The Awesome Blog can’t catch a break.

I have to go dark again for awhile until I heal up. I’ve been calling it tendonitis although the physical therapist I met with yesterday said it was really more a case of “forearm overuse” and “tired arm.”

I think this is payback for all the times I made fun of people with Restless Leg Syndrome.

Bottom line is I can’t type. Like, at all.

I just bought some voice-to-text software that I will be training in the next few days. It’s going to be an adjustment but hopefully I’ll be back “writing” sooner than later.

Take care of your hands, people!

I knew that it’s the largest body of fresh water in the world, that it contains about twenty percent of the world’s fresh water, that it’s 1,637 metres (more than a mile) deep at its deepest, that it was created by continental landmasses moving apart, that is has species of fish found only here. But, beyond its facts, Baikal really does have a magic to it. Travellers who wrote ecstatically about it in the past were not exaggerating. Most of Russia’s inland water is sluggish, swampy, inert; Baikal’s is quick. For sparklingness and clarity it’s the opposite of swamp water. The surrounding hills and cliffs that funnel winds along it keep it jumping. It reflects like an optical instrument and responds to changes in the weather so sensitively that it seems like a part of the sky rather than of the land.

From Ian Frazier’s “Travels in Siberia-II” from the August 10, 2009 issue of The New Yorker.

We’re about to enter Paragraph Party season again so I’m featuring this beaut to get us back in the mood.

One of the things we talk about in the Paragraph Party is the concept of Enter, Develop, Exit.

We use these words to avoid vague language like Beginning, Middle, End and to keep us far, far away from the confines of Topic Sentence, Supporting Sentence, Concluding Sentence.

Enter, Develop, Exit is about getting the reader in, making things happen, and then (delightfully) kicking them out. Frazier’s graf about Baikal shows this principle at work while also nicely illustrating how even basic scene-setting can be magical.

First, I absolutely love the Enter on this graf. Frazier starts out with some Best of Wikipedia tidbits, but he does a couple of things that rescue him from sounding like a 5th grader giving a geography report.

First, the phrase “I knew that” is wonderfully dismissive. It has a “as you may have heard” ring to it without calling attention to itself. You forgive him for his indulgence without even realizing it’s happening.

Second, Frazier breaks your will with details. A typical writer would just tell you that Baikal was the largest fresh water body of water in the world. Frazier keeps on you until the enormity of this lake really sinks in. If you’re not impressed with the high percentage of global fresh water, then he’ll take you a mile(!) under the surface, and if that’s not enough then he’ll give you special fish and continental drift.

The Develop section of the graf is the weakest, but Frazier still does a nice job of creating a bridge between the facts in the beginning and the beautiful imagery of the final line. I would’ve appreciated a quotation from one of those ecstatic former travelers, but I respect the choice to keep things clean.

What I do like is how Frazier puts Baikal in context with the rest of Russia’s inland water. “For sparklingness and clarity it’s the opposite of swamp water” is kind of a weird sentence, but you need it to build the overall image of Baikal (quick, jumping, etc.).

Now we’re ready to Exit.

“[I]t seems like a part of the sky rather than of the land” is just lovely. I especially appreciate that Frazier didn’t write this sentence so it ended on the word “sky” although I admit that on the first read I felt like this was a missed opportunity. What writer doesn’t want to lead their reader into the wild blue yonder?

Then I went back and figured out why I was wrong and Frazier was right. You’ll find the reason in beginning of the first line of the next graf. I’ll leave it up to you to figure it out:

“When a wave rolls in on Baikal, and it curls to break . . . .”

It is a strange experience . . . to be locked out of one’s own blog.

I will not bore you with the details, but let’s just say that when you pay $9.97 per year for Domain Name Mapping, then you can expect about $9.97 worth of customer service when it goes wrong.

In any case: back. The first lesson from Awesome Writing Prompt #15 will begin shortly.

Your assignment is to jot (and I stress that word JOT) down the scenes you would expect to find in a story based on the following premise:

Two childhood friends unexpectedly fall in love during a trip to New York.

The scenes do not have to be in order. They do not have to cohere. They do not have to be original.

