My book jacket - these words could strangle my story!

What to do with a critique that pile drives your story to pulp?  How to react to a review that gives your story repeted dropkicks to the solar plexus?   How to handle comments that shred your book to confetti?

I reccommend turning them into book jacket blurbs. 

I will now attempt to take actual comments made during a critique last evening of one of my stories and turn them into blurbs for my book jacket.  I hope they don't strangle my book!

Excessive Humor, Excessive Humor, Excessive Humor - Humor can't kill you, can it?

This book rivals a novel of blank pages!

If you enjoy repetition, redundancy and someone telling you the same thing over and over then read this book!

Inactivity and Neurotic Characters =  a hit!   Like hit me over the head!

You should read this book!  And other things Mr. Schill will TELL and not show you!

A wonderful children’s tale told through Mr. Schill’s mouth and not his characters!

If you enjoy basket-case characters and neuroses then this is the book for you!

Who doesn’t enjoy useless Midwestern language?

Story, Plot and Voice are overrated.  Read this book!

Who needs likable characters… read about people you hate!

The perfect book to put you to sleep!

Playing for Cheescake

On Saturday evening I returned home to find my house filled with card playing women! 

That sounds like the opening to a great novel but in reality it was simply my wife’s turn to host the monthly girlfriend game night.  Not being privy to many “girl” moments in my life I will admit I was curious and purposely came home early to see what this game night was all about. 



I will now observe this rare species in its natural habitat and witness first-hand the communication skills of this utterly strange and confusing creature called… woman! 



This picture has been altered to protect the identity of those involved



I was surprised to see that the game in the center of table held very little interest.  There was no score, no leader, very little intensity and certainly no taunting.  I was entranced… this was like no card game I had ever witnessed before.  Conversation topics ranged from fashion to movies to recipes to the snacks on the coffee table.  I took a handful of trail mix and pondered my strange surroundings.

Observed in their natural habitat woman behaves in a dignified and respectful manner, never competing with another and frequently making use of compliments.  All competitive tendencies, natural to most animal species, appear nonexistent.

Frequently throughout the game I heard the comment, “Oh, we forgot to bet.” I do not believe this has ever been uttered at a card table before.  I looked away to the appetizer table for answers but only found more questions: how do they grow pumpkin spiced almonds?

               

I pulled myself away from the food to observe the action of the game as it was coming to an end and a winner would soon be crowned.

“Whoever wins this hand gets the first piece of cheesecake!”

I nearly fell off my chair. 

Men play for honor!  We play for bragging rights!  We play to conquer! 

We do not play for cheesecake!

It dawned on me at that moment that I could never in a million years write a woman character accurately.  They play cards for cheesecake for goodness sake!

That evening I went to bed and began reading Libba Bray’s Going Bovine and happened to notice she was writing from the viewpoint of a teenage boy!  This was all too weird.  Here I was just pondering how someone could possibly write from the opposite gender and Whoop here it is.

Now granted, to write from the viewpoint of a teenage boy you merely have to keep things simple, swear occasionally and have them get all squirmy whenever a girl comes near.  I know this because I lived it… I went through it… I was there!  Bray was not.  I give her credit for stepping outside herself and successfully creating an unfamiliar character.

It must have taken Bray years to write that kind of book.  I mean, I spent several uncomfortable years in the mind of a teenage boy and I never want to go back.  I can’t imagine the effort it took her to create an authentic and real character.  I spent a whole 45 minutes with a gaggle of card playing women and am pretty sure I will never be the same.  

Here's to you Libba Bray for getting in the head of the opposite gender and trying to figure out what is going on in there.  You are a brave woman.

And with this we end our lesson. Please tune in next week as we explore why women go to the restroom together.

Ghosts, Graveyards and Grammar

When I get up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom I turn on all the lights and drag along my Louisville Slugger…  I am not going to get surprised by the unliving empty handed.

Just the idea of some former resident of my house scuffling down the hall, rattling chains while I’m trying to do my business gives me the heebie-jeebies.  I mean ghosts don’t come back to tell the current resident they’re out of milk… no they come back to haunt you out of the house.

