“Reading and writing, like everything else, improve with practice.” Margaret Atwood

cj Sez: There once was a saying that writers should write what they know. Well, you can put that fairy tale to rest.

   Remember Agatha Christie? English-born Christie was a home-schooled child, studied vocals and piano as a teenager, took up nursing in her early twenties, and published her first murder mystery in 1920. How about J. K. Rowling? Rowling, another English-born author and a single mother on welfare, said she got the idea for her fantasy Harry Potter series while riding on a train. The mothers of both women encouraged them to read and applauded their childhood writing efforts. Christie and Rowling are just two examples of successful authors who wrote what they wanted to read. But both women were avid readers before they were successful writers.

   The best advice a writer/author can get is to read, read, read…

“Read, read, read. Read everything -- trash, classics, good and bad, and see how they do it. Just like a carpenter who works as an apprentice and studies the master. Read! You'll absorb it.”  William Faulkner

   You can start by reading books, magazines, whatever you can find in the genre you’d like to write. Imitate your favorite author at first. When you’re satisfied that you understand the rhythm and pacing of the genre, then you will develop your own writer’s voice and write your own story. 

   Writing what you love to read and writing what you know are not mutually exclusive. It’s the “only” inference of that adage that’s wrong. Writers naturally bring some parts of what they know (about people, places, events) as well as their imaginations to their manuscripts. They bring their writer’s “voices” as well. That’s what makes the story uniquely theirs.

   I think author John Floyd offers great insight into that in his recent SleuthSayers post (http://bit.ly/2g5RnDt). He says his stories are drawn from his life experiences, but he’ll “inject them with steroids” by asking “what if.” 

   “What if” is the question to ask when the action slows down and your character needs to face a new challenge to keep readers turning the page (and John’s short stories do that extremely well).

   I find the following quote thought-provoking and think I want to take up the challenge. How about you?

“If you only read the books that everyone else is reading, you can only think what everyone else is thinking.”  Haruki Murakami

  Okay, if you undertook the NaNoWriMo challenge, I hope you succeeded beyond your expectations. (Congratulations) If you missed by a few words, there’s always next year. You-all guys keep on keeping on, and I’ll try to do the same.

cj

Here’s a freebie for Christmas . . .

Christmas Through a Child's Eyes: True Stories That Capture the Wonder of the Season

Free on Kindle Unlimited.  Cntrl Click on the name above or this URL:   http://amzn.to/2fWVZvk

And I’ll send a free print copy to the first three people who leave me a comment.

The anthology includes one of my childhood memories, called “Dancing with Daddy” and written under my maiden name of Marilyn Olsein.

The joy of Christmas often gets lost in the hustle and bustle of the holiday season. For many people, fond memories of a childhood Christmas can bring back that special feeling. This book collects tales written by adults remembering their favorite Christmases of the past. This heartwarming collection evokes the true spirit of the season—the perfect gift to rekindle the true magic and wonder of the season. 

cjpetterson@gmail.com

https://www.facebook.com/CjPettersonAuthor

Amazon Central Author Page:  http://amzn.to/1NIDKC0

Choosing Carter  -- Kindle  /  Nook  /  Kobo   /  iTunes/iBook

Deadly Star --  Kindle  / Nook  / Kobo

Writers Guild and tightening up my saggy middle

Incognito me drinking water, bottom center.

cj Sez: Authors’ showcase events are notorious for resulting in few book sales for the authors who participate. The big reason I like to attend is to get my name recognition out to local readers. Home for the Holidays, co-hosted by the Mobile Writers Guild and the West Regional Branch of the Mobile Public Library, took place on Nov 22 and attracted a meeting room full of debut and established writers with decorated tables displaying their books for sale. I really did have a good time interacting with other writers and happily sold (surprise) three books: one Choosing Carter, one Deadly Star, and one of the Christmas through a Child’s Eyes anthology.

