Part One - in which we talk about dressmaking.
I remember the first dress I ever made. It was horrible. Actually, it was worse than horrible. It was weird. I had to sew together two contrasting pieces of fabric into a kind of dress, which then tied in such a way as to overlap the blue (for that’s what I chose) with the red (for contrast). I never wore that dress.
However, it taught me numerous elements of sewing. By the time I’d finished it I could cut out a pattern, zigzag my edges to avoid fraying, sew a straight seam, how to gather, turn a sewn piece of fabric inside out neatly (with the help of a pin for the corners) and edge-stitch the top of it. I could read a pattern. I knew what facings and darts were. I could mark fabric to indicate a dart and a tie. In theory, I could also mark up zippers, buttonholes and pleats. I knew a little about fabrics, but not much.
The next dress I made was a shirtwaister. Boarders at school were allowed, if their parents permitted, and paid, to do an after-school dressmaking course.
Under my mother’s guidance, I chose a shirtwaister and blue-grey pinstriped cotton. I should never have gone pattern or fabric shopping with a woman who exclusively wore navy blue and who, if she found something that fitted me as a child, bought two of the item in different colours but she had the money, so we both, reluctantly, went shopping.
In hindsight the shirtwaister – another never-worn sewing project – was a terrific learning experience. I learnt to cut out a vertically patterned fabric. I had to master a collar, more pin turning, buttonholes and buttons and proper, set–in sleeves. I had to attach a bodice to a skirt, add darts to the former and gather the latter. I had to add a side zip – possibly the most difficult challenge.
By examining the projects other students were making, I deduced that shirtwaister frocks were not highly regarded by the rather more hip thirteen year and fourteen year olds doing the course.
I followed this project up with an eight-gored blue velvet skirt which would have been successful had I actually realised that velvet is fabric with a nap. On four of my eight gores the nap ran one way, on the other four it ran the other way. My mother said this was a pattern. When my mother finally bought a forest green frock, my best friend rang me to tell me she thought my mother was having an affair.
She wasn’t – it was just a persuasive sales woman.
I didn’t wear the skirt. My mother wasn’t that persuasive. But I’ve cut out velvet skirts since and never made the same, humiliating mistake.
What does all this have to do with writing?
Welcome to the first novel.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Narratorial Voice
A story is narrative. It is either narrated by a third person narrator or a first person narrator. If the third person narrator can see into the hearts of all the characters, rather like believers in god believe he or she can, then we call that third person omniscient narrator. Omniscient means all-knowing. A third person omniscient narrator knows at all times exactly what is going on in the narrative. This narrator can see the thoughts and feelings of all the characters. It is a voice of authority.
However, narratorial voice, even with the third person omniscient narrator, encompasses more than just omniscience. It's not merely a 'fancy' way of talking about third or first person narration because there are shades of difference in narratorial voice in both of these.
So, for example, how do you talk about the narrator of the Lemony Snicket books? It would simply not be enough to say that these books are narrated in the first person, because Daniel Handler (aka Lemony Snicket) has used his narrator as a third person omniscient narrator, despite the fact that this narrator speaks directly to the reader as an 'I' character. In this sense, his use of narratorial voice harks back to nineteenth century novels, where the third person narrator, while chronicling the events of the characters, was happy to intrude opinions and editorial comment and is, therefore, often regarded as the voice of the writer, as well as the story's narrator.
Reading just this page, you'd be forgiven for thinking this was a first person story. The narrator says, 'I'm sorry to tell you this,' addressing you, the reader, directly. But, although the narrator does intrude in the story, it's fundamentally a third person omniscient narration. I hope you can see here, that if you were offering an analysis or a reflection on narratorial voice in The Bad Beginning by Lemony Snicket (pen name of Daniel Handler), you'd have to go beyond saying simply this books is told by a third person omniscient narrator. This captures none of the charm and cleverness of the narratorial voice Daniel Handler uses, nor does it do justice to the playfulness of this voice, the fact that the narrator digresses from the story, begs the reader to stop reading and is unreliable.
In a different way, The Great Gatsby equally defies a mere first person narrator as a description of how that book uses narratorial voice. Who is the central character of The Great Gatsby? Surely the title gives that question away - the central character is the elusive Jay Gatsby himself. But the book is narrated in the first person by Nick Carraway. We see the events that unfold through The Great Gatsby through his eyes. We're not privy to any other character's thoughts and feelings. (Quite different from the omniscient narrator in The Bad Beginning, who can tell you - and does tell you - exactly what all three Baudelaire orphans are thinking or feeling and the thoughts and feelings of the villains as well.)
