Posts from DeadDarlings Writers’ Blog
In April I hiked through Zion National Park. I stood gape-mouthed, staring at the burnt orange, gold, and greens in the walls of a canyon so deep it made me dizzy. Layers of sedimentary rock rose up in swirling stripes of compressed time around me. It felt as if I could actually see time trapped in the striations.
I experienced awe. READ FULL ARTICLE HERE
Baseball pitchers rarely rely on a single pitch. They mix things up with fast balls, changeups, curve balls, knuckle balls, sliders, sinkers, and cutters. They consider who they are pitching to, how many strikes they have, how many outs, how many base runners, and the score.
Pitching a novel isn’t so different. You need to master the logline, elevator pitch, Twitter pitch, short summary, query letter, and synopsis. You must know which pitch to throw, when to throw it, and how fast. And, most importantly, you must be ready switch it up without getting flustered. READ FULL ARTICLE HERE
LOGLINE: A novelist must distill her story into a one-sentence logline, or she will fail to sell her book and will end up alone in a padded room.
Anyone pitching a book can relate to the angst of writing a logline, the single short sentence that captures the essence of your story. In one breath, you must command the attention of an agent, editor, or producer. You have five seconds (maybe ten) and you likely won’t get a second chance. But, no pressure. READ FULL ARTICLE HERE
Bonding with my Protagonist over a Dirty Secret
I love the time of year when my fingernails are always dirty. Really dirty. Deep under my nails, crusted in my cuticles, embedded in every crease on my knuckles. I love dirt. To be more precise, I love soil.
In the summer I run an organic farm where I grow a variety of vegetables and fruit. It’s a one-woman operation. I have help preparing the soil in the spring, and I usually can bribe some friends to help me plant, but after that, it’s all me.
It’s dirty work and I love it. READ FULL ARTICLE HERE
It’s writers conference season and literary hopefuls all over the country are polishing their pitches, fine tuning their queries. Is the hook sharp enough? Are the stakes high enough? What if I freeze up when I finally meet my dream agent?
Fear hangs like a cloud over writers’ conferences. You can smell it. READ FULL ARTICLE HERE
If you could have any super power, what would you choose? Would you fly? Read minds? As a child, I would have opted for invisibility. But on inauguration day 2017 I changed my mind.
I now choose the power of story.
Just as the road to Hell is paved with good intentions, the path to my recycle bin is littered with fuzzy intentions. One of these scenarios tells a complete story. The other is just a pile of garbage. READ FULL ARTICLE HERE
If I had a patronus it would definitely be a bear.
I know this because a bear I conjured up in mind—and wrote into my novel—crawled off the page and intervened in my real life. But yesterday, that bear died. More accurately, I killed her.
Before you judge me too harshly, I need to tell you the whole story. READ FULL ARTICLE HERE
My farm is a novel that writes itself over and over, year after year, always with a similar story arc: I plant, I tend, things go wrong, bugs invade. I fend off crows and raccoons. I pray for rain. I pray for the rain to stop. I harvest. Some years I am victorious, others years I stand defeated, but I always learn something. Each passing season leaves me changed.
I often wonder, however, if I am the protagonist or the antagonist in this story. One of my favorite quotes about writing is John Rogers’ little gem, “You don’t really understand an antagonist until you understand why he’s a protagonist in his own version of the world.”
As I began editing my novel, this idea really bothered me. My antagonist thinks he is the good guy? But if everyone thinks they are the protagonist, who, really, is the champion? We can’t all be the hero. READ FULL ARTICLE HERE
Posts from GrubStreet’s Daily Grub
I sat alone in my local coffee shop, like I do so often. Large latte, 2% milk. A table near an outlet for my laptop. Twenty minutes in, tears streamed down my cheeks. If someone looked my way, I faked a sneeze, pretending I had a cold.
I had just killed someone I loved, and I couldn’t contain my guilt—or my grief.
Just to be clear, the deceased was a character in my novel. And I didn’t kill her because I wanted to. I had to. Her laugh, her ferocious loyalty, and the way she chewed on her hair as a girl were precious to me. Saying goodbye felt cruel, but necessary. READ FULL ARTICLE HERE