Tag Archives: critique groups

Writing Using Given Elements

writing

Saturday night I discovered I had a writing assignment to do in preparation for my Critique Group the next day. It’s been posted for a while but because I was still doing NaNo and working on Real Life stuff I had completely missed seeing the exerise. So, while I was out I began thinking of different scenarios I could use to write about but what I kept returning to was Christmas lights and Gremlins. I love Christmas lights. All those mutli-colored fireflies lighting up and pushing away the dark makes me happy. It’s like seeing bits of hope in the middle of the night. It’s nice when you have a community where most of the houses are decorated but my favorites are the single homes out in the middle of nowhere where there’s nothing but you and the dark. I have very fond memories of driving to my grandparent’s house at night and seeing those pop out of nowhere like lit breadcrumbs showing us the way. And as for the Gremlins, well, I kept going back to the Phoebe Cates’ scene where she’s talking about why Christmas sucks for her.

Here was the exercise details:

  • Instructions: Take the information provided below and write the first 500 – 1000 words of a new chapter or novel/short story opening. Genre is up to you. Point of view is up to you. But each of the elements listed below must be included.
  • Objective: To hook the reader and to set the atmosphere without losing reader interest.
  • Basic set-up: Your main character drives up to a small house that is off the beaten track. From the outside, the house looks like most others in the area. A single light burns in the front window. Your main character gets out of the car and crosses to the front door. It opens under the MC’s hand. The MC calls out. No one answers. MC steps inside and finds . . . .

As I was brainstorming Saturday night out loud with my husband, I knew I wasn’t really wanting to writea traditional Christmas story. Like Gremlins, I wanted my main character to have a reason to like or not like Christmas. I went to bed Saturday night and woke up the next morning with my idea in place. After getting some caffeine in my system I started writing, and the next thing I know I’ve spent an hour and a half writing without thinking about it and I had to rush to finish it because I still needed a shower and I didn’t want to be late for Group. And Group ended up being so much fun because of the exercise. Three of us apparently had the same idea in a way; we wrote a murder/mystery opening, though mine was the only one with a Christmas theme. So, below find my unedited contribution to yesterday’s writing assignment.

I have another one to write for the next meeting and I’m thrilled, I tell you. Thrilled!

xo Jesi

Santa Claus Is Coming To Town

In the sleepy little town of Oak Hollow in the deepest part of the backwoods of Mississippi, you can count on three things happening throughout the year. The first is the annual Holy Roller Baptist Tent Revival and Come to Jesus Meeting, and yes, it is actually called that. All the little old ladies fry up chicken and potatoes and bake casseroles and desserts. There’s even the occasional squirrel prank pulled thanks to that old Ray Stevens song. It actually works half the time, though I’m sure the teenage boys pulling the prank aren’t trying to bring anybody to Jesus.

The second thing you can count on is Mayor Goodwin’s daughter being crowned Miss Oak Hollow for the New Year Parade, Fourth of July parade, Christmas Parade, and, hell, pretty much every town ceremony requiring a queen of events. She’s been Queen of Everything for the last five years, including head cheerleader, only because she’s the Mayor’s daughter. And she’s not even all that pretty.

The third thing, and in my opinion the most exciting, is the Christmas Eve murders. Every year for forever, one person in the town dies on Christmas Eve. Where most people supposedly go to bed dreaming of sugar plums and all that magical crapola, here in Oak Hollow we all go to bed wondering who’s going to be wrapped up in tinsel with a big, bloody bow stuffed down their mouth. It’s been going on for so long now you’d think the police would have caught someone by now, but nope, this here is Oak Hollow. We’ve got one of the laziest sheriffs in the country, and he’s fanatically superstitious.

By the way, I’m Mags, and in the Oak Hollow people context I’m the girl with the big mouth always asking for trouble, according to Sheriff Boggs at least. Most of the kids in this town try to get as far away as they can once they turn eighteen, but not me. I want to catch the murderer who killed my Uncle Johnny on Christmas Eve three years ago.

