Due to temporary insanity - also called NaNoWriMo - this blog will not be updated throughout November. Lingering health issues - such as overdosing on caffeine (tea version) - might prolong the absence well into next year.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Please Send Chocolate
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Me and myselves
Point Of View, or our dear old POV, is a question all writers must face sooner or later. Usually sooner. In simplistic terms, POV answers the question "who tells the story?" and there are four major groupings:
1) first person - ex. I got hit by a train and I could feel my ribs break.
2) second person - ex. You got hit by a train and must have felt your ribs break.
3a) third person limited - ex. She got hit by a train and could feel her ribs break.
3b) third person omniscient (all knowing) - ex. She got hit by a train and must have felt her ribs break.
Talking about POV is the same thing as dicussing the story's narrator.
1) In 1st person, the narrator is the same as the main character. It's all seen from her or his head and the story is told completely influenced by this character's values, prejudices, dislikes, likes and experiences. The reader will not know anything beyond what the character knows, which makes some plots trickier to handle. In my current WIP I balance first person with short scenes in omniscient 3rd person so to introduce the threat to the clueless main character. According to some the problem with first person is that the story easily gets "ranty" - the writer need to note the train of thought chronologically and "the way it's thought". I haven't edited my way through enough 1st person narrations to judge on my own if this statement has any truth, but it's good to bear in mind.
The challenge - you can't present information unknown to the main character
The opportunity - you can give your readers an intense ride and tie them closely and emotionally to the main character
Ex.
I got hit by a train at 5.14 pm and felt my ribs break. Not a pleasant feeling and my rage at the hand which had pressed against my back grew and engulfed the pain. I would get the son of a bitch. One way or the other.
2) In 2d person, the narrator is not the same as the main character. The main character is the "you" in the story. It's the story about someone told to that very person. I've seen this done spectacularly well in one book - Robson. The story is about a woman retelling the story of her husband's (the "you") struggle against cancer. I can imagine it would work great in books about alzheimer as well, or senile characters (for example "The Notebook", although they don't use that narration technique in it).
The challenge - to connect with the reader when the story is obviously told to someone else (unless the reader can identify with the "you" in the story)
The opportunity - in my mind, you can tell difficult tales in a little less personal way and therefore handle less cute subjects.
Ex.
You got hit by a train at 5.14 pm and you must have felt your ribs break; the paramedics said you were still conscious at the site. It can't have been a pleasant feeling, but perhaps your rage against the hand that had pushed you out on the tracks engulfed even your pain. You wanted revenge, and you would get in one way or the other.
3a) In 3rd person limited, the narrator is the main character, although not in as a direct way as 1st person. However, you as a writer must still obey to the fact that everything is limited to the character's experiences, intellect etc. You can relate direct thoughts just as you can in 1st person. The technique allows you to have multiple characters/POVs, but for all that's holy, NEVER change POV in the middle of a scene! I don't care which author has done it or which smart person tells you it's possible. You say you have a good example? I bet it's in 3rd person omniscient and isn't a POV change at all, just the narrator focusing on another character. There's a difference.
The challenge - to keep the view limited to only one narrator within each scene
The opportunity - to invite the reader to share the mind and experiences of the character yet be free to step out of the emotional rollercoaster at times.
Ex.
She got hit by a train at 5.14 pm and she felt her ribs break. It wasn't a pleasant feeling and her rage at the hand which had pressed against her back grew and engulfed the pain. She would get the son of a bitch. One way or the other.
3b) In 3rd person omniscient, the narrator is a completely other person than the main character and who knows everything (or pretty much) about the characters and perhaps even the story. If the story somewhere contains "little did she know" then you got an omniscient narration. The narrator can imbue the story with prejudices, knowledge and "memories" that the main character (or character in focus) doesn't know about or doesn't share. The narrator has a distinct voice and there are no direct thoughts from the characters (direct thought = 'This sucks'; wheras indirect thought = 'This sucks, she thought').
The challenge - it's not possible to relate the characters feelings and thoughts directly
The opportunity - memories, knowledge and other facts can be freely related by the narrator regardless of what the character/s/ wouldn't know.
Ex.
She got hit by a train at 5.14 pm and she must have felt her ribs break, even though she never could recall that moment. The man that had pushed her out on the tracks was already gone by the time the paramedics turned up. The train guard, who had been tending his inflamed tooth when the so-called accident happened, said she had jumped. He was afraid to admit anything else, even to himself. The paramedics believed him; everyone did. But she knew the truth. She would get the son of a bitch, she thought, one way or the other.
Feel free to discuss these points in the comment section, or post your own examples (or paragraphs you wonder about). I'll do my best to give sensible answers. I'm also very curious about which pro's and con's you have experiences with each narration style! Please share.
1) first person - ex. I got hit by a train and I could feel my ribs break.
2) second person - ex. You got hit by a train and must have felt your ribs break.
3a) third person limited - ex. She got hit by a train and could feel her ribs break.
3b) third person omniscient (all knowing) - ex. She got hit by a train and must have felt her ribs break.
Talking about POV is the same thing as dicussing the story's narrator.
1) In 1st person, the narrator is the same as the main character. It's all seen from her or his head and the story is told completely influenced by this character's values, prejudices, dislikes, likes and experiences. The reader will not know anything beyond what the character knows, which makes some plots trickier to handle. In my current WIP I balance first person with short scenes in omniscient 3rd person so to introduce the threat to the clueless main character. According to some the problem with first person is that the story easily gets "ranty" - the writer need to note the train of thought chronologically and "the way it's thought". I haven't edited my way through enough 1st person narrations to judge on my own if this statement has any truth, but it's good to bear in mind.
The challenge - you can't present information unknown to the main character
The opportunity - you can give your readers an intense ride and tie them closely and emotionally to the main character
Ex.
I got hit by a train at 5.14 pm and felt my ribs break. Not a pleasant feeling and my rage at the hand which had pressed against my back grew and engulfed the pain. I would get the son of a bitch. One way or the other.
2) In 2d person, the narrator is not the same as the main character. The main character is the "you" in the story. It's the story about someone told to that very person. I've seen this done spectacularly well in one book - Robson. The story is about a woman retelling the story of her husband's (the "you") struggle against cancer. I can imagine it would work great in books about alzheimer as well, or senile characters (for example "The Notebook", although they don't use that narration technique in it).
