Adventures in Research

Sandy Tritt

by Sandy Tritt

I thought it would be fun if we all shared some of the adventures we've had in the name of research. We'll pick the best ones and share them on this blog (with the writer's permission, of course).

Back in the pre-internet days, we didn't have a way to just turn on a computer, google something, and find out what we needed to know to make our fiction jump alive with authenticity.  One writer friend of mine who wrote murder mysteries called the local police department to inquire as to how long it would be before a dead body would begin to decay, and how deep a body would need to be buried to ensure the smell wouldn't escape. Even though she had told them she was a writer and needed to know for a story she was writing, within minutes her property was surrounded by law enforcement. They searched every inch of her property before finally deciding yes, she was just a writer.

These are the kind of stories we want to hear. I'll start the fun by copying one of my Adventures in Research. I still have pangs of guilt (and embarrassment) at the thought of this, but, hey, we live and learn.

ADVENTURES IN RESEARCH

BREACHING AN AA MEETING

I sat in my car and waited until five past the hour. Convinced the last stragglers had arrived, I sneaked through the heavy oak doors and slithered against the back wall, willing myself invisible. Normal people would have been satisfied to interview others or finish their research from the library, but not me. I wanted to experience an AA meeting personally so my fiction could sing with authenticity. So, here I was, feigning to be a coat rack, hoping no one would notice me.

I glanced around the room. It would be almost impossible in my small town not to recognize anyone, and sure enough, they were there. The sophisticated blue-haired lady was my best friend’s aunt. And the lady in red looked familiar as well—my mind scanned for where I'd seen her—my father's business associate, perhaps? And in the opposite corner stood Mr. Bogreens, the custodian at my church.

I should have left before anyone saw me, stepped back through the door as silently as I'd entered. I slid my right foot toward the exit, then moved my left to catch up. I concentrated on getting out, on escaping from this poorly planned escapade.

"Door prize?" A man with soft walnut eyes pressed an index card into my hand.

"No, thanks," I whispered.

"The first one's free," he said.

"No. I'm not—"

"Everyone enters the door prize," he said, his voice rising.

Fearing a commotion, I scribbled my name and mumbled my thanks. The rest of the group had formed a circle, but I didn’t join. I felt safe in my obscure spot by the door. I took out my note pad and concentrated on capturing all the details I needed to make my fiction real. A bare light bulb dangled from a dusty wire—surely it could be twisted into an apt analogy. Harvest gold paint decorated the walls and avocado green shag carpeting covered the concrete floors—leftovers from the seventies, as were some of those in attendance. 

The first speaker took his spot behind the podium and led the group in prayer. The PA system must have been a donation from the old high school stadium, because his voice blasted through the ceiling with the resonance of God's very own. I listened to the tone of the speaker's voice and watched his mannerisms as he spoke of his disease and recovery. I waited for the words I expected, "Hi, my name is Bob, and I'm an alcoholic . . ." And soon, sooner than I'd expected, the meeting adjourned with the recitation of the Serenity Prayer.

I'd survived. I buttoned my jacket and slid toward the door. Hopefully, no one had seen me.

Someone tapped the mike twice, then spoke so loudly her words hung on the ceiling and I had to wait for them to trickle down before I could make them out. "Sandy Tritt! Sandy Tritt!" The neon words fell from above, over and over, beating me down.

"You Sandy?" An elderly man pointed his arthritic finger at me.

I wanted to deny it, but by this time the buzzing crowd swarmed around me, and I understood how Jesus Christ felt when the crowd screamed, "Crucify him! Crucify him!"

"You Sandy?" a young woman demanded.

I nodded, swearing to myself and to God above that I'd never again infiltrate sacred meetings in the name of research.

The kind-looking man I remembered from earlier shuffled over to me. "Congratulations," he said. "You won the door prize."

"I—I don't want it," I whispered, eying my escape.

A woman with evil eyebrows thrust a microphone in my face. "Speech!"

I was caught. There was no way out. What could I do? I took a deep breath, leaned into the mike, and made my confession. "Hi. My name is Sandy, and I'm—" I looked at the now silent crowd hanging onto my every word and realized the man in back looked way too much like one of my daughter's teachers, and undoubtedly the press was there and my picture would be splattered across the front page of Sunday's paper. My charade was over. There was nothing left for me to do, so I hung my head and admitted my addiction. "And I'm a writer."

