tick of the clock indeed we have named the volcanic mountains of Mars and discovered the frozen oceans of Jupiter’s moons as we have gone from sailing the watery oceans in wooden ships to navigating the celestial seas beyond.
Ours is a world of relentlessly expanding technological advancement and with each fleeting moment those ancient dreams and antique aspirations grow as quaint and passé as the belief in a God who rules the Earth from his heavenly throne.
We have become as the very gods themselves. For, with our knowledge of science we can split atoms, create life and manipulate genders. With each rocket we send ripping through the atmosphere and each satellite we send sailing past the stars, we transcend the cross of time and space to which we had, for so long, been crucified.
But, even as the boundaries of our universe expand and shrink from sight like passing islands in a spyglass, my soul is shrinking and collapsing in upon itself like a dying star.
“The world we live in is completely different from the world our ancestors lived in.” Magda said as she sat on a stool behind the counter thumbing through a well-worn paperback edition of a work by Nietzsche.
The diner in which I sat each night shone like a lonely jewel in the darkness that surrounded it. Beyond our world a hundred billion galaxies each with a hundred billion stars, countless other worlds with countless other realities and countless other truths floated like occasional islands in an even more infinite ocean of nothingness. Our world had been unmoored and cut adrift like a ship upon the black and rolling waves of some vast and uncharted ocean. Thrown by chance and the powers that be, we were sitting on a skipping stone and fear, not confidence, increased with the ripples of uncertainty, forever expanding outward through the universe.
“Modern man no longer has a standard by which to judge. Right and wrong no longer exist except to be determined by the individual just like you choose a favorite color or a shirt to wear.”
Each night, as she moved through the diner taking orders and clearing plates, she reminded me of a jungle cat I saw once as a boy at the zoo pacing back and forth, back and forth; sleek, fluid, sexual, seeking release behind the bars of a cage. Occasionally she would stop and bend or twist so that the fabric between the buttons of her pink polyester uniform would pucker and reveal to my eager adolescent eyes a glimpse of the black lace mysteries contained within. Oh, I imagined the plastic buttons of her blouse melting like butter between the heat of my fingers and, each time she caught me staring, she would widen her dark, feline eyes at me before curling her lips into a cruel little grin that sent a shiver through my bones and set me off like a seismograph.
“The boundary of a person’s universe no longer extends past their skin.”
No longer was there a star in the sky for a sailor to guide by. Like Columbus, sailing further and further from the safety of the known world we had overestimated our horizon only to find that fabled place, the edge of the world, where cartographers in ancient times were tradition bound to write, “here there be monsters.”
As you can see I am still struggling with how to portray the confusion of the age which I wanted to serve as the setting for the adolescent confusion of the main character. (Unfortunately, the writer was just as confused as the character he wanted to portray). It seems like the only advance I had made was to introduce Magda, the love interest at the beginning of the book. I had numerous themes I knew I needed to portray but I just didn't know how to weave them together.And, this is ten drafts later.
I remember feeling so frustrated. I had this story that I knew must be told but I still couldn’t figure out how to tell it. I was absolutely certain that other writers would just whip their stories out in 2-3 drafts and be done with it. But, then I heard George Lucas say that he went through something like twenty drafts for one of his Star Wars movies. So, let’s fast forward almost ten more drafts to the 24th and final.
The morning after my mother’s death, I was surprised to see the sunrise. From behind the curtain of my bedroom window I was surprised to see the people leave their homes and begin the day. Downstairs, the hands of the grandfather clock continued to tick, marking each passing hour with a chime that echoed over the black and white chessboard tiles of the front hall. I was surprised to see the mail come at the same time as the day before and, later that evening, the sun set once more as it did since the beginning of time. My mother’s death did not disturb the planets in their courses. And, though everything kept moving like she never existed at all, my world erupted into chaos until the universe swirled around me like a whirlpool of scattering stars.
“The Egyptians buried their dead with what they needed in the afterlife, and instructions to help them find their way.” Magda said.
