The Vastly Immeasurable Value of Few Words--Inkblots

Oxford Creative Writing Master Class nearly filled for April!

Five Blots this chilly evening (with more snow predicted for the morning), and chatting about final editing, dangers of "find and replace all" (beware, something will always glitch), better to find next and inspect carefully; make the Word program do what you want it to do rather than be the patsy of grit (sand). John is in final editing on Saving Grace, a labor of love for some years, great cover art, the final push to publication, and a real book in hand, more important thematically now than ever. John has said over the years of writing this book and learning his craft in the process, that if one abortion-minded young woman reads it and does not consent to killing her baby in the womb, he will be happy. May it have this effect on many. There's a lesson in this about how a writer measures success. 

I want to briefly distill the important elements of good writing that we explored and honed this evening (below are pasted notes more relevant to the specific writers who penned the words). Cheyenne is entering a UK unpublished novel contest and must write a 350 word synopsis as part of her entry process (you can read her first draft below). In a synopsis, be concise, every word must have work to do. Avoid proliferation of names, especially if there could be any confusion. Keep the main character and the main plot in the forefront. A synopsis is often the debut of a writer's ability to a publisher, contest judges, potential distributor, and reader, hence, one must spend careful time writing, rewriting, revising a good synopsis. Rules that are important in your manuscript are equally, or, if possible, more important in a synopsis: Show don't tell. Avoid vague language. Be concise. Use action verbs. Diagram your entire plot on an anatomy of fiction timeline (status quo, inciting moment, rising action, etc.). Try writing your synopsis in sonnet form, fourteen lines of iambic pentameter. This will do many things for your writing, but it will certainly force you to be brief and to choose words that are loaded with meaning and purpose. 

Next, we discussed when to end a chapter or episode. Hannah wrote a frightening ending to an episode, but added a touch more than was needed. Keep your reader in suspense. End a chapter with the protagonist uncertain, off balance, teetering. Don't stabilize the situation or character at the end of a chapter (there are exception to this). Generally, if a chapter begins in stability and certainty, it must end in uncertainty. If the episode begins with uncertainty, it should end with something else, either more uncertainty, or a interlude of certainty (or perceived certainty).

We also discussed shifting points of view within a chapter, when there is no obvious break. This can throw readers off balance, confuse them, lift them out of verisimilitude; it is so unlike the way we experience reality. If the shift in point of view is necessary (they are not always necessary), then signal your reader that the shift is happening with a chapter break, or an internal division of some kind, extra space, *** in that space (which I used to use but don't really like anymore), or, as Daniel Silva does from time to time, create an internal chapter break with space and a drop-cap first letter to the new point of view. I return to caution with shifting points of view. It is not for the novice and can have perilous results. There is a reason for the rule to stick with one point of view, your protagonist's. Break it to your peril. 

I concluded with a brief word about the non-fiction book I'm beginning. I’m calling it tentatively God Sings, comparing and contrasting how God and his people sing in the Bible (there’s tons of this) with how we are attempting to do so in the glare and glitter of an entertainment ethos. More coming on that front, God willing.

Register today for the final spots available in my writing intensive literary tour of middle England, Oxford Creative Writing Master Class, April 2-9. "The Oxford Creative Writing Master Class was above and beyond my wildest dreams. I learned so much about writing, history, theology. OCWMC has truly changed my life," so said one of my recent OCWMC grads. Check it out today, but do not delay, bondbooks.net or email me at bondbooks.net@gmail.com. 

Desperate for adventure, or anything to distill the monotony of her life, JULIET [why caps?] goes hiking, and finds a sprawling, upside-down tree. [Can you make us hear the chomp?] It swallows, transporting her, and she wakes in a different [sounds too vague, bland] place where she arrives at the town of [I wouldn't use the name in the synopsis] Umi no Machi: a Japanesque town with a medieval [can you use more specific language? what makes her feel like it's medieval?] feel. 

[keep us in Juliet's point of view] There, a woman named DAYNA warns of impending doom [specific kind of doom? Sun will die... invading army...], but the townspeople pay no heed. Raiders attack in the night, but Juliet evades their clutches. She, Dayna, and the UNKNOWN begin a quest to rescue the townspeople.

While on the trail, Juliet slips up [slips up how?], causing Dayna to demands answers concerning Juliet’s past. 

[under cover of darkness] Finally, they catch up to the raiders and rescue the townspeople under the cover of darkness, but Juliet is ambushed and captured. The Unknown [is he called this or his name?] rescues her, and she learns his name—ADNAN. 

During an attempt for Juliet to return home, the three are taken prisoner and led to TRISTAN, who forces them to help in his uprising against KING JAIIN. 

