I write what I see; I document what I hear; I talk when I’m listened to; I listen when talking in need to be heard.

Showing posts with label An Entry from My Book. Show all posts
Showing posts with label An Entry from My Book. Show all posts

Saturday, April 25, 2015

When we take on writing, we are daring the challenge


 The reason is obvious: to prove that we can, that we can ride this kind of roller coaster. To exert a remarkable control over the images which our eyes look at day after day and we find a way to write what we see. We write it in all five senses and in colors. We rummage in our heads for words to describe all of it. The possibilities are endless.

Imagery helps readers understand the fictive world, and, to create mood. Here is an example of that from the opening of my novel, Blow Forward.

“Lizzie’s gut clenched as she headed for the entrance, coffee mug in hand. She checked off a mental checklist of responses, the ones she always used after dispatchers gave her a hard time when first meeting her. She shoved her hand in her pocket. The feel of the mace canister—its cool, dispassionate solidity—comforted her. Some of the tension of having to face the outside world seemed to dissolve.”

This particular imagery creates a mood of foreboding. Lizzie’s “gut clenched”. We immediately know that something is wrong. The story further goes to tell that she checks for the mace canister in her pocket. Why does she feel that she needs to protect herself? It is a good example of imagery that the reader is able to immediately pictures the kind of mood and setting in which the scene may take place.

Here is another example from Shakespeare’s famous play MacBeth.  He used a type of opening to elicit a response of looming danger from the reader when the three witches in the beginning speak of the, “thunder, lightning [and] rain” and the “fog and filthy air.”

Ah, but the act of writing and then presenting the story to the world is a very peculiar sort of challenge, indeed. This kind of world building becomes the reader’s property with which to form all sorts of interpretations and analysis. In short, your work may be subject to scrutiny -- public lynching or praise. But you’re willing to take the chance.
Right?

Friday, January 21, 2011

Another Excerpt - Black Diamonds


After the lunchtime rush, Jamie almost had the Diner to herself, which suited her frame of mind. She needed time to reflect on all that had happened since she had started working at the Eats three weeks ago. Waitressing was more difficult than she had thought it would be. She had to learn a new language, shout orders into the kitchen as she hurried through swinging doors bearing heavy trays of plates heaped with food. She was constantly moving from one table to the next, into the kitchen and back, to wipe tables spilled with drink and littered with food, to the garbage can with leftovers and dirty napkins.


Jamie glanced at the clock over the counter. Soon the dinner crowd would be trickling in. At first, most of the locals made no eye contact with her. And for days, they continued to watch as she moved around the room.

She knew that the stares were out of curiosity because she looked so different from anyone else in her black lace-up boots, pink uniform, and a fringed vest over it. She thought she was prepared, especially when she remembered what Mike had told her about this town, but the comments were persistent: “What…you’re twenty six years old and still ain’t married? No? Why?” or, “I was seventeen when I got married. By now two kids. A third on the way.”

At times Jamie conceded that perhaps she had made a mistake in taking this job. But she liked the steady and physical monotony of waitressing, of dealing with people who were so different than her.

Then there the other comments: “Those pinko resisters, dodgers from California. Hate them Communists. We went to get our heads blown off; had no choice. No choice except by turning traitor.”

They directed these remarks toward her: “Every boy from my high school class of ’69 who got drafted went to ’Nam, every single one, I tell ya, not a dodger or card burner among ’em. I bet where you come from, the guys were too busy smoking dope.”

And, “Look at you . . . what’s this you wearing, a hippy outfit?”

More often she heard, “I don’t understand what the fuss is all about. Seems to me that all I hear lately is ‘feminism’ this and ‘feminism’ that. I don’t know what it all means and I don’t care. Every person on this good earth deserves his due. What’s wrong with being a traditional woman? My wife never talks about it, and she always seems happy to me. You women’s libbers are just trying to stir up trouble.”

In the midst of the din, Cook often screamed, “I need help in the kitchen,” as he slammed plates on the counter.

Jamie should have told them to go to hell; instead, she placed her hands on her hips and eyed them up and down, taking in their Stetsons, cowboy boots. “Is that the best you can do?” she said at one point. “You want to see which of us can score the most points against the other? Because if that’s what you’re after, I’m not interested in playing. Now, what can I get you to eat?”

