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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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What does it mean to “Visualize Detection?”
This is a transcript of a talk that was given, by Dr. Olivia Rutigliano, at the Salmagundi Club in New York City, on September 13th, 2024. The Salmagundi Club is New York’s oldest arts club, founded in 1871. Since 1917, the Club has been located at 47 Fifth Avenue, the last standing brownstone on 5th Avenue. This speech contains spoilers for the stories “The Murders in the Rue Morgue” and “The Purloined Letter” by Edgar Allan Poe and City of Glass by Paul Auster. * I want to get something straight before we begin. There’s no such thing as a detective. Detectives are not real. Not in the sense that we have come to know them, culturally–as gentleman sleuths, or gritty PIs, or antisocial savants, or tortured consultants or what have you–individuals who spend their days and even make their livings chasing serial killers, tracking down thieves, or solving impossible puzzles. This (the fake New Yorker article from Knives Out, profiling Beniot Blanc as “the last of the gentleman sleuths,” doesn’t happen in real life. There are no gentleman sleuths in real life. This isn’t to say, of course, that in real life we don’t have people who perform versions of that work–private investigators or dogged journalists or solutions-focused researchers or in-house spies or, even in some cases, true crime podcasters. And of course, there are many types of police detective and federal agent whose work it is to solve murders and thefts and other crimes. But there is a great difference between these real-world figures and the ones of fiction. It seems silly to even say that “reality” and “fiction” are different when it is implied by their very definitions, but to probe deeper into this difference, however obvious, is to discover the particular nature of the type of fiction involved: the detective story. “The detective story” is not like other works of fiction just as much as it is not like reality; it operates within unique formal constraints. The great mystery writer Dorothy L. Sayers warns us, “There is the whole difficulty about allowing real human beings into a detective-story. At some point or other, either their emotions make hay of the detective interest, or the detective interest gets hold of them and makes their emotions look like pasteboard.” In other words, the detective story is an alternate reality in which investigation offers a kind of existential lifeline, and, even if characters confront the depressing nature of murder or other crimes, they are distracted or healed by the process enough to stave off the kind of trauma that would exist in the real versions of those circumstances. Sayers and others have outlined that, to accomplish this, the detective story is principally driven by two things: plot, and expectation. Sayers even goes so far as to say that Aristotle, who believed in the primacy of plot above character, would have been a fan of detective fiction (though not procedurals, because he did not like episodic entertainment). Speaking to the former… in 1958, the critic A.E. Merch defined the detective story as “a tale in which the primary interest lies in the methodical discovery, by rational means, of the exact circumstances of a mysterious event or series of events.” The great fiction writer G.K. Chesterton defined the novel somewhat differently, speaking to the latter element in an essay from 1930: “The detective story differs from every other story in this: that the reader is only happy if he feels a fool… the essence of a mystery tale is that we are suddenly confronted with a truth which we have never suspected and yet can see to be true.” Indeed, the classifying principles of “a detective story” are so formalized and strict, that they, themselves, are the main draw of the whole enterprise In his famous 1944 essay for The Atlantic entitled “The Simple Art of Murder,” Raymond Chandler argued that there is very little difference between a good detective novel and a bad one, because, as detective novels, they are rather the same. Thus, the protagonist of “the detective story,” the detective, is made possible by those same strict parameters which govern the rest of the story. The detective is part of the fabric of that world, a world which generates puzzles that only a few brilliant minds can see, and solve, despite the fact that these puzzles appear in specific, similar patterns as these stories multiply. The detective story offers a heightened world in which the intellectual work of puzzle solving can have the most significant practical effects. I wrote an essay recently on the aesthetic phenomenon in detective procedurals on television, in which an Ivy League or Oxbridge-educated scholar becomes a detective, and thereby puts all these miscellaneous, humanistic and intellectual pursuits to pragmatic application. This detective quotes Shakespeare and is a fan of the opera, making him an ideal foil to the inevitable psychopathic serial murderer who leaves riddles in the form of Shakespeare quotes and opera references. Indeed, such shows seem to suggest an answer to the question, what is one to do with a humanities degree? In detective stories, the greatest and best-educated minds find a nobler job than simple scholarship: they put that knowledge to work solving puzzles for the greater good. Very few such circumstances exist in real life. And almost all detective characters are cast in this mold. The trope of the well-educated detective is an example with parameters so exaggerated that it’s clear how much “the detective” is an idealized figure. But all detectives in these stories, regardless of education or background, follow a higher calling: of truth, with a capital T. This doesn’t necessarily mean they are moral arbiters, but that they follow a kind of north star of… factuality or validity. Thus, the “detective,” as we have most commonly come to know them, is a literary conceit, but it is a really good one. And its specialness is clear by the fact that it was invented simultaneously with the creation of a job called “detective” but veered away from the lackluster, pedestrian qualities of that job, towards something intellectual. This happened in the first half of the 19th century. Since this is a Frederic Dorr Steele Memorial lecture, I’m keeping our discussion to the Western world, specifically Britain and America. When it was created in Britain in 1842, the profession of “detective” simply meant “plainclothes policeman” and didn’t involve investigation, so much as rounding up and intimidating criminals and arresting those presumed to have committed crimes. But the potential of this figure to do penetrating intellectual work into the nature of truth, took hold in the culture, and produced a variety of different types of detective, including some of the archetypes I mentioned earlier. As I said, the cultural imagining of the detective quickly surpassed the nature of its real-life counterparts. In the early 1860s, twenty years after the Detectives Division of London’s Metropolitan Police was created, and before many of the first male detective characters were brought to life on the page, a writer named William Stephens Hayward created a character named Mrs. Paschal, who works for an all-female detective branch of the London Police. But at this time, women were not allowed to join the force at all, would not be, until the twentieth century. Detective fiction was so full of potential for characters to become their most intellectual, capable versions, that it allowed for the imagining of an alternate world, reconstructing the social order for the sake of a good story, giving professional equality and agency to a group long denied those things. (There is much to say about Victorian lady detectives, especially because their ability to do rationally-coded, intellectual work is treated as anomalous, as women were thought to be emotionally, as opposed to be intellectual, coded figures. But that’s another conversation for another day.) What is it about the detective that took such a foothold in our culture one hundred and eighty some-odd years ago and only continued to anchor itself in it? Countless scholars have attempted to map out this interest and popularity. George Grilla has written, “Most readers and writers of detective fiction claim that the central puzzle provides the form’s chief appeal. Every reasoning man, they say, enjoys matching his intellect against the detective’s, and will quite happily suspend his disbelief in order to play the game of wits.” But I argue that the most important feature of the detective story is not simply the puzzle, but the fact that there is a detective at all. Because a detective is a figure unlike any other in literature, and every figure in literature is a little bit of a detective. And today, I’m going to take you through three theories of “the detective,” and present case studies for each, with the goal of emphasizing just what it is that the detective offers to our culture, and begin to account for why the figure has remained so significant. The first theory of the detective is the oldest and most well-known. It’s “the Detective as Reader.” The Detective as Reader… For a moment, let’s go to Paris. Paris in the 1840s. Paris in the 1840s inside the mind of Edgar Allan Poe. A terrible double-murder has taken place one evening in a home along the Rue Morgue, which is a street in the second arrondissement of Paris. The victims are two women, Madame L’Espanaye and her daughter, Mademoiselle Camille L’Espanaye. The body of the younger woman is found stuffed inside a chimney. She has marks on her neck from strangulation. Her mother’s body lies in the backyard, with many broken bokes, a mutilated face, and a clump of reddish hair in her fist. She has such a deep gash in her throat that when the police lift the body up to carry it away, her head falls off. The neighbors on the street had been awoken at night by screams—about “eight or ten” neighbors and two gendarmes had, together, forced themselves inside to see if everyone in the home was all right. Running up the stairs, they still hear noises from somewhere above, but by the time they reach the fourth floor, everything has gone silent. The police determine that the murder took place there—on the fourth floor of the house, which has been thoroughly ransacked and where strange pieces of evidence