When I look at what books sold, I realize they are all published by an imprint of F+W Media … in 2015, 2013, and 2008. I’m not sure how that happened. It was certainly not intentional on my part. I didn’t submit to F+W media. Those manuscripts were submitted either to Crimson Romance or to Adams Media. It seems I have a “voice” (i.e., write in a style) that fits their editors’ interests. That, I think, is one of the keys to writing: Finding your voice, your personal style.

My first interest was in screenwriting. In 2001, I flew from Detroit to San Francisco to take a three-day seminar from Robert McKay, who conducted seminars on screenwriting.

The experience was invaluable because I learned to visualize my story and how to write in terms of the characters’ action-dialogue-and scenes that show the story. How characters react and what they don’t say can speak volumes.

I’ve talked with writers who visualize some movie star or other playing a character in their books. Is that something you do?  I can’t do that. I don’t see a specific person, I visualize the whole characterization—I’ll leave it to Stephen Spielberg or Francis Ford Coppola (ha ha) to find the best mega-star for the role.

Most us, and I am very much included in that generalization, have a wonderful idea on a theme. A lot of writers (me included) also know how we want the story to end, so that’s all set. It’s the middle that gets us. It wants to sag. Like an old married couple, sometimes the excitement fades away. Unless we work at it.  

Working at it probably means changing some things around. For me, changes in the middle almost always mean rewriting the first chapter partially or entirely more than a few times.

To help me out in this process, I read the dialogue aloud as I go along. Does it sound natural? Are the sentences too complete and so full of blah-blah information that they slow the pace of the story?  This can happen anywhere, but it very often happens in the middle part of a story when I’m trying to get the word count I want/need. Sometimes, I change a character’s name, a story thread, a sentence structure, or, as was true for Deadly Star, the whole genre (which went from an action/adventure to a romantic suspense). I also might give the protagonist another challenge or two (read that, conflict) in order to bring back/ramp up the thrill.

What do you do to shore up the saggy middle of your story? And if you don’t ever have one, don’t tell me. I’d feel so inept.

Okay, you-all guys keep on keeping on, and I’ll try to do the same.

cj

PS:  Pray for peace; pray that our leaders. 

PPS: I think that picture of me at the library is one of my better shots. %>)

cjpetterson@gmail.com

https://www.facebook.com/CjPettersonAuthor

Choosing Carter  -- Kindle  /  Nook  /  Kobo   /  iTunes/iBook

Deadly Star --  Kindle  / Nook  / Kobo

Part II of "Dancing With Daddy"

cj Sez: Thanks for coming back for the conclusion of my short story, "Dancing With Daddy."


DADDY IMMIGRATED TO THE UNITED STATES from Sweden as a grown man. When I was three, he left Texas, tenant farming, and us to work "Up North." He planned to earn enough money to send for us. First, he worked in the shipyards in Portland, Oregon, then in an auto factory in Detroit. During the four years we were separated, I forgot what he looked like. What turned out to be worse, I forgot what he sounded like.

   When we got off the train in Detroit, Mama hugged and kissed Daddy and then introduced us girls. He didn't need to be reminded of his son's name--his namesake. He spoke to me first, and held out his arms. I started to cry and held tight to Mama's hand.

   My young ears had learned to understand a Texas drawl with a slight Swedish accent--my mother and her family are also Swedish. Daddy's thicker accent had taken on a completely foreign Yankee twang. I didn't understand him. None of us did, except Mama, and his frustration was intense.  For weeks, Mama spoke to him in Swedish and then told us in English what he'd said. It was almost Christmas before I could understand him quickly enough to keep him from yelling for Mama whenever he tried to say anything to me.

   A few days after Thanksgiving, Daddy was included in a layoff. We were eating breakfast, getting ready for school, when Mama sat down next to me--something she'd never done. My heart fell into my stomach, and I couldn't take another bite of cocoa and toast. I had a feeling something awful was coming.

   "There won't be much Christmas this year," she said slowly

   "I'm being good, Mama," Eric said.

   "Yes, you are, but Daddy lost his job for a little while. It's so the auto company won't have to give him holiday pay. They'll hire him back after New Year's, but right now, it'll take all our money to buy groceries, pay the rent, and keep coal in the furnace."