Now, imagine the scene. I’m eighteen and have a license and a beat-up old junker of a car. I bought it for $500 from Old Miss Johnson, the crazy chicken lady, after her license was taken away from her because she drove her car into the middle of the entrance of the Piggly Wiggly grocery store. Not that that matters right now but I’m damn proud of that car. Took me all summer working at the Piggly Wiggly as a cashier to earn the money to buy the thing and I get to crow about it all I want, thank you very much.

So here it is Christmas morning and we’re all ignoring the fact that we know someone’s been killed. We’ll know by lunchtime who the unlucky victim was, because that’s how small towns work, even on Christmas. Mom’s in the middle of making her usual big Christmas lunch and she tells me to go pick up Uncle Johnny, her bachelor brother, who lives on the outskirts of town. Why me? Because I’m eighteen with a license and a car, remember?

Ever notice how Southerners have a way of making it sound like you’d be doing them a favor when in reality they just got you to do something they don’t want to do? “Maggie, be a dear and run to the store for some milk please.” “Mags, honey, I can’t leave the house right now and I need you to go drop this casserole off at the church for me, thank you.” And my mom is the queen of guilt trips. So when she “asked” me to go get Uncle Johnny, I went. I tug on my galoshes because it’s been raining for the last three days and there’s mud everywhere, and I grab my jacket, keys jangling in the pocket where I left them knowing I’d be sent on some mission today. I’m like Mom’s messenger/errand runner since I got the car. Next, out the door, into the car and pray to the car gods that the engine will start in the cold air. Yes! The engine turns over though not without its usual groaning that it has to wake up so early in the winter. Now for the trek out to Uncle Johnny’s.

It’s still a little dark, thanks to the cloud cover, and most people have left their Christmas lights on. I love seeing the multi-colored lights shining on the houses. It reminds me that hope is hard to kill, despite the fact that we all know someone’s dead. My little car trudges along the street with Christmas music playing fitfully from the radio. I only get one station and since the tape cassette player is broken, Christmas music it is. Besides, I don’t own any tape cassettes. Actually, the Christmas music doesn’t bother me and I’m merrily singing away with Jose Feliciano when I reach Uncle Johnny’s driveway. My tires leave that satisfying crunch sound as I turn onto the gravel and pull up to the house.

The first thing I notice is that Uncle Johnny’s Christmas lights are off. All of them. He owns about four acres and every Christmas he puts on a big Christmas light display for the town. Everyone brings their kids out to see it because he’s always doing something different every year, and he leaves them on all day every day. Today would be the only exception I’ve ever known. Maybe he just forgot or overslept, my mind rationalizes. I don’t even think it could be anything else. Still, I hesitate just a moment before walking up to the door.

I see the traditional Christmas candelabra in the front window, its electric candlelight sending a warm yellow glow out into the gloom. Seeing that on must mean Uncle Johnny is still in bed sleeping. So, I run up the porch steps and knock on the front door calling out as I do, “Uncle Johnny! It’s Mags. Mom sent me to come pick you up for lunch!” But my words trail off as the door creaks open under the force of my hand. Shit! This would be where the unsuspecting heroine of the horror movie finds herself in trouble. I don’t want to go in. I don’t want to go in.

I have to go in.

I push the door open and warily stick my head through the entrance. It’s much too quiet. Not even Uncle Johnny’s infamous snoring. Damn, damn, damn. I don’t have a cell phone because I bought a car instead, so I’ll have to go inside the house to use the landline phone. I take a deep breath. Okay, Mags. You can do this, I tell myself. I walk through the door trying not to let my eyes fall on anything specific. The phone is in the kitchen which is only accessible through the living room. Crap. I turn to my left and begin walking that way. So far, so good. Nothing out of the ordinary. The Christmas tree is up and the lights are on. Everything seems normal. Except it isn’t. Christmas music blaring and the smell of pancakes cooking should be assaulting my senses but they’re not. This does not bode well. I have a feeling I know what Uncle Johnny received for Christmas.

