Category: Writing life (page 1 of 9)

The Look of Love

Just what is the look of love? Artists have tried for centuries to capture it in oils. Poets write verses to it and writers of romance cover pages and pages with words to describe that special quality of expression.

Sara Teasdale wrote: Strephon kissed me in the Spring, /Robin in the fall, /But Colin only looked at me/And never kissed at all.  Sterphon’s kiss was lost in jest,/Robin’s lost in play,/But the kiss in Colin’s eyes/Haunts me night and day.

“. . . take down this book/And slowly read, and dream of the soft look/Your eyes had once. . .” W.B. Yeats

The look of love is that glow in the eye, the softness of the mouth, the unmasked face. It is the longing to gaze endlessly at the beloved. There is a tenderness that moves me to tears — usually.

Last week, at the mall, I saw that look, but this time it made me smile. On a bench sat a very large dude. He looked like a pro football player, maybe a linebacker. In his big hands he cradled a tiny, little baby.  He raised her up so they were nose to nose and the look on his face was pure love. My heart melted, but I had to smile at the incongruous picture they made.

Years from now, when his teenaged daughter is driving him nuts, I hope he remembers that moment.

I hope we all remember such moments when stress, fear, worry, deadlines, and endless demands overwhelm us.

Love is stronger than hate. 

Joy and Thanksgiving

Canadian Thanksgiving occurs this weekend.  It is one of my favourite holidays, celebrating harvest and the abundance of the land. During our stretch of sunshine at the end of September I got into Thanksgiving mode a little early.  

We picked pumpkins, 

                                                              harvested apples,

 

and gathered seed for next year’s flowers.

.  

 

  

                                    We were dazzled by dahlias and 

enchanted with a late blooming rose.

 

My world teemed with abundance.  My soul stretched and soared in gratitude.

Then, to top it all off, we attended a stage production of “Glorious” by Peter Quilter.  This is the story of Florence Foster Jenkins, the world’s worst opera singer.

And she was a terrible singer.  She tackled the most demanding coloratura repertoire and murdered it in spectacular fashion.  I couldn’t stop laughing.  Apparently her real life audience laughed too, but they loved her and she was invited to sing at Carnegie Hall in New York City.  Why?

I believe it was because of her exuberant joy.  She loved music, loved singing.  It brought her unparalleled  happiness and she wanted to share that happiness with the world.  I think she felt the same way on stage as I feel when I gloat over the harvest from my garden.  We are uplifted, exultant and full of joy.

At this time of thanksgiving, I wish all my readers overwhelming joy, the kind that cannot be contained in a safe, conventional life.  I wish you the exuberance of my dahlias and the bursting enthusiasm of Florence Foster Jenkins.

Happy Thanksgiving!

I

Kneading the Generations

I made scones for lunch the other day. I did it the old-fashioned way with a sifter, a pastry cutter and my hands. No machines.  Don’t get me wrong. I love my bread maker, but I miss the experience of working the dough. There is something eminently satisfying about kneading bread. I love how the dough changes from sticky and formless into a smooth, round ball as I work it.  I love the gentle movement of pressing the heel of my palm into the dough, flipping and turning it.  I like the way this timeless activity connects me to my foremothers.  Generations of women have performed this same task, turning flour, fat and yeast into tasty food for a family.

This photo of my grandmother, at an advanced age, baking bread at the kitchen table evokes feelings of warmth, and family, and connection. You can’t see it in the photo, but all around her, her daughters and granddaughters are preparing Christmas dinner. It’s one of my favourite memories.

In my wip, the heroine has devoted herself to making a home for her sister. She succeeds, but her success is hollow when she realizes that she had provided shelter, but not “home.” I think I’ll have her make bread.  The kneading will connect her to the place.  The smell of fresh bread will put heart in her hearth.

Any other fans of kneading out there?

Life and Roses

This week my blog takes a break from writing mode to real-life mode.  It’s my annual brag-fest. 

The fall fair in my region was held over the Labour Day weekend.  I entered a number of roses and I won a lot of ribbons, including a couple of “best in show.” 

