Norma Nill

Got Candles?

Norma — Sat, 27 Apr 2013 22:42:07 +0000

Not long ago when I sat at the table to draw with my grandsons, I looked at my blank sheet of paper and said, “I always draw candles—this time I’ll try something different.”

Ben had already formed the outline of a castle on his paper.

“I love castles—I’ll make one, too,” I said. So I did.

Not Candles

Ben’s eyes lit up and his dimples appeared as he said, “Grandma, you’re drawing candles again.” Lucas and David agreed.

“No, I’m not. It’s a real castle.” I pointed to the teardrop shapes. “And these are minarets.”

To prove my point, I went online and found this photo on Wikipedia.

St. Basil’s Cathedral

Okay, so it’s a cathedral and not a castle. Close enough for me. The article said that St. Basil’s Cathedral was constructed in 1588 in the shape of a bonfire rising to the sky. Bonfire? Flames?

The kids were right, but so was I.

What was going on in my mind after I had decided not to draw candles and drew candle-like objects anyway? Was it mere coincidence, or did my subconscious refuse to let go of the idea of candles because I had voiced the word?

Why are words so powerful? Words, like flames, shed light, spread easily, symbolize ideas, and can cause great good or great harm. Writers try to put pictures in the minds of readers through word-pictures. I write sentences that I’m hoping will transmit the image I’m visualizing, and you unconsciously receive and translate them, from your experiences, into a picture close enough to mine that the story makes sense. At least that’s the way it’s supposed to work. In light of the potential failures of this two-way process, it’s a wonder that reading has stood the test of time.

Some of the most effective stories are those that trigger our strongest emotions and help us process our worst fears. In his 2009 book, The Fire in Fiction, Donald Maass wrote, “Having something to say, or something you wish us to experience, is what gives your novel its power. Identify it. Make it loud. Do not be afraid of what’s burning in your heart.” (page 249)

First Lines

Norma — Wed, 27 Mar 2013 06:50:11 +0000

How important is the first line of a book? Recently, when we played a game called Liebrary* , we learned that

good first lines are not that easy to write. According to the experts, i.e., authors of writing books, the first line should set the mood of the book, show the protagonist in a tough situation, hint at the ending, encapsulate the theme, worry the reader, or all of the above. No wonder writers spend inordinate amounts of time settling on the perfect first line.

But all our family was aiming to do was to have fun with a new game, which we did. The moderator for the round read us the category, title, author, and summary of the book. Then, we had a couple of minutes to write a first line. In this post, I’ll tell you about four books we attacked…er, considered.

First was I, Robot, by Isaac Asimov. Can you pick out his line? (Answers appear at the end.)

Call me robot.

The day James McIntosh announced to the world his success in creating the first positronic brain, Dr. Susan Calvin thought she might be falling in love.

Ordinarily, a robot is only as trustworthy as its programmer.

Professor Heinrich Bostvich is widely regarded as the Father or Robotics, and for good reason.

If you wanted bells and whistles, you shouldn’t have hired a robot.

O, kill him you stupid robot!

Ninety-eight—ninety-nine—one hundred.

Three men greeted him in the office where the murder had been committed; and he was sure one of them was a robot.

Knock knock.
Who’s there?
I.
I who?
I, Robot.

I thought I had programmed for all the possibilities, but I was totally unprepared for what was soon to happen.

* * *

Next, here’s what we and William Shakespeare wrote for his play, Much Ado About Nothing. Which line did he write?

What force is this, twixt sunlit day and moonlit night?

“Are we there yet?” Hero asked.

Oh but for a love, for I have none.

Neither a borrower nor a lender be.

Bertram (entering) – Hail Hero!

Of all the doves which ‘round the court do preen,
Which bird wouldst thou prefer to devour?

I learn in this letter than Don Pedro of Arragon comes this night to Messina.

Good sir, I bid thee welcome,
For welcome thou most surely art.

* * *

Next, here’s what we and Raymond Briggs wrote for his book, Ug: Boy Genius of the Stone Age. Which line is his?

Ug!

