January 10, 2012
A Homicidal Cheerleader
I thought my inner editor might be on strike after I wrote that she was a “monster” in my previous post. I knew she was still around when she let me know she was annoyed by my first choice of a title for this post.
“I’m not a ‘psychotic cheerleader’,” she told me.
OK, maybe calling her a psychotic cheerleader was a bit dramatic. Then I recalled the quote that has become the mantra of many writers:
“…kill your darlings, kill your darlings, even when it breaks your egocentric little scribbler’s heart, kill your darlings.”
(Stephen King, Arthur Quiller-Couch, William Faulkner—take your pick)Kill your darlings
Of course, “your darlings” are those things you’ve written that you love or you are immensely proud of, but they’re unnecessary baggage weighing down the story you’re telling. And who gets to kill these darlings? The inner editor, of course. I realized that my inner editor wasn’t a psychotic cheerleader. She was a homicidal cheerleader. And the darlings she wanted to kill weren’t always mine.
I got my first inkling of her problem when I read Anita Grace Howard’s post about “silencing your internal editor”. I knew my editor had become my cheerleader; she was very proud of our efforts. I also knew that she’d become critical of other’s writing, the way a proud, doting mother is critical of other people’s children.
But it wasn’t until I read a children’s mystery novel with my daughter that I became aware of my editor’s homicidal tendencies. My editor was a seething after the first page. She tried to keep her mutterings to herself; we didn’t want to influence D³.
I knew my editor was out of control when she sliced and diced Hemingway. And her problem was affecting me. How would I ever enjoy reading again? How could I ever let anyone read anything I’ve written, knowing their editor was slicing and dicing me?
I read Anita’s post again and take heart, deciding to follow her advice and let myself “get lost in the story”. I just make sure my editor naps during reading time. Anita’s advice works, and I enjoy reading again. And my inner editor loses some of her edginess thanks to the extra sleep.
I think things are back to normal. My editor indulges in an occasional outburst when I read something written by someone else, but for the most part she’s very docile. That is, until I open a certain book and begin to read. Then my editor cannot be silenced. When the god-like, angelic, hunky antagonist speaks in a musical voice she loses her mind. I ought to close the book so I can chase down my inner editor and take the ax from her determined grip before she kills someone.
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January 3, 2012
Avoiding the Warden
I’ve mentioned my muse many times. I respect my muse but I’m also intimidated by her; I suck up to her as much as possible. After reading virtualDavis’s comment I realize that in the process of kissing up to the muse, I’ve neglected mentioning my other writing collaborator. virtualDavis refers to this entity as a warden; I refer to mine as an editor, although warden is also fitting.
Have I failed to mention her because I’m avoiding her and her warden-like tendencies? Or is it because editors are overworked, underpaid and just don’t get the same attention as muses? The editor isn’t as awe-inspiring as the muse, but she’s just as important.
If my editor/warden looked like Robert Redford, I’d spend a lot more time with him.
I was first introduced to my editor in my sophomore year of high school in my Advanced Comp. class. I was intimidated by the upperclassmen that made up the class and by the teacher too. They all seemed much more literary than I. I kept my mouth shut, my ears open and did the work.
Then we got an interesting assignment. We were told that each of us had an inner editor that was naturally adversarial. This editor hampered and tampered with our writing by getting us to focus more on the reader’s reaction and less on the actual content. These editors also filled us with such paranoia about the mechanics of writing we were paralyzed to true creative writing.
The assignment consisted of three parts. The first was to describe your inner editor, physically and mentally. The second was to spend one hour writing everything that came to your mind without editing any of it. The last part consisted of re-imagining your internal editor as a friend not an adversary.
I really got into this assignment. It’s one memory of high school that hasn’t faded into a huge fuzzy blob in my mind (Thank you Lord that the rest has). I found it easy to visualize my adversarial editor. In a nutshell, she was a tall blond in a tweed suit, hair pulled severely back into a knot. She sat at an immaculate desk waiting to trounce me. And trounce me she did. I just hadn’t realized it before.
My friends and I could put these guys to shame.
The second part of the assignment was slightly more intriguing. Imagine me, an adolescent angst ridden girl who could look out her window and see the house of her unrequited love (who was probably out with that FRESHMAN). Add to that the fact that my friends and I swore like sailors when out of earshot of parents or teachers. Then throw in my inclination to snarkiness (even if the word snarky wasn’t yet in existence). That editor of mine never had a chance. As soon as I wrote the first f***, she was forgotten and I was free. This was in the days of long hand and I sat on my bed and wrote non-stop for an hour. The thought of my teacher reading it made me smile. He didn’t know what he was in for.
