Archive for March, 2010

Writers Group Manifesto: Bleed or Die

Sunday, March 28th, 2010

Drug cartels may be blowing their brains out all over Mexico, but here in old Mazatlan it’s the weekly gathering of scribes who are doing all the bleeding. At least, that’s the idea.

Meeting at a round table in a seaside bar named Canucks, we read from our works in progress, then sit back, bite our tongue, and listen with great equanimity to feedback. That’s the tough part, the essential part. As a collective, we’ve become an organism that’s more broadly critical than any of us could be on our own.

Over the winter, a valuable but fragile trust has developed within the hard-core members of our group. Lately, though, we’ve been struggling to preserve the status quo in the face of a booming membership. While sheer numbers are obviously more unwieldy, not to mention less intimate, it seems to me that the erosion of our hard-won trust stems more from the quality of participation – which boils down to two things: sharing and critiquing.

Perhaps the situation could be improved if we took time out to reflect upon what constitutes appropriate participation. For what it’s worth, here are my thoughts on the matter:

Presenting old, rather than current, work is a cop out. It suggests that the writer is only interested in establishing some literary ground under their feet. Or they’re reading to hear the sound of their own voice. Yet, that same voice is often silent when it’s time to respond to another writer’s work? Those who haven’t the courage to share spontaneously are playing it safe (for themselves), which presents a danger (for the group).

The arena of trust, it would appear, thrives on risk. A good writers group encourages its members to expose their fresh and vulnerable thoughts. The group loves the participant who broaches the unknown, who refutes political correctness, who risks being as wrong as he or she can be. Trust grows quickly among partners in literary crime.

It’s blood on the page that any writer strives for, and which every writers group needs. Blood still wet. Not blood that spilled and dried long ago. Perhaps we should prepare a manifesto and hand it out to prospective members: bleed or die.

Blomkvist R Us

Monday, March 22nd, 2010

The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo presents a protagonist whose life is disintegrating. Mikael Blomkvist, a journalist, has been convicted of slandering a wealthy industrialist, and will shortly go to jail. Consequently, the magazine he publishes may fail. To occupy himself before he heads to prison, he agrees to solve an impossible mystery. All this uncertainty is key to the design of this and many stories – a beginning that can only be described as hopeless.

What interests me is why readers so willingly engage with hopeless situations. Of course, Blomkvist R Us. Our lives are a painful quandary, so we live vicariously through the struggles of the literary protagonist, yada yada yada. Yeah, we know that already. This is why we keep buying novels and watching films about people in dire straits.

But WHY is failure so compelling? An uncertain state of mind must serve us somehow. This we know instinctively.

We’ve heard it before – heartache inspires art. Adversity spawns adventure. Breakdowns present our best chance for breakthrough. But who besides a few saints chooses to suffer? No, we ignore our instincts to sustain the delusion that we are masters of our fate and captains of our soul.

But our passion for anguished heroes belies all this self-bamboozlement. Books that begin with a Blomkvist serve to connect us to an essential state of mind. One that we’re (understandably) too terrified to face in reality.

And so we read. And so we write.

I Want to Write about Voice

Thursday, March 18th, 2010

Please excuse this long post – I didn’t have time to write a shorter one.

Thanks to Mark Twain for that. Is there a better example of a winning opening remark? Engaging and intriguing, this is “voice”, that elusive quality that turns pages. With a stack of novels on a shady table under a squanderable Mexican sun, I give myself an hour to see if I can determine what makes a compelling narrator’s voice.

This isn’t passive voice or active voice I’m talking about, nor point of view. Not present tense or past tense, but tension, yes.  Above all, voice bewitches the mind.

Here’s Virginia Woolf beginning Orlando. She piles on the provocative words: “sex, slicing, disguise, barbarian fields, Africa, slain, skull, strange rivers, lunge and plunge and slice…” The sheer momentum of these words and the undulating sentences she makes of them sweep the reader along for pages and pages.

I remember reading the opening of Woolf’s Mrs. Dalloway, and knowing immediately with what spirit I would rewrite my novel, Roxy. Woolf’s first person p.o.v is so immediate, tactile, and judgmental. Outrageous! Exclamation marks all over the place! Though the plot is claustrophobic, the voice is exciting, deadly.

Here’s another Wolfe, Thomas, and his Look Homeward, Angel! His first paragraph includes this line: ‘Each of us is all the sums he has not counted…” He would appear to be opening philosophically; maybe we’ll learn something in this book. The line might contain the book’s theme, so we read the paragraph again. If so, he’s hooked us. Voice is authority.

Another Wolfe novel begins with an onslaught of visceral words: pissing, urinal, virgin, vomiting. In Harold and Maude, a mock suicide scene unfolds on page 1. Death is a poplular opener. Likewise sex. This is powerful energy. Voice is energy. Our novels could devote that energy to making and keeping a promise. From death to rebirth. From sex to super-consciousness. Something like that.

