3 Books that Changed How I Write

While subbing for a language arts class, a student came up to me and asked if I would recommend some writing books for her.   A pretty basic question—yet I hesitated.  In the last 15 years, I've read at least two dozen books on writing, along with countless magazine and blog articles.  After a while, they all start to blur together.  How can I choose the best when I barely remember the titles?

But there were some books I remembered, books I kept coming back to, books whose advice I applied and found my story all the stronger for it.  I cannot guarantee they will transform your writing.  All I know is that they transformed mine.

1. Elements of Fiction Writing: Character and Viewpoint by Orson Scott Card

At some point in his life, my dad wanted to write stories with his sister; subsequently, he gathered a huge collection of writing books.  The dream never panned out for him, but the books lay on the shelf, ripe for the picking.  The most prominent of the collection was the Elements of Fiction Writing series, several white-spined books that each broke down the fundamentals of plot, setting, scene, etc.  In high school, when I became serious about my writing, I devoured the books.

When I came to the Character and Viewpoint book, I was startled to find it was written by Orson Scott Card.  I'd only just finished reading Ender's Game, one of my all-time favorite books.  Needless to say, I read with rapt attention. 

At the time I was just starting what was to become an epic pokemon fanfiction, and I realized to my dismay that some of my secondary characters (Karen and Kris) bore all the hallmarks of a flat character.  I remedied this immediately.  The character became infinitely more complex and interesting.  They ended up being my favorites.

I recommend this book to a beginner writer who wants to add depth to characters and understand the subtle, but powerful way point of view influences the story.  You do not have to take all his suggestions.  (At one point he says an audience could not relate to an intellectual hero—from a man who’s best-selling book revolves around geniuses!)  But it gives good insight into what makes a character tick.

2. Self-Editing for Fiction Writers: How to Edit Yourself Into Print by Renni Browne and Dave King

I was in Japan mid-deep into The Changelings, the epic fantasy I'd started four years ago in college, but I was getting frustrated because my writing just wasn't good.  That is, the story was okay, but the actual words did not conveying my ideas in the smooth and elegant way I'd seen in published novels.  Sometimes, if I wrote and re-wrote the chapter a dozen times, I’d get close.  But I had no idea what I was doing. 

This book broke down the craft of turning story into prose bit by bit, using lots of examples and a few obscure comics.  I started practicing it on my Ramna 1/2 fanfiction (yes, I wrote a lot of fanfiction) and was amazed how much emotion I was able to evoke.  Not only that, I understood why it worked and how, through a lot of sweat, to replicate the result.

I recommend this book to intermediate to advanced writer, who knows the basics of storytelling but wants their prose to read in a clear, professional manner.

3. Book in a Month: The Fool-Proof System for Writing a Novel in 30 Days by Victoria Lynn Schmidt

Boy, I wish I had this book in college, back when I was flailing about to turn the sprawling plot of my novel into something comprehensible.  If I'd known how to outline then, I'd have saved myself a lot of trouble.

When I started The Changelings back in January ’04, I thought I’d write it like I had my pokemon fanfiction—one chapter at a time, no planning ahead.  But this story was infinitely more complex, and I spent three years of college spinning my wheels.  4 years after that, I finally had a complete draft.  Now, as I revised The Changelings, I knew I had to start thinking about the sequel, The Originals.  But I did not want to spend another 7 years in developmental hell.  I wanted a short cut.

Scanning the shelves at Barnes and Noble, the bright orange cover caught my eye.  A sticker announced 30% off sticker and I thought, Why Not?  Roughly 5 weeks later, I banged out 100 pages of The Originals.  While not even close to being a whole novel, I did in fact locate the core plot, while teaching myself a valuable lesson about how to plot out the novel in advance and then write it down and see where it would lead.   

I recommend this book to beginner writers who are ready to jump into their novel or to intermediate writers who are stuck in the middle of the plot and want practical advice for getting back on track.  Though the cover says, “Book in a Month,” I personally recommend giving yourself two: the first month to read the book and do the exercises, the second month to actually write it all down.

