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New Post @ PopMatters – Getting Inside the Book Review

June 17, 2010 By peta Leave a Comment

We’ve all done it — bought a book based on a good review, passed over another because of a bad review. But why do reviews affect us? And how do they do it?

Once upon a time, only professional reviewers wrote book reviews. The greater the number of publishing credits and letters after your name, the greater your chances of being taken seriously. Of course, it doesn’t take a degree to work out if you like a book (though in the case of Edward Bloor’s Storytime, you might need an MFA to work out why). And a good review is still a good review—whether it’s over at your friend’s blog, or in the Books section of The New York Times.

via Getting Inside the Book Review: How They Work & Why We Read Them < PopMatters.

Filed Under: Non-fiction, Popmatters Tagged With: Arts, Author, Book review, literature, Magazines and Newspapers, Popmatters, review, Reviews and Criticism, The New York Times

Are You a Hand-Writer or a Type-Lover?

May 12, 2010 By peta 3 Comments

Every day, we put words on a page. Some of us use pen or pencil. Some of us tap away at keyboards. Most of us do both, handwriting grocery lists, personal notes, even plot outlines, later typing emails, memos, and whole scenes. Some folks lean more toward the paper route, while others tap away on smart phone keyboards instead of grabbing the nearest pencil stub. Either way, we’re inputting words and data, right? Maybe.

Some time ago, I was at a Neal Stephenson talk hosted by the Harvard Bookstore (and held in the First Parish Church in Cambridge, a strangely appropriate venue given he was signing Anathem. During the question session, someone asked Stephenson–a science fiction writer and well-known tech aficionado–

“If you could only teach your kids one or the other, which would you teach? Handwriting or typing?”

Stephenson’s answer was fairly hedged, as if he wanted to say “just typing” but couldn’t bring himself to dismiss handwriting as a fast-disappearing, unnecessary skill. In the end, though, he settled on handwriting because you can always write with a pencil, or a stick, and pay someone else to type it up. And Stephenson has written several of his works the long way–

“The manuscript of The Baroque Cycle was written by hand on 100% cotton paper using three different fountain pens: a Waterman Gentleman, a Rotring, and a Jorg Hysek.”

Back in April (why does that seem so long ago?) I saw Cory Doctorow, another SF (well, sort of) writer with tech roots, and founder of Boing Boing at the Harvard Coop. Giving props to the anonymous guy I’d seen at the Neal Stephenson do, I asked Doctorow the same thing. His reply? “I only have one kid, and I’d teach her to type. Definitely type.” Why? Because his handwriting is so poor! When Doctorow signs copies of his books, he scrawls “Stay Free” beneath the reader’s name. But Doctorow’s “Stay Free” looks a lot more like “stay frog” or “stay froo” (I’ll add a picture from my copy when I get back from sunny-yet-surprisingly-cold Tucson). Doctorow also types pretty much everything.

But not all SF writers and tech-loving folk are so type-set. Neil Gaiman starts out scribbling almost everything by hand then typing it up later. While this may seem old-school, Gaiman is certainly not resistant to technology–he’s an active blogger and tweeter who just happens to be in love with well-made pens and papers.

J.K Rowling, on the other hand, writes almost exclusively by hand, and even sold her original handwritten copy of The Tales of Beedle the Bard to raise money for charity. Rowling, however, is very anti-tech, and determined that none of
her books will ever appear in e-book form.

Kristin Cashore, author of Graceling, Fire, and the upcoming Bitterblue, takes the longhand process a step further–or further back–creating detailed handwritten story journals before setting out on a first draft. Drafts are then written longhand and slowly dictated into her mac every few days, “because I’m afraid the house will burn down and I’ll lose everything.” Cashore even has a fireproof and waterproof safe for protecting her work.

And me? I type most of the time, though I find putting pen to paper gets me through the rough patches, and helps me keep track of random bits of dialogue. But for me, handwriting is also hand-drawing–most of my notebooks are filled with doodles and sometimes relevant scribbles that wind around the text. The scribbles eventually grow into coherent words, though sometimes not until I’ve storyboarded or sketched out a whole scene, complete with stick figure characters and room detail. Why? Drawing–albeit poor drawing–is my way of articulating ideas I can’t quite get my head around on the first go.

Do you type or handwrite? What do you like about your way?

Later this week–pros and cons for handwriting and typing, and why they’re important.

Filed Under: All, Blog, Writing Tagged With: Anathem, Author, Boing Boing, Cory Doctorow, Graceling, handwriting, longhand, Neal Stephenson, Neil Gaiman, Science Fiction, Tales of Beedle the Bard, typing, Writing

Writing YA: What Familiar Style is & Why You Should Use It

March 18, 2010 By peta 13 Comments

Young adult fiction is full of phonies. It’s not surprising–after all, the majority of YA is written by authors in their twenties, at the least. And teen vernacular is always changing. Words that were popular a few years ago (“wicked” comes to mind) are dated now, pushed aside as a new crop of words creeps in. But forced coolness and past-their-teen authors are just the tip of the phony iceberg. The true issue, lurking like only a giant, submerged slab of ice can, is style.