   "That's okay," I said through my tears. "We'll have a big one next year."

   I didn't know it at the time, but back then, Detroit had an old newsboy organization called The Goodfellows. Daddy swallowed his pride and put our names on their "Needy Kids" list.  Goodfellows gave Eric a toy car. Phyllis, Sonja, and I got dolls, each one different. It was the only doll I ever got for Christmas. Because the gift hadn't come from my parents, I almost felt disloyal when I held her in my arms. I still remember her silky, blonde hair and ruffled, blue dress, and how perfect she looked.

   On Christmas morning, I woke to the sound of music I remembered hearing when I was little. Daddy was in the kitchen, listening to a radio station that played Swedish music. I slipped out of bed and peeked around the door. He began to sing in Swedish while he stirred a pot of oatmeal, then he twirled and danced a schottische around the kitchen. I was overflowing with happiness at the familiar sounds and sights. Watching Daddy dancing alone made me giggle out loud.

   "God Jul, litet dotter," he said and swept me up in his thick arms.

   "Merry Christmas, Daddy!" I responded happily.

   I held tight to his neck and laughed while he sang, as we spun around the kitchen floor. I smelled his spicy aftershave and rested my cheek against the coarseness of a beard he could never completely shave off.

   It no longer mattered that the snow wasn't white, that the day was cold and gray, or even that the beautiful doll was a gift from strangers. It was Christmas morning, and I was dancing with the Daddy I remembered.

The End

As my father would have said:  Gott Nytt År till er alla . . .

Happy New Year to you-all guys. I pray that 2015 will bring you health, happiness, and success

cj

 


.

Hope your Christmas was the merriest ever

From My House to Yours . . . I hope your Christmas was Merry and Bright, your stockings filled with wonderful things, and your home warm with love of family and friends.


Hope you've stayed with Lyrical Pens for Mahala's publishing of Tracy's wonderful story. I loved Tracy's writing. She was always able to capture my attention with the wonderful emotion she wrote into her characters.

Now, I've waited just about too long to finish telling you my short story, "Dancing With Daddy," so I'm going to do a re-start. Part I today and Part II on Sunday. The story was published by Adams Media in CHRISTMAS THROUGH A CHILD'S EYES, an anthology of non-fiction stories published in 2008, edited by Helen Szymanski. The story was published under my maiden name: Marilyn Olsein. Here we go . . .

LIVING IN A SMALL TOWN in Texas during World War II was tough, especially at Christmas. My father, disqualified from the Armed Forces because of his age, was working in an auto factory in Michigan, trying to earn more money than farming paid.

   When I remember my childhood, the phrase "dirt poor" comes to mind, but we--Mama, my brother, my two sisters, and me--always managed a wonderful Christmas. Mama's family came to our house for dinner, and Mama made pans of Swedish cardamom rolls, the sweet smell filling the whole house. Grampa would bring in a couple of chickens for Mama to roast and fry, and we'd have cornbread dressing, white and sweet potatoes, corn, and green beans that Gramma had canned. We ate, laughed, sang, and carried on all day and into the night.

   Not long after that hateful war ended, Mama sat us down on the screened porch and told us we'd spend our next Christmas in Michigan. We were moving to Detroit to be with Daddy.

   I was terrified. We all were--even Mama, I think. Detroit was at least a hundred thousand times bigger than Melvin, Texas.

   "Mama, doesn't it snow up there . . . a lot?" Phyllis asked. At twelve, she was the oldest.

   I was born in Texas, and at the age of seven, I could remember seeing snow only once--the Christmas the Army gave all my uncles holiday leave. Uncle Steve, Mama's youngest brother and my favorite, chased me down a slippery road and washed my face with a handful of cold, melting flakes.

   "It's not like snow in Texas," I said. "Detroit snow is black."

   "Don't tell fibs, Marilyn," Mama scolded. "Snow is white, wherever it falls."

   "Maybe it's white when it first comes down in Detroit, but Daddy's letter said coal smoke from the factories makes it black," I insisted. I imagined Detroit as a city without color, all black, gray, and white.

