Seven Year Old Time

Do you remember when you were a kid, and an hour actually was an hour? It was a lo-nnng time. Long enough that days seemed to last for a day, not a minute or two.

That was how my day was yesterday, and it was lovely! I was amazed at how nice it felt to look at the clock, expecting to see it was around ten but finding it was only eight. Then looking again, hours later, to find it was just ten.

I kept expecting it to speed up, to hit "normal" speed in the grup world where a minute lasts about a second (unless something bad is happening when that minute becomes ten seconds). But it didn't. All day and all evening time moved at a stately pace and I was thrilled.

I edited about ten chapters of 'Shady'. Not just edited, but read and tweaked and re-read and refined. I went back farther than where I wanted to actually start working, to make sure the transition from what I had to what I was creating would be seamless. It is. I've added a "spoiler" to Melanie's happy time. I've brought the story to where I wanted it to be, and have modified it a bit. I'm still not entirely happy, but it is better than it was.

From more than 122,000 words on Friday I'm down to 117,000 - even fewer than I was yesterday even though I've added detail and a few other things. The fat is being rendered and the roast is coming along nicely.

I also tweaked the blurb I wrote in preparation for submitting it this week. Sticking a fork in it on Saturday, I discovered it wasn't quite done, so I messed with it a bit and it's better. Now I have to see what's needed / expected and then decide if what I have will work, or if it needs work.

On top of all of that, this is a short work week here in the States. Thanksgiving is Thursday and our company (as most do) is closed on Friday - so I'll have a four day weekend to write and edit and fix and tweak and mess with my story. At the rate I'm going, I may beat the end of January deadline I've set for myself by five or six weeks. If I'm lucky.

Of course, I want to get through this pass, then do another. The end of the story has got to be as strong and well-refined as the beginning, and that's almost harder than writing the thing in the first place.

When I was participating in Authonomy, before it shut down last summer, everyone would read and comment on the first few chapters of a story. Because of that focus and attention, the first chapters always were the strongest - you got feedback on every little detail, all from different perspectives, and adjusted based on what was said and suggested.

The rest of the book would pretty much just lie there, unread and unloved. Personally, the vast majority of the books were okay but in my time there I never once found anything on which I would willingly spend my money. I'm too picky and most writing today is, in my opinion, lazy.

With the ease of self-publishing, the ability to publish a mediocre story at the press of a few buttons, there isn't a striving for real quality.

For instance, there's a book that's just been selected by Kindle Scout for publication, and it's a head scratcher to me. In my opinion it is, at best, mediocre writing.

The entire first chapter is pointless. It adds nothing to the story - nothing to the plot, nothing of merit to the main character, and the secondary character in that chapter isn't more than mentioned another time or two throughout the remainder of the book. Why is he there in the first place?

It also breaks about every rule of good writing there is for an opening scene.

The book (I won't say the story) opens with the first line about a barking dog. Okay... and then what? It's not explained. This is the first line of the book and that dog evaporates without explanation. Why is it there?

The main character wakes up. Big deal. So did I, this morning and yesterday and the day before. That is not an Earth-shattering event because there's nothing else going on. She opens her eyes and achieves awareness. Yippity-skippity.

The blackout curtains aren't as good as advertised. So what? What has that detail got to do with anything else in the story?

She's in bed with a man whom she neither likes nor loves. In the bathroom, which is about the most interesting thing that's happened so far, she has an internal soliloquy about how many times she's found herself in bed with him. Now there's a bright and shining light for the women's movement. The stereotypical woman who can't make up her mind about a man.

And, when that's all said and done, that scene has zero to do with the rest of the story which is about the apparent disappearance of this woman's younger sister. The first part that has to do with the actual storyline is when the main character walks out of work and finds her father waiting for her. He looks scruffy - not like his usual self, and isn't at work, not like his usual self. That's where the story really starts and all that came before is nothing but styrofoam packing.

This drives me NUTS! The book has the potential to be a much better story - if the opening had to do with the rest of the story.

Honestly, if that first chapter were taken out completely the only one who would notice would be the author. It's a darling, pure and simple.