Eventually, the questions dried out. By the beginning of the third week, everyone knew where she lived. They found out that she had lived in Hollywood for four years, that this job was only temporary, that, no, she didn’t know how long she would stay. The most amazing thing was that since she’d left Los Angeles, Jamie had no regrets about it.

Monday, November 01, 2010

Blow Forward

The following is an excerpt from my book: Blow Forward


Amid stamped his feet to the ground, and tried to think about anything else other than the chill that gnawed at his bones. He chose to forgo making the dawn Salat for fear that kneeling in the parking lot would draw unwanted attention. Instead, he opted to practice the Sunna; exempting him from bodily prayer when traveling far from home. He made it internally instead.

The world was subject to change, more precisely, to extinctions. It coincided with one of his basic beliefs that a man at all cost must keep a part of himself beyond life. But Amid was plagued by the suspicion that at any moment he would discover he had been wrong. He pushed away all the dark thoughts from his head, realizing he was ready to begin his Jihad. If he should cease believing, he would be cut off from the solid ground to which he had clung for so long. But there was another voice in his head, less confident.

Amid thought of his son, then. Soon, he would get the best care money could buy. His boy would need many surgeries to continue some kind of a normal life. There were no guarantees of course.

He’d grown up in a small town fifty-miles north of Islamabad, Pakistan, where donkeys and carts and people converged and surged in every which direction, where houses were small, patched together out of stone and metal, where dust was everywhere. The neighborhood he’d lived in his youth had disappeared in ashes and smoke, replaced by skeletons of homes where stray dogs roamed and where scary looking teenagers, with machine guns pointing in the air, made their home.

Reasonably fluent in four languages, prone to obsessive dedication, he was blessed with good looks. And there was his wife and children, his loyal wife who gave her blessings before he left. His family saw him off, but he said almost nothing. He was accustomed to leaving things behind. At the training camp he had to leave behind his identity, possessions, and even his name. It was yet another in a long series of good-byes, and he knew that this time he might not return, that what he had to do was necessary

Tuesday, August 24, 2010

You Wrote a Damn Good Book. Now What?

Do you self publish or go the route of traditional publishing.


I've read a lot of stuff over the years about self-publishing versus "traditional" publishing and, depending on what I've read and where I've read it, I can see pros and con arguments for either method. Mind you, I am not talking about "vanity press" here. Self-publishing does include vanity press, but I am referring specifically to POD (print-on-demand or publish-on-demand). Vanity press involves paying a company to print 500 or more copies for you to stock in your house. They are not involved in distribution and promotion.

POD, on the other hand, is a process by which you upload your manuscript to one of many online companies and have it on hand for ordering. Note that these companies print copies on demand. Some charge a setup fee for this service, while others (like Lulu.com and CreateSpace.com) are free.

This sounds easy. Right? Not so fast. It’s difficult to distribute your self-publish book to bookstores. They usually are snobs about self-publishing. On the other hand, with traditional publishing, while the publisher picks up your book, most likely they won't promote it.

There is no denying the prestige of having your book published by an established publisher. But, while having a known publisher provide some prestige, some writers prefer to have total control over their novel.

Whichever trajectory you decide to follow, the following are some examples of the advantages and disadvantages of either route:

Advantages of Self-Publishing reference

• You control the cover, marketing, content, editing, and price

• Near instant publication

• You retain the rights of the content after publication

• Most likely you will make more money per book

• Anyone can publish

Disadvantages of Self-Publishing

• Greater potential to publish substandard books

• No free professional editing, formatting, or cover art

• A stigma attached with self-publishing

• Less than 10% of current book market

• The average self-published book is likely to sell no more than 250 copies

Advantages of Traditional Publishing

• Marketing power

• Wide distribution

• Advance could be very substantial

• They edit, format, and do the cover art

Disadvantages of Traditional Publishing

• Difficult to break into

• Don’t involve you in many of the decision about your book

• Measly royalty rates, between 6% and 25%

• Six to eighteen months before your book sees the light of day

• Since they don’t use their marketing power effectively, you still have to go and promote your own book

• They pay royalties twice a year



I would be interested in hearing your experiences, opinion, or otherwise gripe about publishing in general.

