Novel Matters

Gone Fishing

noreply@blogger.com (Sharon K. Souza) — Mon, 05 Jan 2015 10:00:00 +0000

For six years we've shared the best writing advice we have to offer, as well as our victories and disappointments in our writing endeavors. We've sponsored contests that have both benefitted and entertained, and we've co-written a fun story with many of you as our co-conspirators. We've published a book of our favorite recipes and writerly nuggets, and we've posted a lot of great quotes about the writing life on Facebook.

Our Novel Matters blog created a community that has gone beyond anything we might have imagined 6 1/2 years ago when the idea for this blog was first proposed. It brought together six women who barely knew one another, or didn't know one another at all, whose writing style and passion was similar enough for our agents to introduce us to each other, as well as the idea for the blog. All we can say is that is was truly a God thing. For between the six of us, it has forged a deep and amazing friendship that spans the US and Canada.

Your presence and participation to our blog has been invaluable, and it's birthed close and unexpected friendships that span continents! Some of you have honored us by sharing your own writing with us privately, and have allowed us to help promote your published work. In short, it's been an amazing venture.

After serious consideration, we've decided to put Novel Matters on hold for a while. We want to concentrate on our writing and try to figure out and navigate the tumultuous changes taking place in the publishing world. That doesn't mean we're going away. We'll still have a daily presence on Facebook, and will keep in touch with many of you in various ways.

Thank you, again and again, from the bottom of our hearts, for the contribution you have made to this blog and to our lives.

Our prayers and love go out to you.

Bonnie, Debbie, Katy, Latayne, Patti and Sharon

Merry Christmas from all of us to all of you

noreply@blogger.com (Sharon K. Souza) — Mon, 15 Dec 2014 10:00:00 +0000

We at Novel Matters want to wish you a very merry Christmas and a happy and blessed New Year. Thank you for all you've contributed to Novel Matters this year, either by commenting on posts, by taking the time to read them, or both. You mean so much to us.

"My mind is on Jesus in this Christmas season in a new way to me: with a new December grandson in the family, our family rejoices in his birth, and in His" ~ Latayne

"He's as close and personal as the baby in a womb. He is Emanuel, God with us. God with you. Merry Christmas" ~ Katy

"Jesus, the thrill of hope who came and will come again. Love to all. Blessed Christmas" ~ Patti

"Look for the gifts given to you this season -- we are sustained moment by moment by God's gifts. Wishing you a season of wonder at His continued, encompassing provision and care. Peace, health, happiness to you in 2015" ~ Bonnie

"This year brought numerous changes to my life when my husband and I moved from California -- where we've always lived -- to Georgia, leaving family and friends behind. It's been a difficult adjustment, and I continue to pray the move is temporary. But it has made me more aware than ever what is important in life. Being near loved ones and enjoying friends who know you inside and out . . . those things are truly priceless. Not to mention knowing how to get to all the places you wish to go. Change is never easy, and starting over at 62 is no fun. But even through my tears I trust the Lord has a purpose in this. I hope you are able to spend this Christmas season with those you love, and that you enjoy them like never before" ~ Sharon

God bless you and keep you and hold you close this holiday season and always. ~ Debbie

Christmas Poem: The Birth

noreply@blogger.com (Latayne C Scott) — Fri, 12 Dec 2014 18:40:00 +0000

THE BIRTH

The throbbings begin---

The stretching, vague pain,

Then panic and wonder are mixed

Like gall and wine.

I wait, with Mary,

As eternity invades my heart

And the two millennia between us

Efface like the thinning tissues

That frighten her young-girl body.

She gasps, and I do, too;

But for much different reasons:

She is breathless with pain,

I with awe.

The rhythmic pulsings increase for her

And I, too, ride them like a tidal wave;

Anxious for what will break

Upon the shore of eternity

Anxious for Him

To be born again

In my heart

Copyright Latayne C. Scott

image courtesy of freedigitalphotos.com

Inglorious

noreply@blogger.com (Latayne C Scott) — Wed, 10 Dec 2014 08:30:00 +0000

INGLORIOUS

The glitter on the creche

Seduces me from how inglorious His comings and goings were.

His feet filthy from offal paths until someone thought to wash them,

His hands unwashed, as the Pharisees noted.

No beauty to behold except in a peek on a peak.

Mostly,

His sandal soles dragging up dirt and fronds, muleback,

A towel around His waist in a shanghaied room,

A lone figure squatting over a breakfast fire.

Loaned food, found tax, borrowed burial.

Inglorious, yes, His going:

The Savior on a stake;

Bookends His coming:

A God in a trough.

Image courtesy of freedigitalphotos.net

Christ, Come Softly

noreply@blogger.com (Latayne C Scott) — Mon, 08 Dec 2014 08:30:00 +0000

CHRIST, COME SOFTLY

(acrostic poem)

Christ, come softly: the uneven way

Has been prepared. Though angels

Rampant crowd the skies, each one

In his own way praising Thee-- Softly,

Softly come. Through tribulation and joy,

This night whispers hope.

(In exultation, my heart's own voice

Sings! And even the voiceless and deaf rejoice!)

But silvered silence sighs. The skies are emptied now, and

Only for now, this Logos-Child speaks not.

Remembering vows, and veils, and the cup to come, He

Now sleeps. Softly, softly: Christ.

Copyright Latayne C. Scott

image courtesy of freedigitalphotos.net

Fullness

noreply@blogger.com (Latayne C Scott) — Fri, 05 Dec 2014 08:30:00 +0000

Fullness

Two days ago was the coming of the great light

The coming of herders

The coming of angels

The coming of the Child

In ratcheting pain,

In water and blood,

In relief and peace.