The third part, re-imagining your editor, was a turning point for me. I remember my editor’s hair was loose and she wore jeans. And we became friends. She wasn’t a warden anymore; she was a collaborator.
My teacher was astonished by my paper. I’m sure he’d never noticed me before I gave him the very detailed inner-workings of my mind. I got an A+ and a “Why are you hiding your light under a bushel?” in the margin. He even talked to me about it after class. Since then, my editor has become my cheerleader. We’re on the same side.
But I’ve realized recently that in re-creating my editor, I’ve created a monster…
I’ve created a monster…
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August 12, 2011
The Importance of Reading Ernest
After I read The Paris Wife, the novel about Ernest Hemingway’s first marriage, I became intrigued and somewhat obsessed with the Hemingway legacy. I have an endearing habit (I think it’s endearing; my family has other words for it) of becoming obsessed by details of things that interest me. There was the time we watched a documentary on Napoleon and I became a Josephine freak for a few months, reading biographies and spending copious amounts of time looking up tid-bits about her online. Years ago, I had this thing for the Temple of the Dog, a band with members of Soundgarden and Pearl Jam. If anyone has ever wondered about Temple of the Dog, I’m the go to person.
Temple of the Dog
But I digress. Back to Hemingway. I decide to read his first novel, The Sun Also Rises, because the characters are thinly veiled sketches of his real life friends (ex-friends would be more accurate) that appeared in The Paris Wife. And because Ernest is a big gun. He literally changed the soul of writing. What better ammo to put in my writing arsenal.
I buy the book, eager to read this minimalist style I keep hearing about– the lean, taut prose of Hemingway. On the very first page, (It wasn’t even an entire page. It began 2/3 of the way down) I encounter these words: painfully, thoroughly (twice no less), really very, promptly, permanently, certainly.
EIGHT adverbs. What’s up with that? Aren’t adverbs those awful beasts that pave the road to hell? Isn’t Hemingway himself the icon of lean, kill-the-adverbs prose?
I read on, a deep furrow between my brows. After a few pages, I have the feeling that I’ve read this type of writing before. Then it hits me. It sounds like something S¹, my thirteen-year-old, had written. And the shallow characters bewilder me. I’m confused and disappointed. Lest you think I’m also arrogant, let me say that I knew the problem was with me. I try dissecting each sentence, phrase and word to better understand it. My confusion only gets worse.
The Muses for The Sun Also Rises.
My brother, a huge Hemingway fan, came to visit this weekend. He notices the book right away, drawn to it by invisible tentacles, and picks it up. After telling me how brilliant it is, he asks how I like it.
“I don’t,” I whine. “He uses ‘then’ and ‘and’ way too much and he’s so wordy. Blah, blah blah. Where’s all that lean prose?”
My brother puts on his patient, let-me-explain-this-in-a-way-you’ll-be-able-to-understand face. “Before Hemingway, prose was very wordy, descriptive and long. You need to be familiar with what came before so you can see the differences.”
The dim light bulb went off somewhere in my head. “And after Hemingway, writers imitated his style. That’s why it sounds so ordinary to me.”
My brother nods, already immersed in the book.
“But what about the adverbs and the ‘thens‘ and ‘and’s?” I ask in a slightly less whiny voice.
My brother and D¹ say in unison, “You’re over analyzing it. Just read it and enjoy it.”
D¹ is compelled to continue because she loves analyzing me. “You have this bad habit of over-analyzing everything. Remember when we watched The Prestige and Inception? You ruin it when you analyze so much.”
So, I confiscate the book from my brother and start over— just reading it and not paying attention to mechanics like adverbs or length. That makes all the difference. Funny how brilliance is more obvious when you’re not looking for it. I couldn’t put it down; thank God it’s not that long. I even find myself imitating it, saying things like, “I rather like that song,” or “Oh, rather.” instead of plain “Yes”.
East of Eden: I rather think I'll like it.
Once I got past all my hang ups, I really enjoyed the book, and I “got” it. But if I had a day job (not that staying at home with the kids is a vacation), I wouldn’t quit it to become a literary critic anytime soon. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a date with Steinbeck’s East of Eden. I rather think I’ll enjoy it.
July 18, 2011
The Road to Hell
Think of the person, preferably your child or your parent, who has a certain trait or habit that frustrates or annoys the heck out of you. Our nine year-old D ³comes quickly to my mind.
D³ is very tenacious. When she was three, she’d leaf through a book, typically something thick, such as The Grapes of Wrath, put it down and announce that she’d read it all. And she believed it. Try teaching a child to read who insists she’s a proficient reader.
Now it’s the guitar. She insists she knows how to play. Her uncle offered to teach her and she graciously accepted the offer (although she already knows how). He supplied her with a small electric guitar, amplifier, stand, books, cds. For the first two days, she loved it. I heard her playing improve. Soon practicing became monotonous and she decided she didn’t need lessons.