Each night, she moved through the diner taking orders and clearing plates. She reminded me of a jungle cat I saw once as a boy pacing back and forth, back and forth; sleek, fluid, sexual, seeking release behind the bars of a cage. Occasionally she stopped to bend or twist so that the fabric between the buttons of her pink polyester uniform puckered and revealed to my eager adolescent eyes a glimpse of the black lace mysteries contained within. Oh, I imagined the plastic buttons of her blouse melting like butter between the heat of my fingers and, each time she caught me staring, she widened her dark, feline eyes at me before curling her lips into a cruel little grin that sent a shiver through my bones and set me off like a seismograph.
She was very well-read and, over time I learned that, though she worked as a waitress for many years, she had a college degree in philosophy. Late at night, when I was her only customer, she spent her idle time reading on a stool behind the counter. She was interested in everything from ancient history to modern astronomy and, though I was afraid to talk to her at first, she was very friendly and, like Sheherezade, she entertained me with stories from her latest readings.
“Throughout the ages, whether it was the chariot of an Egyptian prince or the frying pan of a Mississippi slave, the dead were never buried without the things they needed in the other life.”
But many people told me many things and, as I sat with my father in the front pew of St. Columban’s Catholic Church, listening to the priest talk about how sin was the source of death, they all ran together and swirled around me like a whirlpool down a drain.
Ah, finally! I figured out a way to introduce the death of the main character's mother and the confusion of the world around him. But I don't feel as if I have to do it all at once. As you can see I have eliminated a lot of the ideas that I had regurgitated on to the page in previous drafts. The ideas are not actually eliminated; they still exist as themes that run throughout the novel. However, I have finally achieved a sense of pacing. I think that a lot of new writers struggle with this. It is not necessarily something you can teach. It is more nuanced than the difference between a 1st person and 3rd person narrator.
I won't tell you how long it took me to get from draft 1 to draft 24, but it was a long time. So, if you are feeling frustrated with how long your novel is taking, don’t. It will take as long as it takes. This is not the first time this has ever happened, it is just the first time it has happened to you. You will get to the end, just keep plugging away.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Stuggles and hardships as a young writer
This is officially the 3rd day of my blog. I made a promise to myself to post once a day and I've already broken it. The internet is down at home and so I am typing away in bits and pieces at work instead of doing what I am supposed to be doing. And that reminds me of when I first started writing after college.
One of the goals of this blog is to serve as a support group, confessional, marketing platform for novelists who are struggling to bring their dream into reality.To that end let me share some stories from my own struggle to finish my first novel, The Vagabond King.
After college I had a folder full of snippets for a novel I wanted to write. I had a phrase here, a character tag there, an idea for a single plot point but nothing comprehensive. I also had a lack of time. I was married shortly before I graduated and a father shortly after. Though I graduated with degrees in English and history I got a job driving a forklift in a factory for 12 hours each night. I was only getting about 2 hours of sleep a day because I had to watch my son while my wife worked. So, like I am doing right now, I would steal minutes from the day and string words into sentences for a later time when I could string sentences into paragraphs to be put aside for a still later time when I could string the paragraphs into pages only to realize that the writing sucked and had to be broken apart, revised, rewritten and then revised and rewritten yet again.
It took me years and 25 revisions but it was finally finished. So, if you have just embarked upon a writing career and feel like to are struggling through the dark night of the soul as you use a fork to pick through the prison walls that keep you from being the novelist you always dreamed, take heart. You are not alone.
This is not the first time this has ever happened it is just the first time it is happening to you. In the end you will be better for it and, more importantly, your novel will be as well. Let me leave you with one realization I came away with when I was lamenting my existence during those days. The obstacles in your life don't prevent you from becoming who you were really meant to be, they reveal who you truly are inside. Keep writing and best of luck.
One of the goals of this blog is to serve as a support group, confessional, marketing platform for novelists who are struggling to bring their dream into reality.To that end let me share some stories from my own struggle to finish my first novel, The Vagabond King.
After college I had a folder full of snippets for a novel I wanted to write. I had a phrase here, a character tag there, an idea for a single plot point but nothing comprehensive. I also had a lack of time. I was married shortly before I graduated and a father shortly after. Though I graduated with degrees in English and history I got a job driving a forklift in a factory for 12 hours each night. I was only getting about 2 hours of sleep a day because I had to watch my son while my wife worked. So, like I am doing right now, I would steal minutes from the day and string words into sentences for a later time when I could string sentences into paragraphs to be put aside for a still later time when I could string the paragraphs into pages only to realize that the writing sucked and had to be broken apart, revised, rewritten and then revised and rewritten yet again.