Weekly Update: 2-14-14 Valentine's Day

The lovely California sunshine is shining hot, and I saw two big orange-breasted robins hopping on the tree.  Life is good.  

Today, I had a subbing gig, my third one this week.  It being Valentine's Day, there were hearts and roses all over campus.  Choirs interrupted class three times to croon beautiful love songs.  Once I even got to be the recipient of the song.  What happened was this: the person who got the singing gram had left to see his councilor, leaving the ten elegantly dressed students standing awkwardly in the front of the class.  A few students piped up they should sing to me.  Which is how I found myself sitting on a stool, being serenaded to thew tune "I Can't Help Falling In Love with You."

Valentine's Day coincided with International Week.  Students drew banners representing different countries and stuck them on their door.  Today, in the quad, clubs handed out food.  I ended up eating a delicious Hawaiian chicken salad with manadarin orange and nuts and some homemade Finnish cookies which were sweet and gooey and buttery.

I was in a good mood, my students were in a good mood, it was a good day.     

Now I head into a three day weekend.  This Sunday I'll visit to Calico Ghost Town with my dad to see a Civil War re-enactment.  Should be fun.

Poem: Little Lost Lamb

This song plays a role in upcoming chapters of my "Three Floating Coffins" story.  Enjoy.

Little lost lamb, you chew on greens on the hill.
You lay your head down of a bed of dried moss.
But the sun dwindles down and the air becomes chill.
Little lost lamb, you don't know you are lost.

Hear my song, little lamb, and leap into my arm.
I'll bring you back home.  I'll protect you from harm.

The shadows of nighttime creep over the range.
Clouds obscure moonlight and hide every star.
The land you once loved is now foreign and strange.
Little lost lamb, you don't know where you are.

Hear my song, little lamb, and leap into my arm.
I'll bring you back home.  I'll protect you from harm.

A howl from the beast with sharp teeth sends you off.
You fly though the grass, hope the wolf won't pursue.
A cliff breaks the ground.  You stand still and aloft.
Little lost lamb, you don't know what to do.

Hear my song, little lamb, and leap into my arm.
I'll bring you back home.  I'll protect you from harm.

About to give in to your terror and fear,
You lay your head onto a pillow of stone.
But see now! The light of my lantern draws near.
Know, little lamb, I won't leave you alone.

Hear my song, little lamb, and leap into my arm.
I'll bring you back home.  I'll protect you from harm.

Travelogue: Art Books and Purple Treasure

 

My friend Ashley’s car stumbled off the freeway and I cheered.  After 2 turnarounds, we’d finally made it to Little Tokyo.  We had nothing in mind for our day together, but we chanced upon the LA Art Book Fair.  Ashley liked art.  I liked books.  It was meant to be.

Too Many Books

            The MOCA building, looked like a combination of old warehouse and modern museum, a maze of windowless white brick walls, with sunlight shining down from skylights in the rafters.  Volunteers handed out sunset orange building maps, but this did little to help us navigate through 235 individual stands and 2 galleries.  People were everywhere—at least one person manning the booth and two or three browsing.  The few pictures I snapped did nothing to show just how overwhelming the experience was. 

Picture a normal bookstore.  Thousands of books line the shelves in neat organized fashion: first by genre, then by author’s name or possibly subject matter.  A few thoughtful displays provide clusters of the newest, most popular books for easy browsing.  Each cover includes a clear title, a glossy picture, and some sort of summary to let you know what the book is about.  You can easily find what you’re looking for and decide whether or not you want it.

 

Not so easy here, where shelves are instead replaced by folding tables and books lay flat like so many rectangular patches on the tablecloth.  There’s no order, no genre, just whatever each independent company offers.  Some covers have no picture or no title.  And nearly all the books are so obscure, there’s no way of knowing what it’s about until you open the pages and see what’s inside.

Cloth composition books painstakingly stitched with an entry about zombie movies; onions dissected by microscope; a steampunk how-to guide for caring for your octopus; Japanese pocketbooks with textured pages; philosophy written in the dry jargon of academia—these were some of the more comprehensible things I found.  Looking through a single book was like viewing a college art gallery—and there were thousands of them.

