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Suspended in Time

Have you ever carried around a passage of writing by an amazing author and hoped that – maybe, through osmosis – one writer’s craft will meld into yours?

I can dream, can’t I?

I read a passage recently, in James Salter’s Light Years, that made me immune to the sounds of life at my house — kids running around, washer spinning, grandfather clock ticking.

Immersed in the life of a character so unlike me, I hung on each word as the images unfolded on the page.

Her father in distant Pennsylvania towns already had within him the anarchy of cells that announced itself by a steady cough and a pain in his back. Three packs a day for thirty years; he coughed as he admitted it. He needed something, he decided.

‘We’ll take some x-rays,’ the doctor had said. ‘Just to see.’

Neither of them was there when the negatives were thrown up before the wall of light, dealt into place as rippling sheets, and in the ghostly darkness the fatal mass could be seen, as astronomers see a comet.

…

The usual prognosis was eighteen months, but with the new machines, three years, sometimes four. They did not tell him this, of course. His translucent destiny was clear on the wall as subsequent series were displayed, six radiographs in a group, the two specialists working on different cases, side by side, calm as pilots, dictating what they saw, stacks of battered envelopes near their elbows. Their language was handsome, exact. They recited, they discussed, they gave a continued verdict long after Lionel Carnes, sixty-four years old, had begun his visits to the treatment room.

…

The Beta machine made a terrifying whine. The patient lay alone, abandoned, the room sealed, air-conditioned because of the heat. The dose was determined by a distant computer taking into consideration height, weight and so forth. The Beta doesn’t burn the skin like the lower-energy machines, they told him.

…

It hung there, dumb, enormous, shooting beams that crushed the honeycomb of tissue like eggshells. the patient lay beneath it, inert, arranged. With the scream of the invisible, it began its work. It was either this or the most extreme surgery, radical and hopeless, blood running down from the black stitches, the doomed man swerved up like a pot roast (pgs. 126-127).

Just words.

Black print on off-white paper.

Yet, the way James Salter wove them together had me frozen in time.

My husband asked me what was for dinner, so I had to look up from the page. But, the moments with Lionel Carnes, the doctors, and the machine stayed with me.

That’s what I strive for in my writing: storytelling that suspends the reader, and then leaves them with a lasting image long after the book is closed.

Amazing.

***

Salter, James. Light Years. New York: Random House, 1975.

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From Self-Published to Harper Perennial

Last night, Redbird Studio and RedBird-Red Oak (both offer classes and writing retreats in Milwaukee, WI) sponsored a panel of five published authors. Each author spoke on their experiences and their individual approaches towards publication. The discussion ranged from self-publishing (where the author fronts all the costs) to subsidy publishing (the author pays a fee to a POD publisher) to the traditional route of a book in print released by a major publishing house.

Some of the authors’ experiences, and the advice they offered, stuck with me and warranted a post.

Karen McQuestion was already a successful freelance writer – with articles in Newsweek, the Chicago Tribune, and more – when she branched out into fiction. She shared that though she was an agented writer for several years, her books were not picked up by a publisher.

“I couldn’t get in the front door of publishing, so I went through the side door.”

She published her first fiction novel on Amazon’s Kindle. She uploaded the manuscript herself, used the free marketing on Amazon, and had amazing success. Now, she has six novels on Amazon’s Kindle, one of which (Scattered Life) has been optioned for film. To publish on Amazon’s Kindle, she said, you are responsible for designing the cover art and ensuring your work has been professionally edited. However, she spoke highly of her e-publishing experiences. While Amazon keeps a significant percentage of the royalties, one of her stories has sold 25,000 copies. I don’t have a Kindle. I hope to go the traditional route of publishing. Yet, Karen’s story certainly caught my attention.

Kirk Farber, a Wisconsin native, climbed to success through traditional means: published short stories, an agent, a book deal. With just a few short stories published in the literary arena, Harper Perennial still took notice of his first novel and decided to release it. Kirk’s debut novel, Postcards from a Dead Girl, has received rave reviews. His experience proves that an emerging writer with only a few writing credits can still succeed in the traditional print world. He emphasized that, for him, his success was also a result of simply getting out of his comfort zone. Even with great writing, authors must be willing to step away from the corner table in the coffee shop. Go to writing conferences and meet agents face to face. Show your work to other writers. He suggested two sites for those interested in fiction:

  • Fictionaut, where writers post short stories for critque by other writers.
  • Authonomy, a site designed by book editors at HarperCollins where writers showcase their work for editors, readers, and publishers.

