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Interview with Caroline Leavitt, New York Times Bestselling Author of Pictures of You

“Squinting, she tries to see more than a few feet ahead of her, but the fog’s enveloping her, making her increasingly uneasy. She flicks the parking lights on and off to try to slice through the darkness and then the fog moves again and she sees, almost like pieces of a torn photo, patches of what’s there.”
~from Pictures of You

You know that feeling. The fog is so dense you think your windows are dirty. You flick the windshield wipers onto the highest speed. They cut across and back, again and again, but your vision is still blurred. You use your sleeve to wipe off the inside of the window. Nothing. Then, you panic.

Caroline Leavitt’s first chapter in her bestselling novel, Pictures of You, evokes that same frantic emotion in the reader, from the opening sentence to the last few words. The quote above suggests that fog can be blamed for changing the courses of two families’ lives. But, that moment described, just before the accident, also becomes a metaphor for the rest of the story: how does one recover and reassemble the pieces of a life broken by one event or another?

The book trailer for Pictures of You is haunting like the novel, and I could rave about several fantastic moments in the story. But instead, I’ve invited Caroline to share about her novel, and about writing, and I’m offering a free copy of Pictures of You. Just leave a comment below, and your name will be entered into the drawing.

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CC: The first line of Chapter One (“There’s a hornet in the car.”) set me on edge immediately. By the end of the chapter, I was deep into that breathless moment when cars collide and lives change. You’ve written an amazing first chapter! Are you a writer who fine tunes chapter one before moving on to the rest of the story? Or, do you plow through a draft and then return to the beginning?

Caroline Leavitt

CL: I fine tune chapter one. It’s my lifeline.  If I have a good first chapter, then I know, when I get to the middle of the novel and I feel like chucking it all and going back to school to be a dentist, that that first chapter will call to me. It will say, “You can’t give up. What about me?” The first chapter is always proof to me that I can do this, that I have to push on. It’s like an act of faith to me. Plus, the first chapter really has the seeds of everything that follows.

CC: One of my favorite scenes in PICTURES OF YOU is when Luke returns home to care for Isabelle after the accident, despite her insistence that he leave her alone. You never once write about how either character feels, but the emotion presents itself through strong, natural dialogue and simple, yet powerful, descriptions. That scene cut right through me. Is there a certain scene or chapter in your novel that was your favorite to write?

CL: Ah, that comes from studying screenwriting, where everything is shown or expressed through dialogue, and not spelled out.  And thank you, so much. (It also comes through 16 drafts!) I loved writing the last chapter, that leap ahead in time. I was so relieved to get everyone out of that time period, and I was so curious to see what everyone would be like so many years in the future. Plus, it was something I’d never done before and I was really happy that it seemed to be working for me. As soon as I made Sam in his thirties, I stopped worrying so hard about him, too, which was quite a relief for me!

CC: On the Reading Group Choices blog, you talk with Heidi Durrow about audience and say, “…if I think about an audience at all, it smothers the work somehow. Readers respond when you’re able to show the dark or hidden places that maybe they have been afraid or unable or unwilling to.” PICTURES OF YOU touches on several core conflicts found in life and in relationships. Has your audience responded to or connected with your story in ways that you anticipated or were surprising to you?

CL: Another great question.It’s always surprising to hear what readers say.  I’ve found that people connect depending on what’s going on in their own lives.  There were a lot of people who were upset at the way the book ended. They had an idea in their mind of how it should go.  Some people were furious with April–I happened to love and understand her, though I certainly wouldn’t want her as a close friend.

CC: What are you reading these days?

CL: Everything I can get my hands on.  I really loved Tayari Jone’s Silver Sparrow. I review for People and the Boston Globe, so there are always books coming into the house and I’m always, always reading.

CC: Do you have any advice for writers on the rise?

CL: Yes.  Never give up.  Pictures of You is my 9th novel, and before this one, I never had any sales to speak of, and it was rejected by my old publisher as not being special enough. With Algonquin, it went on to become a NYT bestseller, a NAIBA bestseller, and it’s now in 4 printings and sold to six countries! You have to sit down and write everyday, and always help other writers. We’re all in this together!

Caroline Leavitt has a host of amazing credits to her name (including nine novels and essays or articles in places like New York Magazine and The Washington Post!), all of which you can learn about by perusing her website here. You can also follow her on Twitter or look her up on Facebook.

