truth is stranger than fiction

One problem I'm running into with memoir writing is the truth is stranger than fiction thing. Here's what really happened: I hit a horse with my car, a Mustang. Killed the horse and totaled the car. A short time later, my grandmother dies and my husband buys me a horse hoping to make me feel better. We go to the barn to look at the horse. It's dead. Strangled. Now these things really happened, but feedback has been that it's just too horrific and too much. When the reader gets to the second horse, doubt begins to creep in and pulls reader out of story. Did this really happen? Is the writer telling the truth? Two dead horses. So one idea was to remove the horse from the wreck. Just wreck the car, don't mention the horse. But then I'm altering what really happened, or omitting a big piece. My feeling is to leave both horses because it's the truth. And the point I was trying to make was that as soon as I got married all of these weird, bad things began to happen one after the other. But in fiction I would never stack two similar tragedies, so I don't know.

disconnected scenes

I have this scene in the memoir that has always seemed to have no real connection to anything, but it reveals an important piece of personal history. As I examined the scene, reluctant to toss it, I realized that it's actually an analogy of the main story arc. So what was once garbage now becomes something important. But I still can't leave it hanging there, so I've decided to address and acknowledge the comparison within the narrative. The writing can't be too heavy handed, but it can't be too subtle either. And hopefully, if handled well, it will establish the missing connection.

This could be filed under who gives a shit, but the point I'm trying to make is if you have a scene that doesn't seem to belong, stop and examine it before throwing it out. It might belong more than you think.

WHERE HAS THE TIME GONE?

A month or so ago I realized four years had passed in what I thought was a span of two. That freaked me out and immediately sent me into a depression as I obsessed over how little I’d accomplished in that time period. But if I break it down, if I throw out those first three years and concentrate on the past year, I’ve accomplished quite a bit. In order to make myself feel like less of a slacker, I made a list, and now I feel much better. These are the highlights and lowlights of the past twelve months.

Started editing service
Edited and formatted three of my old titles
Fired new agent who was very wrong for me
Hooked up with Quartet Press
Unhooked up with Quartet Press due to their folding
Wrote 80 pages of quirky chick lit novel, plus three synopses for possible series
Hooked up with Samhain Publishing for reissued titles
Father’s wife died
Made three trips to Florida to check on father
Dug out memoir and polished it up; found new agent with memoir
Had poem accepted to The Lineup
Once Upon a Crime anthology released
Wrote short story for noir anthology
Compiled and edited short stories for Halloween anthology
Wrote Max Under the Stars and made it available as ebook
Had major surgery
Still working on memoir and Halloween anthology

Whew. But I’m still trying to figure out what in the hell I did those other three years. I think a lot of it was spent waiting.

through the meat grinder

I decided to take Matt's opening and give it a full edit. If I were actually editing I wouldn't use my own words, I'd just make suggestions. I've added my own text in order to give a solid example of what I'm talking about. Matt's material works very well for this because I'm starting with a first draft. Thanks, Matt!


original opening

Fisher of Beasts
by:
Matthew M



And Jesus, walking by the sea of Galilee, saw two brethren, Simon called Peter, and Andrew his brother, casting a net into the sea: for they were fishers. And he saith unto them, Follow me, and I will make you fishers of men. And they straightway left their nets, and followed him.
-- Matthew 4:18-20


Chapter 1

Some were called to be fishers of men, but I was called to be a fisher of beasts.
Azazel, one of the Grigori, the Watchers of Men, once had fallen and revealed the art of sword making and war to mankind. Now, he stood at a corner under a flickering street lamp smoking a cigarette and hawking cheap guns. A cool breeze barely moved the black hair matted against his forehead. His red-ringed eyes watched each passing car as he pulled another drag from his cigarette. The ash glowed red and faded away.
“Men shouldn’t fight,” I said, stepping out of the dark alley and into the dim circle of light from the lamppost.
“We’re not men, are we Baraqel?” he laughed, dropped his cigarette, and stamped it out. He exhaled the last of the smoke and it hung as a halo around his head.
“It’s never too late,” I said. “I’ve recruited many and they believe this too.”
Azazel laughed through a deep cough.
I smiled. “Not as well as we used to be?”


edited opening

Fisher of Beasts
by:
Matthew M



Chapter 1

Some were called to be fishers of men, but I was called to be a fisher of beasts.

Hard to believe I've been in/on (where?) twenty cycles/years. The streets paved in stones from (where?) or: streets paved with recycled (what?) still feel alien to me. The lamps, with their iron shields, cast an unfamiliar shadow, constant reminders that I'm the stranger here. (just an example!!! immediately ground us and pack as much what/where/who info in these first few paragraphs as possible without doing a dump. The first two paragraphs might be all an agent looks at. Make them really count.)

