Hello,

It’s a sunny day here in Savannah.  In just two weeks we have 23,000 runners coming to town for the Rock and Roll Marathon.  Runners get my praise.  You die-hard souls of all ages hit the trails in all kinds of weather, push forward no matter what, with an unwavering dedication.  You go miles and miles day after day reaching personal goals of fitness.  You make it look easy, however I suspect that is a myth.

Just like sitting down to write, my guess is that becoming a runner takes hard work and requires a mountain of discipline.  I’m sure as we writers struggle to keep the creative juices flowing, you runners and bikers, and swimmers, and yes, you marvelous triathletes also must fight numerous temptations to stray from regimented patterns of training.

We writers can relate.  We know how difficult it can be to get to the finish line.  We get that I can’t keep going feeling in the middle of a book.  We think, I’m out of juice.  Why did I think I could do this?  I stink.  I should have taken up gardening.  Whatever made me think I could go down this road?  What was I thinking?  But then, we slink through the rough spots.  I guess for a writer it’s that period when observations start coming out as prose and it all feels so good — all the way to the finish line.

Okay, this was fun to write.  It makes me want to go out for some exercise and then get back to work revising my novel about the sisters, Tessa and Claudine.  It is high time we headed further toward the finish line.

PS:  Kudos to daughter-in-law Kara Thom, a writer and a runner, who is This Month’s Revlon Role Model and co-author of Hot (Sweaty) Mamas: Five Secrets to Life As A Fit Mom. She is featured in a Revlon ad in the October 24 People Magazine.  Way to go Kara.

Lisbeth

I just got the word that it is National Sister Week, and naturally that got me thinking about Tessa and Claudine, my novel about two sisters.  Tessa, the youngest sister, tells the story.   I grew up with one sibling, an older sister so I guess you can figure out where some of my material for my novel comes from.

My sister, Charlotte, was 15 months older.  Of course, in her eyes she was MUCH older.  When were were little our mother dressed us alike, much to my dismay.   I often had to wear hand me downs from my sister.  When I grew out of my dress or pants outfit, I then had to wear Charlotte’s clothes, perhaps in a different color.  Bummer.  

My sister reigned as the roller skating queen in the neighborhood. She taught all of the neighborhood kids how to skate.  I was her most difficult student.   Her lessons took place on the Jefferson Street hill on the corner, a half block away from our house.  I could skate down the hill — the problem was I had trouble stopping at the bottom.  I had scabs on both knees all summer the year I was in training.   Each evening I got iodine painted on my knees after my bath.

That reminds me of another sister issue.   We’d get called inside at night to take a bath.   The deal was if you went in first, when Nana, our great-grandmother who lived with us, hollered for us from the front porch — you got the clean bath water.  If you were last to come in, you got to skate with the neighborhood kids longer, but you got the dirty bath water.  Charlotte usually said, “You go first.”  Most of the time, I did just to keep her from throwing a fit.  The truth is, I rather liked the clean bath water.

It’s fun to think back to those years.  Over the years, I had a lot of fun with my sister.   We shared many good times, had many great conversations, played cards until all hours, agreed, disagreed, laughed and cried together.  We married and lived far apart, but we stayed in close touch with phone conversations and visits.   Our children got to know one another.   Life moved on.  We mourned the loss of our mother together.  And then one day I got a phone call from my niece — my sister was gone, too.  A car accident.  The news knocked the wind out of me.  I wondered what would I do without Charlotte in my life?

I stumbled around in a daze for a while, then realized that I had to keep my chin up, move on with my life, and carry along  my special memories.  I can still picture my sister’s fun, smiling face, and hear her laughter.   She was one unique gal. 

So, here’s to you, Charlotte.   Keep an eye out.  I’ll see  you someday when I cross over the bridge.   And if you are giving lessons of any kind, you know, like maybe how to flutter wings, or how to skate on clouds, whatever.  I’m getting in your line.  Sign me up — go ahead, pre-register me.