They are separated during an attack. Seeking refuge, Juliet meets HANIEL and MARI, two of Tristan’s trusted rebels. She embroils herself within the uprising, while dealing with conflicting feelings concerning Tristan, the uprising, and all the secrets surrounding her. 

Aware of how she is looked upon by the rebels, Juliet accuses Tristan of using her, and he agrees to let her leave on a foray with Haniel, but the king’s men take her. She escapes and, on foot, makes it back safely on the verge of collapse. 

Juliet urges Mari to go be with her niece [too many people in this sentence] who is expecting a baby, and soon after realizes Tristan cares for her [which her?]. Without Adnan to counsel her, Juliet decides to commit to the uprising, but when Tristan asks to court her for the sake of his people, who see her superstitiously as the Otherworlder, she turns him down. 

Juliet and Haniel leave to warn his and Mari’s village of wandering raiders, but they’re too late; everyone is dead and there are no survivors. Angry at what she has seen, Juliet agrees to fight with Tristan, and agrees to his courtship proposal.

In general, I would strongly suggest that you kill names, tighten prose, ramp up the dilemma that Juliet finds herself in with Tristan making advances. Draw the anatomy of fiction and place each episode of rising action on the diagram. This will clean the story arc in your own mind and help with writing the synopsis. Additionally, you could write the whole plot in iambic pentameter 140 syllables, a sonnet. This forces you to choose your words careful, each having important work to do.

Hannah read next, a romp in the forest. “Mommy, look at the flowers!” Charlotte ran off the trail and darted over to a cluster of small pink flowers surrounding the base of a nearby [what kind of tree?] tree. Amber stopped and slipped her backpack off her shoulders to dig around in it for the book she’d brought to identify plants with.

As she thumbed through the pages, she occasionally glanced up to watch her daughter. Another few pages and she stopped.

“Hey, Charlotte, those are-” Amber froze when she looked up and didn’t see her. She turned around in a circle. “Charlotte?”

No answer, except for the wind rustling the firs and cedars around her. “Charlotte, answer me,” Amber said, moving further up the path. “Charlotte!”

She checked behind a rhododendron shrub. Nothing. Her stomach twisted.

Could the Woodsman have gotten her?

Amber shook her head at the sudden thought. “It’s just a fairytale,” she told herself, her steps and heartbeat quickening. “Charlotte!”

She wasn’t behind the huckleberry bushes either. Amber didn’t bother to pause even for a second to grab the backpack as panic propelled her off the path.

Her prayers became more desperate as time passed quicker than she wanted. When sunset came, there was still no sign of the curly-haired little girl.

Amber tried to force herself to continue despite her legs feeling like jelly and the fact she didn't know where she was.

But one more step and she stumbled onto her hands and knees. Her shoulders heaved as hot tears dripped down her nose onto the dirt.

She remained that way for another few [be specific on time] minutes.

A rustle in the bushes startled her and she sat up, wiping at her red-rimmed eyes as a sliver of hope ignited. “Charlotte?”

A doe and her fawn appeared, and her shoulders slumped. The animals seemed to regard her for a moment, then turned and walked away.

Amber’s throat tightened, her eyes refilling with tears. A sudden squeal startled her and her head turned.

“Charlotte?”

Another squeal. Amber scrambled to her feet and rushed forward in the direction she thought it had come from. She batted at branches which tugged at her clothes and hopped over moss-covered logs. Her ears picked up more squeals. If they came from Charlotte, it sounded like she was happy.

           The trees became sparse, eventually ending at the edge of a small [small is not a helpful adjective here] slope leading down to a meadow full of [specific] wildflowers.

Among them was Charlotte, running to and fro, picking as many as she could. Amber nearly collapsed from relief. She opened her mouth to call, but was stopped short not just by the sight of her daughter running up to a newfound companion, but that person’s appearance as well.

Her eyes darted from the gas mask to the trench coat to the work boots and back to the mask.

Charlotte had found the Woodsman...or had the Woodsman found her? [leave off this final line and end the chapter]

Dave reads next. Rewriting older manuscript.

