Monday, September 27, 2010
Wednesday, September 01, 2010
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Wednesday, June 02, 2010
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Cock Blocked By Elmore Leonard
Girls can say "cock blocked" because--as Eddie Iz would say-- those are the rules I just made up. Elmore's writing tips are messing with my head. I read them and I'm all like, "Fuuuuck! I do all this":
Using adverbs is a mortal sin
1 Never open a book with weather. If it's only to create atmosphere, and not a charac¬ter's reaction to the weather, you don't want to go on too long. The reader is apt to leaf ahead look¬ing for people. There are exceptions. If you happen to be Barry Lopez, who has more ways than an Eskimo to describe ice and snow in his book Arctic Dreams, you can do all the weather reporting you want.
2 Avoid prologues: they can be ¬annoying, especially a prologue ¬following an introduction that comes after a foreword. But these are ordinarily found in non-fiction. A prologue in a novel is backstory, and you can drop it in anywhere you want. There is a prologue in John Steinbeck's Sweet Thursday, but it's OK because a character in the book makes the point of what my rules are all about. He says: "I like a lot of talk in a book and I don't like to have nobody tell me what the guy that's talking looks like. I want to figure out what he looks like from the way he talks."
3 Never use a verb other than "said" to carry dialogue. The line of dialogue belongs to the character; the verb is the writer sticking his nose in. But "said" is far less intrusive than "grumbled", "gasped", "cautioned", "lied". I once noticed Mary McCarthy ending a line of dialogue with "she asseverated" and had to stop reading and go to the dictionary.
4 Never use an adverb to modify the verb "said" . . . he admonished gravely. To use an adverb this way (or almost any way) is a mortal sin. The writer is now exposing himself in earnest, using a word that distracts and can interrupt the rhythm of the exchange. I have a character in one of my books tell how she used to write historical romances "full of rape and adverbs".
5 Keep your exclamation points ¬under control. You are allowed no more than two or three per 100,000 words of prose. If you have the knack of playing with exclaimers the way Tom Wolfe does, you can throw them in by the handful.
6 Never use the words "suddenly" or "all hell broke loose". This rule doesn't require an explanation. I have noticed that writers who use "suddenly" tend to exercise less control in the application of exclamation points.
7 Use regional dialect, patois, sparingly. Once you start spelling words in dialogue phonetically and loading the page with apos¬trophes, you won't be able to stop. Notice the way Annie Proulx captures the flavour of Wyoming voices in her book of short stories Close Range.
8 Avoid detailed descriptions of characters, which Steinbeck covered. In Ernest Hemingway's "Hills Like White Elephants", what do the "Ameri¬can and the girl with him" look like? "She had taken off her hat and put it on the table." That's the only reference to a physical description in the story.
9 Don't go into great detail describing places and things, unless you're ¬Margaret Atwood and can paint scenes with language. You don't want descriptions that bring the action, the flow of the story, to a standstill.
10 Try to leave out the part that readers tend to skip. Think of what you skip reading a novel: thick paragraphs of prose you can see have too many words in them.
My most important rule is one that sums up the 10: if it sounds like writing, I rewrite it.
Using adverbs is a mortal sin
1 Never open a book with weather. If it's only to create atmosphere, and not a charac¬ter's reaction to the weather, you don't want to go on too long. The reader is apt to leaf ahead look¬ing for people. There are exceptions. If you happen to be Barry Lopez, who has more ways than an Eskimo to describe ice and snow in his book Arctic Dreams, you can do all the weather reporting you want.
2 Avoid prologues: they can be ¬annoying, especially a prologue ¬following an introduction that comes after a foreword. But these are ordinarily found in non-fiction. A prologue in a novel is backstory, and you can drop it in anywhere you want. There is a prologue in John Steinbeck's Sweet Thursday, but it's OK because a character in the book makes the point of what my rules are all about. He says: "I like a lot of talk in a book and I don't like to have nobody tell me what the guy that's talking looks like. I want to figure out what he looks like from the way he talks."
3 Never use a verb other than "said" to carry dialogue. The line of dialogue belongs to the character; the verb is the writer sticking his nose in. But "said" is far less intrusive than "grumbled", "gasped", "cautioned", "lied". I once noticed Mary McCarthy ending a line of dialogue with "she asseverated" and had to stop reading and go to the dictionary.
4 Never use an adverb to modify the verb "said" . . . he admonished gravely. To use an adverb this way (or almost any way) is a mortal sin. The writer is now exposing himself in earnest, using a word that distracts and can interrupt the rhythm of the exchange. I have a character in one of my books tell how she used to write historical romances "full of rape and adverbs".
