It's all about the drama

cj Sez:  Having worked as a journalist for a few years, I tend to write sparsely, more often than not, too sparsely, and I catch myself revealing things way too early. To justify my methodology, I usually point to Kurt Vonnegut’s eight rules.

Vonnegut's rule No. 4 says: “Every sentence must do one of two things—reveal character or advance the action.” I know what you’re thinking, and you’re right, rules are made to be broken, or there are no rules. However, some rules are best kept for a while, especially by yet-to-be-bestselling authors like me.

I pretty much write like a screenwriter. I visualize the scene and write to that. There’s no room for narrative in movies; it is all action. By necessity, writers of TV series think in terms of every scene and every line, because for each hour-long show, they have about forty-five minutes to tell the story, beginning to end.

I wrote about producer David Memet’s memo to his writers a couple of years ago, but now that I’m in the midst of starting a mystery series, I revisited the piece to help keep me on track.

David Mamet, executive producer of the TV series, “The Unit,” had some serious instructions for the show’s writers. He was so serious that his memo virtually shouted. (He wrote it in all capital letters, and he had an "inviolable rule.") He directed his writers to concentrate on writing drama if they expected to keep their audience entertained. Because if they lost their audience, they’d be out of work. Following are excerpts of that memorable memo:  

QUESTION: WHAT IS DRAMA? DRAMA, AGAIN, IS THE QUEST OF THE HERO TO OVERCOME THOSE THINGS WHICH PREVENT HIM FROM ACHIEVING A SPECIFIC, ACUTE GOAL.

SO: WE, THE WRITERS, MUST ASK OURSELVES OF EVERY SCENE THESE THREE QUESTIONS.

1) WHO WANTS WHAT?
2) WHAT HAPPENS IF HER (sic) DON’T GET IT?
3) WHY NOW?

THE ANSWERS TO THESE QUESTIONS ARE LITMUS PAPER. APPLY THEM, AND THEIR ANSWER WILL TELL YOU IF THE SCENE IS DRAMATIC OR NOT.

(cj: Unless you’re writing a memoir, and perhaps even then, those three questions are pertinent.)

/ / / 

START, EVERY TIME, WITH THIS INVIOLABLE RULE: THE SCENE MUST BE DRAMATIC. IT MUST START BECAUSE THE HERO HAS A PROBLEM, AND IT MUST CULMINATE WITH THE HERO FINDING HIM OR HERSELF EITHER THWARTED OR EDUCATED THAT ANOTHER WAY EXISTS.

LOOK AT YOUR LOG LINES. ANY LOGLINE READING “BOB AND SUE DISCUSS…” IS NOT DESCRIBING A DRAMATIC SCENE.  (cj: They write loglines for every scene.)

cj’s Little Note:

A logline is a 25-word synopsis of your book.

A tagline is a catchy “movie poster” phrase.

Examples for Jaws –

Logline – After a series of grisly shark attacks, a sheriff struggles to protect his small beach community against the bloodthirsty monster, in spite of the greedy chamber of commerce. (from J. Gideon Sarentinos  http://bit.ly/1D90FmH

Tagline – Don’t go in the water.  

Check out David Mamet’s whole memo at: 

http://movieline.com/2010/03/23/david-mamets-memo-to-the-writers-of-the-unit/

Okay, let me know if what you think. Agree?  Disagree? Helpful? 

Be sure to stop back by on Wednesday, Jan. 25, when the guest is fellow Mystery Thriller Week author Morgan Talbot who writes cozy mysteries.

Thanks for visiting Lyrical Pens. You-all guys keep on keeping on, and I’ll try to do the same.

cj

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

blog at: www.lyricalpens.com

PS:  My short story "Bad Day at Round Rock" is one of six in the Western anthology THE POSSE slated to launch in February. Tales of action, romance, myth, and truth. Watch for it. 

Flag Day and regional writers

cj sez: Today is Flag Day . . . SA – LUTE ! Remember to thank a veteran ... you know, those people who bravely defend this flag and the freedoms it stands for.