The only good thing about a house ghost is that they are alone.  Now you go to a graveyard and it is a different story.  We’re talking gangs of ghosts prowling around waiting for you to come walking through the wrought iron gate. 

I do not like ghosts.  I do not like graveyards.

But I would rather face a bunch of Thriller video dudes coming out of the ground and chasing me down the street than try to understand grammar.  I mean why does the English language have to be so challenging?

The farm was used to produce produce.

We must polish the Polish furniture.

When shot at the dove dove into the bushes

They were too close to the door to close it

The buck does funny things when the does are present

Upon seeing the tear in the painting I shed a tear

Writers write but fingers don’t fing, grocers don’t groce and hammers don’t ham

The plural of tooth is teeth but booth is not beeth

One goose, two geese so why not one moose, two meese?

See why I am so confused!  I can’t take the insanity of it all.

Here is a compliment I received during a recent critique regarding a bit of dialogue in my story. Your character “talks too much and he gets usage a bit wrong.  He’s pretentious and a bit stupid.  Good example of showing character through dialogue.”

The problem is I thought the dialogue WAS grammatically correct.  Does that mean I am pretentious and a bit stupid? Oh goodness, I better get a handle on this grammar thing. 

Why do we ship by a truck and send cargo by ship?

Why do noses run and feet smell?

Why are a wise man and a wise guy opposite?

You fill in a form by filling it out!

When the stars are out they are visible but when the lights are out I am in the dark!

Grammar is scary!  Ghosts and graveyards have nothing on grammar.  In fact, grammar can easily get the best of death.  Just check out these grammar mistakes on headstones. 

I know this is going to be me.  I will be resting in eternity with a grammar mistake on my tombstone.  For the love of William Strunk please do not let this happen to me!  I can’t go down in a flame of grammar mistakes.

Perhaps I am overreacting.  I suppose things could always be worse.

Dendrochronology

DENDROCHRONOLOGY:

The science of dating events and variations in environment in former periods by comparative study of growth rings in trees and aged wood

By studying the cross section of trees scientists are able to analyze rings to determine the life span of a tree.  They can track weather patterns such as drought years and rainy summers.  They can analyze long harsh winters and prosperous summers.  The entire life of the tree is there for all to see.  Everything that has happened in the life span of that tree can be seen in those lines.

I was reminded of these tree rings when I looked in the mirror after a recent haircut.

Can you say RECEDING HAIRLINE!

My forehead is shinier than glass in a desert sun.

At least a tree has to be cut down before a scientist can study its history; I have my rings on full display as I walk around town.  Look at all those wrinkles on my face!

I know… I know I’m getting older and losing your hair is part of the process.  I just didn’t think I would get old so fast!  I mean people put on their sunglasses when they see me approach.

        “There goes old shiny head!”

 “All of these lines upon my face.  Tell you the story of who I am.  So many stories of where I’ve been.  And How I got to where I am.”  – Brandi Carlile, The Story

Those lines on my face tell the story of who I am and where I’ve been.  Every joy, every disappointment, every thrill, every rejection, every fear, every blessing, every path I have chosen in my life.  It is the story of how I have gotten to where I am and the person I am today. Those wrinkles are like my very own autobiography. 

I sat there staring into the mirror looking at my receding hairline and wondering where the time had gone.  Wasn’t I young yesterday? 

But as I rubbed the tiny spots at my hairline I found myself more focused on where I am going than where I have been.

I was thinking of my future not my past.  And you know what… I think that is the way it should be.  I doubt a tree has ever stopped growing to analyze its own lines… it just keeps moving forward trying to add another line to its foundation.  So that is what I plan to do as well.

I now have plenty of room on my forehead for more lines.  I might as well make use of the space.

Where will my writing career take me over the next several years?  What will my VCFA experience expose me to?  Do I have a line on my face for writing?

All I know for sure is that I plan to keep plugging away and as I move forward more lines will appear on my face.  But thankfully my hair is moving out of the way to make room for more of a story.