Ideas were never my problem, but my mother was.

Ug was eager to climb to the top of the rocky hill after breakfast.

Round and round it goes, what it’s for no one knows.

If Ug couldn’t figure out a problem, he’d try harder, which is how even cave boys can become geniuses.

“Runnng!” went Ug’s alarm-sundial. It was time for a new day.

“This old cave is too drafty!” Ug exclaimed.

“Paper, scissors, rock.”
“Rock”
“Rock”
“Tied again?”

Wug lived with his wife Huggy in a cave and they had a baby boy named Ug.

* * *
Finally, here’s what we and Hugh Lofting wrote for his book, The Story of Doctor Doolittle. Can you identify the line Lofting wrote?

Mrs. Snodgrass was just about more than Dr. Doolittle could take.

Wilda jumped when she saw the python, turned and ran, tripping over a dark furry form on the jungle floor.

Once upon a time, many years ago—when our grandfathers were little children—there was a doctor, and his name was Doolittle—John Doolittle, M.D.

“Heavens! He’s got my hat! The monkey’s got my hat!” squawked the indignant woman.

Dr. Doolittle scowled at his plate of food and said, “How do you expect me to feed my charges with so few greens?”

“I talk to the trees, but they don’t answer,” Doctor Doolittle sang at the top of his lungs.

This is the story of Doctor James Doolittle of 12 Crispwich Crescent, London.

The Doctor ate breakfast with his cat perched on his shoulder so that when he got to the end of a page, Meow would turn to the next one, and the Doctor could continue spreading marmalade on his toast.

* * *

Answers
The first line of I, Robot is: Ninety-eight—ninety-nine—one hundred.

The first line of Much Ado About Nothing is: I learn in this letter than Don Pedro of Arragon comes this night to Messina.

The first line of Ug: Boy Genius of the Stone Age is: Ug!

The first line of The Story of Dr. Doolittle is: Once upon a time, many years ago—when our grandfathers were little children—there was a doctor, and his name was Doolittle—John Doolittle, M.D.

If you contributed a first line for any of the above when we played, and I left it out, I’m sorry that I couldn’t find it! Thanks to everyone for reading!

*Liebrary comes from
http://www. discoverybaygames.com/

Speed Pitching

Norma — Sat, 17 Nov 2012 16:00:42 +0000

Have you heard of Speed Dating (as in the movie Hitch), where women sit on one side of a long narrow table and potential dates sit across from them? Each pair gets only a few minutes
to get to know each other until the bell rings. This is the same setup for Speed Pitching. You get 90 seconds to deliver your spiel to the agent across from you, and the agent gets 90 seconds to respond, for a total of 3 minutes.

Recently, I went to a pitch session from 8-9:30 a.m. on a Saturday morning, which I learned works well for agents who are on East Coast time, where it was already 11 a.m.

Cue card and list of agents in hand, I waited in a queue in front of my first choice among all the agents. When the bell rang, I took a seat and introduced myself to a woman who seemed like The Perfect One to represent my book. Unfortunately, I stumbled over a sentence, lost my place, and rambled on forever, despite the flicker of wariness in her eyes. A bell rang to say we had 30 seconds left. Things went downhill from there. The Perfect One laughed lightly, said she’d have to pass on my work, and wished me luck.

I reviewed my cue card with a vengeance while waiting for my next turn. It went much better. At the end of the hour and half, I had pitched to six agents and three editors. One said that she couldn’t in good conscience consider my manuscript because she was currently representing a book with a similar theme. But seven invited me to submit my work. Whew!

During the conference workshops, however, I discovered that my manuscript is nowhere near ready to send. That’s why I’ve launched into a major revision, the fourth one so far, but who’s counting?

I hope my experience will help you the next time you meet with agents. Happy Pitching!

Pitching in Elevators

Norma — Tue, 09 Oct 2012 23:30:16 +0000

Who said that time in elevators is wasted? If you’re prepared, you might deliver a pitch on your way from the lobby to the eighth floor to The Agent who likes the premise enough to ask for the whole book. Next thing you know, The Agent loves the book enough to represent you. They say it happens.