Further, in the draft that I read, the male characters were no better than stick figures. They were mentioned in off-hand terms and, because of the casualness of how they were handled, they didn't even have enough depth or interest to qualify as cardboard cut-outs. They did not stand up off the plane of the page and "feel" as if they might be real people.

Yet this kind of writing qualifies as "publishable". What makes it "publishable" is, almost exclusively, because it's going to be an e-book and the author self-promoted and got a lot of friends to back it. None of that makes the story good. It was just pushed harder than the others.

Once it hits the shelves, assuming it makes it into print, I doubt it's going to go anywhere. There are just too many flaws, in my opinion. I certainly wouldn't buy it - not based on that first chapter or on most of the rest of it I read. It isn't interesting enough to me, although the premise has potential.

Now I am not saying that mine is better, because I don't know that it is. But I am trying to make it better, to make it more interesting and to make all of my characters, primary and secondary, interesting and better than cardboard. That's why I'm laboring over this so hard. I put the first half of it up on Write On back in September, and I haven't added anything to it in weeks. Primarily because I am rewriting much of it - tightening it up and killing my darlings.

And this, my critique of this other person's story, is why I don't write reviews. I'm too brutal, too demanding from the standpoint of a consumer.

Several months ago when I was participating in a "critique" group, I commented on another person's writing and got blasted for it. In that story, there were so many plot holes I could well have been spelunking through a cave system someplace. I pointed them out, honestly and without much in the way of cushioning because that's how I am - and how I prefer to have my own writing critiqued. That did not go down well.

I heard from another member of the group, privately, and was pretty well told that I was too harsh. Perhaps so, but that message didn't change my opinion. All it did was make me drop out of the group. I can't do squishy reviews. I can't do ambivalent critiques. Not about writing and its quality.

So, now that I've written what I have about this story, which may be recognized by someone reading this post, I'll probably get smacked for saying what I have, but I'm not going to retract this because it's one person's opinion. Mine. And I'm entitled to it.

Now, with that said, I'm going to go back to building my world, to killing my darlings and getting my characters up, standing on their own two feet.

Have a lovely day!

Best~
Philippa

Follow me on Twitter: https://twitter.com/PhilippaStories

Scarecrow and Chapter One

I feel like the Scarecrow from L. Frank Baum's 'The Wizard of Oz', the line after they've been attacked by the Wicked Witch's flying monkeys and the Cowardly Lion and Tinman are re-stuffing him: 'That's you all over'.

It's been crazy around here this morning - dashing hither and yon, trying to catch up with myself. I finally have and now I'm too worn out to think of anything to write here. Not amusing, not boring, not same-old, same-old, so I'll post a couple of chapters from one of my books and get back to writing.

This is from 'Matters of Friendship' which is available for reading at Authonomy. It's free to sign up, totally spam free, and a place to read up-and-comers.  https://www.authonomy.com/book/294687/

Have a lovely day!

Philippa
Follow me at Twitter: https://twitter.com/PhilippaStories

Matters of Friendship

Chapter 1 - Resurrection

The ‘Resurrection Party’ was supposed to be a celebration of my divorce, but it wasn’t. It was anything but a celebration.

“Did you hear…?”

“Isn’t it awful? Poor thing.”

“Poor Peter! What’s he going to do…?”

“I wonder how the kids are dealing with it…”

Moving from group to group in my role as guest of honor, I overheard at least a dozen conversations, all on the same theme, but I didn’t mind. How could I?

Some of the people there were friends from other times, other places. The rest, the majority, were colleagues and work friends. These people also knew Peter and some had met his wife, Lara.

The first group wanted to spend time catching up, to ask how I was doing, what it was like to be single again. I circulated through them, answering questions, asking my own, and hearing about kids grown up, moved away, new grand babies and the lives I had missed. Some also wanted to meet my other, newer friends, the ones they might have heard of from me.

The rest, the people who knew Peter or Peter and Lara, wanted to talk about them and her cancer. They ignored the others, the strangers or waiting-to-be friends, and clustered together shifting from place to place while they dissected the gossip.

Balancing both groups with all the undercurrents was an uphill battle. It was a challenge that would stump the best hostess in the world, which I wasn’t. Still I tried.