From my hiding place in the dark alley, I spotted Azazel standing on a corner under a flickering light, smoking a cigarette and hawking cheap guns. (has he been looking for him? Hoping to find him?) A breeze barely moved the black hair matted against his forehead. His red-ringed eyes watched each passing car as he pulled another drag from his cigarette. The ash glowed and faded away. Azazel had once been one of the Watchers of Men, but he'd fallen, tempted by (?) My purpose wasn't to kill him, but recruit him. (why?

“Azazel.” I stepped from alley and approached my enemy, stopping a few feet away. (or whatever.) "How does it feel to have so much blood on your hands?" The man (or beast or what?) before me had betrayed (what? who?) by revealing the art of sword making to mankind. He deserved no small talk.
"You give me too much credit." He dropped his cigarette and stamped it out. Smoke hung as a halo around his head. “We’re not men, are we Baraqel (explain this with Baragel's reaction)?” He was right, but it was something I tried not to think about too deeply. (Or something I would never admit, or whatever. What are they?)
“It’s never too late to help the cause,” I said. “I’ve recruited many.”
Azazel laughed through a deep cough. "And what do these recruits of yours do? Bake brownies and knit?" (or whatever. or could say something like this instead: "Are you offering me absolution?"
B might wonder if A has any remorse. "Sins cannot be undone."
(have they met before? or is Baraqel famous?) this is a chance to reveal some of A's character. Also, Azazel should be a major character. Don't introduce someone this early if they will only have minor role or never appear again. I'm sure you know that!

victim two, Emeraldcite

Emeraldcite bravely sent a first draft of his urban fantasy, Fisher of Beasts. Thank you! *cackles and rubs hands together*

My original plan was to use screen shots, but that didn't work because my laptop screen is too small. Argh. So I resorted to this method where I am shouting in all caps. Anything else would have been lost since all the formatting vanishes when dumped into blogger. I think there's a way around that, but this was probably the quickest and easiest solution.



Fisher of Beasts


And Jesus, walking by the sea of Galilee, saw two brethren, Simon called Peter, and Andrew his brother, casting a net into the sea: for they were fishers. And he saith unto them, Follow me, and I will make you fishers of men. And they straightway left their nets, and followed him.
-- Matthew 4:18-20
NOT SURE IF THIS BIBLE VERSE IS NECESSARY.

Chapter 1

Some were called to be fishers of men, but I was called to be a fisher of beasts.

LOVE THIS OPENING LINE, BUT YOU NEED TO EXPAND ON IT. YOU NEED TO GIVE US MORE INFO, MAYBE AS MUCH AS A PARAGRAPH. DON’T BE TOO AFRAID TO TELL RATHER THAN SHOW. ALSO BE SURE TO GROUND US, SHOW US WHERE AND WHAT OF VIEWPOINT CHARACTER.


REMIND READER OF VIEWPOINT. YOU HAVE TO BE ESPECIALLY CAREFUL OF THIS IN OPENINGS, BECAUSE WE JUST MET ONE PERSON, NOW WE ARE MEETING ANOTHER. SO YOU NEED TO START SECOND PERSON INTRO WITH SOMETHING LIKE: I SPOTTED AZAZEL STANDING UNDER THE FLICKERING STREET LAMP.
Now, he stood at a corner under a flickering street lamp smoking a cigarette and hawking cheap guns. A cool breeze barely moved the black hair matted against his forehead. His red-ringed eyes watched each passing car as he pulled another drag from his cigarette. The ash glowed red and faded away.
Azazel WAS one of the Grigori, the Watchers of Men, WHO HAD once had fallen (IS HE STILL FALLEN? MIGHT WANT TO ELABORATE EITHER WAY.) and revealed the art of sword making and war to mankind. I MOVED THIS PARAGRAPH FROM BEGINNING. THIS WAY WE GET THE BRIEF DESCRIPTION, THEN YOU TELL US WHO HE IS.