It took me years and 25 revisions but it was finally finished. So, if you have just embarked upon a writing career and feel like to are struggling through the dark night of the soul as you use a fork to pick through the prison walls that keep you from being the novelist you always dreamed, take heart. You are not alone.
This is not the first time this has ever happened it is just the first time it is happening to you. In the end you will be better for it and, more importantly, your novel will be as well. Let me leave you with one realization I came away with when I was lamenting my existence during those days. The obstacles in your life don't prevent you from becoming who you were really meant to be, they reveal who you truly are inside. Keep writing and best of luck.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Short stories vs. novels
Am I the only one? With only a few exceptions I really don't care to read short stories and I care even less to write them. The longer the better. But, I think it is assumed that if you are a writer you can write both short stories and novels and that is simply not the case. Hemingway was a better short story writer than a novelist and Tolstoy was certaily better known for the length of his novels.
The problem is that to build a following it is easier for young writers to get short stories published than novels. So, what do you do when you are a novelist exclusively?
The problem is that to build a following it is easier for young writers to get short stories published than novels. So, what do you do when you are a novelist exclusively?
What is your writing process like?
I'm curious to all the writers out there what your process is like? For me I have a bunch of ideas, images, phrases, character tags and other mental detritus that I accumulate on post-it notes that keep popping out of my pockets and am somehow supposed to string together like words from a crossword puzzle into a novel. I guess for me writing is something akin to piecing together a patchwork quilt. What is your take on things?
Inaugural post - as we begin to set sail
I have completed my first novel and, as I now begin the publishing process, I am moved to think about what a long strange journey it has been.
I don't know how it started for you but I was meant to be a writer. I had all the classic ingredients. I had a miserable childhood, was inattentive in school, and couldn't spell correctly. But, then it was Hemingway who said something to the effect that it was a poor mind that couldn't think of more than one way to spell a word. And, as far as spelling and grammar go I will paraphrase Churchill and say that that is, most definitely, a belief up with which I will put!
I grew up, for a time in the same town in which Carl Sandburg once lived, just down the road from where Hemingway grew up so all the signs seemed to point me toward...something.
My love affair grew when I discovered Bookman's Alley in Evanston, IL. This is a GREAT used bookstore with wonderful overstuffed couches and cookies available for the patrons who pass the day trying to choose which books to buy. On a chalkboard in the back are written the current best sellers "Ulysses, Great Expectations, Paradise Lost" and the like. If you are looking for a copy of the Poetic Edda in Ancient Norse it is a great place to stop.
The class clown in high school, I applied myself to my studies in college. I steeped myself in Shakespeare, Joyce, W.B. Yeats, seeped myself in drink and bohemian ways and became the dandy of the English department. I was well on my way to greatness.
When college was done and all my friends went on to begin their high paying careers, caged in cubicles like veal calves, I fearlessly took a factory job in a printing plant which afforded me the time to write and read. I was 22 years old, wandering, houseless, desolate, alone, without or guide or chart!
And so, with the ghosts of Joyce, Shakespeare, Milton and Homer prodding me from behind and all the questions of the Universe tugging at my shirt sleeve I put pen to paper and began what I knew in my heart of hearts would be the greatest novel ever written. Behold!
These were lonely times for me. My mother had recently died of cancer and ever since my mother had fallen ill I had been neglected almost completely by my father.
Zzzzzz. Boring.
But, that’s the nice thing about writing as opposed to playing an instrument. You can fail all you want before someone sees the finished product…
The morning after my mother’s death, I was surprised to see the sunrise. From behind the curtain of my bedroom window I was surprised to see the people leave their homes and begin the day. Downstairs, the hands of the grandfather clock continued to tick, marking each passing hour with a chime that echoed over the black and white chessboard tiles of the front hall. I was surprised to see the mail come at the same time as the day before and, later that evening, the sun set once more as it did since the beginning of time. My mother’s death did not disturb the planets in their courses. And, though everything kept moving like she never existed at all, my world erupted into chaos until the universe swirled around me like a whirlpool of scattering stars.
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