So what narratorial voice does Fitzgerald use? He uses a first person narrator as a witness or observer of events that take place to the central characters of the book. Nick Carraway doesn't pretend to know what happens inside the other characters heads - he can only be told, by them, of their feelings. But he can - and does - observe them. Nick Carraway is a useful device for Fitzgerald because he can step into the different worlds of the main characters: Tom and Daisy Buchanan's home, Jay Gatsby's party, Tom and Myrtle's love nest and Wilson's garage. If, for example, Daisy was the first person narrator, how would we see Tom and Myrtle playing house together? This reflection of Carraway as a narrator goes beyond merely mentioning that The Great Gatsby is narrated in the first person. It's a reflection of narratorial voice.
A further reflection might add that the reader believes Carraway because he is outside the main action - we trust that he is a reliable witness as he has nothing invested in the story. Carraway himself tells you at the beginning of the book that, his 'interest in the abortive sorrows and shortwinded elations of men' was destroyed by the events he is about to relate. This further strengthens the power of the narratorial voice - Carraway is a witness and a witness who has been transformed by the events he has witnessed.
With both these examples, the narratorial voice is inevitably linked to the characters created by the writers - Lemony Snicket and Nick Carraway. What about the narratorial voice of the third person objective? Even this is coloured by the setting of the piece,and the characters being observed by the largely-invisible narrator. Hemmingway's cool, detached narratorial voice in 'Hills Like White Elephants' is undercut by the tight timeline of the story and the descriptions of the oppressive heat and the deserted station. The dialogue skirts around the conflict between the unnamed American and the woman, Jig. This is narrator as fly-on-the-wall taken about as far as it can go. Interestingly, this is the story that students often have problems with. Times have changed dramatically since Hemmingway wrote and abortion is no longer a taboo subject. In this sense, third person narratorial voice is inseparable to the view of the world it implies - in this case, the world of travelled and educated privilege.
A writer who chooses to create an unreliable narrator, is playing games with the narratorial voice and it's important to ask what the games are serving. In We Need to Talk About Kevin, a book which uses an epistolary narrative voice, Lionel Shriver has created, while not entirely an unreliable narrator, a narrator who reveals and confesses more and more of her story as she writes letters to her absent husband. You can't talk about the narratorial voice in Shriver's book without linking the slow revelatory nature of the letters to Shriver's unpredictable and skilful plotting.
In third person limited, which is close to first person, the narratorial voice is also tied up with the viewpoint character, that is, the character through whose eyes we are witnessing events and learning about the other characters. The narratorial voice of a novel written in the third person limited point of view which has it's central viewpoint character a visual artist, might be enriched with metaphors and motifs from the painterly world. A novel written from the point of view of an aerialist might use an narratorial voice which consistently reflects the bird's eye view of the performer.
If you're interested in writing metafiction - that is fiction that draws attention to the fact that it is, indeed, fiction - you'll choose a narratorial voice which is self-consciously pointing to the artificial construct of the narrator.
The second person point of view - a voice which seems to be either addressing an earlier self, another side of the self or placing the reader in the position of the 'you' addressed is very rarely successfully used. But it is still a choice of narratorial voice you should be aware of. If you want to try it, start with shorter, rather than longer, pieces of fiction. And try to have your narratorial voice clearly indicating either an earlier version of the 'I' behind the narrative, or another side of that 'I' because otherwise the reader will feel as though they are the 'you'.
Narratorial voice is a complex element of the story and writers need to know as much about their choices as possible. Of course, initially, you might just want to settle on a choice between first person or third person limited - and allow the narratorial voice to grow organically from this choice. Never be scared to re-write in a different point of view - this radical revision approach has saved manuscripts!
However, narratorial voice, even with the third person omniscient narrator, encompasses more than just omniscience. It's not merely a 'fancy' way of talking about third or first person narration because there are shades of difference in narratorial voice in both of these.