The Elevator Pitch works for casual interchanges just about anywhere, e.g., the snack bar, the hallway, or the Smokers Circle outside, or for organized meetings. How much can you say in a three or four minutes? The pitch must hook the listener the moment you start speaking, or the agent will smile, say “thanks, but it’s not for me,” and walk out of your life.

While I’ve never given my Elevator Pitch in an elevator, I used it several times at writer’s conferences in 2011 and 2012, even with success.

Five of us sat around a table with a cheery agent who gave each of us three minutes to talk—and her full attention. I liked hearing everyone’s pitches and the exchanges between the agent and writers because it helped me to see what worked and what didn’t. When one writer finished, the agent said, “I don’t think I can sell that. Sorry.” The writer who sat by me began her pitch by dropping the name of a mutual friend, and she and the agent immediately hit if off like old friends, all chummylike. We weren’t surprised when the agent invited her to submit her work. To me, the agent said, “That’s been done already. You need another angle.” Her eyes left my face. “Next.”

In May I sat with six others at a similar table with another agent, a woman close to my age. When it was my turn to pitch, she listened, asked questions, and said, “Sounds interesting. Send me three chapters and a synopsis. Here’s my card.”

She liked it? Actually, she handed me off to someone else on her staff, the Second Agent, but I was honored nonetheless.

The Second Agent wanted the entire manuscript, and she emailed me as she read it clear to the end. While she was initially enthusiastic, she said the book needed work. Her feedback helped me with a major revision that began last summer.

Will I ever get this thing in shape?

Next: Speed Pitching

Pitching a Book

Norma — Thu, 06 Sep 2012 00:15:47 +0000

When I first heard that writers have to pitch their books, I thought of a baseball pitcher burning the ball into the strike zone. No way—too rough! So I imagined gently tossing a large envelope containing my freshly-completed manuscript to a grateful agent—the catcher—who would open it and immediately start reading. Silly me.

As I may have mentioned once or twice, I finished writing my first novel in 2009 and revised it in 2010, based on feedback from family, friends, and writer acquaintances. It was time to get it published. But how? During the summer of 2010 I attended the Pacific Northwest Writers Association conference in Seattle to find out.

Among the seminars and workshops was a How-to-Pitch class, where I handwrote the premise and salient points of my story—The Pitch—that would (hopefully) hook listeners and make them eager to read a sample. According to the instructor, our goal in pitching was to get agents and editors to invite us to send them a sample, aka a “partial,” meaning anything less than the full manuscript. If they liked it, they would ask for more.

Clayton Kershaw of the LA Dodgers

During coffee breaks I swapped pitches and critiques with other writers until it was as polished as I knew how to make it. What if I botched it?

The Windup

My first pitching session included appointments with two agents and one editor. At a small table in a room, a thirty-something tall, lean, and charming southerner, the editor of a small press, greeted me and motioned for me to sit across from him. After he listened to me speak about my work of Science Fiction, he said, “Sounds a bit tame for what we’re after, but why don’t you send me the first 20 pages?” I thanked him and walked away, my feet never touching the ground. One for one.

The Delivery

Next, I pitched to a boyish, dark-haired agent with a New York accent who listened to my spiel and asked me to clarify certain points, which I did. He said, “Sounds interesting, but that’s not Science Fiction.” Perhaps he hadn’t heard me right. I explained that my book, which was set in the near future, stretched reality. He wasn’t buying it. Instead, he mentioned the title of a book with a theme like mine and wished me well. Okay, one for two.

The third person who listened to my pitch was a long-haired, upbeat, and fast-talking agent from the West Coast who asked several questions, listened to my answers, and said, “Might be a great book, but it’s not Science Fiction.” Not again. This time I asked for more information. For a book to be sold to a publisher as Science Fiction, it must meet specific requirements, including world-building. Who knew?

The Ump, Catcher, and Batter (Ichiro)

It took a few minutes—okay, the rest of the day—for me to process what I’d learned through my first three pitches. The next morning I changed the genre of my book to Women’s Mainstream Fiction.