In terms of writing (in terms of anything, really), style is hard to explain. Everyone has a writing style, because it’s not so much about what we write as how we write it, a mingling of word choice, personal voice, experience, and grammar. Even things as basic as using/avoiding cliches and writing in first, second, or third person are a matter of style. Sometimes, shared experiences (such as an MFA program or time spent on the road as a dalek hunter) lead writers to develop similar styles, though no two people write, without intention, the same way.

What’s this got to do with phoniness? Everything. Writing, more than pretty much any other discipline, has a lot of “unbreakable” rules–rules we learn almost as early as we learn to write. Here are a few I’ve collected from English teachers over the years:

don’t start a sentence with a conjuction (and, but, because, etc.)
don’t use a conjunction with a comma
always start sentences with a capital letter
always put the comma inside the quotation marks (this is an American one I still can’t quite get me head around)
always complete sentences; don’t use fragments
don’t use “I” or personal style in essays and other formal writing

So far, I’ve broken all but “start sentences with a capital letter”. Does this mean I’m illiterate? A poor writer? Will you stop reading this post because I’m a rule-breaker of the worst kind?

Probably not, because the way I’m writing isn’t unusual–it’s familiar.

YA: when to use familiar style, when to skip it

YA readers aren’t stupid. Using big words won’t stop them from understanding your book. But it probably will keep them from reading it.

Why? Big words are phony. When was the last time you heard a teen talk about a soporific sussurus or a grove of arboreal trees? Formal writing has its place–journal papers and Proust and politics are full of it. It’s even well-used in some literary fiction (thank you, Annie Proulx). But formal language does not a good YA make.

Like anything, it’s possible to take familiar style too far–a problem in a lot of YA, published and unpublished alike. Cliches might make it easier to get a certain point across, but they’re cliches, aka the lazy writer’s shortcut. YA is about originality, discovery, and individualism (to name just a few). It’s about saying something in a new way, a way that speaks to your reader, makes them think about an idea from a different perspective. Unless you’re a secret Nigerian scammer, you can’t say anything new with a cliche, which is boring, and boring is what lands books in that magical circular filing bin in the sky.

Addressing the reader is another YA familiar style no-no. But wait–aren’t I doing that right now? Yes. But I’m writing a non-fiction blog post/essay/ramble, which doesn’t require you to suspend disbelief. Any time a narrator says “you know”, “you’ll see”, or some other variation on the you-theme, it pulls readers out of the story because you’re reminding them that narrator is a fictional construct.

Using dialogue tags other than “said” or “asked”, writing in dialect, using easily-dated words (groovy, rad)–there are many, many ways to abuse familiar style. If there are so many ways to screw it up, why use it in the first place?

Because it works.

Familiar Style: what, when, and where

Familiar style is exactly what it sounds like: a way of writing that’s easy to read and easy to understand because it uses common language and expressions. As far as anyone can guess, familiar style was first used sometime around the 16th century–Shakespeare was an early adopter, as was Montaigne. Today, it’s a fairly common way of writing, and part of what makes blogs such popular reading.

The problem with familiar style, though, is that it’s too darned well familiar. Writers (and teachers) love big words (onychogryphosis, a nail condition, was my favorite big word from ages 8-12). We like to sound smart; we love it when someone compliments us on a nice turn of phrase. And writing in a familiar style isn’t easy. The simplest way to get inside a reader’s head is to talk the way they do–except that writing the way we talk is messy, and usually full of “um”s. Familiar style usually ends up falling somewhere in between, using a cliche, then building on it, much like my iceberg line above (and yes, I did put that in just so I could reference it).

Nineteenth century essayist and critic William Hazlitt was a big proponent supporter of familiar style, writing:

I hate anything that occupies more space than it is worth. I hate to see a load of band-boxes go along the street, and I hate to see a parcel of big words without anything in them. A person who does not deliberately dispose of all his thoughts alike in cumbrous draperies and flimsy disguises, may strike out twenty varieties of familiar every-day language, each coming somewhat nearer to the feeling he wants to convey, and at last not hit upon that particular and only one which may be said to be identical with the exact impression in his mind. . . .

Familiar style is most used in general audience writing–advertisers, journalists (newspaper and magazine), and bloggers use it. Some book reviewers (the Boston Globe’s George Scialabba in particular) also use familiar style, though it’s still not common in print reviews (the last bastion of the would-be literary academic set).

Sound Smart? Or be Smart?

In 2006, an igNobel prize was awared to Daniel M. Oppenheimer, an associate professor of Psychology at Princeton, for his paper Consequences of erudite vernacular utilized irrespective of necessity: problems with using long words needlessly. Here’s a section of the abstract:

Most texts on writing style encourage authors to avoid overly-complex words. However, a majority of undergraduates admit to deliberately increasing the complexity of their vocabulary so as to give the impression of intelligence. This paper explores the extent to which this strategy is effective…When obvious causes for low fluency exist that are not relevant to the judgement at hand, people reduce their reliance on fluency as a cue; in fact, in an effort not to be influenced by the irrelevant source of fluency, they over-compensate and are biased in the opposite direction. Implications and applications are discussed.