So, for example, how do you talk about the narrator of the Lemony Snicket books? It would simply not be enough to say that these books are narrated in the first person, because Daniel Handler (aka Lemony Snicket) has used his narrator as a third person omniscient narrator, despite the fact that this narrator speaks directly to the reader as an 'I' character. In this sense, his use of narratorial voice harks back to nineteenth century novels, where the third person narrator, while chronicling the events of the characters, was happy to intrude opinions and editorial comment and is, therefore, often regarded as the voice of the writer, as well as the story's narrator.
If you are interested in stories with happy endings, you would be better off reading some other book. In this book, not only is there no happy ending, there is no happy beginning and very few happy things in the middle. This is because not very many happy things happened in the lives of the three Baudelaire youngsters. Violet, Klaus, and Sunny Baudelaire were intelligent children, and they were charming, and resourceful, and had pleasant facial features, but they were extremely unlucky, and most everything that happened to them was rife with misfortune, misery, and despair. I'm sorry to tell you this, but that is how the story goes.
Reading just this page, you'd be forgiven for thinking this was a first person story. The narrator says, 'I'm sorry to tell you this,' addressing you, the reader, directly. But, although the narrator does intrude in the story, it's fundamentally a third person omniscient narration. I hope you can see here, that if you were offering an analysis or a reflection on narratorial voice in The Bad Beginning by Lemony Snicket (pen name of Daniel Handler), you'd have to go beyond saying simply this books is told by a third person omniscient narrator. This captures none of the charm and cleverness of the narratorial voice Daniel Handler uses, nor does it do justice to the playfulness of this voice, the fact that the narrator digresses from the story, begs the reader to stop reading and is unreliable.
In a different way, The Great Gatsby equally defies a mere first person narrator as a description of how that book uses narratorial voice. Who is the central character of The Great Gatsby? Surely the title gives that question away - the central character is the elusive Jay Gatsby himself. But the book is narrated in the first person by Nick Carraway. We see the events that unfold through The Great Gatsby through his eyes. We're not privy to any other character's thoughts and feelings. (Quite different from the omniscient narrator in The Bad Beginning, who can tell you - and does tell you - exactly what all three Baudelaire orphans are thinking or feeling and the thoughts and feelings of the villains as well.)
So what narratorial voice does Fitzgerald use? He uses a first person narrator as a witness or observer of events that take place to the central characters of the book. Nick Carraway doesn't pretend to know what happens inside the other characters heads - he can only be told, by them, of their feelings. But he can - and does - observe them. Nick Carraway is a useful device for Fitzgerald because he can step into the different worlds of the main characters: Tom and Daisy Buchanan's home, Jay Gatsby's party, Tom and Myrtle's love nest and Wilson's garage. If, for example, Daisy was the first person narrator, how would we see Tom and Myrtle playing house together? This reflection of Carraway as a narrator goes beyond merely mentioning that The Great Gatsby is narrated in the first person. It's a reflection of narratorial voice.
A further reflection might add that the reader believes Carraway because he is outside the main action - we trust that he is a reliable witness as he has nothing invested in the story. Carraway himself tells you at the beginning of the book that, his 'interest in the abortive sorrows and shortwinded elations of men' was destroyed by the events he is about to relate. This further strengthens the power of the narratorial voice - Carraway is a witness and a witness who has been transformed by the events he has witnessed.
With both these examples, the narratorial voice is inevitably linked to the characters created by the writers - Lemony Snicket and Nick Carraway. What about the narratorial voice of the third person objective? Even this is coloured by the setting of the piece,and the characters being observed by the largely-invisible narrator. Hemmingway's cool, detached narratorial voice in 'Hills Like White Elephants' is undercut by the tight timeline of the story and the descriptions of the oppressive heat and the deserted station. The dialogue skirts around the conflict between the unnamed American and the woman, Jig. This is narrator as fly-on-the-wall taken about as far as it can go. Interestingly, this is the story that students often have problems with. Times have changed dramatically since Hemmingway wrote and abortion is no longer a taboo subject. In this sense, third person narratorial voice is inseparable to the view of the world it implies - in this case, the world of travelled and educated privilege.
A writer who chooses to create an unreliable narrator, is playing games with the narratorial voice and it's important to ask what the games are serving. In We Need to Talk About Kevin, a book which uses an epistolary narrative voice, Lionel Shriver has created, while not entirely an unreliable narrator, a narrator who reveals and confesses more and more of her story as she writes letters to her absent husband. You can't talk about the narratorial voice in Shriver's book without linking the slow revelatory nature of the letters to Shriver's unpredictable and skilful plotting.