Next time: Pitching in Elevators
*Photos taken by Norma Nill in May 2012

Info Dumps and Other Writing No-Nos

Norma — Wed, 22 Aug 2012 02:30:34 +0000

When I began revising my novel recently with an agent’s feedback in mind, my writing flaws jumped off the page with such force that I had to run for cover.

Right away, I got kicked out of the story by an Info Dump, i.e. information provided solely for the benefit of the reader. Info Dumps given by one character to another who already knows the information are called Idiot Lectures. In my book a character described a piece of equipment he’d seen many times. What did I think was going on in his mind? It was so contrived. An Info Dump if there ever was one.

As if that wasn’t bad enough, “telling verbs” (such as thought, felt, wondered, etc) and “named emotions” (numb, excited, fearful, giddy, etc) catapulted me out of the character’s inner commentary.

Eliminating unwanted writing habits is tough, subjective, and can be subtle, as you can see in the following examples. I’m not at all sure whether the After paragraphs draw readers closer or push them away.

Example 1 – Before
Back at her desk, Miranda felt numb as she sat surveyed her six-by-eight cubicle, her home away from home. She hoped she hadn’t made a mistake. If her salary wasn’t enough to help with Emily’s tuition, she thought, her savings would cover it.

Example 1 – After
Back at her desk, Miranda stared at the photos on her walls. Had her decision been a mistake? If the lower salary wasn’t enough for Emily’s tuition, there was always savings. It was for emergencies, right?

Example 2 – Before
She felt like a school girl. He’d made a pass at her, albeit a casual one. Startled and pleased, yet suspicious why such a nice, grounded guy would be interested in a mature woman, she wondered what might happen if she were closer to his age.

Example 2 – After
When was the last time she’d had a school girl crush? So he’d made a pass at her—what was the big deal? Lots of nice, grounded guys flirted with mature women, didn’t they? Would she take him more seriously if he were closer to her age?

Thanks, Faithful Readers, for staying with me through the revision process!

A Heavy Parcel

Norma — Tue, 31 Jul 2012 00:30:07 +0000

Earlier this month a heavy parcel landed with a thud on my porch. My manuscript! With it came a nice rejection letter. I use the word nice

because the literary agent not only expressed disappointment in not being able to accept my book, but also gave me specific feedback, i.e. a push in the right direction.

At first, of course, I was crushed. I had chosen this particular agent for her experience, passion for her work, and approachability. Plus, she’s prompt and keeps her word. But her comments about my novel hit the nail on the head.

Coincidently, the Northwest Christian Writers Association* newsletter came in the mail the following day with an article by Shirley Pope Waite called Rejected? You’re in Good Company! Citing authors such as Rudyard Kipling, J.R. Tolkien, Frank Baum, Madeleine L’Engle, Ursula LeGuin, and James Thurber, each of whom received numerous (20+) rejection letters, the article gave me the impetus to get my chin off the floor and get busy. After all, I’ve only received 5 rejections so far.

*http://www.nwchristianwriters.org/

Pen and Paper Magic

Norma — Fri, 29 Jun 2012 16:15:24 +0000

Have you noticed that something curious happens when you write by hand instead of texting or typing? Already, as I type this post, my Internal Editor is insisting that I backspace and rewrite, while my Creative Writer side cares only about capturing ideas before they escape. But there’s mystique in putting pen to paper.

When I went off to college, I loved getting handwritten letters from my mom. Each one was unique yet full of recurring themes. I pictured her writing at the dining room table with a stack of mail on one side and her assortment of stationery on the other, for it was there that she taught us to write thank you notes.

One year when I was trying to find the perfect Christmas gift for my Grandma Myers, my mom declared that Grandma Myers would be happy if I wrote her a nice letter, so I gave her a coupon that was good for 25 letters in the coming year. Grandma Myers was delighted. (Thanks for the idea, Mom!) While we were pen pals, we shared all sorts of things about our lives in a way we never had before. I learned tidbits about her childhood, her life during the Depression, and how she chose the names for her first set of twins. The topics I wrote about “just came out,” such as when I told her that I liked watching Jeopardy! I found out later she did, too.