Oppenheimer’s research was specific to non-fiction writing, such as journal papers and textbooks. But the idea that smart people use big words is a pretty common one–and with good reason. A lot of popular literary authors use big words (Margaret Atwood and Cormac McCarthy come to mind.) And while big words do make us sound smart, clear simple language makes us sound smarter.

A few years ago, I actually put down a novel because the author wrote about “the soft, soporific sussurus that whispered through the grove of arboreal trees”. I’m a patient reader, and I know what every word in that sentence means. The author didn’t. “Sussuruss” is fancy Latin way of saying “whisper”; “arboreal” means living in trees, and while there are a few trees, like strangler figs, that actually do live inside other trees, it’s a stretch to imagine a whole grove of the darned things. Why write a sentence with words you don’t fully understand? As far as I can tell, said author (and I really can’t remember who/which book it was) wanted to create a sleepy atmosphere, so they used soft “sh”-like sounds for effect. Rewriting the line in simpler language would probably kill the author’s lovingly crafted literary atmosphere–but it would also make more sense. And sense is good.

Do you write in a familiar style? Do you prefer familiar or formal books? Did you keep track of my over-the-top cliche use in this post?

Image Credit: tomswift46

Filed Under: All, Blog, Books, reviews and thoughts, Writer's Kit, Writing Tagged With: Arts, Author, Boston Globe, familiar, literature, Margaret Atwood, style, William Hazlitt, Writers Resources, Writing, YA, YA lit

Getting Inside the Book Review: How They Work & Why We Read Them

March 2, 2010 By peta 10 Comments

Once upon a time, only professional reviewers wrote book reviews. The greater the number of publishing credits and letters after your name, the greater your chances of being taken seriously. Of course, it doesn’t take a degree to work out if you like a book (though in the case of Edward Bloor’s Storytime, you might need an MFA to work out why). And a good review is still a good review–whether it’s over at your friend’s blog, or in the Books section of The New York Times.

Some time ago, I wrote about the internet killing professional book reviews, ending with my hope that pro reviews stick around. In my book, the difference between a pro reviewer and a casual reviewer (“amateur” is unfair–how can you be an amateur at deciding if you like/love/hate a book?) is the amount of time spent thinking about the volume in question. Casual reviewers read a book, write up a hundred words in the space of half an hour, and move on. Pro reviewers make notes, flag pages, talk to authors, find connections, and consider the bigger picture (how the book fits into a certain genre, if it makes any particular leaps or bounds &c, &c). Both kinds of review are valuable–few people have time to read a pro review every time they’re on the lookout for something new to read, and short, casual reviews are handy for readers trying to avoid spoilers.

But how does a book review work? What is it that makes a book review useful? Why care what reviewers think? Who cares what reviewers think?

Getting Inside the Reader’s Head

Much like a good story, reviews need a strong hook, clear voice, pacing, and balance. Longer reviews often achieve this by tying the narrative to a personal story, giving the reader something to hold onto. Although this may seem slightly narcissistic (there’s something slightly narcissistic about all writing, I suppose), it’s actually a very useful way for the reviewer to get inside the reader’s head. Let’s say I’m writing a review about one of Tamora Pierce’s Circle of Magic books. Since they’re an old-world fantasy setting with herb lore, metal-working etc., I might include a snippet about my experience with botany and herbalism:

Back when I was studying botany at university, I took a particular interest in medicinal herbs. Most of my professors looked down on herbalism, and, by extension, herbalists–genetic engineering and the Flavr Savr tomato were the order of the day. Years later, when I befriended herbalists of both the crunchy and non-crunchy variety, my professors’ reluctance to talk about herbs beyond photosynthesis and the CAM cycle became clear. But Pierce’s treatment of herbalism should irritate few–her descriptions are akin to science, her characters carefully harvesting, testing, journaling, and distilling in a manner familiar to anyone who’s ever studied the scientific process.

The personal anecdote gives the reader a chance to consider my opinion, and compare or contrast theirs. Someone interested in homeopathy might find my views too different to theirs to give my thoughts any weight. Similarly, a biology major might be more likely to pick up the book because my thoughts on herbalism run parallel to theirs, suggesting similar tastes.

Trends

Although anyone can read a book review, they’re of particular use to writers, agents, editors and anyone in the story-making industry (and yes, “stories” includes non-fiction). Reviews generally cover books that stand out in some way. Get enough of these in a similar style (think wizard>>vampire>>dystopia) and we have a trend. Keeping tabs on the stand out books can yield valuable market information, helping book folks keep on what’s hot, and help them make predictions about what will be hot.

Interestingly, casual blog reviews may give a better sense of trends, since important “lit” books are not always crowd pleasers (Annie Proulx and Margaret Atwood come to mind). In terms of straight out trend analysis, numbers are more important than an in-depth review–even without tallying the positives and negatives (there’s no such thing as bad press). Some pro reviewers, though, include trend analysis–recent books in the genre, what they contribute to said genre–in their work. If you’re in the story-making industry, these reviews are definitely worth the time. A lot of books cross a reviewer’s desk, and pros spend a lot of time doing lit analysis, fashioning general opinion and careful, critical reading into an easy-to-read trend report.