In third person limited, which is close to first person, the narratorial voice is also tied up with the viewpoint character, that is, the character through whose eyes we are witnessing events and learning about the other characters. The narratorial voice of a novel written in the third person limited point of view which has it's central viewpoint character a visual artist, might be enriched with metaphors and motifs from the painterly world. A novel written from the point of view of an aerialist might use an narratorial voice which consistently reflects the bird's eye view of the performer.
If you're interested in writing metafiction - that is fiction that draws attention to the fact that it is, indeed, fiction - you'll choose a narratorial voice which is self-consciously pointing to the artificial construct of the narrator.
The second person point of view - a voice which seems to be either addressing an earlier self, another side of the self or placing the reader in the position of the 'you' addressed is very rarely successfully used. But it is still a choice of narratorial voice you should be aware of. If you want to try it, start with shorter, rather than longer, pieces of fiction. And try to have your narratorial voice clearly indicating either an earlier version of the 'I' behind the narrative, or another side of that 'I' because otherwise the reader will feel as though they are the 'you'.
Narratorial voice is a complex element of the story and writers need to know as much about their choices as possible. Of course, initially, you might just want to settle on a choice between first person or third person limited - and allow the narratorial voice to grow organically from this choice. Never be scared to re-write in a different point of view - this radical revision approach has saved manuscripts!
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Marking creative writing
It’s a subject of some concern to most writers who work in the teaching industry – how do we actually mark creative writing. (The other subject of concern is, of course, can you teach creative writing? – but more of that, perhaps, in another blog post.)
Warwick University covers itself thus:
When I first started teaching Professional Writing and Editing at TAFE, we marked students only as Competent and Non Competent – meaning that if a student was marked as Non Competent, they could always return to the module/unit and repeat it until they were deemed Competent. Under this system students could focus on the comments they received on their writing, rather than on a graded system.
Of course, you could argue that graded systems abound in the publishing industry; best manuscripts awards, awards for emerging writers, umpteen best book of the year awards in every category and the ever-present best-seller list. There are also readers’ reports, editors’ comments and reviews.
Aside from all this are the casual remarks from innocent bystanders:
‘You’re a writer! Have I heard of you?’
‘Oh,’ says the nearly-famous one, a little chuffed, ‘perhaps. I’m X’
‘Hmm. No, no, I don’t think I have. Unless – you didn’t write for that comedy show on Chanel 10 – or was it 7? Or am I thinking of the actor? I might be thinking of the actor. You have the same kind of stubble as the actor. That’s what it is. Of course. Except he’s much more…well, he goes to gym. I guess you’re not so much in the public eye.’ (said in a kindly tone.)
or (at a Festival)
‘Oh, you’re the bird who wrote the vampire story?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘The one that was complete drivel, right? No shred of truth in the #$%^ plot, it was simply wish-fulfilment from start to finish?’
‘Well, I’m not sure about that. I mean, sure the plot may have been…and the characters were...but I have readers who…’
‘Yeah, that’s what I mean, love. There wasn’t any truth in it. Trust me, I know.’
I’ve worked as an editor and, in one publication where I worked, we had four piles: Over my Dead Body, No, Maybe, Yes.
The Maybe category often received a fulsome rejection letter – by fulsome I mean longer than a pre-typed letter: ‘Your submission may be perfectly acceptable elsewhere, but for a variety of reasons we cannot publish it in our publication.’
A fulsome rejection letter may have contained something like the following:
As a Prof Writing and Editing teacher I’m not allowed to return assignments marked simply Over My Dead Body (not that I did as an editor, either!). I have to justify my marks. So, I assign certain marks for certain elements of the writing piece and hope to balance the more subjective elements with the objective.
Before you become carried away that marking Prof Writing and Editing may be too subjective let me refer you back to the opening comment from Warwick University:
The subjective elements, tempered by my years in the industry, working as a writer across a few forms and genres, as an editor and a long-time organiser of writing-related events such as festivals and spoken word venues, relate to style, language, charcter choice, plot and theme.. The objective relate more to the mechanics of writing and editing – proof reading, use of grammar, syntax and punctuation, character and plot development, structure, and use and understanding of writing techniques, such as narratorial voice, use of simile, metaphor and symbolism. Necessarily these overlap.
