October 29th, 2009
from The Age of Innocence
“What is that intriguing display to the right of your tea-cup? Is it a storyboard? Is that how you know that your characters will be allowed three sex scenes–no more, no less? Blog to us about it–I’d like to know how it works for you.”
I did laugh when I found this comment on my blog this morning, but not the cruel, hard laugh of a writer who will only extend to a measly three sex scenes for her characters. Nor do I think, ‘hmm … eighty five thousand words … lets see, yep that will be three sex scenes.’
Writing a sex scene requires skill. There are awards for bad sex scenes and who wants to win a competition like that? They require perhaps more work than other scenes because they are so unforgiving. Reading a sex scene is like looking at life drawing – the errors stand out, even to non-drawers, because we are so used to human proportions and sensitive to any distortions. Most adults have a sex life, (I have to assume), and therefore writing about such a primal, universal experience is judged differently by the reader than any other scene. That is, those who want to read sex scenes. Many people tell me they want more sex in a book and others say less to none at all.
For me as a writer the sex scenes have to be integral to the story. They can’t be too explicit, nor can they be blowsy with euphemisms. I’d like them to be moving or convey the emotional worlds of my characters but I’m not sure I’ve succeeded at that yet. I don’t want to simply close the door and let them shag away merrily until I open the door and get on with the story. There is a scene in Martin Scorsese’s film The Age of Innocence when the male and female characters are alone in a carriage and he unbuttons her glove. That is a powerfully erotic scene and needs nothing more. And the film The Piano gives another scorching scene when the Harvey Keitel character touches the skin of Holly Hunter’s character through a small hole in her stocking. Those two scenes give me an idea of what to strive for.
Good writing about sex is sometimes so erotically charged it could possibly be better than the real thing. Bad writing about sex is just funny. I read a crime novel a couple of years ago and it sticks in my mind because for nine tenths of the book there was no mention of sexual activity. On the third last page the male character looks at a female character and refers to the ‘iron bolt’ in his pants. What the …? Where did that come from, I wondered? I flipped back a few pages, but no, no lead up, just the iron bolt reference, a quick sentence inferring they ‘did’ it, and off to solve the mystery. Not good. Don’t change the mood or bring in your iron bolts right near the end.
Sexual activity between adults can be the carrier or conveyer of endless emotional variety from none to rapturous devouring passion. But for the purposes of the story I’m trying to write the sex scenes are to convey emotional bonding and intimacy. Very vanilla, I know, but mostly that’s how it is. My characters are in love and they bind themselves closer and closer to each other every time they have sex. The positions and all the other details are secondary to the emotional focus of the scene. And they only get three, or maybe even two sex scenes, because that’s all I need to get across where their emotional journey is starting. It goes awry after that, but I’ll say no more at this stage.
As to my whiteboard … I don’t usually construct a plot from beginning to end. I know where I’m going, vaguely, and use the Phillipa Bumble Along System. It works for me because I like to be loose and I like not knowing. It does lead to a vast numbers of words being generated and tossed away. But they are only words. So the whiteboard is a sort of calendar line. I have the first draft of the novel and to avoid the trap of having the entire story take place in two weeks, I set up a chart and map out the scenes over a certain amount of months. I can see where they should go and I can stop the telescope effect before it happens. That’s the theory anyway.
Egon Scheile
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October 28th, 2009
the poet Rimbaud in bed
“Usually, writers will do anything to avoid writing. For instance, the previous sentence was written at one o’clock this afternoon. It is now a quarter to four. I have spent the past two hours and forty-five minutes sorting my neckties by width, looking up the word “paisly” in three dictionaries, attempting to find the town of that name on The New York Times Atlas of the World map of Scotland, sorting my reference books by width, trying to get the bookcase to stop wobbling by stuffing a matchbook cover under its corner, dialing the telephone number on the matchbook cover to see if I should take computer courses at night, looking at the computer ads in the newspaper and deciding to buy a computer because writing seems to be so difficult on my old Remington, reading an interesting article on sorghum farming in Uruguay that was in the newspaper next to the computer ads, cutting that and other interesting articles out of the newspaper, sorting—by width—all the interesting articles I’ve cut out of newspapers recently, fastening them neatly together with paper clips and making a very attractive paper clip necklace and bracelet set, which I will present to my girlfriend as soon as she comes home from the three-hour low-impact aerobic workout that I made her go to so I could have some time alone to write.”
