I mentioned in Family Photos about getting a new camera to record my interactions with the local wildlife.
One element of new cameraness is recognizing when the mike isn’t on.
Quite the Life (and all in Times New Roman 10pt!)
I mentioned in Family Photos about getting a new camera to record my interactions with the local wildlife.
One element of new cameraness is recognizing when the mike isn’t on.
Language is much more than how you use verb tenses and what adverbs and adjectives do, and word choice is much more than using the right word versus the almost right word.
This experiment in writing explores how to create a reading rhythm which keeps your reader reading, and how to use language to emphasize what’s happening on the page.
Think I’m onto something? Take a class with me or schedule a critique of your work.
Think I’m an idiot? Let me know in a comment.
Either way, we’ll both learn something.
Pick up several dozen copies of my books because it’s a nice thing to do, you care, and I need the money.
Or you can get copies of and The Book of The Wounded Healers and follow along.
We left off in An Example of the Experiments, 2 – Fains I with the promise of sharing the original Fains I opening and the rewrite making use of multiple storycrafting techniques.
I shared the original first ~900 words in An Example of the Experiments, 3 – Fains I and here I share the rewrite, now the first chapter in a work-in-progrWe left off in An Example of the Experiments, 2 – Fains I with the promise of sharing the original Fains I opening and the rewrite making use of multiple storycrafting techniques.
I shared the original first ~900 words in An Example of the Experiments, 3 – Fains I and here I share the rewrite, now the first chapter in a work-in-progress, the Fains I – A John Chance Mystery novel.
My first question is, as a reader, does this appeal more to you than the original version? If yes, because…? If not, because…? Figure out what makes it better or worse and you’ll have some excellent handles on your own crafting.
Now to analyze…
First thing, what happened to Tim and his family?
Remember my writing “I realized the rewritten opening sucked because I didn’t know enough about the characters to really care about them. The shift from teenager going to the prom to elderly man on his deathbed drove the story in the correct direction and not enough.” in An Example of the Experiments, 2 – Fains I?
I was correct that the story had an older cast of characters (demonstrated in the rewrite above).
I also wrote “This brings us back to An Example of the Experiments – Fains I’s First Question: Who Owns the Story?”
As written earlier, the core piece – someone dies and Tim’s involved – was solid enough to carry the story, but nothing I came up with made Tim interesting enough to me to write about him and, as noted previously, readers will only be interested in your characters if you’re interested in you’re characters.
How to make “Tim” more interesting to me? Hmm…
The original story had a car accident resulting in a death. Too random. Yeah, there could be guilt and an accident is an accident is an accident, and accidents happen.
Give Tim
Okay, psychosociopathic youngsters are interesting but can be limiting because a youth doesn’t have the life experience to have those attitudes fully realized, so an older “Tim” who feels justified and has no guilt.
Gosh golly gee. Tim’s becoming quite three-dimensional here. He’s interesting.
What if the older Tim had committed several murders, believed all of them justified and remains remorseless and guilt free?
This Tim’s obviously got a) a history and b) some issues.
And the best part is such psychosociopaths are usually pretty good at hiding who they are from public view.
Alfred Hitchcock gave a great example of creating audience interest, empathy, and tension: Have two people eating lunch or having a drink at a picnic table or a an outdoor cafe. Now put a ticking bomb under the table and make sure the audience sees it and knows what it is.
Doesn’t matter if the audience likes or dislikes the people at the table, they’re interested in what happens.
So there’s a psychosociopath loose, no one knows it, and the reader learns it. Great! Excellent.
But don’t tell the reader everything at once. Foreshadow. Hint. Mislead and misdirect, all of which now stars with the novel’s A John Chance Mystery subtitle (Search – The First John Chance Mystery has already signalled regular readers more John Chance novels are coming and new readers Fains I is part of a series).
Ooo. This is getting better already. We’re starting to have a story.