The marks, however, are just marks. If you want to learn more about writing, you need to pay attention to the comments – both on the overall comment, the marking criteria, and within your assignment. Please don’t make the mistake one student made which was to equate one comment with one mark lost. There will be some assignments I might make ten comments on – all in reflection of something you’ve said and that student might have an 18/20 mark, other papers might only attract five comments and be marked 10/20.
In the end, I think it pays to read the comments carefully and try to learn from them. When I receive a reader’s report, I might disagree vehemently with some of the comments from the reader but I’ve learnt over the years that my initial response is often too hasty and too defensive. If I let the report sit for a week or so while I do other things – walk the dogs, knit, cook soup or work on a poem – I can come back to it with my editor’s hat on and see where the reader is coming from. Sometimes I still disagree, in which case I take it up with my editor. I take it up without being aggressive. This is quite important to me. I prefer to be as courteous as I can when dealing with anyone other than telemarketers. An aggressive approach to my editor erodes the trust and friendship we’ve built up over the years and, in the end, achieves nothing.
It’s a similar process with reading reviews. After my initial, defensive reading of a review, I prefer to leave them sit for a while – sometimes months – before returning to them to see what I can learn from them.
I know students don’t have the time to let an assignment sit for months but what you can certainly do is try to overcome your initial defensiveness before you approach a tutor for explanations and you can approach tutors with courtesy. We’re on the same side, after all. We’re trying to make you better writers which is why, presumably, you’re doing the course. Working together we can achieve our common goal. Hostility, defensiveness and rudeness stand in the way of what we all want –a piece of writing which is as good as it possibly can be.
Warwick University covers itself thus:
Students as well as academic staff, at Warwick and elsewhere, often ask the question as to how one marks creative writing. Indeed, they often wonder if it is even possible? Surely, they say, this is a subjective response, a matter of taste? After all, what mark would one give to The Divine Comedy?
We would attest that it is a matter, certainly, of experience and wide reading. And that we all, as readers and critics, "mark" creative writing every day in the act of reading and the act of criticism or writing reviews. That, even as we talk about books and authors in our seminars and in our daily lives, we are making judgements. We are placing a metaphorical "score" against our experience of reading. And, while it would be wonderful and humbling to have Dante sign up for the Masters in Writing, we are aware that writing of that level and focus is rare. Exceptionally rare.
When I first started teaching Professional Writing and Editing at TAFE, we marked students only as Competent and Non Competent – meaning that if a student was marked as Non Competent, they could always return to the module/unit and repeat it until they were deemed Competent. Under this system students could focus on the comments they received on their writing, rather than on a graded system.
Of course, you could argue that graded systems abound in the publishing industry; best manuscripts awards, awards for emerging writers, umpteen best book of the year awards in every category and the ever-present best-seller list. There are also readers’ reports, editors’ comments and reviews.
Aside from all this are the casual remarks from innocent bystanders:
‘You’re a writer! Have I heard of you?’
‘Oh,’ says the nearly-famous one, a little chuffed, ‘perhaps. I’m X’
‘Hmm. No, no, I don’t think I have. Unless – you didn’t write for that comedy show on Chanel 10 – or was it 7? Or am I thinking of the actor? I might be thinking of the actor. You have the same kind of stubble as the actor. That’s what it is. Of course. Except he’s much more…well, he goes to gym. I guess you’re not so much in the public eye.’ (said in a kindly tone.)
or (at a Festival)
‘Oh, you’re the bird who wrote the vampire story?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘The one that was complete drivel, right? No shred of truth in the #$%^ plot, it was simply wish-fulfilment from start to finish?’
‘Well, I’m not sure about that. I mean, sure the plot may have been…and the characters were...but I have readers who…’
‘Yeah, that’s what I mean, love. There wasn’t any truth in it. Trust me, I know.’
I’ve worked as an editor and, in one publication where I worked, we had four piles: Over my Dead Body, No, Maybe, Yes.
The Maybe category often received a fulsome rejection letter – by fulsome I mean longer than a pre-typed letter: ‘Your submission may be perfectly acceptable elsewhere, but for a variety of reasons we cannot publish it in our publication.’
A fulsome rejection letter may have contained something like the following:
‘We loved reading your story but queried the narratorial voice in which it was written. Third person omniscient seemed like too large a voice for a very short, highly contained short story chronicling twenty-four hours in the life of a bedridden invalid. Was it strictly necessary to include three voice from her past, the voices of her three siblings and the (imagined) voices of the holy trinity? Perhaps if you revised this so the reader could focus on the poignant shift from past to present you’d have a stronger central character and a more credible plot.’