P. J. O’Rourke
I don’t know why this happens. I don’t know why I read every blog post, answer every email, fiddle with my iPod, check out Facebook, swing by Tweetdeck, look up at the books in the shelves above me, watch the dog as she sleeps outside my study door, swing around slowly on my chair, go and make some coffee, go outside into the sun, go and have a natter to the chooks, examine the pests on the lemon tree, wander back inside, go upstairs into my study, sit down and pick up my phone and fiddle with it. I don’t know why I’m doing this when I have a sodding great book to write?
Is it because I don’t want to write and can’t admit it to myself?
No, I think not, because once I get going I’m a wild snarling creature if interrupted or forced away from my screen.
Is it because I’m lazy and undisciplined?
On occasions, yes, I’d have to admit. But there has never been a deadline I haven’t met with a smug smirk. In fact, I am partial to a deadline. I like the sense of purpose, the forced concentration, the tiny underlying hum of adrenalin. But the manuscript I’m working on does not have to be handed in until late next year, and even though I want it finished by Christmas I can easily be undone by a sunny day or an interesting blog.
Is it because secretly I think I can’t do it and therefore I won’t?
No, not this time. I’ve experienced that before and it’s acutely distressing. This is more of an amble around the empty house with my mind in neutral. Time wasting in other words.
Is it because I’m waiting for the car repair man to ring and tell me I need to pay him two thousand dollars to fix the thingamajig, and I have to ferret around the tax office’s guidelines on authors before the day is over, and I know the house will refill in a couple of hours and my peace will become a teen crisis zone?
Yes, I believe this is the answer.
I’m procrastinating because I know my time is very limited and if I really want/need complete immersion in the story I’m writing I’m not going to get it – so why start? Other commitments hang over my shoulder, their fetid breath a reminder that I’ll have to stop soon. I have three sex scenes to write. Not an easy task, not if you want to avoid cringing readers and the editor’s sharp scalpel. I can’t start writing them, go and have a meaningless discourse (to me) with a car mechanic, then return to my panting characters who are waiting for me to get on with it.
So I’m writing a blog post instead. An excellent form of procrastination. At least one has the delusion of productivity, or illusion - or is it both?
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October 23rd, 2009
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October 22nd, 2009
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October 21st, 2009
Years ago, during a debate in the NSW parliament about the legalisation of abortion, many male politicians walked around pronouncing, in sanctimonious tones, that THEY would never have an abortion.
Some of the current generation of politicians denounce the asylum seekers arriving in Australia as economic refugees and not really escaping from harsh or deadly situations. These politicians declare that these people should stand in the bloody queue with all the other mongrels and riff raff wanting a piece of the Lucky Country, that they should put up with the ‘unlawful killing,’ poverty and intimidation – and by crikey, if they were a refugee they’d stand in the queue and be grateful for the opportunity.
As a writer with a two-book contract with a major publishing house may I say I would never consider self-publishing. Well, I would say that, wouldn’t I? ‘Cause I’m here … and the unpublished are over there. Just as the above politicians say what they damn well please. But the truth is I could join the ranks of the unpublished in the bat of a publisher’s eyelash. If my books tank I’m back in the alley picking through garbage bins along with the rest of the gang. But just for now, just during this most surreal-moment-that-may-end-tomorrow, I say again - I would never self publish.
I’m swimming against the tide here, I know. Every day I read blogs and twitters and promotions and debates and spats on the future of publishing in the brave new world of electronic downloads, kindles, iBooks and POD and every other electronic conveyance. I read that the content provider is going to be screwed and the format providers – Google, Amazon, Apple and so on are going to rule the new world.
