The Day the Sky Turned Blue

The story behind the story: The Governor

Something is about to happen. You know it in your mind, in your heart, and in your gut. By some cosmic scheme it seems it must happen, for reasons neither you nor anyone else can fathom. But for a few seconds, you think you can stop it. You can alter what you know of as history from that very second onward to eternity. But you can’t. And you know it.

One morning, just before waking, I had what I call a “dreamlet”: one of those disjointed few seconds of sights and random sounds my brain flashes across my eyes and through my ears as my internal rhythms start their waking program. In the dreamlet I am stepping into a car to sit in a jump seat in front of the most powerful man in the world. We are at Love Field in Dallas, Texas. It is November 22, 1963. I am Governor Connelly. With a word I can stop the motorcade. But I can’t and I don’t.

“The Governor” was my first published story, a flash piece of about 700 words appearing on www.365Tommorrows.com back in 2008. It was pretty much a transcript of the dreamlet, but with the conversation bits added to keep the story moving. The dreamlet ended, as it did in the story, with me sitting on a park bench miles away, listening for the sounds of shots and screams and racing engines coming over the trees and buildings. I didn’t hear any, and for the last second of the dreamlet I hoped and believed that perhaps it didn’t happen. But deep down I knew it did, because it couldn’t not happen. I was glad I wasn’t there.

Today is, of course, the fifty-year anniversary of the Kennedy assassination. It’s difficult, if not impossible, for me to say anything meaningful about that event because I wouldn’t be born for another seven years and some months. So—to me—a time does not exist when it hadn’t happened. It would be like asking me to understand how shocking it was the day the sky turned blue. To the however many percent of the population who were not yet around and the much smaller percentage alive but too young to remember it, the Kennedy assassination is immutable and timeless. I for one have trouble picturing what the world would be like without it. Not that I’m glad it happened, but, just like in the dream and story, it’s easy to believe the events of that day were, in some twisted sense, necessary. For my and the following generations, it’s part of us in a way that it isn’t for those who remember it. We can’t not have it happen.

On September 11, 2001, it seemed like so much could have gone right that didn’t. If this person had done that, if that person had done this, if hundreds of random things had or had not happened, then the however many percent of the population who were not yet born—or the smaller percent who were born but too young to remember it—would be able to imagine a world where it hadn’t happened. It’s part of them in a way it never will be for me. We might as well ask them to understand our shock the day the sky turned blue.

Writing at the Macro Level

A few posts ago I tried to make the point that a story needs to work in the big picture—at the macro level—before tweaking at the micro level will improve the book.

What brought this on was Neil Gaiman’s American Gods, which worked on the level of story despite many instances of what a lot of people point to and make the (not always) whispering accusations of “bad writing.” As I try to progress as a writer, I need to look for what works, and why. Then do the same thing in my own writing.

How can I do this?

First, by remembering that story trumps all. I knew this once; really I did. There might not be any original ideas out there, and following the “no -ly adverbs” rubric isn’t going to turn an idea (that other people have also had) into a kick-butt story (that only I can write).

What makes an idea a kick-butt story? How it’s laid out in the bigger picture. The stories I like the most have seemingly unrelated things come together in amusing ways as the story plays out. Trick me. Tease me. Do that first then I might care whether or not you used saidisms in your dialog tags.

I have written five novels, only one published so far. Each one started off by me writing whatever scene came to mind and seeing where it went, even if I had an idea of the overall picture. But then I do two things once I get to about 20,000 words.

First, I write a draft of the query letter and answer four questions: What does the main character want? What must he do to get it? What gets in his way? What happens if he fails? This will tell me if I’ve got enough of a story to go anywhere with.If I can't answer these, then I don't have a story (yet).

Then, I start an outline. I take all the scenes I have, and plug them into a numbered list in chronological order. Not only does this show me where the holes are, it often gives me an idea of how to fill them.

Great! So now I’ve got a kick-butt story, right? Not so right, and here’s where my abilities to describe the process come to an end. There is no way I can describe how to put in (what I think are) the clever twists I see in other people’s writing. Don’t get me wrong, I can do them, and I think I can do them well. I just can’t say how that process happens in a way that other writers might be able to benefit from. All I can say is know your story, and let your mind wander off the page long enough to let things settle down to where they want to be. Then get writing again.

Once I have a story that works on the macro level, then it’s time to obsess on the micro level “rules.” And not before. 

Of Love and Squirrel Hunting

The Story Behind the Story: The Battle of Hutchinson’s Crossroads.

I write contemporary novels and short stories, mostly. That “mostly” is a fairly recent development, and represents the occasional deviation I take in my writing. Such as my story in Big Pulp Magazine “The Battle of Hutchinson’s Crossroads,” which is a Civil War historical.

