Gadhafi, Authors, and Brevity

Gadhafi's long-winded and incoherent speech of defiance the other day put me in mind of the challenge every author faces: coherence and brevity. Every report I heard on the news or read online said pretty much the same thing: the speech was long-winded, rambling, and incoherent. In the world of politics (just as in writing), that's a damning judgment.

I met an author recently who shares some traits with Gadhafi. This man thinks a lot of himself, has boundless confidence in his abilities, is proud of his accomplishments, and fully expects the world to acknowledge and honor them. He commanded my attention.

Then I asked him what his book was about. Whew. Half an hour later, my head swimming, my eyes crossed, I still didn't know whether the man had written a novel or a historical treatise. 

I'm grateful for the experience. Any author who's agonised over a summarization of their 300-page novel knows what I'm talking about. Some agents want a 3-page synopsis of the work; others demand a single paragraph. 

Almost any author who's sweated through their first synposis will say it was the most difficult writing they've ever done. But, boy, is it worth the effort. 

It wasn't until I had tried and failed at the above that I realized my earlier novel, Last Star at the State Line Cafe, was pointless, wandering, and yes, long-winded and incoherent. I put it aside, accepting it for what it was: good practice but not fit for the public eye. It's still on my shelf, and that's a good place for it.

When I began My Name is Grace, that lesson was still fresh. And as I worked through the publishing process, there were more lessons to learn, such as how to write a back-cover blurb, and how to pitch your novel to someone who asks on an elevator, say, or in a restaurant, "What is your book about?"

The first few times that happened to me, I was flummoxed. I stammered and blushed and labored over some probably incoherent response. I doubt if any of those people will be in a great rush to purchase my novel. Obviously, I needed a better approach.

Brevity and coherence. Following the advice of a contributor to Author Nation, I wrote a brief pitch, read it out loud, timed myself, shortened it, and repeated until I had it down to 30 seconds. Now when somebody asks what my novel is about, I'm ready.

Maybe Ghaddafi needs to take a course in writing. Brevity and coherence: priceless in politics and writing alike.

Winter Life

It's Monday morning and I really, really should be working. This is the downside of an office with a view.

Beyond the deck and the ancient silver maple that gives all these red squirrels and fox squirrels such easy access to our birdfeeder, the hill, pond, and woods all lie deep in snow. Below, I can see the Caribbean-blue sides of the kayak Terry made. Upturned on its rack at the edge of the pond, it waits for spring as I do: patient, steadfast.

To one side of the kayak, the picnic table and a good-sized brush pile are ready for that first fire of spring.

On the other side, the old hen house gives shelter now to paddles and life jackets. Its barn-red siding and the blue of the kayak are the only color against our winter forest, where black walnuts, silver maples, and beech comprise a grey-brown palette for the white-barked skeleton of a sycamore.

No, not much color. But plenty of life.

Next to the pond, the startling yellow of freshly chewed wood: beavers, unfortunately, do not hibernate. Possums do, or so I thought. So we were surprised last week to discover one gobbling at the bird feeder. Gobbling and determined to stay despite Terry's stern invitations to leave. Surprised again a couple of days later to find his carcass staining the path to the feeder. The same shovel used to create that path through the snow now provided a litter to tote the possum's carcass to the woods, where his carbon will return to the landscape that nourished him. The cycle of life and death is natural, yes, but it's difficult not to feel a pang for the ugly little guy.

Also last week, I glanced out the kitchen window to see a red shouldered hawk just a few yards away, lurking on a branch above the suddenly vacated bird feeder. Cardinals, mourning doves, blue jays and juncos all gone. But only momentarily. When the hawk wearied of waiting and flew on, the birds all instantly reappeared.

Like those birds, my work isn't going away. Waiting patiently through the winter of my wandering interest, it is ready to spring to life under the focus of my renewed attention. Time to drop my eyes from the view and get on with it.