There a two major schools of thought on how a book should start. One: Your first page must be snappy, the words gripping with a hook that often has little to do with the story per se (this is the modern post consumer rush school- propounded by editor's and agent/publishers.)
Two: The page should be a seamless transition of writing, not necessarily memorable from sentence by sentence. As in Steinbeck's The Grapes of Wrath : To the red country and part of the gray country of Oklahoma, the last rains came gently, and they did not cut the scarred earth. And Golding's Lord of the Flies : The boy with the fair hair lowered himself down the last few feet of rock and began to pick his way towards the lagoon. Finally Trevor's Three People : On the steps of the Schele's house, stained glass on either side of the brown front door, Sidney shakes the rain from his plastic mackintosh, taking it off to do so.
Beautiful because in Steinbeck, the land is the core of his book, those that work it and those that exploit it. Golding shows us Ralph, soon to be joined by piggy, that tragic fat boy that so many seem to warm to and despise in equal measure. William Trevor shows us Sidney, a quiet man in love with an older woman with a horrible past. All these are not the modern school of thought's big slap in the face. But they manage a greater impact because a: They are better written and b: They are intregal to the story.
So here is my question (at long last you all cry ): What grips you when you read the first page or two of a book. What calls to you, so that instead of placing that book back into the squeeze of its siblings, you carry it to the counter?
What speaks to you in that moment. Is it the writing? Is it the blurb on the back of the sleeve. Is it because that was the book you entered to buy in the first place?
What grips you?
For me It is not the first hook line or clumsy attempt to catch my interest, only to find the next ten pages have little to do with the opening. No, it is purely down to whether the paragraphs flow until without realising I find myself at the bottom of the page, knowing I have read a well crafted opening but finding the journey effortless.
By the way I heartily recommend Steinbeck. He is a consummate wordsmith. And my favourite author, by the slimmest enamel of your gnashers. Laters Griff.
Sunday 27 February 2011
Tuesday 22 February 2011
Welcome news
Well, finally it has happened to me, right in front of my face, and I just cannot hide it...(sorry couldn't resist *Grins*)
Good news: I got my first short story accepted for publication today. Small beginnings are still beginnings...as Confucius would say (only it would be in Imperial Chinese of course) The web site that will publish it is http://www.yesteryearfiction.com/ and it is due up on the 03/09/11 (I believe that may be the american way of saying 09/03/2011)
It isn't much to crow about but in my experience crows do not need much to begin crowing. I have included it below for any who are mildly interested:
The Heart of the Wood
The old man creaked when he stretched. He couldn’t remember a time when he didn’t creak. He stretched and creaked and thought ‘When did I begin to creak so badly?’ The thought sank down to his feet and returned slowly. His thoughts were as slow and creaking as his limbs these days. He could remember a time when his thoughts were clear, like sunlight through glass. He sighed and stretched and creaked.
His clothes were sparse, but given the season that was to be expected. He shivered, leaves drifted, the wood was older than him and he could feel its age underfoot. Age, he thought with his slow ponderous thoughts, leaves creases that become crevasses that become... The old man frowned. The answer was there, he knew it but the knowledge passed and the shadows lengthened and the leaves fell. His head shook and a sigh escaped. ‘When did it become so hard to remember?’
The wood had changed. His mind’s eye dimly pictured its youth, its green voice strong and challenging. The Birch trees, now they were a sight. Such grace, and their skin- ah luminous, as if the moon had melted and soaked within. He smiled. Yes the Birch was always his favourite. Was it wrong for him to have favourites? The thoughts sank, passing though his feet into the forgiving soil. He did not expect them back soon.
Changes to the wood had been as ponderous as his thoughts. Sometimes storms would come and rattle the roof over his head. Then he would hear the crack of a branch surrendering and the groan of separation. He would sigh, and wonder what view would greet him in the dawn. But not all storms came in the form of wind and rain. Men came, their eyes full of greed and their feet far removed from the land. They farmed the wood. And their damage was greater than all the wind and rain.
The old man often wondered: when did we refuse the earth and desire the protection of meaningless things? At what stage did our feet become clean? His were deep in the soil; treading secret places long forgotten by those who came to cut and hack.
His children grew strong and he watched with pride as they flourished. They too loved the earth, thought as he thought, dreamt his dreams and spoke with breathless whispers of the Birch and the Fir.
As the wood changed so did the fields. They were hungry, and bitter jealous. Every blade of grass sought to strip the wood of its ancient territory. Men were involved there as well. The grass became earth and the earth corn and then earth once again. Every year saw the corn come closer to the wood. Ears full of the envious whispers of brethren corrupted by the sowing of men.
Once there had been balance, but his memory of it was a tenuous thing and though the old man clung to it, his strength was fading. He barely heard his children’s voices now. Such a thing pained him, but that too was tenuous, for pain, like thoughts took such a long time to reach him. Leaves fell and the wood changed.
One day, during summer, he came to the conclusion that everything changed. What bothered him was not the vanishing earth or the fading birch, but that he had outlived his usefulness. He did not wish to see change. He hated the very notion of anything new. Seasons are expected; green follows white, yellow becomes brown. This type of change wasn’t new but old. He sighed and creaked.