   "You'll find out soon enough," Mama said. "We'll be in Detroit for the first snowfall." She saw my face cloud up. "And crying won't change things."

   I didn't want to spend Christmas in a cold, dirty city with a stranger, for that's what Daddy had become to me.
/ / / /

Please come back for Part II on Sunday . . . I've already scheduled it to run. 

You-all guys keep on keeping on, and I'll try to do the same.

cj

Okay, time for Christmas stuff

cj Sez: Now that I'm fully stuffed with Thanksgiving dinner, it's time to find my Christmas spirit ... not that it's been lost. It's just been in storage. In boxes. In the closets. In the garage. But Saturday, I retrieved the outside lights and hung them up then set the timer for an automatic shut-off six hours after they go on (at dusk). I like to have my outside Christmas lights operating for at least a month if I'm going to go to the up-and-down-the-ladder effort to get them up. Happy to tell you, I couldn't wait until tomorrow to have them come on. Ergo, tonight, my eaves are glittering with color! Yay. Now, I'm in the mood to shop, shop, shop. Scary thought.

Rather than try to create some incentive for all you writers to sit down and write over the holiday season -- especially for those who've just gone through NaNoWriMo (hope you met your goal), I think I'll serialize one of my favorite Christmas short stories. I picked this piece in honor of the memory of my friend, Tracy Hurley, who helped me get the story ready for submission. Thanks, Tracy. I miss you.

"Dancing with Daddy" was published by Adams Media in 2008 in their anthology CHRISTMAS THROUGH A CHILD'S EYES, edited by Helen Szymanski. I wrote this memory under my maiden name, Marilyn Olsein. Here is this week's excerpt of "Dancing with Daddy":


    Living in a small town in Texas during World War II was tough, especially at Christmas. My father, disqualified from the Armed Forces because of his age, was working in an auto factory in Michigan, trying to earn more money than farming paid.
     When I remember my childhood, the phrase "dirt poor" comes to mind, but we--Mama, my brother, my two sisters, and me--always managed a wonderful Christmas. Mama's family came to our house for dinner, and Mama made pans of Swedish cardamom rolls, the sweet smell filling the whole house. Grampa would bring in a couple of chickens for Mama to roast and fry, and we'd have cornbread dressing, white and sweet potatoes, corn, and green beans that Gramma had canned. We ate, laughed, sang, and carried on all day and into the night.
     Not long after that hateful war ended, Mama sat us down on the screened porch and told us we'd spend our next Christmas in Michigan. We were moving to Detroit to be with Daddy.
     I was terrified. We all were--even Mama, I think. Detroit was at least a hundred thousand times bigger than Melvin, Texas.
     "Mama, doesn't it snow up there . . . a lot?" Phyllis asked. At twelve, she was the oldest.
     I was born in Texas, and at the age of seven, I could remember seeing snow only once--the Christmas the Army gave all my uncles holiday leave. Uncle Steve, Mama's youngest brother and my favorite, chased me down a slippery road and washed my face with a handful of cold, melting flakes.
     "It's not like snow in Texas," I said. "Detroit snow is black."
     "Don't tell fibs, Marilyn," Mama scolded. "Snow is white wherever it falls."
     "Maybe it's white when it first comes down in Detroit, but Daddy's letter said coal smoke from the factories makes it black," I insisted. I imagined Detroit as a city without color, all black, gray, and white.
     "You'll find out soon enough," Mama said. "We'll be in Detroit for the first snowfall." She saw my face cloud up. "And crying won't change things."
     I didn't want to spend Christmas in a cold, dirty city with a stranger, for that's what Daddy had become to me.


I think the idea for the anthology was a wonderful one and a lot of older writers responded with their favorite, and wonderfully written, childhood memories. I do believe, however, it'd also be a marvelous exercise for young writers whose memories haven't been clouded by the years between then and now. Do you have a young writer in your family? Bet you'd be surprised at what their favorite memory is.

That's all for this post. I'll finish the story next time. You-all guys keep on keeping on, and I'll try to do the same.

cj

PS: The 'toon is from Facebook.