Random: Cave cuniculum historiae
Jul. 24th, 2013 12:48 pmDiane Duane shows us all how not to behave in the presence of a Plot Bunny here. Heed the warning! Take heed!
He only uses prepositions when it is entirely necessary. He doesn’t misplace commas: he helps commas go into the Punctuation Protection Program. The characters in his novels send him fan letters. ... He once wrote a story that consisted of a single sentence which was serialized in three issues of The Paris Review. ... When he was in a coma after an automobile accident he made his deadline anyway. A copy-editor once queried one of his sentences -- and he allowed her to live. ... People read his prologues. His grocery lists have gone for six-figure advances at auction. Grammarians adjust their rules to match his realities. He is the most interesting writer in the world.The rest to be found here -- share and enjoy!
You got problems with your writingBut I must say my favorite comes from Stephen Frug in the comments:
She said to me
The answer’s easy if you
Put your B in C
I’ll show you how to move along
When you find you’re up a tree
There must be fifty ways
To plot your novel.
A man throws down his pencilShare and enjoy!
He says why am I stuck in the middle now
Why am I stuck in the middle
The rest of this book is so hard
I need a writer's resort vacation
I want a shot at a Nebula
Don't want to end up a remainder
On a remainder table ...
Until the first flake
Melts on the tongue, can we say
It's truly winter?
The train was noisy.became, in N's careful handwriting,
The train was fast.
The train was crowded.
The train was noisy, fast, and crowded.And so on ... until I came to #4, which read:
The candy was red.Here N balked and produced
The candy was yellow.
The candy was striped.
The candy was red and yellow striped.Which did indeed sound better when read aloud than
The candy was red, yellow, and striped.but, sadly, did not demonstrate the skill required by the exercise. "Ohhhh," N said, enlightened, and pulled out her eraser.
I believe that the scholar and the practitioner in the field of literary criticism should supplement each other's work. The criticism of the practitioner will be all the better, certainly, if he is not wholly destitute of scholarship; and the criticism of the scholar will be all the better if he has some experience of the difficulties of writing verse.Amen, brother. Amen.
The line that brought me up short was this one:Word. This is, in fact, the most important thing I have learned thus far from writing fanfiction. I just wish I had been able to figure it out while I was writing my dissertation. (Also the fact that, being a morning person, I have less of an activation barrier to get over if I start writing as soon as I get up. Duh.)
With writing, the way you feel changes everything.
It's an endearingly tyro-like way to feel about the craft (IMO). A lot of us go through this stage early on. But she's still in her novitiate, let the Times Bestseller List imply what it may; so odds are she'll be over this way of thinking by the time she's beyond her tenth or fifteenth novel. By then she'll have discovered that writing a novel is a job of work, like building a bookshelf or driving a truck: you don't have to wait for inspiration or the right mood, you just do it. (In fact, writing is one of the very best ways of changing your mood. A highly effective way to get out of the dumps is to write something where the plot requires the characters to feel cheerful. It's like smiling when you don't feel like it: it forces your brain chemistry to change to match.)
Ah! Alone at last,Many happy returns(es) of the day(s)!
Two forms make one silhouette,
Limned by candles' light.Remember to blow them out
Before wax drips on the cake.
Silently thronging the air,Inspired by yesterday's weather, composed primarily on the edge of sleep last night, and -- mirabile dictu! -- not forgotten by dawn, this poem does not explain why I then dreamed about commuting barefoot to work during a summer flood. Eugh.
Snowflakes drift earthward. Surprise!
May your writing be accurately appraised by everyone who comes near it.Brr. Just hearing that makes me reach for the holy water.
Now chattering leaves[Crossposted to
Cross rimed streets against the light,
Chasing the children to school.
(What he'll charge makes me conclude[Crossposted to
He shingles with dollar bills.)
Her leavings a picnic feast[Crossposted to
And twelve full baskets over.
( Read more... )All very melodramatic, isn't it? I didn't discover comedy until high school, when I made friends with a group of girls who'd been writing a collective novel for a couple of years and they let me play along. Ah, the joy of having an audience: I remember parties where we'd all sit around scribbling and then read out our scenes to each other -- my contributions were usually Monty-Python-esque interludes, filled with pratfalls and slapstick, since I wasn't comfortable with the kissing bits and didn't have enough seniority to suggest major plot developments. But occasionally I weighed in with something slightly less manically silly, though verbal play still drove the plot-engine:
( Read more... )I hadn't yet learned to eschew excess verbiage and I was still in love with other people's phraseology, though I had begun to learn about the ebb and flow of dialogue and the use of metaphor and action to tie a scene together. Still, the most important thing writing stuff like this allowed me to do was make my friends giggle -- the finest compliment on earth.
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Stumbling in darkness,What can I say? He's a snarky one, he is.
Haunted by whispers until
Light breaks in at last:
Who'd have thought that birthday cake
Could hold so many candles?