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Novel Development From Concept to Query - Welcome to Algonkian Author Connect
Haste is a Writer's Second Worst Enemy, Hubris Being the First
AND BAD ADVICE IS SECONDS BEHIND THEM BOTH... Welcome to Algonkian Author Connect (AAC). This is a literary and novel development website dedicated to educating aspiring authors in all genres. A majority of the separate forum sites are non-commercial (i.e., no relation to courses or events) and they will provide you with the best and most comprehensive guidance available online. You might well ask, for starters, what is the best approach for utilizing this website as efficiently as possible? If you are new to AAC, best to begin with our "Novel Writing on Edge" forum. Peruse the novel development and editorial topics arrayed before you, and once done, proceed to the more exclusive NWOE guide broken into three major sections.
In tandem, you will also benefit by perusing the review and development forums found below. Each one contains valuable content to guide you on a path to publication. Let AAC be your primary and tie-breaker source for realistic novel writing advice.
Your Primary and Tie-Breaking Source
For the record, our novel writing direction in all its forms derives not from the slapdash Internet dartboard (where you'll find a very poor ratio of good advice to bad), but solely from the time-tested works of great genre and literary authors as well as the advice of select professionals with proven track records. Click on "About Author Connect" to learn more about the mission, and on the AAC Development and Pitch Sitemap for a more detailed layout.
Btw, it's also advisable to learn from a "negative" by paying close attention to the forum that focuses on bad novel writing advice. Don't neglect. It's worth a close look, i.e, if you're truly serious about writing a good novel.
There are no great writers, only great rewriters.
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A Court of Thorns and Roses: Steamy Fantasy Romance
SOOOOOOOOOOOOO Steamy!!!! Too sexy!!! -
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Marcie Rendon On Writing About An Epidemic of Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women
Two ideas exist simultaneously. 1) A nation is not conquered until the hearts of its women are on the ground. (Cheyenne); and 2) There is, and has been, a target on Native women’s backs for the past 500 years. Both are true in Indian country. For women in the western world this target dates to the Dark Ages in Europe, starting in 1222, when women were burned at the stake for being witches. In Europe it was powerful women who were seen as a threat, and as time passed it would seem that all women became a threat to the patriarchy. A conquered nation’s women will pass on the cultural and spiritual knowledge to future generations. An unconquered woman will pass on the knowledge even when all appearances say the woman is conquered. Historical trauma is a very real phenomena and that very real trauma dictates the decreased survivability of Native women. However, what is truth for me is that Native women are more resilient than our trauma dictates. It is the stories of those unconquered women whom I hope to portray in my writing of crime novels. I write crime novels because I read crime novels. There is a joke, (Native people tell a lot of jokes) in Indian Country that asks, ‘What do Indian women watch for bedtime stories?’ The answer? ‘Law and Order SVU’ or any serial killer movie. And everyone laughs. Because it is true. Given the amount of violence Native people have survived for the past 500 years it is thought that by watching crime, reading crime, devouring stories of crime we attempt to keep the boogieman at bay, a way to survive vicariously through ‘others’ re-enactment of the terror. In Native communities you will also see families living life together. Need to go to the grocery store? Mom, grandma, a couple aunties and a few kids all pile into the car or pickup to go into town. Is there a pow-wow on the next reservation? Same thing, the whole crew piles into a vehicle and heads off. Like many rural communities, Native people on reservations or living in border towns, grow up with the same people their whole lives. Those relationships endure for years. Yes, there are conflicts; but in a rural area, it is the people you have known your whole life who in good times and bad, they are the ones you count on. The friend you went to kindergarten with and graduated high school with. The woman from the community who stopped on the road and helped you change your flat tire because that is what community does. It is these women, women who have life-long relationships, women who have a history with each other, they are the ones who people my story in Where They Last Saw Her. They have each other’s back. Literally. In my crime novels, it is the women who take on the perpetrators of violence against both women and men. In my everyday life, it is the women of my community who I see as brave and courageous. The ones, who even when living in fear themselves, will step forward to address very real situations. It is the women who see what needs to be done, and they do it. They act with integrity. In 1985, there was a serial killer targeting Native American women in the city of Minneapolis. I remember Bonnie Clairmont, now an esteemed elder, but at that time a mother and community leader, who stepped forward and pushed the city and our community to protect our women who were moving about the city after dark, either returning home from work, shopping, or leaving a bar after a night out. She was scared like all of us were, but she stepped forward and did the courageous work needed to give voice to our fear and took action and encouraged others to take action where needed to protect women when possible. It was the First Nations women in British Colombia who first stepped up and said, ‘Our women are being trafficked, murdered, and dumped along Highway 16. We need to do something.’ And they were the first to call attention to the violence directed at First Nations women by crews working in extractive industries. I remember reading a 2014 Canadian report on #mmiw, missing and murdered women, that said, ‘Our list of #mmiw is 90-typewritten-pages, single-spaced.’ 90 single-spaced pages of the names of missing and/or murdered First Nations women across Canada. Highway of Tears, a documentary film released in 2014, raised world-wide consciousness of the #mmiw issue across Canada. As the extractive industry moved through the northern states of Montana, North Dakota and norther Minnesota, there became an increase in #mmiw in the United States. Ruth Buffalo, former North Dakota state representative, and Minnesota’s Senator, Mary Kunesh, both Native American women, used their elected status to get state legislation passed in their respective states to begin to address the alarming increase in #mmiw. Lissa Yellow-Bird Chase, from White Shield, North Dakota, formed the non-profit Sahnish Scouts of North Dakota, to publicize and search, for missing persons. They work tirelessly for native and non-native families with missing family members. The Indigenous Protectors Movement was formed in Minneapolis, MN in the spring of 2022 to address the issue of our Missing and Murdered Indigenous Relatives. Again, the co-founder was a woman, Rachel Dionne-Thunder. This list of Native women who rise to the challenge could go on and on. It is also important to recognize the laughter and camaraderie women of a community have with each other. Like mentioned earlier, the joking and teasing is ever present. When oppression is hard, one way to keep going is to keep laughing. The other thing important to notice is the amount of care that women have for each other – they are tender and giving, which isn’t always apparent under the hard shell of survivance. I strive to shed on this side of Native womanhood-the care and compassion we exhibit towards and for each other. Writing a novel about crime and women’s response to it, is an opportunity to acquaint ourselves and the non-native world with our brilliance, humor, resilience, strength, courage and integrity. I hope I do us well. Miigwech. *** View the full article -