Above, the star still blasts the stable roof

A white hot light

That has bleached out all the others

She stirs in the shadows cast

By starlight through ceiling slits

Everyone snores, even the cattle

Exhausted with exulting

All is still

All is bright

This, then

Is the fullness of time:

An unwitting world does not know it has waited,

A baby moves tiny lips and does not know He hungers.

This, then

Is the fullness of breasts:

A young girl wonders,
And aches with milk that has not yet let down

Endings are Hard

noreply@blogger.com (Patti Hill) — Wed, 03 Dec 2014 08:00:00 +0000

After I published my last novel, I received one (yep, only one) FB message asking if I'd forgotten to include all of the pages in the Kindle edition.

What!?

I'd given away 11,000 copies of the book. Were they all defective? Were readers left wondering what happened to the hero? This could explain the poor sales.

I investigated. The ending was there as written, but it evidently wasn't strong enough for this reader. Also, I suspect that her eReaders caught her unaware. Perhaps the ending was perfectly fine, but without the physicality of the book and its diminishing pages to clue her in, the ending fell into her lap. (This has happened to me.)

To determine if I'd written a strong enough ending, I revisited my hero's desires and needs. Did she satisfy her desire, a goal she can achieve within the scope of the story? Yes, her family is intact. As to her needs, does she resolve the thing that is hampering her from leading a good life? Yes, she is able to forgive herself and trust others.

So far, so good.

Does the ending evoke an emotional response in the reader?

I thought so.

The hero not only has her family, but she reconnects with a love interest. She has a future, not explicitly spelled out but definitely pointing in the right direction. She turns her pain around to accept and love the imperfect. She's taking a huge risk, for crying out loud!

It's the kind of ending I like. The important points are resolved, and the hero is set in motion toward a promising future with the requisite challenges. There are minor things left unresolved for the reader to play with.

But some readers aren't as comfortable with ambiguity. They would have us sit our characters around a table to report their plans for the future.

Boring!

Actually, I'm struggling with the ending--the denouement--of my WIP. Technically, this is where things get resolved. But structurally I'm wondering if this isn't where the character arc for our hero reaches the pot of gold. This is where we show his or her growth.

Right?

Books on writing are strangely silent on endings. They use vague words like "satisfying," if they say anything at all.

Can we discuss this?

Wait, I'm supposed to finish my post...

A Heavenly Christmas in Hometown

noreply@blogger.com (Sharon K. Souza) — Mon, 01 Dec 2014 10:00:00 +0000

Following is an excerpt from Sharon K. Souza's Christmas novella, A Heavenly Christmas in Hometown. We hope you enjoy our launch of the Christmas season.

Rehearsals were a frantic affair with Christmas Eve just a week off. Tim worked with the choir, while Bev directed the drama. Everyone worked on the props, including Eustace and Spencer.

It was awfully cold that December, everyone said so, and poor Spencer just couldn't adapt. "You don't suppose it was like this when Jesus was born, do you?" he asked, wrapping a muffler around his neck. He remained in a constant shiver, and had to set his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering.

"No, I don't think so, Spence," said Eustace, "but He was born in Bethlehem, not Hometown, you know."

"Is it very different?"

"Quite. I doubt Bethlehem has seen a flake of snow from that day to this."

"It sounds like an inviting place." He looked out a window at the white mounds. "It's nice to look at, but it's so unpleasant in every other respect."

"Many folks would disagree. Really, they would. Look at the children. They enjoy it immensely. If Heavenly Chalet were completed, you'd see just how recreational winter can be."

"Amazing."

"What's the matter, Spence? Getting a little homesick?"

"A lot homesick, actually. I can hardly remember what it's like to be warm."
"I expect you'll find out before long."

"Do you think so?"

Eustace nodded. "Yes, I do."

"I've given the choir a twenty minute break," said Tim, joining his friends. "Thought I'd come see how the stable's progressing."

"If it looks half as good as the choir sounds I'd say we're doing well."

"Thanks, Spencer. Wow! It's amazing what can be done with a little cardboard and paint. You two have a talent for this. It's the most authentic stable we've ever had."

"It was Eustace's design," Spencer said.

"I just made a few little changes on the old one. If you don't mind, I'd like to make an adjustment or two on the manger. It looks more like a cradle on legs than a feeding trough."

"Be my guest," Tim said. "You're doing a great job." He left them to check on costumes.

"What's a feeding troth?" Misty asked.

"I thought you were outside throwing snowballs at your brother," Eustace said. He hadn't seen her come in with Tim.

"I was, but he threw some back and I got cold."

"Oh." Spencer knelt down beside her. "I can certainly sympathize."

She took off her wet mittens, blew into her hands, then rubbed them together. "What's a feeding troth?" she asked again.

"It's a feeding trough," Eustace corrected, "and it's a wooden box where hay and other feed was placed for the animals in the stable. Joseph and Mary used the trough as a bed for baby Jesus."

"Mama said they put baby Jesus in a manger."

"And your mama's right. Manger is another word for feeding trough. It just sounds a little nicer."

"Why did they put baby Jesus in there and not in a cradle? I had a cradle and so did Raymond. Mama lets me use it for my dolls now."

"I'm afraid they didn't have a cradle."

"But Joseph was a carpenter. Why didn't he make one?"

"Well now, Misty, that's a very good question. I think Joseph probably did make a cradle for baby Jesus, but they had traveled a long way from where they lived in Nazareth to Bethlehem where Jesus was born."

"I've heard of Nazareth," she said.

"They couldn't carry much on that trip, certainly nothing so big as a cradle, and I think they both were hoping they'd get back home before the baby was born. But it had to happen just the way it did, for a prophet -- do you know what a prophet is?" When Misty nodded Eustace continued. "For a prophet named Micah had foretold that baby Jesus would be born in Bethlehem long before it happened."

