The end of a very, very short era

A note to readers: I'm starting up a new blog, and I will be leaving this one behind. Thanks for reading along, but this will be my last post. Come follow me at http://www.TheOverflowingBookshelf.blogspot.com

The rustle of webpages turning

I’m absolutely torn to shreds on this issue – something that newspapers and other paper publications might not be able to say for much longer. Are we really losing the rustle of newspaper pages turning? Are magazine stands soon to be a destination of the past?

To be absolutely honest here, while I loved doing crossword puzzles on lazy Sundays with my mom, perusing local stories, international news, and the funnies, I haven’t bought a paper newspaper myself in years. As an avid reader and writer, I am slightly embarrassed to admit that. The loss of the paper reading world scares me, but I am just as at fault as every other reader of Google news. I’ve done nothing to stop the trend beyond lament the change.

I bring up the topic this week after seeing (on yes, the paperless blasphemy of Google news!) the following article: http://www.ecommercetimes.com/story/Publishing-Heavies-Join-Forces-on-Di.... The publishing giants are joining forces to find a new means of survival in this age when everything is changing, and perhaps, so should all of us. My heart and soul shudder as I type these words, but it is my brain that writes them.

If the writers among us cling only to paper, we will be left behind, not immediately perhaps, but within our lifetimes. If the readers among us, seek variety, quality, and innovation, sticking to paper will limit our scopes.

Will the term 'newspaper' itself become outdated? Will we read the 'news' alone as no 'paper' will exist to hold in our hands?

I’m only on the brink of acceptance here. Perhaps recognizing the future of newspapers and magazines online is my baby-step to accepting ebooks.

What do you think?

Indiana Jones and the Temple of Non-Fiction

It’s a bit like Indiana Jones – the hunt, the adventure, the bad guys lurking around every corner trying to steal the artifact I’ve taken from an ancient cave in Tibet, using my whip to swing from stalactites and my father’s journal to decipher clues… Well, that may not be the complete truth of it, but who knew historical research could be so thrilling? I’m liking the excitement of non-fiction. Who would have guessed how much fun NOT making stuff up is, having to get it right, writing truth instead of fiction?

Microfiche film of old Richmond Times Dispatch newspapers, turn of the twentieth-century medical journals, government proceedings, and archives are gladly leading me along my way. I love that cigarette ads used to appear in medical journals, that U.S. presidential results would trickle in spanning days of front-page newspaper coverage just one-hundred years ago, and that a Richmond society girl's marriage to a less than wealthy man was front-page worthy. None of this is relevant to my research, but it's definitely fascinating.

However, it is the best of times; it is the worst of times, indeed Dickens. I learned this week that there is a show on the Disney Channel called Aaron Stone. That takes something away from my fiction, as that is my main character’s name in my manuscript. My Aaron Stone is neither a video game hero nor a wily teenager, as Disney would suggest. A few pieces of my book have been brewing in my head. I was trying hard to walk away, to let it be, to call it “finished,” but this seems to be a sign it’s time to tamper. More details sure to come later.

This week is Thanksgiving. For some, this may be an occasion to realize the closing in of the end of November and the deadline for NaNoWriMo is coming soon. (To all those who have done National Novel Writing Month this year and who are chugging away with their scribbling, truly, truly great work!) For me, though, this is a holiday to enjoy. The semester is winding down; my writing projects are keeping me gleefully busy; winter with its hot chocolate and marshmallows is nearly here.

Happy Thanksgiving and happy writing, everyone!

Hey Richmond! Go to the movies!

Richmonders (and everyone else for that matter), celebrate the latest hometown success! Go to the movies, and check out Richard Kelly’s The Box.

My husband and I went to see The Box on opening night, and we didn’t realize how little people knew about this film and its Richmond connections until about five minutes in. Cameron Diaz, who stars in the film, says the line, “Are we ever going to move out of Richmond?” The entire theatre gasped around us, and suddenly all of the little clues began to be noticed. In the kitchen, a 1970-something Ukrops Christmas calendar hangs on the wall. The country club is called Maymont. The skyline of downtown Richmond and the I-94/64 mergepoint with the Main Street Train Station flash between scenes…

This may be screenwriter and director Richard Kelly’s third film – the award winning, cult classic Donnie Darko and Southland Tales were his first two – but you can tell he’s still a Richmonder at heart. Check out his full story, a la Richmond Magazine: http://www.richmondmagazine.com/?articleID=34e695441ca453856988ecc2780584f7

To give you an idea of the genre, The Box is based on a 1970 short story by Richard Matheson called “Button, Button,” which was also made into a Twilight Zone episode. Thoughtfully done, suspenseful, eerie, and intriguing, you’ll walk out of the theater chatting. Existential philosophies of Jean Paul Satre, moral dilemmas, suspense, humor, and lots of Richmond make it a must see.

Mysteries, Murder, and the Mating of Penguins

Only Donna Andrews could insert a scene of bouncing, flapping, squawking penguins trying and seeming to fail at mating into a mystery novel. Perhaps it’s details like that, which have allowed her to publish fifteen novels and keep the James River Writers’ Writing Show audience captivated last Thursday night. But then again, how could a night not be fascinating when repeatedly sprinkled with the phrase, “The way I like to kill someone is…”

Real life research and experience was a major focus this month. Meredith Cole took a self defense class to perfect her character’s moves; both Donna Andrews and Andy Straka took a P.I. training course to understand the ins and outs of investigating; Andy Straka spent time training with falconers, becoming so intrigued that long past the writing research, he is still a falconer himself. Straka’s stunning bird even made an appearance at the Writing Show!