The challenge - to connect with the reader when the story is obviously told to someone else (unless the reader can identify with the "you" in the story)
The opportunity - in my mind, you can tell difficult tales in a little less personal way and therefore handle less cute subjects.
Ex.
You got hit by a train at 5.14 pm and you must have felt your ribs break; the paramedics said you were still conscious at the site. It can't have been a pleasant feeling, but perhaps your rage against the hand that had pushed you out on the tracks engulfed even your pain. You wanted revenge, and you would get in one way or the other.
3a) In 3rd person limited, the narrator is the main character, although not in as a direct way as 1st person. However, you as a writer must still obey to the fact that everything is limited to the character's experiences, intellect etc. You can relate direct thoughts just as you can in 1st person. The technique allows you to have multiple characters/POVs, but for all that's holy, NEVER change POV in the middle of a scene! I don't care which author has done it or which smart person tells you it's possible. You say you have a good example? I bet it's in 3rd person omniscient and isn't a POV change at all, just the narrator focusing on another character. There's a difference.
The challenge - to keep the view limited to only one narrator within each scene
The opportunity - to invite the reader to share the mind and experiences of the character yet be free to step out of the emotional rollercoaster at times.
Ex.
She got hit by a train at 5.14 pm and she felt her ribs break. It wasn't a pleasant feeling and her rage at the hand which had pressed against her back grew and engulfed the pain. She would get the son of a bitch. One way or the other.
3b) In 3rd person omniscient, the narrator is a completely other person than the main character and who knows everything (or pretty much) about the characters and perhaps even the story. If the story somewhere contains "little did she know" then you got an omniscient narration. The narrator can imbue the story with prejudices, knowledge and "memories" that the main character (or character in focus) doesn't know about or doesn't share. The narrator has a distinct voice and there are no direct thoughts from the characters (direct thought = 'This sucks'; wheras indirect thought = 'This sucks, she thought').
The challenge - it's not possible to relate the characters feelings and thoughts directly
The opportunity - memories, knowledge and other facts can be freely related by the narrator regardless of what the character/s/ wouldn't know.
Ex.
She got hit by a train at 5.14 pm and she must have felt her ribs break, even though she never could recall that moment. The man that had pushed her out on the tracks was already gone by the time the paramedics turned up. The train guard, who had been tending his inflamed tooth when the so-called accident happened, said she had jumped. He was afraid to admit anything else, even to himself. The paramedics believed him; everyone did. But she knew the truth. She would get the son of a bitch, she thought, one way or the other.
Feel free to discuss these points in the comment section, or post your own examples (or paragraphs you wonder about). I'll do my best to give sensible answers. I'm also very curious about which pro's and con's you have experiences with each narration style! Please share.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
The Curse of Being Great
We are all good at something, whether this be whistling through our nose, caring for others, cooking, writing or running fast. Sometimes we're not even aware of it, or at least we're not made aware of it.
There are a twofold problem. 1) everyone around you are so used to you being great they no longer notice it, or 2) you are so good people assume you are aware of your skill.
1) I learned of the first a few weeks ago when a friend - I can no longer remember what we discussed but probably my math course - said something like "but you're always good at [it]". I was rather surprised that he thought so, but as I thought of it I realised that praise has a tendency to stop coming. I understand that no one can go around saying someone's great all the time, but does the time passing make you less skilled? No, it doesn't. You're as good, and you shouldn't need to become better for people to appreciate your skill.
2) I considered the question about querying the other morning on the bus to work. I thought about the form rejections I've received, and how I've always assumed the worst of it - that they didn't like my writing and that the plot was lame or that my characters were one dimensional etc etc. This morning - shocker! - I suddenly found myself thinking "but what if they simply didn't know how to promote it? What if they liked it, and thought I could write, but that the plot/meaning wasn't to their liking?". Then the Evil Editor on my shoulder said that if they liked it, they would have told me and not sent a form rejection. But what if they just thought the writing was so good they assumed I must know that I can write, and therefore saw no reason to send further encouragement?
I toyed with the thought - better keep myself positive now when NaNo is approaching! - and realised I often do just that myself. I assume people know how good they are. I often look at photos or paintings at deviantArt and find them so stunning I can't imagine the artist doesn't know they're stunning. Then I keep browsing, leaving no hint of my appreciation.
The problem is that when I don't like something, I don't say anything either. Which means my reaction when seeing something great or something horrid is the same one (virtually at least).
Of course, this post is mostly a rather random pondering on Things' Being and Stuff. But also, a reminder to myself as well as to others to let your loved ones know they are great. Let strangers know they're awesome. Let friends know how talented they are.
They might need to hear just that.
There are a twofold problem. 1) everyone around you are so used to you being great they no longer notice it, or 2) you are so good people assume you are aware of your skill.
1) I learned of the first a few weeks ago when a friend - I can no longer remember what we discussed but probably my math course - said something like "but you're always good at [it]". I was rather surprised that he thought so, but as I thought of it I realised that praise has a tendency to stop coming. I understand that no one can go around saying someone's great all the time, but does the time passing make you less skilled? No, it doesn't. You're as good, and you shouldn't need to become better for people to appreciate your skill.
2) I considered the question about querying the other morning on the bus to work. I thought about the form rejections I've received, and how I've always assumed the worst of it - that they didn't like my writing and that the plot was lame or that my characters were one dimensional etc etc. This morning - shocker! - I suddenly found myself thinking "but what if they simply didn't know how to promote it? What if they liked it, and thought I could write, but that the plot/meaning wasn't to their liking?". Then the Evil Editor on my shoulder said that if they liked it, they would have told me and not sent a form rejection. But what if they just thought the writing was so good they assumed I must know that I can write, and therefore saw no reason to send further encouragement?
I toyed with the thought - better keep myself positive now when NaNo is approaching! - and realised I often do just that myself. I assume people know how good they are. I often look at photos or paintings at deviantArt and find them so stunning I can't imagine the artist doesn't know they're stunning. Then I keep browsing, leaving no hint of my appreciation.
The problem is that when I don't like something, I don't say anything either. Which means my reaction when seeing something great or something horrid is the same one (virtually at least).
Of course, this post is mostly a rather random pondering on Things' Being and Stuff. But also, a reminder to myself as well as to others to let your loved ones know they are great. Let strangers know they're awesome. Let friends know how talented they are.