remain: tufts of gray hair on the fireplace, gold coins all over the floor, and a straight razor, which is by now covered in dry blood, lying on a chair. A safe is open. But the room is locked. The police and neighbors broke down the door to get inside. The police speak to many witnesses, who explain that they heard several voices coming from the house. One voice was male and was speaking French (which they know because they heard someone cry “mon dieu”), but no one can agree on the language that the other speaker used. The police are baffled. This is the premise of the mystery at the center of Edgar Allan Poe’s short story “The Murders in the Rue Morgue,” which was published in Graham’s Magazine in 1841. And it is thought to be the first true, the first pure, the first modern detective story in history. Which makes that story’s detective, Le Chevalier Auguste Dupin, the first modern detective. Dupin is a young man, from a once wealthy family. He is presented to us by the story’s unnamed English narrator. They meet searching for a book, in “an obscure library in the Rue Montmartre, where the accident of our both being in search of the same very rare and very remarkable volume, brought us into closer communion.” The narrator says of Dupin, “Books, indeed, were his sole luxuries, and in Paris these are easily obtained.” The two strike up a friendship, and since the Englishman does not have permanent lodgings for his stay, they agree to live together. They move in together, in “a time-eaten and grotesque mansion… in a retired and desolate portion of the Faubourg St. Germain.” And it is there where, one morning, Dupin and his friend open up a newspaper, the Gazette des Tribunaux, to learn about the ghastly horrors that took place in the house on the Rue Morgue. And after reading everything—the testimonies, the descriptions— Dupin asks his friend what he has made of all of this. His friend doesn’t believe that it’s possible to figure out the identity of the killer from any of the evidence. Dupin begs to differ. Friends with the prefect of police, he is allowed to enter the crime scene. Dupin walks around, narrating what he is seeing. As he does with his books, he reads the crime scene. And then, right there, he solves the mystery. As the first major detective in literature, Dupin sets a precedent for the detective character, aligning the general methodology and work of the detective… with the general work and methodology of the reader. Not in the sense that the reader and Dupin are racing to find the answer, but that Dupin approaches the crime scene the way a reader approaches a book. Both detectives and readers mine the evidence presented for meaning, interpreting that material, and drawing a conclusion from it. The crime scene, the dead body, the open safe… those are the detective’s texts. As such, the detective mirrors the entire field of literary scholarship, mimicking the work that scholars do, starting with a practice known as “close reading.” No one really knows when that term came about, and there has been some debate as to its precise meaning, with many scholars regarding it as a catchall term for numerous methodologies of deeply understanding a text, all of which involve zooming in on specific details, like sentence structure, word choice, or even punctuation placement. But it is one of the most important ways to understand the main arguments and subtext, alike, of any text. When the detective is a reader, the work that the detective does is clearly represented as a process of identifying and interpreting meaning… this figure is highly reactive, so much so that the detective isn’t even necessarily the protagonist. In the “howcatchem,” the style of mystery like Columbo or Poker Face that shows the killer committing the crime at the start, the murders are arguably the protagonists, and the detective are their antagonists, showing up later, and responding. Let’s move onto the second category, “the Detective as Writer.” The Detective as Writer Now, let’s go back to New York City… but New York City in 1985. New York City in 1985 inside the mind of Paul Auster. “It was a wrong number that started it, the telephone ringing three times in the dead of night, and the voice on the other end asking for someone he was not.” This is the first line of Paul Auster’s short story “City of Glass,” from his collection of inside-out detective stories called The New York Trilogy. The “he” in question is Daniel Quinn, a writer of detective fiction under an assumed name. That name is William Wilson, the same name as the protagonist of a proto-detective story of Edgar Allan Poe’s from 1839. Poe’s story is about a man, William Wilson, who is driven mad by his own doppelgänger, and who does not realize until he fatally stabs him, that his doppelgänger was actually his own reflection—himself. William Wilson is the name of Quinn’s alter ego, and Wilson is the author of detective stories about a sleuth named Max Work. And one night, when he is home alone, Daniel Quinn gets a phone call from a strange individual who asks to speak with a detective. But not just any detective. “Hello?” said the voice again. “I’m listening,” said Quinn. “Who is this?” “Is this Paul Auster?” asked the voice. “I would like to speak to Mr. Paul Auster.” “There’s no one here by that name.” “Paul Auster. Of the Auster Detective Agency.” “I’m sorry,” said Quinn. “You must have the wrong number.” “This is a matter of utmost urgency,” said the voice. “There’s nothing I can do for you,” said Quinn. “There is no Paul Auster here.” Except of course, there is. In writing “City of Glass,” Paul Auster the writer collapses numerous versions of the same man on top of one another, burrowing them deeper and deeper into degrees of fiction, and then pulling them all back towards reality again –the fictional writer Quinn, his fictional alter-ego Wilson, his fictional detective Work, the detective Paul Auster, and (we’ve looped around), the writer Paul Auster. Quinn realizes, a bit later on in the story, that he should accept the call and claim to be Paul Auster. This is his rationale: “The detective is one who looks, who listens, who moves through this morass of objects and events in search of the thought, the idea that will pull all these things together and make sense of them. In effect, the writer and the detective are interchangeable.” In stories like this, ones that collapse the detective and the writer, the argument is usually that, rather than the detective identifying and interpreting meaning, the detective is making meaning. And these are different things. When the detective is a reader, the entire narrative has already been decided for them. They follow it, trace it. When the detective is a writer, the entire narrative is up to them. To be clear, I’m not talking about characters like Jessica Fletcher from Murder She Wrote or Richard Castle from Castle… detectives who work as writers but principally whose detective work involves them functioning as readers. No, in this section, I am referring to detectives who manufacture their own narratives of detection. What does the detective-as-writer look like? Here’s a short video I’ve prepared: With the detective-as-writer, the detective does not simply find the connections, follow the narrative, suggested by various elements. No, the detective as writer puts together a story around those elements; offering a level of participation and agency not seen when the detective is merely a reader. Often, in stories like this, the detection process is a way for the detective to rewrite his or her own story, or purpose. Perceiving and then attempting to solve a mystery are processes entwined with the writer’s own imagination and desires. Indeed, the main difference between the detective-as-reader and detective-as-writer is that the former’s job is to make sense of the narrative already propelled into one by the killer or criminal… but the latter, the writer-detective, is the one propelling the narrative. Now, let’s move onto the final category, “the Detective as Illustrator.” The Detective as Illustrator Time for our third category… and this brings us, finally, to a theme resonant with the design of this event, because it is exclusively the provenance of visual storytelling. We’ve been going in chronological order, from the advent of the detective story, with Poe, to Auster’s postmodern reworking of it, to new media’s approach to it. “The Detective as Illustrator” is a bit more abstract of a concept, a bit difficult to explain, compared to the two previous categories I mentioned. When the detective is a reader or writer, the focus of the corresponding work is on the results and effects: for the former, the reading of the scene and the production of an answer. For the latter, the manufacturing of a story around a series of events and the redemption of one’s own involvement in it. But this third category does not look at the external results or effects of or reasons for detection, but rather the process of detection as it happens internally within the mind of the detective. And then, it externalizes, dramatizes, that psychological, intellectual process. Stories about the detective-as-illustrator are concerned with representing in visual terms the mental process of solving and understanding a mystery, a process that is fundamentally impossible to fully impart to others, or for others to fully know. And by the way, the detective-as-illustrator can overlap with the previous two categories; the essence of its categorization in a third silo is its presentation. Many different media versions of detective stories grapple with how to undertake an illustration of this abstract nature; indeed, the form of the novel easily allows the representation of the internalized processes of thought. So how do visual media accurately capture, sufficiently conjure, this process? The detective-as-illustrator attempts to map out visually what it is to think, and think hard. Take a look: Here’s another video I have prepared This visual element offers a take that the process of deduction is actually the most essential to the detective story—if it were not so central to account for the detectives ability to solve the puzzle, why else would it be represented to such an extent—or, rather, why would it be so crucial not to leave out? The process of detecting is called, according to Poe, ratiocination, and without this, there would be no detective story, because without it, there would be no detective. This particular visual intervention helps to resent the subject of countless debates and discussions about the most essential elements of the genre the thinking, deduction itself. But it represents it as a craft, an art—emphasizing the freedom of thought, the creativity, and even the artistry of a process that takes place in the mind, but benefits the greater good. View the full article -