***

Now it's your turn. Send us your stories! Email Sandy at IFWeditors@gmail.com.

Sharing Homemade Bread

by Rhonda white  

Reprinted with permission from:

 http://rhondabrowningwhite.com/2015/07/29/sharing-homemade-bread/      

SHARING HOMEMADE BREAD

Today is bread day.

A few weeks ago, I succumbed to an urge that had been rising within me for a few months, and that was to make bread. Not just any bread, not bread from a boxed mix, and nothing that could be whipped up in a few minutes’ time, dumped into a bread machine, and popped out in a squarish loaf resembling an Amazon.com cardboard package. I wanted to make homemade sourdough bread; the kind that takes at least a week to prepare, the kind that must be fed and nurtured and allowed to rest, the kind created from—and by—living, breathing beings.

I should tell you that I killed my first starter.

There are certain, unbreakable, scientific laws that come with making homemade sourdough bread, and as ominous as that sounds, they’re actually quite simple to follow. That is, as long as you remember one of the most important rules, that being that you must stir your starter with a wooden spoon. Any contact with metal spoons (nickel, silver, aluminum, etc.) can introduce molecules that will kill the living microorganisms of yeasty sourdough starter. When feeding my sourdough starter the first time, you guessed it; I grabbed a metal spoon. Two days later, instead of the sweetly sour fragrance given off by healthy sourdough starter, mine reeked of rotting garbage, and the bubbles that occasionally rose to the surface had ceased. My starter had stopped breathing and died.

I’ve taken more care since then, and today as I stirred sugar, salt, oil, and flour into my starter and began kneading the dough, I thought of stories and of writing. Why is it that one creative act feeds another? I may never know the answer, but I’m always grateful for the inspirational nourishment. As I worked the dough, I recalled scripture from the King James Version of the Holy Bible: “And Jesus said unto them, I am the bread of life: he that cometh to me shall never hunger; and he that believeth on me shall never thirst” (John 6:35). 

I then thought of even older writings, one from the ancient Anglo-Saxon story of Beowulf, in which the bakers charge a share of grain to make and bake bread in communal ovens for the entire community. I was further inspired to look up a couple of quotes that I remembered from other poems and stories, wondering why these snippets have stuck with me for so long, choosing today to bubble to the surface:

“A Book of Verses underneath the Bough
A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread–and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness—
Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow!” –The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, 5^th Ed.

And from more recent works:

“They swallowed the dark bread. It was like daylight under the fluorescent trays of light. They talked on into the early morning, the high, pale cast of light in the windows, and they did not think of leaving.” –Raymond Carver, from “A Small, Good Thing”

“The heat of the bread burned into my skin, but I clutched it tighter, clinging to life.” –Suzanne Collins, from The Hunger Games

You probably recall many other examples of bread used symbolically in literature. Why is it that writers often mention bread in their stories—aside from the obvious, that their characters must eat? Bread does more than simply feed the hungry protagonist; it serves as metaphor for deeper issues and hidden secrets in a story. Bread is sometimes used to represent life and health, or the lack thereof (as in stale bread, or moldy bread); it is used to represent plenty, as in the Biblical story of the loaves and fishes; it’s sometimes symbolic of comfort, family, and unity, as in To Kill a Mockingbird; and, in Hansel and Gretel, breadcrumbs are used to mark the way back home. It’s this last metaphor that I chose to use in my current work in progress, tentatively titled Romie & Jasper’s Big Empty:

“I stand on the back deck of the house, overlooking the acres and acres of grapevines, and I feel small, as if I’ve shrunk. I wonder if it’s true, if I have become smaller each time I’ve moved, if I left behind a broken-off piece of myself, like a trail of breadcrumbs, so I can someday find my way back to whatever place might be home.”

As I kneaded my bread this morning, it occurred to me how much making homemade sourdough bread is akin to writing. We put in the basic ingredients—our nouns and verbs and punctuation—and we let them rest. Days later, we return to the mixture, feed it with fresh words, stir them around, and let them breathe. After more respite, we keep a carefully measured portion, toss out what isn’t needed, and we add something sweet, something salty, and we work out the lumps and bubbles, ensuring that when we are done, it will rise and nourish all who taste it.