This is an exercise in reacting to an idea. Keep it fast and loose and automatic.

Please post your results in the comments or send them to me at dennis <dot> cass <at> gmail <dot> com and we’ll put them to good use.

Final thought:

Duplicate answers are beyond okay. So if you see something in the comments and you feel that it’s already been covered, please post anyway. The more people who contribute the better.

A reader writes:

I’ve been reading your blog for a while, but haven’t really gotten engaged for the simple (if depressing) reason that college leaves me little time for any creative projects of my own. That said, there’s always been one nagging (meta-)question that I am finally going to ask: why? Not to sound thankless (far from it), but why are you so adamant on helping complete strangers for what seems to be little to no personal gain? As someone who spends 8 months of the year around New Yorkers (and the other 4 around retirees), your seemingly sincere altruism is refreshing, but also somewhat baffling.

I have had this question in the hopper since February. Every week I take a stab at it and every week I set it aside.

In the past seven months several glib answers come to mind, answers like:

Giving is the new taking.

(Unfortunately, like so many glib answers, it’s not as original as I thought.)

This spring, while playing Resident Evil 4, I latched on to something Luis said to Leon when Leon tried to get to the bottom of Luis’s zombie-killing altruism:

“It makes me feel good. Let’s leave it at that.”

There’s also this wonderful line from Clay Shirky’s HERE COMES EVERYBODY when he quotes former Internet Society trustee Scott Bradner:

“The internet means you don’t have to convince anyone else that something is a good idea before you try it.”

The”why” lies in a mixture of all three.

Depending on the day I do this primarily because I believe in altruism for altruism’s sake, or because helping people feels good, or because I don’t have to explain to anyone (and in particular a bored and jaded New York magazine editor) why writing about paragraphs and pineapples is important.

In short:

I care about writers and good writing and would like to see more of both.

For now those are good enough reasons for me. I hope they’re good enough for you.

A reader writes:

After receiving my MA in philosophy I decided that adjunct teaching would give me time to write fiction. But now that I am teaching 8 courses/semester and doing assorted freelance work I just want to get some sleep. So I’m thinking of a career change.

My big plan was to start an Master in Library and Information Science.

You seem to spend a lot of time in libraries–and know about publishing trends. The recent budget cuts for public libraries in Ohio have compounded my fears.

Do you have any thoughts on the long term value of an MLIS either for working public/college libraries or for a new line of freelance work (i.e the non-traditional path seems to include things like working for publishers, ghost writing, etc.)?

One of the earliest readers of this blog is getting her degree in library and information science. I think it’s an exciting and valuable line of work to pursue.

The budget cuts are scary, but I’d advise you not to get too distracted by the short-term noise. If you enter this field you’ll be right in the middle of the following big questions:

• What is the future of the old-fashioned, paper-based book?
• How are we going to realize the full artistic and cultural potential of electronic books?
• How are we going to preserve our cultural and intellectual heritage if it’s locked up in (possibly unreadable) data?
• Format aside, how are going to cope with the incredible volume of information?
• Finally, who owns all this information and what rights do people have to use/alter/share it?

I don’t think the money is going to be a real issue here. Yes, there are going to be budget cuts to some public libraries, but university libraries, corporate libraries, foundation libraries, etc. are only going to grow.

I also believe that any number of innovative, surprising and perhaps even bizarre new entities will spring up around the hardcore information science issues. The Google Books Library Project is the just the beginning.

The real question is whether or not you want to be a part of all this chaos and uncertainty, because I think it could get pretty hairy.

My apologies if I’m reading you wrong, but it seems to me that you have this image of becoming a librarian so you can pad around in crepe soled shoes and quietly shelve books while you secretly think about your novel.

I have a feeling that doing this career right may involve more of an Indiana Jones approach. It may require much more whip cracking, swashbuckling and switching sandbags for golden icons than any of us imagine.

So by all means do it. But do it with gusto and verve. We’re going to need it.