Vindication

Writing is a tad narcissistic, though reading, particularly literary reading, may be more so. We humans love to hear “you’re right”. Most of us love to say “I told you so”. Book reviews give us the opportunity to say both at once. I’ve been known to shout “Exactly, that book sucked!” while reading at my local coffee shop. I’ve also used positive reviews to convince my husband to read something I loved. And while this may be the pettiest reason to read a book review, it’s arguably the most common.

They Make Us Think

I often read reviews after I’ve read the book. I know it seems backward, but reviews often bring up a lot of issues that color my experience with a story, and that make it hard to concentrate on reading. Picking one up after the fact gives me a chance to sort out my own impressions of the book, then dig into them, exploring and dissecting my thoughts about the author’s story, style, etc. Reading this way encourages critical thinking, a useful tool for, well, everyone. Good book reviews are challenging, forcing readers to consider new angles and broaden their horizons.

Do you read reviews before or after the book? Do they influence you? Have you used them to keep track of trends?

Filed Under: All, Blog, Books, reviews and thoughts Tagged With: Arts, Author, Book review, Flavr Savr, how things work, literature, Margaret Atwood, review, Tamora Pierce, The New York Times

Coffee or Cocoa: color & writing, as inspired by agent Colleen Lindsay

January 11, 2010 By peta 3 Comments

There are certain rules about writing about my color. Be polite, but realistic. Don’t make it an issue if it’s not. Make sure the skin color of your protagonist matches the skin color of your cover model (you heard me, Bloomsbury). And don’t use cliches like “coffee colored” or “rich and smooth as cocoa”.

The last one is pretty much an industry standard–last week, agent Colleen Lindsay even tweeted about it, saying, “When writing about people of color, find a way to describe them that doesn’t involve comparisons to various coffee drinks or cocoa,” (if you’re not following @ColleenLindsay, get thee to Twitter this instant–she’s full of excellent advice and #pubtips). But if we can’t describe black/brown characters as coffee or cocoa without setting off editorial alarm bells, what can we say?

Technically, I’m a person of color. My skin is brown–not full Indian brown like my father’s, but a brown tempered my mother’s fair Scottish skin, a brown I used to call “baby poo”. Nowadays, though, I call it milky coffee, or caramel. My uncle describes it as burnt toast. Once, I even looked it up on a Behr color chart. I’m 350F-5, also known as camel. Now, much as I like camels (Who doesn’t? They’re sea-sickness on legs!) they bring to mind dry hair, cracked toenails, Mick Jagger lips, and a bad attitude. Which is why, If someone else described me as camel-colored, I may have to fight the urge to spit in their face. (Just as a defense mechanism, of course.)

In When You Reach Me, Rebecca Stead uses the term “Swiss Miss” as an unintended racist slur, a way for her white main character, Miranda, to recognize bigotry (Miranda uses it because she thinks Julia, the girl the slur is aimed at, pretentious). Throughout the book, Stead uses color in an absent sort of way–Julia, is never given a clear ethnicity. And while I don’t automatically associate myself with the brown character in a book, I did imagine Julia as half-Indian, like me. In fact, the “Swiss Miss” comment even reinforced the idea.

While I’m reasonably sure that this rule comes from a good place, from a desire to not cause offense, I can’t help but wonder if it’s really necessary. My brother, paler than me, isn’t offended to be called white; neither is my mother. White is simply their coloring. Is there a similar rule for other colored characters? Granted, even I know Daleks hate to be called pepper shakers and that Triffids hate it when you call their mothers celery sticks, but is it really bad form to describe elves as pointy-eared, or zombies as gray? Do I have to start describing them as rotten brain-loving necrotids?

The zombie, a rich, caesious sort of color gazed into my eyes, his pools of festering erythema locking on with an intensity that made me flush all over. “BRAAAAIIIINS!” he moaned, reaching out a large, misshapen greige hand. “BRAAAAAIIIINS!”

Interestingly–if we believe the over-simplified writing do’s and don’ts lists out there–browns are the only colors off-limits. No one appears to object to olive or peaches and cream. And some browns are okay–nut brown, and almond brown show up a lot. Perhaps it’s a specificity issue, a result of the ever-growing melting pot. Describing someone by their heritage or country of origin can create a certain image. It’s okay to describe someone as African or Chinese, Swiss or Mexican. But in countries like the US, Australia, and the UK, citing race may not be enough–hence our reliance on coffee and cocoa.

Or maybe it’s deeper than that. Do terms of color fall under the same umbrella as the N-word? (I’ve been called the N-word is both contexts.) Is it okay for me to say I’m a milky-coffee color because I am, and not okay for my mother to say it because she’s not? Are they now a sign of solidarity? My spam filter’s a little overzealous–did I just not get the memo?

And then there’s the all-important question of, uh, importance. How much does the main character’s heritage lend to a story? Has the author described their character as coffee-colored because it matters (Sarah’s reaction to her mixed background is a vital plot point), because it’s what they know (I’m Indian, therefore my character is Indian), or because they want to appeal to a certain audience/catch the “ethnic” crowd? In the first two cases, maybe the industry, the gurus who sit on high and declare writing rules (or the really very nice editors and agents who are trying to help) won’t really care how you describe your character’s skin color. And if it’s the latter? I’m not sure, but I probably won’t be reading your book.

