Pitches and Perfection

You might have noticed I’ve waxed quiet for the last few months. It’s not that I’m shy or lazy or have lost interest. Rather, I’ve driven myself to distraction as I’ve typed to the end of my novel and prepared to submit it to a New York agent.

Last month was the twentieth ANWA writers conference at the Hilton in in Mesa, Arizona. Time Out for Writers was the best conference yet with a list of incredible authors, editors, and agents who attended. Though I prepared to present a class on Writing a Family History That Reads Like Fiction, my main objective before the big event was to prepare a pitch for Jane Dystel of Dystel & Goderich Literary Management.

Do I dare admit this was my first pitch ever? Several meltdowns and moments of leaning on a few of my colleagues as they led me glassy-eyed to Jane’s table proved the point. One nice young man who had waited with me for his appointment told me to take a deep breath and to just tell her what my book is about. I sucked up courage and plowed through my spiel…continued without breath until I realized Jane had said yes—twice. Wincing, I realized I hadn’t even allowed her to ask a few questions. Nor did I ask how I was to submit my manuscript. I just talked, non-stop.

I knew she saw through the nervous energy of my inexperience. I asked her what she expected from a first time novelist. She smiled and answered, “Of course, it depends on the writing.”

And so I’ve done nothing but write, edit, send it out to readers since our meeting—to make the book as flawless as possible before I send it to New York. I’ve asked myself over and over again, “What if it’s not perfect?”

Something whispers back. “It won’t be. Just give it your best. That’s all anyone can expect. But don’t wait too long, or you’ll miss your opportunity.”

“Yeah, yeah, I tell myself. How long is too long, and how NEAR to perfection should I make it?”

Unfortunately, I don’t know the answer to that.

Whip Those Wimps Into Shape

I’m about to wrap up my latest novel. I was feeling quite pleased about it until I read a chapter about creating potent and memorable characters in the book Thanks, But This Isn’t for Us by Jessica Page Morrell . I had to step back for a moment and analyze what I had already written (yeah, I know, I should finish the book first) to see if I committed some of the deal breakers she mentions in the chapter. What I discovered is I’m a wimp at heart, and I allowed the cowardice in me seep into some of my scenes.

I realized my main character battled in the war of nerves and emoted like those annoying people who can’t hold their emotions in at the office (hmm…sounds familiar). Ugh! My heroine was anything but courageous, and I had to do something about it before I allowed a discerning editor toss my manuscript into the slush.

Here are some of the comparisons Morrell makes between figurehead characters and wimps: 

• Wimps worry, fret, and are indecisive/ heroes tuck a decision under an arm and charge the line
• Wimps moan and tuck tail while blaming their trials on others/heroes swallow mistakes and challenges; they face the consequences, embracing whatever perils life throws at them
• Wimps run from relationships, principals and beliefs/heroes leap into love, cling to conviction, and know who they are and where they want to end up 
• Wimps can’t handle the heat and give up/heroes walk into the inferno, despite the odds of survival

Are you getting the point? By the end of the story, we forget wimps; they fade from our pages like disappearing ink. But heroes levitate like embossed lettering; they make us salivate for more, make us race to the end of the book to discover their fate. Scarlett O’hara, Indiana Jones, and Jack Ryan trigger our emotions. We hate them, flee from danger with them, cry for them because they refuse to swagger to vulnerability. Their reactions are the stuff that makes us sigh relief when they triumph at the end.

Of course, they can show faults or momentary weakness, but by the end of the story your characters better learn how to stand up to mayhem or they’ll lose their lives in the pages of forgettable literature that gathers dust on the discount tables at bookstores.

Whip those wimps into shape, I tell you. That’s what I did with mine.         

A Tortoise Race to the Finish

Over the Labor Day weekend, I got a lot of writing done. It was a bit of heaven, dusting off the corners of my brain, throwing out the cares of my make-a-living job, and putting fingers to the keyboard eight hours a day. I often yearn for large chunks of time to write daily, but, ah, wishing never made it so. My goal is to complete my WIP by next March, yet the fruition of that objective remains a distant flag on the horizon.

What’s a writer to do?

We keep writing, whenever and wherever we can. We prepare our thoughts for the next scene while we’re driving to and from work. We edit while we’re waiting for our son to come out of the doctor’s office. I keep thinking about the story of the tortoise and the hare. All my friends are the rabbits, speeding past me, progressing toward the finish line, though unlike the hare, without criticism and with great success of their own. I, however, take one methodical step after another toward the goal, and the finish line is nowhere in sight. I have to remind myself the tortoise eventually crosses the finish line, even before the hare, though in my case, after my speedy friends publish several of their books. That’s okay. I can look at my progress and say I plodded away at the course every day. I feel confident in the effort I have put forth.

My slow thrust forward frustrates me at times, and I have to imagine myself at the other end of the track, leaning into the ribbon, letting it flow behind me as I finish the race. Frustration never did a writer any good. It places obstacles in the path and blocks focus. Still those feelings are real, and if I can invent ways to stay positive and productive, I increase my ability to succeed. I have to revel in my victories, celebrate the forty pages I wrote over the weekend to lessen the sting of placing dead last.