5 Keep your exclamation points ¬under control. You are allowed no more than two or three per 100,000 words of prose. If you have the knack of playing with exclaimers the way Tom Wolfe does, you can throw them in by the handful.
6 Never use the words "suddenly" or "all hell broke loose". This rule doesn't require an explanation. I have noticed that writers who use "suddenly" tend to exercise less control in the application of exclamation points.
7 Use regional dialect, patois, sparingly. Once you start spelling words in dialogue phonetically and loading the page with apos¬trophes, you won't be able to stop. Notice the way Annie Proulx captures the flavour of Wyoming voices in her book of short stories Close Range.
8 Avoid detailed descriptions of characters, which Steinbeck covered. In Ernest Hemingway's "Hills Like White Elephants", what do the "Ameri¬can and the girl with him" look like? "She had taken off her hat and put it on the table." That's the only reference to a physical description in the story.
9 Don't go into great detail describing places and things, unless you're ¬Margaret Atwood and can paint scenes with language. You don't want descriptions that bring the action, the flow of the story, to a standstill.
10 Try to leave out the part that readers tend to skip. Think of what you skip reading a novel: thick paragraphs of prose you can see have too many words in them.
My most important rule is one that sums up the 10: if it sounds like writing, I rewrite it.
Sunday, May 09, 2010
Friday, April 16, 2010
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Thursday, April 08, 2010
Friday, March 26, 2010
Saturday, March 20, 2010
Another of Mine From Dreams of William Shatner
Sorry, monkies. I'm just not writing fan fiction lately. Actually, I'm not writing any fiction, dammit. The only thing I've been able to manage is snarky comments on Gawker and tweets. Read this while I wait for inspiration.
Dreaming of Bill
I'm sitting on the edge of a bed pulling on the cowboy boots that I used to wear with everything back in the early 80's. I realized that my whole outfit's kinda cute--short white prairie skirt, wide red patent leather belt, brown tube top and a lime green grandpa cardigan--and I think, in my dream, "That's so 2008, Urban Outfitters, trailer trash chic and I used to dress like that when I was an undergrad at Cal State Long Beach in 1982".
Anyway.
I look back, and Bill's laying on the bed, naked, watching me get dressed. He is solidly into middle age, just starting to get thick around the waist but still fit and lushly muscular. He'd seemed embarrassed about how hairy his body was until I told him that I liked it and that it reminded me that I was making love to a man and not a boy. I'd also made him take off the ridiculous toupee and was surprised to see that he wasn't bald, but that his hair grew in short wisps on the top of his head. I didn't tell him that he looked better without it. The only thing about his body he seemed proud of was his dick.
And rightly so.
He smiled at me and I rolled my eyes.
"What?" he laughed.
"I told, you man. We're only doing this once," I said.
"I heard you the first time."
"Don't be calling me all the time, trippin' and shit."
"I won't."
"And don't tell Leonard. We kind of have a thing."
"I know."
"Just, you know."
"I'm going to leave my wife," he said.
"Women leave you, honey," I said.
Dreaming of Bill
I'm sitting on the edge of a bed pulling on the cowboy boots that I used to wear with everything back in the early 80's. I realized that my whole outfit's kinda cute--short white prairie skirt, wide red patent leather belt, brown tube top and a lime green grandpa cardigan--and I think, in my dream, "That's so 2008, Urban Outfitters, trailer trash chic and I used to dress like that when I was an undergrad at Cal State Long Beach in 1982".
Anyway.
I look back, and Bill's laying on the bed, naked, watching me get dressed. He is solidly into middle age, just starting to get thick around the waist but still fit and lushly muscular. He'd seemed embarrassed about how hairy his body was until I told him that I liked it and that it reminded me that I was making love to a man and not a boy. I'd also made him take off the ridiculous toupee and was surprised to see that he wasn't bald, but that his hair grew in short wisps on the top of his head. I didn't tell him that he looked better without it. The only thing about his body he seemed proud of was his dick.
And rightly so.
He smiled at me and I rolled my eyes.
"What?" he laughed.
"I told, you man. We're only doing this once," I said.
"I heard you the first time."
"Don't be calling me all the time, trippin' and shit."
"I won't."
"And don't tell Leonard. We kind of have a thing."
"I know."
"Just, you know."
"I'm going to leave my wife," he said.
"Women leave you, honey," I said.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
From Dreams of William Shatner
I wrote this in Nov 2008. Brought over from Dreams of William Shatner:
I dreamt I bought a house across from the Nimoys’ in the hills but didn’t know we were neighbors until Bill hopped out of his Mercedes convertible and rang the bell at their gate. I was working under my 1970 Volvo 1800-E—one of those little sport coupes—but slid out when he drove up. He’d done something to his engine and it rumbled loud enough to rattle the loose chrome on my car.
