A Conferencing We Will Go

I'm hitting the dusty trail - to Edmonton, Alberta for the Inscribe Fall Writer's conference where I will be teaching to workshops on fiction and giving a fancy speech at the end of the conference.

If you are in the area (or want to be) find out all the details on the Inscribe site.

I'll be teaching on showing vs. telling in fiction - highlighting deep POV and subtext as components intrinsic to the concept. In the afternoon, I'll teach about language use, how to get your point across in a way people will care about. In this workshop I'll focus on a triad of concepts: Verbs - passive and weak (they aren't necessarily the same thing)/Adverbs, Tropes, and Word Crutches. (psst...there may be a few surprise give-aways in the mix!)

I'll be topping the day off with a farewell plenary that is sure to bring the house down. Or at least clear it out.

I'm looking forward to a time of schmoozing with writers, seeing some old friends and making some news ones. My books will be for sale at the conference bookshop as well.

I'll be posting my fiction workshops on this blog in the near future as well - so if you can't make the conference, you can still benefit from my vast, unstoppable knowledge. *tongue firmly in cheek*

I bid you good writing!

Welcome Guest Blogger - Kelly McCrady Part I

Welcome Kelly McCrady to the blog. She has the unique perspective that comes with being an author and professional editor.
She is familiar with the pain and sorrow of watching her creation being offered up to the furious red pen AND with being the one who much apply same said pen to the tender work of other writers. In her two part contribution to Fiction Matters, Kelly speaks first from her heart - as an author, and then from her head - as an editor.

Let's meet Kelly: Kelly McCrady’s newest short story “Martial Hearts” is available October 15 from The Wild Rose Press http://www.thewildrosepress.com/ . Author website is http://www.kellymccrady.com/

Kelly holds a BS in Zoology, and worked as a zookeeper for five years. A student of Kenpo Karate, she’s learning how to use nunchucks, sticks and staves as well as her hands and feet to cause pain…lots of fun. She and her family live in Oregon on a hill, under trees.


Hello, Fiction Matters readers. Like every Gemini, I have two tales to tell. As an author, I’ve dealt with requested changes from editors. I am also a professional editor—and have had to deal out requested changes to my authors.

Part I. “Taking it.”
The act of creation is aligned with light—as authors, we shine our light into the dark corners of readers’ imaginations. No one thinks of those words in that combination until we put it before them—we fill the void. Our words are magic.

Some of us are blessed with critique partners or groups who helped us polish the first few drafts of our work—until they, too, think it is the best we can make it.

Last February, I sent my baby to The Wild Rose Press, and (after waiting about a month—very short turn-around) I received that magic e-mail—the editor wanted to contract “Martial Hearts.” Oh, happy day!

There were just a few teensy changes she’d like me to make.

My baby was BLEEDING. Red marks all over the page. “You use “that” way too much—cut. Try not to begin sentences with ‘it’ or ‘there.’ Kill prepositional phrases at the end of sentences. Look for cause and effect order—‘as’ and ‘when’ often give these away—fix them.” And she’d marked many other things as well.

(Sigh) What exactly did she like?

I looked through my editor’s notes and used the highlight function to find the offenders, fixed the ones I found and was at a loss for how to root out certain changes she wanted. My editor had made notes on the first five pages only and expected me to carry out the same changes throughout the document. But how?

See, when I’d sent it to her, I thought it was perfect. She expected me to find defects I didn’t understand were defects. I could not see the things she said were wrong—and she had not flagged them for me beyond the first few pages.

On my first read through her notes, I yelled at the computer screen. I rebutted each of her comments with snide replies she’d never see. She didn’t get it. She didn’t see the artistry at work. I was a better author than she knew. Harumph.

I closed the file and moped. A day or so later, I reopened the file, knowing that I was both under contract and on a deadline of 30 days to make revisions. I had to look at it again and make an attempt at changing my work. Some of her comments were easy changers, and correct. Fine. I fixed the easy ones first.

I muddled through this for a week on my own, and then turned to my critique group for help. Here’s the note I attached for them:

Gang,

What you’re looking for is (after her comments stop on p.5) dangling modifiers, Omniscient POV, and here are her words:

“In several areas the transitions need to be mentioned or strengthened…Also I spotted a couple paragraphs that seem scattered with actions and dialogue from more than one character.”

If you all could flag these things for me to change if you spot them, I’d be much appreciative.

Some examples of the commentary from my crit group and how I fixed the ms:

Original:
“You seemed to be getting the worst end of that Super Soaker,” Mari said, mopping up poppy seed salad dressing with a roll, diamond flashing on her left hand.

Editor: Be aware that phrases like this pull power from the verb. Could say ‘you were sure getting….

My whine: Mari is being ironic. Yes, obviously Austin shot April with the super-soaker more than he did the kids. I’d agree with you if this were narration, but not in dialogue. Mari is aware of something April does not fathom—that Austin likes April. She’s pointing that out indirectly.

