Beyond The End

My novel critique groups gathered for our annual January brainstorming workshop. With almost an hour each, the six of us—one member joined us by Skype—presented our individual 2020 writing agendas. Cell phones on silent except for lunch and short breaks kept us focused. Well, maybe one brief distraction when aromas wafted from the kitchen near lunchtime. All six members are authors, earning that designation by publications in short-story contests and anthologies. Five, including me, have published at least one book. My first two were nonfiction.

Even with that experience, getting beyond THE END in my first fiction novel has been like a soap opera. Do you remember the longest-running soap? (Cheat sheet: The Guiding Light) Every radio broadcast ended with a cliffhanger followed by “Stay tuned.”  Today’s workshop prompted me to reevaluate my word of the year.  Revisit doesn’t fit my 2020 goals.

I chose a new word of the year.

 

Paper Dolls

FICTION

In my draft novel Next of Kin, my protagonist Taylor Madrid is haunted by dreams of two girls playing in their mother’s clothes. She sees herself, tiny hands clutching folds of a long skirt lifted above her knees, feet stumbling in high heels. The other girl’s face is partially obscured by a long, swirling scarf draped over her head, flowing to the floor. Taylor awakes before she learns the other girl’s identity.

FACTS

My twin and I never (repeat, never) played dress-up in our mother’s clothes. Her few dresses were hung in a small closet we wouldn’t dare open because it also contained our father’s meager clothing. Mother’s daily wardrobe was a limited choice of shirtdresses. Her church clothes were somber colored, matronly styles, always two-steps behind modern fashions. Black, brown, gray, and an occasional dark green were no comparison to the pastels, deep magentas, turquoise, and bright yellows worn by paper dolls.

FADED MEMORIES

My paper dolls were movie stars with curvy figures wearing shorts, tennis dresses, strapless evening gowns, and two-piece swimsuits that Papa would not allow in our home in real life. A few cutouts had boas or mink hats and furs long before it was polite to say no animals were harmed in creating the accessories. I like to think I wielded scissors with the deftness of an artist, but truth invades memories of my tiny hands often slicing through fold-over tabs that held the costumes to the paper doll’s body. Sitting on the linoleum floor in my homemade clothes, I dressed my Betty Grable and Jane Russell paper dolls and dreamed of the day I would wear high-fashion clothes.

FASHION

Our (I switch to plural here because Mother insisted her twins dress alike) first full shopping venture introduced fashion into our home. From the shiny taffeta material to the cap sleeves on the dresses to trendy spectator pumps and matching clutch purses, we blossomed into fashion stars. Our father’s disapproved of bare arms, our foray into modern style. Mother rescued us with her sturdy treadle sewing machine. Crisp white organdy jackets with pointed turn-back collars kept us as fashionable as our paper dolls; our arms covered but visible through the sheer material.

In my father’s presence, and for church, I was a respectable girl. Out of sight, I slipped off the jacket and relished my own paper-doll moment.

 

Fiction + Facts + Faded Memories + Fashion = Memoir

Embellishments – Fact or Fiction?

Just as lace or glittering trim defines a designer outfit,

fictional embellishments to true stories give them sparkle.

My eyes lingered on this pearl of wisdom while shredding notes from past Las Positas College writing classes. There was no attribution for this aging handwritten note. Perhaps it was a quote from the instructor, or my response to a class activity when she asked us to define creative nonfiction.

An embellishment, I learned, is an exaggeration or glorification of the simple truth to bring a story to life. Not full-grown lies, but tiny white ones, bursting through the soil of harsh truth and budding above fallow ground. These additions bring sparkle to a story like shimmering sequins hand-stitched to a basic Mardi Gras gown. They transform a sluggish truth to the cadence of a marching band. They soar like a bright-colored balloon caught up in strong winds.

My father detested fiction or the slightest deviance from facts. A man of few words, he taught me to tell the truth, and punished me when I didn’t. To say he was stressed years before that word soared to the top of the charts describes his hidden anxieties. Assuming that he worried about basics like housing and food was true—a major concern during those Great Depression years. Perhaps he would have agreed with a simple nod if someone had said he showed no excitement at my birth. Yet none of these statements enhance a story.

The listener in a story-telling session, or the reader engrossed in a biography, wants to know my father’s reaction to unexpected twins born twenty-five years after his first child, almost a year after his first grandchild. They want to hear his words when he first saw two identical babies sleeping on a single pillow. Long after my father died, I asked my older siblings about his attitude at that surprise. I wanted to know what he said.

One of my older brothers remembered many of our father’s words but interchanged the corresponding events. One sibling insisted that that our religious father’s spoke a similar mantra for every financial crisis. One sister, a fifteen-year-old present at the birth and with a sharp memory in later years, discounted the others with her version. If you were reading the story about surprise twins, the last of nine children, which quote you would attribute to our father, whether true, false, or embellished?

1. “We’ll make do.”
2. “Two more mouths to feed.”
3. “The Lord will provide.”