A reader writes:

I know how to look for agents. I’ve got books, website lists, blahty-blah. And I get the long road thing and the keep trying thing. Okay. But while there are a lot of agents in the world, the numbers aren’t infinite.  I mean, first I probably need to focus on American agents–seeing as I live in America and all.

Then I’ve got to focus further on my genre. Done.

Focus in more on agents that seem legit. Done.

Then on agents that are accepting queries. Done.

And so if this list isn’t as long as the road–in fact the road appears to be running off the map–then what? End of list…rejections received…now…?

Burn book and map? Get off the damn road?

Here are some uncomfortable statements about your writing career that may or may not be true:

• You may not sell your first book. Or your second. Or your third.
• You may sell your fourth book first, then publish your first book second and then turn pieces of your second into a short story and write an essay about why you’ll never publish your third.
• You may rewrite your first book a dozen times over a dozen years before you get it right.
• You may discover that your books don’t really work as books and become a playwright.

You’re asking me about the finiteness of agents, but I sense that the question behind your question is about the nature of the path you’re on. When is this going to happen for me? IS is going to happen for me?

I don’t know. But I do know this:

Getting published is a byproduct of doing the work.

Unless you’re a celebrity (in which case getting published is a byproduct of doing other work) then your day will come because you got the work right. Not necessarily great work (or even good work) but work that is right.

So chin up. Focus on the page.

I promise you won’t run out of agents.

A reader writes:

A few months back, you posted (here) on the idea of carefully crafted “tent poles” — which, as I read it, meant key scenes, Big Moments, not necessarily with fights and explosions but with a lot of propulsive (even if intellectual) energy. You didn’t say explicitly in your post to construct the tent poles first, and then go back and cover them with canvas (as it were). But that’s what I’ve been experimenting with. And I think it’s working. So far.

My question: can you think of a handy set of guidelines for how to establish a rhythm of such scenes? This might factor in the length of the novel, the kind (action-y vs. less so), maybe the number of characters, the POV, whatever. I’ve got one HUGE tent-pole moment — the climactic chapter — and maybe six or eight lesser ones. Structurally, I can imagine a plotline in which the tent poles were gradually ramping up to the huge one; I can imagine a rhythm established by the lengths of these scenes, and the lengths of the scenes which tie them together; I can imagine a rhythm in which the energy alternates more or less evenly, going UP, down, UP, down, etc. until finally there’s a sort of pause — an extended down, I guess you could say, followed by the big UPPPP of that last one. Not looking for some precise mathematical or geometric rule, of course. Just wondering if you see relative value in one vs. another.

Without seeing the work it’s impossible for me to give you feedback on structure, but I think you’re on the right track in how you’re thinking about tent poles:

You seem to get that the number of tent poles is finite

If you feel you have 27 key scenes then you either can’t tell the major from the minor or you’re trying to do too much in one work.

You’re right about rhythm

Go too long between tent pole moments and your reader might get bored. Pack them too close together and your reader might feel overwhelmed. Finding that right balance between tension and release is key.

You’re also right that tent poles don’t have to involve plot, big character movement, etc.

While pondering this question I kept thinking about the scene in the film Gone with the Wind when Scarlett O’Hara is at the train depot and the camera cranes up to reveal wounded Confederate soldiers stretching to the horizon.

A tent pole moment can be as seemingly insignificant as a transition or an aside, but it has that “wow” factor that makes you love the work and want to keep going.

Final thought:

Getting back to your question about sequencing, I think the best thing you can do is to stay loose and playful.

Screenwriters and television writers often write the gist of scenes on note cards and pin them to a cork board.

See what happens when turn  your tent pole moments into building blocks that you can move around in space.

A reader writes:

I would like to apologize to a former editor for being an arrogant little sh*t. I don’t necessarily need, want, or expect to work with this person again. But it has been weighing on my conscience for many months. Should I apologize, as a fellow human being who was clearly in the wrong? Or would any attempt be viewed as a pathetic attempt to suck up? Should I write a letter and stick it in a drawer? I can’t decide if my need to apologize is purely selfish and should be some ritual for my own personal catharsis, or if it would actually be a decent human thing to do to send it and ultimately appreciated by the receiver. Even, as I mentioned, if we never work together again. Help me, Mr. Blue.