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10 New Books Coming Out This Week
Another week, another batch of books for your TBR pile. Happy reading, folks. * Richard Osman, We Solve Murders (Pamela Dorman) “Bestseller Osman (the Thursday Murder Club mysteries) launches a promising new series with this sprightly tale . . . Osman pulls off the tricky task of making his leads both zany and human, with a sufficiently brain-teasing mystery to boot. This series is sure to garner a loyal following.” –Publishers Weekly Julia Dahl, I Dreamed of Falling (Minotaur) “The definition of gut-wrenching… I Dreamed of Falling is a perfectly crafted thriller that goes beyond a classic whodunit. Layered with complicated character arcs, unforeseen twists, and well-thought-out details, this novel—and the circumstances surrounding Ashley’s death—will be on the minds of readers well after they’ve finished.” –Booklist Kelsey Rae Dimberg, Snake Oil (Mariner) “Menace grows slowly here as Dimberg immerses readers in the complex interplay of affirmation and vicious retribution in cultish movements. A great recommendation for readers seeking a follow-up to Liane Moriarty’s Nine Perfect Strangers.” –Booklist Jacquie Waters, Dearest (Mulholland) “A fast-paced and frightening debut that explores the nightmares of new motherhood, with plenty of twists and scares.” –Rachel Harrison Laura Dave, The Night We Lost Him (Simon and Schuster/Marysue Rucci) “[A] compelling, family-driven mystery… Dave should have another hit on her hands with this involving tale.” –Booklist Lee Goldberg, Ashes Never Lie (Thomas and Mercer) “The sequel to Malibu Burning unites Goldberg’s Ronin and Pavone police team with his arson investigators Sharpe and Walker in a clever, complicated story. With its witty banter and well-developed characters, Goldberg’s latest procedural is tailor-made for readers who enjoy shrewd investigators in fast-paced dramas.” –Library Journal Joël Dicker (transl. Robert Bononno), The Alaska Sanders Affair (HarperVia) “Joël Dicker’s novels evoke the creepy pastoral dread of Twin Peaks, the clockwork plotting of Golden Age detective fiction, and the black comedy of the noir masters. If The Truth About the Harry Quebert Affair read like Gatsby by way of David Lynch, then The Alaska Sanders Affair recalls True Detective: there’s something both classic and daring about it. One of the world’s most original voices in crime fiction.” –A. J. Finn Jessica Pishko, The Highest Law in the Land (Dutton) “Blending superb reportage and indispensable history, Jessica Pishko’s book could not be more timely. The Highest Law in the Land is essential reading for anyone concerned about the unbridled power of law enforcement in 21st Century America. An absolutely fascinating and harrowing read.” –Gilbert King Elise Hart Kipness, Dangerous Play (Thomas and Mercer) “Kipness’ depiction of the world of women’s sports, featuring crisp character portraits, is both relevant and well executed. A brisk whodunit set in the world of women’s soccer that arrives at an appropriate moment.” –Kirkus Reviews Dan Kois, Hampton Heights (Harper Perennial) “Delightfully immature and authentic dialogue, a refreshing lack of cynicism, and some genuinely unnerving threats all help elevate an engaging and eerie adventure.” –Kirkus Reviews View the full article -
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The Women Are There: Re-imagining Classic Adventure Novels
You never forget your first… Great Illustrated Classics. For me, it was Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea—a thick (or so it seemed to a seven-year-old), white-spined hardback with a slick blue cover, large print on rough cream paper and pen-and-ink illustrations that took me from a casual reader of Choose-Your-Own-Adventure paperbacks to a connoisseur of the classics. Never mind that the description ‘abridged’ was a gross understatement. With Jules Verne followed by H.G. Wells, Alexander Dumas and Jack London, I fell hard for not only the classics, but for the genre of 19th-to-turn-of-the-century adventure fiction. Despite being part of the 66-book Classics collection, I had no interest as a child in picking up Heidi, Black Beauty or Little Women. Instead, I read and re-read the stories that flung me to far-off places and mired me in impossible situations. I plotted out how I would have escaped from Château d’If and longed for a pet wolf I could name White Fang. Eventually, of course, I moved on—from mysterious islands and journeys below ground to dragons (Anne McCaffery’s Pern dominated my eleven-year-old imagination)—but I never forgot those first adventure classics. Of course, later, I loved the full, unedited versions of the novels as well, and looking back now, I can see clearly the threads of all those stories that eventually wove themselves into the fabric of my latest novel, Terra Incognita. Set in the late 19th century, Terra Incognita—grounded by a famous explorer’s obsessive quest to find the last lost city—checks more than a few boxes when it comes to classic adventure fiction. Danger faced in every new locale visited, a trail of mysterious artifacts, a kidnapping, a chase, a heist! But one of those checks goes far outside the box: the main character of the novel, Lily, is a woman. Not only do classic adventure novels focus only on the adventures of men, oftentimes the few female characters—if they even exist—serve as mere props or token. In all honesty, though this fact rankles me, it doesn’t detract from my love of certain epics. One of my favorite films of all time is Lawrence of Arabia and over the course of 227 minutes, not a single female speaks. And despite Liv Tyler’s Eowyn in the Peter Jackson films, there are only two female characters who speak across the thousand-or-so pages of Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings. Of course, die-hard fans love to point out that “it doesn’t make sense” for women to be in any of these stories. I’m not going to go down the rabbit-hole of why I think the anachronism argument is meritless—I could be here all day—but in looking at how Terra Incognita would hold up against my beloved adventure novels, I realized that, in all reality, the authors had missed so many opportunities for rich storytelling by excluding or diminishing women. In the spirit of going all the way back to those germinal Choose-Your-Own-Adventures, then, here’s a few examples of how I would have jumped on those opportunities. Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea by Jules Verne Of course, I had to start here. Twenty Thousand Leagues has everything—sea monsters, ice barriers, giant squid, a visit to Atlantis, claustrophobia and paranoia, obsession and melodrama, a dark, brooding anti-hero on a blind path of vengeance—except even one female character. Like Penelope to Odysseus, Captain Nemo’s unnamed wife is the motivating force that delivers for us the “archangel of hatred,” but, unfortunately, she’s dead. The image of Nemo crying in front of the portrait of her with their two, also dead, children is deeply haunting in the most tragically romantic way. While the Captain alludes to righteousness and an abhorrence of oppression and imperialism to rationalize his vendetta against civilization, it’s obvious that his family is the true motiving factor for his murderous desires. Perhaps Nemo’s wife has more in common, then, with Helen of Troy. But aside from the fact that she’d dead—by way of the “oppressor”—and was young at the time the portrait was painted, we know absolutely nothing about the wife whose face doesn’t launch ships, but sinks them. Just think of what Verne could have done with her! Structurally, she could have been the impetus for flashbacks scattered throughout the text. I mean, what kind of woman would have married a man like Captain Nemo? Perhaps she was an adventuress herself, or a revolutionary. She could have been an heiress and an engineer, whose fortunes and talents designed the Nautilus that Nemo retreats to upon her death. Was she faithful to him? And he to her? To throw in some extra drama, Nemo could have discovered with her a lover, cursed her and abandoned her. He vanishes to the high seas and she drowns herself and their children. Nemo then wallows in guilt for the rest of his life and succumbs to the Maelstrom with his wife’s name on his lips. Sound too dramatic? I don’t want to hear it. Jules Verne gave us the everlasting image of Captain Nemo sobbing and playing the organ in the dark—nothing could be too gothic or romantic after that. Truly, though, I’d love nothing more than to add in a surprise twist. Captain Nemo’s wife faked her death to escape his obsessive ways and we meet her on the very last page. We learn that the entire framework of the novel is actually Aronnax recounting the tale, fireside, to Nemo’s wife. Better yet, the wife is on board the Nautilus the entire time! Captain Nemo loves her, but has kept her prisoner and when the Professor and Ned Land unwittingly free her she exacts her revenge… The Time Machine by H.G. Wells Okay, I’m stopping myself before this piece devolves into nothing but Captain Nemo fanfiction. Let’s try a few others. The Time Machine was another childhood favorite, with Wells’ depiction of the subterrain Morlocks fascinating me to this day. Wells does better than Verne when it comes to female representation, but then, we’re talking about a novel where the protagonist is referred to only as the “Time Traveler” and the other defined characters are comprised of the likes of the “Editor” and the “Doctor.” Our single female character is, at least, the only named character, but I’m not sure that this makes up for the fact that Weena still has no speaking lines. As one of the Elio, Weena is both revered and infantilized—the perfect damsel in distress for the sanitized utopia the Time Traveler first believes the future to be. Of course, things take a darker turn when he discovers that the Elio are mere fodder for the Morlocks, but Weena does have a prominent stage presence throughout the second half of the novel as she accompanies the Traveler on his descent into the underworld to recover his time machine. Unfortunately, a presence is as far as it goes, and though the Time Traveler can apparently speak her language, Weena herself never speaks. Her sole agency in the story is putting flowers in the Traveler’s pocket, which helps to prove his case that his story is true. Whether Weena is to be considered as an adult or a child, I think it would have been fascinating for Wells to given her a voice. Since she’s physically present during the most exciting parts of the novel, it seems such a waste that she does nothing more than let herself be carried around by the Traveler like a piece of luggage. The very climax of the story involves her capture and—insinuated—end as a Morlock meal, but we never even hear her screams. She simply vanishes. In my version of The Time Machine, Weena is wise and guides the Traveler instead of simply being dragged along, and we learn so much more about Wells’ speculation of the future. Giving her agency in her own demise would add something that, unfortunately, is lacking in what is otherwise a brilliantly imaginative tale: emotion. A Princess of Mars by Edgar Rice Burroughs I wanted to end with Burroughs’ first novel in what would become an 11-book series chronicling the swashbuckler John Carter and his many adventures on the planet Mars, because I just recently read it for the first time. Burroughs was writing later than Verne and Wells, but he brought in a new wave of adventure novels for the first half of the 20th century. While often dismissed as science-fiction pulp, the Martian (or Barsoom, the given name of the planet in the books) Series fits right in with its preceding classics. John Carter is the quintessential male hero—the strongest of the strong and bravest of the brave—who bounces from one close call to another while journeying from Earth to Mars and back again. Like most adventure novels, A Princess of Mars is episodic and in the vein of Dumas’ The Count of Monte Cristo, there is a love story spurring our un-killable hero on. Dejah Thoris, the titular Princess of Mars, is a developed character who makes choices for herself and has something of a personality, but for the most part she spends a lot of time being kidnapped or maltreated by the brutish Tharks, giving Carter one opportunity after another to put himself in peril by rescuing her. (She also, in the tradition of sci-fi pulps, gives illustrators a reason to include a busty and mostly naked woman on every cover.) But, surprisingly perhaps, there are two other females named among the hoards of Red and Green Martians and I would have loved for Burroughs to take the character of Sola further. She’s so close having real agency in the novel. The daughter of the great Thark war leader Tar Tarkas, Sola teaches John Carter the Martian language and ways, and fights for both Carter and Thoris, even against her own people. She’s the carrier of one of the great secrets of the story and shows real growth and change as the events of the novel effect her in different ways. And she’s not a love interest. How about that? But Burroughs gives up on Sola there. Once she vows to forever serve the Prince and Princess of Mars, her character stalls. She devolves into a two-dimensional martyr who fades into the background as a sort of handmaiden. If I had my way, Sola would have followed in her father’s footsteps and become leader of the Tharks in her own right. She would have avenged her murdered mother and then gone on her own adventures, maybe even eventually challenging her revered John Carter—with ten more novels to follow, there’s plenty of room for her to stretch. Of course, the genre of adventure novels has grown and changed since the heyday of Burroughs and female characters are becoming more common, though sadly they often don’t make it past the fates of Sola and Dejah Thoris. YA and memoir have come to dominate what was once closely linked to fantasy and science fiction and—gasp!—women are producing some of the finest works in these genres today. This, then, is a reminder of what should have been obvious all along: the women are there. Their stories take up as much as space as their male counterparts. They just need to be written. *** Pre-order Terra Incognita here. View the full article -
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The Irresistible Draw of Weddings in Cozy Mysteries