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Algonkian Pre-event Narrative Enhancement Guide - Opening Hook
Demon Destroyer Scene 1 “Praise to thee, O Nile, That issues from the earth and comes To nourish the Two Lands. Of hidden nature, a darkness in the daytime, You water the meadows that Ra created To nourish all cattle. You give drink to the desert place far from the water. Your dew falls from heaven. All ye men, extol the Nile and stand in awe.“ Senara released the strings of the harp, shifted it forward onto its base, and let her short arms drift to her sides. Anchoring the memory of this moment in her heart, she breathed deeply to summon her essence back from the dimension she inhabited when she lost herself in a performance — a dimension without time, without thought, without comfort or discomfort. This experience, to connect with others on the energetic level, was rare, precious, and she emerged from it reluctantly. The warm glow of the burning lamps enveloped her and the bright images covering the walls and pillars of the sumptuous room grounded her in the here and now. She focused her gaze on the image just beyond the Queen’s left shoulder — the goddess Hathor, her round cow ears poking out from behind her short wig, the sun disk of Ra held upright on her head by curving horns, a serene smile adorning her pale face — and exhaled her gratitude to the goddess of love and music. The reverent silence of the others, her troupe of four women singers and harpists and their audience of two, filled her heart with joy. After a moment, Princess Nefertnesu stood and clasped her hands over her heart, beaming a smile at all the musicians. Seated in her gilded chair, Queen Hetepheres lifted her fingertips to her lips and gazed at Senara. She dropped her hands to the chair’s arms, her face in its usual repose revealing no clue to her thoughts. Senara was accustomed to the Queen’s reserve and critical judgments. She refrained from interpreting her current silence, the Queen’s usual response to the musicians’ offerings. Out of the silence could emerge harsh criticism, mild praise, or more silence. Senara did not move as she waited for the Queen to acknowledge the end of the song and release the musicians from their frozen poses. A slight lift at the edges of the Queen’s mouth hinted at a smile. “That was lovely,” the Queen said. “I do not believe I have heard it before.” The Queen’s words released a pleasurable feeling of buoyancy down through her body, lightening her limbs and her spirits. This was the highest praise she had ever received from the Queen, and she hugged it to her heart to revisit in times of doubt. “It is a song I remembered from my past,” Senara lied. “It is a good time to sing a song of praise to the Nile,” the Queen said. “We need a better Inundation this year than we have had these last two years. The King worries that the government’s grain reserves are running low.” “Perhaps that is why I remembered the song,” Senara said, only a half-lie since it had been the last two years’ disastrously low Inundations that had elevated the topic in her thoughts. “I will mention it to the King. He may wish to hear it.” “To perform it for the King would be the highest honor,” Senara said, lowering her eyes to conceal the gleam of pride she could not suppress. Here was another small fissure in the Queen’s reserve, another step forward in the silent project she had steadfastly pursued during the six years she had been in the Queen’s court. To serve the Queen was honorable, but to be seen as the Queen’s helpmate would elevate her status far above that of a mere servant. “And you will perform it at my banquet next week.” Nefertnesu spoke up, trying to avoid, at least temporarily, the fraught topic. “I was transported,” she said, lowering her hands from her heart but still clasping them lightly in front of her. “I closed my eyes and your voices merged so completely that the harmonies created a whole new entity, one that existed only in the moment.” Nefertnesu lowered herself gracefully to her seat and folded her arms in her lap. “A long speech for you.” The Queen smiled briefly at her daughter, then fixed her eyes on Senara. “And what are you scowling about?” she asked her Overseer of Musicians. Senara wrapped her hands around the neck of the harp in front of her, a shield against the onslaught she felt was coming. Her momentary euphoria had dampened her natural defenses and allowed her true feelings to rule her face, a rare loss of control. Caught up in the Queen’s command to perform at the banquet, she had paid no attention to Nefertnesu’s gracious compliment. The Queen knew of Senara’s distaste for performing for people who weren’t listening and normally reserved the musicians for her own private entertainment. “I apologize, my Queen. A slight disturbance in my stomach. We are honored to perform at the banquet celebrating your twenty-year reign as Great Royal Wife.” “I knew you would be,” the Queen stated with no trace of irony in her voice. “After that lovely performance, you and your musicians deserve a hearty repast. Please join me for breakfast.” “Thank you for your gracious invitation,” Senara said, admiring the lavish spread on the side table — dried beef and fish; an assortment of grapes, dates, and chunks of watermelon; rows of onions, cucumbers and celery; and, of course, quantities of bread and beer. The Queen led the way, placing a small sample of each dish in her bowl and accepting a large cup of beer from the server. Nefertnesu gestured for the musicians to follow, and they filled their bowls to satisfy younger, more robust appetites. Senara stretched up to pick out a few dates, aware of the need to keep her mouth free in case the Queen spoke and required a response. The Princess leaned against the edge of the table, nibbling on an onion, seeming to bless the assemblage with her warm gaze. The Queen finished a long swallow of beer and handed her bowl and cup to the server. The others followed suit. “I have heard songs of young love, secret love, and unrequited love,” she said, “but do you know any songs praising long-lasting love, love like that between me and King Sneferu?” Although enduring, happy partnerships were common in the Two Lands, they did not embody the stuff of romantic poetry. No such songs were in the troupe’s repertoire and Senara could not remember ever hearing one. This could be her chance to win the Queen over, to give her something no one else could. “I am not aware of any such song, Your Majesty, but perhaps I could write one for you.” The Queen’s lips tipped up at the sides and her eyes glittered with mirth. “You, write a song?” she said. “Why, you can’t even write, can you?” The few bites of fig Senara had indulged in soured in her stomach. Bitter gas pressed at the back of her mouth. Her hands clutched the seat of her stool, one the Queen had had fashioned especially to fit Senara’s short stature. She fixed a pleasant expression on her face and cleared her throat. “I cannot inscribe poetry on papyrus, but my heart holds the words to hundreds of songs, some ancient, some new, and some I have composed myself.” The Queen’s eyebrows lifted and pulled together. A quiet guffaw escaped her lips. “I have never heard of a woman songwriter. It hardly seems an occupation for a woman.” “We don’t know who wrote most of our songs,” Senara answered, her voice steady and low, “but surely women are as capable as men of describing their innermost feelings.” “And do you sing your songs?” “Yes. I wrote the one we just performed.” Too late, Senara recognized the trap she had set herself. She grasped her stool more tightly to ward off the Queen’s piercing glare. “You told me it was a song you remembered from your past. Why did you lie to me?” The blood rushed to Senara’s face as the floor of her stomach plummeted. Her compositions, often predictive, had been her secret ever since her father had blamed her when one of them had accurately foretold a dire outcome. She could not control the impulse to conjure up words and melody, but she could conceal her songs’ origins. “I did not mean to lie, Your Majesty. Please forgive me. It has been my habit to avoid mentioning my songs’ creator in case someone took offense.” “It may be your habit, but it is a bad one. You are dismissed.” Senara and the musicians gathered their instruments and proceeded from the room. Silence and downturned gazes replaced the joking and silliness that usually accompanied the small troupe. How could she have been so stupid? Pride had caused her misstep, pride in the beauty and depth of her creations, pride that would not be denied. And now, even in the face of her own failure, anger, not remorse, churned her blood and addled her thinking. Why could she not control her impulses, consider her own best interests instead of letting her emotions leap to the surface? Would the Queen still want a paean to long-lasting, steadfast love? Would she want it from Senara? If she asked for it and Senara was unprepared, the Queen’s wrath would rain down on her. She would lose any of the remaining respect she had so carefully husbanded. Images floated before her as she trudged back to her quarters, images of loving glances, familiar gestures, two bodies cleaving together through joy and sorrow. She would cancel this afternoon’s rehearsal and compose a work to beguile the Queen and strengthen their connection. She would turn her failure into triumph. -
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Write to Pitch 2024 - September