The first weekend in June, I joined three Mobile, AL, writers and about 200 others from various parts of the South attending the Southern Christian Writers Conference. The (very) reasonably priced conference was a two-day event packed to the gills with workshops, prolifically published authors, editors, publishers, and great information. The attendees were people who write in almost every genre with an emphasis on Christian principals. I gathered in tidbits from Karen Moore of Hallmark Cards and during another workshop, learned that writing for trade magazines requires familiarity with the upside-down pyramid of AP style (which I know from my journalism years). I thoroughly enjoyed myself. The more I learn about the different aspects of the writing world, the better I am able to portray my characters.

However, I will never be a “regional writer.” Not by choice, but by happenstance. Born in Texas, raised in Michigan, and now living on Alabama’s Gulf Coast, I don’t have the years of experience in any particular region to claim the title of regional writer.

The following excerpt is from regional writer Judy Alter who specializes in her familiarity with Texas.

. . . “setting a book in a particular region (doesn’t) make a writer regional. It’s essential that the author absorb the setting so that rather than obviously telling, such things as geography, culture, food, and manners flow naturally. Otherwise, the background looks like those fake sets in so many grade B westerns.” 

From my Facebook

Now that I live in Mobile, I know a slew of proud-to-be-Old-South-regional writers. I’ll never be that good. Writing things Southern is its own genre. There’s a humor and a dialogue cadence that is peculiar (and I mean that in the nicest way) to the South, just as there is to Texas and Texans. While I can't be called "regional," I am a native Texan and almost every story I've written has included a character from Texas.

I think it's easier to write the truth when we write the characters and places we know best. In my latest and soon-to-be-released romantic suspense, the setting is Dinosaur National Monument and the Yampa River that runs through it. The protagonist is from Texas, and yes, I once did a five-day, Outward Bound, white-water rafting trip on the Yampa. (What was I thinking?)

Okay, that’s it for today. You-all guys keep on keeping on, and I’ll try to do the same.

cj

https://www.facebook.com/CjPettersonAuthor
DEADLY STAR (Publisher: Crimson Romance)  
    http://bit.ly/19QDQq3   (B&N.com)
    http://amzn.to/1LRRwC9  (Amazon.com)

 

TODAY'S NOTES:  The SCWC happens every year in June . . . watch for it at www.scwconference.com

Judy Alter’s “Deception in Strange Places” can be found on Amazon at http://amzn.to/1C6sPf6

PAY IT FORWARD

cj Sez:  

Today (May 15) is Global Awareness Day for Tuberous Sclerosis. In connection with the event, author (and friend) Jennifer Lawler is doing a fundraiser for the Tuberous Sclerosis in honor of her beautiful daughter, Jessica, who suffers from the disease.

The TS Alliance does terrific work in supporting research into this disease and in supporting families of people with it.

Today only, one of Jennifer's publishers (Crimson Romance) has lowered the price of all her romances to just 99 cents for the Kindle edition. This is a steal of a price, plus all royalties earned today will go to the TSA.

If you've never read any of her romances, now's the time to pick one and give it a try. If you're already a fan, now's the time to stock up on the ones you haven't read yet!

Clicking on any of Jennifer's Crimson Romance covers on this page [http://jenniferlawler.com/books/] will bring you right to the Amazon link where you can purchase the book.

And thank you.

cj

PS:  For more information on the evil effects of Tuberous Sclerosis, check out the Alliance website at http://bit.ly/1Pbi8Q1

PPS:  Today is the last day to enter the Summer of Love Book Giveaway. For a chance to win 16 romance novels (including my DEADLY STAR), enter at www.summeroflovebooks.com  Good Luck!

News and congratulations

cj Sez:  News > Mahala is down with a bug and couldn’t post the final installment of Tracy’s story last Friday. She tells me that she hopes to be up and at ‘em by next Friday. Maybe you could put in a good word when you're saying your prayers tonight.

I plan to post the end of my short Christmas story following the conclusion of Tracy’s. In the meantime . . .

Congratulations! > Dr. R. B. O’Gorman’s medical thriller FATAL RHYTHM has made The List!  Dr. O’s debut novel is in Suspense Magazine's “Best of 2014” issue this month

Suspense Magazine says: 

“The authors have been notified about making our Best of 2014 List. We have told them they can announce it.

If you want the issue for free, just email editor@suspensemagazine.com We will also post all the winners on the blog site."