Post your reply in Comments and tell me why.

 

Violet Carr Moore, author and editor, helps writers attain their publication dreams. Along the way, she weaves her legacy with pearls of wisdom and mystic moments.

The Thought Police

Winston Smith, George Orwell’s main character in 1984, a futuristic novel published in 1949, defies “Big Brother” who sees every move Winston makes in Oceania. The telescreen monitors his heartbeats, emotions, and thoughts. One evening he finds a small corner in his flat where he escapes and writes his musings in one of the last blank, bound journals that escaped destruction when the world went paperless. He shapes his destiny when he uses ink, not pencil, to record his thoughts on quality cream-colored, pages.

Last October I blogged about editing (“Grammar Police” post October 17, 2013). English grammar, both in speech and written form, are replete with multiple rules that require writers to employ a team of editors before submitting manuscripts to an agent or publisher. Since George Orwell’s fantasy more than 65-years ago exposed the limited thought process, it would seem that writers are finally free to fly. Ah, but not so. Although the “Thought Police” Orwell painted exists only in his novel, a new guardian force rules today’s writers.

Instructors and mentors, whether academic or associated with for-profit publishers, have formed a new stratum of Thought Police. Every paragraph, perhaps every sentence, is monitored for point of view (POV). Authorities justify this “Big Brother” scrutiny with a single question: Whose story is this? Thoughts are limited to that character.

In Next of Kin, I have two main characters, Captain Luis Rojas (male), and Detective Taylor Madrid (female). Rojas has more than twenty years of experience in law enforcement; Madrid less than half that. It’s impossible for them to see the world of crime through the same eyes, so I chose a dual POV. Supervisors and associates clamber for their individual POV rather than be seen through the eyes of the duo. That can’t happen. Why? because modern Thought Police have blown the whistle on verbs like thought, believed, recognized, realized,  reflected, ruminated, understood, considered, wondered, imagined, concluded, presumed, mused, surmised, commiserated, envisioned, pictured, conjectured, guessed, anticipated, expected, speculated, pondered, brooded, despaired, sympathized, and dozens more.

I can only hope (Oops! That’s the narrator’s POV) that neither of my main characters fall prey to the misfortune of Orwell’s Winston Smith. When tortured by the Thought Police, he was brainwashed to believe that two plus two equals five. If that happens, future agents and publishers might require a math class as a prerequisite to writing. I hope I publish my novel before then.

Errors and omissions

“Never say never,” sage advice for novel writers, prompts a second never. Never say always in a novel. 

The narrator says, “She always soaks in the Jacuzzi after a stressful day.” Oh? What about the day she wrecked her Mustang Cobra and was hospitalized? That was stressful.

Every, another word to omit. “You can set your clock by her neighbor. He brings in the newspaper every morning at seven.” Oh? What about the Sunday morning his newspaper was stolen?

Anybody, everybody, nobody, somebody—more words to omit. Bodies in a mystery novel should be in a morgue!

Oh, wait! I’ve found a home for these forbidden words in my novel-writing progress report.

Anybody who critiques my mystery draft manuscripts can see that none is ready to publish. Nobody expects perfection, but everybody hopes this won’t become my hobby of always revising every draft and never publishing any mystery.

Fact or Fiction?

My devotional writings are a combination of inspiration and Scripture. My memoirs are facts I recall from long ago. The mysteries call for intertwining fact and fiction. My long-held belief that the primary definition of “fact” equals truth disappeared when I consulted a printed copy of Merriam-Webster dictionary. Fact:

A deed; especially in a crime (accessory after the fact); actual;
something that exists or occurs; a piece of information—truth.

A crime-related deed in first place and truth in fourth—barely honorable mention—erases a thread of guilt created when I relocated the district county sheriff’s office from a nearby town. I plan to continue this ruse in a sequel, maybe a series. By then, it will become a factoid.

An invented fact that appears to be true because it appears in printed form.

If facts and factoids are half-truths, what is fiction?

 Something invented by imagination, such as a novel.

 I can combine facts and fiction with a hint of factoids in my suspense novel with no guilt. With multiple deadlines today, I jump from memoirs to devotions to suspense. Am I a memoirist, a biographer, or a novelist? I am a factotum. What’s that?

 A person having numerous or varied duties.

 

Nontraditional student report card

Summer. School is out. Report card time. Memories surface from a hundred years ago (Please tell me you recognize the exaggeration). I held my report card close to my face as my fingers opened a half inch for a sneak preview. I exhaled when I saw passing grades. Enter a new century (literally) as this nontraditional student opens her report card.

I click on my computer Internet icon, open bookmarks, scroll to a college website, and follow log-in prompts. I search the menus for anything that resembles grades. Nothing. Click Student Services. Click Records. Click Transcripts. Continue to Academic Transcripts (Is there another kind?) More menu choices. Open Unofficial Transcripts. I repeat the scenario from years ago, ready for the first peek. Not yet.  Select Year appears, then Select Term (Choice? Summer is in session and fall is two months away). I negotiate the final screen in the baker’s (student’s) dozen.