While cozy mysteries have their share of thieves, con artists, and the occasional murderer, they abound with likable, often colorful characters who reside in a picturesque village where–except for the occasional murder–friendships prevail, pets are popular and romance blossoms. Readers rejoice when the series’ sleuth or someone close to her is about to be married. What fun the future bride has shopping for gowns and dresses with her bridesmaids. The future bride and groom spend hours searching for the perfect venue, the most fantastic band, and a most delicious menu. Weddings are huge events in cozies, where friends and relatives gather together to celebrate the joyous occasion. Since cozies are mysteries, death and disaster may arise anywhere and any time. Wedding receptions offer a murderer the perfect opportunity to move among the guests as they gab and drink and dance, totally carefree and not expecting anything unpleasant to happen. There’s always the possibility that not all cozy mystery wedding guests will return home safely and alive. A murder occurs at the wedding in DEATH ON THE SHELF, the fifth book of my Haunted Library series. Angela Vecchio, my sleuth Carrie Singleton’s best friend who works with Carrie in the Clover Ridge Library, is marrying her fiancé Steve. Tensions arise before the nuptials as often happens. A popular doctor named Aiden Harrington, who is married to Carrie’s cousin, has been behaving strangely the few days before the wedding. At the reception, Carrie and her boyfriend Dylan are at the dessert table about to select some goodies, when Aiden topples forward, straight into the three-tiered chocolate fountain. How did he die? Carrie wonders. And who wanted Aiden dead? Carrie and Dylan’s wedding is the major event in BOOKED ON MURDER, the eighth and last book in the Haunted Library series. Carrie and Dylan have arranged to be married at the elegant home of their dear friend, Victor Zalinka. Three weeks before the wedding, they discover a body on Victor’s lawn, so of course they investigate. More murders follow. The engaged couple have the adventure of their lives on their wedding day when they face two sets of criminals and Carrie is taken hostage. Will they turn the tables on the bad guys and make it in time for their big event? Here’s mention of a few more cozy series that feature weddings that don’t quite follow the usual pattern: After a slow-burn romance lasting through the first eight books of the Deputy Donut Mystery series, donut shop owner Emily Westhill is set to marry Detective Brent Fyne in DOUBLE GRUDGE DONUTS, by Ginger Bolton. However, before Emily can walk down the aisle–a shaded forest pathway to a lakeside tent–she discovers the body of a bagpiper who had been annoying residents of the local town. Afraid the piper’s murder will disrupt their wedding plans, Emily and Brent both investigate. In different ways . . In Peg Cochran’s BERRIED AT SEA, the fourth book in her Cranberry Cove Series, sleuth Monica Albertson is about to marry Greg Harper, the owner of the local mystery book store. While nothing bad happens at the wedding, a murder occurs on their brief honeymoon at the Cranberry Cove Inn. In THE DIVA TAKES THE CAKE by Krista Davis, Sophie’s sister is about to get married when the groom’s ex-wife shows up and is murdered. Is the killer sitting on the groom’s side, the bride’s side, or is he standing at the altar? In Connie Berry’s novella MISTLETOE AND MURDER, Kate Hamilton, an American antiques dealer, is marrying Detective Inspector Tom Mallory of the Suffolk Constabulary. The ceremony is scheduled to take place the afternoon of Christmas Eve, but the couple is held hostage by a young drugs dealer in a remote Essex farmhouse. That night, not knowing if they will live to see their wedding day, Kate and Tom say their vows to each other. Happily, they are freed and make it to St. Aethelric’s Church in Long Barston, Suffolk. In SIMMERING WITH RESENTMENT, the 11th in the Cookbook Nook Mysteries by Daryl Wood Gerber, Jenna Hart, owner of the Cookbook Nook, is about to marry Rhett Jackson. When their prenuptial dinner is rocked by an explosion that nearly takes Rhett’s life, Jenna is convinced a woman she helped convict of arson and is now out of jail is to blame. The wedding finally takes place after a series of sinister events. Yes, cozy weddings usually have happy endings, but so many things can go wrong along the way. *** View the full article -
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Road to Woodstock - Chapter 1
I lost my mother in 1969, in one of the hottest and most disagreeable summers on record. The country was mired in protests of the Vietnam War and civil rights unrest rose in magnitude with the heat. While John Lennon and Yoko Ono recorded “Give Peace a Chance” from their Montreal bed-in, Ronald Reagan launched his political career using the Berkeley campus anti-war demonstrations as a target. James Earl Ray pled guilty to the assassination of Dr. Martin Luther King but that single bigoted bullet couldn’t stop the counterculture’s cascade of change. Young people wanted love not hate, and peace not war. They were fed up, disillusioned, and sought solace in drugs and music. It all came together in one moment of muddy grace in Woodstock, New York. Gathered that weekend in 1969 were the beatniks and the bewildered, the lovers and the losers, the unorthodox and the unwanted; all looking for answers and acceptance from a country that had none to give. ----------------------------------------------- PAGE BREAK ------------------------------------------------- MONDAY - AUGUST 11, 1969 Motherless Child Sometimes I feel like a Motherless Child Sometimes I feel like a Motherless Child Sometimes I feel like a Motherless Child And I'm a long Yes, I'm a long way from my home ♮Richie Havens, Woodstock 1969 ---------------------------------------------- PAGE BREAK ------------------------------------------------- CHAPTER ONE Looking back on it now, I remember that the idea to run away came to me fully formed as I stood beside Mama’s coffin in my best dress while neighbors and friends milled past whispering that poor Emma Joy Ryder was now an orphan. Not technically, I wanted to argue, but sensing the time and place weren’t right, I ignored the whispers that clung to the funeral parlor carnations. Sheriff Mosby stood at the other end of the coffin. He was Mama’s friend, and sometimes more, as Mama used to say. Mosby had never been a handsome man, but now with the haggard look of grief pulling at his features, he looked older than his fifty years. Miss Snyder, the county social worker, stood at the back of the room in a brown polka-dot dress with wet circles beneath each armpit. She’d cornered me before the service to tell me Mildred Reamer had graciously agreed to take me on as a foster child and for Mosby to drive me right on over there as soon as the service and reception ended. I knew old lady Reamer. She smelled like Vicks VapoRub and was known to keep a flask hidden in her marigolds while she gardened. I suspected the money she earned from fostering fed her cigarette and gin habit. The packed church held too many people and Miss Shelia sat at the organ pumping out melancholy music that added to the misery of the day. I stayed strong even as Pastor Chapman recited funeral verses from behind the pulpit. Mama and Daddy both were only children of only children so the smothered sobbing throughout the congregation came from friends and neighbors who were like family but not in the ways that mattered. If I had living relatives, then my fate might be different. Mosby sat still and stoic beside me like we’d made a pact to not fall to pieces in front of an audience. The congregation moved as a pack to the fellowship hall when the service ended and the men hauled folding tables out to the shade