“Men shouldn’t fight I WOULD LIKE TO SEE A BIT STRONGER DIALOGUE HERE. MAYBE SOMETHING ABOUT HOW MEN SEEM TO LIKE TO FIGHT, OR SOMETHING. GIVE US SOMETHING A BIT MORE PROFOUND. AND DON’T BE AFRAID TO FOLLOW UP DIALOGUE WITH THOUGHT. DON’T MISS CHANCE FOR CHARACTERIZATION SINCE WE ARE JUST MEETING BARAQEL. ” I said, stepping out of the dark alley and into the dim circle of light from the lamppost.
“We’re not men, are we Baraqel?” He laughed, dropped his cigarette, and stamped it out. He exhaled the last of the smoke and it hung as a halo around his head.
LET BARAQEL AT LEAST MENTALLY REACT TO THIS STATEMENT OF WHY THEY AREN’T MEN. “It’s never too late,” I said. “I’ve recruited many and they believe this too.”
Azazel laughed REPEATED WORD (SAID)through a deep cough.
I smiled. DOES BARAQEL FIND EXTREME PLEASURE IN THIS? HERE IS AN OPPORTUNITY TO GIVE US MORE CHARACTERIZATION. “Not as well as we used to be?”
He pulled a silver .45 from a holster within BENEATH the vest that clung to his thin frame. “These are not mortal bullets, my friend. These are consecrated with the secrets of our kind.” WHAT WILL HAPPEN IF ONE FINDS ITS TARGET?
I HAD MY OWN WEAPON. I slipped a hand inside my coat and brought out a small piece of chalk. I knelt and drew a circle around my feet, marking symbols in each of the cardinal directions. EXPAND AND EXPLAIN WHAT HE’S DOING. DON’T BE AFRAID TO TELL. I’M GUESSING IT WOULD BE SOMETHING LIKE THE CIRCLE WOULD PROTECT ME ETC. AND IS HE ALARMED? IN A HURRY TO DRAW THE CIRCLE? WE NEED TO SEE EMOTIONAL REACTION TO THE GUN.
Azazel erupted into another coughing fit and squeezed off a shot. When I didn’t react DID BULLET BOUNCE OFF? , he fired twice more.
I tossed a small business card outside the circle.
“Call me when you change your mind.” MORE EXPLANATION NEEDED HERE. CHANGE HIS MIND ABOUT JOINING BARAQEL?
Azazel picked up the card, squinted at it, and tucked it into a pocket on his vest. “Don’t count on it.”
He tore COULD USE ANOTHER WORD. IS HE ON FOOT? JUST NOT SURE. BECAUSE YOU ARE WORLD BUILDING, YOU MIGHT WANT TO GIVE US MORE DESCRIPTION. off down the alleyway.
Some were meant to be fishers of men. But me, I am a fisher of beasts because when I look up at the midnight sky I see home. I LOVE THIS LINE, BUT I’M NOT SURE WHAT IT MEANS. MAYBE A LINE OR TWO BEFOREHAND TO GIVE US A STRONGER CLUE?