Crit partner 1: That doesn’t come across. She’s just eating and chatting, to me. Maybe a sly grin that April wonders at or something along those lines?

Crit partner 2: I’m not sure this pulls power from the verb – but it is wordy. Your eyes have to dance over a bunch of words to get the point. “You got the worst end of that Super Soaker.” Does that say the same thing?

My crit partners also questioned the need to mention the diamond ring—it played no significant part in the story and sat as a distracting detail.

Final version:
“You got the worst end of that Super Soaker,” Mari said with a wink, mopping up poppy seed salad dressing with a roll.

Editors are inside your head—an editor can only get the information you’ve given in your text. Sometimes, their opinion of a change needed is wrong—or needs clarification elsewhere in the narrative. Don’t be afraid to differ with the editor on changes he or she asks for. Here is one I fought for:

“I plateaued pretty bad at blue belt,” Mari had once told her, “I hung there for like, three years.”

Editor: changed sentence to “I plateaued pretty badly at blue belt,” Mari had once told her, “I hung there for like, three years.”

My comment: Mari has a specific way of speaking. She said “pretty bad.”

My version stayed in—after I added earlier in the text that Mari was 19 years old. That fact had been missing from the original version, and explained a lot about her grammar.

My editor and I negotiated on a few changes. Overall, she enjoyed the layers and texture my first edit back to her added—the additions my wonderful critique group pushed me to make. This book went through two revisions with my editor before the manuscript went to galleys. Some books will need three or four rounds of revisions. (Be the two-revision type of author—your editor will thank you).

The author’s job is to consider each change the editor asks for. Your editor wants your writing to shine, to be the most polished piece of prose it can be. She wouldn’t tell you to make changes that would weaken your book. Selling books is a business, and bad reviews mean low sales, which leads to less profit for everyone. Highly polished good prose leads to good reviews, which can bring in more sales. Royalties are good.

Remember the most important thing: the editor who acquired the book liked it enough to contract you.

----------
I clinging to the comfort of that last sentence, Kelly! I think we all are!

It's a good reminder to writers: editors are our FRIENDS. Often they are our fans - they want us, and our books to succeed. Still, there's pain in the offering sometimes.

I bid you good writing.

Elements of Fiction

In the weeks to come, I'll be bringing together various elements of fiction (and writing) in a format that will look something like a "workshop".

This, of course, is not my intention. But sometimes we plan to do things we do not mean to do. Which is what I am planning to do now.

Like all writers, I'm a reader. I read all sorts of useful things, books, blogs, newspapers, nutritional information on the sides of food stuffs. On a recent trip to the library, I came away with my usual haul: two books for the kids, a video each, a novel for me, and two books on writing (sometimes there is a cookbook, or gardening volume thrown in there). I set about reading one of the books on writing. Hmmm....I like the book very much. It's chapters are weensy short, the content is presented in a way that is fresh and interesting - and best of all, it's a compilation, so it's not full of advise from just one author.

Lately, I've become bored with writing books. They were all saying the same thing. Blah blah blah. Then, I got thinking. They actually weren't saying the same thing in all instants. Which got me looking into where writing advice from author/gurus differ. Fun stuff!

So, what I'm going to be posting over the next few weeks are insights and lessons learned from the contradictory advise on writing: who is right, who is wrong, who is out to lunch, and who has two feet planted on the earth.

I'll be borrowing from various books - and I will be sure to give you all the info on the books I cite for your own reading enjoyment.

I'll pan a few books, I'll praise a few, and then review the rest.

It's book on writing! Next on Bonnie's blog!

Repair of Errant Ways

With a vast "Egads!" I return to this blog, woefully aware of my unannounced span of non-posty-goodness.

I went away.

But I'm back now.

My appologies for not saying so sooner.

I hang my head and announce I have no excuses. I plumb did go and just forgot to mention it.

*Bad Bonnie*

And so, with my being all back, the blog will continue until, well, until I have to go away again. But I'll try to give you some warning next time.

As for fiction that matters, I have more authors that I'll be highlighting in the next few weeks. I'll also be posting more about fiction, publishing from the perspective of an author, and writing.

I've been toying with the idea of blogging a series on how to develop a novel from conception to end.

Also swiming in the ether of my mind is a blog series on my journey of finding a publisher for my novel.

I'll also have updates on the two anthologies that feature my work.

Peace

How to handle "No"

It was bound to happen one of these times. Eventually, in my career as a writer, I would be rejected by a publisher.

And so I was.

Last week.

For the first time, the answer was "no".

:-(

It was the kindest of rejections. The sort I suppose, if an author was going to get rejected, is the kind of rejection she would want to get (hows that for an oxymoron?).

They "liked the writing" (the only feedback I received on the book itself), but they want to focus on historical fiction. Mine was oh so very contemporary. Very. No way I could just slap some long skirts on the women, have the men smoking cigars after dinner and call it a period piece. Just wasn't gonna happen.

So, what did I do?

First thing I did was pout. But I was alone when I did that, so no one knows about that.