trees. Crisp white tablecloths that held a faint smell of strong bleach were spread across the scarred wooden tops. Women in our town only knew one way to set things right when something bad happened and it involved baking tins and casserole dishes. The ladies pressed a plate of food on me with the sanction that eating something would make me feel better. I knew it would not. A full stomach is not an eraser of grief. I left the untouched plate behind the church bell and asked Mosby to take me home. When we arrived, we both stood inside the front door for a full five minutes; just taking in the stillness of the house without Mama in it. We walked down the hallway to the kitchen from habit because that’s where Mosby was most comfortable. He walked to the sink and filled a glass of water to pour onto Mama’s potted geranium that had the audacity to sit pertly on the windowsill. “Mosby, I don’t want to live with Mrs. Reamer. She has two other girls living there and they don’t like me.” He set the glass upside down on the dish drainer and turned to face me. “How do you know they don’t like you?” he asked. “Because they wrote it on the wall in the girls’ restroom. Not just me. There’s a whole bunch of us on the cheer team that they don’t like.” “It will be fine. You tend to grow on a person.” “It won’t be fine. I want to find Daddy. He’ll come home and live with me.” “And how do you propose we do that?” I opened my purse and pulled out a folded piece of paper to place on the table and smoothed down the edges. A simple dove-and-guitar symbol advertised three days of music and peace. “Mama always said that he could be found around loud music and loose women. This music festival is being advertised everywhere.” “Emma Joy, you have no way of knowing if Chase will be there.” “I want to go find him,” I said boldly. Mosby took off his hat and rubbed a big hand across his forehead to knead a spot above his left temple. Mosby had long ears. Ears like a beagle pup so he looked better with a hat. “Chase should be the one looking for you. Not the other way around.” “Well that’s not happening and I need him now.” “And your mama needed him for a lot of years too but he took off anyway.” He placed his hat on his head and pulled it low over his eyes. “You go pack a few things and I’ll wait on the front porch.” I listened to his footsteps and the door bumped softly behind him. I’ll show him. I was sixteen and old enough to make my own decisions. I had given him a chance but now I would do it my way. I pulled all the cash out of Mama’s hiding place, bottom of the flour tin and coated in a fine film of white, and threw some clothes into a sad sack of a duffle bag that used to belong to Daddy. I stopped by the door and looked over at Gertrude, the goldfish that had lived longer than any other, swimming totally unaware in her glass bowl. I grabbed the Tupperware cereal container, dumped the corn flakes into the trash, rinsed it out and poured Gertrude into it with some fresh water. I pushed on the lid, until it gave a little burp of a seal then popped the pour spout at the top for air. I wasn’t prepared to bury anything else; Gertrude would have to travel with me. “I’m ready to go,” I told Mosby, stepping out on the porch. He rose from the rocking chair and took the bag from me. “Is this all you need?” he asked. “It isn’t much.” He nodded at the fish. “I see you’re taking Gertrude.” “I’m not taking much because I don’t need much. I can come home anytime and get more. And I’m sure Mrs. Reamer will have a bowl for Gertrude. If not, then I’ll get one tomorrow.” Mosby accepted my responses and locked the front door to hide the key behind a loose board on the porch. Hollyhocks grew against the base of the porch and stood on strong stems with blooms of pink, yellow, and lavender peeking through the porch railing. Painted white rocking chairs and a comfortable porch swing all held blue and white cushions that Mama made on her portable sewing machine. A wicker side table sat between the two rockers and its only purpose was to hold pitchers of iced tea or lemonade depending on the day and the mood. Baskets of cascading purple petunias spilled forth from all four corners and dropped petals that left little lavender stains on the faded gray boards. Mama and I spent a lot of time out here in all seasons. Fanning ourselves in the late summer heat or curling up under a blanket in the early winter months. Mama’s morning routine never varied. She’d wake, perk her coffee, and bring the mug out to the swing where she sat with one leg curled up under her and the other bare foot gently moving the swing back and forth. “What’s going to happen to the house?” I asked quietly. “No decisions have to be made anytime soon,” he said. “I know Carol paid off the mortgage two years ago.” I wanted to dig in my heels and refuse to leave. Grab onto the porch column with both hands and have to be physically removed kicking and screaming. This is what went through my mind even as I straightened my shoulders and stepped from the porch to the sidewalk. I’ll be back, I promised myself. We got in his sheriff’s cruiser and drove the two blocks to Mrs. Reamer’s house. He pulled over to the side of the street and we both looked at a house that had seen better days. The summer heat had already browned the grass and the black mailbox hunched sharply forward. “The mailbox is crooked,” I said. “Trey Thompson backed into it last week delivering groceries.” Mosby moved his big hands from the steering wheel. A trapped fly flung itself again and again into the windshield before finding the open window and making a mad dash for freedom. “I know that you don’t want to do this, but Mrs. Reamer is good with girls. It will be okay.” “You’re not a girl so you have no authority to know that,” I replied. “And you have no authority on not knowing that. You just need to give her a try. That’s all I’m asking,” he said reaching for the door handle. “You don’t have to walk me in.” I pulled my duffle bag from the floor to my lap. “Of course I’ll walk you in.” “No.” A trickle of sweat slid down my back into the elastic of my cotton panties. “I don’t want the other girls seeing me delivered by the sheriff.” He nodded by way of consent and reached across the seat to squeeze my hand hard. “How about I come by tomorrow evening and we’ll go get a bite to eat somewhere? “That will be fine,” I said automatically, even knowing that I wouldn’t be here. I got out of the car and raised a hand in farewell as he pulled away. I stepped behind a dimpled live oak and watched Mosby’s car round the corner. Across the street, a screen door slammed, and my would-be foster sisters slinked down the stairs to faded aluminum chairs set against the side of the house. They argued lightly and laughed raucously as they shared a proffered cigarette most likely from Mrs. Reamer’s stash. I did not like them. I did not want to become them. This was not my future. I secured my duffle bag messenger style and slipped away through the side streets and back alleys. There was no way around the Methodist fellowship hall since it sat smack in the middle of town, but I stayed behind overgrown azalea bushes. The double doors were still propped open as ladies carried empty dishes and covered cake pans back to their cars. I watched as Thelma Jackson paused beneath the shade of the chinaberry tree to hike her slip up under her skirt, and I pushed back further into the azaleas for fear of being seen. Thelma had brought strawberry Jell-O with a can of fruit cocktail dumped in it but it appeared to be going back home untouched. No one wanted Jell-O when the dessert table had been laden down with peach