They might need to hear just that.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
When All Else Fails…
…use duct-tape. It works in real life, and it works in writing. There are, of course, two ways of using duct tape. Sometimes either way is okay, sometimes one way is used inappropriate and you find yourself 10 miles from the nearest settlement and your car has come asunder (or your spaceship, which would be even more annoying).
Duct taping is doubly important now as NaNo is approaching!!!!! (tiny Pratchett craziness)
Two ways of using duct tape:
Duct taping is doubly important now as NaNo is approaching!!!!! (tiny Pratchett craziness)
Two ways of using duct tape:
- The duct tape will keep the whole thing together so you can roll into safe harbour
- The duct tape will fix it permanently
As in real life, the permanent duct tape fix only works for less important things, or objects that aren’t much used. The temporary patch-up is however very useful so not to lose your stride or when you’re stuck on a bus and don’t have a thesaurus.
Let’s start with “what a hell is duct taping in writing?”
Duct taping is when you do a makeshift solution for a writing problem. For example:
- a synonym of the word you want to use but can’t remember.
- a summary/shallow description of how the heroine steers the rampaging truck out of harm’s way instead of the detailed “this is how you do it” description that you want.
- a simple scene where the Evil Dude reveals his Evil Plans instead of the intricate and complicated one where the reader learns of The Plans by surmising what someone else is doing.
- writing “went to street X where the snazzy boutique is” instead of going to the library, finding a New York guide book, looking through all streets to find a suitable place and boutique, before actually continuing to write.
- a dialogue without deeper descriptions and speech-tags.
The most important rule of writing is to write. Duct taping helps you to use the steam while it’s hot (alright, when it’s not hot it’s not steaming, but I have acquired an artistic license to lie and exaggerate).This is especially important when you’re prone to writer’s block, or when you have a limited amount of time or very varied amounts of time on your hands.
I admit, I’m a lazy researcher. Permanent duct taping is my favourite. You often find me rewriting segments and sentences when I can’t remember the word I want. If I don’t know how my character would fix the hole in the spacecraft hull, I erase the hole and create another problem she can fix (which I know how to do). I don’t look up how dresses fit in the 15th century, I describe the dress in a non-revealing way.
If you like research, but have little time to write, I suggest write when you feel for it by using careful duct taping. Then do research and insert the information you want when you can. That way your thoughts will be archived and the cake just lies there, waiting for the frosting.
For some things you don’t have a choice. They can’t – or shouldn’t - be duct taped until the end of Eternity. Major plot points can’t be skimmed over. Character revelations shouldn’t be done in info dumps. Dialogue needs descriptions of character reactions.
Only you can decide what will be a permanent fix. Choose wisely. Time will tell.
But until end of November, DUCT TAPE RULES!
Thursday, September 9, 2010
A really catty remark
I will now try to get two requests into the same post - cats, and dialogue. Alright, I admit, the cats will only be there for examples. This post isn't about cats, and I apologize for deceiving you.
Dialogue is good. Remember this, and if you haven't read the short story "Hills like White Elephants" by Hemingway, do so. That's a fine example of how you can keep a story going through dialogue alone.
When I say dialogue is good I mean it's a great tool for developing your story, yet often - it seems - left unused! Through dialogue you have the perfect opportunity to reveal characters' personality, to relate backstory, to develop both plot and characters. It gives a welcome relief from extensive - however lovely - descriptions, can add humour to a serious situation and also relate descriptions ("Does it always rain this much?" "No, just when you're around. You should come by more often, the grass is all withered. My pansies are thoroughly dead.") We learn through conversation in real life, and so does your reader and your character (through the dialogue in your story). Obviously, dialogue shouldn't be used for info-dumping. Everything you write need to come naturally from the context of the scene.
I love to use dialogue to show off my characters, and I often figure out their personality in the way they react to others. Their language, use of words and what they say (about themselves, others and the surroundings) explain a lot. Anna Gavalda actually writes out her characters not talking in an empty "talk slot" (my knowledge of professional words for these things are abysmall and I apologize. Feel free to add the right terms) which gives a sense of what the person holds back. What we don't want to say, say a lot (see my post about characters).
As example, you have a character of a passive agressive type. This is how you show and don't tell, using dialogue.
"We should spend christmas at my parents this year."
"Again?"
"You were the one not wanting to spend thanksgiving at their's instead of at your brother's. We talked about this, for Christ's sake!"
"Sure. Whatever."
The example was a very clean-cut case with no added text. Most dialogue is improved by the right amount of descriptions, "talk line" (i.e. 'he said with a sneer') and action segments. There's a world of difference between "I saw your mother today." and "I saw your mother today," Benny-the-Bully said and leered insinuatingly.
Or, using the previous example:
"We should spend christmas at my parents this year," she said cheerfully.
The cuttlery tinkled against glass as I froze, the dish water having the same effect on my skin that my wife's words had on my manlihood.
"Again?"
I saw her brow crease as she turned her attention towards me. The sun had faded and I realised just how far into autumn we were and how soon Christmas would arrive.
"You were the one not wanting to spend thanksgiving at their's instead of at your brother's. We talked about this, for Christ's sake!"
"Sure. Whatever."
I fished the butcher knife from the water and began to rinse it. The edge was dull; I would need to sharpen it.
I must admit, I often take the easy way out. How? you might wonder. I keep my character count down. Handling many characters at once is taxing, especially in dialogue. You need to be more specific in your "talk lines", in your naming of characters (if you have four "he" discussing wildly, it'll get messy) and when you have dialogue without talk lines, it must be obvious through what is said (or the surrounding text) who is doing the talking. One trick I use is to mention the person talking as the last thing before the dialogue - or as the first thing right after.
Example:
The garden reverberated with growlings from the eight kittens. Mandy, the youngest, didn't know how to get up into the apple tree and watched it thoughtfully.
"Help?"
"What now?"
Whiskers came to her side, abandoning the patch of dirt in which he had been lapping sun for half an hour.
Dialogue isn't perfect. We - at least not I - don't have everything perfectly in our heads before we start saying things. We can't add all the "uhm"s and broken sentences that exist in real life, but we should not forget it in the story. Nor do we stick to the same subject - a friend once told me how he never got around to saying witty things because before he had phrased it in his mind, people had gone off talking about other things. Writers are allowed artistic liberties, but perfect conversation will ring false. Besides, unclear statements, interruptions and sidetracks are perfect ways to propel your story forwards and make for hilarious - or sad - situations.