Of course, I only enter the exhibit.  The roses grow and flower and fill the air with sweet scent just because they are roses.  How often we humans try to take credit for something the Creator has done. Still, I get a big kick out of being part of the fair — and the ribbons are nice too.

 

 

If you’d like check in on me wearing my writer’s hat this week, go to  the North of the Border — a segment on the Get Lost in a Story blog, where I am the guest of Jacqui Nelson.  You’ll find lots of information on some of my favourite spots in Canada and one of my favourite Canadian authors.  You can also enter a draw to win a book. The post goes up on Thursday, Sept. 6,

What Socrates Knew

For some bizarre reason I decided to use the end of summer to brush up on my philosophy reading. Don’t ask why!  I haven’t wanted to work outside because the temperature has been uncomfortably high.  Then we had smoke filled skies for a week—forest fires burning out of control in other parts of the province but a weather system that sent the smoke our way and kept it low to the ground.  In this atmosphere I picked up The Consequences of Ideas, Understanding concepts that shaped our world, by R.C. Sproul. The book had been on my TBR list for a while. I guess I thought some difficult reading would prove an antidote to bad air.

I vaguely remember the Locke-Descarte theory from philosophy 101, a required course for general arts students in my university days, but Sproul goes back centuries before those two great thinkers. In the 5th and 6th Centuries B.C., Pythagoras, the mathematician,  Heraclitus, Parmenides, Zeno of Elea, Anaxagoras, were all creating systems of thought to explain reality, the universe, cosmos, man’s purpose, and God, among other concepts.

I didn’t recognize most of these names, but it was interesting to read of ideas we now take for granted, universe, for example, before they were universally accepted. That, of course is the point of the whole book—to show how one idea, or philosophy, leads to another and how each is built on the ideas of those who came before.

By the time I reached the chapter on Socrates, I felt I was coming into familiar territory. We’ve all heard of the Socratic method of teaching.  However, before I could read about good old Socrates, the author introduced me to Gorgias, a radical skeptic.  If you thought skepticism was a modern concept, remember that Gorgias was born 500 years before Christ.  Gorgias declared that there is no truth. He practiced rhetoric, the art of persuasion in public discourse.  Rhetoric was not to proclaim truth, but to use persuasion to achieve practical ends, regardless of truth.  To some degree, he could be seen as the forerunner to advertising.

Enter Socrates. He abhorred Gorgias theory. Truth could not, should not, would not be denied. The death of truth, said Socrates, would mean the death of virtue, and the death of virtue would spell the death of civilization. Without truth and virtue the only possible outcome is barbarianism.

Aha! This is why I took up a philosophy book decades after it was required reading.

Truth.

We cannot live in a civil society, with all its benefits, if we do not acknowledge truth. As writers, I believe, we must speak truth.  Even if we write fiction, we must acknowledge the underlying truths of the world we build.  In my fiction, the laws of gravity exist, time exists, history exists, two plus two equals four.  For writers of fantasy, those things may be different, but once the fantasy world is set, it too operates by its truth.

Some fiction writers like to joke that they tell lies for a living, but a falsehood is not the same as fiction. When we write creatively, the reader knows the story is an invention. She has agreed to suspend disbelief for the duration of the narrative. There is no attempt to hoodwink the reader into believing what she reads is factual.

A falsehood on the other hand, is a deliberate attempt to mislead, to convince the audience that something that is not true, is true.

For the skeptics and cynics among us, Gorgias may be hailed as a hero. For me, I’ll stick with Socrates.  We dare not deny truth.

 

“Stuff Happens”

Kathleen McCleary at the Writer Unboxed blog posted last week about an American survey that shows the books we read as children remain the best loved books of most adult readers.

I can understand that. In my post on The Book that Matters most, I noted that the people in my book club referenced books of their youth as being the most influential stories they had read. Granted, my book club is a small sample, but it reflects the much larger sample cited in Ms McCleary’s post.