Maybe some of you are struggling to win the same kind of writing races. I’d like to hear how you put your negative energy to a more constructive use. We know the race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong…but time and chance happen to them all. (Ecclesiates 9:11) And whether time and chance indulge us with favor or not, it’s how and that we finish the race that really matters in the end.

The Ebb and Flow of Sentence Structure

Recently I listened to an excerpt from someone’s novel, and after mulling the piece over in my mind, I finally figured out what disturbed me about it. Her sentences all sounded the same.

The ebb and flow of sentence structure is key to good writing. Like the waves of the sea, using varied sentence lengths provides the current that undulates within a paragraph, moving the reader upward with the flow then ebbing to emphasize and to clarify.

Three basic kinds of sentences exist: simple, compound, and complex. Sentences consist of independent and dependent clauses—sentence fragments that contain subjects and those that do not. It is the creative usage and variety of these clauses that either cause our words to succeed or fail.

Simple sentence structure uses independent clauses that can stand alone as a sentence, such as: The dog chased the cat. Sometimes a short sentence is sufficient. Compound sentences use two or more independent clauses. The dog chased the cat, and the cat ran up a tree. This format extends the flow of our words and provides more interest. Complex sentence structure consists of one or more dependent clauses and at least one independent clause. The dog chased the cat, and though the dog’s snapping jowls ripped one of the feline’s nine lives to shreds, the cat ran up the tree to perch safely on the highest branch. Be careful to punctuate correctly within this format. Break the sentence into smaller segments if you aren’t sure where to place the commas.

English teachers have lectured and pointed their knotty fingers at us when we’ve used dependent clauses by themselves, threatening to mark “sentence fragment” on our papers with their accursed red pens. For the most part I agree with them. Yet isn’t it fun to break the rules? We would do well to understand the difference between dependent clauses and independent clauses. Knowing the rules helps us to produce a product worth reading. But sometimes we can use a wayward sentence or two with purpose. For emphasis. Or special effect. Or in dialogue. It’s the flotsam that puts punch into our writing. Just use them sparingly. And leave them out of formal writing.

I can’t tell you how to write. However, I guarantee if you use a variety of well-crafted sentence lengths, your work will sweep your reader into the stream of your words and surge them forward to a satisfactory ending.

Going for Blood

When I entered college, several of my Sophomore friends counseled me to avoid the English teacher Mrs. Krafchick. Their warnings were often accompanied with the words, “She’s a tough grader.” I took care to request specific classes during registration, especially in English, because I wanted to sidestep an instructor that would make my life miserable.

You guessed it.

When I attended orientation, there on my class schedule, in all capital letters, the name KRAFCHICK jeered up at me. My spirit sagged. I hoped I could switch out of her class before the start of school, though fate would have her own way. I sat low man on the totem pole, one of many in a banner year of incoming freshman, and the school made rearranging classes near impossible. I gulped at the cruel joke destiny had played on me, and prepared to face my fears.

I entered Mrs. Krafchick’s classroom that first time with palms sweating and heart racing. She appeared younger than I had imagined, though her face drew to a pinch and her attitude boomed with authority. And because she had written the classroom textbook, I feared she would hold the book over our heads as a standard—the last word in the realm of the all-knowing lady at the front.

I landed a “D” on my first writing assignment, a hard dose to take, since I was an “A” and “B” student. My second attempt earned little better—a “C-”. Each paper foretold the dismal report card that was sure to arrive in my mailbox by the end of the quarter. On the day I dropped out, half-way through the term, I had worked myself all the way up to a “B+”. I stood outside her classroom, withdrawal notice in hand, waiting to get her signature as soon as the class dismissed. Imagine my astonishment when I heard through the door Mrs. Krafchick say my name and talk about the wonderful paper I had written. I hadn’t expected that. I wanted to get in and get out with my completed signature sheet and retreat to my home to plan my next life adventure.

I remember the disappointment that flicked in Mrs. Krafchick’s eyes when I presented the withdrawal slip and my feeble explanation of why I wanted to give up. She said nothing but handed me my paper with “B+” marked in bold letters at the top of the page. I left with the stigma of that humiliation. It was almost as if she had said, “I don’t understand why you’re leaving. You had such promise.” Her words, though imagined, have stuck with me some thirty plus years later.

I learned more than just how to write from Mrs. Krafchick. She taught me that to write clean copy, free of frilly, garbage can words (her words, not mine) required struggle—editing, shaping, word-upon-line-upon-paragraph warfare. If I wanted to write with clarity, I had to put in the effort, even if the process drew blood.

Had I stayed in that English class, I know I would have won a few more battles with my native language. I’ve had to learn to write by trial and error and rejection over the years, a skirmish I could have cut short with a bit more courage in the war of words. But I am grateful for the tidbits of wisdom I gleaned from her. I’ve filed them away somewhere inside my aging brain. They stand at the ready, popping up from time to time in hand-to-hand combat when I’m tempted to pad my sentences or use words like “utilize”. At times I lose the conflict, but because of my brief training with Mrs. Kraftchick, the fight has made all the difference.