This is a perfect conversation (and an imperfect way to write):
Catty the cat sat on the mat, just around the corner from the livingroom.
"Hey, James, I think Catty is gone, we can go to the kitchen to steal cheese right now."
"Great idea, July! We take the long way and crouch behind the threshold. We will be in the kitchen through the hole beside the stove in ten minutes!"
"Yay, cheese! Let's go."
No, they will not handily use each others' names. They probably both know how long it'll take and don't need to say it. James is likely to only say "follow me" and then explain as they go. July knows James and might just wiggle a mousy eyebrow to suggest the cheese stealing by saying "we can do you know what". I think this way of building up a conversation - based on the fact that your character (Catty's POV) must know things - for cheating. It feels unnatural. Nathan Bransford have some opinions on stilted dialogue as well.
Dialogue happens in almost every story. It should come naturally, help the story in some way (character development, propelling plot forwards or relating background/setting) and be pinned on someone (unless the whole point is that someone says something and the POV doesn't know who said it - but I won't go into that). I had never dug deep into the art of creating dialogue until I received the request of writing a post about this subject, but in the future I'll definitely pay more attention to it. After all, it deserves to be noticed, and it pays back to give it due credit.
What tricks do you use to hold up a natural conversation in your story? Do you have any mistakes/tips to share? How do you use dialogue to get your characters and their stories where you want them?
Dialogue is good. Remember this, and if you haven't read the short story "Hills like White Elephants" by Hemingway, do so. That's a fine example of how you can keep a story going through dialogue alone.
When I say dialogue is good I mean it's a great tool for developing your story, yet often - it seems - left unused! Through dialogue you have the perfect opportunity to reveal characters' personality, to relate backstory, to develop both plot and characters. It gives a welcome relief from extensive - however lovely - descriptions, can add humour to a serious situation and also relate descriptions ("Does it always rain this much?" "No, just when you're around. You should come by more often, the grass is all withered. My pansies are thoroughly dead.") We learn through conversation in real life, and so does your reader and your character (through the dialogue in your story). Obviously, dialogue shouldn't be used for info-dumping. Everything you write need to come naturally from the context of the scene.
I love to use dialogue to show off my characters, and I often figure out their personality in the way they react to others. Their language, use of words and what they say (about themselves, others and the surroundings) explain a lot. Anna Gavalda actually writes out her characters not talking in an empty "talk slot" (my knowledge of professional words for these things are abysmall and I apologize. Feel free to add the right terms) which gives a sense of what the person holds back. What we don't want to say, say a lot (see my post about characters).
As example, you have a character of a passive agressive type. This is how you show and don't tell, using dialogue.
"We should spend christmas at my parents this year."
"Again?"
"You were the one not wanting to spend thanksgiving at their's instead of at your brother's. We talked about this, for Christ's sake!"
"Sure. Whatever."
The example was a very clean-cut case with no added text. Most dialogue is improved by the right amount of descriptions, "talk line" (i.e. 'he said with a sneer') and action segments. There's a world of difference between "I saw your mother today." and "I saw your mother today," Benny-the-Bully said and leered insinuatingly.
Or, using the previous example:
"We should spend christmas at my parents this year," she said cheerfully.
The cuttlery tinkled against glass as I froze, the dish water having the same effect on my skin that my wife's words had on my manlihood.
"Again?"
I saw her brow crease as she turned her attention towards me. The sun had faded and I realised just how far into autumn we were and how soon Christmas would arrive.
"You were the one not wanting to spend thanksgiving at their's instead of at your brother's. We talked about this, for Christ's sake!"
"Sure. Whatever."
I fished the butcher knife from the water and began to rinse it. The edge was dull; I would need to sharpen it.
I must admit, I often take the easy way out. How? you might wonder. I keep my character count down. Handling many characters at once is taxing, especially in dialogue. You need to be more specific in your "talk lines", in your naming of characters (if you have four "he" discussing wildly, it'll get messy) and when you have dialogue without talk lines, it must be obvious through what is said (or the surrounding text) who is doing the talking. One trick I use is to mention the person talking as the last thing before the dialogue - or as the first thing right after.
Example:
The garden reverberated with growlings from the eight kittens. Mandy, the youngest, didn't know how to get up into the apple tree and watched it thoughtfully.
"Help?"
"What now?"
Whiskers came to her side, abandoning the patch of dirt in which he had been lapping sun for half an hour.
Dialogue isn't perfect. We - at least not I - don't have everything perfectly in our heads before we start saying things. We can't add all the "uhm"s and broken sentences that exist in real life, but we should not forget it in the story. Nor do we stick to the same subject - a friend once told me how he never got around to saying witty things because before he had phrased it in his mind, people had gone off talking about other things. Writers are allowed artistic liberties, but perfect conversation will ring false. Besides, unclear statements, interruptions and sidetracks are perfect ways to propel your story forwards and make for hilarious - or sad - situations.
This is a perfect conversation (and an imperfect way to write):
Catty the cat sat on the mat, just around the corner from the livingroom.
"Hey, James, I think Catty is gone, we can go to the kitchen to steal cheese right now."
"Great idea, July! We take the long way and crouch behind the threshold. We will be in the kitchen through the hole beside the stove in ten minutes!"
"Yay, cheese! Let's go."
No, they will not handily use each others' names. They probably both know how long it'll take and don't need to say it. James is likely to only say "follow me" and then explain as they go. July knows James and might just wiggle a mousy eyebrow to suggest the cheese stealing by saying "we can do you know what". I think this way of building up a conversation - based on the fact that your character (Catty's POV) must know things - for cheating. It feels unnatural. Nathan Bransford have some opinions on stilted dialogue as well.
Dialogue happens in almost every story. It should come naturally, help the story in some way (character development, propelling plot forwards or relating background/setting) and be pinned on someone (unless the whole point is that someone says something and the POV doesn't know who said it - but I won't go into that). I had never dug deep into the art of creating dialogue until I received the request of writing a post about this subject, but in the future I'll definitely pay more attention to it. After all, it deserves to be noticed, and it pays back to give it due credit.
What tricks do you use to hold up a natural conversation in your story? Do you have any mistakes/tips to share? How do you use dialogue to get your characters and their stories where you want them?
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Box of Words
Some year ago a friend mentioned I should have a box of words. He meant for my writing, but an idea sparked in my mind so I came up with Box of Words.