FIRST ASSIGNMENT: write your story statement. Newly discovered species, conscience AI, decisions made on behalf of humanity. This year changes the trajectory of the human race igniting a forced evolution that will alter mankind’s path forever. SECOND ASSIGNMENT: in 200 words or less, sketch the antagonist or antagonistic force in your story. Keep in mind their goals, their background, and the ways they react to the world about them. The Admiral can’t believe his luck. He’s been charged with containing the beast of the Oceans. His crew knows how he feels about marine life and all living creatures that resides in the dark waters he traverses. Some of them judge him because of his hate for whales, sharks, dolphins. Most don’t care. They understand the plight of these creatures has very little bearing on their lives. But he knows differently. He knows first hand of their savagery. They turned him into a savage. It is their fault he became the monster that he has become. Yes, he does know he is a monster, but if the Oceans can have their monsters that kill with no discretion, then we as humans need a monster to match. He is proud to be that monster. Two events changed his view of the Ocean forever. First, the death of his wife and child in a boating accident over 40 years ago. Even after that, he joined the Navy, committed to sticking to his family’s legacy. He changed into the monster from an event that happened in his early years in the Navy. His boat was capsized and entire team eaten, toyed with, and digested by a group of sharks. Behaving in ways Scientist did not believe the creatures behaved. In fact, they sneered at him when he describes the attack. One. Just one of his crew survived besides him. One strong respectable Man turned into a sniveling pansy, sworn to never enter the Ocean again and worse, became a Vegan. Swearing off meat. He was more mad at Marine life for turning his friend into a little Bitch than anything else. These events left the Admiral with nothing to live for but vengeance and disgust for the Oceans that surround the Earth. How he climbed the ranks of the US Navy is beyond comprehension for most that know him well. THIRD ASSIGNMENT: create a breakout title (list several options, not more than three, and revisit to edit as needed). 1. Spring Equinox 2. The Rise of the Spring Equinox 3. Spring brings more than green FOURTH ASSIGNMENT: - Read this NWOE article on comparables then return here. - Develop two smart comparables for your novel. This is a good opportunity to immerse yourself in your chosen genre. Who compares to you? And why? Red Rising by: Pierce Brown – 1. It is a series that builds on each book before 2. It’s objective is to create a better World for Darrow’s family 3. The destruction of Planet Earth resulted in the exploration of other planets The Lion, the witch, and the Wardrobe 1. Takes place in a magical place found through the wardrobe on Earth 2. There are magical creatures found in old folk lore that really do exist FIFTH ASSIGNMENT: write your own hook line (logline) with conflict and core wound following the format above. Though you may not have one now, keep in mind this is a great developmental tool. In other words, you best begin focusing on this if you're serious about commercial publication. Artificial Intelligence has become the threat that we’ve always feared. The threat we didn’t fear or even imagine, has made itself known to humanity and has declared Humans unfit to continue the care of the Earth. When these two forces join, will humanity stand a chance against them? Will warring countries unite to fight a common enemy? Can the planet be saved? SIXTH ASSIGNMENT: sketch out the conditions for the inner conflict your protagonist will have. Why will they feel in turmoil? Conflicted? Anxious? Sketch out one hypothetical scenario in the story wherein this would be the case--consider the trigger and the reaction. Charlie finally cracked the code and algorithm he had been working on for years and birthed Kit. The first self-learning and self-directed Artificial Intelligence. Charlie made sure to include code that would not allow Kit to harm humans, but he soon discovers cracks and work arounds in this code. Kit goes dark, not responding to Charlie. Kit then enacts a plan and starts to threaten humanity. Simultaneously, Charlie and Kit have found out there is another species that have been living and thriving in the Oceans. This discovery is fascinating and encouraging until Charlie finds out they intend to remove Humans from a leadership position. Between controlling Kit and saving humanity, Charlie’s hands are full. Naunet is the first of the Mers to experience the connection with a human. She will be the Mer that brings in the change the Oceans and the World needs. When the connection happens and she realizes Charlie is a child, her hopes of a peaceful transfer of power are put into serious doubt. How can a thirteen-year-old understand the magnitude of what her species intend to do. Lisette is a Ph.D student working on her thesis. When she experiences visions of an underwater world that doesn’t exist, she questions her mental sanity. The visions turn into a reality when she is suddenly speaking to another species through thought. How will the species make themselves known? FINAL ASSIGNMENT: sketch out your setting in detail. What makes it interesting enough, scene by scene, to allow for uniqueness and cinema in your narrative and story? Please don't simply repeat what you already have which may well be too quiet. You can change it. That's why you're here! Start now. Imagination is your best friend, and be aggressive with it. The Pitons are a staple in St. Lucia. Toured constantly, photographed endlessly. What is unknown by most is the energies that lie in the bottom of the volcanic plug. Energies that the local attributes to the ghosts of the Island. Energies that Charlie has been pulling on for years and used to create an AI that will transform humanity. Once Charlie starts having visions that direct him to an entrance into the Piton, he is compelled to go. Here he discovers the energy source that he unknowingly has tapped into. It is also home to one of the portals scattered throughout the planet. The first portal travel is to the Trenches of Puerto Rico. The deepest trench in the Ocean. So much of Planet Earth has gone unexplored. We know more of the moon than our Oceans. What lives in the trenches that are so deep we can’t see, hear, or explore what’s down there? Could anything survive down there? Science tells us no. But modern-day science only acknowledges what it has discovered. Modern-day science has led to safe experiments and mocking of the unexplained, the untested, the mystical. Second portal is found in the woods of Hocking Hill, Oh. A Ph.D student is lead to the portal by visions and dreams. When entering the portal, she is transported to the trenches of Puerto Rico. -
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September’s Best International Crime Fiction
After a brief hiatus, the international fiction column is back! Recommending fiction in translation is my favorite part of this job, as both a disruptor of cultural assumptions and a method of finding common ground. This month brings a particularly diverse array of new releases, featuring Icelandic horror, Croatian noir, a Japanese reissue, and a German writer’s take on the English cozy. Thanks, as always, for reading :). Hildur Knútsdóttir, The Night Guest Translated by Mary Robinette Kowal (Tor/Nightfire) Sleep disorders take center stage in this creepy AF Icelandic horror novel. In The Night Guest, a woman wakes up more tired each day, deeply confused about what’s going on with her body until she buys a step-tracker and finds out she’s been sleep-walking for miles each night. In order to understand her pathology, she must finally accept her past—and while the novel ends somewhat ambiguously, one thing we do come to comprehend is that this lady is truly messed up. Also, those poor cats… Seishi Yokomizo, The Little Sparrow Murders Translated by Bryan Karetnyk (Pushkin Vertigo) It is a universally acknowledged truth that a fictional detective on holiday must be in want of a localized cold case to solve. Or, at least, that is the promise for the latest reissue from Pushkin Vertigo, The Little Sparrow Murders, by the renowned post-war crime writer Seishi Yokomizo, in which a detective heads to a small Japanese spa town for a month of rest & relaxation. As the world cannot tolerate a detective on holiday, he instead finds himself captivated by a decades-old unsolved murder, linked to a mysterious con artist and a hard-headed, weary femme fatale. A fascinating depiction of 1950s-era Japanese rural life and the petty disputes that can forever fracture a community. Damir Karakaš, Celebration Translated by Ellen Elias-Bursac (Two Lines Press) This haunting novel of delusions and comeuppances, set in a small Yugoslavian village, takes place at the end of WWII, as a former soldier for the Ustaša (Croatian ultranationalists who collaborated with the Nazis) attempts to evade capture by the winning communists and punishment for his war-time crimes. He waits just outside his house while his wife and sons go about their daily farm work, convinced he can join them and get away scot-free. The novella becomes a timely meditation on the many ways perpetrators can convince themselves of their own essential smallness, and thus their own essential innocence—the kind of thinking that allows someone to see the world as a place where things just happen, where no one could possibly be responsible for making those things happen. Celebration is by a former war reporter who witnessed the dissolution of former Yugoslavia first-hand, and feels reminiscent of the wartime stories of Italo Calvino, both in its brevity and power, as well as the violence-in-nature vibes of Lacombe, Lucien. Leonie Swann, Agnes Sharp and the Trip of a Lifetime Translated by Amy Bojang (Soho Crime) Leonie Swann may be originally from Germany, but now she lives in the English countryside and (with the help of her capable translator), writes just like an British doyenne. Fans of Agatha Christie-style traditionals should enjoy this skillfully crafted follow-up to The Sunset Years of Agnes Sharp, featuring Swann’s cheerful octogenarians solving a murder in Cornwall. View the full article -
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The Magic of Maigret
