Month: June 2012

“Ode to the Editor” Shared

/ Ann Aubrey Hanson / Leave a comment

Finally, in “Ode to the Editor,” someone finally understands what editors actually do, and how we love doing what we do.

Read this to see what I’m talking about. Chuck Wendig is an author who “gets” why an editor is sometimes necessary, and always helpful, even when they “tear apart” an author’s work.

“There she sits, alone. For hours. Maybe days. Pulling pages apart. Seeing what she has. Shining a light into dark corners. Finding sense. Fixing errors. Bringing sanity back to madness, chaos back to order, context back to content. Her red pen dances bloodily upon the page.” Yep, that’s me.

“She goes to him. She shows him what she’s done. He hates her — at first. He froths and kicks and spits, a beast poorly corralled, distraught at what he sees — the ruination of my art, the muddying of my vision, poopy handprints on what was once a clean white wall. But soon he sees. He sees how things make sense.”

“What she brings to the story is hidden behind every page. Lost in the space between sentences. Her repairs are invisible — the mechanisms of her craft hidden behind authorial drywall. Ever unknown to readers.”

I weep. “If you prick us, do we not bleed?” “I am not an animal! I am a human being!”

Thank you, Chuck Wendig. I salute you, as well!

Cockroaches and Science

/ Ann Aubrey Hanson / Leave a comment

I am a firm believer that more you read, the better your writing will be. One reason is that if you read good writing, it will somehow be “absorbed” into your psyche, and your inner voice will be accustomed to the rhythms and cadence of good writing, and the proper use of grammar and punctuation. Of course, by reading, I mean reading good writing…the classics, or even respected authors today, both in print and on the Web. It’s a matter of value in, value out, and garbage in, garbage out. It won’t do you any good to read many of the blogs on the net, where ideas are primary and writing is secondary. Oh, read for ideas, by all means, but don’t use these as guides for your own writing.

In that vein, I recommend reading for another reason: to broaden your horizons, which is vital for a writer. Read about people and places you have never experienced first-hand. This is valuable, not because you’ll likely write about those new people and places, but because they will now inhabit your stable of characters and locales, from which you can draw as needed when you write. I’ve just edited a book about memoir writing of Muslim women of the diaspora. Likely, I might never have encountered this subject on my own; I read voraciously, but this wouldn’t have been high on my list. But, as a result of editing the book, I opened my horizons and read on some of the subjects mentioned in the book. As a consequence, my stable of characters has new dwellers.

And then, there are the bizarre facts that you will learn, facts that can later be used to enhance your storyline,  or your characters’ backgrounds. Take this, for instance: cockroaches and science (watch the video at the bottom; fascinating). The subject matter initially repelled me, but I overcame my repulsion and read the article. I’m glad I did! What wonderful ideas now come to mind, for plot lines and interesting ideas for character background.

Read. You have no excuse not to. You may be overworked, but at some point, you must relax. Read. You may live out in the boonies, but if you’re reading this, you have Internet. Read. Prowl among the shelves in libraries and bookstores, pulling out books on topics you might never before have broached. Read. Broaden your horizons, and enrich your writing.

Use a Claude Glass in Your Writing

/ Ann Aubrey Hanson / 2 Comments

While editing a book on travel writing (circa 1768-1840), I came across a new term: Claude Glass. Intrigued, I looked it up.

A Claude Glass was basically a slightly convex pocket mirror with a surface tinted slightly dark.  These compact mirrors were used by Picturesque landscape artists as a means of isolating an image, so that it could be rendered independent of anything around it. Thus, fewer distractions, for the artist as well as for the viewer. Black mirrors (as they were also called) have the effect of abstracting the subject reflected in it from its surroundings, reducing and simplifying the color and tonal range of scenes and scenery.

Claude glasses could range in size from pocket-size to much larger, as you can see below.

(This is a drawing in the British Museum by the artist Thomas Gainsborough which shows an artist, possibly a self-portrait,  holding a Claude Glass in one hand and drawing implement in the other, to record what he was seeing in the glass behind him onto the paper on his lap. The Claude glass is named for Claude Lorrain, a 17th-century landscape painter, whose name in the late 18th century became synonymous with the picturesque aesthetic.)

You can even make your own Claude glass by using your side rearview mirror. (Warning, things in the mirror may be larger than they appear!)

So, what does this have to do with writing? Too often, writers (myself included) try to squeeze too much information into a sentence, a paragraph, or any other element of writing. We know so much about our characters, for example, that we want to tell everything about them. We want to tell what they look like, give their background and foretell their futures, or describe in the minutest detail where they are walking and what they are sensing. It’s a case of information overload, sure to prompt readers to toss the book (if they’re anything like me) and run screaming down the hall. Overwriting is sure-death for a story.