pies, pound cakes, and Mrs. Cash’s delicate lemon iced cookies. My stomach grumbled a little as I had not eaten earlier, and I realized that I would need food on the road, so I watched until Mary McKinney set an almost-empty platter of fried pork chops on the hood of her car while she returned back to the fellowship hall. I left my duffel bag in the azaleas and crept around the vehicles like it was a game of hide-and-seek. My heart raced as I scooped up the pork chops, still wrapped in wax paper, and scurried back to the bushes to grab my bag and hurry on down the road. I continued through the back alleys until I arrived at Eddie’s Esso Station. I planned to hide behind his trash dumpster until the opportunity presented itself to leave this town. The trashcans smelled of soured milk and sweat bees attacked my ankles with a vengeance that almost seemed personal. When Betty Phillips pulled up and parked toward the back of the building to disappear into the ladies room, I saw my chance. She had been my fourth-grade teacher and was known to have sensitive bowels after eating seeds or nuts of any kind. I sprang out from behind the dumpster and jerked open the car door. The keys dangled from the switch. I tossed my duffel bag on the floorboard and set Gertrude in the front seat. “Hey,” a muffled voice said from the back seat. My head struck the door panel for the fright I received. Jacob Phillips sat up rubbing his eyes and yawning wide enough for me to see that he’d lost his front teeth since I had last worked the kindergarten class during Vacation Bible School. “You woke me up,” he said. “Sorry.” My apology was automatic. He looked around, realizing for the first time that he was alone. “Where’s Mama?” “Bathroom.” Jacob scooted forward, his chubby little legs white against his red shorts. “Your mama’s dead,” he said in the blunt way that only the very young and the very old can do without providing offense. “Something bursted in her head,” he added. “Aneurysm.” I supplied him with the word that changed my life. “Did you cry?” I leaned against the doorframe. “Yes.” “I have a sucker.” From his pocket, he extracted a lime lollipop that had been licked and rewrapped. “No thank you.” I glanced toward the restroom. “I bet you would like an Eskimo Bar though,” I said. He looked at my empty hands. “Do you have one?” I pulled my quilted change purse from my bag and unzipped it. “I have a dime,” I said, handing him a coin. I opened the back door and lifted him out. He stood for a second and readjusted his twisted shirt. His brown hair lay matted and wet against one side of his face from sleeping on the vinyl seat. The door of the gas station opened and Gene Hickman exited, shaking a cigarette out of a new Marlboro pack. “Hey, Emma Joy. Jacob.” “Hey, Mr. Hickman.” Jacob and I each raised a hand in a half-wave. My wave was hurried though, a short choppy slice through the air as I sensed the passing of minutes a conversation would require. “Sorry, the missus and I didn’t make it to the funeral. Marilyn’s bunions are giving her problems and she couldn’t get her heels on.” He pulled a silver Zippo lighter from his front shirt pocket and lit his cigarette, taking one long drag before continuing. “Your mama was my daughter’s favorite teacher, you know. Said she never appreciated Shakespeare until she took Mrs. Ryder’s literature class.” I found the smile that I’d used all morning as others related Mama’s love for printed stories. “Thank you, Mr. Hickman. That means a lot to me.” He opened the door of his truck. “You call us if you need anything, you hear.” The truck pulled away with a flurry of dust and I waited until it left my sight before I grabbed Jacob’s shoulders and directed him toward the front door. “Give the dime to Big Ed and tell him what you want,” I said. He pocketed the dime and didn’t look back. “Stay inside the station and wait for your mama,” I called after him. “And tell your mama that I’ll return it soon.” “Okey-dokey,” he said, one hand over his pocket. The returning something didn’t register with him enough for a reply. I jumped in the car, turned the key, and the ‘69 Ford rumbled to life without hesitation. It still had the new car smell that burned the inside of your eyelids in a scratchy way. Mama’s car sat in Bailey’s garage because she’d forgotten to keep a check on the oil and the thing stalled on us, hissing out smoke and fumes in the middle of Main Street last week. I swallowed back the memory and spread out my marked-up map in the seat beside me. Mrs. Phillips had set the emergency brake so I released it, feeling the brake pedal dip under my foot. I slowed at the stop sign to engage my left turn signal and my fingers tightened around the steering wheel. I was scared to go, but even more scared to stay. I fixed my gaze straight ahead and did not look back in the rearview mirror. Woodstock Georgia had been home to me for sixteen years, but I was leaving to go to a town of the same name for a music festival in hopes of finding my tomcatting Daddy and bringing him home. I wasn’t an orphan. I had a father, even if I hadn’t seen him since he went out for Cheez Whiz ten years earlier. And God knows he may not have been much but now that Mama was gone, he was all I had. -
106
Algonkian Pre-event Narrative Enhancement Guide - Opening Hook
Here is the first chapter of Publicity Stunt, which introduces our protagonist, hopefully creates sympathy for her, introduces the setting and tone, and foreshadows conflicts to come. Chapter One “Two eggs, a side of bacon – extra crispy – and a cup of coffee. Black.” The middle-aged man in the sunglasses rubbed his temples and wiped a strand of floppy grey hair out of his face. He shoved the faded plastic menu behind the napkin holder. “How would you like your eggs?” “Over easy.” Abigail jotted down the order on the worn notepad, watching out of the corner of her eyes as he drummed his fingers on the speckled yellow linoleum table. Songs from sweet crooners of the fifties piped through the speakers overhead. In a few hours, the place would be at capacity, and the music would be drowned out by the clatter of dishes and the chatter of customers. But at six A.M., Gil’s Diner was still quiet. She tapped her pen and stuck it behind her ear. “Alright sir, I've got two eggs over easy, a side of crispy bacon and a cup of coffee. Anything else?” He flicked his hand, his gaudy gold ring catching a bit of reflection from the windows. “Just bring the whole pot.” he called after her as she padded towards the kitchen. She pretended not to hear him. After four years in Los Angeles, she knew the type. They came in wearing rumpled mid-priced suits and contempt towards the wait staff written on their faces, then gobbled down their greasy spoon hangover cures and chugged pots of coffee. She grinned and tried to make small talk while they responded with grunts and glares. On the way out the door, they left a poor tip – if they left one at all. These were the same people who were beating her at auditions and moving up the Hollywood ladder while she was stuck waitressing. It wasn't what she had imagined when she left home. Her one-year plan had turned into her five-year plan, and if something didn’t change soon, it would become her ten-year plan. Abigail plunked the brown ceramic mug down in front of him and poured the coffee. An article on his phone that caught her attention. FIVE YEARS WITHOUT CARRIE SUMMERS – WHAT IS ACTOR BRAEDEN WALLACE DOING NOW? As the coffee reached the top of the mug, he slid his sunglasses down his nose – his brown eyes rimmed in red. Definitely hungover. “Cream and sugar.” He was baiting her. She could see it in