Saturday, October 17, 2009

BD

Chapter 1
Eagle’s Flight

Jamie sped down Route 66 East through Arizona following the signs for New Mexico, painfully aware of her tight grip on the steering wheel. Earlier in Los Angeles at sunrise, with a kind of conviction that took root four days ago, Jamie packed one suitcase, her camping gear, a pair of fifty pound dumbbells, and three boxes filled with books: the sum of her possessions. Got to keep going, she repeated to herself, reciting the words like a prayer she had to memorize. She looked at the gas gauge. There was no telling how much longer she would be able to drive with a nearly empty tank. Further on, a cat had been run over; the distorted carcass lay to the side, its belly swollen, its matted fur damp with blood. It wasn’t that she was anxious to get anywhere as much as she wanted to put distance between herself and the life that only this morning she had left behind.
Shortly after Jamie crossed over into New Mexico, a yellow blade of light sliced through the vast thick cloud that rolled down and formed a ceiling over the mesas. She glanced at the gas gauge again and felt a knot form at the pit of her stomach. She knew she had to stop soon, and slowed the car, hoping to conserve some gas. Suddenly, the storm roared in, sending cracks of thunder from the early summer sky. The rain drummed the car. It fell heavily on the arid ground, flooding the road. Jamie slowed the car, leaning forward over the steering wheel to peer into the blinding downpour. Her face tight with concentration, she looked for the white line on the road.
She glanced at her watch. Ten minutes had gone by. Where is a gas station? She could feel knots of tension in her neck, her eyes burned with fatigue, and her stomach growled. A truck flew past her in the left lane, throwing up streams of water onto her windshield. No matter how tempting it was to speed up, she resisted the urge. Jamie glanced at the dashboard again. The needle on the gas gauge was buried in the red. She cursed herself for not checking the gauge earlier. She maneuvered her car to the side of the road, turned off the engine and sat motionless, her hands limp and useless over the steering wheel. The changes in her life that had come about in the last year were jarring to her senses and an affront to her memories of happier times. But now she tried hard to focus her attention on a future that promised something and not of a past that seemed to her less tolerable than the loneliness she risked when she left.
She tried not to think of the fight with Sofie’s parents at the restaurant, but it kept repeating itself in her mind.
“You young people,” the tone of Sofie’s father was harsh. “You think life is a joke. What do you have to show for it? Children? Family? This is not normal. No respect for ideals and tradition. You think that tradition is something left only for old people.”
His words matched the specter of Sofie’s parents, their dark clothes smelling of moth balls and their accusing eyes, her mother’s wig, her father’s yarmulke.
“Tradition?” Jamie felt the heat rise in her face. “This is the seventies. Tradition is dead.”
Sofie’s father widened his eyes at Jamie. “You know what your problem is?”
Sofie’s mother grunted.
“Problem?” Jamie said.
Sofie picked up a napkin and began shredding it.
“You have no morality.”
“And you hide behind religion to justify your prejudice…”
Sofie’s father clutched the side of the table, leaned over and spat in Jamie’s face.
In the stony silence that followed, Jamie looked over to where Sofie was sitting, eyes downcast. She seemed to be getting farther and farther away. Jamie hated her. She'd never hated her before. Jamie wiped her face with the back of her hand. Before she knew what she was doing, she got up from the table, moved away from Sofie and her parents.
Sofie rose quickly and stood in front of Jamie. “Wait. Where are you going?”
Jamie had no answer for her. Ignoring the stared of the other diners, Jamie shoved her out of the way and ran for the door. The tires on the Trans Am smoked on the asphalt as she pulled out of the lot and onto the main street.
“He was upset,” Sofie said later.
“Upset enough to spit in my face? And you just sat there?”
“He acted without thinking.”
“No need to apologize for your father,” Jamie told Sofie. “The fact remains that you were silent.”
"How many times do you want me to apologize?"
"I never asked you to."
"What can I do to make it right? I don’t want for this to die."
She searched Sofie’s face, then. There was no false promise of anything there, no future. Her parents’ beliefs seemed to live in Sofie too, even love could not erase.
“C’mon Sofie, you know we’ve reached a dead end.” Jamie knew what Sofie saw in her eyes: disappointment and disillusionment.
“Where will you be?” Sofie asked when Jamie told her she would be moving out.
“I’m not sure really. My parents’ I guess. Just until I figure out what I want to do.”
“Your job?”
“I sent in my resignation already.”