My sourdough recipe makes three loaves: one for today, one for later in the week, and one to share with friends. Sharing homemade bread—and memories and stories—with friends is my favorite part of the artistic process: it is the giving of one’s creativity, of one’s effort, of oneself, however noble or humble that gift may be.

“And he took bread, and gave thanks, and brake it, and gave unto them, saying, This is my body which is given for you: this do in remembrance of me.” Luke 22:19 (KJV)

© 2015. Rhonda Browning White. All Rights Reserved.

This has been reposted with permission from Rhonda’s blog, http://rhondabrowningwhite.com/2015/07/29/sharing-homemade-bread/

Tying Up Loose Ends

by Jessica Nelson

 

I woke up the other morning with an irresistible urge to watch Disney’s Beauty and the Beast. So I did.

 

I’m sitting there on the couch, singing along blissfully to one of my favorite animated movies, when I reach this scene.

Look familiar? If you can’t place it, it’s from the beginning of the song “Great Wide Somewhere,” right after Gaston proposes marriage to Belle.

I get to this scene, and the most seemingly random thought strikes me that I haven’t been able to shake ever since.

What ever happened to those farm animals?

Who took care of them while Belle was with the Beast, and Maurice was lost in the woods? When Belle and her father moved into the castle, did they sell the farm or bring their goats and chickens with them?

Like I said, seemingly random and probably unimportant—unless you’re a writer. Those animals are a loose end, an unresolved conflict. An astute reader—or in this case, viewer—will get to the end of the book and wonder about all those loose ends.

In writing, every word, every event, every character—even nameless farm animals—must somehow move the story forward. In this scene, are the animals necessary? They give Belle an audience for her lyrical ranting, but other than that, they serve no purpose—and they create a loose end.

We tend to add things to scenes to dress them up. Things that, at the time, make sense. However, we need to be careful we’re not accidentally adding a subplot that we have no intention of coming back to. When everything is said and done, and our precious paper-baby is all ready to go out into the world, we need to re-read every scene and make sure that everything in it serves a purpose and every conflict introduced is resolved.

Did you write a spy novel in which your character had to steal top-secret files for the CIA, then was chased all over the world before he finally realized he wanted nothing more than a quiet family life with the Arabian beauty who helped him allude the Russians out to kill him? Great! I’d love to read it. But one question: what happened to the files? Did he ever turn them in to his supervisor?

Did you open your paranormal romance with a girl walking home from a birthday celebration at a nightclub with her best friends before she was attacked by vampires? Again, I’d love to read it. But what about the best friends? Do they ever call her? Stop by her place to make sure she’s okay? Call the police when a week passes and no one has seen hide nor hair of her? If they don’t do any of those things, 1.) they are poor excuses for best friends, and 2.) they are a loose end.

If you’re feeling tangled up in loose ends, an editor is a wonderful ally to help you get untangled and tie your loose ends in perfect little bows.

 

 

Beauty and the Beast is an original Disney film. All characters from the movie belong to Disney. The image used was taken from Google Images.

Writing Emotions

by Sandy Tritt

Emotions. We all have them. Good, bad, or aggravating, if we’re alive, we move from one emotion to another throughout the day. Yet, emotion is one of the most difficult things to show in a story. We want to either overstate or understate it. You know the melodrama—Joe fell over the casket, sobbing. “Why, God?” he shouted. “Why?”

Yeah.

And I think you know the understatement. Joe left the funeral home. Well, that was that. His entire family—his parents, his wife, his children—had been killed in the explosion. Now it was time to hit the road and follow his dream of being a street musician.

Ouch. Not much feeling in this guy, is there? I’m starting to think he may have caused the explosion.

Some writers try to sidestep this problem by using the show-and-tell method: Joe was outraged. He slammed his fist onto the table. “I’m so angry!”  

Yikes. We can discuss all the ways this is wrong, wrong, wrong in another blog.

None of these examples, of course, show us how to capture emotion and present it in a way that sucker-punches our reader and leaves him breathless. How do we do that?

First and most importantly, do not name an emotion. Not ever. When you write “he was sad” or “she was angry,” you are telling your reader what your words should be showing your reader. Additionally, if you do not provide backup that proves the character is feeling the emotion named, your reader won’t believe you and may even distrust you. Instead, you must take the time to describe the emotional response, and then you must trust your reader to “get it” without explanation. Readers are smart. If you do your job, they will do theirs.