As a humble little content provider I should accept my royalties will be slashed to 5% and there will be no advances and for that measly 5% I’ll have to work myself into a lather self promoting and twittering around the clock. And if I self published I’d have to put up the money to make the physical book, distribute, market and compete with all the other self published.
As I said before, I wouldn’t do it.
And I wouldn’t do it because I know what it’s like to spend years making artworks, to spend dollars exhibiting, promoting, packaging, posting, promoting, scrabbling for reviewers, entering competitions, dragging yourself around the openings, self promoting, promoting, packaging posting and breaking even and eventually some years later giving away the stuff that didn’t sell. Those years are an innoculation against self-publishing.
So I say no, no and no. It is, as we say in Terra Australis, a mug’s game. I’d rather keep my dignity and go and do something else.
I’ll work hard for my publishers, because they are working hard for me. But should I be without a backer I’ll disappear back into glorious ‘read only’ format.
‘You can’t eat an orange and then throw the peel away - a man is not a piece of fruit’
Arthur Miller, Death of a Salesman
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October 17th, 2009
Richard Avedon
My mother hoarded magazines. My grandmother hoarded images, art catalogues, menus, postcards, theatre programs and news clippings. In those days there was no Internet, and for my grandmother, no television, and thus printed images were precious. My mother was also a newspaper clipping aficionado and champion magazine hoarder.
I picked up the habit and have carried with me, for the last twenty years, an old cardboard box full of images I like. There is no pattern that dictates inclusion. I just like them or they interest me. So for a bit of an image bowerbird like myself, Google Image is a siren, singing to me of the voluptuous pleasures of time wasting.
As I warmed up for a writing session this morning, (actually I was cunctating, but I like to kid myself), I googled Mary Quant, which led me to Julie Christie which led me to Twiggy (whose images used to scare me) which led me to Veruschka and it all came flooding back. As a child I used to endlessly look at my mother’s Vogue magazines from the 60’s and 70’s and I remember being fascinated with the model Veruschka.
I had to post these images. I’ll save the colour ones because they deserve their own post. I particularly like Veruschka’s self-portrait as an Afghan hound. I would adore to be clothed and made up like a chocolate Labrador. Not as dramatic as a longhaired Afghan, I know, but I’ve always had a personal preference for short sleek fur.
Self portrait Veruschka
Self portrait Veruschka
Richard Avedon
Self Portrait Veruschka
Richard Avedon and Veruschka
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October 16th, 2009
Gaetano Massa
For more on organised crime in Naples go to Roberto Saviano’s website. See links page.
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October 15th, 2009
My Guest Blogger today is Robb Grindstaff, Robb is managing editor of an international English-language newspaper, writes and edits fiction, and still see a difference between journalism and fiction despite growing evidence to the contrary.
“So, what’s your book about?”
If you’re a writer, you’ve probably heard that question countless times. Friends, family members, co-workers discover you’re writing a book. Perhaps you proudly announced that you were pursuing your dream. Or maybe you’ve been toiling away in secret, like a vice you carefully hide from the public, hoping you can complete a novel, land an agent and a publishing contract before anyone finds out what you’re up to.
Or maybe you’re an established writer, you’re attending a conference, and you meet an agent or editor who asks you the fateful question.
“So, what’s your book about?”
“It’s about 400 pages.”
No, that’s not enough information.
“It’s about this girl, you see, and her father is in the military and her mother is Japanese, and she gets in a car accident, and her brother dies, and then she finds out her injuries might mean she won’t live long enough to see adulthood, so she decides to live life as fast as possible in order to experience everything she can before she dies, and mainly she wants to fall in love, but she also wants to go to college and see the world, and so she goes to Japan to meet her mother’s family, and she lives in Italy for a while, and then she does fall in love but…”
And the questioner slips into a coma without ever really learning what your book is about.
The first question to ask yourself: Do you know what your book is really about?