The magazine also said they will announce "who will get the “Crimson Scribe Award” for best book of 2014. That and James Lee Burke, Peter James, Stuart Neville and Preston & Child, all with exclusive interviews in the magazine. Holy Cow did we pack this one full!!”

cj Sez: Check out the good news at . . .

http://www.suspensemagazine.com/blog2/

Twitter:  https://twitter.com/suspensemag   

Facebook: www.facebook.com/pages/Suspense-Magazine

 

Okay folks, that’s all for today.  You-all guys keep on keeping on and I’ll try to do the same.

 

cj

 

Remembering Tracy: What You Need the Most

Taking a note from cj, my thoughts turn to Christmas. Since our fellow blogger, Tracy Hurley, moved to Heaven on December 1, 2010, memories of her abound this time of year. The consummate editor who taught many writers how to look deep inside their work and bring forth the kernels of emotion and truth, Tracy never used harsh words to critique our work. She guided and taught us how to be more articulate writers, producing stronger scenes and characters. It amazes me how often her name crosses my lips four years later as I teach and talk at workshops. It amazes me how often I hear her name cross other writers' lips as they talk about critiquing and revising their work to meet Tracy's standards. It amazes me the huge number of people she touched with her humor and kindness. Tracy, you are very much alive in our hearts and memories!

Following in cj's footsteps, I decided to share a Christmas short story that Tracy wrote and had published in Christmas Is a Season! 2009.  I open with her comments about why she wrote the story, because it tells so much about who our friend was.

"Every day for two weeks this past April, I sat in a lawn chair in the backyard with our dog, Riley. [ he was a very rambunctious boxer.] He'd been diagnosed with inoperable cancer and wanted to spend his last good days lying under his favorite tree. I spent many bittersweet hours enjoying his company and journaling while he watched the squirrels., listened to the mocking birds, and snuffled the various scents wafting on the spring breezes. The seed of "What You Need Most" was planted then as I contemplated facing the coming seasons and holidays without him."

What You Need Most

Tracy Hurley

For Riley

Marshall lowered himself onto the lawn chair, gripping the aluminum arms until he was sure the frayed seat would hold. Replacing the worn webbing had been on his Honey-Do list for months. He'd intended to get it done over the winter, but, as with everything else, he thought he'd have more time.

The chair settled into place, stable for now. Buster, who'd been fervently sniffing underneath the barbeque grill limped over to Marshall and lay down across his feet. He dropped his red rubber ball  between his front paws and panted contentedly.

When buster looked up at him, his caramel-colored eyes dulled by a milky sheen, Marshall rubbed his head. "When did we get so old, eh, buddy?"

A squirrel dashed past them and skittered up the trunk of the old sugar maple by the tool shed. Buster woofed once, but didn't stir. Last year he would have scampered gleefully after the trespasser, who now teetered on a low branch, chattering at them.

While Marshall wasn't paying attention, the buds on the maple tree had burst into leaf clusters. He remembered he'd had to wipe off a thick, yellow coat of pollen from the small cedar patio table before setting down his glass of Sprite. Spring had snuck up on him. The paper white crocuses in Elaine's flowerbed had come and gone, the bright yellow daffodils too. Already the heads of the late-blooming tulips drooped, red petals littering the flower bed. He'd planted the bulbs last fall while Elaine was getting treatments, savoring the look of surprise that would cross her face when her favorite flowers emerged. He sighed. He was old enough to know that things rarely turned out the way you expected them to.

The old chair lurched sideways. Marshall grabbed the arms and planted his feet, ready to abandon ship if the last of the webbing gave way. But the chair only listed to the left, sinking into the rain-softened sod he'd laid when he wasn't at the hospital. Buster picked up his ball and cocked his head at Marshall, now with a little surge of energy, ready to play.

"Sorry, buddy. False alarm." Marshall bent and scratched buster's back, and his stubbed tail wagged furiously.

Buster's tail would have been a menace had the breeder not docked it before Elaine picked him from a litter of seven puppies. Elaine had refused to clip his ears, thought, saying it was cruel. Besides, she'd told him the long floppy lobes were more expressive. Marshall hadn't cared either way. Twelve years later, he couldn't imagine Buster any other way. Elaine had dubbed him Otto's Maximilian of Ulrich on the AKC forms, but after Marshall kept referring to him as Buster, as in "Stop chewing my shoes, buster," or "listen, buster, if you pee on my pant leg one more time...," the name stuck.