Today, I finally finished my own version of it and it stands in proud display on my living room table. However, it is empty! I'm going to fill it with positive words, and I need help. I want at least 500, I'll probably need more. So I ask for your help - please post a word, or several, in the comment section and I'll add them to my list so I can put them in my box.
Box of Words by ~Tusenord on deviantART
I'm guessing that people by now are going "what is a Box of Words anyway?". I think the essence of it can't be understood without the story behind it, so here it is.
----
Box of Words
by Malin Larsson
There was nothing quite as dampening to atmosphere as the knowledge that you will have to make an effort.
Toby knew it would be a very long, tiring day. He had known it as soon as the impact of the heavy hatch had reverberated through the floor, stirring century old dust into the air. Although he was prone to exaggeration, it was impossible to be wrong about that statement.
In the mixed light of a naked bulb and sun shining through windows never washed, the jumble was obvious. Toby saw four trunks or chests - he wasn’t quite sure what the difference was – but also an antique sewing machine, an only old sewing machine, stacked chairs, a so-called mobile fridge, two taken apart desks from IKEA, coat racks, a shoe rack, an umbrella stand with umbrellas and canes, vases, lamps of various sizes, and boxes. Boxes, boxes, boxes. Thousands of them. And that was only the front row.
Toby groaned.
He also added a mental curse at his two sons for dodging the task. Not speaking it aloud was a habit born of having strict parents and then reinforced by two unwieldy kids who quickly learned just which words they shouldn’t say.
It wasn’t as if his sons hadn’t known that they would need to clean out the old summer home this last week of July, before the new owners wanted to settle in. Instead they had fled to summer camp and foreign trips with friends. It wasn’t as if Toby wanted to do this at all. He had been very generous and offered the pregnant couple the treasures in the attic but they graciously declined. He wondered if they had seen it when the realtors showed them around. They probably had.
He pulled himself up the ladder onto the floor and stirred the dust again. The last time he was up in the attic, he had been younger than his sons were now and since then both his parents and other relatives had left their odds and ends there. Being slightly more middle-aged than he liked – which had first occurred when he turned thirty-nine some fifteen years ago – Toby was the only heir left of the crooked homestead.
The boxes towered above him. He swept his gaze over the haphazard stacks once more and tried to calculate just how anyone could have carried some of those things through the tiny hole in the floor. It couldn’t be more than five feet in every direction. Of course, the ones who had mashed their junk into the collapsing building certainly must have had the luxury of friends and family helping out. Unlike Toby.
He crossed his arms and sulked for a few minutes. In truth, he was glad for the solitude and the less audible complaints of his own mind in comparison to the ones from two teenage sons just hitting puberty. Yet, he had tried to lure them there with the promise they might keep or sell anything they found. They had laughed at him. Laughed. He wished he had two daughters instead; they always seemed more inclined to sentimentality and storing family heirlooms.
There was a honk from outside. Toby quickly and with surprising agility – considering no one was watching, he could easily claim this – descended to the second floor of the house, continued downstairs and then out on the driveway. There was a lorry with an open container and a man in a Red Bull cap standing there, both idle.
“Tobias Mathieu,” Toby introduced himself.
“Sounds foreign. I’m Roland Netles.”
Toby gestured vaguely.
“Might have been some long, long time ago,” he agreed.
“So where do you want this thing?” Roland asked, pointing at the container with his thumb.
Toby frowned and looked around indecisively. He dismissed the driveway where it would block his own car, just in case he needed to leave the premises. He turned his eyes to the patch of grass in front of the house but the two chestnut trees would be in the way. To the other side of the driveway, a stone wall narrowed the area to a slim strip.
“Right here?” Roland urged.
“I…don’t know. Perhaps.”
Roland peered at him and scratched his buttocks. The day was warm but the air was clear, just as the weather forecast had promised and hopefully it would remain so. Toby had long ago – or at least during the last five minutes – reassessed his statement and knew it would be several tiring days before he was done.
“As close to the door as possible, I guess,” Toby said uncertainly. “I’m clearing the attic and there are a lot of things up there.”
He added the latter not wanting to sound lazy or fragile. The man peered at the house. Toby wasn’t quite sure why he peered when he had his back to the sun and a cap on his head.
“You all on your own here?” Roland asked and nodded towards the Fiat wilting in the sunshine.
“Yes, my sons are on vacation, you see.”
“Very timely,” Roland said in amusement.
Toby just smiled, too torn between loyalty to his sons and the annoyance at their unhelpfulness to answer the man’s accusation with either outrage or agreement. However, the lorry driver seemed to take pity on him.
“There’s no window on that attic of yours?”
“Yes, one on each gable,” Toby answered, not quite following the man’s line of thought but liking the helpful tone of his voice.
“You got a lot of rock under this grass and it hasn’t been raining properly for days. How about I chuck the container in under a window and you can just throw it all out right into it.”
Toby brightened.
“That sounds like a splendid idea! It’s all rubbish after all,” he confided.
As he watched the driver back the thing a few inches past his Fiat, breaking some boughs off the chestnut on the way and lower the container down unto the overgrown garden, Toby considered asking for a pair of hands. He could afford to give the guy some extra. He could even offer the man some gifts from the attic. Surely he had kids who would like some of it.
Toby’s good intentions all fell into ruins as the man drove off with a wave without getting out of the truck again. With a sigh of martyrdom, Toby returned to the suffocating attic.
#
As twilight settled and another box of school papers followed one with clothes, Toby dragged out an old chair and sat down. He sneezed, wiped dirt to another place on his face, and wondered if his back would ever straighten again. He had cleared half of the attic; the easiest half with things that weren’t too hard to lift from the floor. Like boxes. The remaining ones still towered ominously and taunted his greying hair and trembling arms. He sighed. One more, then he’d call it a day.
He clawed at the armrests and got himself to his feet. The nearest object was a leather-like chest with a flat lid and two helpful slings of rope on each side. He grabbed them and pulled.
Gasping, he let go and was thoroughly disappointed by the fact there was no thud. He hadn’t even managed to lift it from the floor. Looking about, he made sure no one had seen it. He might be old but he had his pride.
He scanned the chest again. It didn’t look heavy. Kneeling down, he unclasped the lock and pulled at the lid. It didn’t budge. A frown formed on his brow at this unrelenting piece of rubbish. If he had only chosen another chest to be last thing to throw out, he might already be downstairs. He couldn’t as well surrender to an old chest that had been in the attic for eternity.