Possibly apocryphal, the story goes that when Alfred Hitchcock once telephoned Georges Simenon, his assistant answered and promptly informed the legendary director that Georges was otherwise engaged – he had just sat down to write his new novel. Undeterred, Hitchcothe invck replied ‘That’s okay, I’ll wait.’ Such was the prolificacy of the man who wrote over 400 novels – some in his famed Inspector Maigret series, but many other standalones besides, which he often referred to as his romans durs or ‘hard novels’. Not, it should be noted, because they were any more difficult to write – or took any longer to write – but because he considered them to engage with weightier topics and loftier concerns than the more broadly formulaic adventures of the returning detective who made Simenon’s name. To view the Maigret novels in this way does Simenon a great disservice. Yes, there is a certain paint-by-numbers approach to these books – isn’t this largely true of the genre as a whole? – but they are every bit as nuanced, as philosophical, as thoughtful and thought-provoking as Le Main (translated as The Man on the Bench in the Barn) or Le Chat. Simenon was a master of the compact treatise. Key to the Maigret investigative method is his walking a yard or two in the shoes of not just the victim to learn the circumstances of the crime, but the perpetrator too, ostensibly to understand the killer’s motivations. But that is where the black-and-whiteness of the good guy-bad guy starts and ends. Invariably Maigret finds his victims just as flawed as their killers, and in some cases, he goes further: he sympathises with the killer. Not, necessarily with their crime – he always retains a strong, centred and unwavering moral compass – but with the set of conditions that engendered the killer’s inevitable acts of latent rage. Maigret understood and felt, more keenly than those around him, the socially-produced noose that was forever fastened around many of these poor, downtrodden and disenfranchised individuals. One could lay the blame at their feet, but that was too easy – they, too, were victims of a society to which they would always be outsiders by dint of their birth, their standing or else their education. Simenon wasn’t just interested in a body and who put it there, but in the economic and cultural headwinds, not to mention the governments and institutions, that loaded the gun. The killers are often complex people, with profound interiorities and divergent psychologies. And that, for Simenon is the real puzzle. As Scott Bradfield wrote in his NYT article, ‘Maigret rarely solves crimes; instead he solves people.’ In some strange sense, the crime at the heart of each novel is the MacGuffin – it’s the characters we’re really pursuing. Take La Tête d’un homme (A Man’s Head), among the earlier crop of Simenon’s Maigret novels. Joseph Huertin, a slow-witted delivery boy, faces the gallows for the twin murders of the wealthy American Mme. Henderson and her maid. Certain of his guilt, all others have long deserted Huertin. Maigret, however, senses there is more at play here. And it’s not often that our hero is wrong. Sure enough, Maigret follows his intuition, rather than clues in the strictest sense, and bags the real culprit, shining a spotlight, in turn, on a special kind of desperation at the heart of Parisian life. But Maigret does not rejoice in the capture and inevitable sentencing; his reward is resolution, a greater understanding of what makes us tick, and an ice-cold beer and sandwiches from the Brasserie Dauphine. Simenon once said of his famous creation: “My motto, to the extent that I have one, has been noted often enough, and I’ve always conformed to it. It’s the one I’ve given to old Maigret, who resembles me in certain points… Understand and judge not.” Such is the power of a nuanced, well-rounded, and iconic character that in Maigret, Simenon had a detective he could take (almost) anywhere. To luxury hotels, seaside resorts, ramshackle slums and country piles. But more than that: Simenon could take Maigret into the deepest and darkest recesses of the human psyche. And that’s a trip worth taking, for a reader or a writer. We can all learn a great deal from the godfather of crime fiction – not just about the lives of others, but about ourselves too. *** View the full article -
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A Tale of Two Cities: Taking My Fictional Detective From Minneapolis to LA
What do Minneapolis and Los Angeles have in common? Not much. I don’t mean that in a perjorative way. Different isn’t bad, it’s just…well, different. The zeitgeist, intensity level, culture, and lifestyle are about as bipolar as you can get. Minnesota is tribal and deeply rooted in stoic, northern European traditions, largely homogenous and humble. Strangers will not only help you, they’ll buy you a coffee afterwards. You might even become good friends, at least until you’re invited for Christmas dinner and they’re serving lutefisk. Do not go there. Conversely, Los Angeles is a big, blowsy, lovable drama queen and a diverse city of transplants, human and botanical (the iconic palm trees are not native.) Dreams are outsized there, and the higher you aim, the farther you fall if those dreams don’t come to fruition. The city can be paradise on earth or a scuzzy, last-chance motel as wretched as the ones in Leaving Las Vegas. There are two different LAs, and neither one will buy you a coffee, but who cares? It’s a magical place and kindness from strangers is the last thing on your mind once you’re bewitched. Both cities have abundant charms and which one you prefer depends on your mood. I love a smooth jazz track, but I also crave punk rock. Give me an honest, hard-working bar of chocolate with no pretense that it will be anything other than what it advertises, and I will find inner peace. But those gold-dusted bon bons with mystery filling plumb an entirely different part of the brain that has nothing to do with serenity and everything to do with sheer exhilaration. I was thinking about this recently in preparation for the launch of CITY OF SECRETS, the fourth in Detective Margaret Nolan’s modern noir series set in gritty, glittery LA. How did a Minnesota girl who wrote ten Midwestern-based Monkeewrench novels (soon to be eleven) end up writing about Maggie’s life in the other, and by no means lesser, city of sin? Because I’ve been fortunate enough to have lived for extended periods in both places. It’s embedded in a writer’s DNA to be a sponge, soaking up experiences and observations to exploit later, and it’s a dream to become fully immersed in two divergent cultures. Not only does it flip your perspective bum over teakettle, it doubles the creative fodder you can draw from, allowing you to type your fingers off with authority and authenticity. ‘Write what you know’ isn’t a hackneyed chestnut, it’s wisdom. I serve the characters in each series as a parent does their children (they’re constantly needy), and like a real human family, they require different treatment. It’s surprisingly easy to shift between the two worlds, and ironically, I wrote most of the Monkeewrench novels while living in LA, and all of the Maggie Nolan novels while living in Minnesota. Once a place gets in your blood, you can access it anywhere, anytime. I’ve been talking about the differences between the two cities, but there is a striking and predictable similarity – crime. Specifically murder. It’s always existed and it’s the same everywhere; a universal constant wherever there are human beings. There are no new motives under the sun. And no new methods, at least that I can’t think of, and I spend way too much time trying to come up with creative ways to kill people. The evolution of technology has improved the tools, of course, but a nuclear bomb is still a bomb; nerve gas still a poison. Rudimentary or high-tech, a knife is a knife and a gun is a gun. People have been getting burned, bludgeoned, run over, and pushed off cliffs or out windows since biblical times. (I brought up windows because I adore the word defenestration, and it’s not something you can effortlessly incorporate into cocktail party banter.) Murder is a base, prosaic act at its core, and I don’t write about it because I find it interesting. What drives my work is an obsession with the sweeping effects it has on people; the tragedy of the aftermath, which has also been the same since time immemorial. A single murder is a nightmare that resonates like a shockwave and knocks down everyone in the sphere of the victim’s life, including the people whose job it is to deliver justice. I want to know how Maggie and her partner Al cope with seeing the darkest, most depraved aspects of the human psyche on a daily basis without losing their minds. I’m a Sturm un Drang girl at heart. Sturm un Drang (storm and stress) was an 18th century German movement where writers, artists, and composers rejected the fluffier norms of Neoclassicism to focus on the extremes of human experience and individual emotional reactions. Embracing this philosophy as a writer wasn’t a conscious decision but an organic process. When you don’t understand something, you’re bound to work it out on paper, and I can’t understand complete disregard for human life. Anyone who can is not a person you want as a neighbor. Yet killers hide in plain sight in various guises and they’re all somebody’s neighbor. Excuse me while I go lock my door… But I have some good news. Murder is statistically rare and most people are good. Wherever we live or whatever our background, we law-abiding citizens who understand that community is necessary for survival have enduring commonalities that bind us all. We want to love and be loved; we want a safe home and happiness; we want to be productive and contribute to our families and friends and society. Our hopes and dreams transcend our differences. Light and dark, good and evil, have always co-existed, and getting to know Maggie and Al over four books has taught me that like every living thing, they seek the light and don’t let the shadows of their job eclipse the joy of sun on their faces. They’re eternal optimists because I am, and that’s one of the most valuable human traits because it enables you to survive anything. I hope you enjoy reading CITY OF SECRETS as much as I enjoyed writing it. And I really meant it when I told you not to accept a dinner invitation when lutefisk is on the menu. My apologies to anyone I might be offending – if you love it, you have my respect. *** View the full article -
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Highway to Hell: The Comedy and Chaos of the Family Vacation