               

 

I’m a writer after all... it’s all about the story.

What Is That Stain?

Let me begin this post by saying I am not a germaphobe. 

I drink water out of the yard hose.  I double dip my salsa chips.  I very rarely wash my coffee mug and I tend to use the same bath towel until it can stand on its own. I am not one to be concerned with germs.

Muck / [muhk] noun

filth, dirt, or slime.

But I must admit that library books freak me out! 

It seems every book I check out from my local library is filled with strange globs, goops and spills.  I mean what is all that stuff?  I swear the previous reader of the book was a hungry woodchuck slurping down mashed potatoes while turning the pages with sticky paws.  What else could possibly make those types of stains?

What are those mysterious chunks stuck in the spine of the page?  What is that sticky substance in the corner?  Where could that splotch of goop have come from?  Opening a library book is kind of like opening up a mystery surprise… you’re never quite sure what you’re going to find.

Gunk [guhngk] noun Informal .

any sticky or greasy residue or accumulation: gunk on the oil filter.

I feel as if I have to take a shower after every library book I read.  I vote to place sterilizer machines at each library checkout counter.  Perhaps we can laminate every page of every book or use handy wipes to scrub down every book on every shelf.  I am in favor of a law that makes it illegal to eat and read a library book at the same time.

Splotch [sploch] noun

a large, irregular spot; blot; stain; blotch.

For research sake I have decided to document the peculiar stains that I encounter in library books.  Maybe I will send all these photographs to my local Senator.  Perhaps I will create a coffee table book with all my photographs that others can check out from the library and spill things on.

But by drawing attention to this travesty I hope to recruit others to my cause.  We will call ourselves the Stainless Book Club or Those Against the Gooey Decimal System or The Dirty Librarians. Okay the name is a work in progress. 

Goo [goo] noun Informal.  

a thick or sticky substance: Wash that goo off your hands.

In the meantime if you see some strange guy at the library turning pages with pristine white gloves, it is not a famous archivist or a rare books librarian, it is most likely me just trying to get a little reading done.

sludge [sluhj] noun

any of various more or less mudlike deposits or mixtures.

Seriously, what is this stuff?

 

 

 

I'm Afraid

My third grade nephew recently told me that his biggest fear was that the world would run out of meat!

I guess that would be a pretty good fear.  But I can think of scarier things than that.  And I’m not talking about being afraid of the dark or of heights or of spiders.  I’m talking real fear here.  I’m talking things that scare the daylights out of me.

Like having to put my head in the mouth of a tiger to brush his teeth.  That would most certainly cause me to pass out in fear.  And before you laugh I am sure this is on the list of job responsibilities for some poor zookeeper out there. 

I am still scared to death of Graveyard Granny, the old woman who would chase any kid who climbed the cemetery fence to retrieve a home run ball at Our Lady of Assumption Grade School.  The sight of that old pale woman wagging a hoe and chasing some unlucky kid around the tombstones still makes me shudder.  I am convinced Graveyard Granny is still patrolling the fence line and would make my blood curdle if I saw her today.

Speaking of curdling, how about the two month old Chinese in the back of my refrigerator?  At this point I won’t to touch anything within two objects of that scary white container. I’ll need a haz mat suit to get that thing to the garbage.  It is truly scary.

Then there was my drive on the eleventh hole at Silver Spring last week.  That slice was pretty wicked.  I didn’t know it was possible to make a ball zig-zag in a Z shape off the tee.  It was scary enough to make grown men on distant holes cry.

But are you ready for my biggest fear of all?  I’m talking boot-trembling, knee knocking, palm sweating scary here.  It is not for the weak of heart.  You may want to take a deep breath before moving to the next paragraph.

My biggest fear is… sending my story off to be critiqued!

Critique groups are like monsters.  They have long scalpel hands that can tear up a story in one swift motion.  They can squeeze every last drip of blood from your manuscript and then spit out the bones like chicken wings.  They attack from every angle with the swiftness of a herd of hyenas.  They take no mercy and leave you abandoned on the side of the road gasping for air.