He stood up and pulled as hard as he could. The lid flew open and Toby almost ended up on his nose in a pile of mouldy garden furniture. He staggered, found his balance and returned to the chest. He peered into it.
Books. Big, bible-like things. He read the titles. Children’s stories. He shrugged. He didn’t have any children that young left, and no grand-children. There were enough new books out on the market that looked a whole lot better and didn’t weigh as much. He picked up a bunch and was rising to throw them out of the window when something purple and pink caught his attention. In the middle of the carefully stacked books, someone had fitted something flat. It was rectangular and no bigger than an ordinary sheet of paper. The purple was some sort of fabric-like paper and on top of it someone had glued shiny pink squares. There was a blue ribbon cutting off two corners, as if the thing was gift-wrapped. Across it all, someone had used a glittery-gold colour to carefully spell out three words.
It was a child’s work that much was obvious. It was garish and horrible, over-the-top and silly.
Toby put away the books he held and freed more of them until he could lift out the object, which was a shoebox. He turned it around and there was a faint rustle from within. The rest of the box was decorated as well, and the blue ribbons continued although now painted in another blue colour instead of being real ribbons glued on. There were green dots sprinkled across the sides and bottom of the box, among the pink squares, a painted star, an uneven something, and more purple. Toby put it right side up and ran his fingers over the thick letters on the lid.
Box of Words.
He sat down on the chair again, shoebox in lap. A girl’s toy certainly. Box of words. Toby wondered what kind of words, and why there would be a box for them. He couldn’t think of any reason. He had much to do, and little time for it, and he was starving. Yet he cautiously tilted the decorated lid back and looked inside.
Pieces of paper. Thin slices. All jumbled up. Some seemed blank, others with a word printed on them in uncertain letters. He picked up a blank one and turned it around. There was a word on the other side.
Helpful.
He picked up another one.
Friend.
Another one.
Loved.
He cradled the pieces in his palm, studying the words. He wondered what they were for. A bigger white note caught his attention. It was glued to the inside of the lid, and it too had a carefully printed message on it. It was longer than what had been written so far, and as he read it he unconsciously closed his hand over the pieces of paper in the same way you cage a butterfly within your fingers.
Use this box every day and renember the word you have all day and be it even if you dont think you are it. Then you will be it anyway.
Toby stared at the childishly abused language, feeling the edges of the pieces against his skin. As the evening breeze brought the scent of sweet-brier from the garden and mingled it with the smell of old books and furniture oil, Toby put the words back in the box. Then he carefully put on the lid and caressed the gilded letters.
As he climbed down from the attic, he held his treasure tight to his chest and thought loved.
Today, I finally finished my own version of it and it stands in proud display on my living room table. However, it is empty! I'm going to fill it with positive words, and I need help. I want at least 500, I'll probably need more. So I ask for your help - please post a word, or several, in the comment section and I'll add them to my list so I can put them in my box.
Box of Words by ~Tusenord on deviantART
I'm guessing that people by now are going "what is a Box of Words anyway?". I think the essence of it can't be understood without the story behind it, so here it is.
----
Box of Words
by Malin Larsson
There was nothing quite as dampening to atmosphere as the knowledge that you will have to make an effort.
Toby knew it would be a very long, tiring day. He had known it as soon as the impact of the heavy hatch had reverberated through the floor, stirring century old dust into the air. Although he was prone to exaggeration, it was impossible to be wrong about that statement.
In the mixed light of a naked bulb and sun shining through windows never washed, the jumble was obvious. Toby saw four trunks or chests - he wasn’t quite sure what the difference was – but also an antique sewing machine, an only old sewing machine, stacked chairs, a so-called mobile fridge, two taken apart desks from IKEA, coat racks, a shoe rack, an umbrella stand with umbrellas and canes, vases, lamps of various sizes, and boxes. Boxes, boxes, boxes. Thousands of them. And that was only the front row.
Toby groaned.
He also added a mental curse at his two sons for dodging the task. Not speaking it aloud was a habit born of having strict parents and then reinforced by two unwieldy kids who quickly learned just which words they shouldn’t say.
It wasn’t as if his sons hadn’t known that they would need to clean out the old summer home this last week of July, before the new owners wanted to settle in. Instead they had fled to summer camp and foreign trips with friends. It wasn’t as if Toby wanted to do this at all. He had been very generous and offered the pregnant couple the treasures in the attic but they graciously declined. He wondered if they had seen it when the realtors showed them around. They probably had.
He pulled himself up the ladder onto the floor and stirred the dust again. The last time he was up in the attic, he had been younger than his sons were now and since then both his parents and other relatives had left their odds and ends there. Being slightly more middle-aged than he liked – which had first occurred when he turned thirty-nine some fifteen years ago – Toby was the only heir left of the crooked homestead.
The boxes towered above him. He swept his gaze over the haphazard stacks once more and tried to calculate just how anyone could have carried some of those things through the tiny hole in the floor. It couldn’t be more than five feet in every direction. Of course, the ones who had mashed their junk into the collapsing building certainly must have had the luxury of friends and family helping out. Unlike Toby.
He crossed his arms and sulked for a few minutes. In truth, he was glad for the solitude and the less audible complaints of his own mind in comparison to the ones from two teenage sons just hitting puberty. Yet, he had tried to lure them there with the promise they might keep or sell anything they found. They had laughed at him. Laughed. He wished he had two daughters instead; they always seemed more inclined to sentimentality and storing family heirlooms.
There was a honk from outside. Toby quickly and with surprising agility – considering no one was watching, he could easily claim this – descended to the second floor of the house, continued downstairs and then out on the driveway. There was a lorry with an open container and a man in a Red Bull cap standing there, both idle.
“Tobias Mathieu,” Toby introduced himself.
“Sounds foreign. I’m Roland Netles.”
Toby gestured vaguely.
“Might have been some long, long time ago,” he agreed.
“So where do you want this thing?” Roland asked, pointing at the container with his thumb.
Toby frowned and looked around indecisively. He dismissed the driveway where it would block his own car, just in case he needed to leave the premises. He turned his eyes to the patch of grass in front of the house but the two chestnut trees would be in the way. To the other side of the driveway, a stone wall narrowed the area to a slim strip.
“Right here?” Roland urged.
“I…don’t know. Perhaps.”