Before you begin writing, do you start with a hook that is the crux of the story, summarize the main character, what she wants, the obstacles in her way, how the conflict is resolved, and the higher-level thematic issues which affect the outcome and the character’s arc, and then begin to write your story?
No? Neither do I.
Like many writers, I start with a seed – some idea of a plot or an interesting (to me, at least) conflict. Maybe a “what if this happened” scenario. Sometimes just a sentence or phrase comes to mind that piques my writerly interest. More often I start with a character who introduces herself to me. I have to sit down at the computer and start typing while I get to know her, and eventually she’ll tell me her story. I can be 20,000 words into a manuscript before I know where the story is going. I may not know how it ends until I’m writing the ending. Other times, I have the whole story sketched out in a rough outline, but it’s likely to change before I reach the end.
“So, what’s your book about?”
“I don’t know yet, I haven’t finished it.”
But eventually I finish it – usually. And then I have to figure out what it’s about so I can answer the question from too many pesky friends and too few pesky agents.
If you’ve found yourself in this situation, here’s an exercise that has worked for me.
Go through the manuscript and summarize each chapter or scene in one brief paragraph of two or three sentences. If you can summarize it in one sentence, even better. Ask the question: What is this chapter about? What is the main thing that happens in this scene?
Write it in third person, present tense. It doesn’t matter what person or tense you used in the novel. Third person, present tense.
If your book is around 400 pages, maybe 50 chapters or so, then you’ve just written a 50-paragraph chapter outline, the basics for a synopsis. Perhaps this takes up six to eight pages, double spaced. Be sure to include the ending, how the story resolves. Go ahead and give away your surprise ending in this document.
Take those 50 paragraphs and rewrite it into narrative format so that it reads like a story, although obviously with a lot of details left out. Look back through this narrative and see what’s important, what’s not, and what key points are missing or were skimmed over too quickly. Delete sentences or paragraphs about chapters/scenes that aren’t critical to the overall summary. If a single paragraph dealt too lightly with an important scene, flesh out that paragraph more. Take two or three paragraphs if you need. Work the transitions between scenes so it flows and reads smoothly. You’ll wind up with a document somewhere in the range of 10-15 pages.
Once that’s done, you now have a workable draft of a synopsis. Some agents and editors will ask for a synopsis, so you want to go through this again and rewrite, revise, and edit to make sure it reads as an interesting summary of the story. Write it in the same voice and style as your book. An agent will gauge your writing skills by this synopsis. But keep it in third-person present tense.
Some agents and editors will ask for a short synopsis. They don’t want to read fifteen pages to get the summary of the story – time is short, they’re busy, and they’ve got another 27 queries in their inbox to look at today. Go through your 15-page synopsis and edit it down to the key points only. Don’t include minor characters at all, or minor plot points. Boil it down and tighten it up. It should cover these basic points: Who is your main character? What does she want? What is the main obstacle preventing her from getting it? Who are the two or three main secondary characters and what is their relationship to the protagonist? How does she meet the challenges, overcome the obstacles, and achieve her goals? Or how does she fail to achieve her goals? How is she changed at the end of the story? Now rewrite this and edit it more. Tighten it up to two pages. Now you have a short synopsis, which will come in very handy while querying agents.
Take your two-page synopsis and – you guessed it – tighten it up. Eliminate details, focus on the big picture questions that tell the overall theme of the story. What does she want, what’s the obstacle, how does she overcome, and what has she learned? Edit it down to a paragraph or two. There’s your blurb. Think of it appearing on the back cover of your book, or on that quarter-page ad in the New York Times. This paragraph also comes in quite handy for wooing an agent – it may well be the opening paragraph of your query letter. An example (not saying it’s a great example, but it’s an example):
When a teenage military brat learns her injuries from an accident will prove fatal before she reaches adulthood, she accelerates to a manic pace to reach her life goals. Eventually she learns happiness isn’t found in achievements or lovers, but in family, friends, and faith.
Just when you think you can’t edit it down any further, write that paragraph as one sentence. Two short sentences at most.
Memorize that sentence. Repeat it over and over in front of a mirror or in the shower.