"How did he know?"

"God told him."

"God knows everything, doesn't He?"

"He certainly does."

"Then why didn't He put a cradle in the stable so that baby Jesus would have a bed?"

Spencer and Misty both looked to Eustace for an answer, but he was obviously stumped. "Well, now. I'll have to work on that one," he said, and returned to the task at hand.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

A Heavenly Christmas in Hometown is a lovely little hardback with dust jacket that can easily be read in a few sittings and enjoyed by the whole family. For ordering information, contact Sharon at sharonksouza @gmail.com.

The Wild

noreply@blogger.com (Bonnie Grove) — Fri, 28 Nov 2014 10:00:00 +0000

Although I've lived most of my life in one city or another, I've always thought of my life as being surrounded by tall, dark forest.

The perimeter of my life left wild.

In childhood, the wild forest was freedom, a place to run where the tether of safety and security trailed lightly behind me. A beloved place whose dark corners held only enchantment, promise, secrets to be ferreted.

As a young adult, the wild forest became overgrown. Childhood tether cut, now thorns rose up, drawing blood when I reached into the darkness. In fear, I counselled myself clear from the wild edges and drew a tighter circle in order to be protected from my childish illusions. Taught myself that terrible things happen in wild places.

In my striped down adult years, life didn't venture past the new thin line I'd drawn so far in from the dark wild. Quiet. Dutiful. Faithful. Safe.

And yet.

In the barren of my tiny circle the wild came for me.

Took me up.

Shook all that could be shaken.

It was then I made myself look the dark forest in the eye. Fearsome wild stared into me. It spoke:

Come back.

Beloved.

Come back.

Oh Bother.

noreply@blogger.com (Kathleen Popa) — Wed, 26 Nov 2014 10:00:00 +0000

I came home a black little rain cloud today.

It was not the worst kind of a day, but it was a hard day, and perhaps the difference between a bad day and a worst day is how long it will take you to find your way back.

"I ought to say," explained Pooh as they walked down to the shore of the island, "that it isn't just an ordinary sort of boat. Sometimes it's a Boat, and sometimes it's more of an Accident. It all depends."
"Depends on what?"
"On whether I'm on the top of it or underneath it.”

I've had days that kept me lost for months, several of them. And one or two that kept me lost for years.

“I'm not lost for I know where I am. But however, where I am may be lost.”

This time, I may find my way back tomorrow. It was only a bad day. And one of my ways of finding my way back is to listen to music. Can you guess what song caught my ear tonight?

Another way is to write to you from The House at Pooh Corner, about the things that point back home.

Like people who love me.

“It is more fun to talk with someone who doesn't use long, difficult words but rather short, easy words like "What about lunch?”

Like simple, lovely things to eat, such as omelettes and toast with jam.

“I don’t feel very much like Pooh today," said Pooh.
"There there," said Piglet. "I’ll bring you tea and honey until you do.”

Yes, like a cup of tea.

Things like that can carry us a ways back. A little ways.

“Well," said Pooh, "what I like best," and then he had to stop and think. Because although Eating Honey was a very good thing to do, there was a moment just before you began to eat it which was better than when you were, but he didn't know what it was called.”

Longer distances require a sense of mystery, of things we don't know how to name. And while conversing with this mystery will gain you a hand to guide the way, it is possible to over-think.

“Rabbit's clever," said Pooh thoughtfully."Yes," said Piglet, "Rabbit's clever.""And he has Brain.""Yes," said Piglet, "Rabbit has Brain."There was a long silence."I suppose," said Pooh, "that that's why he never understands anything.”

Ah well, but I seldom understand much.

“I did know once, only I've sort of forgotten.”

Exactly.

“It's not much of a tail, but I'm sort of attached to it.”

Tra-la-la, tra-la-la,Rum-tum-tiddle-um...

The Mockingjay Interviews

noreply@blogger.com (Sharon K. Souza) — Mon, 24 Nov 2014 10:00:00 +0000

In honor of the release of The Mockingjay, the third movie in the Hunger Games saga, here are some interviews we thought you'd enjoy, first with Suzanne Collins, author of the wildly popular trilogy. Then with Jennifer Lawrence who plays Katniss Everdeen, the heroine of the books. And with Jennifer and fellow cast members, Liam Hemsworth and Josh Hutcherson.

I don't know if you're a fan or not. I am a HUGE fan and can't wait to see this latest installment. A nasty cough as a result of bronchitis was the only thing that kept me out of the theater this weekend. I've read each book in the trilogy three times, and will read them again before the fourth movie comes out next year at this time.

What about you? Fan or not a fan? If not a fan, can you tell us why?

Take Time to Dig

noreply@blogger.com (Debbie Fuller Thomas) — Fri, 21 Nov 2014 09:00:00 +0000

If you're looking for the perfect gift for your writer friend this Christmas, here it is - Writing 21st Century Fiction by Donald Maass. Definitely. I can't say enough good things about this book.

Stick a copy in your own stocking, too.

My copy is highlighted in a rainbow of colors with notes crammed in, underlinings, starred passages, and corners dog-eared. At the end of each chapter, the author lists soul-searching questions to break through the crusty surface and let you peek into your character's psyche and motivations. (And by association, your own.) I worked through the book slowly, forcing myself to take the time to dig deeply and squeeze all the juice out of the story.

One of the exercises that proved the most satisfying was to write down 20 things that only my protagonist would notice. Until then, I had no idea that the house sucks in its breath when the housekeeper turns the key in the lock each morning and exhales when she leaves at night, or that my protagonist's husband talks in his sleep about his dead wife.