“Get to the phone, Mags. Just get to the phone. You can call mom and then dad can drive over and check things out himself.” I repeat this over and over as I walk through the living room to the kitchen. I get through the kitchen doorway and there’s Uncle Johnny sitting in his normal spot at the kitchen table, a surprised look frozen on his face. He’s been draped in tinsel and there’s a big red bow-the kind you put on cars-tied around his chest. There’s no blood anywhere, though. He’s simply frozen solid holding a piece of paper with a message on it. I don’t want to look but curiosity compels me forward to read the missive. It’s only three words long.

“Ho Ho Ho.”

 

How Pink Hair Is Holding Me Accountable

Firstly, I’d like to apologize for the lack of a post last Monday. For some reason I could not connect to our site, and whatever the problem was it lasted until Tuesday morning.

Secondly, I’m truly at a loss for a subject to write about today. The last few weeks have taken a toll on my sanity and writing ability because I haven’t been able to sit down and really write anything. I think it’s just stress due to kids being home all day every day, plus, I have a boatload of people heading my way this week and about a million things to do before they get here. Plus, throw a bridal shower in there this coming weekend. Oh, and writing group. I’d love to say there’s been no time to write but, well, there has been.

For instance, I could have picked up my laptop and gone downstairs and done some writing around two this morning when for some reason, my brain turned on and wouldn’t shut off. Although, I’m not quite sure what would have come out of it. Right now, my head feels like mush from lack of sleep. I would probably have written about the new-to-us refrigerator and how we managed to get it through my front door that happened to be four inches too small. Yes, it is in but now we have no idea if we are going to have ice (we live in Texas and it’s summer-ice is a basic need here).

Or I could have written about my new hair. It’s pink, and yesterday I had it cut in a new style, kind of 1960’s mod. They call it “scene” hair now, and apparently, it’s a hipster style. Okay. My stylist loved it and had fun cutting it and decided he was going to go dye his hair green. We had an interesting conversation that I have tucked away to possibly be used later. Needless, to say, there’s a lot I could write about.

But honestly, there is NOTHING coming to mind. I don’t think I’ve lost my inspiration, but everything is feeling off lately. I did upload something to my writing critique group but even as I did it, I knew it wasn’t my best. I just wanted to get something up because I hadn’t put anything up for a critique in a while. Neither have many others. Which brings me to what I decided to write about after all.

Accountability.

I’m not the only one struggling lately to write or find something to write about. We talked a little about it at our last meeting. We’ve sort of all fallen off the wagon with our writing and attending crit group meetings. Life came in and sucker-punched the lot of us in May and early June which led to several of us missing meetings. I only just got back to going mid-June, and it felt as if I’d missed out on so much. We’re a small to medium-sized group depending on the time of year, so missing one meeting usually isn’t that big a deal. But we only meet twice a month, so missing two meetings can actually set you back a bit.

We decided it was time to hold ourselves accountable, to writing and to the group. We discussed and agreed to submitting something once a month as well as not missing more than one meeting a month without notice. Obviously, life happens and it can sometimes take over in spectacular ways, and we understand this. However, it’s like an excuse note for school or calling in sick to work. You still need to let someone know what’s going on.

But how do you hold yourself accountable to writing? It was an interesting thought. Personally, I do a lot of writing where my blog is concerned. I don’t write daily, but I might as well be. I feel responsible for my blog, and when I see the number of views begin to go down, well, that works better to force me to post than anything. I like seeing good viewer stats and I enjoy it when people comment, whether good or bad. It means people are reading what I’m writing.

How can I translate that into writing?

Well, for one thing, I’ve begun seeing new ideas for the book I’m writing, and I’m actually quite excited about it. Two characters who were secondary characters have begun talking about their own story in relation to the main characters. And I love it. I have a background story for how one of my main characters even came to be. So, inspiration isn’t really the problem. It’s forcing myself into my chair and pounding away at the keyboard that I need to work on.

And that’s the second point of my post today. Finding the time to write. A month ago, the writing group discussed this very subject as a few of our members were having trouble finding time. It was suggested that we stay up thirty minutes later than normal or get up thirty minutes earlier. The groans were loud. Who wants to stay up later than they already do if they already stay up late? And who wants to get up early, especially in the summer?