Steven laughed out loud inside his car as he watched [could you name him so the pov shift is more natural down the page?] his prey walk into the jewelry store. This is going to be more fun than I thought. I get rid of this big ugly guy, then take his girlfriend as the spoils. He wiped a bead of sweat from his brow. He hated humidity, and here he was stuck in a small car in Knoxville. Even in the middle of October, the humidity was still bad until late afternoon. He looked back at the store, the big guy was still in there standing at the counter yakking with the clerk. Come on, how long does it take to pick out a stupid ring? He turned the key in the ignition and turned the air conditioning on full blast. Steven re-checked his guns. He wanted to be sure there was plenty of tranquilizer darts for the girl. From what he’d been told, she was a feisty one and he didn’t want to deal with fighting her after possibly having to fight the big guy. A slight glint caught his eye. The first target was on the move. He came walking out of the store with a smile on his face and a small bag in his hand. Ugh. This guy’s got it real bad. Steven slipped the car into gear and followed him up S. Central street. He let out a groan when his target turned into a diner just a couple blocks later. He pulled the car over and left the engine running. Five minutes went by and Steven started banging his head on the steering wheel. He picked up his guns for the third time and started to get out when they both came bouncing out the door. Finally! He watched with baited breath as they walked down to a Suburban parked on the street. He smiled as he saw them climb in and pull into the light Thursday afternoon traffic. With shaking hands, he pulled out a few car lengths behind them. [these shifts in pov can be moments where readers get confused, and confused readers usually stop reading] Bruce swerved a little as he pulled into traffic, making Alexis laugh. “What’s up? Your arm still not healed up all the way?” “Nah, it’s fine, my hand just slipped a little.” He smiled sheepishly as he rubbed his left arm. It was still a little weak after being in a cast for six weeks.

...“Alrighty, I won’t be long.[this should be a coma]” S[this should be lower case s] he said as she walked away. Attributions are not capitalized. ...“Hmmm. Must have been a S[no cap]quirrel or something[coma and lower case s].” Said Bruce.

...Just a few minutes [Moments later--be concise] later, they were all [a]lone in their favorite spot, right next to the lake. The sun broke through the morning overcast and warmed them up a little as they set up their [little twice in same sentence--find a better adjective] little picnic.

I felt like the proposal scene was stalling a bit, then the brother assassin appeared. John suggested changing the girl's name so it wouldn't make readers think of chatting with cutting edge technology. Gunfire would have been heard by other hikers on the trail. Silencers maybe?

Some writers don't take Christmas off

Four Blots on a blustery power-outage winter evening, the moon now shining brightly, clouds scudding furiously across its path, John begins, his designated reader Rachel leading off.

California writers, join me at the Christian Writers Seminar

John's book set in Russia, Violetta, is the result of his arduous research interviewing Russian immigrants who worked at the hospital John retired from three years ago (and came to work for me on the farm, what a blessing!). He fills in about the fascinating stories that he learned, sort of Solzhenitsyn-esque, gathering the stories of all Russians whose families lived the oppressions of the past, only John did not have to "write" them down using improvised prayer beads made from pieces of bread and mud. Rachel tells us about the museums and concerts she just visited in Berlin, including the new spy museum. Got to see that one. She took her four year old to see Rembrandt, and to Mozart's Requiem, Mendelssohn's Elijah, she wept through them all. WE talked briefly about historical research for writing, one of my topics at Fresno Pacific University February 9, 2019 at the Christian Writers Seminar.

Rachel reads on. Lenin, Bolshevik Revolution, 1917 era. How do you explain foreign language expressions in your writing? Footnotes are a bad idea in fiction, in my opinion. It is best to weave in understanding incrementally, but avoid doing so by explanatory narrative: This means in French... or which means... These are not the ways to weave in meaning and understanding naturally. Soot had darkened...  Instead of the beams were darkened by the soot, which is passive voice description, slows the pace, makes writing less vigorous. When you write about inanimate things, keep the doer of the action as the subject of your description--the soot was the cause of the blackness. I wonder if Collette in third person is a bit pedantic sounding. Can you give her more life, more authenticity?