So what prompted this diversion from the modern-day, everyman mild tragedies I tend to gravitate towards? Squirrel hunting.

I bought a little black powder .32-caliber squirrel rifle from a pawn shop back in 1998. I had some fun with it, ruined my hearing a little more, and the furry woodland creatures slept warm and safe knowing I’d have a better chance of giving them a chest cold than shooting them. For real; I’d shoot and miss (of course), and they would sit and watch me while I frantically reloaded then miss again.

Being the poor shot I am and not into hunting anymore anyway, I decided to sell that little squirrel gun in 2011. One prospective buyer was a coworker, and as I stood in his office while he hemmed and hawed about whether or not he was interested, a story idea came to me: a young man in a Civil War battle fires his first shot. What was he thinking as he pulled the trigger? Was it a planned shot? Or was he caught up in the moment and didn’t recognize what he’d done until later?

I tried to put myself in young Stretch’s position. Having never been in combat myself, there is a large mental disconnect between my trigger finger and a man dying across a field. I imagine this isn’t quite so disconnected in real life. Or is it? I don’t know, but I imagined my character wondering if he would know which man he had shot once the battle was over. I imagined what would happen if he had the chance to find out.

I am a fan of old-school twist endings. Hopefully the story stands on its own without the twist, but the story felt incomplete without it. Twists are hard to pull off, and I’ve gotten mixed reviews on this one.

“Hutchinson” is the maiden name of the woman I was dating when I wrote the story. Yes, I wanted to do the lovestruck puppy-dog thing and dedicate a story to her. Hey, just be glad I didn’t try to write a poem. [There once was a girl from West Yorkshire/ and being without her was torture/ So I wrote her a tale/ it published without fail/ she’s marrying another for sure.]  [Yeah, good thing I didn’t write a poem, huh?] Living in Mississippi at the time, the Civil War is never far from collective memory. Brice’s Crossroads was a small battle north of Tupelo, and was a sound defeat for the North. So, the name of the battle was not hard to come up with.

One final little extra. In my novel Paper Thin, go to the scene with Phil’s funeral and pay attention to the names on the stones in the graveyard.

*Pout* How come HE gets to break the rules?

I recently got comments back from a beta reader who didn’t much like some of my writing style. I’m also reading Neil Gaiman’s American Gods. I imagine my beta reader wouldn’t like much of his style either, as he does many of the same things I do.

Mr. Gaiman’s literary offenses?

1. Telling with an –ly adverb in a dialog tag when it’s clear from the context what the speaker intends.

“You know,” she said, helpfully, “that doesn’t sound good.”

This class of adverbs has a rough enough go of it as it is. I suppose it might be helpful (he wrote, consideringly) to differentiate from other intents, such as if she was scolding him. But from the rest of the conversation, she’s clearly not angry.

2. Interrupting a conversation with incidental actions. This happens several times in the book, and is a common outrage committed by Douglas Coupland as well. People are often stopping their conversations to let other people pass, usually with the narrator making some sort of observation on the interloper’s hair, makeup, clothing, odor, etc.

3. Filtering. Lots and lots of filtering in American Gods.

He could feel her lips on his, and they were warm and wet and living, not cold and dead, so he knew that this was another hallucination.

Time after time, the rules say that filtering, especially when done too much, distances the reader from the action. Wouldn’t it be better to say her lips were warm and wet and living, not cold and dead? And telling us that he knew it was a hallucination; how does that help us to know that he knew, and therefore we knew, when we could be told directly it was a hallucination? Would we assume he wouldn’t know without being told?

The list can go on. It does actually, to include observations by the characters of incidental details that don’t add to the story, to head hopping and telling us what a non-POV character is thinking, and lists of adjectives where people’s lips are warm and wet and living.

So how come Neil Gaiman gets to break the rules?

Well, first off because he’s Neil freaking Gaiman. But once upon a time Neil Gaiman wasn’t Neil Gaiman; or at least he wasn’t Neil Gaiman as we now know Neil Gaiman. Once upon a time he was a hopeful writer, putting the products of his imagination onto paper and hoping someone, somewhere, would publish them and people would want to read them.

My list above only includes items and the micro-level of writing. Why Neil Gaiman can get away with breaking the rules is that he works at the macro level in ways other writers (myself included) struggle to, and he does it in a way that keeps people reading.

What are the rules for the macro level? Only one that I can think of: Write a damn good book that connects all the pieces.

Would American Gods be a better book if the micro-level rules were followed? Wow, that’s a tough question. I can say, though, that my enjoyment of the book does not depend on how “well” it is written. Following all the microrules does not by itself produce a damn good book.

Reduce, reuse, recycle

Not a bad mantra by any means. But what about when it comes to writing?

I spent several years penning a magnum opus that went nowhere, despite, ironically, being a travel novel. Although I know Heinlein says not to rewrite except on editorial order, I’ve abandoned the book; this thing wasn’t even good enough to get an editor to order anything at all about it.