Oh. Dang. I guess they do now.

Rats.

The second thing I did was write the publisher back (via e-mail) and thank her (yes, you read that right) for getting back to me and letting me know the editors' decision. I kept it brief (the entire e-mail was three sentences) and positive. I said "perhaps our paths will cross again in the future".

This positive approach to rejection will help me in the long run. The publishing world is small. Everyone knows everyone. While I was sad that a door was closed, I knew it was possible that this publishing house may one day be interested in one of my books. Even if they never are, I'm glad I was able to handle the rejection with some morsel of aplomb.

And was my etiquette noticed?

You bet.

Not thirty minutes after I replied the publisher e-mailed me back, on her private e-mail (thus she was speaking to me "off the record") and encouraged me in my search for the right publisher. It was a kindness I didn't expect in this 'dog-eat-writers" world. And it buoyed up my courage to send queries out to six other publishers and agents.

As Scarlett said, "After all, tomorrow is another day."

Running like your pants are on fire? Busy? Hurried? Days crammed pack?

Me too. Except it’s all just in my head. Sure, there are dishes in my sink, kids to be picked up, laundry to be washed, friends waiting to hear back from me. . . but, I’m busy thinking.

My husband, Steve, rushes in the room. “I’m taking the van in to be serviced, Ben needs to be picked up at school and Heather has swimming lessons.”

“Hmm?” I say, not looking up from my computer screen. “Do you think zinnias grow well this far north?”

“What are zinnias?” says Steve.

I flip to another screen. “Would you describe this color as ‘gun metal’ or ‘stainless steel’?”

“Bonnie,” he sighs. “We really need to get going.”

“Where?” I ask, as I follow him out the door. We climb into the van and I say, “Have you ever picked a lock with a pencil? I mean, do you think it can be done?”

“What are you doing in the van?” says Steve. “You have to take the car to get Ben. And where is Heather?”

I get out of the van and walk around to the driver’s side. I tap on the window. “Do you think people eat bunt cake at funerals most often, or are brownies more common?”

“Finger sandwiches, and don’t forget to pick me up at the garage when you are done at Heather’s swim lesson,” Steve hollers as he drives off.

Pretty good. I fish for the notebook I always keep on me and write ‘fgr sands’. I’m sure I’ll know what it means when I read it later. My daughter, Heather, finds me standing on the driveway scribbling in my notebook. “I’m ready,” she says.

“For what? Hey, Heather, do you think someone could climb up that lattice?” I say, pointing to the structure leaning against the house. “Or do you think it would break?”

“Sure. You could do it, Mommy.” She climbs into the backseat of the car.

I hesitate. She could be right, but she’s only four, and I doubt she knows much about it. I write it down anyway. I’m walking back to the house when I hear Heather call, “Mommy? I have swimming lessons.”

“Oh yeah, uh, I know. I was just going to call Ben.” I holler into the house, “Ben!”

“Ben is at school,” Heather says.

I check my watch. 3:45. I’m fifteen minutes late picking him up.

“How was school?” I say to Ben when I finally reach him.

“We had a substitute teacher. He had a big nose,” He says

“How big,” I say. “Big like a ball of dough, or big like a ski slope?”

“Big like a pickle,” says Ben.

“Wow. That’s really good Ben.”

“It is?”

“Yes. Big like a pickle. Good for you,” I jot it down in my notebook, put the car in gear, and head it toward the pool.

I leave my daughter with a girl I'm reasonably sure is her swimming instructor and sit by the poolside. Soon, I'm transfixed by the movement of the water. I mumble to myself and scratch in my notebook. “Hey Ben, what do you think that water looks like? Besides wavy. You can’t say wavy.”

He thinks for a moment, head tilted to one side. “Bumpy.”

I roll my eyes. Six year olds. But I write it down anyway.

After swimming, I head to the library. The kids run for the children’s section while I get lost in the instructional books. I’m immersed in a passage detailing the invention of toilet paper when my son pokes his head around the book shelf. “I’m hungry, when are we going home?”

“Soon,” I mumble as, once again, I hear the theme from The Pink Panther playing loudly. “Why on earth do they keep playing that song over and over again?” I say as I write down the name Joseph Gayette.

“Mommy, your purse is playing that song,” Ben says.

Oh, yeah. Steve downloaded it as a ring tone for my new phone. Rats. “Hello?”

“Bonnie,” says Steve. “Where are you?”

“The library, of course. Did you know the ancient Romans used wool soaked in rose water as toilet paper?”

“No. I’ve been waiting for over an hour. I’ve called and called.”

“Waiting for what? Hey, Steve, only fourteen percent of households had bathtubs in 1907.”

“Good to know. Please come and pick me up at the garage.”

“The garage? What are you doing there?”

Later that night, I lay in bed exhausted. I lean over and kiss my husband goodnight. “I’ll be glad when this book is done,” I say. “You don’t know how consuming writing is.”

He smiles and says, “Oh, I think I do.”