writing

Every writer needs a cave…

/ R.J. Keller / 1 Comment

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a married man who is stuck in the house with nothing to do for weeks on end must be in want of a kick in the ass.

Now, don’t get me wrong; I love my husband. I love him a lot. He’s a handsome, smart, funny guy, he knows how to fix my dishwasher, is an awesome kisser and he even remembers to close the lid on the toilet seat. Now that the Red Sox have won the World Series–twice!–I wouldn’t trade him for anything. However, like my Visa, he’s everywhere I wanna be. At least while I’m trying to write.

You see, he’s been laid up for the past month with an injured leg–in fact he spent a few weeks in the hospital–so his daily exertion consists of trips to the powder room. Other than that, this typically active man (he’s climbed Mt. Katahdin no less than twelve times) spends his days holding down the couch. Oddly enough, in spite of my feminist nature, I don’t mind waiting on him. He’s a good man who’s in some pain and needs my help…what could be hotter than that? So, that’s not the problem. The problem can be best illustrated by the following recent conversation:

Hubby: Hey, Kel. What’cha doin?
Me: I’m revising chapter 16. [insert detailed description of said revisions here.]
Hubby: Oh.
Me: Why? Do you need something?
Hubby: Nope.
Me: Pain meds? Water? The remote con–
Hubby: Nope.
Me: Okay.

[Eight minutes later]

Hubby: Hey, Kel. What’cha doin?
Me: Still revising.
Hubby: Oh. Well…I’m bored. Wanna play cards or Yahtzee or something?
Me: Can you give me half an hour?
Hubby: I guess…

[Three minutes later]

Hubby: Hey, Kel…

Obviously, my computer and I will be hiding in a cave during NaNoWriMo.

Longingly

/ R.J. Keller / 5 Comments

There are people on this planet who are convinced within themselves that they’ve been abducted by aliens, beamed aboard spaceships that hover just outside Earth’s various satellite detection systems, tortured by said aliens for hours on end, then returned to their homes–broken, but alive. Barely alive. I woke up this morning feeling just like that. Spent and aching, body and soul. What I needed, I decided, was to spend the day reading a book that would grab me by the hairs of my heart, so I could forget my own mental and physical anguish.

You might say that I longed for a good book.

Logically, I headed for my nearest bookstore. I left two hours later, empty handed and despondent. Note the following sentence from a randomly opened page of a book whose name and author I can’t bring myself to remember:

I looked at him longingly.

I dragged my spent and aching ass out of bed for a good book, and the best you could do, O Anonymous Author, was: I looked at him longingly?

long (verb) :
to have an earnest or strong desire or craving; yearn.

There is something seriously wrong here if the definition of the word long moves me and a character who is supposedly longing for someone does not. At this point, I don’t even care about the context. I don’t care if this character goes on for three pages to describe the “him” for whom she was longing. Hell, she could be looking longingly after Heath Ledger–who deserves all the longing looks he gets–and I wouldn’t give a shit. Because, O Anonymous Author, your character cannot look at someone longingly. I–the reader–have to long. This goes beyond the Show-Don’t-Tell mantra. This is just damned lazy writing. And yet…O Anonymous Author’s novel is sitting on my local bookstore’s shelf. Hence, my despondence.

Then, about halfway home, I heard Melissa Etheridge’s hot, rugged voice pleading from the depths of my radio:

I would dial the numbers just to listen to your breath.

Not her lover’s voice, or even her lover’s words. Just to listen to your breath. Melissa Etheridge is a woman who knows a thing or two about longing.

Just like me. Because right now, still, I am longing for a good book.

Writing weaknesses

/ R.J. Keller / 3 Comments

Okay, Elle, to use a poor poker metaphor: I see your “dialogue is my weakest point writing-wise” statement and raise you an “action sequences aren’t my strong suit.”

I’m not talking about true action, ie fight scenes, sex scenes and the like. Those are great fun. I mean the boring stuff that happens between point A and point B. For example, during a recent editing session, I struggled for three days to get my girl, Tess, from her apartment to her car. Here is what I imagine was running through her head:

“Okay, Kel, I’ve been standing here for three fucking days. You’ve made my driveway wet and soupy with thick, brown mud to symbolize the shithole my life has become. So please–please–could you just write my fat ass down the stairs so I can get on with it?”

So after three whole days, how did Tess get to her car?

…I threw on my coat and clomped down the stairs…

Because–sometimes–that’s all there is to it.

First Lines

/ R.J. Keller / 2 Comments

My buddy, Elle, recently posted an article on her blog entitled Fighting Writer’s Block by Mr. David Taylor. Note Cause #4:

Writers often start in the wrong place.

Well, of course we do. We start, as Julie Andrews admonished in Sound of Music, at the very beginning. It seems logical, right? It’s how you’re supposed to start everything you do, from baking a cake to taking a pee.

Then there’s the other thing: we’re all told that the first sentence/paragraph/page is what will determine whether or not a would-be customer will buy our book. I have to admit that this is often true for me as I peruse the bookshelves. Take, for example, two novels I bought over the summer after having been seduced by the first line:

The Gun Seller, Hugh Laurie
“Imagine that you have to break someone’s arm.”

Now, I have to admit that I love Hugh Laurie more than just about anyone in the world, and would have bought his book if the first line sucked big fat eggs. But that line made me start reading in the car on the way home from the bookstore. (Fear not…my beloved hubby was driving.) Supper that night consisted of frozen pizza, because I could pop that into the oven while holding the book up to my nose.

Towelhead, Alicia Erian
“My mother’s boyfriend got a crush on me, so she sent me to live with my daddy.”

I closed the book, took a deep breath to stop the room from spinning, and made a beeline for the cash register. On that particular day I was alone in the bookstore, and was responsible for driving myself home, so I did the only thing I could do: I sat in my car and read for an hour, reluctantly marked my page, rushed home (ignoring the speed limit laws), made sandwiches for supper, then read until I had finished the book.

And so I am nervous about my own first lines/paragraphs/pages. What if, after pouring my heart, gut, soul and brain into what turns out to be a damn fine novel, no one ever reads it because my first line sucks big fat eggs…or at least fails to grip?

Note Mr. Taylor’s advice:

If you’re stuck on the first paragraph, bag it. Write down, “First paragraph goes here,” leave a space, then write “Second Paragraph” and start there. Be prepared to skip over anything that tries to keep you stuck. Save that part until later. The answer will likely become obvious later on when you’ve done more writing and know more about the thing you’re creating.

So, I can tell you all that my official first line of my 2007 NaNoNovel will be:

“Ingenious first line to appear here later.”

It’s almost November…do you know where your writer is?

/ R.J. Keller / 4 Comments


If your writer is like me, then he or she will be participating in National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo.) Write 50,000 words on a new novel in 30 days (November 1-30). What could be easier?

1. Getting my son to eat spinach.
2. Kicking my caffeine addiction.
3. Reducing America’s dependence on foreign oil.

I jest. It’s great fun–when you’re not banging your head against your keyboard, praying for inspiration–and a cool way to shout “Hello!” to your inner creative beast. AND, who knows? You might just write something worthwhile. I myself recently finished editing my first NaNoNovel and am in the process of furiously querying literary agents, searching (okay…begging) for representation.

So join me in the fun and frustration!