Despite my somewhat flippant attitude, I have been known to take offense–I do take offense–at some things. But I think it’s important to remember that words are just words. A word’s power is not innate; it comes from the meaning we give it. True, the N-word will most likely always be off-limits, despite its neutral origins, because we’ve given it that perjorative power. But coffee and cocoa? Why not reclaim them, before it gets out of control?

Photo Credit: David Blackwell, via Flickr.

Filed Under: Blog, Books, reviews and thoughts, Writing Tagged With: Australia, Author, Coffee, ColleenLindsay, Color, ethnicity, heritage, Human skin color, me, Mick Jagger, Racism, When You Reach Me, Writing, writing difficulty

Writing scores 74 out of 200 on best jobs list – does it deserve such a high ranking?

January 8, 2010 By peta 11 Comments

Resume tag cloud from wordle.net

On Tuesday, 1/5/10, the Wall Street Journal published the best and worst jobs of 2010 (as compiled by job site CareerCast.com). While I’m not sure how we can possibly know the best and worst jobs of just 5 days into the new year, I’m curious about spot 74: author (books).

According to the WSJ, the list is based on five criteria–environment, income, employment outlook, physical demands, and stress. To put the list in some perspective, actuary is in the top spot, while roustabout placed last. Typist/Word Processor is ranked 60th, PR Exec 79th, Psychiatrist 98th,and Nurse (registered) 100th. Reporter (newspaper), one of writing’s sister professions, clocks in at 184.

Now, while I’m happy plugging away at my keyboard and listening to the voices in my head (Don’t Jump! Eat ze wagon wheel! Chocolate is a vegetable!) I think 74th out of 200, or the 63rd percentile, is actually quite high for writing. Why? As with most things, there’s a lot more to writing than salary.

Environment
Many writers, full-time, part-time, or hobbyist, work from home. It may be from a dedicated study, or, as in my case, it may be in a rocking chair, beneath tired teething baby and precariously balanced laptop. But working from home has its drawbacks.

Overwork is a common complaint of the writer, especially she who moonlights as a stay-at-home-mother, full-time corporate exec, podiatrist, or pastry chef. In fact, there are few writers who actually get to write full time, and finding precious moments to put words to paper can be even more challenge than writing the dreaded query letter. Interruptions are another worry–it’s incredibly hard to focus on that love scene if your one year old is screaming for string cheese, your husband is waxing poetic about the latest Warhammer 40K book, and your cat is performing exploratory surgery on your prize-winning geraniums. Perhaps worst of all, though, is isolation. Writing is a solitary pursuit, a mind game only you can play. There are no other hamsters to crowd into the wheel and to help push your mileage up, no one to hang around the water cooler and chat with, no boss to get you motivated. A writer is entirely dependent on his or herself–even the most dedicated agent or editor can’t put words on the page for you.

Income
According to CareerCast’s research, an entry level author can expect to earn $28,000 p.a., a mid-level $53,000 p.a., and a high-level author $107,000. The latter figures, though not Harry Potter or Twilight-esque, sound quite nice, don’t they? If we’re conservative about the time it takes to write a novel – say, 8 months, the hourly rate looks pretty good.

8 months = 30 x 8 days = 240 days.
4 hours per day X 240 = 960 hours
28, 000/960 = $29.10/hour for an entry-level writer.
53,000/960 = $55.20/hour for a mid-level writer
107,000/960 = $111.50/hour for a high-level writer
Of course, that’s not factoring in genesis, development, any planning, finding representation or a publisher, or the myriad to-and-froing with said agent or editor. In fact, Miss Snark, literary agent and ex-blogger, recommends:

Finishing your first book
Writing your second book.
Rereading the first book, then using the experience gained from the second to fix it.
Querying.

She then warns that this process will take around two years. So, if we redo that calculation, remembering that it’s likely the first novel will never see the light of day:

2 years = 360 x 2 = 720 days
4 hours per day X 720 = 2,880 hours
28, 000/2,880 = $9.72/hour for an entry-level writer.
53,000/2,880 = $18.40/hour for a mid-level writer
107,000/2,880 = $37.15/hour for a high-level writer

Granted, these figures don’t take everything into account. And they’re still a respectable wage. Yet writing is ranked above some highly paid positions, (with great hourly rates) such as attorney, architect, dentist, and psychiatrist. Go figure.

Employment Outlook
This is a difficult one to tackle. Writing requires a very employable skill set–the articulate expression of complex ideas. A good, resourceful writer can find employment in any climate, as long as they’re willing to compromise. But it’s hard to put a number on employment outlook, even if we limit this criterion to publishing novels. From what I’ve heard around conferences and workshops, though, it’s not so hot. Sure, there are Cecily von Zieglars (Gossip Girl) and Stephanie Meyers (Twilight) out there, but there are also one-book wonders. Sometimes, the sole effort isn’t the author’s fault–smaller, independent publishers are ever-fewer. Unrepresented authors, even those with credits, may be shafted by the “agented material only” becoming popular. Longtime non-fiction, first time fiction authors may have their manuscripts eaten by the slush pile.