The author made one particular statement that I'm still mulling over: "The fact is that everything that your conscious mind has yet to discover about your characters and story is already fully formed in your unconscious mind. It's been there since the moment the first hint of the story surfaced."

I'm not sure how I feel about that. Do I create or does the character dictate to me?

In order to see the story and the characters fully formed, I need

Tram Ride

noreply@blogger.com (Latayne C Scott) — Wed, 19 Nov 2014 10:00:00 +0000

This thin thin wire

Sways in generous bulging arcs

From breeze to breeze

Like a child's jumprope

Or the rippling undulations

Of a lustrous serpent

Moving through thick waters.

We are suspended under

This snakerope

And we are pulled along

By it. There is no escape:

The mountain floor beneath us

Is frighteningly distant.

The trees are miniature layered fans

And its boulders a pebbled mosaic.

A ridge rises before us.

Our eyes tells us there is no

Way over it, and yet

The cable passes through a crevice.

This, then, is faith:

We know we must follow where the cable has

Gone, and let our hearts

Finish the ride,

Finish the ride.

copyrighted poem

Image courtesy of freedigitalphotos.net

It's Up to Us

noreply@blogger.com (Sharon K. Souza) — Mon, 17 Nov 2014 10:00:00 +0000

I'm quite a fan of American Idol. And The Voice and X-Factor, and any other music competition shows you can throw my way. But mostly American Idol. I love how these shows have given a platform for talented singers who otherwise might never have been exposed to the world. Even those who don't win the competition have achieved far more than they ever thought possible, simply because of the exposure.

I was reminded again this morning how much I love those shows and the amazing platform they provide when my daughter showed me a YouTube video of a new release from Danny Gokey, a third place finalist in Season 8 of American Idol. He was a favorite of mine, as well as my husband and our family, and even though Danny didn't win, I had no doubt he would have a fabulous career in music. Here is the link to his latest song, Hope in Front of Me: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9KIhYZQ_ovw

Not for the first time I wished, and said aloud, that there was such a venue for authors trying to get their "voice" out to the world in the form of their novels. A place where writers could connect with a tailor-made audience.

Sadly, there isn't. So it's up to us, you and me, lovers of good fiction to get the word out about our favorite books and authors. We have the ability to give a leg up to those novelists who touch something within us, to get the "word" out, pun intended. We have the ability to turn a ripple into a tidal wave, or at least a nice breaker the author can ride to a higher profile. After all, word of mouth is still a great way to expand readership.

So, I encourage you: when you read a book you love, tell someone. No, tell everyone. Post reviews. Email the author. Authors love hearing good things from their readers. Just do what you can on behalf of that author to promote his or her work.

What would happen if we all did that? What would it mean to a writer and his or her work to have that kind of wind in their sails? What would happen if you --

Time is a Greased Pig

noreply@blogger.com (Patti Hill) — Fri, 14 Nov 2014 08:00:00 +0000

The weather has belatedly changed. I walked in temperatures cold enough for a wool cap, mittens, and a scarf this morning. By the time I got back, my nose ran like a spigot.

I'd forgotten my iPod, and so I let my mind out for recess. I don't know if this is the beginning of a story or an idea for a story, but this is where my mind went when the whistle blew:

Time is a greased pig. The more I try to capture and subdue the wriggling thing, the more unmanageable it becomes.

Up until menarche my life was a cord stretched taut from birth. That cord has unraveled into three frayed strands, the beginning, middle, and end. The beginning is just past my eleventh birthday, and I’m the only girl in the fifth-grade to have boobs and cramps. Being the odd girl in class is not my biggest problem, but it sure doesn’t help.

The middle is three children and a husband who disappears for days at a time. No one must know, especially the children. Oh God, not the children. I’m taking accounting classes with mere babies at the junior college. The girls, and there are several girls in my classes, do not wear a smidgen of makeup. The hair at their scalps is thick with grease. I want to march them all to the bathroom and shove a bottle of Preal into their hands. The classes are my secret. I almost always have a headache in the middle.

The end is Depends, horrific food, and the constant drone of my roommate’s television. I’m sickeningly healthy, except for mild incontinence. I fear I will live forever. Only two of my children are alive, which confounds me. I haven’t lived that part of the middle years, and I’m not sure I want to. If I’m lucky, I will die before I have to know what happened to Debbie. A mother isn’t supposed to have favorites, but in my middle life, Debbie is the oops child who can do no wrong. Even her hair behaves. No one speaks of my husband. That doesn’t mean he’s dead, but he is not here, and that is a huge relief. He would not have made a nice old man.

I’ve only met one other person who lives out his life in parallel acts. I suppose being odd...

On the Endings of Things

noreply@blogger.com (Latayne C Scott) — Wed, 12 Nov 2014 09:00:00 +0000

I used to think that when I arrived in heaven I would be like an conquering hero returning to his homeland, banners rippling. But I hadn't lived long enough. Now I believe I will arrive rather unobtrusively, look for a soft place on the divine bosom, and just rest.

The fact of my own coming resurrection must be dealt with on a conscious, day-to-day level. For a Christian, it is a reality as inevitable as death, but so much less to be feared. Just as we "build" the quality of our lives, day by day, surely we build our resurrections--or the hope thereof--in the same way.

Because God wanted to make the unchanging nature of his purpose very clear to the heirs of what was promised, he confirmed it with an oath. God did this so that, by two unchangeable things in which it is impossible for God to lie, we who have fled to take hold of the hope offered to us may be greatly encouraged. We have this hope as an anchor for the soul, firm and secure. It enters the sanctuary behind the curtain, where Jesus, who went before us, has entered on our behalf. --Hebrews 6:17-20a.