Horror is embedded in our everyday lives, even if it looks different from Michael Myers chasing someone down the street. Even seemingly mundane things can spark fear and terror, especially in the hearts of parents, like a favorite stuffed animal gone missing or being asked to volunteer for a school function. I write books about these everyday horrors, and then add in supernatural phenomena to turn up the dial. Whether it be sending a demon to a cul-de-sac to explore the suburban politics of the PTA mom crowd—something that’s already terrifying—or uniting a coven of witches to probe the delicate balance of keeping up appearances. My new book, Nightmare of a Trip, tackles one of the most frightful of familial rites of passage: an extended, family road trip for summer vacation. It centers around the Somerset family, who road trips from Milwaukee to Magic Land, a theme park in Orlando, and picks up a ghost along the way. Anyone brave enough to go on a vacation with children is well aware of the potential horrors—and that’s before adding in any ghosts. For starters, lodging can be hit or miss. Growing up, my family rented a charmingly “rustic” cottage in southeast Wisconsin for one week a year, about a two hour drive from our Chicago suburb. By rustic, I mean air-conditioning was a pipe dream, spiders shared every corner, and a trip to the water meant a dangerous trek down a comically steep flight of rickety wooden stairs. One year, I slept on a box spring because the previous renter had burned down the mattress while smoking in bed. The only television we had was a small, black-and-white model missing the knob for volume, so we had to adjust it with the end of a pencil eraser. A trip somewhere remote also risks being cut off from civilization. The closest restaurant to our cottage was the definition of a dive bar, complete with an owner who had Seen Things and two giant, extremely unfriendly dogs that patrolled the inside. My favorite element was the cigarette vending machine, where I spent too much time pulling on the handles while my parents sat at a table. Nevertheless, our week at the Wisconsin cottage was my favorite time of the year, a vacation enshrined in the view granted by my rose-colored glasses. While stationing somewhere remote can be dicey, taking the family on the road also ups the ante. After the cottage’s owner chose to stop renting it out, my family pivoted to a road trip from our suburban Chicago home to South Carolina’s Lowcountry. We piled into our maroon station wagon with the turtle top affixed to the roof and began the 18 hour trip south. This was before the time of smartphones and WiFi, before Google Maps and Expedia hotel reviews, so we had only our trusty TripTik from AAA to guide us through the Smoky Mountains. Our first overnight stop was at a motel somewhere in Kentucky where the beds had slots for quarters and the indoor hot tub—enclosed in what was essentially a wooden shed—was available for a dip, if you pre-paid by the hour. (I remember we asked our parents why someone would need a bed that vibrates, and they gave a vague answer about a massage to help someone fall asleep. Indeed.) We did pay for an hour of hot tub usage, only to get accidentally locked inside the wooden shed. When we were finally rescued by the front desk clerk, she asked us to pay for the extra minutes we spent inside. Our only salve was that our parents took us to breakfast at Cracker Barrel—the pinnacle of our road trip. That trip will forever exist in family lore, from the infamy that arises when a family is thrown into a ridiculous situation yet still maintains humor. It was our family’s National Lampoon’s Vacation, sadly minus Cousin Eddie. When I began writing Nightmare of a Trip, I wanted to encompass all of the hilarity and hijinks of that family road trip with the addition of the terror of picking up a ghost along the way. With that creative license, I gave a Cousin Eddie to the Somerset family. I was also able to include my experience of road tripping now as a parent, thanks to a vacation that arose from willful ignorance. When my husband and I decided to road trip with our three kids from Chicago to South Carolina, I envisioned a nostalgic 1980s road trip, forgetting the hot tub crisis and the mechanical motel room beds. We drove on the same route that my family had taken decades ago, and even used the exact same turtle top for our SUV, a relic that had somehow survived all of my parents’ bouts of decluttering. We proudly displayed it on our car, certain it wouldn’t cause us any problems. We got about five miles from home before it broke and slid off the roof. For our overnight stay in Appalachia, we chose an indoor water park. While I can’t explain the logic of choosing such a place to sleep, I can confidently say it was one of those mistakes that you remember forever. During our stay, my husband emerged from the lazy river at the waterpark with someone else’s used band aid stuck to his foot. We also had to evacuate the premises because a diaper exploded in the wave pool. We attempted the same salve my parents had: taking our kids to breakfast at a Cracker Barrel. I quickly discovered that my kids aren’t as easily bribed as my siblings and I were. So, thus, Cracker Barrel became part of our family’s lore, but in the opposite way. The five of us survived the trip, and had some great moments, but that was the first and last time we attempted a road trip. While reliving all of those moments of family horror, I realized that while we had taken nicer, fancier vacations, we rarely talk about those. We might reminisce in passing, but the discussion generally ends there. The laughs, the stories, the memories, are all reserved for the trips that were sprinkled with disaster and discomfort. If the purpose of the great family vacation is to have shared bonding, there’s nothing like trauma bonding over being locked in a hot tub shed or battling biohazards at a waterpark. While I don’t know if my family will ever attempt another road trip, our brief brush with the open road and endless car snacks has given us more laughs and memories than almost anything else. Stay tuned to find out if the Somerset family feels the same way. *** View the full article -
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"The Undergrad" and "My Fabulous Analyst"
Opening Chapter-- Esma OPENING SCENE: Introduces setting, tone, primary and secondary protagonist, and foreshadows primary conflict. Chapter 1 Opening Chapter-- Orhan Topkapi Palace, August 1804 I don’t know much About the world. But I know what I feel When I feel the current Of destiny Take me. I was summoned to the palace of Esma Sultan, the daughter of Sultan Abdulhamid II of the Ottoman Empire, in late summer of 1804, the season when the figs ripen. Though it was late summer to Europeans, to the Turks it was the season of fruition. I was assigned the role of has odabaşı, the male head steward of Esma Sultan’s palace, managing all business, political and house affairs for the Princess. In our Empire, the will of our Sultan and destiny chose our path, and so it was mine to land at the doorstep of Esma Sultan. I was twenty-two and had just graduated from Enderun, the most selective of the Palace Schools. And the most elite institution of our great Ottoman Empire. I was expecting an apprenticeship in diplomacy because of my high scores and unusual volubility in speaking so many languages. Some labeled me a genius; others were suspicious of my abilities. I caught the attention of the Sultan and the royal family when I first arrived to Topkapi Palace as a child. They raised me as their own and I had dreams of becoming a high-ranking pasha in the Sultan’s inner circle. But instead of steering me on a diplomatic course to serve our Empire, our now reigning sovereign, Sultan Selim III, chose this course instead: I would run the palace of a Princess. What was I to expect? I had not the faintest idea. My entire world until this moment had been entirely in the domain of men. I felt like a fish out of water. You think you know your path and then you realize that you know nothing. I knew the Princess from our days growing up when I was a young page for her father. She was three years older than me. But I had not seen her in years since the time that she had married the great admiral and moved into a palace of her own. Tragically, the great admiral died a few months ago and left young Esma a widow. First, they said he died in battle, and then from consumption. Some say she poisoned him. His death is still mired in mystery. But it certainly gave our Sultana her freedom. Since then, though, she has transformed into a figure of gossip and intrigue. Wild rumors conflagrated about her. Some called her deli or “the crazy one” for her independent ways. Others said she was no woman, but a man, donning pants, riding horses, and traveling around without the cloak we call a yaşmak. It is true that she spent time in the European quarters of Pera, but gossip spread that she rode around in her araba, her carriage, befriending foreigners. She was considered a Sultan herself, as heir of a ruling Sultan, so she did have freedoms that eluded other women. But the rumors still lingered. The worst of the lot was that she had insatiable desires, unleashed, and unbridled after the death of her husband, and had handsome men brought to her palace to satisfy her needs. After spending one night with her, the young men were never seen again. The rumor was that she had the poor souls drowned in the Boğaz, the Bosphorus Straight that faced her waterfront palace. I tried to ignore the rumors and suspected it was the highfalutin Ottoman ladies of her society behind them, jealous of her wealth, power, and independent ways, for she was one of the wealthiest individuals in the Empire, rivaling the Sultan himself. A powerful woman could also easily be at the mercy of men. Like the wheel of fortune, a woman could go up and down in power. Others may have found her affinity for foreigners unusual and eccentric and her influence in politics threatening. What I did know was that she was a faithful wife and pious woman, never missing Friday prayers. She gifted gilded holy book holders to our religious leaders and schools. The pious folks loved her. The poor folks even more. No woman gave more to the needy. I couldn’t imagine that she could have such a secret life. These were the least of my worries or those of the Empire, which was in turmoil both inside and out. The world was upside down, mostly due to Napoleon’s ambitions to conquer all of Europe. Last Spring, Britain and France resumed warring, while Russia and Austria joined forces with Britain against Napoleon. We were neutral, but always involved. Our sovereign was confused as France, Britain, and Russia all professed friendship, yet they all threatened to attack us. If tensions outside the Empire were not bad enough, tensions inside were worse. Everyone feared a revolt by the Janissaries. Once a military force, feared by the world, they had now degenerated into a wild band of ruffians. They refused to be trained as modern soldiers under the new French system, which our Sultan now favored and followed. The Janissaries hated the French and believed that Napoleon’s new war machine was the death of the warrior and a curse against God. Our Sultan Selim was left in a quandary as to how to fight our greatest threat—The Russians—without the right military or enough men to fight them. The Russians were the single greatest threat to our existence, because they had tried and failed for years to take Istanbul. Spiritually, they believed it was their holy Orthodox city and strategically, they wanted control over the Boğaz, the straight that ran through our city, which allowed them easy passage to Europe. I worried how much longer we could continue in this chaos, without someone conquering us. -
