Ride This Train

As writers we ride many trains over the course of careers. As Deanna, from across the holler at The Life of a Working Writer Mommy can attest, sometimes we just need to switch it up and try something fresh. She never believed she was suited for fiction, but here she is, writing great fiction. Go, Deanna! We never know exactly what we can do or what we'll enjoy until we give it a shot. In writing there are so many different trains yet many times we end up taking the same one over and over, not knowing which might serve us better. And lets face it, learning something new can be exciting.

So...tomorrow I'm getting off the fictional novel train for four days and hopping on the screenwriting train. My oldest daughter, Candice, who writes screenplays, talked me into going to the Austin Film Festival where we'll be learning much about screenwriting during the adventure. At night we'll be screening some pretty cool independent films, starting off with Serious Moonlight, Cowtown Ballroom, Precious, The Ugly American and The Donner Party. Now I might skip the last one depending on what kind of mood I'm in.

Award winning filmmaker Ron Howard will be speaking about The art of Storytelling. Okay, I won't lie, I'm pumped about that. From what I understand he is a great guy, and certainly a talented producer. And who could forget him as the charming little Opie Taylor on the Andy Griffith Show? And then on to Richie Cunningham in the TV series Happy Days.

I'll be back around next week to share the adventure, but meanwhile, by all means, go take yourself a train ride!

Your Imagination

Ohhh...that was my reaction when I saw this picture. What came to mind was romance. I mean, they are rose petals. Thousands of them. But then I thought of ideas, strewn like petals down the long pathway of life. Also, soft kindnesses which have been sprinkled by friends as we go.

I'm interested in your ideas. Your creativity. What comes to your mind when you see this picture?

Fall In Bloom

A backyard fire pit, snappy sparks, red lit, flying. Moonlight whispering through trees, grass, skin, eyes, oh the eyes we love, sending silent messages bigger than a Texas sky. Leaves turned cinnamon and amber, quivering and curling on limbs like tiny, arthritic hands. More eyes, laser sharp, peering through woods, raccoons or possums or skunks, perhaps, noses rising in tribute to lowly hot-dogs, sizzling and blistering on sticks. And a Cherokee fiddle. Might be all that’s missing, but no, night composes its own music.

Fall nights like these are a dozen a dime, but won’t last forever. Here in Texas we’ve only recently stepped out from hot summer shells. Four long months of broiling and we’re cooked. Ready for frosting, the frost on the pumpkin, fall frost. Time to snap out blankets, throw them on the ground, lie on backs, and wonder with dreamy eyes at the heavens, spitting out stars, swirling planets, strobe-like, suspended. I count each twinkle, never knowing how many, many, many stars, knowing never. Nights like these are a dozen a dime, but won’t last forever.

This time of year brings me back to long ago hay rides, fuzzy sweaters, snuggling, cutting through a black Mark Twain National Forest, dirt from roads settling in our hair, our smiles, carrying us right through the hard flinty winter when reflection sets in corners like mute guests.

Camp-outs too, dancing under a moon stuffed with promise, breeze in hair. And strolling beside a tinseled river with the girls, making up crap that scares them silly. And then pulled from the tent later, dead asleep, they say, “Come on, mom, come and tell stories. Our friends haven’t heard them. Oh please! We want to hear them again.”

So I do. Spin tale after tale, sleepy-eyed yet happy that ears listen.

I remember barn dances, doing the two-step, feet moving like hot grease on the griddle of floor. Pumpkin carving too, cinnamon sprinkled under the lids, spicing up night. The kids and friends jammed into our house, costumed to high heaven, watching Charlie Brown, a blanket of candy on the floor, and still trick-or-treaters banging down the door. Wanting more. And, yes, this yet goes on.

Fall in bloom.

What are your fall favorites?

Top Secret

Top secret- these words alone can perk up eyebrows. They conjure up all things unseen and unheard. Loosen the grasp on your chair because there shall be no secrets unearthed here. And if I gave you one, I swear you’d hit the snooze button on the ole alarm clock and get back to me. No doubt, though, everyone, including me, has at least one family or personal secret that’s a tad spicy or horrifying, or just plain odd. Odd, I say. But whatever they are, secrets have power over people who keep them. Decisions and behaviors tiptoe around them. They are weeds in the hearts soil.

No eyebrow hiking, please. Even though I thought of a juicy one, I’m still not sharing. Oh, you have Starbucks Breakfast Blend? Gosh, that’s my favorite. But no, I can’t, shouldn't. Okay then, let’s chat… wink, wink.