Roland peered at him and scratched his buttocks. The day was warm but the air was clear, just as the weather forecast had promised and hopefully it would remain so. Toby had long ago – or at least during the last five minutes – reassessed his statement and knew it would be several tiring days before he was done.
“As close to the door as possible, I guess,” Toby said uncertainly. “I’m clearing the attic and there are a lot of things up there.”
He added the latter not wanting to sound lazy or fragile. The man peered at the house. Toby wasn’t quite sure why he peered when he had his back to the sun and a cap on his head.
“You all on your own here?” Roland asked and nodded towards the Fiat wilting in the sunshine.
“Yes, my sons are on vacation, you see.”
“Very timely,” Roland said in amusement.
Toby just smiled, too torn between loyalty to his sons and the annoyance at their unhelpfulness to answer the man’s accusation with either outrage or agreement. However, the lorry driver seemed to take pity on him.
“There’s no window on that attic of yours?”
“Yes, one on each gable,” Toby answered, not quite following the man’s line of thought but liking the helpful tone of his voice.
“You got a lot of rock under this grass and it hasn’t been raining properly for days. How about I chuck the container in under a window and you can just throw it all out right into it.”
Toby brightened.
“That sounds like a splendid idea! It’s all rubbish after all,” he confided.
As he watched the driver back the thing a few inches past his Fiat, breaking some boughs off the chestnut on the way and lower the container down unto the overgrown garden, Toby considered asking for a pair of hands. He could afford to give the guy some extra. He could even offer the man some gifts from the attic. Surely he had kids who would like some of it.
Toby’s good intentions all fell into ruins as the man drove off with a wave without getting out of the truck again. With a sigh of martyrdom, Toby returned to the suffocating attic.
#
As twilight settled and another box of school papers followed one with clothes, Toby dragged out an old chair and sat down. He sneezed, wiped dirt to another place on his face, and wondered if his back would ever straighten again. He had cleared half of the attic; the easiest half with things that weren’t too hard to lift from the floor. Like boxes. The remaining ones still towered ominously and taunted his greying hair and trembling arms. He sighed. One more, then he’d call it a day.
He clawed at the armrests and got himself to his feet. The nearest object was a leather-like chest with a flat lid and two helpful slings of rope on each side. He grabbed them and pulled.
Gasping, he let go and was thoroughly disappointed by the fact there was no thud. He hadn’t even managed to lift it from the floor. Looking about, he made sure no one had seen it. He might be old but he had his pride.
He scanned the chest again. It didn’t look heavy. Kneeling down, he unclasped the lock and pulled at the lid. It didn’t budge. A frown formed on his brow at this unrelenting piece of rubbish. If he had only chosen another chest to be last thing to throw out, he might already be downstairs. He couldn’t as well surrender to an old chest that had been in the attic for eternity.
He stood up and pulled as hard as he could. The lid flew open and Toby almost ended up on his nose in a pile of mouldy garden furniture. He staggered, found his balance and returned to the chest. He peered into it.
Books. Big, bible-like things. He read the titles. Children’s stories. He shrugged. He didn’t have any children that young left, and no grand-children. There were enough new books out on the market that looked a whole lot better and didn’t weigh as much. He picked up a bunch and was rising to throw them out of the window when something purple and pink caught his attention. In the middle of the carefully stacked books, someone had fitted something flat. It was rectangular and no bigger than an ordinary sheet of paper. The purple was some sort of fabric-like paper and on top of it someone had glued shiny pink squares. There was a blue ribbon cutting off two corners, as if the thing was gift-wrapped. Across it all, someone had used a glittery-gold colour to carefully spell out three words.
It was a child’s work that much was obvious. It was garish and horrible, over-the-top and silly.
Toby put away the books he held and freed more of them until he could lift out the object, which was a shoebox. He turned it around and there was a faint rustle from within. The rest of the box was decorated as well, and the blue ribbons continued although now painted in another blue colour instead of being real ribbons glued on. There were green dots sprinkled across the sides and bottom of the box, among the pink squares, a painted star, an uneven something, and more purple. Toby put it right side up and ran his fingers over the thick letters on the lid.
Box of Words.
He sat down on the chair again, shoebox in lap. A girl’s toy certainly. Box of words. Toby wondered what kind of words, and why there would be a box for them. He couldn’t think of any reason. He had much to do, and little time for it, and he was starving. Yet he cautiously tilted the decorated lid back and looked inside.
Pieces of paper. Thin slices. All jumbled up. Some seemed blank, others with a word printed on them in uncertain letters. He picked up a blank one and turned it around. There was a word on the other side.
Helpful.
He picked up another one.
Friend.
Another one.
Loved.
He cradled the pieces in his palm, studying the words. He wondered what they were for. A bigger white note caught his attention. It was glued to the inside of the lid, and it too had a carefully printed message on it. It was longer than what had been written so far, and as he read it he unconsciously closed his hand over the pieces of paper in the same way you cage a butterfly within your fingers.
Use this box every day and renember the word you have all day and be it even if you dont think you are it. Then you will be it anyway.
Toby stared at the childishly abused language, feeling the edges of the pieces against his skin. As the evening breeze brought the scent of sweet-brier from the garden and mingled it with the smell of old books and furniture oil, Toby put the words back in the box. Then he carefully put on the lid and caressed the gilded letters.
As he climbed down from the attic, he held his treasure tight to his chest and thought loved.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
The Show Must Go On
I think few writers have missed the ever repeated phrase "show, don't tell". However, as a new writer (in fact, even as an old and experienced writer) it's difficult to tell what's showing and what's telling. Some cases might even be more effective "told" than "shown" but that is something to be left until after you can actively make the choice. I'm of the firm belief that rules are meant to be bent, if not broken, but only if you first know the rules.
Back to the vital question: what is telling?
Telling:
He hated her.
Showing:
The mere sight of her made him bare his teeth and it was only thirteen years of learning to control his reactions that allowed him to pull the growl back into a pleasant smile.
Which one of these conveys the most images and emotions? I hope you say "showing" or I've failed. But this was easy showing - you're in his head and can convey all these things to the reader without someone else interpretating. When it comes to writing, you must also be able to translate descriptions and characters through a pair of glasses = your POV. That's the active character, the one who sees. If you write with a complete omniscient everyone-included narrative this might not be a problem. However, I can't recall having ever read anything like that. Every story I've read has been from someone's perspective - be it a narrator, one of the 20 active characters or a completely unengaged narrator (a video camera - try Moderato Cantabile by Marguerite Dumas if you want to see how that works).