Chapter 2

I unlocked the apartment door and went inside. The sun peeked its way between the buildings, changing the streets. They no longer appeared so desolate, so dangerous. Now the city was filled with a sense of innocence, even though below that skin LURKED/DWELLED deceit.
Azazel HAD fled, apparently afraid of the truth. I DIDN’T GET SENSE THAT HE WAS FLEEING OR AFRAID. I didn't mind, many of the others ran when I approached them, untrusting of a brother. They've experienced the in-fighting, the unnecessary destruction. Too many were lost before we could get our bearings. Too many now suffer an unmentionable fate. HMM. MAYBE WE SHOULD KNOW THE FATE.
I drew the curtains, shutting out the light. I was tired from my evening of chase. IN PREVIOUS CHAPTER, I DIDN’T GET THE IDEA THAT HE WAS DOING ANY CHASING. I THINK THAT NEEDS EXPLANATION IN CHAPTER 1.
“Hey, what're you doing, B?” MAYBE: “HEY! STOP WITH THE DARKNESS!” Tom SAID from the sofa, bits of cereal falling from his mouth. He tried to catch the little formed oats with his spoon, but missed. They rolled under the couch and joined the rest of what we were too lazy to sweep up.
“You know you're not the only one who lives here.” MY ROOMMATE STOOD AND balanced his bowl on top of a stack of magazines on the coffee table, the milk sloshing over the edges as the contents settled. He came to the window and threw open the blinds. “When I took you in--”
I squeezed my eyes shut, blocking out the light. “You didn't take me in, Tom.” We had this argument before. The outcome would inevitably be the same.
“Well, when I invited you to live here with me I didn't expect you to be off playing vigilante in the dead of night. It's freaking dangerous out there. Don't you watch the news?”
“I need to get some sleep. I work in a few hours.” I shielded my eyes as I walked past the windows.
Tom sighed. “You're going to get killed out there REPEAT. Let the police handle it.”
I slammed the door behind me. “I didn't know you cared so much.”
“How the hell am I supposed to make rent without you?”
# # #
In my sleep, there are no dreams. It is restless and dull, quiet and black. Here there is nothing and in that nothing there is just a little bit of peace, a little less torment.
Penemue once told me that we were the true children of God. I didn't believe him then and I still don't believe it today. We are the orphans, the deserted, the watchers of those who need no watching, who want no oversight.
He said that it's time for us to move on. “Move on where?” I asked. He shrugged. A damn wise answer, I told him. Damn wise.
# # #
When I awoke, I didn't feel refreshed. In fact, I didn't feel much of anything.
Tom parked his body in front of the TV. He poked at another bowl of cereal.
I pulled a white shirt over my head and tightened the belt on my black slacks. Work sucked. WHERE DOES HE WORK?
“Don't you I WONDER WHAT A SLACKER LIKE TOM DOES. work today?” I pulled a jug of milk from the refrigerator, unscrewed the lid, and sniffed the contents.
“Off.”
“Need anything while I'm out? I'm heading to work in a few CUT THIS LAST SENTENCE.”
“Food. I've been eating cereal for three days straight. It's all we got and I don't get paid until Friday. Rent's due and it's your turn. I'll take care of the phone bill.”
I grunted and finished off the milk. It was a little questionable, but didn't taste all that bad.
“Save me some milk. I'll need it for dinner.” TOO MUCH MILK STUFF GOING ON. ;)
“Sure,” I said. I screwed the cap back on the empty jug and put it back in the refrigerator. “Catch you later.” THIS DIALOGUE ISN’T MOVING PLOT FORWARD. NOT SURE THIS SCENE HAS THAT MUCH PURPOSE. YOU COULD EITHER CUT IT, OR MIX THIS SEEMINGLY EVERYDAY SCENE WITH SOME IMPORTANT PIECES OF INFORMATION.
Tom nodded, shoveled more food into his mouth, and turned up the volume on the TV. Guess he was enjoying the set while he could. If I didn't make enough in tips IS HE A WAITER? tonight, the power company would be making a visit.
In the end, it was better than some of my previous living arrangements. CUT THIS LINE UNLESS YOU WANT TO GO INTO PREVIOUS LIVING ARRANGEMENTS, UNLESS THEY WERE REALLY UNUSUAL WHICH COULD BE INTERESTING AND GIVE US MORE INSIGHT. LIKE BETTER THAN PREVIOUS HOME UNDER A BRIDGE OR WHATEVER. DON’T MISS CHANCE TO ELABORATE AND FILL US IN.
I grabbed my coat and tossed it over my arm. It would probably CUT PROBABLY UNLESS THERE’S A REASON FOR THIS WALK TO BE LONGER THAN PREVIOUS NIGHTS. AND IF SO, EXPLAIN. be a long walk home after work.
# # #
“Baraqel.” It was merely a whisper, but someone called my name. Faceless people passed me by, intent on their destinations. They were robotic in their movements, all preprogrammed. MAYBE A LITTLE EXPLANATION HERE ABOUT PREPROGRAMMING.
“Over here.”
I followed the sound of the voice, which appeared to be coming from a nearby tree planted into the concrete. A few of its roots broke the surface of the ground cracking the pavement. Uneven slabs jutted from the ground to trip unsuspecting travelers. I ducked under the branches.

LOOKING FOR A FEW GOOD VICTIMS

Who doesn't love public humiliation?
I'm looking for a few good victims willing to submit one to five double-spaced pages to be posted here and on my editing page. I will take screen shots of edited material, and also post clean copy before and after examples. Before posting, I will give you the option to decline the public example. Are you in?

writing without hope and delusion

A successful writer is made up of many things.
Taking a project from idea to print requires strength in three areas: voice, story-telling skill, and technical skill. If you’re lacking in one of these areas, you'll have trouble selling your project. But other crucial ingredients are hope and delusion. I believe most writers need these to make the complete journey.

My hope and delusion are gone. Completely, totally gone. And without them, I don’t know if I can continue to write. Or if I should continue to write. I will do a final revision on the memoir. Not really a revision, but I will include a thread that will involve adding about 5 new scenes throughout. Will probably take about a month once I get in gear. But I’m writing with the sense that this will never sell. My agent plans to submit it to the six major houses left standing, but I don’t feel it’s a big enough story for the major houses. It’s small. Very small. I describe it as The Yellow Wallpaper meets Silent Spring. This kind of book isn’t selling now. Maybe to an indie publisher, but I don’t even know about that. My delusion is gone, and I must prepare for the future.

I bet the farm on this book, and I’m kind of disgusted with myself for being such an idiot. I sold my house in St. Paul and bought the church-house studio so I could concentrate on this book, living on the proceeds from the house sale. That will be gone soon, and I will be putting the church house on the market in about July. So if you know someone who is looking for a cool space, keep me in mind.




I should have taken the money from the house sale and started a business. That’s what I should have done, and now I’m kicking myself because there is nothing left. It seemed romantic to blow off everything else to write this one story that seemed important. But in the end, it was just foolish. And I’m not even sure the story was important.

As I was writing this, I received a fan letter. Those always break my heart a little bit.