That’s where the figurative Claude glass can come in handy, helping you to focus only on what is germane to the moment, and letting all else blend into the edges, into temporary (or permanent) obscurity. My friend Meg Gardiner once accused me of “setting the table” when I started a story: putting everyone neatly in their places, their placards filled with information and aligned at their designated spots. She said I was incapable of just leaping into the action, damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead. She was right. (I have since corrected this habit; I think.)

Essentially, when I write, I must make myself use the Claude glass, identifying what should be in focus, and what should fall by the wayside. When my protagonist is standing in the middle of a mine field, is it absolutely necessary that we know that he is six-foot-four, has blond hair, and plays the cello when not at death’s door? No. His size might be important, but I’d have to determine that as I write. Color of hair? Definitely not. Plays the cello? Only important if the cello figures into his death or rescue. Of course, I must know all of this as the author, but I need to use the Claude glasses to determine what the reader must be told. What matters to the story at this moment?

Clarity of focus. Narrowness of vision. Perception of reality. Thanks, Claude!

Let Your Characters Speak

/ Ann Aubrey Hanson / Leave a comment

In my previous post, I explained that many new writers don’t know how to let their characters develop into full-blown beings. I suggested that allowing the characters to speak is an excellent way to finding out who your characters are. Here is an exercise I use with my writing clients.

What a character doesn’t say can be just as important as what the character does say. In the conversation, if a mother feels she is being manipulated by her teenage daughter, she doesn’t have to call the daughter on it, which is what many new writers would have their characters do. Instead, once she recognizes what’s going on, she might stop talking. Not say a single word. What happens then with the daughter? She can’t ask outright if she’s been discovered as a manipulator, and she won’t know whether to keep on the original track. Suddenly, her wheels are spinning in the mud. And her mother hasn’t had to say a thing. There is immediate tension there.

In the interview process, most of my students initially use the exercise to introduce their characters, almost a word-for-word recitation of their character descriptions and bios (if they’d bothered to create those before they began writing). The interviewer is simply a springboard for revealing character. Most writers are surprised when I “bleed red ink” all over their first drafts. But I explain that this hasn’t been an interview at all, in most cases, since the interviewer is simply feeding the character openings for plugging in information.

For example, here’s a common kind of exchange:

  • Interviewer: Can you tell me a bit about what makes you tick?
  • Character: Well, when my parents died in a car accident when I was little, I vowed to do something with my life that would make them proud of me. That’s why I’ve started this project where we teach art to special-needs children. It’s our belief that these children need an outlet for their creativity, a way to express themselves. I can tell you stories about some of the students…..(and off the character goes, outlining her successes).

For the reader, this provides information, but there’s no drama, no tension…no interest. It’s like reading a newspaper article about something that happened. They get hearsay, but have no experience of the event.

How much more powerful would it be if the interview went like this:

  • Interviewer: Can you tell me a bit about what makes you tick?
  • Character: Tick? That’s an odd question.
  • [I]: Is it? Isn’t there something that drives your life? Makes you who you are?
  • [C]: What do you mean?
  • [I]: Well, you’re the first twenty-five-year-old woman I’ve ever met who set up a school of art for special-needs children, working with no funds. What made you choose that as a life goal?
  • [C]: I guess it started when my parents died in an accident when I was little. I decided then to do something with my life to make them proud of me. That’s–
  • [I]: How old were you when they died?
  • [C] (taken aback a bit by the interruption): Five and a half.
  • [I]: That’s awfully young. And you knew then that you wanted your life’s work to make them proud?
  • [C]: Well, not then, of course. As you say, I was young. As I got older, I realized it was important to me.
  • [I]: Why?
  • [C]: Why? Well, doesn’t every child want their parents to be proud of them?
  • [I] (ignoring the question): Do you remember your parents?
  • [C] (pausing): Yes. Of course. Well, as well as a five-year-old can remember parents after twenty years.
  • [I]: Can you still see their faces?
  • [C]: Not really, no. I mean, I have photographs, of course. But my own memories, no. They’re more just impressions, rather than memories.
  • [I]: What impressions?
  • [C]: I remember my dad’s smile.
  • [I]: Did he smile a lot?
  • [C]: No. In fact, it was rare to see it.
  • [I]: Do you remember a particular time when he did smile?
  • [C]: Clearly. I’d painted a picture for him. It was probably horrible, as only finger-paintings can be, but it was my version of Rapunzel, with the girl’s long hair falling out of a castle window.
  • [I]: But your father liked it?
  • [C]: Yes. (She pauses.) I remember that he pulled me against his chest as he held the picture out at arm’s length to examine it, and then he kissed my cheek and smiled. If he said anything, I don’t recall. But I still see that smile.
  • [I]: In your mind’s eye?
  • [C]: Yes. And, oddly enough, every time  a parent picks up their child at the center and smiles at what they’ve drawn that day.
  • [I]: So, the therapy isn’t just for the children, is it?
  • [C]: You know, I’d never thought of it that way.