his oh-so-punchable grin. “I can bring you cream, and there’s packets of sugar right next to you.” He tapped his knuckles against the table. “Leave the pot.” She flashed a honeyed smile – the one she saved for ridiculous requests – and leaned into the sweet, southern accent she otherwise covered up. “Oh, I am so sorry, but I'm not allowed to do that. Don't you worry, I'll be around plenty to keep you topped off.” He shoved the sunglasses back up his nose and turned his head towards the window. Abigail walked back towards the kitchen clutching the pot of coffee. With two write ups this quarter, she couldn’t afford to tell this asshole off, no matter how she was tempted. One of her co-workers - Samira, stood in the kitchen, arms crossed. Samira had been working at the diner for over ten years and had more than her share of customer horror stories. Surprisingly, she wasn’t looking for a way out, but actually enjoyed waitressing - even if it had caused her to go prematurely gray. “Do you want me to take the a-hole at table seven?” Samira asked. “It’s a bit early for you to be in over your head.” Abigail placed the pot of coffee back on the burner. “I can handle this one. Thanks though.” Samira nudged Abigail’s shoulder. “Remember, they’re just insignificant little pricks with nothing better to do. It’s not worth losing your job.” “Alright you two, stop gabbing.” Larry, the cook, pointed his spatula at the women. Melted butter dripped onto the metal counter. Samira grabbed the rag next to her. “Don’t make me clean up after you too, Larry.” “Well don’t make me wait on you.” He scooped scrambled eggs onto the plate and handed it to Abigail. The salty smell of bacon hit her as she walked over to the booth. She suppressed a gag as she set the plate down in front of her hungover customer. “Here you go. Two eggs and a side of bacon. Can I get you anything else?” He looked down at the plate and pursed his lips. “That bacon isn't crispy.” She glanced at the offending food. If the bacon were any crispier, it would shatter. “Oh, I'm so sorry about that, sir. Would you like me to have it remade?” He picked up his fork and pierced the yolk of one of the eggs. It oozed out and covered the bacon. So much for crispy. “Don't bother.” Abigail took a deep breath, keeping her voice pleasant and even. “If there's anything else I can do for you, please let me know.” He picked up his mug and slammed it down on the table. Coffee sloshed onto the table. “More coffee.” She marched to the counter, grabbed the pot of coffee and filled his mug to the brim. “Aren't you going to clean that up for me?” He looked at the pool of coffee with disgust. She reached into her apron pocket and tossed a few napkins on the table. He flicked his finger against the mug, causing more coffee to spill over the top. The man shoved a piece of soggy bacon into his mouth, shoved his sunglasses down his nose and ran his eyes over her body. “You’re too beautiful to be working in a place like this. Why haven’t I seen you on the big screen?” It would be so easy to reach across the table and slap him. Instead, she grabbed his order slip from her pocket and slammed it on the table. “I can take that up whenever you're ready.” The bell over the front door jingled, and in walked a couple of her morning regulars – a pleasant couple of retirees. Before this man could abuse her further, she scurried over to her new customers. When she finished taking their order, the jerk in the suit was gone. Great, she thought, another dine and dash. She went over to the table to collect the dishes and saw the crisp one-hundred-dollar bill. She reminded herself that it was probably a fake, even if it was a very convincing one. Tucked underneath the bill was a listing for an audition later that afternoon. “Gross.” she muttered and shoved it in her pocket. -
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Write to Pitch 2024 - December
Attached please find my answers to the pre-conference seven exercises. Write to Pitch exercises.docx -
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Algonkian Pre-event Narrative Enhancement Guide - Opening Hook
These are the first few pages of Once Upon a Famine, a title destined to be changed, I suspect. It sets the scene in famine-ravaged Salimia. The principal character isn't introduced until chapter 2. I fear this beginning violates most of the guidelines laid out in the readings as well as common sense. But that's why I signed up for this event, to learn. Prologue Once upon a time, in a timeless land, a land called Salimia, there came a great famine. The people suffered and prayed. But a great anarchy had descended on Salimia, and with it war and bloodshed that added to the suffering of the people. Yet still they prayed. And it came to pass that one day their prayers were heard by a great leader far away, a leader of a rich and powerful nation. This leader took pity on the Salimians; he ordered his servants to restore order to that chaotic land and bring hope and food to its starving masses. And thus was a great intervention begun. If only this story were a fairy tale . . . Part One Humanitarians Chapter 1 Victims She didn’t know how long she had been walking. Days certainly, perhaps weeks. Because of the heat, she traveled mostly at night, resting during the hottest part of the day. But some travel by day was necessary because there was little chance of finding something to eat at night. Not that chances were much better during the day. She had wanted to leave their farm as soon as word came of bandits close by. They could go to the city. Some of the other women in the village said there were white men in the city, rich white men who gave food away for free. She had told her husband that they should go there while they were strong and able to make the journey. “If a man has land and animals, he is a man. But if he leaves his land, what is he? No, we must stay here. The rains have been good, the river is full, the animals are strong.” “But the men with guns will come. The women in the village say they are robbing the farmers in the lower valley. If they come, they will take all we have and we will die. We should go where the white men are. They will feed us and protect us.” “Foolish woman. You spend too much time listening to women’s talk. Why would white men give us food? If they have come, it is to rob us as they robbed us before. Better to stay with our land. While we have the land we can feed ourselves.” They had stayed. But the men with guns had come. They killed the goats that gave milk. They killed the ox that pulled the plow. And again she told her husband they must leave. “But I have planted the maize, and although it will be hard without the animals, there will be a good harvest. To leave this place where we can feed ourselves is foolish, woman.” “But they will come back. They will steal the maize and we will have nothing.” “What profit for them to drive the farmers from the land? They need our maize, yes, but they need us to stay, to plant more crops. They will not take everything. They will leave us enough to survive and plant again.” But the men with the guns were not that wise. They had stolen everything. And when her husband tried to fight them, they killed him. And then she had begun the journey, she and the children. But now they had no animals for milk, no maize, nothing. Her stomach ached constantly from emptiness, but she had eaten several days ago. She had happened upon two men by the road, men with guns feasting on a goat they had killed and roasted. They gave her some, an unusual act of charity these days. She had expected them to rape her, but they hadn’t been