We offer these thoughts in honor of Bonnie Grove, who is mourning today the loss of her father last week. Take comfort and peace from our love, dear sister.

In Memoriam:

A Saint Passes

Passing:

Like a little bird breaking

From small confines

Into limitless light, shimmering sun;

Breathless, wings beating,

Blinded by light, impatient,

Exhilarated;

And then

the joy of

Recognition

(waves of translucent luminance like foam on the

endless, untiring sea)

Ransom

Reunion

Rest--

(and eternity stretching as far

as the untroubled sky)

Dancing With the Dead

noreply@blogger.com (Kathleen Popa) — Mon, 10 Nov 2014 10:00:00 +0000

Sometimes a happy life can feel like hell.

Really. This is what we signed up for: a life fully lived.

It's like getting a kitten, or a puppy. At some point you realize that the cuteness and comedy, the warm, fuzzy love all come with a terrible price. You will love this animal who has a short life span, and therefore, one day this animal will break your heart.

You can withdraw from life, and endure the loneliness and sense of waste. Or you can embrace this world, brokenness and all, and cook and eat, sing your songs, swing your partner, fall in love - and know, absolutely know, that one day it will break your heart.

And when it does, you can choose finally to withdraw, and endure the loneliness and sense of waste.

Or you can embrace your wounds, sing a softer song, dance so slowly you seem to stand still. You can still fall in love, even though ...

That House on the Lake

noreply@blogger.com (Debbie Fuller Thomas) — Fri, 07 Nov 2014 09:00:00 +0000

I’m not a song writer, but an article in the November issue of Smithsonian magazine titled, “The Long Way Home” about Rosanne Cash caught my eye. Rosanne’s father is Johnny Cash and her step-mom is June Carter. I remember my father’s stories about his family going to the general store on Saturday nights in southern Virginia to hear the Carter Family sing. It’s funny how connected we can feel even generations apart.

I’ve never heard her music, but I was intrigued at how closely her writing process parallels that of novel writing and the stages we move through for art. She always wanted to write story songs – narratives and ballads like ‘Ode to Billie Joe’ - but didn’t feel it was her strength. Most of her lyrics came from personal introspection which she narrated from her own perspective. She realized that the questions we ask ourselves change with our time of life. So she took a chance, tapped deeper wells and let someone else tell the story.

One of Rosanne’s new songs was a deeply personal story about her father’s house on the lake in Tennessee. It was quite different from her other songs, and after singing it live, a man came up to her and confirmed that we all have “that house on the lake.” She realized that “The more specific you are about places and characters, the more universal the song becomes.”

I feel this is true because specifics make the story come truly alive for us. Maybe we fill in our own blanks, but we don't connect with vagueness. It just doesn't cut it. Specifics allow us to connect clearly, then take a step back. When we view life through someone else’s lens we have the freedom to process it fearlessly. Like playing dress-up, we can invest ourselves as far as we want to go, and set the mask aside when we are done. But we are always changed by the experience.

I encourage you to check out the article here to see the process Rosanne and her co-writers went through from research to finish on one of her narrative songs. The process for novel writing is much the same, if on a broader scale, but it is so much more challenging to convey one’s story in 54 lines of lyrics.

The last time my life experience connected

I don't think I belong here. . .

noreply@blogger.com (Latayne C Scott) — Wed, 05 Nov 2014 09:00:00 +0000

Once my husband and our two young children were traveling cross country—five thousand miles in three weeks in a Ford Escort. We saw the Smithsonian, Monticello, Zondervan Publishing House and other things I’ll never forget.

Another unforgettable experience happened when we drove into the Chicago area, where my aunt lived. With all the traffic and confusing signs, we missed an important turn, and ended up in an area with very few pay phones (this was before I got a cell phone.) We searched and searched until we found a working one outside a grimy convenience store.

“Hi, Aunt Juanice,” I said. “We’re kinda lost and were hoping you could give us some directions.”

“Where are you, honey?”

I squinted. It was getting dark and I couldn’t see any street signs. I mentioned that there weren’t many street lights. As best I could, I described the neighborhood and gave her the name of the convenience store, which I assumed was named after the street it was on.

“Honey, get in your car and drive,” my aunt said urgently.

“Which direction?”

“It doesn’t matter. Just drive and call me when you get to a safe neighborhood.”

I have often thought of that incident and how it so perfectly illustrates one of my favorite proverbs, one from Turkey.

“No matter how far you have gone down the wrong road, turn back.”

For those of us who feel our writing is getting out of its vehicle and facing something dark and unwelcoming, we are looking to other neighborhoods, places where people will dialogue more than threaten. Perhaps the answer lies in. . .

(photo courtesy of freedigitalphotos.net)

Critics? Get Naked!

noreply@blogger.com (Patti Hill) — Mon, 03 Nov 2014 08:00:00 +0000

My favorite way to procrastinate is to visit a web site called Faithit. It's full of inspiration videos and stories that show the noble side of the human experience. As you can imagine, I've been going there more often than usual.

Go and make yourself a cup of tea, coffee, or a root beer float. This video is so perfect for us creatives that I had to share it with you. It's pretty long at 22 minutes, but the tools and wisdom she shares about our critics is priceless.

By the way, Brené Brown is an American scholar, author, and public speaker, who is currently a research professor at the University of Houston Graduate College of Social Work. She's the author of Daring Greatly, The Gifts of Imperfection, and I Thought It Was Just Me.

I plan on watching this once a week until I've internalized the message.

I'm anxious to hear what you have to say about it.

After I listened to this for the first time, I...(fill in the blank).