Each time a new year visited he was left with more wrinkles and less memories. And he realised- after much rumination- that this was as unwelcome as it was expected. The land gave life and took it away. There was something almost gentle about the slow death of his sensibilities. All things end just as they begin: with the barest breath. He did not fear this change, and would meet it with all the dignity he could muster.
It was the beginning of winter when the corn’s whispers grew intolerably loud. And the saws of men, hard at work, filled his ears; their harsh rasping adding insult to injury. ‘Enough’ he thought, more a pronouncement than a plea. The old man sighed and creaked one last time. Slowly, as befitting one of his station, the great oak died.
That day his children shivered in mourning. The birch wept silvery tears and the trees groaned with separation. Even the corn bowed in silence, out of respect to its ancient foe. Only the men remained busy, hacking and breaking and towing away, unaware of the change in the land. Unaware that the heart of the wood was dead.
Good news: I got my first short story accepted for publication today. Small beginnings are still beginnings...as Confucius would say (only it would be in Imperial Chinese of course) The web site that will publish it is http://www.yesteryearfiction.com/ and it is due up on the 03/09/11 (I believe that may be the american way of saying 09/03/2011)
It isn't much to crow about but in my experience crows do not need much to begin crowing. I have included it below for any who are mildly interested:
The Heart of the Wood
The old man creaked when he stretched. He couldn’t remember a time when he didn’t creak. He stretched and creaked and thought ‘When did I begin to creak so badly?’ The thought sank down to his feet and returned slowly. His thoughts were as slow and creaking as his limbs these days. He could remember a time when his thoughts were clear, like sunlight through glass. He sighed and stretched and creaked.
His clothes were sparse, but given the season that was to be expected. He shivered, leaves drifted, the wood was older than him and he could feel its age underfoot. Age, he thought with his slow ponderous thoughts, leaves creases that become crevasses that become... The old man frowned. The answer was there, he knew it but the knowledge passed and the shadows lengthened and the leaves fell. His head shook and a sigh escaped. ‘When did it become so hard to remember?’
The wood had changed. His mind’s eye dimly pictured its youth, its green voice strong and challenging. The Birch trees, now they were a sight. Such grace, and their skin- ah luminous, as if the moon had melted and soaked within. He smiled. Yes the Birch was always his favourite. Was it wrong for him to have favourites? The thoughts sank, passing though his feet into the forgiving soil. He did not expect them back soon.
Changes to the wood had been as ponderous as his thoughts. Sometimes storms would come and rattle the roof over his head. Then he would hear the crack of a branch surrendering and the groan of separation. He would sigh, and wonder what view would greet him in the dawn. But not all storms came in the form of wind and rain. Men came, their eyes full of greed and their feet far removed from the land. They farmed the wood. And their damage was greater than all the wind and rain.
The old man often wondered: when did we refuse the earth and desire the protection of meaningless things? At what stage did our feet become clean? His were deep in the soil; treading secret places long forgotten by those who came to cut and hack.
His children grew strong and he watched with pride as they flourished. They too loved the earth, thought as he thought, dreamt his dreams and spoke with breathless whispers of the Birch and the Fir.
As the wood changed so did the fields. They were hungry, and bitter jealous. Every blade of grass sought to strip the wood of its ancient territory. Men were involved there as well. The grass became earth and the earth corn and then earth once again. Every year saw the corn come closer to the wood. Ears full of the envious whispers of brethren corrupted by the sowing of men.
Once there had been balance, but his memory of it was a tenuous thing and though the old man clung to it, his strength was fading. He barely heard his children’s voices now. Such a thing pained him, but that too was tenuous, for pain, like thoughts took such a long time to reach him. Leaves fell and the wood changed.
One day, during summer, he came to the conclusion that everything changed. What bothered him was not the vanishing earth or the fading birch, but that he had outlived his usefulness. He did not wish to see change. He hated the very notion of anything new. Seasons are expected; green follows white, yellow becomes brown. This type of change wasn’t new but old. He sighed and creaked.
Each time a new year visited he was left with more wrinkles and less memories. And he realised- after much rumination- that this was as unwelcome as it was expected. The land gave life and took it away. There was something almost gentle about the slow death of his sensibilities. All things end just as they begin: with the barest breath. He did not fear this change, and would meet it with all the dignity he could muster.
It was the beginning of winter when the corn’s whispers grew intolerably loud. And the saws of men, hard at work, filled his ears; their harsh rasping adding insult to injury. ‘Enough’ he thought, more a pronouncement than a plea. The old man sighed and creaked one last time. Slowly, as befitting one of his station, the great oak died.
That day his children shivered in mourning. The birch wept silvery tears and the trees groaned with separation. Even the corn bowed in silence, out of respect to its ancient foe. Only the men remained busy, hacking and breaking and towing away, unaware of the change in the land. Unaware that the heart of the wood was dead.
Thursday 17 February 2011
The art of brevity
That alcoholic genius of the written word Hemmingway, was once challenged that he couldn't write a story in six words. He did; this was the result - "For sale: Baby's shoes-never worn."