After all that work, however, I was reluctant to ditch completely what I had written. So, I did a copy and paste job to about 20K words into my WIP Nyasaland. As long as I know I won’t use the scenes again, why not put that previous hard work to good use?

Nyasaland is more or less done, it just needs some ironing out. It struck me in the rereads, however, that I like the new parts much more than the parts salvaged from the old book. In fact, the older scenes are the most difficult to get through and to edit. But why?

Possibility 1. I have improved as a writer. This is my favorite option, since I get to be a smarty pants, and I’m sure it’s true to some degree. Maybe there is a reason not even my girlfriends couldn't finish reading it (yes, the writing and rewriting outlived several relationships). But if this possibility were true, I would be able to fix the problems and be happier with the result. But I’m not. I’m just as unhappy with the edited scenes as I was when I pasted them in.

Possibility 2. I have “Golden Word Syndrome.” I thought the old book was perfect when it clocked in at 230K words. Okay, maybe it was still as perfect at the 200K words I pared it down to. I am meticulous, and every word was exactly the word it needed to be and was where it needed to be. The problem with that assessment is nobody agreed. Nobody said they loved the book. Fewer than five people (out of about twenty who attempted) were even able to finish it. But this possibility doesn’t seem right either. I accept rewriting as part of writing, and expect improvement when I do.

Possibility 3. The transplanted scenes are metaphysically different from the rest of the book. Ever tell a joke that had people rolling at one party only to have it fall flat at the next? “Guess you just had to be there.” Perhaps moving a scene from one book to another is kind of like that; each book has its own indescribable essence and simply changing tenses, names, subtle points of style, etc., isn’t enough. The new scenes in Nyasaland worked because they were created for that book; the old scenes worked in the old book for the same reason.

Possibility 4. The book was completely perfect in every way, I’m overthinking this, and I gave up too early. Yeah, right. See #2.

Possibility 5. I have improved enough to know what’s wrong, but not enough to know how to fix it. Well, this post pretty much proves that, huh?

Be an editor for an hour! Or at least play one in your own home.

I frequent a website called FreeMusicArchive.org. It’s all free and legal; the artists post their songs under a creative commons license for people to download. Some biggish names are there (Son Volt, Deadstring Brothers, Rodrigo y Gabriela)—mostly live tracks recorded at the radio stations that support FMA—but many are unknowns. Tens of thousands of songs, yours within seconds over the internet. We’ve come a long way from holding a tape recorder to the radio, haven’t we?

Anyway, I’d like you all to humor me in a fun exercise. Go to FreeMusicArchive.org. On the right-hand side is a box labeled “Recently Added Highlights.” Next to each track is a plus sign that adds the song to an online music player (you might have to unblock popups). Don’t play directly on the page; I’m going somewhere with this. Add the first five tracks to the FMA player. Hit “pause” before the first track plays (going somewhere with this . . .). Just below that box is another labeled “Most Interesting Highlights.” Add the first five of these tracks. Next, go to the “Browse by Genre” area, and select three genres of your choice. Add one track from each of the first five artists in each genre. You should now have twenty-five tracks in your player.

Ready for the excitement? Hit “Play.”

What do you think of the first track? Great from the start? Horrible? Need to hear more before you decide? If you’re not sure, click the selector to the middle and see if it takes off later. If you’re convinced the song tanks (trust me, you have to kiss a lot of toads on FMA), click “Next.” But if you like it, click “Download.”

[Do not proceed reading until you reach the end of the track list]

So what did you think? Some of the songs were just noise, weren’t they? Worthless and you hit “next” within a few seconds. I’ll bet other tracks had great music, but the singer had a lousy voice. Some tracks probably did most things right, but some critical elements were missing somehow. Or maybe there was nothing wrong with the song at all, it just wasn’t your cup of tea. But then there were the masterpieces, the tracks that started strong and stayed strong. The keepers. How many keepers did you find?

Feel confident in your choices? Well, guess what: you have just done what agents and editors do with stories.

Pretend the tracks are submissions. Some weren’t in your genre, and are similar to submissions that don’t fit the guidelines; they were sent to anyone with an address. Doesn’t mean they weren’t good, just not what you were looking for. Selecting three genres was like posting your guidelines in an effort to up your chances of finding something you’ll like. Even so, the quality varied from incoherent ramblings of people with marginal (I’m being generous here) talent, through people who did most things right but it just wasn't quite "there," to the perfectly fine pieces you simply didn’t like, to the keepers you will listen to five times in the next few hours.

Free downloads are one thing, now imagine being responsible for your magazine’s or publishing house’s financial investments in stories and books. As much as rejections sting sometimes, I think I have some idea of what agents and editors go through.