There was a bird theme actually: penguins, falcons, Edgar Allan Poe’s ghost – or perhaps it was just an audience member – eerily whispering ‘nevermore.’ (It was two days before Halloween after all.)

I’m finding myself inspired to truly step into my research again. A few years ago, I was doing a story on psychics. I had psychic readings from Florence, Italy to Savannah, Georgia, Charleston, South Carolina, and Atlantic City, New Jersey.

How much fun is it to be a writer? Maybe I should dive into something new. Ice sculpting lessons? Professional women’s arena football? Mastering Feng Shui? Any other ideas? Maybe I need a partner-in-crime, all law-breaking to appear only within the pages, of course.

Print, Cursive, and Pictograms

An observation about myself: When I write grocery lists, notes on the chalkboard, take notes in a meeting or jot down quick details, I print my words. But when I write for fun – be it fiction or non – my script shifts into a cursive hand. Why is this?

I do not believe it was ever a conscious decision. I’ve been writing interchangeably like this since I can remember. Is this a difference in right and left brain? Am I subconsciously wishing for a century of ink that drips when you lift your quill? Does cursive bring out a more creative side of me? Am I just odd?

Then again, I’m typing this on the computer. Perhaps a cigar is just a cigar, and my handwriting just has its different purposes. Then again, perhaps, in some moods my handwriting breaks into pictograms. Maybe that’s why my husband and I rock at Pictionary.

A 1940 edition dictionary

A 1940, ‘National Dictionary based on the principles established by Noah Webster’ was passed onto me this past weekend. It had been my grandfather’s, one of his first tools for maneuvering through the English language. Pages were marked in his hand and in my grandmother’s, remnants of beautiful penmanship now gone. Flipping through the pages browning with years, a note fell out, a practice draft of a letter my grandmother had written to me in high-school. Phrases were crossed out; sentences were reworded; and my Ukrainian name was written in its Americanized shorthand, Kris. My deeply accented grandmother never called me by that name.

Flipping through the dictionary’s pages is a beautiful connection to my grandparents and another time. For example, on page ix in the Guide to Correct Business English, I learned:

“O and Oh. ‘O’ is used only in direct address, as ‘O George, come here.’ ‘Oh’ is an expression of joy, surprise, fear, etc., as in ‘Oh, how glad I am you’re here!’

How lovely is that?

Revelations (Biblical and otherwise)

I met one of my characters on Saturday. Yes, I do write fiction, but as I sat in the lobby of the Library of Virginia, one of my characters wandered in. An older man – he appeared homeless – walked into the grandiose lobby, ranting on subjects no one near him believed. I humored him momentarily, but as he raged on, I too disregarded him, with emotions mixed between pity and annoyance. Sure, my character is blind, and this man was not. This man, unlike my Felix, had his clear eyes open, searching for heaven.

Have you ever happened upon your characters? This is, I believe, the third time someone has suddenly reminded me so closely of a character I created on the page.

On another note, the James River Writers Conference ’09 was a smashing success. Inspired and armed with advice and new connections, we walked out with minds brewing and fingers twitching for pens and keyboards.

My sudden revelation of the weekend (with due credit being given to another): If I’m writing a fictional story surrounding events so scandalous in American history, yet still so unknown; if I found institutionalized secrets forgotten by even those who live around them; if I found a topic so unknown that Wikipedia does not even yet have an entry for it; if I teach research writing and enjoy writing the occasional non-fiction piece… why on earth am I limiting myself purely to fiction and not also working on a non-fiction manuscript? The idea seems obvious now that I consider it. Why didn’t I think of that?

With Scarlett as my witness

I’ve been twisting my words like licorice – tweaking, cajoling, poeticizing, intensifying, and making the pages (not even so old) shimmer like new. It’s funny how rejection can make you pout, then rage, then listen and swear, with Scarlett and God as my witness, that I will never go rebuffed – or was it hungry? – again!

On Friday night, I took a train-ride. Printed manuscript in hand, I scribbled away while scenes of green country fields, college campuses in the glows of a pink sunset, the Washington monument in lights, and city after city rolled by.

What do you think of when you imagine a writer?

Tweed coat with patches? Someone thoughtful and contemplative, who could get lost in his staring out to the horizon? Sitting in a leather chair surrounded by a personal library? Perhaps sitting in a Paris café?

It’s funny how the first thoughts that come to mind usually don’t include the drive, the persistence, and the hours upon hours of work involved. The beautiful part is, though, that I love every second of it.

Jumping off Cliffs

“We have to continually be jumping off cliffs and developing our wings on the way down.”-Kurt Vonnegut

There’s something beautiful and deadly in those words. Writers may not always have the reputation of the boldest and most daring of humanity – my students would definitely argue the point – but there is a glimmer of boldness on a well-crafted page, a flicker of madness perhaps, and a trace of courageous splendor.

After a solid year of disciplining myself to write fifteen pages per week – be they fifteen pages of exquisite truths and magnificence or fifteen pages so fowl no soul would dare to stand downwind of them – I find myself suddenly antsy. I haven’t fulfilled my fifteen new pages in months.

Editing can fill the mind with possibilities for only so long. I woke up this morning before the sun was up, and I pulled up the pages of my novel. As I reviewed and reread, somewhere inside of me, new characters started to whisper. This was the first inner-rustling. I’m not sure if I’m ready to begin again, to jump off that cliff, to hope and pray that I find my wings before gravity pulls me down, but a new project is beginning to take form in my mind.