As a Prof Writing and Editing teacher I’m not allowed to return assignments marked simply Over My Dead Body (not that I did as an editor, either!). I have to justify my marks. So, I assign certain marks for certain elements of the writing piece and hope to balance the more subjective elements with the objective.
Before you become carried away that marking Prof Writing and Editing may be too subjective let me refer you back to the opening comment from Warwick University:
We would attest that it is a matter, certainly, of experience and wide reading. And that we all, as readers and critics, "mark" creative writing every day in the act of reading and the act of criticism or writing reviews. That, even as we talk about books and authors in our seminars and in our daily lives, we are making judgements.
The subjective elements, tempered by my years in the industry, working as a writer across a few forms and genres, as an editor and a long-time organiser of writing-related events such as festivals and spoken word venues, relate to style, language, charcter choice, plot and theme.. The objective relate more to the mechanics of writing and editing – proof reading, use of grammar, syntax and punctuation, character and plot development, structure, and use and understanding of writing techniques, such as narratorial voice, use of simile, metaphor and symbolism. Necessarily these overlap.
The marks, however, are just marks. If you want to learn more about writing, you need to pay attention to the comments – both on the overall comment, the marking criteria, and within your assignment. Please don’t make the mistake one student made which was to equate one comment with one mark lost. There will be some assignments I might make ten comments on – all in reflection of something you’ve said and that student might have an 18/20 mark, other papers might only attract five comments and be marked 10/20.
In the end, I think it pays to read the comments carefully and try to learn from them. When I receive a reader’s report, I might disagree vehemently with some of the comments from the reader but I’ve learnt over the years that my initial response is often too hasty and too defensive. If I let the report sit for a week or so while I do other things – walk the dogs, knit, cook soup or work on a poem – I can come back to it with my editor’s hat on and see where the reader is coming from. Sometimes I still disagree, in which case I take it up with my editor. I take it up without being aggressive. This is quite important to me. I prefer to be as courteous as I can when dealing with anyone other than telemarketers. An aggressive approach to my editor erodes the trust and friendship we’ve built up over the years and, in the end, achieves nothing.
It’s a similar process with reading reviews. After my initial, defensive reading of a review, I prefer to leave them sit for a while – sometimes months – before returning to them to see what I can learn from them.
I know students don’t have the time to let an assignment sit for months but what you can certainly do is try to overcome your initial defensiveness before you approach a tutor for explanations and you can approach tutors with courtesy. We’re on the same side, after all. We’re trying to make you better writers which is why, presumably, you’re doing the course. Working together we can achieve our common goal. Hostility, defensiveness and rudeness stand in the way of what we all want –a piece of writing which is as good as it possibly can be.
The wisdom of P. G. Wodehouse
I don't know if you have had the same experience, but the snag I always come up against when I'm telling a story is this dashed difficult problem of where to begin it. It's a thing you don't want to go wrong over, because one false step and you're sunk. I mean if you fool about too long at the start, trying to establish atmosphere as they call it, and that sort of rot, you fail to grip and the customers walk out on you.P. G. Wodehouse, Right Ho, Jeeves, Project Gutenberg, 2007
Get off the mark, on the other hand, like a scalded cat, and your public is at a loss. It simply raises its eyebrows, and can't make out what you're talking about.
Want more info on P. G. Wodehouse?
Saturday, May 7, 2011
Creating a submissions calendar
One way of making sure you remember the dates of potential publishing opportunities, is to create your own submissions calendar.
The Victorian Writer's Centre newsletter contains information about competition and publishing opportunities and, if you're not a member, you can always see it at your local library.
It's an easy enough task to set up an excel spreadsheet listing the dates of various competitions, word lengths and genres of submissions and any other information you need to know before submitting. Some of this information will be valid from year to year, so you might want to headline big competitions at the beginning of the month, as well as note the exact date.
Submitting work regularly also reduces your own anxiety about whether or not a work is accepted for publication or shortlisted for a competition. If it becomes merely another administrative task for that month, you buy yourself some distance from the event - and that can be an important attitude to establish and maintain. It prepares you, too, for the editing process which can be quite fierce. You will have started to view your own work with more objectivity.