The next time your Aunt Tilde or Fred at the office or a high-powered agent in an elevator at a writers conference asks you the dreaded question, you won’t dread it. You’re prepared. Your one or two sentence pitch succinctly tells what your book is about in a hopefully interesting way, and you can get it out before the elevator door opens and the agent escapes.
A biracial military brat grows up fast, afraid she will die before she reaches adulthood or finds true love.
So, what’s your book about?
Both images are taken from the film Secret Window with Johnny Depp
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October 14th, 2009
‘What are you going to do?’ he asked, sitting at the table.
‘Haven’t you ever been served a pancake before? They have to be hot.’
Lily slid one on to his plate, returned to the kitchen and called out, ‘Hasn’t one of those passionate vixens you’ve been embroiled with ever cooked for you?’ She came back in with another pancake, ‘Or have you been too busy quoting Pushkin and shagging mindlessly.’
Laughing at her, he said, ‘My women friends have always preferred not to cook, lest they be exploited. And as for poetry, a nice British piece of rhyming doggerel has always gone down well.’ *
There’s something about feeding another person - cooking and placing your offering in front of them, that is so laden with love, giving and simple humanity at its most fundamental. I’m not thinking of ceremonial feasts, or five star chefs, or television cooking races or glossy food mags or expensive ingredient shops - but of something more primal. I’m thinking of the last scene in The Grapes of Wrath - that sort of primal.
I like to cook and I like offering my food to those I love. I find it very hard to prepare food for people I don’t like. Very hard. Fortunately I don’t have to do it often.
Food is fundamental to life, and like all fundamentals in human life it is heavily invested with symbolism. So if you eat at my place and I give you some scrag end of a pork chop you’ll know how I feel about you.
Feeding people is such a communal and communing act. I remember the wonderful Gay Bilson, some years ago at an arts festival, holding an ‘event’ by a river, where people purchased a small earthenware bowl and she filled it with bread and fish. I thought it the most elegant simplification of a beautiful act that a celebrated chef could make. Not making television cooking programs, selling glossy books or slipping into cult celebrity chef status. Nothing wrong with those activities, I must add, but I like the way Bilson cut through the layers and went straight to the core.
‘
I know many people like to read about food in fiction, what the character ate and why and where. Particularly women, or anybody with whose job it is to provide meals each day, because it so dominates our daily existence. As an art student I spent some time hanging out with an older woman in her forties and she told me if she wasn’t thinking about her sculpture she was thinking about food. I didn’t get it then. I do now - children and animals all turn to me with their little beaks open. I’m constantly one meal ahead of them, but only just. I have a special cluster of cells in my brain devoted exclusively to how much feed is left for the chooks.
As a writer and reader I’m not as interested in food as colour or backdrop to a story, but more as a symbolic ‘thickener’ if you like. I loved the use of lamb in Elizabeth Jolley’s The Well, Marele Day’s Lambs of God and Patrick White’s The Twyborn Affair. One of my favourite books is Miriam’s Kitchen by Elizabeth Erlich, whose journey back to Judaism starts and moves through her making her kitchen kosher. I wasn’t so keen on Chocolat by Joanne Harris, but I could see what she was getting at.
And who could forget the horse’s head seething with eels washed ashore on Good Friday in Gunther Grass’s The Tin Drum. And the terrible symbolism of guilt at her adultery that Agnes goes through when she eats herself to death with eels and other oily fish.
My character Lily is passionate about jam, about creating the most interesting and delicious flavours she can think of. This takes her out on a limb sometimes, leading to disaster occasionally, but you have to get out on that branch sometimes if you like to create. Good jams these days are plentiful and supplies of quality fruit too expensive to justify jam making as an act of preserving. But if you ferret out the best ingredients you can find, and make the jam carefully and bottle it up and give it those you care about, it becomes an act of love.
(*)Extract from the Book of Love by Phillipa Fioretti, published by Hachette Australia, 2010
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Bolting The Sex Scene Together
for a good feed ...