The conventional wisdom says that one should never explain and never apologize. Saying that you’re sorry makes you look weak and does nothing to un-burn the bridge.

As I alluded to in yesterday’s post, you should especially hold your apologies for things outside of your control. Never apologize for not being published, or for being published locally but not nationally, etc.

That said, if you did something wrong then there’s nothing wrong with apologizing. The only catch is that you have to do it right away. If you apologize within 24 hours then it seems sincere. If you’re apologizing after a few days or a week then it seems calculated.

Also, people in this business are tougher than you think. Keep the apology simple and direct. Then move on and never mention the incident ever again.

Final thought:

If you’ve let the relationship go and for some reason want to rekindle the editorial flames, send in a smokin’ hot pitch. Fresh ideas heal all wounds.

A reader writes:

I’ve started exploring a possible story on SUPER SECRET STORY IDEA and I’m successful getting email replies to my original query from some significant clinicians and players in research. So, the question I’m often asked is: “What magazine are you writing for?” Of course I wish I had an assignment from a magazine. Our buddy Dan Baum, even lacking the assignment, would say he’s writing (in his example) for “Wired” because in a sense he contends that he is–doing all this leg-work free for an article he’s going to pitch at “Wired”. But I can’t get away with this can I?–”I’m writing for Psychology Today.” When the question has come up in the past I’ve said that I’m writing on spec and hope no one asks where I’ve been published. “Well, a couple literary quarterlies.” So how do I handle ingratiating myself to key sources so that they don’t blow me off and have enough confidence in me to spill the beans?

I don’t think there’s anything wrong with being honest. Tell them that you’re a freelance writer and that your plan is to take the story to Psychology Today.

If the source asks where you’ve been published then mention the name of the journals. Or tell them that you’re just starting out.

Whatever you do don’t apologize. There’s no shame in being new.

If they won’t talk to you, then ask them if they know anyone who will. If they offer another source then pursue that lead.

If they say they don’t know anyone (or if the person they recommend doesn’t pan out) then press them again to help you. Appeal to their vanity. You know from your research that they’re the single most important source for this story, a story that will completely change how we think about INTERESTING SUBJECT MATTER.

Or try luring them into a conversation. Tell them you just want to verify one fact or confirm one theory (then shut up and watch while they talk for half an hour).

If they still won’t talk to you then move down the list and pick the next source.

Wait . . . you don’t have a list of sources categorized by information need and then ranked in order of importance?

If you don’t have such a list, then get one. Every story has its dream scene, its dream quote, its dream fact. With some pieces it’s obvious, like getting the tobacco executive to admit that they’ve known for decades that cigarettes are harmful. With other stories it might be more subtle: a tough guy in a moment of vulnerability or a public saint betraying a hint of avarice. In the right context a boring statistic can be undeniably powerful.

If you can identify these ideal outcomes then you’re more likely either to get them outright or to recognize variations of them that fall into your lap.

Final thought:

Knowing what you want also helps your credibility. In my experience I’ve always gotten more out of interview subjects when I’m a mission. I don’t know how they can tell, but sources know the difference between hunting and fishing.

I don’t miss the culture . . . but I do miss you

For the past three weeks I haven’t read a blog, listened to the news or picked up The New Yorker. The Sunday Times has been used entirely to light coals. My ass has been completely unplugged and I have to confess that for all my love of music, books, TV and film I haven’t missed our culture one bit.

But I have missed you. There were moments (like while eating a fudge-covered Belgian waffle on a stick at the Minnesota State Fair) when I thought about spiking this blog. But then I thought of you, dearest, gentlest, sassiest Reader and I knew I had to come back.

Giving up feelings great . . . but it never lasts for long

I was also severely burned out when I went into the break. I was burned out on writing and reading, but I was especially burned out on keeping up.

This happens to me once in a while, when the Dream in all its dreaminess feels like a crushing, cement pillow instead of a fluffy, lifting pillow. The only solution is to quit, which I did. And I meant it. Until I didn’t.