A soft breeze scented by cut grass, loamy earth, and sweet lilacs ruffled Marshall's thinning hair. A leaf blower droned in the distance. He should lime the grass, clean the rain utters, sharpen the lawnmower blades. Instead, he pulled a crumpled piece of paper from the pocket of his flannel shirt and unfolded it. As long as items remained unchecked on Elaine's last Honey-Do list, Marshall could pretend he still had time to take her on a cruise to Alaska, remodel the attic bedroom into a craft room, or go dancing at that fancy hotel at the beach. The should-dos were easy to ignore; it was the should-have-dones that kept him awake at night.

"Come on, Buster." He pushed himself out of the chair. "We shouldn't keep Shannon waiting."

To be continued on Friday, December 5, 2014   Mahala

Glorious English

cj Sez: A friend sent me this quote from a fellow blogger, Sol Sanders: "Perhaps the glory of the English language is that it is so expressive. Its remarkable heterogeneous origins have given it an almost limitless vocabulary. And American English, particularly, has used that tool with an enormous flexibility to make it the international means of communication. One is able with a minimum of linguistic dexterity to capture every meaning, or almost every nuance."

Mr. Sanders's comments were part of an introduction to his essay on what today's journalism and media do with and to the English language. The gist of his blog is that they overcomplicate their sentences with words that muddy their meanings . . . i.e., changing nouns into verbs and, perhaps, calling a shovel a "hand-held, earth-moving tool." My take on this is that media types and journalists employ this old trick of confusing the issue to try to persuade readers to their (the writer/editor's) point of view.

I'll admit to a few personal dislikes. One is the word "impactful:" a noun turned into a verb turned into an adjective by adding ful on the end. What the Sam Hill does that mean?

The truth is, English is a living language. It's constantly evolving as we create new words with new meanings to compliment new technology. The caveat is that the generations cease to understand each other at an almost exponential pace. Many times I need an interpreter to understand "teen talk," and I think if I texted (a noun turned into a verb because of technology), I'd forget how to spell.

For me as a genre writer, the gloriously expressive English language is what makes my craft so fascinating.

Yes, I happily use nouns as verbs. Yes, I deliberately obfuscate (and add the disclaimer that it's for the sake of mystery). And I am drawn to the syntax, symbolism, and syncopation of a well-drafted sentence that is the hallmark of successful mystery/thriller/suspense novelists.

It's using that "minimum of linguistic dexterity to capture every meaning, or almost every nuance" that appeals to me, and, I think, to readers of those genres. They like trying to decipher the code, find the clues, and solve the crime. I like trying to confuse the issue.

I am, however, still working on my craft. How are you doing with your genre?

Okay, that's all for today. You-all guys keep on keeping on, and I'll try to do the same.

cj


PS: The cartoon is from Facebook.

PPS:  My novel DEADLY STAR is included in the publisher's "Running to Love" bundle of novels, tentatively slated for release on October 27. That's TEN romantic suspense stories for 99 cents! Available on all of the Crimson Romance sites, including Amazon.com and B&N.com. 

After you've had a chance to read the stories, please let the authors know what you think by taking a few moments to give them a review, good-bad-indifferent. We appreciate your feedback.

Feel the tug?

Tonight’s supermoon is the third of five such events in 2014. A supermoon occurs when the lunar orb will be near or at its closest elliptical-orbit point to the Earth…its perigee. High tides will be a little higher, male deer will begin to grow velvety antler nubs (“Full Buck Moon” is what Native Americans called a July supermoon), and, according to some, lunatics let loose on the streets and werewolves will howl their loudest.

The word lunacy comes from the Latin “lunaticus,” meaning, in modern language, moonstruck. Everyone knows that when the moon is full, the crazies come out. Right? Not so says science of the myth that spawned werewolves.  In the 1800’s, it was feared that those affected by lycanthropy would grow extra long canines and feast on human flesh when the moon was full.

The myth was so popular that, in 1985, a team of scientists did a study on the concept that a full moon (full harvest moon or full wolf moon, or full snow moon, or full buck moon, et. al) could affect human behavior as it does the tides. No evidence of such an effect was forthcoming.