I stood, wiped my hands on a rag and watched him. He had his TMP hair but his Search for Spock body and he wore brown cords with no belt and a black tee shirt that was loose at the waist but stretched across his chest.
He was also wearing Tevas, but what’re you going to do?
He glanced back at me then did a double-take. I could see his eyes beneath his lashes travel over my bare arms and legs. The Beach Boys sang “Help me, Rhonda” on his radio. He grinned. I nodded at his Mercedes. He said something I couldn’t hear. He reached in his car and turned off the ignition.
Leonard came down his driveway and opened the gate. This was Leonard circa 1967, still slender but getting soft from not having to do night work, starting to drink too much and unhappy with his life. His Spock haircut had grown down to his eyebrows and his hair was full and parted in the breeze without all the pomade. It was a warm evening but he wore a dark v-neck sweater, black slacks and square-toed shoes. I could see the woman who is his wife now watching from a window, drinking a glass of wine. She squinted at Bill then at me and turned away.
I leaned a hip against my car. Leonard lit a cigarette. Bill plucked it from his lips and took a drag. He handed it back and they both started across the street. I laughed and motioned toward the engine block hanging from a hoist over my Volvo. Leonard and I steadied the block while Bill cranked the winch. Bill kept up a steady stream of chatter filled with really bad puns and chuckled at his own jokes while he checked out my ass. Leonard studied me quietly.
We bolted in the engine block, moving around the car, brushing against each other, fronts to backs, backs to fronts. Bill pressed against me briefly, gently, letting me feel his erection. Leonard breathed warmly on the back of my neck and softly stroked a thumb across my nipple reaching around me for a wrench. I could smell Old Spice and Right Guard and Prell, engine grease and the tobacco from the pack of cigarettes in Leonard’s pocket. They circled me, switching places. My dogs started barking in the house. Bill slid his hands up my ribs and squeezed my breasts. Leonard lifted my chin with a knuckle and kissed me deeply and for a long time.
Then my dogs woke me up barking at a catfight in the street.
Miserable mutts.
I dreamt I bought a house across from the Nimoys’ in the hills but didn’t know we were neighbors until Bill hopped out of his Mercedes convertible and rang the bell at their gate. I was working under my 1970 Volvo 1800-E—one of those little sport coupes—but slid out when he drove up. He’d done something to his engine and it rumbled loud enough to rattle the loose chrome on my car.
I stood, wiped my hands on a rag and watched him. He had his TMP hair but his Search for Spock body and he wore brown cords with no belt and a black tee shirt that was loose at the waist but stretched across his chest.
He was also wearing Tevas, but what’re you going to do?
He glanced back at me then did a double-take. I could see his eyes beneath his lashes travel over my bare arms and legs. The Beach Boys sang “Help me, Rhonda” on his radio. He grinned. I nodded at his Mercedes. He said something I couldn’t hear. He reached in his car and turned off the ignition.
Leonard came down his driveway and opened the gate. This was Leonard circa 1967, still slender but getting soft from not having to do night work, starting to drink too much and unhappy with his life. His Spock haircut had grown down to his eyebrows and his hair was full and parted in the breeze without all the pomade. It was a warm evening but he wore a dark v-neck sweater, black slacks and square-toed shoes. I could see the woman who is his wife now watching from a window, drinking a glass of wine. She squinted at Bill then at me and turned away.
I leaned a hip against my car. Leonard lit a cigarette. Bill plucked it from his lips and took a drag. He handed it back and they both started across the street. I laughed and motioned toward the engine block hanging from a hoist over my Volvo. Leonard and I steadied the block while Bill cranked the winch. Bill kept up a steady stream of chatter filled with really bad puns and chuckled at his own jokes while he checked out my ass. Leonard studied me quietly.
We bolted in the engine block, moving around the car, brushing against each other, fronts to backs, backs to fronts. Bill pressed against me briefly, gently, letting me feel his erection. Leonard breathed warmly on the back of my neck and softly stroked a thumb across my nipple reaching around me for a wrench. I could smell Old Spice and Right Guard and Prell, engine grease and the tobacco from the pack of cigarettes in Leonard’s pocket. They circled me, switching places. My dogs started barking in the house. Bill slid his hands up my ribs and squeezed my breasts. Leonard lifted my chin with a knuckle and kissed me deeply and for a long time.
Then my dogs woke me up barking at a catfight in the street.
Miserable mutts.
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