One young man gave us a poster of a woman in a pool who liked to take pictures fully clothed in water.  His company had collected this lifetime of photographs and put it in a book.  “You find one thing and do it over and over and it becomes your mantra,” he said.  Then he tried to sell us a book on bricks.

I felt a little sad.  Many of the books represented the work of independent artists struggling to sell their work—much like me.  The art cried out for attention, but I couldn’t give it.  It was too much, too hard, too many images slamming into my brain.  Hard as I tried, I could not find meaning.

So I made my own.  I breathed in the white walls and found art in the collection: collections of pages, collections of books, collections of people.  I could not see the details, yet there was beauty in the patterns.  Rectangles everywhere: tables and books, halls and bricks—forming rows and crosses, trying to reign in the chaos, but never quite succeeding.

Food of Little Tokyo

Ashley’s vegan, so we have to be mindful of the restaurants we visit.  Shojin was the only Japanese vegan we could find.  It was hidden on the top floor of a dilapidated mall, which undermined its fanciness. 

Inside, there were murals of red Magnolias in thick ink strokes and gold prints of a lotus root and a crescent moon.  Our server laid out a sheet of paper as a tablecloth and gave us a carafe of water with a sprig of purple-rooted inside.  She was attentive throughout the meal.

We both ordered sushi.  Mine was called “Purple Treasure” ($12.95) and consisted of deep-fried eggplant smothered in a miso sauce on a brown rice and avocado, topped with strings of chili.  The taste brought back memories of Japan, where I’d first eaten eggplant and miso sushi. The flavor was rich and deep, with a twinge of bitter aftertaste in the nicest, eggplantiest way.

Ashley had what was playfully called “Crunchy Tiger, Hidden Dragon Roll” ($13.95), which had the same brown rice and avocado base, with BBQ seitan, asparagus, tempura crumbs, and spicy mayonnaise—a more American take on sushi.

For dessert we went to a little sweets place called Mikawaya in the easy-to-find Japanese Village Plaza.  I ordered two mochi-latos ($1.25 each): balls of gelato ice cream wrapped in a layer of pounded rice that’s soft and chewy and dusted with flour.  My plum mochi-lato was surprisingly sweet and unique, while the coconut one tasted creamy and had tiny chunks of fresh coconut meat inside.

Weekly Update: Root Canal

Half my tongue is still numb and my cheek feels like a pufferfish.  But my double root canal is finished.  It's a huge relief.  I don't think I realized until I got into that chair how much I dreaded the procedure--not just the financial cost, but the procedure itself.  

First came anesthesia.  The thought of a needle going into my soft gums was worse than the actual pain, which felt like a pen prodding a bruise for several seconds.  Sure it hurt--but it was far from intolerable.  The assistant assured me that this was the most painful part.

Even so, as the dentist prepared to drill I kept thinking that something would go wrong, that out of nowhere would shoot a stabbing pain.  I clenched my hands tight, irrationally wishing for my mother--or someone to be standing by.  I shut my eyes.

The drill grated on my nerves.  I could feel the pressure on the tooth.  But no pain came and I eventually opened my eyes.  Slowly, rational thought returned.  The anesthesia clearly worked.  I was fine.  Still, I couldn't unclench my hands or ease the tension in my body.  Maybe it was the taste of chemicals, the feel of rubber gloves, the sight of dust from my own tooth in the air, and later the smell of smoke as the temporary filling was sealed in.  I couldn't relax.  It was my first root canal.  Until it was over, my animal instincts were high on alert, taking in every sensation, ready to flee at the first warning of danger.

It took about an hour for the two root canals and cost me, on my discount plan, about $2000.  That number will go up when crowns are placed on my teeth to prevent further bacteria from getting inside.  In a way, I'm oddly grateful for getting through this scenario.  I've had to face the nightmare scenario of a root canal with no insurance and it turned out to be quite survivable.  Going to the dentist and even having cavities drilled seems cheap and not so scary.  I think I'll be doing it more often.