I didn’t expect to take notes by hand when I studied French history in Paris. On the first day, however, our professor wrote a paragraph on the chalkboard as she lectured and told us to copy it. No handouts! We balked, but she wouldn’t budge and told us that we would learn to write correct French by this method. For the entire semester we dutifully copied her sentences word-for-word in our cahiers (notebooks), enlisting not only our senses of sight and hearing but also forging a connection between the material and our brains by manual activity. (No wonder teachers require kids to write such statements as, “I will not talk during class,” 100 times!)

I got to thinking about the phenomenon of putting pen to paper when I joined a writers group this spring that uses an exercise called Timed Writing to stimulate creativity. The rules for our group are: to write continuously without talking, to try not to raise the pen from the paper, and to avoid crossing out any words. In preparation for the exercise, we each contribute an anonymous sentence to use as a prompt, and when the group settles on one, we all copy it, write for 15 minutes, and read aloud our musings. At times, a writer who’s just read will say, “Where in the world did that come from?”

Stephen King said, “I write to find out what I think.” That’s the magic.

The Actress and the Diaper Pail*

Norma — Fri, 01 Jun 2012 00:58:34 +0000

When I was five, my dad was stationed with the U.S. Navy on Guam, where we lived in a Quonset hut with

two geckos that scurried up the wall. My brother Blake was a year and a half younger than I, and my brother Doug was born on Guam.

Like other kids, we learned to do chores. Blake and I set the table, dried dishes, and made our beds, while my mom had her hands full with little Doug and the never-ending laundry. In the 1950s, everyone used single-thickness cloth diapers, about 30”x30”, that were folded small to fit a newborn and bigger as the baby grew. The diapers dried quickly on the clothes line or when hung out a car window on a drive around the island. When a diaper was soiled, my mom rinsed it in the toilet and dropped it into a pail of sudsy water on the back porch to soak before laundering.

One day when my mom sent me out with a used diaper, I managed to tumble into the pail. There I was—up to my armpits in water that reeked of ammonia, my rear end stuck. To make matters worse, I knocked the pail over in the process of climbing out, spilling the water all over the porch. My clothes were soaked. Blake and I howled.

My mom, who came out to see what happened, laughed, too, and then got the mop. “Before you change clothes, you’ll have to clean up the mess.”

“But Mom,” I said, putting on a hurt face and trying to keep from laughing, “I can’t—it’s too hard.”

“Sure you can.”

And I did, despite my fake tears, right after she snapped this photo for my baby book.

Crocodile Tears

*Reprinted from the January 2011 Issue of Northwest Prime Time, Scene from Childhood

Kids Speak

Norma — Sat, 31 Mar 2012 21:50:39 +0000

My daughter broke her femur while trying to stop her bike by skidding on gravel when she was only six years old. I held her hand as she lay sedated on the table in the emergency room. We were both in tears. “Honey,” I whispered, stroking her head, “I sure wish I were the one with the broken leg instead of you.” In a groggy voice, she said,

“So do I.”

I love the transparency of kids! You usually know right where you stand with them.

While we were sitting on a sunny beach in Puerto Rico, four-year-old Susan spread sand over her thighs. I copied her, but I couldn’t quite cover mine. I looked at the uncovered parts of my legs and said, “Wow, my legs look like little sausages.” She immediately said, “No, they don’t. They look like giant sausages.”

One night when we went to supper at the house of some new friends, I brought along a dessert our family loves – Peanut Butter Pie. Their ten-year-old daughter cautiously took a small slice just to try it and returned with her verdict. “I really liked the pie,” she said politely. “But then I’m not that picky.”

Three-year-old Ben ran in from outdoors to go to the bathroom and scrambled to remove his boots first.
Dad: Ben, you don’t have to take off your boots.
Ben: Yes I do, they’re yucky.
Dad: Why?
Ben: They got pee in them.
Dad: Next time, you’ll have to come in sooner.
Ben: Next time, I’ll just pee outside.