As usual for summer in Sonoma County, the afternoon started hot but cooled rapidly when the fog came across the coast. The fuzzy edge of it trimmed the tops of the distant hills while the wind carried its chill dampness inland. Sundresses and polo shirts were no match, so the patio cleared and we all moved into the winery tasting room where the drinking, nibbling and gossiping continued.

When the sun began to set behind the encroaching fog, the party wound down. People stopped on their drift toward the doors to say all the usual things people say at a time, in a place like that. As the group thinned, the strains of light jazz coming from the built-in speakers grew proportionally louder, filling the fresh made gaps. Outside, evening grew and someone turned on the inside lights.

After making one last circuit of the room, pausing by the laggards to offer my thank yous for their coming and encourage them to leave, I caught up with Karen and Stan. They were my friends who had organized the party and had spent the evening behind the bar, pouring drinks and replenishing the trays of food. With them was Brendan, the winery owner and Stan’s boss. As I approached, Karen looked past Brendan and offered a rueful smile.

“Hey, Allison, there you are!” She stepped forward, proffering a swapped air kiss when I came to a stop. “It’s a shame about Lara, really terrible news. I hope it didn’t mess things up for you tonight, and you still had a good time?”

“I had a wonderful time, given the circumstances.” Looking back down the long room, I allowed myself a sigh. Of all the people Karen had said she would invite, Peter was the only one I had really wanted to see. The others would have been the cake, but he would have been the icing.

Oh well, no regrets, remember?

Turning back, I smiled and took her hand in mine. “It’s awful about Lara, and I feel terrible for Peter and the kids. So sad for them, but it was thoughtful and kind for you and Stan to put this together for me. I can’t thank you enough. It was great to see everyone again.”

“Oh, good, I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

“I did, so thank you again, but I also came to say good night. I’ve got to feed Charley and get some stuff done for tomorrow.”

“Are you sure?” Her dark eyebrows rose, “We were just talking about going out to dinner after we shoo everyone else out of here.”

“Gee,” a flash of embarrassment swept through me as my eyes flicked over to Brendan.

He was a good looking, tall, barrel chested man in his mid-fifties with a creased face and brilliant blue eyes. To me, he looked more like a cowboy than a winery owner.

Still, I was nowhere close to being ready to start going out or dating. Not even a casual dinner that felt like a set-up so I smiled at him, a ‘no hard feelings’ gesture because he was looking at me with an expression I couldn’t read.

“That sounds really nice, but… I’m sorry. Perhaps we could do it another time?”

Karen looked faintly hurt and I felt badly. She had been generous with arranging the party and was trying to be a good friend.

Smiling, I offered an alternative. One that I hoped wouldn’t feel quite like such a trap for either Brendan or me. “I am sorry, but I really can’t tonight. How about you all come to my place for dinner next Saturday and we’ll do a barbecue?”

Brendan shifted and looked away, the muscles in his face tighter than they had been. Was he irritated, resentful, embarrassed or was it something else?

Stan tossed a grimace at his wife, who looked only slightly abashed, and said, “That sounds good to us. How about it, Brendan?”

“Uh … yeah, sure, that sounds good.” He didn’t look thrilled. There was no smile or brightening of the eyes as he glanced from Stan to Karen and then at me. It looked as if he was searching for an excuse and not finding one. “When next Saturday?”

“Why don’t we say six o’clock? Would that be okay?” I thought my voice sounded unnaturally cheerful and it was my turn to squirm, hoping no one else noticed.

There were murmurs all around while I smiled at Karen, even though I wanted to throttle her for putting me on the spot like that. Instead, I just said good night and left, waiting until I pulled the car door shut behind me before saying what I was thinking.

“Geez Louise, Karen! The ink is barely dry on the decree, and you’re already trying to set me up!”

I had to laugh, at both of us, and did as I slipped the key into the ignition and backed out of the parking space. As I drove away, my laughter fell behind as sadness crept in with the thoughts of Lara and Peter.

Chapter Two - Introductions

Four years before my ‘resurrection’, the company at which I had I worked underwent a massive reorganization. In the course of six months, half the upper management left in either forced ‘retirement’ or terminated disgrace. New management transferred in or came onboard. Departments were reconstituted, streamlined and became new things.