interested. Perhaps they’d had their fill of that, too. They were of the same tribe that had killed her husband. How long ago, she wondered. Weeks? Years? She couldn’t remember. “Where are you going, woman? It’s not safe to wander around these parts.” She was surprised at the man’s concern. “I heard there was food at Paqsohsa. There was none left where I come from.” “You have no family? No husband? Children?” “All dead.” She didn’t know that this was true. The eldest son had left a few days after her husband was killed. Perhaps he had joined one of the gangs; he was strong and might have become a fighter. But the rest were dead. The eldest daughter had died by the road. The baby weeks ago, after her milk had stopped. And all the rest. She couldn’t remember when and where. They lay scattered along the road, too weak to survive a journey without food. One of the older women in the village had talked long ago of famine. The children die first, because they are weak. Wasn’t that what the old woman had said? But it seemed like a dream, now. All memories of her life before had faded, pushed aside by the quest to find food. “It’s a long way to Paqsohsa. And Baisheed’s men are there.” The man touched his rifle, as if the mere mention of the name meant immediate danger. She had heard Baisheed’s name before, a powerful warlord feared by many of the people of her village. It was said that he would one day kill or enslave all the people of the whole world. But none of the armed men who had looted their village had ever claimed loyalty to him. She wondered how his tribe could be any worse than the others. But it was said they were the most terrible of all. “But if I stay here I will starve. Like my children. And they say there are white men at Paqsohsa who bring food for the needy.” “Yes. I have heard that.” He stared at her for a moment, as if weighing the hopelessness of either option. Then he returned his attention to the fire. There was nothing else to discuss. “Thank you for the meat. God rewards the charitable.” “Yes, God’s will be done. Go with God.” She could tell she was close to Paqsohsa. There were now hundreds of people on the road with her, mostly women. Some still had children with them. Some of the children had survived. But no babies. She hadn’t noticed at first, then had started looking, perhaps hoping to see one nursing at its mother’s breast, to remind her of her own lost child. But there were none. There were no women left with milk to feed them. They walked in silence, without speaking, without crying. Their fate had been decided by God, and there was only to walk to find food or death by the road. Walk until God’s will was revealed. And many dropped by the road to die in silence. But still she walked. And then they saw them spread across the road in front of them. Men with guns, blocking the way to the village. Some of the women were allowed to continue into Paqsohsa, but most were turned away. As she watched, one old woman tried to ignore the gunmen, walk on without permission. A man—no, a boy, without even a beard—shouted at her, but she walked on. He chased her down and clubbed her with his rifle. The old woman fell and did not move. She reached the place where the armed men blocked the road. For a moment she stopped, stood staring at them. Then she tried to proceed. The young one stepped in front of her. “No. There is no place for you here. Go back.” She looked where the old woman had fallen. Her skull had been split open. Blood and brains spread across the road. She left the road and sat down among some others who had been refused. She was very tired now and lay down. “Sleep now.” Did she speak these words or were they spoken to her? She could not tell. She closed her eyes and soon was dreaming of maize-filled fields and laughing children and her husband working, smiling to her from the rich river land. -
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Raymond Carver and Gordon Lish: When Is Editing Excessive?
The dispute over the benefit of the editorial cuts and changes Gordon Lish made to drafts of many Raymond Carver short stories before they were published reminds me of Ezra Pound's substantial deletions to T.S. Eliot’s original version of “The Waste Land.” Pound reduced the original manuscript, which was about 800 lines long, to approximately half its size. The final published version of "The Waste Land" is 434 lines. Eliot thanked Pound and gave him credit for improving the poem. Carver eventually turned against Lish and made his originals public so that readers could compare and judge the versions. The two men had been friends, with Lish a strong advocate for Carver, especially when he was fiction editor of Esquire and when Carver’s stories began appearing in the 1980s, and in the opinion of many revitalized the American short story through what was considered Carver’s minimalist style. When Lish sold his personal papers to the Lilly Library in the 1990s, researchers could compare the Carver and Lish-edited—and published—versions of a number of famous stories. Carver had chosen to republish the “extended” versions of some stories in his later collections to show his vision for the work. Kim Herzinger defines literary minimalism in terms of “equanimity of surface, ‘ordinary’ subjects, recalcitrant narrators and deadpan narratives, slightness of story, and characters who don’t think out loud” and “spareness and cleanness.” Lish also saw a bleakness in the Carver stories, making cuts to emphasize that effect, even changing titles and endings, as well as deleting upbeat statements and paragraphs. Lish gave new titles to more than half of the stories of What We Talk collection, including that of one of Carver’s most famous stories— “What We Talk About When We Talk About Love.” Carver’s original title had been “Beginners,” but Lish’s new title became that of an entire collection. Lish also tightened sentences, changed vocabulary, redid rhythms on a stylistic level. More significant is his focus on toughness, the removal of any indications of Carver’s sympathy for characters. That's probably what bothered Carver most when he included extended versions of Lish-edited stories in later collections. Lish had become more aggressive in his editing as the years of their relationship went on, most likely the reason Carver rebelled. The overriding question for those of us who write stories and longer fictions is when editing helps us fulfill our work and when it turns a draft into someone else’s vision. That’s an issue for anyone who participates in writing groups and workshops and who just shows drafts to friends. From my personal experience, I’m convinced that every writer needs an editor. For one thing, as a writer when we reread our work we get a combination of what we actually did and what we think we did. A good editor can only react to what we did and catch points where we deceived ourselves. Writing initial drafts is a solitary act, but revision is often a collective activity. Even those of us who edit the work of others need someone to do the same for us. Many writers also teach, as Carver did at times during his career. The best teachers and editors grasp what the writer hopes to achieve and helps guide them to realizing that. The limited teachers want others to write like them, the story they would have turned out about the same material. Pound helped Eliot fulfill “The Wasteland.” Lish helped Carver achieve success with his stories, to the point where those stories became models for many others. But it reached a point where Carver thought he had given up control of his vision as a writer.
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