_________________________________

For all of  you readers who are lucky enough to have a sister, don’t forget to get in touch with your sister during National Sister week.  Thanks for stopping by.  Lisbeth

I get this question all of the time.  The answer is no my book is not finished yet.  I am still revising my novel, Tessa and Claudine, so I say no, that I expect to be finished by March of 2015.  Of course, I’m just  joking.  I certainly hope to be done way before then.  

At the moment, I’m fine-tuning Chapter 16 and am about ready to tackle Chapter 17.   In Chapter 16, I cut a few scenes down in size when I felt I’d stepped out of the narrative.  I keep a sign by my computer reminding myself not to add anything that doesn’t move the story forward.  A writing instructor once told me, “If you’re writing about an Indian, remove everything that doesn’t  relate to the Indian.”   

I love it when I can read along and feel like I am simply telling myself a story.  I hate it when I discover that I’ve added narrative simply to explain things to the reader.  That means it is time for more chopping.

In chapter sixteen, soon after Tessa arrives on the huge University of Illinois campus as a freshman, she faces an experience that throws her into a tailspin.  I’m working carefully to let the reader feel the depth of  her emotion.   I want to show her vulnerability and also her strength.   She has plenty of hurdles left to jump over.   She can’t fall apart now.    

Revising is a challenge but every day I tell myself, ”Okay, your characters are waiting, sit your butt on the chair.”

June is coming soon.  Stop in and say hello. 

Lisbeth

Now that we have the royal couple married off, I guess it’s time to step out of their fairytale and go on with our own lives.  I must admit that William and Kate looked fantastic and also very much in love.  I didn’t get up in the wee hours of the morning to watch the wedding festivities, but I did view the evening highlights and check some of the details on the internet.  It looks like Kate’s pretty sister, Pippa, made a big hit.  I don’t think she’ll be lacking for dates.   Hmm, how about Harry and Pippa.  Wouldn’t that be a trippa?

Okay, okay, I know I am getting silly.  It’s time to wish the newlyweds well.  Here’s hoping the media heeds their pleas to leave them alone.  I certainly hope so.  Now, it’s time to slide  on to the next subject.

I want to give you an update on Tessa of “Tessa and Claudine” fame.  Well, my novel “Tessa and Claudine” is not exactly famous.  It’s still in the works, but I am simply getting Tessa ready for the celebrity routine.  I don’t want to take her by surprise. 

At this point, in Chapter 15, Tessa is anxious to go off to college.  Her sister is married now (to a guy she thinks is a real creep), and Tessa is eager to take wing.  Leila, her stepfather, Harry’s, mother,  a loud Italian lady from the Bronx, has just left, after visiting for a week and sharing a room with Tessa (much to her dismay).  Soon after Leila leaves, Tessa writes to her good friend, David Finkelstein, who goes to college at the University of Missouri, telling him details about Leila’s visit.  Tessa is disappointed because David has decided to go to summer school.   Before she can finish her note to David, she hears a loud pounding on their apartment door.  Tessa soon finds herself in the midst of a family emergency. 

This  chapter is not a fairytale.  Not even I expected it to end the way it did. 

Tessa is definitely growing up.

Imagine that you have two sticks held together by a rubberband.  If you add another stick, tension on the rubberband builds.  As you add more sticks, it continues to build until eventually it’s ready to snap.  When you stop adding sticks, all is well, and it all stays together.

In writing a novel, you start out adding conflict that causes tension.   As your novel progresses, the added tension grows to a very uncomfortable stage, eventually reaching a point where things can’t get much worse.   You continue to blast your story with conflict until the tension peaks.  That’s when it’s time to back off, you must lead your characters to a place where a conclusion can be reached and all is well. 

An important thing to remember is that the tension gets undermined when an unnecessary line is thrown in.   

I’m in the midst of revising Tessa and Claudine, my current novel about my two sisters.   I’ve spent some time reading over past workshop notes.  I was delighted when I found the great example from Johathan Rabb of the sticks and the rubberband and especially loved being reminded about undermining the tension.   