Through it all, I kept my head down and my powder dry. Too many of my co-workers received transfers or terminations. Many others quit. I didn’t want to join them, so I trod carefully, balancing on the precipice, never quite sure where the edge might be. That edge got narrower when my boss, the general manager, called me into his office one day.

The Transition Manager was sitting in front of the desk, watching me. I sensed something, a tension, so I closed the door.

“Allison,” Bryce looked pale, shaken. He stopped, shook his head and cleared his throat, took a moment and then looked up at me. “I’m being let go.”

“What?” I couldn’t believe it and took a step closer to the desk.

Bryce had founded the company, had built it, grown it, and then sold it to a multi-national company in the same industry. They had kept him on, let him lead, and now … this?

He just looked away, down, and nodded. The strain was painful to see and my heart went out to him.

We had not always worked comfortably together, but we had made a good team. His approach to managing people was sometimes overbearing. Occasionally he would verbally club people to try to get them to perform, but he had always been fair, treating everyone the same without favorites.

After the first time I had seen what I thought was unfair and unreasonable, I went into his office, supposedly to get his signature on some letters.

“It’s a shame about Morrie.” I was standing at the end of his desk and spoke neutrally.

“Oh?” He looked up. His dark bristly eyebrows had already drawn down over his frosty eyes.

I didn’t back down, but didn’t challenge his stare, either. Instead, I looked at the sheaf of papers in my hands.

“Mm. I heard his daughter was in an accident last week, hit by a pickup truck. Seems one of her legs and an arm are broken, and she’s in a back brace. It must be awful for him and Marie.” I watched him through the corner of my eye, to gauge his reaction. “I can’t imagine the strain that’s putting on him.”

He shifted on the chair, his pen hovering over the latest page. The pen landed and moved as he said, “I didn’t know.”

“I didn’t think so, but I think that’s why he’s been so distracted lately. There’s probably a lot going on at home.”

He grunted and shoved the letters into my hand, looking at the wall across the room with that crease still between his brows.

“How old is she?”

“Six and her name is Sally.”

Without another word, I left and went back to my desk from which I could see into his office. Perhaps a minute later, he stood up, came to and paused in the doorway before sauntering off, heading in the direction of Morrie’s workstation.

From then, when I thought he had crossed the line, I tried to find little ways to let him know that sugar and honey attract more than vinegar and brine. He gradually learned and I was always careful not to step into things that were strictly performance related.

Now, he cleared his throat again, “I’ll be leaving in a few minutes, but I wanted to let you know,” he looked up at me. Tears edged his lower eyelids, “you have been a great assistant. I appreciate it and I’ve put in a good word.” He shrugged and a ghost of a smile tugged at a corner of his mouth. “I don’t know what good that will do, but I’ve done what I can.”

It took me a moment to gather my wits, and then I nodded, “Thank you. Thank you for telling me, personally.”

The woman we all resented and feared rose, her face smooth, as if she felt nothing about what she was doing to Alan, to me, to everyone else who had worked there.

“Please excuse us.” Her perfume caught in my nose when she reached past me and opened the door.

“Of course,” still in shock, I stepped through, glanced back and then closed the door behind me.

Back at my desk, it was impossible to work. I kept looking at the office door and the narrow sidelight through which I could see the woman’s shoulder above the chair back.

Things gradually balanced out, settled down. The new general manager came in. Carolyn, the Transition Manager who had dropped the axe on Bryce introduced us, and that was that. Stay or leave, take it or leave it, and I decided to try.

I was still as jumpy as a cat in a dog kennel five months after the change when Cecily, the Director of Manufacturing Processes appeared at my desk one morning. One of the newcomers, a transfer from another division, stood behind her.

He was a tall lanky man with a mop of brown hair over a long narrow face slightly marked by long-ago acne and warm brown eyes.

“Allison, we need your help. This is Peter. I don’t think you’ve met.” She waved at him, briefly, but didn’t wait, “Adam and Dave want us to revamp our technical procedures, make them more consistent so they’re easier to follow.

“Peter is our new document control specialist, and he has some ideas but needs help implementing them, standardizing everything. He thinks templates might be best, and I’m hoping you can lend a hand.”

 

Sunday Morning Drivel

Good morning!  Happy wonderful day!