Here’s another novel whose more mellow opening paragraph contains this single metaphor: “chips of cloudy sky”. Chips is unusual, chips might fall, creating tension.  One original turn of phrase might be enough to endear the author to the reader. Voice is confidence.

“Once upon a time there was a woman who discovered she had turned into the wrong person.” Here’s an absurd voice that in one sentence perfectly establishes not only the tone but the protagonist’s struggle.

“We had gone 84 days now without taking a fish.” Right out of the gate, this famous narrator doesn’t just announce the plot, he comes across as straightforward and honest. Voice is character.

“I want to write about faith, about the way the moon rises over cold snow night after night…” With this beginning, poet David White presents a vulnerable narrator confessing a desire to accomplish something about which he feels incapable. We immediately connect with the glorious humanity of it.

Here’s another narrator making a confession in the first few words: “I didn’t know what the hell we were doing here.” The reader is immediately engaged by the question it poses. By establishing a narrator who ‘doesn’t know’, the voice is imbued with the poignancy of human failure. Who doesn’t immediately connect with such voice?

So, what is this mysterious thing called voice? It doesn’t appear to be writerliness; more like the absence of it. Maybe it’s who we are. And if you’re not sure, and haven’t added yourself up lately, maybe that’s okay too, because, as Thomas Wolfe’s narrator said:

“Each of us is all the sums he has not counted…”

A Scrotum Tightening Lesson

Monday, March 15th, 2010

“The writing’s not compelling enough,” said the agent’s email. “Sorry, I’ll have to pass.”

Mike was justifiably dejected as he told us the news. Our writing group takes this kind of thing personally. We’ve been following Mike’s journey toward publication for some time. We love his characters, right down to the protagonist’s shipboard cat. The agent must have loved something about Mike’s query letter because he invited him to submit the manuscript. The agent actually read it. Fantastic.

“Not compelling enough. Sorry. Piss off.”

‘Compelling’ is such a depressing word, an infuriating word, but a good word. It’s not just Mike who has to understand this, it’s each of us in the group. Rick, Sue, Spencer, Sarah, Angela, Joanne, Mae, Myrna, Marie – most of us are in rewrite hell, and if we have a common problem it’s a serious lack of ‘compelling’.

So, what is compelling? Any agent, publisher, producer, or any of their poorly paid readers knows instinctively what’s compelling. And if they don’t see it on the first page, they don’t expect to see it on the second. And if it shows up on page 5, it’s too late. The good news is – we can recognize it on page 5 and transpose the magic to page 1. And every page thereafter. It’s called a rewrite.

It is magic, too, by the way. That’s the bad news. It’s called ‘voice’. I once read an entire book about voice and didn’t learn a thing. That would be worse news if I didn’t think that the writer of that text had simply failed. I’m going to give it a try, myself.

‘Voice’ is tension in any of its guises. Tension is compelling. Compelling turns pages. The agent wasn’t curious enough to turn the damn page. It’s as simple as that. (Maybe she was hungover, Mike. And then again, maybe not.)

 Compelling is a promise made in the opening paragraph. It’s a reason to stick around – if not for 300 pages, then at least until the next page. It might be a foreboding, or a poke at one of our wonderful human weaknesses. An escape from a world, or a coming to terms with a world.  Contradiction in a character, ambiguity in a metaphor, an adjective all ass-backwards. Almost any kind of tension will do.

James Joyce launched his Ulysses upon a ‘scrotum-tightening sea’. We are thrust immediately into our oh-so-vulnerable bodies. What, after all, is the body all about? Ultimately, pain and suffering. And then death.

Of course.

All stories are journeys toward some manner of coming undone. Otherwise, there’s no dramatic tension and no resolution.  We need to determine the nature of that undoing and plant its promise in the opening paragraph. Point the way, establish tension, and then…

 Query another agent, Mike.

Literary Tattoos: Girls, dragons, and Shangri-La

Monday, March 8th, 2010

tattoo Final 27x40.inddThe publishers wanted a title they could take to the bank. The original Swedish title you wouldn’t take to a dog fight: Men Who Hate Women. What were they thinking over at the marketing department? Capitalizing on a red hot cultural trend, the English publishers hit on The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, and they’ve been laughing all the way to ‘you know where’. Whether by accident or design, they also deployed one of the most powerful literary devices – a highly graphic unifying image. A literary tattoo!

Symbols of any kind can help us decypher what lies at the heart of a story. Think of the mockingbird in To Kill a Mockingbird, or the white whale in Moby Dick. For that matter, who can forget the Polynesian harpooner (Queequeg) and his tattoos. Every good film or book has a compelling image that serves as the theme’s touchstone, and only rarely in film or literature has it been a tattoo.