Travelogue: Devonshire Cream, Camellias, and Chinese New Year

Ostensibly we went to the Huntington Library as part of a one-day writing retreat.  But I knew in my heart that wasn't going to happen, not for me.  Whenever I visit the botanical gardens and museum displays complex, all I want to do is run around and take pictures.  Don't get me wrong, I do write—just not what I'm supposed to.

Today was no different.  As soon as I saw the red lanterns swaying from the trees—

 



But I'm getting ahead of myself.  Before we could go to Pasadena, we made a quick stop at Alicia's for breakfast.

Alicia's

We only ever seem to visit this little cafe/ gift shop on our way to Huntington Library.  Partially because the hours are so sporadic.  Sunday through Tuesday the restaurant is closed and certain items—like scones—are only served on Fridays and Saturdays.  

And I had to have my scone.  Warm and crumbly, when I split it down the middle, steam wafted out.  Honestly, though, it's not the scone I crave—it's the Devonshire cream.  Specks of vanilla bean float in the thick eggshell-white cream. It spread smooth as margarine and tasted sweeter than butter.  A dab of red jam added the final note.  I bit in and the sugar that crusted the outside of the scone crunched in my teeth.

Alicia's is also a good place to make a pit stop.  Sample lotions line the top shelf of the bathroom.  This trip, I chose to slather Vanilla Quince on my hands.

Blossoms and Herbs

 

The sun blazed hot  by the time we reached the Huntington Library.  It was the kind of blue-sky, short-sleeved January day that made SoCal the envy of those back east buried under snow drifts.  I was in the mood to admire nature, so I strolled down a grove where the camellias were blooming.

 

I'd first noticed camellias in Japan.  The gaudy red flower was the only splash of color in the grim landscape of the Nagoya winter.  There, camellias grew on bushes.  Here in California, they grew on trees: red ones, white one, candy-striped pink ones.  My aunt said camellias remind her of roses, but without the thorns.  Also, without the smells.  I pressed my nose to one, but caught not a whiff of any scent.

 

 

Still, I followed the camellia trees to a group of  Greco-Roman statues, and I enjoyed taking pictures of them--the uglier the better.  A couple of gray squirrels with auburn tails led me to the seasonal garden.  Dusky rouge daylilies, purple flecked foxglove, and Mona Lisa blue anemones graced my path. 

I progressed to the rose garden, but found no roses--just a couple Magnolia trees scattering large pink petals on the stone benches.  The air smelled fragrant.  Georgetown Lemon White Tea read a sign--and I decided then and there that’s exactly what the air smelled like that.

I got lost on my way to Somewhere but found a severely under-appreciated herb garden.  The lady there explained to me that hops, one of the principle ingredients in beer, grew on vine that looked rather like wisteria, and that Listerine contained eucalyptus and thyme.  I rubbed the silver leaves of a velvety plant and the scent of Sage rubbed off.  Plants that looked like wild purple lettuce bore names better suited for fantasy books: "Dragon’s Tongue" and "Bloody Dock." And each plant had some use—whether culinary, medicinal, or cosmetic.  It was really quite fascinating.

Vermillion Paper Lanterns

 Normally at about this time my tourism urge would burn itself out, and I’d settle back to the Chinese tea house for some chilled jasmine tea and wok-fried chicken.  Sitting in a glass menagerie overlooking a pond, I’d finally take out my ipad and begin to type.

Not this time.

Blame the vermillion paper lanterns.  They led me back to my place of refuge, but did not lead me to rest, for here was the main distraction.  Chinese artisans set up stalls to display local crafts and make sales.  A woman embroidered a gold dragon on a loom.  A man made clay figurines.  But I found myself obsessed with the chicken blood stone carving booth.

Sadly, the craft did not involve using the known corrosive properties of chicken blood to bend a slab of stone to the artisan’s will, but instead employed regular carving techniques on a soft stone similar to jade but colored a dull red: chicken blood stone.  Little squares containing with the faint outlines of horses—the Zodiac animal of 2014—and dignified men sat on the table.  I wanted to take a photo of them, but I—forgive me—chickened out.