I would rather polish clean the teeth of a hungry tiger than send my story to be critiqued.  I would rather scarf down two-month old pad thai than read a critique of my story.  I would run up and give Graveyard Granny a big smooch on the lips rather than have my story critiqued. I would gladly become a vegetarian if it meant no more critiques.

Okay, perhaps I am going a little too far here.  I mean, I actually like my critique partners, advisors and classmates.  They all give excellent advice and their critiques are usually spot on.  So why is it so hard for me to hear what they have to say? 

In some strange way I feel having my story critiqued is kind of like sending my loved ones off to the slaughterhouse.  I have put my whole heart and soul into these characters and story lines and I just don’t want to see them all come crumbling down.  Getting critiqued is kind of like cough syrup… I know it will help cure my ails but it still tastes terrible going down. 

The easy solution is obviously to become a better writer.  Hopefully as I grow as a writer the critiques become less intense.  Although I have a feeling this is not so.  But as I continue on my path it is inevitable that I will have to put my hard work out there to be torn down.  I guess it is all part of the learning process. But why does that process have to be so painful?

Here is to sending out my next packet.  I hope I survive!

A Highwire Act

On August 24, 1974 Philippe Pettit walked a highwire between the World Trade Center buildings in New York City.   He was 104 stories in the air, a quarter mile above the streets of Manhattan, and balancing on a three-quarter inch cable.  He walked for forty- five minutes and made eight crossings between the buildings.

Can you say crazy!

A quarter mile in the air!

Balancing on a three-quarter inch cable! 

Who in their right mind would pull such a stunt?

Yet, as I sit down at my writing desk, pull out my laptop and begin to type I strangely resemble the man who stepped out on that highwire above New York.  I feel as if I am all alone, miles above the ground, grasping a thin wire for survival.  Who in their right mind would chose this as a profession?

Being a writer is a lonely, scary job that requires total concentration and commitment and requires you to put your thoughts and feelings out for all to see.   Sometimes I feel as if I am balancing by the tiniest curls of my toes, hanging on for dear life, just hoping to make it across safely. 

To keep his balance while dangling above New York City, Pettit used a balance bar to keep him centered.  I try to do the same by using structure, character development, conflict, story arc and scenes to keep me steady.  These are the tools that keep a story balanced and moving forward.   Don’t look down, I tell myself because if I do I run the risk of falling.  But in the end a balance bar can only keep you on the line so long.  It really comes down to concentration and dedication to your craft… and lots, and lots, of practice.

But there is one major difference that separates me from Philippe Pettit.

I ain’t getting up on that wire without a safety net!

I am not that brave to do this solo.  I am way too needy for that.  

For me, my safety net is, and always has been, my wife Candy.  She is the one that holds me up, cheers me on and is there to catch me when I fall.  When I told her I wanted to go back to school she smiled and supported my venture.  When I sit at my desk in the evening straining with concentration she putters in the other room giving me my space.  When I need an ear she is there to listen to my stories.  When I need advice she is there with constructive feedback. And when I need a break she is always up for dinner or a movie. 

I have come to believe that being the net is a tougher job than the highwire walker.  As the safety net you always have to be at the ready, studying the artist above.  Sometimes you are pulled so taut you feel as if you are going to snap but must never let down your guard.  And in the end the spectators below look right past you and cheer on the star of the show as if you are not even there.  No one ever notices the net!

So, I am writing this excerpt for all the nets out there who support their artists.  The nets who do not seek the limelight but are content to be the support behind the show. The nets who give up their own dreams to allow others to pursue theirs.  To the nets who are never given the credit they deserve.

Who am I kidding? I am writing this essay for one net in particular.  Thank you Candy for always being by my side.  For putting up with my grumpiness when I am in full writing mode.  For proofreading essays when it is the last thing on earth you want to be doing.  For laughing at my dumb jokes. For allowing me to pursue my dream.  For being there when I need an encouraging word.

And for being my safety net.

I love you.