Which of her parents supplied her with the “I know how to do everything” chromosome? I was sure it came from her paternal genes— until I started reading Stephen King’s book, On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft, and the true source became obvious. Damn if she didn’t get her most annoying trait from me.
My husband is a great fan of self-help books. He’s always recommending them to me. I smile and say, “I don’t have time right now. But someday…” Because I hate them. They’re dry, and boring, and there’s nothing in them I need to know. Besides, how do I know the person writing them isn’t some crackpot who made everything up. The “I know how to do everything” chromosome was in me, hidden beneath the hubris.
I’ve never read any books about writing for those same reasons. Books about writing don’t fall into the how-to category. Writing is too subjective to be classed with the more straightforward how-to sew or how-to install a carburetor books. I have a talent for writing and I didn’t want some self-proclaimed expert to mess up my style, to make me question my ability, or to make me so paranoid that I’d question every word I wrote.
Consequently, I taught myself to concentrate on what I deemed the most important aspects of writing:
- Description— Lots of it, using adjectives and adverbs galore.
- Complication— Simple is too easy; complicated is more literary.
- Details— Describe important details minutely, so the reader can imagine precisely what the writer imagines.
- Active versus passive verb– who cares.
- Grammar— I did well in English classes; I know enough.
I started reading other writer’s blogs. They were filled with advice, tips and information. I was unwittingly learning about the craft. Then I began seeing these phrases:
“The adverb is not your friend”
Huh? Yes, he is. He’s my wonderfully, superbly helpful friend.
Or:
“The road to hell is paved with adverbs.”
As for adverbs and hell, there is absolutely, positively no way my trusted go-to friend, the little adverb, would willingly, knowingly lead me there. But evidence against the adverb piled up, leading me to read Stephen King’s masterpiece, On Writing. I’ve learned many things. Not only do adverbs lead to hell, but every one of my self-proclaimed rules is suicide for a writer.
Admitting you have a problem is the first step in overcoming it— I admit, I don’t know everything about writing. In fact, what I don’t know far outweighs what I do know about it. But I’m willing to learn and my writing will improve, despite using the occasional adverb (“…to write adverbs is human.”- Stephen King).
I hope it doesn’t take D³ as long to overcome the “I know how to do everything” chromosome.
I’m sure I’m not alone. Is it possible you and the person you thought of at the beginning of this post share the same annoying trait?
April 29, 2011
Seven Things You Didn’t Know.
Last week, Anita Grace Howard started a game of “blog-tag”. The topic, Seven Things You Might Not Know About Me, has garnered some very interesting responses from readers and bloggers alike. Ashley Graham joined the game on her blog with some surprising details about herself.
Now, I’m tagging you. If you have a blog and want to play, leave a comment so we can stop in and view your post. If you don’t have a blog or don’t want to play on your blog, take a minute to leave a comment and share something about yourself.
Here are seven things you might not have known about me.
1. I wanted to marry Moe Howard when I was four years old.
2. The small town I lived in when I was in fifth grade didn’t have a girls’ softball league. In protest, my best friend and I joined the boys’ baseball league. I was/am no athlete. What was I thinking?
3. I pulled an all-nighter reading THE SCARLET LETTER by Nathaniel Hawthorne. THE SCARLET LETTER a page turner? I couldn’t put it down. I re-read it a few years later, wanting to see if that first time was a fluke. It wasn’t.
4. The main character in my book bears an uncanny resemblance to my Rock Band avatar.
5. I love music but I can’t sing. I can’t even hum. Let me illustrate the true awfulness of my voice: I had to sing a solo for choir tryouts in junior high. I remember it vividly— the third verse from We Three Kings. When I was done, everyone burst out laughing. Actually, this episode probably explains a lot…
6. I hate onions. Do you have any idea how many things are made with onions? There’s no escaping them.
7. Autumn is my favorite season: bright colors and indescribable blue skies, leaves crunching underfoot and the call of geese, the chill breeze that tickles bare skin and leaves goosebumps, and the wonderful aroma of wood burning fires, and musky leaves. And nothing tastes better than freshly pressed cider and that first donut, warm from the fryer.
March 31, 2011
Check It Out
Just wanted to tell you about two pages I added to my site. You can find them under Places to Go on the right side of the page. I’ll be updating both occasionally, so check back every now and then.
Check It Out-Listens are links to songs for you to check out. If you click on Comments, you can share song titles and/or links that interest you or you can make comments on the ones I’ve posted.
Check It Out-Reads are books I’ve read and rated based on my personal opinion. You can share your latest reads or post comments by clicking Comments at the bottom of the page.