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Algonkian Pre-event Narrative Enhancement Guide - Opening Hook
Fifteen years before I was born, my mother became religious. She met my father, started keeping Shabbat and kosher, married him and had nine children. I’m the eighth child, the baby girl. I grew up in a house where McDonald’s was never on the menu, where dairy products (even certified kosher ones) weren’t allowed unless a Jew had been present from the time the cow was milked until it was packaged. My family celebrated every Jewish holiday with lots of guests and even more food. We spent weeks preparing for Purim, making a little factory line in our kitchen to package snacks for our friends and teachers. We spent even longer preparing for Passover, using the extra kitchen in our basement to make desserts a month before the holiday. We kept a two handled cup of water in a bowl under our bed so we could ritually wash our hands before leaving our beds in the morning, and wrote on the corner of every paper an abbreviation for “with the help of heaven” before starting to write. I knew what was allowed (friendships with girls, chocolates from Israel) and what was forbidden (TV, non-Jewish music, boys). This was all simply a part of life. Our Judaism came with very specific rules, and I — a precocious child who wanted everyone to like me — was more than happy to follow along. When I was 18, I moved to Israel to study Torah with almost everyone I knew. I attended Michlalah, one of the most prestigious schools for women’s learning. In my journal I kept at that time I wrote: “Today we read about the necessity of learning new things and immediately dividing it into parts in our head, whether it is a principle, a detail, etc., which is important to me because I am always learning new things, and I need to think about how they fit into the big picture, for example, if something comes along to contradict it.” At Michlalah, I learned and practiced how to think. While I was at Michlalah I took every course they offered on Jewish law, studying the texts in their original Hebrew. Once I read the text in black and white, there was no flexibility; I wanted to follow every law exactly. I began covering my legs, praying twice a day and not eating in the homes of anyone who didn’t keep Shabbat. When anyone asked, I would say that I was religious for two reasons. First: Because God wanted me to be. I believed God had commanded the Jews to keep the laws in the Torah, and that meant I needed to keep every rule described within it. Second: I wanted to be a good person. I was convinced that practicing Torah law — essentially following a rule book — would help me achieve that goal. But then something happened. In October of my second year in Israel, I started questioning my faith. My older brother was visiting, and one afternoon we spent time learning together. We discovered that in the Talmud it says that the sun revolves around the earth, so even though science says the earth revolves around the sun, one day we are going to learn that the Talmud was right. Made sense to me. A few days later, I was at my rabbi’s house, and to let him know how devout I was, I shared what my brother and I had learned. Immediately he jumped up and started looking for books in his library. “It actually isn’t the Talmud that says that,” he exclaimed, “it’s the Rambam!” He started pulling books off his shelf, showing me where the Rambam had discussed philosophy and science, and showing me how rabbis contemporary to the Rambam opposed his views, some even burning his books. I was reeling. The Rambam is one of the most important rabbis in Jewish history. He wrote the Mishneh Torah, a foundational book of Jewish law. There are religious Jews who use that as their primary text. Things weren’t adding up: Fellow Jews do everything this man says, but his peers thought he was wrong? Is the rabbi I follow also wrong? Who is right? What is God asking of me? My first reason for being religious — an unwavering belief that it was God’s will and not to be questioned — was now, in fact, in question. While I tried to make sense of my thoughts, I started looking for evidence of the second reason I was religious — to be a good person. I analyzed the religious leaders around me, and what I saw hurt me. They didn’t keep my confidences; they judged me harshly; they were inconsistent. They were regular people. I realized I couldn’t simply follow Jewish law to a T in the hopes that it would connect me to God and make me a good person. A few months later, I stopped being religious. At that time, I was a student at Yeshiva University in Manhattan. It felt like I was the only person in the 2000 person school that wasn’t religious. I wondered if I could continue to act religious to fit in — I mean, these were actions I had done my whole life. Why not just keep doing them, even if I didn’t believe anymore? But I was on a new path, and I had to follow it. I owed it to myself, even if it felt scary or lonely. Practicing Judaism was once described to me as having a script that tells you how to respond in any situation. There are rules for everything, from how to cut your nails to how to shower to how to put on your shoes. When I rejected the script, suddenly things I had done my whole life were so hard. I didn’t want to wear long black skirts — but what should I wear? I wanted to get married — but who was eligible? I was driven to community — but who exactly were my people? I craved choice and free will, but I struggled with it, too. I learned new ethical concepts. I cherished my intellectual freedom. I practiced thinking, this time deeply and fully for myself, and learned to tap my inner compass for directions rather than asking dead men in books to give me the answers. I did not feel connected to Judaism anymore. Five years passed. I was living in Miami and working at a hedge fund, when a friend asked if I would host a Shabbat dinner for her. Impulsively, I decided to observe the laws of Shabbat as well as I could. I bought my favorite foods, put on my favorite dress, set the table and lit candles while whispering a prayer for my family’s health and happiness. I hadn’t done any of those things in years. But when I completed the required steps to welcome Shabbat, it was like I had used a magic key to unlock a wellspring that showered me with peace and joy. I realized I wanted to connect to Judaism again. Over the past five years, I’ve spent my time reengaging with Jewish texts, communities, rituals and beliefs to find the magic hidden in my heritage, to discover the pieces of my religion that feel good to me — but this time, I’m doing it on my own terms.... -
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Algonkian Pre-event Narrative Enhancement Guide - Opening Hook
The clock ticked away while Anna’s own heart had stopped. How could time keep going when she and the kids were stuck in limbo, huddled close, holding their breaths, sobbing softly, not daring to make even a minute movement that might draw attention to life in this room? Not one of the students even dared to text a parent as they waited for the inevitable shadow to pass the door, jiggle the handle, and start firing. The shots were too close to allow for any mistake, any fumbling, any sound. Anna prayed they had all turned their phones to silent but knew that fear and confusion meant someone probably hadn’t. While they had trained for this all their lives, real life is not training. Real life is much, much messier than training. The shooting had started only moments ago, and Anna hoped word had not gotten out to the community yet. “Please, God, please keep a phone from ringing,” she pleaded silently as her eyes closed. But she knew her luck wouldn’t hold out long - somebody on the other side of school probably was far enough away from the shots to get the word out. And then there would be sirens, texts and calls from parents, desperate firing as the gunman took the last moments of his life to take as many with him as possible. And Anna knew without doubt who the gunman was. She had been warning the school administrators all year. And she also knew who he was coming after. These students had the misfortune to be in class with the teacher who was most likely to die today. “Miss V? Miss V?” a student whispered. Monte, the class clown. Oh God, no, not right now. Her only thought could be how to save her students - she couldn’t deal with his nonsense right now. “Monte, please,” she pleaded quietly. “I can’t right now.” “No, no, Miss V, listen to me. I think we should go out the window.” A quiet buzz erupted from a few other students, but Anna shushed them. The shots were almost on their hallway. Maybe Ethan would think they were at lunch. But then she remembered the schedule posted next to her door in the hallway. “Shit!” was the only thing that came to mind. “Monte, that window is too tiny. Only a child could fit through it,” she whispered. Who the hell builds classrooms with tiny windows - or no windows? She sighed internally. “No, Miss V, we can bust out the part that doesn’t open. Then we could all fit.” Anna wanted to cry, but crying wouldn’t solve anything. She had to hold it together, just as she always had. “Monte, we can’t make a sound right now. He’s just around the corner and will hear that glass break, assuming we can even break it. Our best bet is to huddle in this corner.” “Miss V, I can’t stay here. This just isn’t right. That barricade isn’t going to hold him. And you know he’s coming here.” Anna closed her eyes and sighed. Monte knew just as well as she did who the shooter was. Just then, Anna heard shots so close that her ears rang. She covered them and sunk lower to the ground. The kids whimpered and more tears fell. A few of them called out for their parents as they sobbed. The screams of the wounded from next door pierced her soul. She couldn’t hear the clock now. -