A busy calendar of submissions should keep you on track with both writing and revising. If you receive written rejections from publishers or journals, do read them and listen to what is being said. It's difficult not to be disappointed when your work isn't favourably received. We all fear rejection. But you don't want that fear to overcome your love of writing or your ability to revise. So try to cultivate a professionalism that distances you from your work and allows you to revise and self-edit rigorously. Do listen to comments from others and learn to sift through them and work with the ones that ring true to you.
The Victorian Writer's Centre newsletter contains information about competition and publishing opportunities and, if you're not a member, you can always see it at your local library.
It's an easy enough task to set up an excel spreadsheet listing the dates of various competitions, word lengths and genres of submissions and any other information you need to know before submitting. Some of this information will be valid from year to year, so you might want to headline big competitions at the beginning of the month, as well as note the exact date.
Submitting work regularly also reduces your own anxiety about whether or not a work is accepted for publication or shortlisted for a competition. If it becomes merely another administrative task for that month, you buy yourself some distance from the event - and that can be an important attitude to establish and maintain. It prepares you, too, for the editing process which can be quite fierce. You will have started to view your own work with more objectivity.
A busy calendar of submissions should keep you on track with both writing and revising. If you receive written rejections from publishers or journals, do read them and listen to what is being said. It's difficult not to be disappointed when your work isn't favourably received. We all fear rejection. But you don't want that fear to overcome your love of writing or your ability to revise. So try to cultivate a professionalism that distances you from your work and allows you to revise and self-edit rigorously. Do listen to comments from others and learn to sift through them and work with the ones that ring true to you.
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Talking about talking
What does speech say about a person? The language a person uses in their everyday speech can tell us a lot - it can sometimes tell us the geographical origins of a person. Queenslanders often end a sentence with 'eh?'. In N.S.W. togs are used, rather than bathers. In Queensland, cocktail franks are called cheerios. In Sydney you drink schooners, in Melbourne, pots. Dialects are extreme examples of this, although it's not a great idea to litter written dialogue with dialect - it can make the reader impatient. Dialect can often be suggested in written dialogue through the placement of words, rather than a literal rendition, a more elegant approach.
Language can indicate age, education, status and gender. If a fifty year old man uses the word 'awesome' in its current colloquial sense, this could tell us that he's a little try-hard in the popularity stakes - useful for conveying the character of an insecure teacher, for example. Or, he might be using it ironically, again, useful for conveying particular kind of person, possibly a little pedantic, perhaps a little pompous? A teenage girl who uses text speech as actual speech in dialogue belongs to a certain set. Many teenagers abhor the use of 'lol' and 'rofl' as actual words.
A writer can show shifts in status through language. A once confident phrase can become pleading - and it's repeated use can add to a scene. A phrase used by a character can also be used against them, again adding an ironic twist to a scene.
Above all, dialogue needs to sound as though it can be spoken. We never write dialogue as it is said in real life - it would be full of repetitions, pauses, filler-words and noises. Below attempts to replicate that kind of dialogue.
'I was like, um, you know, just there, when he, um - gosh did you see that? Wow, that was awesome. Yeah, well like I was saying, I was just, you know, um, hanging out...'
'Hey look at those shoes!'
'Yeah, cool. You know my mum, she's like whatshername? You know, she was, I don't know, rich or something.'
'I didn't know your mum was rich?'
'No, not my mum. You're so stupid, you know. You don't ever - anyway, it was this other bitch.'
'You just called your mum a bitch.'
'Oh piss off. You're a biach'
So, by the time you come to the end of that, the plot is lost completely!
What a writer needs to do is to create authentic-sounding dialogue that stays true to the characters. So you need to think of age, education, gender and status. You also have to direct your dialogue so it stays focused.
One of the best ways to test dialogue is to read it aloud. Can you read it without stumbling over words or phrases. Does it sound stilted? A trap for new writers is to avoid contracting verbs, but we use these contractions in our every day speech unless we want to convey a certain emphasis.
'Did you hear what I said?'
'Sorry, I wasn't listening.'
as opposed to:
'Did you hear what I said?'
'Sorry. I was not listening.'
(See how I've emphasised the tone change in the second example by putting a full stop after the word 'sorry'.)