Now, unless you live in a cave, which some people do- I saw one for sale on the Internet, but it far exceeded my price range- then you can’t miss what happens on the news. Secrets are shared on a daily basis, some exposed, others revealed. Heck, if we’ve lived long enough, we’ve heard our share from friends and kin, which revealed just how boring we really are. Ah, what a blessing it is to be dull.

As such, let’s relate them to fictional novels we writers tell and hope to sell. Yes, we are back to fiction now, which is sometimes less weird than real life.

Our main character/character’s should have secrets. At least one. And you’re going to love this because you get to know what they are! As a matter of fact, you’d better know. Sometimes their secrets are at the heart of the story and other times they serve as a guideline to understand why your characters act the kooky ways they do. Readers don’t necessarily have to know, but we might want to clue them in if it serves the story and explains their odd or crazy behavior.

Is there a reason our protagonist hates being alone? Does he/she avoid certain family members at all costs? Why, why, why? Do they steal, cheat or lie? When each day begins do they pop pills or swig scotch on the rocks? Does your character have premonitions about future events but is too afraid to own up to her gift? Are they plucked away nightly and whisked off to Mars?

Wow, please bring them to my next party!

Seriously though, don’t hold your characters at arms length. Let them come into the light. See them for who they are. Ask the questions, welcome the answers and, wha-la, a secret or two will appear. They just might be the treasure in your story.

Now back to that party.

Let's Get Fresh

I’m talking about writing here, so don’t get your panties in a wad. Sorry, I do enjoy that phrase. It’s a throwback to my younger years and those memories of mouth cleanings with Dove soap.

Now, the fresh fruit was posted because I needed a picture. If it makes you hungry, I apologize, which I do frequently. Go on to the grocery store. I’m not a fruit stand.

Okay, back to fresh writing. Have you ever read a book so dinged with cliches you wanted to drown yourself in your dog’s water bowl? Are we guilty of using them in our work? You bet your bottom dollar. If you can’t beat them, join them. Or as George Carlin would say, “If you can’t beat them, arrange to have them beaten.”

At least he spiked it.

Allow me to share the meaning of cliche, even though we know them better than our own children: A saying, expression, idea or element of an artistic work which has been overused to the point of losing its original meaning or effect, rendering it a stereotype, especially when at some point it was considered meaningful or novel.

Although cliches can sometimes be used in fiction for comedic effect, we should remember a key word here. SOMETIMES. And it had better be funny. A no go and your readers might be swell enough to flip the page, but if you try again and fail, they could storm over to the fireplace, book or short story in hand, and snap a match. At least their wee bones would be warmed on a cold and stormy night.

Really, if we can, and we can, don’t socialize with cliches. They talk behind our backs, and give our readers wrinkles. Now there are loopholes, well, maybe one loophole. If a cliche can be spun around to make it zing-which, ahem..I’m guilty of- then do. But not too often.

Cliches aside, fresh prose should always be the standard. Think beyond the box. Give people thoughts for their pennies. We can always notch up our words, allowing them to sing opera, or belt out the Stones, Van Halen, Pink Floyd or Led Zeppelin. The key is throwing open the door and making an entrance. Dress up those words in black leather pants and let them knock back a good stiff whiskey, then strut them around like a freakin’ peacock!

Bad peacock, but you get the point. Don’t be afraid to let your words glitter and leave your characters room to open wide and speak their truth. So what if your crazy Aunt Polly, who holds tea parties for her cats, stands gape-jawed at something you’ve written? All the better. Maybe you’ve awakened something dormant in her. Maybe she’ll slap on some make-up, down a margarita, and go out dancing with her husband Carl.

Or maybe she won’t like you. Gasp!

If pleasing the world is our writing goal, we’d best hang our letters this instant and go open a bakery. Cupcakes anyone? People will always love sugar. So Sugars, if we’re going to write, please let characters breathe without the Aunt Polly’s of the world peering over our shoulders. Do send them out for cheesecake at a bakery in Bora Bora. And remember to pluck and add fresh stuff and not the wilted crap.

For fun, here’s a bowl full of stale cliches.

My favorite, colored up by George W. Bush: You can fool some of the people all of the time, and those are the ones you want to concentrate on.

So true ye fiction writers!

Here’s more.

Breaking the bank

When all is said and done

Bored stiff

All hell broke lose

A wolf in sheep’s clothing

Don’t put all your eggs in one basket

Rome was not built in a day

Please feel free to add your own favorites. Maybe if we can secretly corral enough of them and drown them in the Hudson River, we can make the world a better place.