Eyes riveted on the screen, I scan left to right, the way we read in the U.S. I recognize the 3.0 units “Attempted” and “Earned” (Whew!) sandwiched between undecipherable numbers, flanked by a tiny “A” on the right. Next, I smile at my perfect 4.0 grade point average (I admit “Craft of Writing Fiction” was my only class). I exhale and click Exit.

My computer screen reverts to the digital photo I snapped one handed out the passenger window as I drove 70 miles per hour on a California freeway. The hills dotted with scattered trees remind me that paperless is a good thing.

Nontraditional student survives college fiction writing class

The other students in my community Spring 2013 college fiction writing class were all young enough to be my great grandchildren. Their stories hopped from young adult to fantasy, from first love to suspense, from intrigue to absurdity. Their imaginations escaped boundaries and shattered my established writing box halved with suspense and inspiration.

I spent a semester trailing creatures with red hair and purple eyes, or blue skin and purple hair. I trailed a futuristic creature, part cat, part female human, and some mysterious third part I never understood.  I traveled with witches in carts pulled by horses and rode spaceships that made Star Wars transports look like horse-and-buggy days. I time-traveled from ancient dynasties to futuristic civilizations and hovered over the centuries between—the only ones I understood. I encountered Samurai swords, galaxy battles, orbs, greed and dysfunctional families in every century.

I struggled through the required critique questions.

Q: What is the author’s intention?  A: To confuse this nontraditional student.

Q: Does the opening catch the reader’s attention? A: Blue skin and purple hair? You bet it does.

Q: Is the point of view consistent?  A: I can’t tell because the characters won’t lift their armor faceplate or space helmets so I can lip read.

Q: Does the conclusion agree with the author’s intention? A: Yes. The ending was as confusing as the rest of the story.

One question anticipated, but not required, at the end of the semester:

Q: Did you reach your person goal? A: Yes. This nontraditional student survived.

An unexpected twist

My writing niche is creative nonfiction or Chicken-Soup style memoirs so I have ready-made skeletons for my characters. My interest in a local flash fiction contest was selfish—extra credits offered by the instructor in my fiction writing course. Credits to enter. Credits to attend the celebration (already marked on my calendar before his generosity).

The day before the deadline, I touched my fingers to my computer home row keys—an ancient term I learned from my high school typing teacher in my teen years. The opening hook skittered across the screen and commanded words to follow. I cut ten percent from the 300-word limit until the printed story fit a single page. I honed the last line to an unexpected ending.

After cheesecake and lemonade at the celebration, I strolled, ballot in hand, reading dozens of anonymous entries. I chose two submissions, then circled my title, determined to receive one vote. I was engrossed in conversation with a prize-winning novelist when the winners were announced at the end of the evening. I listened but didn’t recognize the third-place title or the winner. Second place was an entry I selected, but I had not recognized a friend as the author. Like me, she had stepped out of her familiar writing territory. The first place title—a second circle on my ballot—was an unexpected twist.

In my quest for extra credits, I won first place.

Truth is stranger than fiction

I blog on WordPress on Thursdays, but this breaking-news can’t wait.

 Ethan is safe. Jimmy Lee Dykes is dead.

My Google Blogspot is dedicated to child abuse. In a rare move, I’m reblogging today’s post here.

This blog [Google Blogspot]  is dedicated to abducted or missing children. I always seem to know if the child will die and often the cause of death. So, why did I wait until Ethan was rescued, and Jimmy Lee Dykes, his kidnapper was dead?

Instinct, maybe ESP, mixed with caution and common sense warned me not to blog anything that could be reblogged or commented on by others during this tense week. If I had told the truth—that Ethan would be rescued and Dykes would die within a week—no one would have believed me. What is the truth?

In prayer and meditation during this standoff, I received the answer like telepathy from Mr. Dykes (Do I believe in telepathy? I’m a skeptic, but that didn’t prevent it from happening). In spite of authorities who kept assuring Dykes that it could have happened to anyone, I understood that he preplanned the kidnapping. When the bus driver, Charles Albert Poland, intervened, Dykes killed him—something he had also contemplated in advance.

I prayed and called on angels to surround Ethan (Were they there? We can’t see them, so unless Ethan felt their presence, we’ll never know). I puttered around my kitchen yesterday evening, speaking to Mr. Dykes holed up in the bunker near Midland City, Alabama. I told him I’m a lady in California, a former southerner, who has driven Highway 231 in a search for Civil War ancestors.  He could relate to that massive anti-government quest. After asking him to let Ethan go, I felt his resistance. So I told him a secret I had kept for a week. “Mr. Dykes, I said, “If you don’t let Ethan go by tomorrow afternoon, he will be rescued. When that happens, your life will be over.”

Do I believe Jimmy Lee Dykes heard me? Maybe, maybe not, but it couldn’t be a coincidence that he died like I told him.”

Yes, truth is stranger than fiction.