The last part mentioned previously was have an interesting person in an interesting place doing an interesting thing and “Give the reader an interesting person in an interesting place doing an interesting thing. If you only give one, it’s got to be incredibly strong. Two is good, three is dynamite.” along with Relatability and the four basic ways people relate to things:
and remember to throw in And add in what makes a great opening: conflict, tension, oddness, …?
Throw all this in the pot, let simmer, stir occasionally, season to taste, and we get (I hope) something closer to what’s the story, a first pass of which is shown above. A detailed (pretty much line-by-line) analysis is below:
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All Fains I posts.
(we’re doing something different. let me know what you think)
It is December and soon we will celebrate another turn around the sun. We are never alone on this journey, and I wonder how many appreciate we circle the sun, our sun circles the near clusters, the near clusters move through a great arm of the Milky Way, the Milky Way travels with it’s galactic neighbors in a near-eternity long dance, and the universe itself expands and we move on an arrow’s trajectory with it.
Taking all the accelerations, all the motions, all the movements into account humbles me. Philosophies range from a single Great Creator to the randomness of quantum strings, and I add the caveats that if there is a single Great Creator, their mathematical skills are amazing, and if quantum strings, go deeply enough in the quantum universe and there is no such thing as randomness.
Read further in this newsletter and you’ll notice some different formatting. Many thanks to Sister Rika Chandra‘s help and guidance (I’m not visual, she is) in making “A Twelfth of Carrabis” more readable and (we hope) more engaging.
I mentioned last month I’m thinking of redoing my website. The redo is ongoing albeit slowly as some changes require a bit of coding (blech!).
Continue reading “A Twelfth of Carrabis (Dec 2024 Newsletter)”
Stacey Knox kneeled in the cool, dark, freshly tilled earth with a bag of wooden garden stakes, ten or so packets of seeds – tomato, cucumber, lettuce, mostly vegetables with a some marigolds, echinacia, and purple cone flowers thrown in to draw the pollinators – a ball of gardener’s twine, and Frank Sinatra placed in logical order by her side.
Frank kept meowing and moving, some times pawing a bag of seeds out of the way so he could stretch out in the sun, destroying Stacy’s logical order.
One blue eye winked at the ball of twine before closing and starting what Stacy called his “sleepy-cat purr.”
She ran a hand over his soft, gray fur.”Too much work going after the string, Frank?”
He responded with a slightly louder purr.
“Don’t kittens love going after string?”
Purr.
“You’re telling the court all the documented evidence is false, Mr. Sinatra?”
Stretch, purr.
“So much for book learning, huh?”
She and her brother, Tom, were raised in Ithaca, New York, in the shadow of Colgate University. Both parents were academics and emphasized desk-based scholarship over real-world exploration since early childhood.
She’d tied her long brown hair in a bun but one strand kept misbehaving and dropping in front of her left eye. Each time she’d blew it out of the way rather than take off her soil-covered gardening gloves to pin the strand back. Each time it came back to taunt her.
Farming, she decided, could be damn annoying.
Frank opened his eyes and focused on nothing at all. A moment later she heard a car come up her dirt driveway followed by the engine stopping and a door opening and closing.
Frank stood up and arched his back.
Stacy leaned back with hands on her thighs like an aikido player waiting their turn on the mat. “I’m out back.”
A tallish man in some kind of police uniform, salt-and-pepper van dyke with Ray-Bans covering his eyes, came around the house. He took off his sunglasses and hat as he approached and Stacy assessed him as mid- to late-fifties due to close-cropped gray hair matching his van dyke. He limped slightly on his right side and her years of high stakes malpractice cases opened like a textbook before her.
No, I’m not a lawyer any more, I’m a farmer.
If not a legend, at least an attorney to be wary of. She demonstrated a keen, seemingly intuitive awareness of when people were lying and not, and even then she could recognize the deliberate fabrication from the unintentional mistake of memory, something both friends and foes jokingly referred to as her Spidey-sense, friends to her face and foes behind her back. Hank Ingram, well-known competitive poker player and senior partner at Osborne, Nash, and Vogel, and son-in-law of the firm’s founder, Edgar Nash, publicly said, “I’d never play a game with you, Stacey. You cheat, I can’t figure out how you do it, and worse, you won’t teach me how to do it.”