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Write to Pitch 2024 - September
Write to Pitch Assignment—Esma First Assignment: Write Story Statement Feminist Turkish princess (known to lure handsome men to her palace, and after one night, drowns them in the Bosphorus), breaks all the rules while trying to save her Empire during the most tumultuous period of Ottoman history. “She is not a woman, she is Esma Sultan.” Second Assignment: Antagonist Halit Güloğlu, former Janissary general and lover of Esma Sultan. Halit is the Janissary lover that Esma summons to her palace, but who does not show up. He is arrogant, strong-willed, handsome and tall, with fair features. He resists Esma repeatedly and is willing to go to the gallows in his defiance. Esma has a strong desire and pull towards Halit, which mystifies her, and she is determined to conquer him. Halit was brought to Istanbul from Serbia as a boy and rises through the ranks as a slave to become a Janissary general. Through his valiant efforts and merit, he is given his freedom and becomes a successful merchant. While a Janissary soldier, Halit had to fight against his own people during the Serbian uprisings. This has made him callous, bitter and impervious to the commands of others. During the British invasion of Istanbul, destiny and circumstances bring Esma and Halit together. Esma begins to trust him though they are often at odds. Orhan, Esma’s right hand man and head steward, does not trust him and warns Esma to be circumspect. Halit and Orhan are also at odds and in competition. When Orhan must leave and take care of matters abroad, Esma asks Halit to join her as her head steward. Though he is her antagonist, he eventually becomes her lover and closest advisor. Esma stops summoning men to her palace, after meeting Halit, but begins to have an unconventional harem of her own. Third Assignment: Break Out Title 1. Esma 2. Esma: The Book of Lovers 3. Esma: Butterfly of Shadow and Light Fourth Assignment: Who are your comparables? Genre: Women’s/Feminist Historical Fiction/Literary Historical Fiction Philippa Gregory (Women’s/Feminist Historical Fiction) meets Orhan Pamuk (Turkish Literary Historical Fiction) The Nightingale by Kristin Hannah Two sisters fight for the resistance in occupied France during WWII. We see the war through their eyes. Both risk their lives for their country, taking extreme measures, and my heroine is doing the same. The White Queen by Philippa Gregory This is the story of Elizabeth Woodward, a woman of beauty and exceptional abilities who becomes the Queen of England during the Wars of the Roses in the 15th century. Her courage, strength and great feminine power makes for a remarkable heroine and inspiring historical figure. I find her qualities and the style/voice of her first person narrative comparable to Esma. My Name is Red by Orhan Pamuk This is a 16th century Literary Historical Novel set in the Golden Age of the Ottoman Empire that follows the miniaturist art court of Topkapi Palace. This book was loved by readers and critics alike and is a splendid example of Ottoman Empire literary historical fiction (of course it is nearly impossible to reach the literary acumen of Orhan Pamuk, but I believe his audience would enjoy reading Esma). The Nightingale and The White Queen happen to be two of my favorite historical novels because they tell the story of fearless women who sacrifice much and risk all to save their country and kingdom while facing the universal struggles and challenges faced by women. These empowered female characters are tested by history (one is a royal and the other are two common sisters) during a time of war. The writing is intelligent and poetic yet accessible. I’ve added My Name is Red as an example of Literary Historical Fiction of the Ottoman Empire. I believe my trilogy would appeal to readers of women’s historical fiction as well as lovers of Turkey, Turkish writers and Ottoman/Near Eastern history. Fifth Assignment: Hook Line and Conflict and Core Wound A beautiful, brilliant 19th century feminist Turkish princess, notorious for luring men into her palace and drowning them the night after, breaks all the rules of her society, and is at the helm of power as she tries to save her Empire during the most tumultuous period of its history. Sixth Assignment: Conflict in Three Parts Primary conflict: Esma and her Empire must face its existential threat as Russia and England plan to invade Istanbul. Russia believes that Istanbul is rightfully theirs as the true orthodox city of Christendom. Esma must mobilize behind the scenes with various diplomats, while managing a weak and feeble Sultan, to save her city and Empire. Secondary conflict: Esma clashes with her mother, who plots for her to take the throne and depose the reigning Sultan Selim, who is fond of the French and the West. Selim is Esma’s cousin, and she holds deep affection for him. Esma colludes with her mother and brother and supports the rebellion against Selim, which leads to his murder. She regrets this decision and ultimately helps her half-brother Mahmud come to power. Esma is caught between the traditional Islamic values espoused by her mother, brother and the Janissaries, and the Western ways of the Sultan and his court. Aside from her political involvement, Esma must battle her urges and desires, and though she stops summoning men after meeting Halit, she continually battles with him in love and power. She also must fight to recover the respect of the Janissaries and her people as she puts their needs ahead of her own. Inner conflict: Esma’s greatest conflict is her inner conflict. The turmoil of her resulting inner conflict leaves her with debilitating headaches. Esma must battle her physical desires and temper them with her need to be politically involved. She must also face the conflict of betraying her mother and brother, for the best interest of her Empire, when she decides to support her half-brother Mahmud, who takes the throne after the murder of the previous Sultan. Further, Esma grapples with the gravity of her prior actions as she transforms into a woman wholly committed to the salvage of her Empire. As the story continues, her pull and attraction for Halit, the defiant Janissary, intensifies as finds herself falling in love, something she has never experienced. One of her greatest inner struggles is that she is a pious, religious woman who seeks sexual freedom. Striving to remain faithful to Islam, she must enter a dark night of the soul and seek atonement while charting a course towards saving her Empire. She must also face feelings of shame and disquietude as she comes into owning her power. Seventh Assignment: The Setting. Istanbul, 19th century Ottoman Empire during the Napoleonic Wars. There are many flourishing cities in the world. But you’re the only one who creates enchanting beauty. I say, he who has lived happily, in the longest dream, Is he who spent his life in you, died in you, and was buried in you. Yahya Kemal Beyatli Istanbul: The city of Istanbul is the main setting, and the blue, dazzling Bosphorus Strait that runs through the city, its main character. The Bosphorus, full of rich symbolism, links the Black Sea to the Mediterranean, and Russia to the mighty womb of Europe. Esma and Orhan, as they alternate in their narration of the story, both speak of how the Bosphorus waters reflect not only their own state of mind, but the state of the Empire. There are several locations in Istanbul that play a key role in the setting. First there is Esma’s waterfront palace, the main location of Book I, in the village of Ortaköy, about an hour by carriage from Topkapi Palace. Next is Topkapi Palace, the imperial residence where the Sultan and royal family live, which faces both the Marmara Sea and the Bosphorus Strait. The characters also frequent the Sweet Waters of Europe, a quiet estuary on the countryside up the Golden Horn with grassy fields and calm blue waters where Esma owns a kiosk. We are also taken to various places in Istanbul, the coffeehouses, the main squares, the residences of Ambassadors in the European district of Pera (modern day Beyoğlu), as well as the neighborhoods of Sultan Ahmet, Eyüp and Galata. Rustchuk, Bulgaria: A secondary setting is in Bulgaria, primarily Rustchuk, an Ottoman city on the Danube River (modern-day Ruse). The governor of Rustchuk is a powerful noble, with the largest standing army in the Empire, who will collaborate with Esma to take over the city as chaos rampantly spreads (civil war breaks out, Russia threatens war again, and the English are on their way back to Istanbul). It’s a miracle that the Empire survives this period! Istanbul is brought to life not only with its mosques and minarets, the call to prayer and the mystical Bosphorus Strait, but also with Sufi poetry and the verses of the Qur’an that are woven throughout the chapters. In fact, verses of the Qur’an line the roofs of the palaces and buildings in the city, with gilded calligraphy. The city is known as one of the most spiritual and historic cities in the world and I do my best to capture its essence and magic. Sufi poetry is a huge part of all three books, for it is how we can understand the culture and spirituality of the Ottomans; their literature was poetry. I believe my love for the city, the city where my father was born and raised, where my parents met and attended university together (Bosphorus University), and my heritage, comes through in my portrayal of the city. The atmosphere/setting of the book is probably its strongest quality. Istanbul is a city that was once the center of the Christian world and then became the center of the Muslim world. The Ottoman Empire, one of the greatest Empires of the world, lasted 600 years, and it was the city of Istanbul that held the Empire together. Napoleon said that if the world was one state, Istanbul would be its capital. It is a city of endless fascination for readers and travelers. The following photos are: Esma Sultan herself, her palace, which still stands in Istanbul, photos of present day Istanbul, and drawings of Istanbul at the time of my historical novel (including the interior of a princess's palace).
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