Now imagine the man in the previous example. He's controlling the flash of emotions, letting nothing show in his opinion because the growl was so brief no one noticed. The active character is now the woman he's meeting and she doesn't have a clue about his emotions. How do I give a sense of hatred from the man?
Telling:
She could sense that he hated her.
Showing:
He smiled at her when their hands met briefly, in fact so briefly that he let go before she had barely touched his skin. She felt unbalanced as she straightened, and she tried to understand his hooded gaze and the closed fists he pressed against his sides.
Granted, my showing isn't all too clear that he HATES her. He might be embarrassed, scared or just feeling awkward. But it gives enough away for the reader to pick up other hints along the way that might explain it more clearly. Also, is it important to know his exact feeling? The tension is there, the promise of conflicts and perhaps danger. That might be all you need.
The most difficult part of "showing not telling" is to describe when your own active character (POV) isn't aware of what you want to describe. We deny our own emotions, we doubt what we see and what we sense - we do this in real life and it should happen in writing as well. Even if you write fantasy, people are people. Alright, I give you the benefit of a doubt. You might decide to do a superadvance sci-fi world where people are completely aware of themselves. You can now go write something fantastic instead of reading the last paragraph (or go buy chocolate, make tea, watch Firefly).
Telling:
She didn't realise she loved him.
Showing:
Her chest tightened as he kept avoiding her eyes. Annoyance filled her and she brushed hair away from her face, molding it back into the curls falling down her back. He was being silly; it had been a long time since high school. Just because he had changed into some dropdead gorgeous brat he didn't need to stick up his nose like this. She had known him when he was a fumbling fifteen year old and she remembered he hadn't always had money on the bank or a face fit for ads. All he had had back then was his smarts, and she had longed for the ease with which he passed every exam thrown in front of him. It was unfair, she thought as she studied the indifferent expression on his face as he began talking to her husband. He had it all. She sighed, but she couldn't even envy him for it. She looked to her husband, then to the young upstart again. They were a world apart.
I think you all noticed the difference in length between the paragraphs. Showing takes more space, especially when you're showing something of which the active character isn't aware. I even compressed this more than I would have liked. To reveal things hidden within like this often takes a full manuscript , just consider the romances you have watched. I'm not saying romances are the only genre with it, but they are the stories where these hidden emotions are vital for the plot.
I have focused this post on showing emotions, but it's possibly to apply the same strategy of replacing an adjective with verbs for other descriptions.
Telling:
It was a warm day.
Showing:
The breeze licked her face like a human breath, and she stretched her naked legs out into the sunshine, hoping to make her dark skin shine golden by the end of the summer.
I now wish you good luck with your writing. You got more examples of "showing not telling"? Post them in the comment section, I'd love to read and discuss it!
Back to the vital question: what is telling?
Telling:
He hated her.
Showing:
The mere sight of her made him bare his teeth and it was only thirteen years of learning to control his reactions that allowed him to pull the growl back into a pleasant smile.
Which one of these conveys the most images and emotions? I hope you say "showing" or I've failed. But this was easy showing - you're in his head and can convey all these things to the reader without someone else interpretating. When it comes to writing, you must also be able to translate descriptions and characters through a pair of glasses = your POV. That's the active character, the one who sees. If you write with a complete omniscient everyone-included narrative this might not be a problem. However, I can't recall having ever read anything like that. Every story I've read has been from someone's perspective - be it a narrator, one of the 20 active characters or a completely unengaged narrator (a video camera - try Moderato Cantabile by Marguerite Dumas if you want to see how that works).
Now imagine the man in the previous example. He's controlling the flash of emotions, letting nothing show in his opinion because the growl was so brief no one noticed. The active character is now the woman he's meeting and she doesn't have a clue about his emotions. How do I give a sense of hatred from the man?
Telling:
She could sense that he hated her.
Showing:
He smiled at her when their hands met briefly, in fact so briefly that he let go before she had barely touched his skin. She felt unbalanced as she straightened, and she tried to understand his hooded gaze and the closed fists he pressed against his sides.
Granted, my showing isn't all too clear that he HATES her. He might be embarrassed, scared or just feeling awkward. But it gives enough away for the reader to pick up other hints along the way that might explain it more clearly. Also, is it important to know his exact feeling? The tension is there, the promise of conflicts and perhaps danger. That might be all you need.
The most difficult part of "showing not telling" is to describe when your own active character (POV) isn't aware of what you want to describe. We deny our own emotions, we doubt what we see and what we sense - we do this in real life and it should happen in writing as well. Even if you write fantasy, people are people. Alright, I give you the benefit of a doubt. You might decide to do a superadvance sci-fi world where people are completely aware of themselves. You can now go write something fantastic instead of reading the last paragraph (or go buy chocolate, make tea, watch Firefly).
Telling:
She didn't realise she loved him.
Showing:
Her chest tightened as he kept avoiding her eyes. Annoyance filled her and she brushed hair away from her face, molding it back into the curls falling down her back. He was being silly; it had been a long time since high school. Just because he had changed into some dropdead gorgeous brat he didn't need to stick up his nose like this. She had known him when he was a fumbling fifteen year old and she remembered he hadn't always had money on the bank or a face fit for ads. All he had had back then was his smarts, and she had longed for the ease with which he passed every exam thrown in front of him. It was unfair, she thought as she studied the indifferent expression on his face as he began talking to her husband. He had it all. She sighed, but she couldn't even envy him for it. She looked to her husband, then to the young upstart again. They were a world apart.
I think you all noticed the difference in length between the paragraphs. Showing takes more space, especially when you're showing something of which the active character isn't aware. I even compressed this more than I would have liked. To reveal things hidden within like this often takes a full manuscript , just consider the romances you have watched. I'm not saying romances are the only genre with it, but they are the stories where these hidden emotions are vital for the plot.
I have focused this post on showing emotions, but it's possibly to apply the same strategy of replacing an adjective with verbs for other descriptions.
Telling:
It was a warm day.
Showing:
The breeze licked her face like a human breath, and she stretched her naked legs out into the sunshine, hoping to make her dark skin shine golden by the end of the summer.
I now wish you good luck with your writing. You got more examples of "showing not telling"? Post them in the comment section, I'd love to read and discuss it!
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