Sun's coming up (good thing, that). It's looking like it's going to be clear (not so good, considering the drought). We got a little rain on Friday night into Saturday morning - about 0.5 inch if I believe the weather people. The Giants won in Colorado last night. It's shaping up to be a good day!

I have some obligations - my mother-in-law's pill boxes and a few other things, but nothing major. The errands got done yesterday, so today it's all house stuff. The dust is thickening, so I'll take care of that later. Sam, my cat, is feeling needy this morning, so he'll keep me working to settle him down. After that and getting my coffee, I'm looking forward to reading and commenting upon a new book from the Authonomy site.

There's a group of us, the Women's Fiction Critique Group that, every three weeks, does a read of a new book and provides observations, comments and encouragement.  It is the one place on the site where I'm confident that anyone reading my books will not pull any punches whatsoever.

The first time through, I stumbled out the other side, battered, bloodied and bruised, with confidence greatly shaken because the critiques were not soft and fuzzy.  There was one, in particular, that still bothers me more than a year later. "She's a bitch!" and "I hate your MC!" followed by "I can't read any more of this!"  Ouch!  The rest were all mildly to moderately encouraging and all, even the hardest hitting one, had valid points.  It was just a surprise to have my 'masterpiece' so thoroughly trounced. Looking back, not all the points were valid but many were, and it's those I need to take to heart when the time comes to go back to it.

So this is the group to which I will submit my observations on this next book.

I'm torn about the last crit I left.  One of the members came back to me after and said I was too harsh.  Perhaps I was. The deal is, though, that I was dead honest and pulled no punches because, in my view, if someone, anyone is going to put that book up for sale, the purchaser has the right to expect top quality.  This was an early version and, because of gaps in the plot and storyline, there is a lot of work to be done.

There is also the obligation I feel when I do a critique.  I will not say 'this sucks' and leave it at that. That benefits no one - not me, not the writer, not other potential critics. If I'm going to say something bad or negative, I'm going to give chapter and verse on why. It's not fair to anyone to say, 'yeah, this sucks' and leave it at that, so I dont because it's not just the receiver of the crit who sees that there. There are others who follow-on and see the points made. If I'm blunt and decisive, clear and spell things out, perhaps others will benefit.

Do I feel badly? Yes. Obviously since I'm trying to self-justify here. I wasn't happy with my comments before I posted them, and after having my "brutality" confirmed, my comfort level is set squarely at Squirm.

I've been there, had that done to me but, on the other side, for me it was a HUGE wake-up call. What I thought was beautiful and delicate genius was tedious and naive. In the end, despite hurt feelings, a 'why did she say those horrible things?' and a 'why am I doing this?' reaction, my story will be much better and stronger, more real and believable than it was. It will be a better product for a potential reader.

If my critique has the same effect, almost everyone benefits (but I'll still feel uncomfortable when I think of it). Tough love is a good term to use.

I love reading. I love good stories. To me there is nothing worse than picking up a book, paying for it, and realizing partway through that I have wasted my time and money because it's not what I hoped for or expected. To me, that's like the movie that you sit down to watch and discover, 'OMG - what is this!??'.

When I'm done with a story, I want it and the characters to be restlessly pacing at the back of my mind long after the cover is closed for the last time. When a book does that to me, it's a better than average book, and that's what I want to see produced. That's what I want to produce - living characters that catch a reader's mind and imagination, and that is one tough nut to crack but that is what I strive to do in everything I write.

I have received great encouragement from two beta readers whose opinions I value. They are instrumental at the Inca Project site (http://www.incaproject.co.uk/) and both were, from my perspective, wildly encouraging.

'I loved it.' 'I didn't want it to end.' 'Looking for the sequel.' 'A brilliant read.'

Music to a writer's ears! Minor picks - a few typos and editing changes, some repetition, but nothing that little things wouldn't fix. The next step is Create Space where I will enter it into the sweeps and see what happens with it. Probably this summer since I have a few other things to get in order. The cover is done though!  Oh happy day!

Now - I am off to get my coffee, do pills and rid the house of dust dunes.

Best~
Philippa

Follow me on Twitter: https://twitter.com/PhilippaStories
Check out "Lothario & The New Girl" my erotic romance on www.authonomy.com