Sydney up next (
her text with my capital letter comments): The Archbishop stood before us. Here was the man I was commanded by the king to protect. Here was the man who, in his turn, had protected the one upon whom Haldor wished death, who had protected the offspring of that brutish murderer, who had protected with all the powers of his life the person who had sucked the last of his dying mother’s. Here was the man who had raised as a father one who should never have been a son; who had sanctioned the final, destructive piece on my existence; who ​knew, who knew all and kept it hidden, hidden — oh the irony — to protect he whom had destroyed from the bare knowledge that he had destroyed it. Here was the man of God who said: At last, by my choice, a man shall not reap what he has sown.  This man was smiling. He had a tall, slender figure, bent forward beneath a white robe. His brow was coarse and grey, passing in thin lines above his eyes, which beamed from the old, pale face as paint  come alive upon dry parchment. His eyes were young. They seemed to glisten, and in any other person the glistening would have seemed as tears, but in this man, that thought would have been mistaken. It was joy, somehow, joy that glistened. Vibrancy. Life. One was not used to seeing such life in eyes. I CAN SEE AND FELL THIS From the draping sleeve of his robe a hand was extended in greeting, as thin and fragile as a bird’s claw.  “Father Alphege, you’re alive,” Finn said, grasping the hand in his own dirt-besmeared one, and pressing it with such a strange mixture of vibrant admiration and timid self-restraint, that I would perhaps have found it amusing under other circumstances. As it was, I turned my full attention upon the fragile man, who seemed larger within than without, and said nothing. GOOD DESCRIPTION OF SUBTLE CHARACTERISTICS  The thin lips had passed again into a smile. “Very much so, Finn.” The Archbishop glanced over the two of us, his eyes were laughing in a way, like Finn’s but the laughter was different — soft, knowing, as if the knowing too much had made them gentle.  “Are you well? Is this man wounded?” he asked, looking at me.  “Very much so.” The Archbishop opened the door wider, and I believed he would have done the same before a wounded Dane, if one had so appeared at his door.  “You are of course welcome here.” He gestured us within, and his keen, blue eyes peered out into the fog across the forest in the direction of the city. “God help them,” he said as he shut the door, and something in his tone made me uncertain if he spoke of those in the city who were helpless victims, or those Danes who might even now be killing them. Perhaps he spoke of both, and neither one over the other. I could not tell. It aggravated me that I could not tell. GOOD INTENTIONAL NUANCE OF UNDERSTANDING He led us into a tall room, lined with the same rough-hewn timbers I had seen scarring the face of the outside. There was little light, but a fire burned in the grate over which a small pot was simmering, though with what it was filled I could not see. A stack of bowls sat at the hearth, and directly across the room was a small, wooden table, on top of which lay a steaming bowl of water and three rolls of bandages.  “Gustav put these out PLACE ATTRIBUTION HERE in case there should be need of them while he was gone,” the Archbishop said. The unassuming manner in which he said the name struck me with a cold wash of anger. Did one whisper the word ​asp after it struck you? Did the Archbishop act to all the world as he acted before us now — as if nothing belonged more to this life than the one person I knew never should have been born. I closed my eyes and felt the blood ooze once more beneath the cracking scab on my forehead, as my brows furrowed, my head pounding in the darkness behind my lids.  “May I see your injuries?” THIS SHOULD BE A CAPITAL T, AS IT IS NOT TECHNICALLY AN ATTRIBUTION the Archbishop’s voice lifted beside me. I opened my eyes. He was standing quite near, his eyes fixed with a quiet expression upon my face. Finn had seated himself upon a chair, watching.  “No,” the word fell flat into the air, as if my tongue had dropped it. I heard the silence, and Finn shifted in his chair.  “They may require attention.”  “I am only hungry,” I said, gripping the back of the empty chair at my side. I half-turned and felt Finn’s eyes boring into the side of my head as I fell into the seat. “I would be grateful for a bowl of what is over that fire,” I added, and would not meet Finn’s eyes.  I heard the Archbishop step away, the crack of the pot as the lid lifted and the smell of beef wafted with AMIDST, MAYBE the smoke and wet steam into the room.  “Are you hungry, Finn?” the Archbishop asked, and I heard the clicking of the bowls as he lifted them from the stack near the hearth.
“Am I ever not?” There was tension beneath the grin of Finn’s voice.  The Archbishop straightened and turned, his footsteps sounded again across the floor. I I felt Finn’s gaze turn and I looked up. He was watching the bowls approaching in the grasp of the frail fingers, as the steam rose from them and the faint aroma gave all its promises of comfort and warmth. The grin was still playing about his lips, more genuine now, and a glint of eagerness shown in his eyes.  “Are you quite well, Father Alphege?” Finn asked, taking the bowl and dipping his ladle with relish. The Archbishop placed the other in front of me. “No harm has befallen you or the LOWER CASE WHEN YOU USE AN ARTICLE Cathedral it seems, and praise Heaven for that!” “No harm whatever, Finn. We are all quite well.” The Archbishop seated himself beside me, drawing in his chair before his own bowl of stew. He paused, lifted his eyes to Heaven, and the made the sign of the Cross. I felt my body stiffen upon the chair. I refused to look at him. “And Gustav?” Finn asked. I could feel his gaze. “Occupies the library like his lifeblood is the ink from the manuscripts,” the Archbishop smiled. “He has always been a clever lad, but this last year he has shown great progress in his work, and has been able to THIS IS A SPLIT INFINITIVE VERB, TO SHOULD GO WITH HELP, TO HELP most effectively help me in my own.” “The last time I was here, he spoke in admiration of the king’s army,” Finn said. “Does he ever think of joining us, of fighting against the Danes?” Everything in my body throbbed and I felt my muscles tighten, my fingers curl and grip into the palms of my hands, my jaw clench beneath the dried blood upon my face. I could feel Finn watching me still.  “No,” the Archbishop said. “He does not. He is determined to serve in a different manner.” “I trust him to do that,” Finn breathed. “I would trust him — with my life —” Something in his tone forced me to look up. Our eyes met across the table.  “Where is he now?” Finn asked.  “He and Raul have gone into the city. The areas where the fighting has deserted the wounded still lie. Those who are well enough, they will bring here, but the rest they will tend to as best they can in the street, and pray God’s mercy upon them.”  “I should be with them,” Finn said, and he began to rise to his feet. He stopped suddenly, ran a hand through his hair and glanced at me. “Not forsake one friend for the sake of the other,” he mumbled, then collapsed upon the chair and pulled it up to the table, his brows knitting across his face.  “When you go, I am going with you,” I said. Finn looked at me, aghast.  “By no means beneath heaven,” he said, “will that be the case. You’re being too wounded to be out there is precisely the reason we are stuck within these walls this very moment.” “I need to see him, Finn.”  “Gustav?” “Yes.” “Do you?” There was a moment of silence, during which I could feel his breath falling heavy between us. The Archbishop leaned forward and turned to me, his eyes full of a gentle command. “Do you know my son?”  The quiet words slammed into my skull with a violence to which the gentle tone seemed only to add. As frail fingers behind a sharpened knife, as the smile lingers below the threat, as the laugh is the voice of a mockery, GOOD USE OF COMPOUND SIMILES so the words fell upon my ears, permeated my skull, whirled with the memories within, the flashes from the night, the desecrated life, the anguish which had fallen because this parasite upon the universe — he whom the Archbishop called son — had a father who could not even be boasted of by a demon in Hell. I did not remember rising to his feet, yet here I was, swaying upon the floor, my feet gnawing to keep their hold in the earth but all the world seemed to toss around me, and I did not even know to care.  “I think so,” Finn was saying, rising to his feet as well, uncertain, one hand still upon the table where he was gripping his ladle, the scars on his knuckles shining white beneath the dirt and blood. “They met...years ago…” the words trailed off.