In Pain We Write

noreply@blogger.com (Sharon K. Souza) — Fri, 31 Oct 2014 09:00:00 +0000

Happy Halloween.

Boo.

This post was inspired by a devotion by Charles Swindoll on October 18, 2014, called Writing With Thorns.

We've all known pain, all known grief, to one extent or another. Some of the most enduring art, be it picture or words, is born from sorrow.

C.S. Lewis wrote so poignantly in A Grief Observed regarding the loss of his wife:

No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear. I am not afraid, but the sensation is like being afraid. The same fluttering in the stomach, the same restlessness, the yawning . . . . Her absence is like the sky, spread out over everything.

Ada Campbell Rose, author and editor, wrote:

The mantle of grief falls on every hour of the day and covers me while I sleep. Will it ever go away?

And George Matheson, Scottish minister and hymn writer, wrote:

Show me that my tears have made my rainbow.

Lord, I wish I'd written that.

Lord, I wish I could grasp the truth of it.

But I feel my tears -- so ever present these days -- are nothing more than a release for the pain, regret, dashed hopes, anxiety, sorrow, and all I carry inside. I'm thankful, so thankful. for that release, because, as it is written in The Color of Sorrow Isn't Blue:

". . . there are so many [tears] inside I slosh when I walk."

But do I see them as my rainbow-maker? Never. Not once.

The six of us here have all written from our pain. I know many of you have too. We draw from the well of affliction, and amazingly we throw the light of hope and of humor on situations that seem so hopeless, so humorless. We, like you, do it as therapy for ourselves and encouragement for those who read our words.

So, I don't know, maybe I should reconsider my tears, maybe I should look for the rainbow. I just might see

What? What have you learned, shared, written in that dark night of the soul?

Rules

noreply@blogger.com (Bonnie Grove) — Wed, 29 Oct 2014 16:08:00 +0000

I spent the last two days tromping through nature with my daughter and a classroom of children. Their teacher informed me that 3/4 of the children hadn't--ever--been camping before, and most hadn't spent anytime outside of the city.

The teachers and staff at the camp facility lauded the children for their respect of the land, how they were quiet and careful hikers. I, too, was glad for the children's good behaviour. About halfway through our time, though, I realized that at least a portion of it could be chalked up to the newness of it all.

Of course they didn't stray from the groomed paths. They'd never walked on one before. Of course they were quiet when they were told to be. They had no idea what they were listening for and needed minute by minute instruction.

I began to hope they wouldn't always act this way. I don't want them marching over protected species and bulldozing through native prairie, but I hope that the newness wears off for them and they can begin to take joy in the unnatural setting of nature. Not the blasé of I've already seen the muskrat, why are you calling me back to look at it again? But the take-root exuberance of knowing a place so well you can relax enough to enjoy it.

I didn't want the kids to act up, but to act out.

Act out of the expectations of a school system that commends you for parroting back the right answer. Act out of character and be curious about a thin trail that leads to parts unknown. Act out bravery and walk alone in the dark, listening for clues, not about how safe, how close to civilization they are, but for how wild, how still connected they are to a lost eden.

Experience is the only way to learn which rules you can bend, and which should--must--break. Not because you can, but because you know the land intimately and you can hear its heart cry and are powerless to do anything but respond.

Interview with Susan Fish

noreply@blogger.com (Bonnie Grove) — Mon, 27 Oct 2014 09:00:00 +0000

Susan Fish, author of the new novel Ithaca

Every once in awhile, Novel Matters will highlight a writer we enjoy. Susan Fish is one of those writers. She's penned a lovely, moving novel called Ithaca that hit shelves in early October. We think you'll want to get your hands on this book. Spend some time today getting to know this writer.

Susan Fish is a writer and editor who lives in Waterloo, Ontario, Canada. She’s a mother of three and wife of one. She also has an energetic dog although she is a cat person. The author of two published novels, she operates Storywell, an editing company that helps clients tell their stories well. She does not like sweating.

Novel Matters: Susan, welcome to Novel Matters! Tell us about your latest novel, Ithaca.

Susan Fish: For 39 years, Daisy Turner has been a professor’s wife, typing his notes and helping out. The centrepiece of her life is a weekly community dinner she hosts—one that always features soup. The sudden death of her husband leaves her unmoored. Then, suddenly, Daisy finds herself entangled with a man whose wife is disabled, mothering a young activist-farmer, and swept into the controversy about fracking that has begun to concern their small Ivy League town. Ithaca explores what happens when a quiet, almost sedimentary life meets the high-pressure forces of a small town. How do you rebuild after life as you know it is suddenly turned upside down—or is fracked?

NM: Fracking. Uh. . . help us out here.

SF: Fracking or hydraulic fracturing is a new method for drilling for natural gas and oil. Rather than digging a well and getting a gusher (à la Beverly Hillbillies), fracking involves an intense injection of water, sand and chemicals into shale rock in such a way that the rock gets fractured and then all the tiny deposits of natural gas that were trapped between layers of rock are sucked out.

NM: Oh, that sounds simple and clean, and couldn’t possibly have any adverse effects on the environment. I’ve read the novel, Susan, and I know this isn’t an “issues” novel—

SF: Whew. That was obviously my hope, too. I didn’t want this to be an afterschool special type of book.

NM: And it totally isn’t! If I were pressed to classify the story, I’d say it’s a literary novel examining complex relationships between people, roles, and expectations about life. Two thumbs up for avoiding the soapbox! In fact, you don’t serve up easy answers about any of the issues you tackle in Ithaca. Still, the idea came from somewhere, what was the inspiration?

SF: I visited Ithaca, New York in the summer of 2011 and saw all sorts of signs up that said “No Fracking.” I had no idea what fracking was, and it was months later that I looked the word up.

