Personal connections

For many years I’ve blissfully clung to the notion that a writer must be a lonely, starving artist feverishly writing by the light of a flickering candle in a drafty garret at the top of a ramshackle house. Surely it was the way to greatness and success; only by knowing extremes could my writing be imbued by the truth and the depths of humanness. Only toil and suffering could forge a true artist.

The problem with that image, well, one of the problems anyway, is that a lonely artist will have a heck of a time getting their work out to the world. Like anything in life, success depends on the connections you make and the relationships you forge.

Just like an agent or editor who is closed to submissions, might be willing to look at your work if you attended the conference they spoke at. Or the author you meet at a bookstore reading and signing event might be willing to give you just that piece of advice or feedback that changes your writing from good to great.

I wouldn’t have figured out how to rewrite “The Fountain Pen” - which recently sold and should be available soon on www.untreedreads.com - if I hadn’t gotten feedback from others.

Even the most introverted among us should get away from the desk from time to time. It seems simple, but sometimes the simple lessons are the hardest.

And sometimes we need to truly get away from it all. Not to revert to that lonely state, but to be truly inspired.

Tales of Sydney

I’d like to show how one of my children’s stories went from a short chapter book format all the way down to a picture book. Neither is published at this point, yet, but I do like the evolution of how the story was built.

The inspiration and challenge came from the imaginary friend of my delightful offspring. This imaginary friend was very important and I heard many of his stories. Sydney was always up to something and keeping his little human companion busy. Research shows imaginary friends are in fact very important to children and their growth and development. Research in an entirely different direction indicated that perhaps imaginary friends are the spirits of the deceased which children of a young age can still perceive, but we won’t go into that now.

Sydney was my first real foray into children’s writing. After years of toiling on short stories for adults I felt a need to stretch and expand my repertoire.

Here are the first few paragraphs of the first version of Tales of Sydney
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    The Great Jungle Adventure
    Chapter 1.
    Sydney moved in on a warm spring day, it was March 25th.
    It was a few months before my eight birthday and at first I thought he was an early present. But my mom couldn’t even see him for the first month and my dad is allergic to cats. Though he had not sneezed once ... yet.

    I asked him where he came from and he just grinned at me in that special cat way. Whiskers twitching and eyes sparkling. His eyes are blue, almost like those of a Siamese, but he’s nicer than a Siamese.

    At first I thought my parents couldn’t see him because he kind of blends in where ever he is. Or, maybe, it’s because of his size, he is rather small for a grown cat.
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I would say that was a decent enough start, but nothing terribly exciting.

Gradually I began to think that Sydney would be much better as a picture book. Just the bare, essential words to complement pictures. Something that a young child would want to look at and have read again and again. So I came up with the following (it took considerable trimming, time, and even a few tears).
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Meet Sydney

Look, up on my shoulder. That is Sydney, my cat.
He can be any size he wants.
Today, he is small, because he knocked over mom’s plant.
Usually he’s blue with grey stripes.
Sometimes he likes to be purple, just for fun.
We play together, all day, every day.
We never play checkers anymore, because we always end up in a fight.
And in Monopoly, Sydney can’t be the banker. He gives himself extra money when he thinks I am not looking, and bats the dice under the sofa.
I taught him chess myself. It was really hard.
Sydney says he would rather dance the queen across the board than play by the rules.
I know … Sydney cheats at just about every game we play.
But when there is nobody else to play with, he is there.
When we go out, Sydney slips into my denim jacket pocket.
He sticks his little head out and sniffs the air.
I have to try to keep him out of mischief.
Sydney likes to make a mess.
And then I have to clean it up.
Mom does not like mess all over the floor.
Mom says Sydney can’t take baths with me anymore.
He likes to dive off the cold-water faucet and usually water goes all over the floor.
Just last week he told me to make waves so he could go surfing with the bar of soap. He looked like a real surfer too.
Sydney helps me fall asleep at night, after I tuck him in good and tight so he can’t run off.
He keeps bad dreams away.
Mom says, “It’s okay.”
Dad just shakes his head and goes back to reading the paper.
Only I know Sydney is real.
He is my best little cat friend …
For always and ever.
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Now all Sydney needs is an editor to take him in hand and someone to bring him visually to life on the page. Anyone feel inspired? I’ll happily showcase your versions of Sydney in a follow-up post.