Rachel asked what the big picture of this story is. Haldor discovers that his brother is alive, Gustav and Dane are captured, Raul. Two parallel yarns, interwoven. Anglo-Saxon England setting. Resolution between brothers at odds.

Thanksgiving discount ends soon bondbooks.net

Inkblots on a stormy, blustery evening after a day of barrels of rain. We sat around talking about books and publishing, typesetting, and copy editing. And other things. Most folks don't have anything immediately to read. So we talked about setting goals. And went around the room discussing plans for the future, and setting goals for our next gathering.

I "finished" the film script I have been commissioned to write today. When they first approached me I declined to take it on as I was too busy with other writing and speaking projects. So the arrangement is that they would present me with a draft of the script and I would then revise and rewrite it to my satisfaction. As I have been doing so, I have been reminded of this observations. “Imaginary evil is romantic and varied; real evil is gloomy, monotonous, barren, boring. Imaginary good is boring; real good is always new, marvelous, intoxicating” (Simone Weil). Hollywood usually settles for imaginary evil, and, hence, so often portrays sin as romantic and varied. Rarely does the film industry take off the mask and portray real evil for what it is: gloomy, monotonous, barren, and boring. On the contrary.

We discussed the role of copy editors. What is the role of the copy editor? Are they your friend or your adversary? Writers all need another set of eyes to help us see where we are being inconsistent or inaccurate. Sydney is enjoying doing copy editing and writing for website content for some new clients. Editors are not infallible but they are indispensable, in my opinion. Cheyenne has a copy editor that has told her to divide her first volume into two volumes and add a third for a trilogy.

Let's set some goals for two weeks from now. I am going to write my article for Modern Reformation and at least one of the hymns I have brainstormed shaped into the real deal. Rachel Ng is going to continue writing on her 1950s yarn. I recommended creating a rough table of contents with expanded ideas in parentheses for projected content in each chapters. Though you will always be changing and revising, doing this gives you a place to put ideas in some degree of order and establishes a map for where you are going. Sydney is going to continue writing on her weighty yarn, getting more forward direction and planning in place. Cheyenne has divided the first volume with a cliff hanger ending of the first, second starts at the same scene. 

Cheyenne reads from the beginning of the second volume. It seemed, may not be the best opening sentence of the book. Then again, "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times..." Nevertheless, though Dickens pulled off an unforgettable opening paragraph starting with It, I would consider a more concrete beginning. But the description gets pretty riveting after that. It is grim. Axe in the back, and specifics of sound and sight at the gruesome scene. Cheyenne is writing well in first person. I think you need to bring readers back into the scene for the beginning of a new book. It's easy to overdo this and over write, tell too much from the past book and back story. But without reacquainting your readers with the characters and placing them back in the grim setting it seems abrupt and lacking in context. Giles and I were just talking last evening about series and trilogies (he wants me to write a Civil War story that continues the M'Kethe clan, as P&R and I have discussed for several years). His theory is that in trilogies each book should end in a cliff hanger. I have written my trilogies more with the idea that each book could stand alone, be a complete and satisfying story, but more to experience by reading all and in order. There is a measure of wisdom in seeking a publisher for the whole trilogy, as publishers do like to publish series. John pointed out that at a burial scene he thought characters should be more soberly thinking about death and what happens after death. 