Wonderful example of brevity and emotion. There is a web site that promotes this idea and I have posted a couple of things on it. Here goes :
To write is to be rejected. I say this not as trite flippancy, but through experience. Agents, editors publishers they will reject the best, the worst and the rest. Why? Because, like any worker, most hate their job and wish they were somewhere and someone else. I have been rejected through email, letter, though thankfully not phone, yet. But it all comes with practice, a thick skin and a thicker head (My wife can attest to the latter.)
So the art of brevity should be applied to six words or sixty thousand words. But how does that enable style to shine? One oft repeated argument of editors and agents is that if you sort out the basics the rest will fall into place. So, I endeavour to do just that. As brief as possible. Just so.
If you fancy having a try at six word stories just google it or reply below.
Wonderful example of brevity and emotion. There is a web site that promotes this idea and I have posted a couple of things on it. Here goes :
Billboard- “Forbidden: Post no dreams here”
My leg belonged to someone else
Of course the idea is to give a story- as in make the reader think that a tale has been written in six words. Most of those that posted forgot this and chose Confusciusisms instead. "He who hits head goes ow" etc... Wise soundbites aside, the aim was to be brief and be a tale teller. This is at the heart of writing. So speaks the modern trend of writing at least. But what that does is force a writer to become grey- just like everyone else.To write is to be rejected. I say this not as trite flippancy, but through experience. Agents, editors publishers they will reject the best, the worst and the rest. Why? Because, like any worker, most hate their job and wish they were somewhere and someone else. I have been rejected through email, letter, though thankfully not phone, yet. But it all comes with practice, a thick skin and a thicker head (My wife can attest to the latter.)
So the art of brevity should be applied to six words or sixty thousand words. But how does that enable style to shine? One oft repeated argument of editors and agents is that if you sort out the basics the rest will fall into place. So, I endeavour to do just that. As brief as possible. Just so.
If you fancy having a try at six word stories just google it or reply below.
Sunday 6 February 2011
Some days...
I am the kind of guy that in the midst of a party might decide to take himself off for a brief island of silence. To recharge, taking a breath before plunging back into the maelstrom of social interaction once again. I don't do this due to being anti social (contary to my wife's opinion) but because I need those brief moments. It is who I am. We are all stones or water. And we can exhibit the characteristics of both during our days. Still here's a small paragraph to explain why I am like that.
Do you ever feel like a stone, remaining, whilst the rest of life floods by? And in remaining do you feel stronger? Or weakened by your separation, thirsting for the flood to slow, to gather and embrace; wearing you down until only your constituent particles are left: the carbon DNA of your days. Perhaps you are happy in your solitude, aloof from the flood, clinging to every particle, refusing to let them go and mourning them when they’re gone. I am a stone and I am the flood. In my days of solitude I’m aloof and in my days of the flood I am carried by others, content.
There is an argument that I am getting worse with age. Nonsense! And if you blasted kids think otherwise why I oughta....
Wednesday 2 February 2011
Finally
Well, I've done it.
The first draft has been completed. Over five hundred pages of raw consituent. I can't tell you yet how it feels, for it's too early to say. Relief and hope- wait I did say I couldn't tell you right?- pesky thing is the brain.
But it's completed, lying gathering silicone dust in the ol 'puter memory banks. (Why is it you never hear of memory bank raids? Maybe there's no money in old memories. Now where was I?...)
Ah yes, 4-6 weeks of rest shall do the old girl good -and me of course- then I shall review like a gaggle of legs in Moulin Rouge. Wait that's revue isn't it?
Still a gaggle of legs is hard to resist, unless you're at a rugby match, then I'm disinterested about the entire thing.
As to the lucky ones chosen to read a copy after the first few revisions (you know who you are) all I can say is thank you for lending me your brains. I do hope that I treat them with kinder restraint than their owners have up till now. *Grins*
For the intervening month or so I shall be writing short stories and reading as much as possible. I shall post a few online so that if interested you can peruse at your leisure. Until then 'So long'- as the French say.
The first draft has been completed. Over five hundred pages of raw consituent. I can't tell you yet how it feels, for it's too early to say. Relief and hope- wait I did say I couldn't tell you right?- pesky thing is the brain.
But it's completed, lying gathering silicone dust in the ol 'puter memory banks. (Why is it you never hear of memory bank raids? Maybe there's no money in old memories. Now where was I?...)
Ah yes, 4-6 weeks of rest shall do the old girl good -and me of course- then I shall review like a gaggle of legs in Moulin Rouge. Wait that's revue isn't it?
Still a gaggle of legs is hard to resist, unless you're at a rugby match, then I'm disinterested about the entire thing.
As to the lucky ones chosen to read a copy after the first few revisions (you know who you are) all I can say is thank you for lending me your brains. I do hope that I treat them with kinder restraint than their owners have up till now. *Grins*
For the intervening month or so I shall be writing short stories and reading as much as possible. I shall post a few online so that if interested you can peruse at your leisure. Until then 'So long'- as the French say.
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