Physical Demands
Okay, this one’s on the money. Writing–unless you’re a bungee jumping memoirist or the Crocodile Hunter–is not a physically active pursuit. While I’m a fairly active person, the most physically demanding things I have to do as a writer are pace while I think, make tea or coffee, and balance the laptop. And rock the baby, of course.

Stress
Ah, stress. I knew we’d get to it eventually. There are many stressful jobs out there–fighter pilot, cardio-thoracic surgeon (if you believe Grey’s Anatomy, anyway), police officer, public defender, marine biologist, Dalek hunter. And I know, writing doesn’t compare to any of those. But it’s not as easy-going as your average Dalek hunter likes to think, either. Why? Writing requires guts: guts to spill, that is. Every time a writer–a good writer–puts words on the page, they’re putting themselves out there. Every time a writer sends a manuscript out to an agent, they’re putting themselves out there. Not the public I’m-so-happy-I-eat-springtime-birds-for-breakfast self, but the inner self, the self we are when we’re alone in a dark room, the one with the beliefs and the dreams and the guilt and the fears. That, my friends, is demanding.

And then there’s the rejection letters. So. Many. Rejection. Letters. Some may be personal, some may be forms. But each and every one hurts, and each and every one makes it harder to try again. Lots of people give up–giving up is a heck of a lot easier than getting back on the query horse. So while writers may not have to deal with crazy lungfish and creepy radioactive coral, they don’t have it easy, either.

Writing is hard work. Fortunately, it’s also enjoyable work–many writers, this one included, admit it’s a labor of love. Would I switch jobs? No. I love writing in pretty much any form (well, not the Danielle Steele form, but kindling has to come from somewhere). But I still think 74th out of a list of 200 is misleading, making the work seem easier than it is.

Where would you put writing on the list? Top, bottom, middle? Before or after protestant minister (96th)?

Filed Under: Blog, News, Writing Tagged With: Arts, Author, business, Gossip Girl, Literary agent, Novel, Wall Street Journal, Writer, Writers Resources, writing outlook

Book Covers: The Beginning of the End?

January 7, 2010 By peta 4 Comments

We try not to think of them–even the smallest child has heard that you shouldn’t judge a book by it’s cover. But, as much we may hate to admit it, book covers matter. They tell us genre, content, and reading level, all with just the briefest glance.

At least, they used to. When I was growing up (oh, I feel so old now!), this was the run-down:

Romance – large, bright lettered title, shiny cover, partially nude people, man with Fabio hair.

Science Fiction – shiny cover, space ship, aliens, starscape.

Fantasy – trees, elves or dwarves, mythical animals.

Mystery – black cover, big lettering, blood, sometimes a weapon, sometimes a note.

Chick Lit – white, pastel, or bright cover, and any one of the following – woman in provocative pose, woman in depressed pose, shoes.

Crime – black or dark cover, police paraphernalia such as tape, handcuffs etc.

Thriller – black cover, dripping blood title lettering.

Horror – black cover, blood, spooky title lettering, similar to thriller.

Political – black or dark cover, gold title lettering and any one of the following – flag, pen, paper, glasses, magnifying glass, white house or other political setting.

YA – funky title lettering, teens, school pennants, bicycles.

YA genre – dimmer, safer versions of the above.

Non-fiction – simple lettering, sub-titled, sometimes includes a photograph

As simplistic as this may be, it worked–when you picked up a book, you knew what you were getting. But publishers, unsurprisingly, have cottoned on to the power of the humble book cover. Political non-fiction now borrows Tom Clancy’s coat of dark cover, gold title lettering, and flag while romance masquerades as light fantasy with vampires, elves and dwarves so simplistic they may as well be human. Yesterday, while watching C-SPAN-2’s Washington Journal, I saw an interview with Dr. John Newman a professor of international politics at the University of Maryland, retired army major, and author. In short, Newman is smart. Not S-M-R-T smart, but seriously smart. His book, JFK and Vietnam, was well-reviewed, with Kirkus calling it a “bold and authoritative revisionist analysis,” and “crucial to any reevaluation of JFK as President”. And yet, the cover of JFK and Vietnam looks like this like a political mystery/thriller/early Tom Clancy effort.

Granted, JFK and Vietnam was published in 1993, a post Dirty Dancing era rife with big hair and high-waisted mom jeans. But a little more research (aka Amazon surfing) revealed a smattering of others.

Chick Lit? Stand Up?

Now, I know it’s the words that are important, not the packaging they come in. But the idea that thoughtful political commentary needs to be camouflaged while Going Rogue, Sarah Palin’s memoir, is presented as a serious effort, is discouraging at best.

Perhaps I’m shallow, but I like a strong cover. I’ve even been known to buy a book based solely on an interesting cover (Andreas Eschbach’s The Carpet Makers still grabs me every time I see it on the shelf). For me, a well-done book cover is a piece of art; I even like fantasizing about the cover my work may one day have, even though it’s likely I’ll have very little say in the matter. I’ve also been turned off by covers in all genres–I’m not a fan of the overly cartoony look in the Sisters Grimm books, or the Jasper Fforde Thursday Next book, First Among Sequels. And, since art affects life, I find my choice of book/book cover is often a reflection of my mood–historical mysteries when I feel sick, trashy chick lit when I want to switch off, William Gibson (whatever genre he is) when I want to think, or dream a little.