John will read the first chapter of Violetta and work on continuing the yarn. I am begging to copy edit his Saving Grace contemporary novel this week.

Don't miss out on the special Thanksgiving season discount on my April Oxford Creative Writing Master Class; it expires November 30, only a few days away. Comment or email me right away and reserve your place for the next Oxford Creative Writing Master Class, which one OCWMC grad said was “...above and beyond my wildest dreams. I learned so much about writing, history, theology. It has truly changed my life.” Go to bondbooks.net, check out the OCWMC page under tours, and contact me before the big Thanksgiving discount expires November 30.

Resolution and Mystery--The Writer's Dilemma at Inkblots

Inkblots gathering in The Scriptorium on a warm spring evening (the heat pump shifted to AC on its own volition), record breaking temp for Western Washington (not the highest standard of temperature, I realize that).

Rachel leads off with a return to her Russian cuisine yarn that makes me salivate, especially at all her descriptions of fine cheese. Trusov, the maître de of maître des. Narrative, fluid, delicious, specific details (Chanel no 5). I like it when you enter with confronting dialogue, a waiter confronting a presumed guest who was out of dress code, but he was an agent coming for government reasons. Short but very intriguing. Patrick comments about writing episodic, epic like, overarching story told in episodes, strong clash of cultures, starkly different elements, gesture toward the unopened door, the big story. He likes the epic feel of this story, following the cheese across Russia, gaining substance and steam as it flows, maybe, ages is the better word.

We discussed the incompleteness of a good story, per Flannery O'Conner and Tolkien, story's action is complete but there is still mystery. This side of heaven there is still incompleteness, mystery. The Bible reads this way: David's history ends but without contextual resolution. Something bigger is coming, more perfect, more wonderful, more complete. But even in Christ and the incarnation, there is a now and not yet element. Mystery and resolution still resides in the future.

Patrick has decided to stop working on the zombie book. Not to abandon the project but to get an editor and perspective on the work. So he is rewriting the graphic novel in conventional novel form. He is also working on a critique of modern Christianity in non fiction. But he decided to read from his work on the Mongol (pagan) and the Puritan (Christian). Drawing heavily from Babylonian mythology, names and cult. Does the opening serve as a prologue? Then you moved into an excerpt from ancient mythology. I hear your love of epic in this, especially the clash of cultures and starkly different elements. I felt this went from big and epic to specific, familial and warm, a good strategy. I love the way you make observations about history and the interaction of the powerful and the subjugated: Farmers are easier to tax.

Bob commented that it has a saga like tone, very suitable.

John's new last chapter, that Doug made me write. What a guy. Rewritten to include an actual baby, since the book, Saving Grace, is all about an unwonted pregnancy. A baby must appear, and be the instrument of changing everything. The interaction between the doctor and the mother seemed stilted. The labor and delivery nurse would do something at this point, reposition her, massage, something. What the doctor and the nurse are doing seems too vague. A moment of final suspense where the baby seems not to be breathing, her mother. And Rachel thought that having her say I was going to kill you, seemed too preachy. Have her stroke her soft cheek, kiss her forehead, show the reader the baby. Bob (Hemmingway) Rogland liked how John used very few adjectives and the simplicity of the narrative.

I finished off with reading three character sketches for my protagonists in The Resistance (working title), my WWII espionage historical fiction. I'm getting more excited about the research an preliminary writing on this companion novel to War in the Wasteland (set in then-atheist CS Lewis's platoon in WWI). How is it a companion, you ask? In The Resistance, the French and SOE agents received their coded instructions on BBC broadcasts. CS Lewis was the voice of faith in the war years on the BBC, hence the French Resistance would have heard his voice in all likelihood, and they certainly will in this account. So much fun, getting to choose the particular words they will hear throughout the various episodes of the yarn! Would you like to read an excerpt of the forthcoming WWII novel? Stay tuned to a forthcoming blog post and reading on The Scriptorium, my podcast at blogtalkradio.com/thescriptorium. 

  

Brain Surgery and Writing--INKBLOTS

Inkblotters after I read from intensely rough opening chapter

Inkblots on this hint-of-spring evening (It's been raining for something like 24 of the last 25 days, fairly typical for this time of year in our region). But this evening "...When comforts are declining/He grants the soul again/A season of clear shining/To cheer us after rain," from my favorite poet, William Cowper, one of his finest Olney hymns, encouraged by John Newton. A brilliant sunset just fading in the west.