Now I’m back working on the novel, teaching, this blog, etc. and it feels good.

(Sidebar: I’ve never been a fan of the writer who says he HAS TO WRITE. Because if you were abducted by an alien race who took you back to their planet and forced you to mine peanut butter, then guess what? You’d f*ckin’ mine peanut butter.)

I’m bored with the state of the industry . . . but I’m still 100% committed helping you

A writer friend recently sent me this amazing and spine-tingling article by the amazing and spine-tingling Daniel Menaker. It’s perhaps the best article I’ve ever read about why publishing is broken, but it’s also the thousandth, and frankly I’m sick of hearing about it.

I also realized during my paragraph partying that I really enjoy working on the page. It’s perhaps the one aspect of what we do that’s immune to all the other nonsense that passes for our industry.

I’ll continue to give career advice, but if you notice a shift toward craft please don’t be alarmed.

That said, I have a backlog of questions to answer. Best get to it.

The internet never rests, but I do. I’m taking off the last two weeks of the summer to enjoy the weather, get my son ready for kindergarten and eat ribs.

I will be moderating comments (and chiming in occasionally) so don’t let me hold you back.

In case you’re new here (or need some reminding of all the good works we’ve done) here are five popular posts that will demonstrate what we’re all about:

Five Common Writing Mistakes That My Students Make That I Still Make (and You Probably Make Too)

How Do I Start My Writing Career?

Five Thoughts from a Short-short Fiction Contest Judge

The First Ten Books in Little, Brown’s Spring ‘09 Catalog

Getting Published Without Querying

I’m not a big motivational quote guy, but I thought this gem from Buckminster Fuller was too good not to share:

“When I’m working on a problem I never think about beauty. But when I have finished, if the solution is not beautiful, I know it is wrong.”

Have a fine weekend!

Thanks to all who showed up at The Loft for the inaugural Paragraph Party class. Going over the evaluations I declare it a success with room for improvement.

Thanks also to the brave souls who participated in the online version. Double kudos for stepping up and claiming your grafs in the columns. Courage = awesomeness.

I’m definitely doing this again. I feel like I learned a ton and the student became the teacher, etc., etc.

Final thought:

I noticed that the majority of the paragraphs I received involved a character thinking, wondering, musing, postulating, anticipating, considering, planning, observing, noticing or describing. They did all this BY THEMSELVES.

Giving all ya’ll the benefit of the doubt I’m going to chalk this up to the fact that dramatic work happens in scene and dialogue, which isn’t going to give you much bang for your paragraph-evaluating buck.

NOT giving all ya’ll the benefit of the doubt I’m going to chalk this up to conflict avoidance. Putting two distinct people in close quarters and having them square off in a interesting, meaningful and non-melodramatic way is scary and difficult. Hence all the solo pondering, anticipating and noticing.

One way to cure yourself of conflict avoidance is to never leave your characters alone. I mean this literally (let them stroll through the woods on their own time) and figuratively (ease up on the action, but never relent on the conflict).

And if they must be alone, have the City or the Ocean or Memory dog them wherever they go. Your characters can take far more punishment than any human being could ever handle. So dish that sh*t out, chief!

Thanks for coming to the party. I am pleased to present our fifth and final graf:

An uncanny fog that morning lay all along the route across the northern New Jersey marshes to New York City. It was an impossibly comprehensive fog, a fog to embarrass any meteorologist who might have predicted mere everyday fog; a fog to gauze a landscape somewhere else in the world, at some other time, but not here and at this point in history, where the general rule for mountainous grey entities required them to be angular and solid and above all man-made; a fog that roiled across the marsh grass beneath the elevated roadbed of the Amtrak rails, roiled further across the Hudson and collided with a similar fog spreading into Manhattan from the East River, piling up in a thick granite bedrock of fog from which the upper stories of skyscrapers protruded like stalagmites; a fog grey as the name of a familiar object suddenly lost to forgetfulness, impenetrable as an experience never even imagined, much less prepared for. Even as Larry watched from the window of the train, the fog seemed to mount higher and higher as though reaching up with a sword-swallower’s grey lips to gulp the uppermost tips of the city. Then with a roar and a flash of darkness it all disappeared as the train plunged into the tunnel beneath the river.