John Grisham?

Do book covers really matter? Possibly not. In an age of e-readers, covers may soon become a thing of the past. Kindles and Nooks mean we no longer have to be embarrassed by corny Harlequin covers or defend our YA reading efforts. And while I’m all for making politics–and non-fiction in general–more accessible, I can’t help but wonder where the line is. Will Ann Coulter covers come to look more like “The Devil Wears Prada”? Will pundits be forced to pepper their chapters with valley girl vernacular? (If you want to know more about book covers from an industry perspective, check out these posts on agent Kristin Nelson’s blog.)

This whole war thing, like, it hurts my brain. The Republicans–fat old elephants–they’re sooooo panicky, like, all the time. Sure, the President wants to send more troops, and I mean, I’m on board with that. When you think about it, it makes sense – you can’t tame all your flyaways with just one little drop of mousse. You need at least–at least, people–a dollop of the stuff (unless you’re using the wicked expensive department store brands, or those freaky English SAS guys–so hawt!)

What do you think? Is worrying about covers a waste of time? Do you ever impulse buy a book because of it’s cover?

Filed Under: All, Blog, Books, reviews and thoughts Tagged With: Arts, Author, book covers, Books, Carpet Makers, Going Rogue: An American Life, Republican, Romance, Sarah Palin, Science Fiction, Tom Clancy, William Gibson

Getting Authentic with Tim Crouch, part I

November 23, 2009 By peta 5 Comments

Tim Crouch is of middle height, pale, and loud. He looks like the kind of guy you might see at Man Utd. game, or down at the local pub getting laughs for his self-deprecating humor.

Last week, I attended Crouch’s first ever writing workshop, held at the ICA Boston in conjunction with Grub Street. Here’s the blurb from the Grub Street Rag:

FREE PLAYWRITING WORKSHOP: CREATIVE WRITING PERFORMANCE WITH TIM CROUCH

British playwright/performer Tim Crouch will offer a practical introductory workshop on writing for the stage – translating ideas into text and stage action. The workshop will explore the differences between dramatic text and other forms of writing culminating in the creation of short pieces for performance.

For those who haven’t been there before, the ICA can be a bit intimidating – it juts out over the Charles, a melange of glass and beam, its design straddling the line between Boston’s past and Boston’s future. Already nervous–a bit of Googling revealed Crouch to be a theater experimentalist – the ICA nearly put me over the edge. In fact, if it hadn’t been for the driving wind, I may never have made it in the door!

So what was the workshop like?

Truth is, I’m still not sure. I’m still trying to work through the ideas, the things I liked and didn’t like. The most important thing I learned, though, is this – writing is all about just setting out to tell a story. Sounds simple, right? It is. It’s that annoyingly obvious kind of simple, the kind that needs to be pointed out. And point it out Crouch did – 6 times over the course of 2 hours.

What do I mean by setting out to tell a story?

There are two kinds of writers.

1. Planners & plotters.

2. Scribblers.

I’m a scribbler. I skip the planning, and just write what comes until I hit a wall. Then I start to think through what I’ve written so far, trying to see how it works. Plotters & planners sketch out their work until they know all the necessary ins and outs of the story. Either way, you get a story.

But is the story authentic?

Authenticity in stories is a bit of a hot button topic. The word has been bandied around at every writers’ conference, and class I’ve ever attended, and was a favorite of one of my English Lit. professors. I think a better word for “authentic” work, though, is “genuine” or “sincere”. Whenever my Nana meets someone she likes, she says they’re a “genuine” type of person, or “the salt of the earth”. A genuine story would be one that resonates, or feels true to itself, rather than forced, full of issues, themes, and ideas no one is actually interested in reading.

Except…well, aren’t ideas what set our stories apart? In Laurie Halse Anderson‘s Wintergirls, there are very clear body image issues. In Oscar Hijuelos’ Dark Dude, there’s a lot about personal growth. How do these authors imbue their work with ideas that speak to readers but maintain a sincere voice?

Crouch’s take – I just set out to tell a story – says it all.

“No one can teach anyone to write,” he says. “If you try to [impose structure] something else will be communicated on top of the immediate narrative. Pre-rationalization is like a little death. Structure is deadly. It takes away from the act of generation.”

So how did Crouch write his first (very successful) play, “My Arm”, about a man who can’t lower his arm? He describes it as being “sharp and bitter in my mind… all I did was set out to tell a story. I had no idea except to honor that idea. By the second day, I had a concrete idea of how I worked. [When I got to the end], I didn’t think I’d got to the end. I was very surprised.”

And how does authenticity play into that? According to Crouch, writers need to post-rationalize. “Just sit down and write,” he told our 40-some group. “Whatever’s in your life, up top of your mind, will come through. Later, you can go back and figure it out.”

The big take-away? Mess is good. Crouch’s whole point is that mess is, ultimately, good, because it makes our work authentic, genuine. And it doesn’t matter that it’s messy because that’s what the revision process is all about.

Getting Authentic with Tim Crouch, part II – co-authorship.

Getting Authentic with Tim Crouch, part III – writing outside the box.