Alisa reads from her 1890 historical fiction set in Roslyn mining. I love the way Alisa celebrates her (our) region and its colorful, rough-and-ready, and rocky history (sorry for the mining allusion). This is narrative beginning exposition, setting up the novel. Rich, narrative description, but I wonder if we're missing something. I feel like I am almost there, can see what the characters see, feel like maybe we need more sounds, smells? Let me think about that. This first chapter is a prologue, then chapter one launches the reader decades forward to the 1930s. We asked Alisa to give us the 40-year transition by reading some paragraphs. Alisa captures the difference in language in 40 years, clearly evidenced, which is not easy to do. The story will explore issues of race, and of how some prospered during the Depression when most lost everything.

Alisa started writing The Emblem seven years ago and the novel is 30,000 words fewer now than originally, upped the pace as a result. F Scott Fitzgerald did a similar chainsaw edit of Great Gatsby. I've found that when anything I have written does not seem quite to work, cut unnecessary words. Be brutal. It will almost always be better. Here is Alisa's synopsis of The Emblem:

We ended up talking for awhile about racial issues and tensions between race.

John read from his novel Violeta. A chapter with conversation about God. Russian novel set in 1917. On the run for their lives with her French Huguenot governess. I like how you used the crow cawing bringing her thoughts back to the present. Can you have Violeta unwilling to tell what she is thinking, and have her governess draw it out of her. Otherwise, the dialogue seemed a bit forced. The butter is a good touch, appeals to readers' taste buds. Praying in fiction is hard to pull off. Have Violeta responding to her words with taunts and criticism.  

I yapped for a bit about the nonfiction project I've tentatively, haltingly, anxiously (I despise adverbs) began, my pen quavering (not quaveringly, I'm improving, maybe). But I decided to read from my latest New Reformation Hymn effort on the blessings of fearing of God, temporal and eternal blessings on the man, the woman, the sons, the daughters, the home, and the church:

How blessed the man who fears the Lord!

Who daily feeds upon his Word,

And falls down at the mercy seat,

And casts his fears at Jesus’s feet. 

How blessed is she who fears the Lord!

Delighting, trusting in his Word:

She fears no danger, threat, or harm

While resting safe in Jesus’ arms. 

How blessed are sons who fear the Lord!

Who hear and heed the Spirit’s Word.

No tyrant’s heel can hurt them here

Since they the Sovereign Lord revere. 

How blessed when daughters fear the Lord!

And love God’s ways, his holy Word.

Disease and dying hold no fear

Since Christ who conquered death is near. 

How blessed the home that fears the Lord!

Adoring the incarnate Word;

Like cherubim and seraphim,

In humble awe, God's praises hymn. 

How blessed the church that fears the Lord!

Her Savior’s work, her sure reward;                        

With wondrous voice, high praise repeats,

And bows in awe at Jesus’ feet.

          Douglas Bond, copyright, January 4, 2017

Rachel's computer died just as she was about to read to us. She'll be up first next week. So I then did go ahead and read from opening chapter of my non fiction book on the Delightful, the Disappointing, and the Despicable Marriages of Church History (working title, but you get the idea). I have never read anything at so rough a stage of the writing process as these opening paragraphs. They stared unblinking at me as if I had lost my marbles, and were very gracious. Now to rewriting. I am so glad that writing is not like brain surgery. With writing you can try getting it right the second time, and the third, and the fourth... Brain surgeons get one shot. I'll stick with writing.

Follow progress on new book at bondbooks.net and follow my new podcast The Scriptorium at blogtalkradio.com/thescriptorium I'm featuring on-going writing tutorial along with author interviews and historical vignettes. I may have a future Inkblots broadcast on The Scriptorium, so follow and share.

WRITING As God Sees Fit--INKBLOTS

Join me in Oxford April 1-8, 2017

"You do not write the best you can for the sake of art, but for the sake of returning your talent increased to the invisible God to use or not use as He sees fit." Flannery O'Connor

Inkblots talked about the O'Conner perspective on our purpose for writing, why we do it. If it was simply for our own gratification (good writing, making progress, overcoming glitches and literary ticks, ought to gives us a measure of satisfaction), but finally and ultimately for our usefulness to the King, for him to use or not use (it may seem to us) as he sees fit. May it be so. 