In the chapter I just revised,  Tessa’s sister, Claudine is about to get married.  Tessa doesn’t like Frank, her sister’s husband-to-be.  Actually, she can’t stand the guy and for good reason.  Should she tell Claudine why feels so uncomfortable around him?   It might ruin her sister’s future.  There’s plenty of opportunity for conflict in this chapter.   Now let’s just hope I can identify those uneeded lines.  If not.  Thank goodness I have great friends who critique for me.  We trade off reading manuscripts.  Sometimes it takes another eye to see what needs to be whacked. 

Good luck with adding tension to your own writing.  And be sure to cut out those lines that don’t move the story forward. 

Enjoy the springtime, Lisbeth

Betrayal Beneath the Spanish Moss, Leslie Stern,’s novel about  Emma, a beautiful, rich, and intelligent woman who gets involved in a relationship with, Jake, a drug addict is a real page turner.    I have discovered that, Leslie Stern, who I met at author, Rosemary Daniell’s, Zona Rosa writer’s workshop here in Savannah, has included some good advice in her book. 

She talks about the “Giant Killer” philosophy which is based on the story of David and Goliath.  She explains this theory to Jake, hoping it will help him kick his drug habit.   The philosophy goes as follows:  Do the difficult tasks in your path first, then do the easy ones.  This builds up your confidence.   Simply put, do the things you don’t want to do  right away.  (For instance, don’t check your e-mail or get on Facebook when you should really be working on your writing, write the 1000 words you promised you’d write today and then check your e-mail, etc.) 

Doing the difficult first is called using your mind instead of just doing.  “Think first. Giant killers take the high road, the more difficult path.  Giant killers not only see what they want but what the outcome will be,” Stern says in her novel.  Thanks for the great advice, Leslie.   I feel certain I’ll be getting more tips from reading your compelling novel.

Okay now that the “Giant Killer” philosophy has kicked in to get my blog updated, I’m going to nudge Tessa and Claudine, the sisters in my current novel back into action.   Much to Tessa’s dismay, at almost nineteen, Claudine is now engaged and about to marry Frank.

Believe me, it takes true grit to write every single day.  And it takes a double dose of grit to revise a manuscript and turn it into a finished product.

I mean there is that first draft.  I struggled through that with my current book, Tessa and Claudine, and then I plodded along on a second draft, and still I found myself saying to no one in particular, “Who wrote this drivel?  Surely, not I.”

Now, I’m back at the drawing board with revision number three, and with the help of an insightful leader and encouraging cohorts in a novel writng workshop, I finally see the scenes coming to life. 

I love dialog.  It’s comes natural to me.  However, I get so involved in relaying my story via conversation that I forget to let the reader inside my protagonist’s head.   I need to pause and slow down the action.  I’ve been told that I need to blow up the balloon.  My readers need to relate to my main character.  Is she hurting?  Is she ready to make  a decision?  Is she gaining ground or losing?   Does she feel abandoned or loved?   Is she hiding her true feelings?  What is she learning?

It takes true grit to keep on revising, and it take a double dose of grit to plod along when you and your characters are running into brick walls.  But, the more you face  the truths inside the characters, the easier it gets.  And the reward will be a better finished product.

I’m beginning to like this idea of  blowing up the balloon. 

Happy writing and Happy New Year.   By the way, I saw True Grit on New Year’s Eve and loved it.   Any other movie recommendations? Perhaps this year’s blogs will revolve around movie themes.  Who knows?

“Sometimes real life takes over my fictional fantasies. I recently found myself in ambulance on the way to the ER after suffering a coronary spasm while driving my car.  Not fun, I can assure you.  The ambulance driver asked me if I’d been under any kind if stress.  “Not really,” I said.  After all, I had walked three miles that morning with my good pal, Phyllis, and that afternoon I planned to give a talk to a book club.  Life was rolling along at a normal speed.  I almost mentioned that Tessa and Claudine were driving me a bit batty, but I kept my thoughts to myself.  Think about it.  If that guy found out that Tessa and Claudine were fictional characters, he’d be sure to question my sanity.