Writing stories, Part 2

Some seven or eight years ago I discovered children’s writing and it opened up a whole new world for me. I started with picture books and found them a very suitable challenge; say much with very few words, and make sure those words are the absolute best ones available.

Around that time I also discovered SCBWI and I attended my first conference. It was eye-opening and mildly depressing as I realized I still had a ways to go. Continued SCBWI interactions led me to understand the purpose of a first draft, the power of editing, and the importance of feedback.

The most important thing I learned was to accept a critique humbly and learn from it. This is something I continue to do as it is one of the best tools a writer can have, as painful or annoying as it may seem at times.

I worked on building my craft to support my art.
Around that time I was also getting steady grant writing work which, though not terribly creative, was still writing and still served to enhance my grasp of the language and the power of words to get something important across to the reader.

Then I moved on to translation work where I got a very clear view of the difference between my native language and my adopted language. I highly recommend a session of translation to deepen understanding of how language is constructed and used in daily life or business.

Making regular use of SCBWI critique events I found teachers and published authors willing to work with me to polish and groom my work.

Over the years there have been disappointments, false leads, rejections, paper cuts, tears and fresh starts. But most importantly, a sense of purpose and determination that might not have grown quite so strong had I had an easier road to travel. I don’t take anything for granted, not the commas, certainly not the words and least of all the sincere encouragement of those who have walked the path before me.


In the next post I'll show how one of my picture books progressed. Stay tuned!

Writing stories, Part 1

Writing stories; how do we learn to do it?
Part 1.

For me the urge to write came as soon as I could hold a pen. Those first tender forays onto paper resembled ant-tracks and squiggly lines, but the intent was there. It just needed some training.

First I learned to write in Dutch, this is by no means a prerequisite for others, but it seemed to serve my journey, particularly as I was growing up in the Netherlands. English did figure in my life on a variety of levels, from children’s books to undubbed TV programs, and songs on the radio. My family had spent 12 years in the US and English was spoken with ease among my much older siblings.

I learned how to construct and deconstruct sentences and paragraphs and soon whole swaths of prose in Dutch. I learned to use the right words or expressions (there are many of those in Dutch) for maximum effect.

Then, through a series of unfortunate circumstances I found myself living in the US at the tender age of 22. No matter, I was resourceful. However, what I had previously viewed as a culture fairly similar to Dutch culture, I now started to see as quite different; right down to the language! (aside from the obvious, that is)

My, just beyond, basic English no longer sufficed as I navigated the ups and downs of my first job, which included writing business letters. Imagine my surprise and frustration when my boss had me do them over and over and over again. Of course she never actually pointed out what was wrong with them, just said ‘It’s still not quite what I want’.

I switched from writing short stories in Dutch to writing them in English. I even had the audacity to submit them, not realizing my use of language was not anywhere close to what it should be. My sentence structure was creative to put it nicely and my vocabulary still on the limited side of good.

It dawned on me that perhaps I should work harder on this, particularly when on rare occasions people would take enough of an interest to, painfully, point out my failings. A budding writer walks a path strewn with broken glass.

My first source of learning was books. I read and read and read. Then I added a magazine subscription, The New Yorker. Mind you most of the writing left me slightly lost as the sentences were so much longer and more complex than what I was used to. I used to be able to deal with those in Dutch just fine, but the first year of my subscription to the magazine was very challenging and at times disheartening. However, I persevered and trusted in the power of osmosis, my favorite method of learning.

Slowly but surely I could see where I would go wrong. I could spot the Dutch construction in my English. That didn’t mean I could always fix it, but at least I was able to see it.

Rejections meanwhile steadily continued.