NM: A summer trip to NY, and signs about fracking. How did that meld into story form for you?

SF: When I found out about fracking, I was already in the early stages of a novel about two older women who lived together, creating a sort of family. I knew that one was widowed and the other was recently retired. When I started thinking about fracking, it felt like in many ways fracking paralleled my characters’ experiences—their lives had been suddenly and potentially dangerously been fractured from all that had been settled and good.

NM: I think many people can relate to that. To having something happen in their life that breaks apart the solid foundation.

SF: I think because fracking became a metaphor for sudden loss and change, balancing the story with the issues of fracking came easily.

NM: Oh, please don’t tell me writing for you is easy! Pretty please! Tell me there were hard parts about writing this lovely novel.

SF: Oh, don’t worry. There were hard parts. What I found most challenging with this book was figuring out how my character would respond to the issue in a way that was true to who she was. I spent a lot of time with index cards figuring out the process.

NM: Your main character goes through a kind of growing up—maturing—even though she’s past middle aged. Was she one of those characters that arrive in the writer’s mind fully formed, or did she come at you in bits and pieces?

SF: I knew a lot about Daisy very early on and her voice was really clear to me. I knew that she hosted a weekly soup supper and that her husband had died suddenly. I knew that she had collections. It took me quite a while to settle on a name for her. A lot of this story came to me while walking my dog around our neighbourhood in the early evenings of autumn 2011. People had their lights on but had left their curtains open, and so I could see the stuff of people’s lives, the small domestic dramas being lived out faithfully.

NM: Yes! Novel writing via Peeping Tommery! Awesome!

SF: OK, no need to panic—I didn’t stop and watch, but it was hard not to be drawn to the scenes, as if they were small tableaux. I started imagining a woman whose house was filled with stuff that told her story, but whose life had been fractured. I should also say that I once knew a woman whose professor husband did die of a massive heart attack in a faculty meeting, but I don’t know how her story went, so it was not based on more than the facts.

NM: You and I have talked about this, Susan, and I’m dying to know what you decided: who would you want to play Daisy in the movie version?

SF: Oh, that’s a tough one. At first I thought Annette Bening and then Blythe Danner or Emma Thompson. I’m still not sure. Someone shortish and blonde and middle aged and able to be quiet, but with passion at the core. I’d love to hear who others see as Daisy.

NM: You took some risks: the novel is introspective, the main character is 58 years old, the whole issue/story balancing act. What drove you to create the novel this way?

SF: On September 11, 2001, my eldest child started kindergarten and the world blew up. That afternoon, I took my kids to a local farmers’ market and we bought corn—and then when the kids were asleep, we devoured the news of what was going on, and we shook. My actions were really deliberate because I did not want my kids to be shaped by fear. Someone later told me that this was a political act, as much as anything else I could have done. I believe in small actions making a difference, and I love reading and telling small, intimate, human stories. I really like that Daisy is a bit older and ordinary—because I think it challenges all of us as readers to see ourselves and our lives as stories, and to ask why we make the choices we do, and how we might think differently about our lives.

NM: Thinking about our lives. Let’s talk a bit about your life. How did you get sucked into the writing game?

SF: It got me early! There are two key points that mark the start of my writing history. The first was when I was in grade three and wrote a Christmas themed story about two sisters named Charlotte and Holly. My teacher liked it so much she had me write it out on Gestetner paper and illustrate it (this latter was a bad idea) and made copies for the school library.

NM: I know what Gestetner paper is, and I’m taking a moment to celebrate this fact. Woo Hoo! Okay. I’m good. What was the second point?

SF: Do you remember what the ink smelled like? I do! The second pivotal point came when I was working for Inter-Varsity Christian Fellowship and I realized that one of my favourite parts of my job was writing letters to my supporters. No one else liked doing that. It led me to apply for work where my job was to tell stories.

NM: And you like stories that include food! Soup plays an important role in Ithaca. Here at Novel Matters, we love so many novels that include recipes as part of the story. The School of Essential Ingredients by Erica Bauermeister, and Jan Karon’s Mitford Series come to mind – though Jan Karon published a complete recipe book with recipes mentioned in the series. Do you plan to include your soup recipes in the novel? Or would you consider a supplemental recipe book to go with Ithaca?

SF: I so enjoyed The School of Essential Ingredients and all Jan Karon’s books! Yum! After I finished writing this book, I decided I really should develop recipes to correspond with the chapter titles (all of which are indeed soup names). My poor family ate a lot of soup last year. I decided not to include the recipes in the book but I am releasing a recipe a week on my blog (susanfishwrites.wordpress.com) this fall.

NM: Can you share one of your favourite soup recipes with us?

SF: One of my favourites is the soup Daisy serves at Thanksgiving, which is Three Sisters Soup, based on the First Nations practice of growing beans, squash and corn together. Here’s the recipe for this soup:

Three Sisters Soup
In 1 Tbsp olive oil, sauté 1 stalk celery, chopped, 4 cloves garlic 1 onion, chopped, 1 tsp thyme. Add 2 cups cooked pumpkin or winter squash, 2 cups corn (2 cobs), 1 cup black beans, cooked (or other legume), 4 cups vegetable stock. Bring to a boil, reduce heat and let simmer. Add a dash of Sriracha sauce (or other hot sauce) and a splash of lime juice, salt and pepper.

NM: Along with homey soup, beekeeping is also part of the storyline of Ithaca. Seriously! Bees and honey. It felt so easy and natural to the story, that it makes me wonder if you knew lots about beekeeping prior to writing the novel, or did that require research?