So why do we blame the full moon for strange happenings and behavior? Probably because we’re expecting the correlation, and we can point to that full moon for confirmation.

Okay, now that’s settled, and you can sleep tight . . . no werewolves out tonight.

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

cj

By the way, does garlic keep werewolves away or just vampires? 

Facebook-isms

cj Sez:  I know. I’m supposed to post an interesting and informative blog for our Lyrical Pens followers. Well, I procrastinated, so, instead, I’ll pass along some smiles and truisms that show up with regularity on my Facebook page.

***

I am a multitasking procrastinator.

I can put off several things at once. . . . and often do, as today. (sigh)

***

Today is Sunday.  Share this and within seven days, you’ll get another Sunday.

It really works!

One of my friends ignored this message, and he got a Monday within twenty-four hours.

Believe me, it works.

***

Subject-verb agreements

I write.

You write.

He writes.

She writes.

They write.

We all revise.

***

It’s funny how Red, White, and Blue represent freedom . . . until they’re flashing behind you.

***

A child who reads will be an adult who thinks.

***

I am a professional writer. I can tell lies with a straight face.

But I’m a piker when it comes to atoms.

You can’t trust them.

They make up everything.

***

Martin Rooney: “Your life will not be measured by the things you started but by the few you finished.”

***

Every accomplishment starts with the decision to try.

***

At two a.m.: I need to stop, I whispered to myself as I started another chapter. (cj Sez: That’s the book I hope to write one day.)

***

James Watkins: “To survive as a writer, you must develop a tough hide and a tender heart . . . and never, ever get the two switched.”

***

I am currently unsupervised. I know. It freaks me out, too . . . but the possibilities are endless!

***

Diablo Cody: “I don’t have a formal rewrite process. I just compulsively groom and re-groom scenes like a cat with OCD.”  (cj Sez: My method exactly.)

***

We are all precious in the sight of the Lord.

He may shake His head a lot, but we’re still precious.

Okay, that's all for now. You-all guys keep on keeping on, and I’ll try to do the same.

cj  

Story excerpt

cj Sez:  I haven't decided if this will be a short story or a novel, but what follows is the first chapter of  one of my works-in-progress.

EVAN BURNETTE AND THE SERPENT’S VENOM

By cj petterson

Evan Burnette’s cell phone went off at the same time he started twisting the hickory handle of the claw hammer through a hoop at the fence post to tighten the wire and re-balance the gate.  He peeled off his thick leather glove, plucked the phone out of his belt clip, and checked the name on the display.  

“Hey, Boss.” Evan expected to hear the voice of his wrangler boss, Lou Kildeer. Instead it was Steve Carradine, the owner of Rancho LaCascabel, the cattle spread everyone called La Bel.

“Evan, where are you?” Steve asked, his voice terse.

“At the loading pens in the north pasture. What do you need?” Evan wiped the sweat off his brow with his sleeve.

“Sander’s had an accident at the cabin.”

“Dad?”

“Better get over here.”

Evan threw the tools into the back of the pickup. What’s Steve doing at Dad’s? Thirty minutes later, his tires skidded to a stop in the gravel at his father’s cabin. He jogged past idling County Sheriff cars, hesitated a second next to the covered bed of the coroner’s pickup truck then took the porch steps two at a time.

The house smelled of burned coffee, and something he couldn’t identify put a coppery taste in his mouth.

He strode into the kitchen where Sheriff Dan Merton stood in a hushed conversation with Steve Carradine and Mitchell Hargreaves, the local medico who, when necessary, also acted as the coroner.

The sheriff’s two deputies, Bradford Neil and Johnnie Slaughter, were raising a gurney that held a blue body bag. 

Evan’s eyes were drawn to a wide pool of deep red liquid on the colorless linoleum under the table. He inhaled a gasp.

Carradine intercepted him. “Evan, I’m real sorry.”

“What happened?”

“Snake bite,” Doc Hargreaves said.

Evan ran the zipper on the body bag down as far as the second button on his father’s shirt.

“You might not want to do that,” Merton said.

Evan pushed aside the blue bag and stared at his father. “Aw, Dad,” he groaned.