So, how do you show emotion in a fresh way without being melodramatic, without telling, and without ignoring the feelings? I’ve been teaching the “continual improvement” method, which, simply stated, means you need to work harder than you’ve ever worked before to make your writing innovative and juicy and the best it’s ever been. So, get out a fresh sheet of paper or open a new document. At the top of the page, write the name of the emotion you want to convey (we will use “anger” as our example). Under that, write a sentence using this emotion: Joe pounded his fist on the table and glared at Cathy. Then, number from one to five along the left side of the page. Next to each number, write a way your character can express this emotion. For example, we could make a list like this:  

1. Shout 
2. Shake fist 
3. Hit table or wall  
4. Kick something or someone 
5. Storm out of the room and slam the door after him

Okay, those are all valid ways to show anger. But they are also somewhat cliché—we’ve seen these same reactions used zillions of times. It doesn’t take a lot of imagination or effort to list them. So, after we’ve listed our five items (or more—if you have additional examples clamoring to escape your brain, write them down), we need to list one more. Hmmm. This is when we have to actually think. How else can we express anger? What if our character is so angry he destroys something that belongs to the object of his anger?

Create a sentence using that vision:

Joe grabbed Cathy’s doll—the one that had comforted her throughout her childhood—and snapped off the head.

Okay, that’s better than glaring and pounding. But we’re not done. We can still do better. We need to improve that sentence, using the most active verbs we can and the most unique visuals we can imagine.

     Cathy’s doll sat on the mantle, pristine and elegant.

     White flashes obscured Joe’s vision. He seized the doll and threw it into the fireplace. Flames lapped at the virginal gown, now tarnished by soot.

Better. A bit disjointed. So, once more, we go back and improve. As we improve, we must smooth out the rough spots and we must be sure the emotion builds, that the reader can see the emotion coming and expect it, yet are still surprised by the rawness and power of it. And, perhaps, by the way the emotion changes, sometimes presenting multiple emotions in just a few moments, if it is logical to do so (most highly emotional situations do facilitate multiple emotions).

So, our third (and fourth and fifth and sixth and . . . ) try:

    

     In that instant, Joe knew. Those late night “wrong numbers” and those “working late” excuses were nothing but lies.

     He fell against the fireplace, the weight of his discovery heavy on his shoulders. Why would she betray him? They had made love just this morning. How could she pretend?

    Heat roiled in his gut, churning with the acidic taste of vomit. As he lifted his hand to his mouth—the hand that hours ago had caressed his wife—he inadvertently touched Cathy’s childhood doll. Always untouchable, until recently it sat in a glass case, protected from dust and dirt. Protected from Cathy’s lies.

     Flashing white light grew at the periphery of Joe’s vision. He shook his head to clear his sight, but the light consumed him. He snatched the doll and heaved it into the fire. Orange and red flames teased the virginal gown, lapping closer and closer until they captured it, consuming first the clothes, thread by thread. The fire danced across the cloth body until a hole opened in its center. For one second, two seconds, three seconds, the fire burned yellow. Then the stuffing fragmented, breaking into pieces. White flames consumed it.

     Joe’s hands trembled, but it was too late now. The greedy fire seized the doll’s rubber head. For a second, the head rebelled, holding its shape, until it too surrendered. The skin blistered and cracked, then melted into a smelly, gummy mass that dripped off the log and onto the ashes below.

     Black smoke curled up the chimney, its acrid odor stinging Joe’s eyes. He blinked back tears. 

     It was over.

And so on. This last incarnation was actually reworked several times, with details added each time.  You’ll likely do the same, finding more descriptive and unique ways to describe the same old emotions. You’ll also find yourself wanting to use setting to enrich emotion—which is another leap in the quality of our writing. Try to find ways in which the description of setting can emulate the emotion.

It takes time and effort to make your writing fresh and enticing, but it’s worth it—it’s what separates ho-hum writing from really good writing.      

If you get stuck and want some help with creating vivid descriptions, pick up a good book on body language or study one of these references:

• Angela Ackerman and Becca Puglis, The Emotion Thesaurus: A Writer's Guide To Character Expression (Create Space)
•  Linda Edelstein, The Writer’s Guide to Character Traits (Writer Digest Books)
• Ann Hood, Creating Character Emotions (Story Press)

        And, of course, our editors are always standing by, ready to assist you when you get stuck or need some help. Just shoot us off an email and we’ll get started right away.