From a novel.

First, let’s dispense right away with the “short attention span” critique, the idea that in today’s fast-paced culture readers are too impatient for lengthy fog description.

I just finished CRYPTONOMICON by Neal Stephenson and part what makes this 900-page book so enjoyable is that Stephenson lingers on weather/geography/etc. After a day of tweets, chat and Facebook being able to immerse myself in a slow-moving fictional world was actually refreshing. It’s not a bug; it’s a feature.

That said, there are some manufacturer’s suggested guidelines for this approach:

1. The writing at the sentence and phrase level better be excellent

Stephenson is brilliant at the phrase level and quite good at the sentence level. So even when you’re in what could be viewed as a digression, there are lots of little rewards along the way and the flow of the narrative remains silky smooth.

2. Even the most linger-y of lingerings makes an editorial contribution

Much of CRYPTONOMICON takes place in the South Pacific. You get lots of jungle description. Lots of heat description. Even when it’s indulgent it’s never gratuitous. The description is there to immerse in you in the setting and to further heighten the characters’ emotional state.

3. In for a penny, in for a pound

Imagine somehow that I’m being less emphatic on this suggestion, but generally if you’re going to blow it out once then there is a certain expectation that you’ll do it again. This presents challenges for the novelist who might want to quicken the pace toward the end, but has still set up internal rules for taking her time.

Without seeing our party paragraph in context I can’t speak to the last note. And since this isn’t Sentence Party, I’m not going to comment on Item #1 other than to say I love the idea of fog that creates professional embarrassment and wish there was more pointed stuff like that.

Which brings me to Item #2. What does this fog mean to Larry? I haven’t a clue.

If this were a movie, then I could see the connection between landscape and character because I could see his face. I could see him being dreamy or anxious or inspired to provide mosquito netting to kids in the developing world so they don’t die of malaria.

As it stands now, the writer gives us fog and then takes it away.

What this graf needs is a kicker. Something that connects the fog Larry’s emotional state. His mouth is dry from being agape in awe. He picks up a paper bag and starts blowing into it because he’s been hyperventilating from claustrophobia. He says to the person next to him on the train, “I got a baaaaad feeling about this.”

Make that connection and then go back and make it pretty.

The parties continues to continue. Here is the fourth of our Five Party Grafs:

She didn’t wish on stars. That would be childish. But before she fell asleep most nights, she did think. And talk. And sometimes wish for what she wanted or needed most. And the stars happened to be there. She squinted her eyes and the window screen made everything look twinkly.

From near the end of the first chapter of a middle-grade novel.

I like juxtaposition of the wishing and the not-wishing. It nicely captures a kid’s jumbled, openly contradictory mind.

It also zeroes on one of childhood’s chief concerns, which is where you are in childhood. Adults aren’t the only ones who wonder if what a kid does is “age appropriate.”

Two things I’d like to see:

1. Unbury the best line

“And the stars happen to be there.” That’s nice. What comes after it sounds like the first line of the next graf. Or something you can cut.

2. Set up that last line better

Another way of looking at Enter-Develop-Exit is Introduce-Elaborate-Twist.

That’s what you’re doing here. She doesn’t wish on stars. Then she does some talking/thinking that sneaks in some wishing. Then the stars happen to be there (so she does wish on stars).

If that’s what you’re after, then the goal is to get a little more space between the idea and its reversal:

She didn’t wish on stars. That would be childish and silly. But before she fell asleep most nights, she did think. And talk. She’d think about ABC and how details, details, details. She’d talk about XYZ and how details, details, details. And if in all that thinking and talking and talking and thinking she let slip one true wish, well then the stars just happened to be there.

