You never know what we'll churn up in cleaning a stall
New England can be a harsh place. Its winter is long, with snow possible October into April or even longer, at least where I live.
You’re never far from earlier generations, either. They’re hardy as stone.
Each month sinks down through centuries.
As do the poems in this almanac.
The new year’s just around the corner. For your own copy, click here.
~*~
You know that reaction after reading a page that leaves you with a sensation of missing something. A treatise about poetry or art or theology, especially?
If you’re like me and largely autodidactic, you no doubt feel yourself an outsider. So I write from the fringe, in more ways than one. Reading some reviews and critiques, I soon wonder: Am I simply inattentive? Clueless? Ignorant? Is it that such subtlety, speaking only to the highly initiated, will never accept my own efforts? Or is it that I prefer what is simple, direct, grounded in experience and place, over what is convoluted and cloaked – even in form? Without falling into cliche or triteness?
Or am I the one, despite myself, who becomes convoluted and cloaked? How do we reach higher, anyway, in this thing called art, while striving to stay true … to whatever?
How does originality run through it all? And life?
By the way, just who are the critics writing for? Even when we ourselves turn critic.
Maybe it was a mistake earlier this year to reopen the draft of my latest novel, which I’d put aside in July 2015 to season. But I did. (And then, once opened, something like this can become impossible to close tight again – at least until it’s done for now, whenever it decides.)
For the most part, I’m very happy with what I found – nothing embarrassed me, and some sections struck me as quite exciting, especially when I kept asking myself, “Who wrote this!”
Still, it’s been a very slow process for what was supposed to be a read-through, mostly for continuity and consistency. Admittedly, it’s a big book – about twice the length of a typical novel, or 35,000 words more than my longest one yet published. The challenge has been in finding the blocks of time to tackle each of the 16 chapters, and moving along while I have all of the characters floating around in my head. (That alone can turn an author into a rather distant person within a household, even in the middle of conversations.)
I’d made one decision to shift as many of the verb tenses as I could to more accurately reflect the way many people speak when relating events, but determining which verb to change and which one to leave alone – even in a single sentence – could be slow hoeing. (Or is that slow rowing? Another detail to check out later. Even slow going? Yipes, it gets endless.) We’ll see how successfully the verb strategy works.
And then there were the additional details to better explain the action. Instead of big cuts, which I’d anticipated as a normal part of the process at this stage, I found a need to say more. In one chapter, I found that adding no more than two pages actually makes the section move along faster and feel shorter. Anyone else have that experience?
On top of that, as I’ve found in previous manuscripts, certain words repeat through the story and no matter how crucial their underlying meaning to the emerging theme, they simply start sounding like sour notes. In this case, independent, business, gather, vague, vision, even fit topped the demand for thesaurus treatment. Each synonym then amplifies the message and infuses a wider understanding. Still, that step’s tedious.
At the moment, I’m lifted by elation and can breathe that big sigh of relief. It’s done, for now. I’ve shipped off copies to my two harshest in-house critics and can return to other projects before those two fire back with their caustic reactions, brilliant suggestions, essential additions, more essential deletions, smarty quips for my free use, or whatever.
And when that input has gone into the manuscript, I can send it off to a round of beta readers. The ones I’m hoping will be kinder.
There’s no denying my elation, even knowing how much remains to be done before going public.
Sometimes a way to make a chapter feel shorter is by making it longer. Yes, when an author senses a section in progress is beginning to drag for the reader, a quick fix to speed up the action may be by interrupting the block and inserting a new detail – perhaps something that anchors the section to an earlier concern or pointing ahead to a new possibility. This can be something as short as a sentence or an aside, a flash of dialogue, or even a long side street that reconnects down the pike.
When I’m drafting and revising, I’m always surprised when this works.
Of course, don’t rule out the more common alternative. Drastic cuts may give you traction and get straight back to the action.
Or sometimes it’s even a combination of both.
It’s a kitchen table, rather than a largely ignored dining room. Or outside, in the rain. Or even a restaurant or diner.
Well, in one of the poems, it’s linen covered beside a black pond. But that’s for a formal occasion.
As for the rest of the series, the pieces reflect home and family and a calling to intimacy. How informal do you want to get? And how do you like your tea?
~*~
For your own copy, click here.
Who will cover them now? All the politicians taking office? All of their dealings with lobbyists and special interests? Who will speak for the public? Or the common good?
I’ve covered some of the work of the daily press in my Newspaper Traditions category, and remind you it’s still a rich resource to visit. It’s a major part of the route that landed me here, after all.
The bigger, scarier perspective is one I take to surreal dimensions in my novel, Hometown News, which also reflects the situation many workers endure in the unchecked spread of multinational conglomerates. Think of Dilbert on steroids. Or the vulnerability of localities in the face of global giants.
The real news continues regardless of the headlines. Take it from me. Or my novel.
~*~
For the novel, click here.
When Bill, fresh out of college, accepts the assignment to yrubBury, he views the daily coded messages as a matter of corporate espionage and competitive edge. Heck, he’s ever so green and naive. What else is a generalist supposed to do in an age of specialists?
The assignment’s an education in itself, a revelation of global tensions and intrigue – and, to his surprise, he’s caught in the crosshairs.
Here he thought he was sidetracked to the boondocks. Instead, it’s ground zero.
Enter Big Inca, from the south.
~*~
For the novel and much more, click here.
Yeah, there were brats. You couldn’t avoid them.
And broken glass. And sirens at midnight.
It’s what we could afford where we were.
Oh, what a neighborhood!
~*~
For your own copy, click here.
How can you not appreciate the way the word flows on the teeth and tongue and along the lips?
Given its name, Oyster River, in the Lenape tongue for the profusion at its mouth in Chesapeake Bay, the word ripples and sings.
Upstream, where I lived, a different name would have been fitting but, I’ll presume, no more beautiful.
~*~
For your own copy, click here.
As I said at the time …
You know, of course, what an absolute delight it is to have all five submissions accepted. I’ve been floating all day.
Thanks.
Jnana's Red Barn 