But that’s the thing. You must MAKE the time. We have it; it’s right there waiting for us. We just have to force ourselves into doing something that, ultimately, is good for us, like eating healthy and exercising. If you don’t, your writing will suffer. Instead of actually writing a book, you’re just going to continue saying “if” or “when I get my book written”. Then, when someone asks you “how’s that book coming along?” you’re going to make excuses. “Well, you know, it’s hard to write with the kids screaming and arguing.” “I’ve been so busy I just don’t have time.” “The cat sat on my laptop and deleted it.” (Don’t laugh, this has happened.)

Stop making excuses and make the time to write. Thirty minutes early or late is not that much of time, really. It takes me fifteen minutes to shower and that includes shaving. In that space of time, I’ve had four new ideas pop into my head where I’ve said, “that would make a good scene for my story.” So why haven’t I written them yet? Because I stay up late and I like sleeping in.

So, my goal is going to be writing since I’m up late anyway instead of whatever else it is that I do that is, truthfully, just a distraction. Because I want to get my book written and published. Because someday, I’d like to be able to be an author at an event instead of still working on my first book.

Because the next time a stranger asks me what I do for a living that allows me to have pink hair (and it is so very pink), I can smile and say “I’m a writer” and give them the name of my book when they ask what I’ve written.

Jesi

“Popular” Writing versus “Good” Writing

 

angry crowd

The success of ‘Fifty Shades of Grey’ got me to thinking about popular writing versus good writing. Not that they can’t be one in the same, of course. Often they are. It’s just that, well…often they’re not.

Now, I haven’t read the book, so I can’t give an opinion on it. A lot of people I know have, however. Read it, that is. Not one of them liked it. As a matter of fact, several couldn’t get through it. These are people who, in my humble opinion have some pretty good tastes in literature. And most professional book critics seem to have torn it apart.

And with ‘Fifty Shades,’ not only has it become a runaway best seller, they went and made it into a flick which is doing very well in the theaters. On top of that, there’s a sequel planned, I understand. The writer of ‘Fifty Shades of Grey’ is obviously very rich at the moment and probably isn’t caring very much about what the critics think. And why should she (Or is it a “he”) care, anyway. She’s giving the public what they want and they’re eating it up. And copy-cats have sprung up. One is called ‘Fifty Shades of Blue.’ The author is I.B. Naughty. Ya’ gotta love that one!

So, as a new writer, I can’t help but wonder how much I really need to work to try and turn out a successful book. I can’t help wondering if I’m trying too hard. Maybe I didn’t need to take three years to write ‘Jenny.’ Maybe I could have slapped a few hard core sex scenes in there and not worried so much about the story. If that’s what the public wants, why not give it to them? After all, there’s nothing wrong with sex. Right? It’s good. I’m not a Puritan, I’m all for it

But how would I feel about it, even if the book sold well? Roll around in my money and not care whether or not I’m considered a “serious” author? Or guilty that I had sold out? Hmmm…money would buy a lot of pretty things. And my wife really wants a house on the beach… (Sigh!).

There’s always a pen name, of course. Yeah…that would work. I.B. Naughty seems to have been taken. But I’m sure I can come up with something. How about Hugh R. Hornee? That’s not bad. I could write as Hugh and watch the money pour in while I satisfy the literary part of me by writing my “serious” book. I’m weak, though. I’m afraid that if I did that and started to see thousands of dollars rolling in from Hornee’s work I’d kick the “serious” work to the curb. Hell, if Hugh R. Hornee’s novels just bought me a yacht, screw Joe Bucemi and his high-falootin ways!

But, what if you can’t have it both ways? What if it was time to make a deal with the Devil? He gives you two options. You can write a trashy book that critics are practically laughing over, but sells a million copies and gets you a multi-million dollar movie deal. Or you can write one that is generally regarded as one of the most beautifully written pieces of literature ever seen by human eyes. The trouble is, hardly anyone will read it and you will barely make enough money on it to pay your electric bill. Ironically, it will become popular ten years after you’re dead.

Hmmm…again. Would I start to think of all those pretty words, or all those pretty things and that house on the beach? I would have to make sure my wife wasn’t in the room while I was making my decision. I know which one she would pick.