The other tip I'd like to give here is not to over-use dialogue tags. We've all read articles or stories where dialogue tags have been over-used and come away with a feeling that no one in them actually said anything. Characters whimpered, screamed, considered, pondered, wept, sobbed, sighed, whispered, shrieked, wailed and even cogitated but never once said anything. Your dialogue should indicate to the reader how your character is talking. Dialogue tags should be used sparingly - that way they retain their power. To avoid over-using 'said' - allow the proper placement of dialogue on the page and enough observations between lines of dialogue to indicate to the reader who is speaking.
'I don't know what you're talking about.' Michael was bored with the conversation. He glanced at his watch. Ten minutes! They'd been talking around the same topic for ten minutes. Unbelievable.
'I just think you take me for granted. You're not even listening to me now. Look at you, checking the time. Do you even know how often you do that?'
God. She had that look. Honestly, he loved Lara. But after she'd been with that mother of hers she was impossible. 'Honey?' He tested the word but Lara shook her head stubbornly.
'What did I say, then?' she asked.
'That I don't respect you.' he said.
'And?'
'That I take you for granted.'
Of course, the best way to study dialogue is to go forth into the world and eavesdrop! Good luck.
Language can indicate age, education, status and gender. If a fifty year old man uses the word 'awesome' in its current colloquial sense, this could tell us that he's a little try-hard in the popularity stakes - useful for conveying the character of an insecure teacher, for example. Or, he might be using it ironically, again, useful for conveying particular kind of person, possibly a little pedantic, perhaps a little pompous? A teenage girl who uses text speech as actual speech in dialogue belongs to a certain set. Many teenagers abhor the use of 'lol' and 'rofl' as actual words.
A writer can show shifts in status through language. A once confident phrase can become pleading - and it's repeated use can add to a scene. A phrase used by a character can also be used against them, again adding an ironic twist to a scene.
Above all, dialogue needs to sound as though it can be spoken. We never write dialogue as it is said in real life - it would be full of repetitions, pauses, filler-words and noises. Below attempts to replicate that kind of dialogue.
'I was like, um, you know, just there, when he, um - gosh did you see that? Wow, that was awesome. Yeah, well like I was saying, I was just, you know, um, hanging out...'
'Hey look at those shoes!'
'Yeah, cool. You know my mum, she's like whatshername? You know, she was, I don't know, rich or something.'
'I didn't know your mum was rich?'
'No, not my mum. You're so stupid, you know. You don't ever - anyway, it was this other bitch.'
'You just called your mum a bitch.'
'Oh piss off. You're a biach'
So, by the time you come to the end of that, the plot is lost completely!
What a writer needs to do is to create authentic-sounding dialogue that stays true to the characters. So you need to think of age, education, gender and status. You also have to direct your dialogue so it stays focused.
One of the best ways to test dialogue is to read it aloud. Can you read it without stumbling over words or phrases. Does it sound stilted? A trap for new writers is to avoid contracting verbs, but we use these contractions in our every day speech unless we want to convey a certain emphasis.
'Did you hear what I said?'
'Sorry, I wasn't listening.'
as opposed to:
'Did you hear what I said?'
'Sorry. I was not listening.'
(See how I've emphasised the tone change in the second example by putting a full stop after the word 'sorry'.)
The other tip I'd like to give here is not to over-use dialogue tags. We've all read articles or stories where dialogue tags have been over-used and come away with a feeling that no one in them actually said anything. Characters whimpered, screamed, considered, pondered, wept, sobbed, sighed, whispered, shrieked, wailed and even cogitated but never once said anything. Your dialogue should indicate to the reader how your character is talking. Dialogue tags should be used sparingly - that way they retain their power. To avoid over-using 'said' - allow the proper placement of dialogue on the page and enough observations between lines of dialogue to indicate to the reader who is speaking.
'I don't know what you're talking about.' Michael was bored with the conversation. He glanced at his watch. Ten minutes! They'd been talking around the same topic for ten minutes. Unbelievable.
'I just think you take me for granted. You're not even listening to me now. Look at you, checking the time. Do you even know how often you do that?'
God. She had that look. Honestly, he loved Lara. But after she'd been with that mother of hers she was impossible. 'Honey?' He tested the word but Lara shook her head stubbornly.
'What did I say, then?' she asked.
'That I don't respect you.' he said.
'And?'
'That I take you for granted.'
Of course, the best way to study dialogue is to go forth into the world and eavesdrop! Good luck.
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