McCleary believes the reason we love our childhood books is because “stuff happens.” Compare Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland with Waiting for Godot, and the thesis becomes clear. Alice encounters all kinds of “stuff happening,” as she journeys through the rabbit hole.  Nothing happens at the bus stop while Didi and Gogo wait for Godot to show up.  I remember the first time I saw the play. I was outraged that I’d sat through it all listening to these characters speculate on the state of the absent Godot and a few other non-sequiturs and then have them amble off-stage.  The play was over and nothing happened! Academe considers Waiting for Godot one of the most significant English language plays of the twentieth century, but it doesn’t show up on many “I loved this story” lists.

I like “stuff happens” as a plotting device. An author can outline her story as the inciting incident and then this happens and then this and then this and then this . . . until “they all lived happily every after.”  It not nearly so elegant a device as Deb Dixon’s Goal, Motivation, Conflict, or Campbell’s The Hero’s Journey but it keeps the importance of action in the forefront of the writer’s mind.

We don’t all write adventure stories or grand operas, but action is important in any good story. Even books which focus on character development and a journey of self-discovery need action to hold the reader’s attention and give the character a framework to make that journey.

I’ve never used the “and then. . .” method as a writing aid, but whenever I’m stuck, I ask myself, “What will make the reader turn the page?” The answer to that question is usually, “something happens.”  And then, something else happens.

What about you, dear reader? How important is “stuff happens” in your reading choices?  Can you wait for Godot and engage in philosophical discussion or would your rather encounter a March hare? Do books you read when young still resonate?

Secondary Characters

Could Mrs. Ralston look like this?

“Mrs. Royston, Emma’s busybody `heart of gold’ landlady, snobbish Mrs. Allen, and Grey’s very surprising mother Lady North are only a few of the plethora of engaging secondary characters that were sprinkled throughout as well as noteworthy in adding a great deal of substance to this very entertaining story.” – Marilyn Rondeau, review of Her One and Only, the second of the Prospect Series.

 

I’m glad Ms Rondeau enjoyed the secondary characters in my book. I’ve always enjoyed writing them and find it easy to create these “colourful” personalities.  In fact, I don’t really create them.  They just come on the scene complete in themselves.  I wish I understood the alchemy that produces them.  I wish my main characters would appear as effortlessly! 

The town of Prospect is peopled with all kinds, from oddballs to pillars of the community , but I’ve developed only a few of them.  Just as too many cooks spoil the broth, I believe too many characters spoil the story. My current reading includes such a huge cast their introduction takes up the first sixty pages of the book—yet nothing about the plot is to be found in those pages. I’m confused as to who is who and why I should care.  The book is part of a long series, so I suppose the author thinks she needs to bring new readers up to speed on everyone from the previous books, but it gets tedious. In my case, I’ve used four or five characters to provide a flavour of the time and place and not burdened the reader with a long list of who’s who.

Secondary characters have a specific role in the story, like mentor, busybody, joker, side-kick, but they should never be caricatures. My Mrs. Barclay, for example, is a “butinsky”, but she is also kind. She manages her husband but is quick to obey when he puts his foot down. I use her voluble nature to deliver necessary information to the reader, but in an entertaining way.  Mrs. Barclay is never one to sermonize. She has a stern sense of what is right, yet compassion may overcome her principles. Altogether she is a complex and memorable character – and she grew organically as the stories of Prospect unfolded.

When it comes to my main characters, the process is not so easy. I create character charts, do character interviews, work up a goal-motivation-conflict graph, poke away in their backstory, search for their dreams and fears. and secrets.  The process is hard work and I’m never as satisfied with the final version as I am with the secondary character who just walks on-stage.  Why?  If Mrs. Barclay can come rollicking into the story and make us laugh, why does Emma take so much careful planning?

I think the answer lies in that last sentence. By the time Mrs. Barclay—or any other secondary character—shows up, the story is already unfolding.  These bit roles flesh out the time and place, amplify the main characters and maybe provide a bit of comic relief from the intense emotions of the love story. The hero/heroine have to start the story, have to overcome inertia to get the wheels rolling.  Their goals are what propels the plot.  Their dreams are what makes the reader care. Their conflict, internal and external, details the theme of the book.  If I want to make the reader agree that ‘love conquers all’ I show that through the h/h.  They are the driving force.  The secondary characters are just along for the ride.