SF: I spent an afternoon at a retreat talking with a beekeeper about beekeeping a few years ago. Bees are utterly fascinating to me. The small community where we have spent summers (on Quebec’s Gaspe peninsula) is home to an amazing beekeeping family who sell delicious varieties of honey. I think that played an influential role too. Beyond that, I did some Googling of bee facts. My favourite bee fact is that bees only live six weeks and so they never actually consume the honey they participate in making—they eat what others have made, and leave honey behind for those who come afterwards. That seems profound.

NM: Love it. I’ll be thinking about bees all day now. We know you run an editing business, tell us about your writing schedule.

SF: I write every day and a lot but a lot of that is for my editing company or for clients. It’s easy for fiction to get shoved to the side. I decided I was going to prioritize fiction writing on Fridays, which I call Fiction First Friday. I don’t think I have a preferred time to write, or at least, I don’t necessarily have that luxury. I’m no good for anything right after lunch, but other than that, I feel like the show must go on. Planning to write fiction on Fridays, though, means that I’m ready to sit down and write when Friday comes around.

NM: With all that going on, how long did it take you to write Ithaca?

SF: It took me about a year and a half in total to write Ithaca. Toward the end of the writing process, it was winter and my paid work was slow and I wrote and wrote and wrote this book pretty much every day.

NM: After reading Ithaca, readers are going to want a new novel from you as soon as possible. What are you working on now?

SF: I actually have two other unpublished novels so maybe those will be next. I’m about to embark on writing a cookbook about our local farmers’ market. I’m also slowly working on a novel about a fascinating woman who built a castle in the 1920s.

NM: Susan, thanks for stopping by, thanks for sharing, and thanks for writing such a smart, homely, lovely novel. How do we get a copy of Ithaca?

SF: Thanks so much for having me! Ithaca is available in all the usual places—the links are below. It can also be available in your local bookstore: all they need to know is the title and my name, and they can order it in.

Grab a copy of Ithaca online at one of these links:

iTunes: https://itunes.apple.com/ca/book/ithaca/id914153961?mt=11

Kobo: http://store.kobobooks.com/en-CA/ebook/ithaca-6

Kindle (US): http://www.amazon.com/Ithaca-Susan-Fish-ebook/dp/B00N59J4XC/ref=sr_1_3?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1413989605&sr=1-3&keywords=ithaca

Kindle (Canada): http://www.amazon.ca/Ithaca-Susan-Fish-ebook/dp/B00N59J4XC/ref=sr_1_1_twi_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1413989629&sr=8-1&keywords=ithaca

Amazon (Canada): http://www.amazon.ca/Ithaca-Susan-Fish/dp/099389030X/ref=sr_1_1_twi_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1413989629&sr=8-1&keywords=ithaca

Amazon (US): http://www.amazon.com/Ithaca-Susan-Fish/dp/099389030X/ref=sr_1_15_twi_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1413989671&sr=8-15&keywords=ithaca

Barnes and Noble: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/ithaca-susan-fish/1120259359?ean=9780993890307

Nook: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/ithaca-susan-fish/1120259359?ean=9780993890314&itm=1&usri=ithaca

Jesus In the Details

noreply@blogger.com (Kathleen Popa) — Fri, 24 Oct 2014 08:00:00 +0000

I play it over and over again, this particular segment of Searching for Sugarman.

For background, it's a true story about a folk-singer, contemporary of Bob Dylan - whose star fell as fast as Dylan's rose.

In this country.

In South Africa, it was a very different story, but for decades, he had no idea. In that country, he was off-the-charts huge. He could have been wealthy, but he didn't know.

Yes, watch the film.

But before you do, for the sake of this post, watch the segment from 49.31 to 50.47, and listen to what he says.

Would his life have been better? He doesn't know. How to respond?

"Nothing beats reality."

I remember a time when I both hoped and feared my life would change, and I found myself clinging for dear life to the ordinary. I took extravagant comfort in the morning ritual of filling the coffee pot with water, pouring it in the reservoir, scooping out three heaping spoons of coffee - and a fourth if they didn't heap tall enough.

The coldness of the water. The smell when I opened the bag.

I can think of moments that have made me think with gratitude of the tedium and even the pain of the past. I once read a book where the main character, in her time of crisis was asked by a wise person, "Where is Jesus right now?" I have read that I can never find Him anywhere but in this moment, in this place - in reality. My experience seems to bear that out.

Whatever that reality is. "The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven..." Milton was right. It all depends on...

That Look

noreply@blogger.com (Debbie Fuller Thomas) — Wed, 22 Oct 2014 08:00:00 +0000

My son is taking a literature class - The Filmed Novel - that sounds like a hoot. They read an assigned novel, discuss it and watch the movie together. So far they've read The Maltese Falcon, High Fidelity and True Grit. It's been interesting to hear his take on how closely the movies follow the books. He has definite opinions about the movies made of some of his favorites. I have to agree with him on the Harry Potter finale being anticlimactic but I am totally satisfied with the treatment of The Hobbit. I like to think that Tolkien would be, too.

Why didn't they have classes like that when I was in college?

This may border on heresy for some, but in my opinion the book is not always better than the movie. Here is my list:

The African Queen - My edition of this book ends poorly. The odd couple who fought together for something that mattered and found love in the film do not accomplish their goal in the book and simply...separate. What a downer. We need heroes and hope.
The Painted Veil - Again, the movie ending was more satisfying.
The Ghost and Mrs. Muir - the book was a snoozer. The script writers got it right.
Remains of the Day
Chocolat
The Accidental Tourist
Out of Africa

Some of my preferences must be attributed to the great performances of talented actors and actresses who breathed life into two-dimensional characters. Other preferences were in regard to story.

This is my partial list. I wonder if you would add