This is pretty much the same information given to the reader in both instances, but how much better do you know the character in the second example? You’ve experienced the information, not just had it handed over to you in a neat little package. Of course, the interview could have gone in several other directions, but that’s the risk and the possibility when you, as the author, allow the characters to respond truthfully to the questions asked, especially when the questions are probing, and not just lob balls to be hit out of the park.

One of my constant refrains to my writing students is this: give your characters room to breathe.

Meet Your Characters

/ Ann Aubrey Hanson / Leave a comment

I’m working with a couple of new  clients as they take the next step in writing their first books. As is common with many new writers, they have an idea for a story, and have thought out where they want the story to go, but their characters are cardboard cutouts, useful to them only for furthering the story. So far, they have no idea how rich the characters can be, or the depth they can add to a story.

What they don’t yet understand is that if they want readers to care about the story, the readers must first care about the characters, and what happens to them in the story. Who are these people, I ask. The reply is basically, well, this is the main character, this is another character, and this is another. They have no real idea who the characters are, what their backgrounds are. Without knowing that, they can’t write honest actions and reactions for these characters.

I tell my clients that they must let the characters BE. Don’t have them talk and react as you need just to continue the story. Allow your characters to surprise you. You don’t have to let them derail your story, but allow them to speak their minds, to react honestly, and you’ll see some great developments in your story.

One of the exercises I do in my classroom and with my freelance students is to have them write two scenes: one is a conversation between two characters, and one is an interview between the writer and a character. That’s it. That’s all the info I give them.

Once they’ve written the scenes, we talk about what works well, and what doesn’t. The most frequent problem is that the author has dictated the scene. Well, of course, you say, the author is dictating, because the author is the writer. But that’s not what I mean. In order for the conversation to work, the author must let go of the reins. The characters must be allowed to wander off topic, if to do so will tell us something about that character. The author must be willing to be surprised by the character.

I’ve written characters who I thought I knew, only to find out, once I let them have their heads, that I didn’t really know them at all. One character in a story of mine, a wife named Mamie, was supposed to be a supporting character. It was her husband I was interested in. But it turned out, Mamie didn’t want to be a supporting character. She had things to say. She had things to do. She very quickly over-shadowed her husband, and I think the story was the better for it. Mamie surprised me, once I quit shoving words in her mouth and telling her what to do.

In the next segment of this post, I’ll show how this exercise is handy for getting your characters speak in their own voices.

Do Do That Voodoo That You Do So Well

/ Ann Aubrey Hanson / Leave a comment

I’m struggling to learn Portuguese right now. I study my Aquarela book every day, and at night if I watch TV, I watch with Portuguese subtitles on. I’m amazed by how many words I already know, and by how many are similar to words in English or French or Spanish. My reading is going well, but my speech is slower, and my understanding when hearing the language spoken is still lamentable.

I’ve learned to say “No falo português,” and more recently, “Aprendendo português ainda, por favor fala mais devegar” (I’m still learning Portuguese, please speak more slowly).

It’s not a difficult language; there’s just a lot to learn. I speak French, know some German, and can understand Spanish and some Italian. I suppose I have a facility for language, and I love the richness and diversity of the English language.

I’ve heard that English is difficult to learn, and remember Ricky trying to learn the rules from Lucy on “I Love Lucy.” (It’s cough, as in coff, but through as in thru?)

Last weekend, our taxi driver told us he found learning English was incredibly difficult. I said I was a bit surprised, since the structure of the language is the same (unlike German, where the verb goes at the end of the sentence) and many of the words are similar, if not identical. But it wasn’t structure or vocabulary that troubled him. It was the word “do.”

Do you like pineapples? I do. What do you do? How do you do? Do you understand?

In other Latin-based languages, you don’t (do not) have an equivalent. One asks the equivalent of: you like pineapples? Yes, I like them. What is your job? How are you. You understand? There is no “do” in those phrases. I’d never thought of that.

No only is the function of the word a mystery, but you must also now conjugate two verbs in a single sentence: What do you do? What does he do (not does)? How do you (plural) do.

And then there is the use of the affirmative, and negative in English compared to Portuguêse.

Do you speak English? I do/I don’t.

Do you speak Portuguese? I speak. I no speak.

Do you like hamburgers? I do.

Do you like feijoada (a Brazilian bean dish)? I like/I no like.

Who know that this do had such voodoo? A simple two-letter word had brought this man to his knees, figuratively speaking.