Eight writers out this chilly, half-moon autumn evening. Patrick leads off, reminding himself and his fellow 'Blots of the importance of writing not only to tear down (far easier to lob ordnance at your enemies) but to adorn truth and a redemptive understanding of the world. New Shiloh, accused of being radical preppers, purchased a Cold War missile sites--the setting for his latest work. Patrick has an imagination that goes where no man dared go before, at least in contrast to mine, so I feel when I hear him read. There seems to be quite a stretch of beginning exposition, maybe too much. I would suggest starting medias res where the conversation begins with Lenny about Billy, then fill in the back story. This will have the advantage of hooking the reader at the gate, then when their interest is piqued, the who, what, when , where, etc, is filled in a in pieces as the story unfolds. Soft green grass, works, but could you awaken my imagination to see, smell, compare it with something more tangible in the reader's mind. When they hear the outsiders, give us a snippet of their way of talking, instead of just telling us they hear it and it doesn't sound right. Let us hear what it sounds like. Reminded Sofia of The Village film, and others agreed. Alisa gave a vote that she liked it as it is, maybe consider tightening.

We discussed point of view and why shifting is so dangerous for a writer to do to a reader. The conventional wisdom, rule if you will,  is to stick with one dominant  perspective. Cliff hanger chapter endings are conventional (I like to think of it as a relay race and there needs to be a clean clear passing of the baton--or else it gets dropped, and so does the book). Patrick gave a really helpful rationale for breaking conventions, making sure that doing so also fits the movement of the story. Good stuff, Patrick.

Alisa reads from her second character, written in third person. This is an early draft (sounds pretty good to me for a first draft. Mine rarely feel this good in early draft). You narrate some of their words, what she hears from her abductors. I would suggest let the reader hear what she hears, and ramp up her terror, the pain in her wrists, where. Would she beg them not to hurt her? Would she try to threaten them with reprisal from her dad or the law? John agreed that there needs to be more dialogue. Bob does not think she would be rationale enough to threaten and bluff it out. A woman's perspective is needed, and Alisa has that in ways we do not. Patrick thinks there needs to be a moment when she realizes this is real, not just a joke. And wouldn't she pray in such dire straights, even as unbeliever. It won't sound like conventional praying, but how does an unbeliever pray when they are intensely frightened? John thinks it would help if the boys are trying to hide who they are, but she gradually begins to realize who they are, and her reaction, augmented fear. 

John invited us to pause and pray for our country, a thing we were eager to do.  John reads from Saving Grace where she announces to her parents. So he has been working on rewriting, this episode the next day after they have had a chance to sleep on it. Try, "Shifting forward on the edge of the couch, Nora..." instead of two simple sentences. You will get more cohesion by doing this. I think you might be over writing, please listen and hear us out and don't judge us until you have heard what we are about to say. Have Grace interpret her mother's imploring expression and deduce these things, but having her mom say it feels over written. You do more with what you don't write than with what you write. He could tell she was really upset... How could he tell this? Show the body language, the mannerism that conveys really upset to the reader. Good having the glass fall and break. What are they actually saying as they try to comfort her? Let us hear some of that. So why did they adopt? Did the mother get pregnant out of wedlock and have an abortion that made her unable to bear children. This would be a super helpful angle, in my opinion. The women in the room asked if John needs to have this in the story, the adoption makes it too complicated. Rachel points out that the tentacles of adoption and family photos and all the rest complicates this. Patrick weighed in that the emotional impulse to tell their daughter that she was adopted her, but her angst at them not telling her, is dispelled by telling her that she was hiding pretty important familial information (she was pregnant) from them, her parents. Lots of input in this story. Sofia wants to see another layer of connection, as in Grace nearly being aborted by her mom. Is this story too complicated, trying to cover all the angles abortion. What is essential to make the emotional impact on the reader. Doug Mac, father of four daughters, points out that a strong father taking charge of the situation is the way to bring order. But this is not a particularly good father. The author wants to create an emotional scenario whereby the reader longs for a good father, and sees the problem more clearly, and wants a solution. 

Rachel reads further from her Wall Street yarn. Morning after, wherein she implies that she and her ex husband slept together. Nicole or her husband's perspective. At first I thought it was his pov, but now I see, it is from Nicole's. Looked all about her as if to inventory the evidence... This is good writing. I missed something when the other woman came to the door, or what happened there? Maybe I was too busy blogging. .Martin takes her into the immaculate room. Who is this? Olivia's makeup, Walter's fiance. Good use of precise details like the tissue with the make up on it. Realizing that he didn't want her to be seen. She could think, Good call, for an idiot. What an idiot I am, or infer that it could have been him she was thinking of as an idiot. This is the journalist yarn. So Olivia is his current fiance. Patrick thinks that Rachel is writing in the antiquarian Mid-Atlantic stage dialect of in the hay day of old black and white movies. Cary Grant film an Affair to Remember, Rachel knows this stuff.

A congenial time, honest, constructive, encouraging. "You do not write the best you can for the sake of art, but for the sake of returning your talent increased to the invisible God to use or not use as He sees fit." Flannery O'Connor May we return our writing gift--however grand or modest--to the invisible God, increased by our rigorous interchange this evening. 

October 25 is our next INKBLOTS meeting  (and my patient wife's birthday)