The party rages on with the third graf:

Rose reached for the bamboo scratcher on his nightstand, placed it in Hank’s open hand, and curled his fingers over it.  He held it loosely, raised his arm slowly, and squeezed his eyes shut as he aimed it towards his back. It never got easier for Rose to watch how painstaking this simple movement was for him, even though she had watched him do it hundreds of times. She could scratch his back for him faster, easier, and then she wouldn’t have to watch him strain himself like that, the agonizing slowness, the interminable amount of time it took every tiny movement, the fact that only one arm and his head moved at all, his body perfectly still except for the movement of that right arm. She didn’t know how he could stand it to do it every single day. She forced herself to watch him. She could turn away from him for a moment, for a day, or forever, but he couldn’t turn away. She wouldn’t close her eyes while his shut in concentration, and she wouldn’t let herself imagine what he was thinking inside, either. She didn’t want to know what went on his head when a simple task like this took on the proportions of a major feat of strength and endurance. In fact, she never wanted to know what went on in his head. His thoughts were surely different than what came out of his mouth. Their banter was scripted. She was glad he kept his feelings to himself, just as she preferred to keep quiet about hers. Their arrangement suited her just fine.

From middle of first chapter of a novel.

First, kudos for the great entrance and exit. I like how we start with this very physical and intimate moment that establishes Hank’s helplessness. Then we leave on her equally intimate but emotionally distant assessment of their “arrangement.” Nice.

Quick nit before my main note: consider making it even clearer that Rose is reaching across Hank’s body. You’ve got the scratcher on his nightstand so it’s implied, but coming right out with it will make the reader feel his immobility more acutely.

Now on to the bad news. This paragraph is in dire need of a boil down.

That’s when your editor says something alone the lines of “This is great but it needs to be half as long.”

Then you gasp and say, “Half? Impossible!”

Then you go and do it and realize she was absolutely right.

When I do a boil down I mercilessly cross out the stuff that isn’t pulling its weight and worry about smoothing it out later. Here is how I would start the  boil down on this graf:

Rose reached for the bamboo scratcher on his nightstand, placed it in Hank’s open hand, and curled his fingers over it.  He held it loosely, raised his arm slowly, and squeezed his eyes shut as he aimed it towards his back. It never got easier for Rose to watch how painstaking this simple movement was for him, even though she had watched him do it hundreds of times. She could scratch his back for him faster, easier, and then she wouldn’t have to watch him strain himself like that, the agonizing slowness, the interminable amount of time it took every tiny movement, the fact that only one arm and his head moved at all, his body perfectly still except for the movement of that right arm. She didn’t know how he could stand it to do it every single day. She forced herself to watch him. She could turn away from him for a moment, for a day, or forever, but he couldn’t turn away. She wouldn’t close her eyes while his shut in concentration, and she wouldn’t let herself imagine what he was thinking inside, either. She didn’t want to know what went on his head when a simple task like this took on the proportions of a major feat of strength and endurance. In fact, she never wanted to know what went on in his head. His thoughts were surely different than what came out of his mouth. Their banter was scripted. She was glad he kept his feelings to himself, just as she preferred to keep quiet about hers. Their arrangement suited her just fine.

The next step is to go back through the graf and fix up the busted up bits. Sentences will need to be rewritten so they don’t all start with “she.” You’ll also want more variety in length and tone.

As part of this process you’ll inevitably discover details, turns of phrase and images that bring back aspects of the graf that were interesting (that she can turn away but he can’t, their “scripted” banter) but that weren’t executed well enough to avoid the axe.

Now add the new stuff (without letting the graf balloon up) and give it a quick smoothing. But don’t linger too long. Paragraphs need rest. Trust that you’ll perfect it during the next pass through the book.

Good luck!

Everyone having fun? Good. Freshen your drink and then we’ll move on to the second graf.

Liam stayed in bed hoping this time would be different. The wind came in through his window, chilly. The moon was a perfect half in the sky over the trees. He got up. He hadn’t slept in years. Every night he got ready for bed and climbed under the covers thinking that this would be the night everything changed.

First paragraph from a contemporary fantasy novel.

In Consider the Paragraph I extolled the virtues of the pleasing shape, but it’s not just because I like things pretty.

Enter, Develop, Exit also creates energy, or what’s sometimes referred to as “narrative drive.” The key to creating narrative drive is change. Some aspect of the story (could be as obvious as plot or as subtle as tone) has to change between the first word and the last word.