The discussion also dipped into whether or not a writer should post essays or short stories on a personal blog. As is the custom, the worlds of nonfiction and fiction differ in perspectives.

For nonfiction, posting essays on your blog may get you noticed and will likely help cultivate your audience and build your platform. Later, those same essays can undergo a few rewrites and still be valuable for publication in a book.

For fiction, however, the answer came with shoulder shrugs and a look of “it depends.” Posting short stories, or chapters of a novel, on a blog will still get a writer noticed. However, the work may be pushed aside in lieu of a writer whose work is unseen by the public eye. Of course, never say never. If the writing is steller, it may not matter that the story has been viewed online before. Another side of the “to post or not to post” coin for me, is that if I continue to showcase my stories here, I have to pump out more creative writing elsewhere. Talk about accountability….

The last important piece of advice I took away reminded me, again, that I have to make social media my friend — get my name out there, find my own community, step out of my comfort zone. As a writer, I am rarely a social creature. The fact that I attended the panel last night, sat near the front, and actually spoke to published authors proves that I am committed. But, it isn’t always easy. Still, places like Twitter, Facebook, GoodReads, and She Writes offer portals of support and connection that writers, ten years ago, couldn’t tap.

I could go on about the evening, but instead I’ll leave you with a few more links to suggested sites for writers:

Phew! That’s all I’ve got folks. It’s Friday, and I’m diving back into my novel tonight. Watch out.

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The Devil Wears Red, Black, and Green

This week, Wordsmith.org celebrates sixteen years of Logophile mania by choosing words that are all related to the number 16.

Today, Revelation (16:16) brings forth the word of the day:

Armageddon. noun. a decisive, catastrophic conflict.

The final battle between good and evil.

May we begin this writing exercise with a moment of silence….

*****

Betsy tapped the brass door knocker three times. When the door opened, she stood face to face with Mrs. Anderson – long, brown (hot-rolled) hair, big blue eyes dressed in shimmering eye-shadow and thick mascara, lips of crimson red.

The lips spoke. “Bessie! Great!”

“It’s Betsy.”

“Yes? Right. Come on in. This is Michael.”

Michael peeked out from behind Mrs. Anderson’s legs. Betsy saw only the right side of his face, one blue eye the same color as his mother’s and half a head of brown hair. His timid smile suggested an easy night of babysitting.

“I’m so glad you returned my email. I took a chance on the neighborhood Nanny Service. It’s so hard to find a good sitter. Michael is one of a kind, and I hate to hire just anybody.”

Mrs. Anderson guided Betsy into the front room. She said Mr. Anderson made reservations for a last minute dinner with an important client at a fancy downtown restaurant. She had to meet him in 15 minutes. She hurried through directions for Betsy, while Michael disappeared down the hallway.

“Dinner at 6, bath at 6:45. Books at 7, bed at 7:30. Then, the rest of the night is yours! Here’s some money for pizza. The number for delivery is on the refrigerator.”

With manicured nails, Mrs. Anderson thumbed through a stack of $20’s and gave Betsy three.

“Oh, and if Michael makes a little mess, no worries. He’s four. That’s to be expected!” His mother was all smiles.

Betsy waved good-bye as Mrs. Anderson clicked down the sidewalk in her three inch heels.

The house was quiet, except for the sound of slamming doors and cabinets somewhere in the distance. Betsy followed the noise down the hall, past Michael’s bedroom, a study, and a spare room scattered with scrapbooking supplies. She found him in the master bath. His feet poked out of a cabinet opening underneath the sink. Betsy grabbed his ankles and pulled.

“Michael? What are you doing in there, little buddy?”

He turned around and stood up.

“Whoa,” Betsy whispered.

The right side of his face looked the same as before, but the left side appeared altered. A thick line of red lipstick ran from the corner of his mouth all the way down to his collarbone. Eyeliner shot out from his eyebrow into three directions that resembled a pitchfork. Mascara oozed across his eyelid and down the side of his nose. Half of his hair stood on end, held up with sticky, green goop.

“Digging around in your mother’s make-up, little guy?”

“Mine!” He blew past Betsy, and his feet pounded down the hall.

She traced his path using the destruction he left behind. Scrapbook confetti still hung in the air. Blocks from his room tumbled out into the hall. The desk chair in the study lay on its side like a casualty.

She found him in the kitchen, standing on the counter.

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