Everybody laughed. She nodded and winked and laughed along with everyone. But she knew it wasn’t reliable. Sometimes it was there, sometimes it wasn’t. Biblically accurate when it was, frustrating silent when it was not.
Secretly she laughed about it. She told her brother, Tom, about it once when they were kids.
“It’s your guardian angel, Sis.”
Stacey blinked the memories away and looked up. The man stood about ten feet away and smiled down at her with a face criss-crossed by deep crows’ feet and laugh lines.
Frank Sinatra stood in front of Stacy, hissed, poofed his tail, and bristled the hair along his spine. That strand of hair fell across her eye again. It lifted on its own and buried itself deep in her bun, the sensation of a parent’s loving hand grooming a child, and Stacey turned rapidly to see if someone had snuck up behind her.
The man’s eyes went from Frank to Stacy to the garden and woods behind her. His lower face smiled but his upper face frowned. “You okay?”
Stacey waved her hand at her garden, her yard, her orchards, and the woods beyond. “Yes. I’m fine. Just new to all this.”
Frank arched his back.
“Your Cat doesn’t like me.” The man held out his hand. “I’m Vincent Currals. Local sheriff. Heard there was someone new in the old Kristoffersen place, decided to come by and say hello.”
Stacy stood up. Frank backed to between her feet and kept his eyes on Currals. She took Currals’ hand and he offered a good, strong grip, rough and calloused, and simultaneously gentle, neither threatening nor intimidating. “Hello, Sheriff. I’m Stacy Knox. But you probably already knew that.” She pointed down. “He’s Frank. Very territorial. Is there a problem?”
Currals released her hand and returned his to the brim of his hat, both hands holding it in front of him and slightly down so he could keep Frank in his peripheral vision. “Oh, no, Ms. Knox. No problem. Like I said, I’m sheriff. We’re a small town. I’m the only law here. Most times I’m really Andy of Mayberry.” He paused. “That was an old TV show.”
She nodded. “Andy Griffith, Don Knotts, Frances Bavier. I know.”
He frowned and cocked his head. “Really? You don’t look old enough to have seen it.”
She laughed. “You’re good at conversationally gathering information. Being a sheriff teach you that?”
He looked down and blushed. “You caught me. I apologize.” He pulled a packet out of his back pocket. “Here’s some information may be useful. Mostly refrigerator magnet stuff. Emergency numbers and the like.”
Stacy thumbed through the packet’s contents. “Monique gave me something similar.”
“Monique Modine, yeah, she handles most of the real estate business around here.”
Stacy picked Frank Sinatra up and cradled him in her arms. He wiggled free, climbed to her shoulder, and perched facing Sheriff Currals. His hiss turned into a growl.
“He a Persian? Siamese?”
“You know cats?”
“Neutered?”
“Is that a requirement for cats here?”
Currals held his hat between them like a shield. “Sorry, I forgot I was talking to an attorney. Not being nosey, Ms. Knox, just getting to know who’s in town. ‘Case I’m needed.”
“Monique fill you in on all my particulars?”
“Can we make this a friendly conversation?”
Stacy scanned Currals’ face, his eyes, watched little twinges along his hair line, his lips, his nostrils. She picked up the patterns in his speech and echoed them back at him. “Sorry. Old habits. Hard to break. Give me an hour. I’ll meet you at the general store/cafe/post office. Buy you a cup of coffee. That work?”
Currals stared at her and his face reddened again. She wondered if he knew or sensed what she’d done. He put his hat and glasses back on, turned and walked away without offering his hand or waving goodbye. “Look forward to it.”
Stacy whispered to Frank. “What do you think, Frank?”
Frank climbed down, nestled in her still cradled arms, and continued to growl until Sheriff Vincent Currals drove away.
“Yeah, Andy of Mayberry he’s not.”