Don’t forget to leave a comment, so that you’re entered into the book giveaway. Random.org chooses the winner on Tuesday, June 14th.

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Navigating Space in Writing

Trapped in a tiny box
via sundaykofax on flickr.com/creativecommons

I have space issues. I’m a confessed claustrophobic, yet I sometimes dream of living in a tiny home, having everything within reach. I like the minimalist philosophy and the idea of using space efficiently. I’m a sucker for pockets upon pockets in a bag, secret drawers in a closet, or hidden compartments in jewelry boxes. There’s so much one can fit into small quarters with the right organization and planning.

That would explain my affinity for flash fiction. I love stories in a compact space, short shorts that insist I take my word limit seriously. There isn’t room for unnecessary details or dialogue. And, in a good flash fiction, more is revealed if you read beyond character gestures and listen to pauses in speech.

Thoughts on my preference for small spaces also helps me understand why writing a novel continues to baffle me. Moving from flash fiction to a novel parallels my experience when we upgraded from a one bedroom apartment to our first home, an overwhelming three bedroom house.

Rooms sat empty for a while.
The sound of footsteps bounced off plastered ceilings and wood floors.
Everything echoed, until we filled the rooms.
With furniture.
A rug.
Curtains.

Filling out a novel with 80,000 words is killing me. And, I’m not alone. Jenna Blum, in her post on Grub Street Daily (“Can’t I Just Write 15 Stories About the Same People: Turning Short Stories Into a Novel”), responds to another writer’s same question: how the heck do you move from short form to long?

If you can write a short story, you can write a novel–because both of them have beginning, middle and end…The short story contains its own arc.  The novel imposes its arc on a series of chapters–or stories.

Blum says, sure, you can write a series of stories on the same person, but there’s more to the novel that comes out in the narrative arc and plot. She says, ” If a short story is…a kiss from a stranger, a novel is a long love affair.”

So, I don’t want to sell my story short (there must be a pun in there somewhere), but I still cringe at the 80,000 word mark. What I want is to merge the idea of a novel being a long series of flash fiction pieces, while keeping in mind Blum’s caution not to lose the novel’s theme throughout.

What about you? How do you move from short form to long, or vice versa? Or, maybe you want to talk about itty bitty living quarters?….

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Wednesday’s Word: Once I clicked, I committed.

I’ve got a long list of excuses as to why today was not a good day for writing a new piece of flash fiction (in fact, if this post gets out by midnight tonight, I’ll be lucky). The problem is, I clicked over to Wordsmith.org this morning and read the word of the day and, therefore, committed myself to write something – an essay or a poem or a very short short – based on today’s word:

phycology: noun. The branch of botany dealing with algae. Also known as algology.

Algae. Green, slimy, stinky snood. Wordsmith never makes it easy, but then who said writing was easy?

(Past pieces from Wednesday’s Word exercises can be found by mousing over to the sidebar on the right and clicking on the Wednesday’s Word category.)

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Solitude

Joanne’s canoe glided towards the far side of the lake and carried her into a space void of campers, unreachable by motor boat, and reminiscent of times when the electricity went out at home; the air surrounded her with a heavy quiet.

Relief, she thought.

Sometimes she tired of the constant buzzing or humming caused by electric or other what not noises that smothered her at home and at work, sounds that were noticed more so when they ceased. She thought a weekend retreat to her cabin would offer solace, but the Wisnewskis were up this weekend, too. They were a raucous bunch, even at breakfast, which is why Joanne pushed off in her canoe shortly after her second cup of coffee.

from misserion via www.flickr.com/creativecommons

She relaxed her shoulders and relished her space and didn’t think twice about floating into a blanket of algae. The canoe cut through it like a wedge, splitting the muck and setting off spirals of green around her. She scooped up a handful of slime and rubbed her fingers together, searching for the substance. The algae held together only in mass.

Figures, she thought, just like the Wisnewskis. They thrive in clumps and encroach on the lake just the same.

Joanne breathed a sigh of disgust and, at the same time, lurched forward; the canoe had slowed, almost stopped. She brushed the tip of a sunken log, and as it scraped against the underside of the canoe, it pierced the quiet with a sound that frightened a kingfisher out of the trees just feet in front of her. She about had a heart attack because of that damn bird, and now, with her hands clenched to the sides of the canoe, she watched her paddle bounce and slip right off into the water. Into the muck. Away from her canoe.

Now, she certainly was alone, and the algae was closing in behind her.