If you look at the first and last sentences of our party graf you’ll see that they’re effectively the same. Liam hopes this time is different. Later he hopes this is the night everything changes. In between we pick up a few details (it’s a cold, moony night; he doesn’t sleep and his bed has covers) but we haven’t gone anywhere.

One thing that might help is for the writer to be more up front about the “this time.” As this is contemporary fantasy novel I’m assuming Liam is a Supernatural Being and that he has Supernatural Being Problems. Engage us in the mystery of his life instead of teasing us with the mystery of the mystery of his life.

In other words, get to it!

Good luck!

First come, first served. Here’s the first of five (5) grafs for our online party:

Baghdad’s 28^th Combat Support Hospital is like a fortress, once the exclusive palace of Saddam Hussein. In the cacophonous din of machines and medics, you’re unconscious and being wheeled into the Trauma Room. The ER staff is dressed in boots, camouflage pants and scrubs. Seconds ago one soldier was alive, now he’s dead. Another is screaming, “Look at me I’m all apart.” There are others who can be heard weeping and moaning. The injuries are horrific. They’re the worst I’ve ever seen says one doctor, but most of these lives will be saved, living on after terrible wounds and brain injuries. The bullet tore your left eye in half, then shattered the frontal lobe of your skull. You felt nothing.

From a nonfiction story about a wounded soldier, who has just been admitted into a field hospital in Baghdad.

Here are my comments:

Second-person narration is not as immediate as you think

I get what you’re doing. You’re trying to put me in that trauma room. But if second-person narration made stories more visceral, immediate and real, then everything would be in the second person.

But they’re not and that’s because in reality the second person creates distance. (Check out Jay McInerney’s BRIGHT LIGHTS, BIG CITY for a well-known example.) What puts me in the room is scene setting, characters with emotional resonance, etc.

In other words, execute the basics and my natural empathy will put me in your subject’s shoes.

Even if you decide to stick with the second person, that doesn’t let you off the reporting hook

Your job is to paint the picture, so paint the picture. What does a Hussein presidential palace that’s been converted into a hospital look like? Is it like a brothel with dialysis machines? An outlet mall with blood everywhere?

Also, what exactly is a field hospital? Is it state-of-the art facility that’s not that much different from a domestic hospital? Or is it held together with duct tape and spit and you pray everything holds together while you’re operating?

I could go on and on and on, but I think you get the idea. Just about every detail in that graf could be given a much finer grain of resolution.

Your mistake might be your best opportunity

In the second line you note that “you” is unconscious. This is going to make it very hard for “you” to observe all the things “you” are observing.

But that gives me an idea. If you embrace the distance created by the “you” point of view, then we might have something.

Try talking about “you” from the doctor’s point of view as they look down on your inert body and try to stitch you up. So it’s “you” but only “you” in the sense of “you” being a meatbag that’s in need of fixing. (Even as they scoop the remains of your eye out, your face remains slack, etc., etc.)

Kind of gross, but also kind of cool in an out-of-body-experience kind of way. Also, that approach would give the last line (“you feel nothing”) some weight.

Good luck and thanks for coming to the party!

I’ve decided to move the party online.

Between now and August 9th you are invited to send me a paragraph from a work in progress. I will choose a handful of grafs to critique on this blog using the hot new Paragraph Party method.

Here are the rules:

1. You are to send me one paragraph only

Please do not send me your entire novel and tell me to “pick whatever paragraph you think needs the most work.”

2. Please provide a little context

You don’t have to go nuts, but let me know if the graf from a short story, memoir, YA novel, etc. It would also help to know if it’s from the beginning, middle or end.

3. In sending me your paragraph you represent and warrant you are the author of said paragraph

Please do not try to trick me by sending in a paragraph written by E-R-N-E-S-T H-E-M-I-N-G-W-A-Y.

4. Do not bother me about the status of your paragraph

It’s August. I work in publishing. Keep your expectations low.

Send your paragraph to dennis <dot> cass <at> gmail <dot> com. Good luck and see you next week.