 

Still, I might have ignored these displays and carried on, but for the performance.  A show of dancers and singers began at three on the outdoor stage nearby, so I plopped on the grass next to a girl in a red Chinese dress and watched.  Also took photos.  And tried to take notes.

Young women in beaded red outfits—I thought they looked like prom dresses, but realizes later they were pants—swung crinkled scarlet scarves in unison.  Young men with gold, lion-headed vests jumped in unison.  The song had the soft rock rhythm of any normal American pop song, but with Chinese vocals and the occasional twinge of a foreign instruments.

The host—who sported a Mohawk—explained that everyone came all the way from China.  He introduced the two singers, a man and a woman who looked to be middle aged.  The host said they sang Chinese pop songs.  If that was pop, then pop in China must be about 40 years behind.  For some reason, the woman’s song reminded me of Disney’s Sleeping Beauty.  Don’t get me wrong, they had strong voices and I enjoyed their performance.  It just wasn’t what I’d call pop.

My favorite performance was the mock Chinese wedding—which was the only one accompanied by what we’d call traditional music. It was boisterous. A man in salt and pepper wig and a bright pink jump suit played the comical matchmaker. While the dances weaved through the audience bringing in canopies and decorations, the matchmaker grabbed a man from the audience for the Chinese wife. They bowed three times and it was done.
 

By now, it was 3:30, the day was over, and the only writing I’d accomplished was half-formed thoughts scribbled in my notebook.  Which would later grow up to be a blog entry.  Which you have now finished reading.

 

Happy Chinese New Year!

Weekly Update: 2-1-14

January has passed.  For me it's been a month of deep reflection shuffling and a mental shifting.  As I transition from merely wanting to write to wanting to publish--whether I get an agent or not--it seems that I cannot be content with dreaming.  I must begin the real work.

Financially, it has been a dismal month.  Last Tuesday my trip to a dentist office revealed the need for not one, but two root canals.  That coupled with a dismal two subbing jobs for all the month of January has forced a kind of breakdown.  I can't keep living day to day.  I need to take the risk of more debt and less free time and go back to school, so that I can get the kind of stable job that pays me a livable wage.

I've had a whole decade to pursue my dream.  And I'm not giving it up.  Rather, I'm acknowldging (finally!) that the dream is not paying very well right now.  Even when I want to do things like go to writing conferences or pay for an editor--things that would help my writing--I can't, because I just don't have the money.  So I need to prioritze making a living.

When I first came to that conclusion, it felt like a defeat.  Like I had admitted I wasted so much time fooling around with my writing.  If I had just taken some practical steps after I came back from Japan, I wouldn't be in this mess.  But by and by I came to think that this is simply turning off one road and into the next.  I made my decision with to whole-heartedly pursue my dream and I stuck with it.  I learned many things, but failed to create a realistic backup plan.  Now I must restrategize  and transition to the newest phase of my life.  Lord knows, it hasn't been my first transition and it won't be the last.

I've kept writing, by the way.  I've been doing a long brainstorm of The Originals, reworking the plot of my first draft, filling in logic potholes and character backstory, and researching everything from the Alaskan tundra to the Jonestown cult.  My notes are their own novella: over 30,000 words.  I've added two new chapters to my Three Floating Coffins story and sent out Company to critique groups.

January has been a month of thought.  I hope that with the arrival of February, I'll be able to transition into action as well.

* * *

On a sunnier note, Congrats to Michelle Knowlden for finishing her second Abishag mystery novella, Indelible Beats.  I wish you all the best luck!

Twenty-year-old college student Leslie Greene believes that dating a handsome lawyer is a fairy tale come true. Unfortunately, he requires that she wear an enchanting wardrobe too. Broke again, Leslie returns to her former job as an Abishag wife (temporary wives who comfort dying men). This time she chooses comatose artist Jordan Ippel, expected to die in his La Jolla, California home before Winter quarter begins (and her boyfriend finds out).

After finding a forged painting and losing the cook, Leslie and her friends must unmask a killer to save the reputation of her husband.