That said, I love my bit players. I can let them be outrageous and not worry if the reader will dislike them. I can make them timid without worrying that timidity is not an heroic characteristic. I can make them truly annoying and be happy if the reader dislikes them.  I think I like my secondary characters because they let me play.  H/h, whatever their personalities, require that the author obey the expectations of the genre.

Look for more of Mrs. Barclay in the upcoming novella, A Chance for Love. Oh yes, there’s a new character in Prospect, a mule named Bartholemew.

Over to you.  What are your thoughts on secondary characters?

Ripping Back

It’s summer time and the weather is hot and dry. I decided I wanted a new dress.  I found a cool fabric and a pattern.  Took extra care to fit the paper pattern, cut out the dress and sewed it up.  All was well.  I’d have a new dress for Sunday.  Except, the neck facing didn’t sit down properly.  I unpicked the seam, worked the curve again, pinned it, re-stitched – same problem.  Repeated this process several times with the same, unsatisfactory results. ( I know.  Repeating the same actions over and over and expecting a different outcome is a sign of madness.)  Before I ended up putting a hole in the fabric I put the whole thing away and cleaned my closet instead.

Eventually, I looked at the problem again and realized my error occurred several steps before the facing. No matter how much I tweaked that final seam, it wouldn’t come right until I ripped back to the source of the mistake.  Ugh!  I hate ripping out, but I want this new dress and I want it to look good, so rip I did.

The whole process is a bit like editing. I had gotten stuck in my wip – maybe that’s why I decided to sew instead. When I couldn’t avoid the keyboard any longer, I cogitated on the source of my problem and realized I needed to go back.  Tweaking the last sentence, playing with the last paragraph, substituting words and synonyms was not going to get me unstuck. The error was structural.  I needed to shore up the foundations of the story.  My “cute” idea was not enough to carry a whole book.  Fortunately, re-writes on a computer aren’t as arduous as ripping out a seam.  I can fill in the blanks, add pages of new conflict and flesh out my character motivations without hours of labourious unpicking.

So, there I am, on track with the dress and the story. It’s a good week.

Writers Extraordinaire

Thanks to Marion Ann for the photo

Summer time and these writers are taking it easy.  This is my local authors group, VIRA.  On a hot, sunny Saturday we retired to the front porch to enjoy a picnic pot luck and talk writing.  The food was delicious.  The company was entertaining and the writing was downright terrific.  Part of the day included an anonymous reading for one or two pages of a member’s wip.  The pages were all dropped in a basket. Volunteers selected one submission and read it out to the group.  We then did a little kindly critiquing.  And we weren’t being kind just because we’re nice people.  We were kind because the writing was excellent.  We had to really nit-pick to find something that could be improved.

I’ve always enjoyed and admired the women in my group, but this week I really applaud them for their creative talents, their command of language, and their ability to spin a tale.

I recommend you check them out here.  There’s a new release page on the website.  I’d encourage you to look at both the romance releases and the non-romance.  These writers are funny, clever and daring.  Read one of their books.  You’ll be glad you did.

A Painful Lesson

This week I’ve been given the opportunity to experience what it is like to count the minutes until your next dose of pain medication. Complications from a dental procedure left me with a swollen face and an aching jaw that sent me to emergency over the weekend.  For two days I literally counted the minutes, day and night, until my next set of pills.  Of course, my pain was no where near that experienced by cancer patients or trauma patients, but I now know a little of how it feels when pain rules every moment of your day. Perhaps I can use that in a story some time.

Some writers will tell you that they use writing to get through the bad times. Not me.  I couldn’t put myself into an imaginary world when the real one demanded so much attention.  However, I could read.  I’m so grateful to authors who tell stories that, even for a little while, distracted me from my aching jaw.

And on that note, here’s a link that may interest you.

Older posts

© 2018 Alice Valdal

Theme by Anders NorenUp ↑