Sander Burnette’s ashen face had multiple pairs of swollen and bloody holes on his cheek and neck.

“He must’ve fallen into a nest of rattlers,” Merton said. “They struck him almost a dozen times.”

Evan looked at Doc Hargreaves. “He would’ve called for help. Why did it take you so long?”

“His cell’s on the kitchen table there,” the sheriff said and pointed. “Not working. He must’ve let the battery die.”

Evan swallowed hard then rubbed his hand over his face. “How’d you find out?”

“I stopped by, to say howdy, and found him,” Carradine said.

“Snake bite’s not what killed him,” Doc said.

Evan’s face asked the question.

“He would have been going into shock, about to pass out,” Doc said. “It looks like he decided to take control of how he died.” Doc cleared his throat. “Sorry, Evan. No easy way to say this. He slit his wrists.”

Evan looked again at the floor. The taste of copper in his mouth had come from the drying blood. “There’d be no reason for him to do that,” Evan said. “Antivenin could’ve saved him.

The coroner shook his head. “He had a dead phone. With him not being able to call for help, that’s not likely. He took too many hits. He knew it’d be a slow and very painful death.”

Hargreaves laid a gentle hand on Evan’s shoulder. “I’ll have to do an autopsy.”

“You said he—”

“I know, but the law says I have to do an autopsy in circumstances like these. You go on home, now. I’ll get somebody over here to clean up,” Doc said and swept his hand toward the kitchen floor.

“No,” Evan said. “I’ll do it.”

The look in Evan’s gray eyes quieted Doc’s protest. He turned and nodded at Bradford and Johnnie. “Carry him on out to the truck. I’ll be there directly.”

Evan let his hand trail over his father’s body as the EMTs rolled the gurney through the doorway. 

“I’m real sorry for your loss, son,” Doc said softly, put on his Stetson and walked out.

Sheriff Merton slipped a small note pad and ballpoint pen into his shirt pocket, buttoned it down then cleared his throat. “Saying I’m sorry doesn’t say enough, Evan. Sander was a good man and a good friend. You let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

Evan collapsed into one of the wooden kitchen chairs, his eyes fixed on his father’s blood. After a few seconds, the sheriff patted him on the back and left.

 Evan, suddenly intense, rummaged around in a desk drawer and found the family portrait taken at Risen Son Baptist Church when he was twelve.  He touched his fingers to each face.

Three years ago, his mother drove away with his younger sister and never returned. Sheriff said she’d taken a curve too fast and rolled over. If they’d been wearing seatbelts, they wouldn’t have been ejected, but the ten-year-old pickup wasn’t equipped with the safety equipment. He’d closed his law practice in Colorado Springs and came home to Hobarth, Nevada, to be near his ailing father. Working as a ranch hand for Steve Carradine at LaBel was a return to his youth when he’d worked side by side with his father on this land that had once been theirs.

Evan sat down in the saddle-brown leather chair his father kept in front of the picture window that framed the dusty green sage and Ponderosa pines in the distance. Propping his boots on the ottoman, he gazed, unseeing, at Sander’s favorite scene.  He pressed the photo hard to his chest while silent tears dripped off his chin. “Damn it, old man. What were you doing?” Then he broke down and sobbed uncontrollably.

The cabin was dark when Evan stirred from the chair. Flipping the switch on a lamp, he placed the photo back into the drawer.  He skirted the mahogany stain on the floor and filled a three-gallon bucket half-full of cold water at the kitchen sink and poured in a stream of bleach. He threw cupped handfuls of water on his face, and scoured off the dirty tracks of his tears with a rough towel. He used a scrub brush on the legs of the table and chairs before carrying them to the porch. Then he threw the water of the floor, grabbed the mop from behind the door, and began to clean up.

He scrubbed the floor twice. While it was drying, he sat on the porch and toyed with the dead cell phone. It’d taken a lot of convincing to get his father to agree he needed a cell phone in case of emergency. Evan had instructed Sander on its use and had programmed his own cell number as number one on the speed dial. Cracking the back, he discovered the battery pack was gone. I didn’t think you knew how to open this thing.  

So, what do you think?  Drop me a note and let me know, yea or nay. Thanks. 

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

cj