Dragon Tattoo’s most creative invention is Lisbeth Salander, the enigmatic co-protagonist who cleans up after the hateful men in her life. Without this dark and vengeful angel the book may have proved too cruel to digest. She, of course, is the woman with the dragon tattoo.

Author Stieg Larsson didn’t over-cook the dragon motif. In fact, the tattoo is barely mentioned. In my latest novel, ROXY, I treat a tattoo motif in the same subtle fashion. Central images work best that way, just as the moral of a book or film is often buried in a minor incident. Yet the detail reverberates throughout the story. It’s just these kinds of ripples repeatedly encountered that make reading long-form fiction so enjoyable. And what makes speculating upon the writer’s intention so much fun.

So, what did the late Stieg Larrson intend with his dragon motif? Obviously he wanted to add depth to the Salander character. He wanted the reader to understand her without being told in so many unwieldy words. A tattoo has the potential to do that. What might we have expected of Lisbeth Salander if, instead of a dragon, she wore a floral design, or Our Lady of Guadalupe? We would anticipate a more forgiving character – definitely not the personality Larsson had in mind. Readers rightfully expect a character simmering with a latent vengeance capable of breathing fire.

Sometimes an author will chose an icon with significance more far-reaching than he intended. It seems to me that Larsson’s dragon also speaks to inconvenient history that the plot unearths, crimes so hideous that they could only have been committed by men held hostage by their own lizard brains.

A tattoo defines my young protagonist in the novel, ROXY. I wanted her to appear both rebellious and heart-felt. A tattoo over her heart would accomplish that, a text tattoo spelling “Shangri-La”. How could this not imply something central to her life? This is the tattoo’s uniquely powerful medicine – it serves as a talisman reflecting a person’s deepest fears or desires.

Roxy’s tattoo is a reminder of her long-dead grandmother, the person closest to her heart. While that may sound so very sentimental, the tattoo is meanwhile helping to hold the story universe together in its role as central image. “Shangri-La” provides a clue to where the story is headed, quite literally.

A unifying icon like a tattoo is a nucleus around which readers can organize their participation in the story. Yes, we do participate – by anticipating events in the plot, and finally by unlocking the story’s meaning. This is what we expect of an emblem or myth or tattoo, and that’s what we get—understanding without laborious thinking. And here’s the kicker – readers are smart – we’re aware of cross-currents of meaning, if only on a subliminal level.

While reading a good book, the magical part of our brain thrives on hints and buried clues. It works overtime – often without our knowing it – to interpret minor details, throw-away lines, and hidden symbols such as Salander’s dragon and Roxy’s Shangri-La tattoo.

(Interested in other articles of mine on tattoos?  See: Ancient Tattoos and Erotic Tattoos on this website or at www.vanishingtattoo.com )

We Can’t All Be Everything

Tuesday, March 2nd, 2010

I’m writing a review of “The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo” for the Vanishing Tattoo website. Author Stieg Larsson has created an unlikely duo that team up to solve the mystery of a long-ago disappearance of a young woman in a lonely Swedish landscape. Blomkvist and Salander couldn’t appear more incompatible – a middle-aged journalist, principled, disciplined and male,  in league with a young, brooding, anorexic, rebellious, body-modified hacker. About the only thing they have in common is the brewing and drinking of unhealthy amounts of coffee (on just about every page, I swear it’s true). Soon, though, it’s clear that for different reasons Blomkvist and Salander have something else simmering on the back burner – vengeance.

Never mind the story – what interests me is the device of bringing together such stark opposites. It makes for great dramatic tension, not least because Salander and Blomkvist become romantically involved. It also makes the point that two people can become one super-powered organism. What if we were to extrapolate that to humanity in general?

Recently, I’ve become impressed with my limitations. I am not and never will acquire a talent for figure skating, quantum physics, or navigating FaceBook. Similarly, few people on earth have my unique passion for sounding important in print, collecting old golf clubs, and meditating. Obviously, we can’t all be everything. As a species, though, we are – all together—everything. The evolution of the human species would appear to be lurching, however painfully slowly, toward a secure ontological footing in this fact.

So what?

So this – a vicarious glimpse of wholeness is one of the rewards of reading good literature. Authors aren’t knowingly designing stories with this in mind. They don’t have to. It’s part of a protagonist’s job description to gain a larger worldview in advance of charging into Act III.

After getting sufficiently battered by the forces of antagonism, the hero starts to become disenchanted with all her best efforts and comes to learn that she is ‘only human’. If she accepts that notion, she realizes that she’s part of a larger interconnected humanity. By acknowledging our limits, we simultaneously see the advantages of surrendering to how the whole works together. We see this in stories all the time. Look for it.

By the end of “Dragon Tattoo,” the dark and tattooed angel known as Salander is just beginning to wake up to these facts of life. She has two sequels to look forward to. Two more thick volumes in which to experiment with the nearly impossible art of becoming human.