Getting Authentic with Tim Crouch, part IV – writing inside the box.

How do you write? Have you ever tried post-rationalization?

Filed Under: All, Blog, Writer's Kit, Writing Tagged With: authenticity, Author, tim crouch

Winnie the Pooh and the Seven Stories Hypothesis

November 20, 2009 By peta 4 Comments

This week, Baby and I have been sick again – and Baby had a round of shots on top of it all, so it’s been a difficult few days. As a result, I’ve been letting him listen to his favorite song, the theme from The New Adventures of Winnie the Pooh almost every time he’s upset. He’s loving it. Me, not so much.

Then it occurred to me – Baby responds to this particular song in any format. It doesn’t have to be the original version – I can sing it, and he’s happy. So, after a bit of searching, I tracked down this piano solo:

The piano solo is a much easier format for me. It’s soft and pleasant sounding; I can loop it in the background, and not grind my teeth as it plays and plays and plays. And that started me thinking about the seven stories hypothesis.

The seven stories hypothesis (SSH) is the idea that there are only seven stories in the world. Here’s the basic list:

Man vs. Nature
Man vs Man/Woman
Man vs the Environment
Man vs Technology/Machine
Man vs The Supernatural
Man vs Self
Man vs God/Religion

Some people believe there are only 5 plots (2 & 6, 5 & 7 are grouped together), while others believe there are 20. Others have different names and segments of nature for the plots. These are from Christopher Brooks’ The Seven Basic Plots: Why We Tell Stories (a great read, by the way):

Overcoming the monster
Rags to riches
The quest
Voyage and return
Comedy
Tragedy
Rebirth

Regardless, the idea stands: there are only so many stories to go around. So why do we keep buying books? How do authors keep us hooked?

Treatment.

Arrangement.

A new take on an old idea.

However you slice it, the stories I tell will be different to the stories you tell. Why? Because we’re different people, with different experiences. True, we’re both people. True, we may both have stories that fit into the same basic plot, but the details, and how we handle the situations, will be different. (A great example of this is Cinderella – Cinderella stories, a blend of Woman vs. the Environment and Woman vs. Self, abound in film and literature.)

Does this mean I catalog all my work? No – I don’t need to. I already know where it fits. What I do do is play the SSH game with other books, looking for stories that fit into the same basic plot as mine. This helps me work out the most important parts of the story. Considering these other stories also helps me find my own version – thinking about how I might have handled a certain storyline allows me to tap into my own experience and make my work authentic.

Next time: authenticity and my workshop with playwright Tim Crouch.

Filed Under: All, Blog, Writing Tagged With: Author, Books, fairy tale, Fiction, Plot, Winnie-the-Pooh, Writing

4 Ways to Note Down Story Ideas

November 3, 2009 By peta 4 Comments

Last week, I attended an author talk by Sherman Alexie (more about his talk later in the week). One of his tips (for more author tips, check out this recent post from my friend, Amitha) was to consider the everyday. Look around for ideas, and note everything down. As a short story writer, I love this idea, but I have to admit, Baby curtails my note-taking abilities. Here are four ways I jot down my story ideas.

1. My phone

I have an iPhone (it’s a marvelous way to document Baby’s every day) and use the voice record function every other day. With the addition of a headset–kept in an easy to reach pocket in my purse–the phone becomes a nifty little mp3 recorder. So, while on my walks with Baby, I tuck the phone into a pocket, open voice recorder, and walk with one headphone looped around my ear. Whenever I see something worth noting, I just tap to record.

No headset? No problem. Just speak into the phone as usual. An iPhone isn’t necessary, either–most phones have a voice record function.

2. Index cards

Here’s a tip I picked up from Anne Lamott–slip a couple of index cards in your pocket. They’re small, thin enough to stop you feel bulky (always a good thing), and perfect for jotting down notes. I carry a small pencil (pinched from Ikea) with mine, though anything will do. (In moments of desperation, I’ve been known to grab restaurant matches and strike a couple to make charcoal. Anything for the idea, right?)

3. Email

I live near Harvard, and my husband’s a grad student, so I’m always scooting through the campus. Whenever I’m out on a walk, sans phone and index cards (16 week old Baby = 4 hours sleep a night = a forgetful Peta), I head for the law school commons to shoot myself an email. Most universities have public access computers around, as do local libraries.

4. Talk it out

It’s hard to remember lists, and single facts. It’s easier to remember conversations. So, when I’m out with Baby and have no other way to keep track of an idea, I tell him about it. This verbal brainstorming helps me get a better grasp of the idea–and the more fleshed out it becomes, the easier it is to recall when I get home. It’s also the most successful–ideas I talk out make it into story form much sooner.

One final tip–organize your ideas for later. Try labeling notes by type of story, and/or genre. I use a story-only gmail account for mine–it’s my backup of works in progress, ideas, and contact information. Using gmail’s labels, I can find the notes I made for a short story, or the revision ideas I had for a piece of flash fiction with just one click.

How do you keep track of your story ideas? Do you revisit old ideas?

Filed Under: All, Blog, Writer's Kit Tagged With: Author, flash fiction, ideas, iPhone, list, Sherman Alexie, Short story, tip, Writing

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