Just for the record, I’m home and doing much better, but I must mention my twelve hours in ER land.  Here goes:  I was placed on a gurney in the hallway that was mobbed with doctors and nurses scurrying in every direction.  The rooms were all filled.  Gurneys covered every inch of space.  A young doctor named Aaron stopped by and asked me a list of questions.  He looked like he just stopped playing with his Brio train and didn’t need to shave.   He took notes.  I imagined him writing down.  “Older woman.  Typical chest pain case.. “I’ll report this to Dr. Rogers, my boss, he said and walked away.  In side my head, I started humming,  “Oh, its a wonderful day in the neighborhood…”

I got wheeled into a small room and hooked up to a heart monitor.  My husband paced the floor.  We were in a supply room which became a great people-watching center.  We heard voices and saw all kinds of action outside the door.  A new patient arrived, a woman on a gurney.  “Ma’am, why did you call an ambulance,” an attendant asked.

“I was feeling lousy,” she said.

“Do you have pain in your chest?”

“No.”

“Any vomiting?  Didn’t you say you’d been throwing up?”

“No, I never said that.”

“Did you fall?”

“No.  I didn’t fall.  My bones are just fine.”

“Why did you call?”

“I just did.  I feel real bad.”  The man sighed.

A male nurse took my blood pressure.  He said they were trying to get a  hospital room for me, but the hospital was full.  My husband went out to get us a sandwich.   After we ate, they moved me out of the supply room, rolled the gurney out the door.  That’s when the real circus began.  It was 9 pm, and life in the ER had begun to escalate.

I got wheeled past an African American man who refused to lie down on his gurney.  Like a jack-in-the-box, he sat up.  The nurses laid  him back down.  Up, down, up down.  It continued.  He talked in a loud voice.  He pointed at me as we passed by.  He jabbered and laughed, pointed at other patients, and shouted.  It seemed he was flying high on something, feeling no pain.  The other patients scowled,  acting irritated at his noisy behavior. 

“Cleveland,  now just where did they pick you up this time?” the nurse asked.

“I don’t reckon I recall,” he said, with a sly grin.  “I jes don’t recall.”

I made a trip to the restroom, right next to Cleveland’s gurney.  I had left my long pants on.  I’d seen enough people walk past with hospital gowns on, their rear ends hanging out.  “Hey, girlie,” he said, pointing at me.  I refused to make eye contact with him.  When I headed back to my room, I noticed a  husky, strong-looking police officer walking with a huge ER patient  in handcuffs.  Once this patient got onto an oversized gurney, they handcuffed him to the rails. 

Barney, the transport nurse, kept busy wheeling patients to X-ray.  He took me down the hall, on what he admitted was the hospital’s squeakiest gurney, for a chest X-ray and then brought me back.  At this point, we’d been in the ER for nine hours.   On the way back to my ER cubicle I watched as nurses and doctors rushed from patient to patient  I saw all varieties of patients young, old, tall, short, fat, thin, Asian, Caucasian, Spanish, African American, and who knows what else.  Cops hung out in every corner.  A black woman over six feet tall walked in limping, her hands handcuffed behind her, a strong-looking female police officer at her side. 

“Do you think my wife will get a room tonight?” my husband asked a nurse. 

“I’ll check,” she said.  “She’s been here a long time.  A lot of people won’t.”  She came back an hour later and said,  “Consider yourself  lucky.  You’ve got a room.  It still needs to be cleaned, however.” 

We left the ER after 12 1/2 hours.  I felt like I’d had enough real life for one day.

I went to the first meeting of my summer writing workshop.  When the first chapter of my novel, Tessa and Claudine, was critiqued, our workshop leader pointed out several instances where I’d stepped out of the narrative to explain something.   He emphasized the importance of character development and staying in the character’s voice.   He showed where I’d listed details and explained how it would be better to filter in the details by showing them.  I did some backdooring, meaning I tried to stick in info I wanted the reader to have.  He said to be patient. I could tell the reader later on when it worked better.   “It’s a novel,” he said.  “You have plenty of time.” I did a bit of overwriting.    The good news is I came home and spent hours revising this chapter. 

.My main tip from the first workshop is this:  watch out for those times when you are simply telling the reader something.  It stops the narrative.  Trust your reader and keep the narrative moving.  I found that to be such good advice.  I’m often afraid the reader won’t understand the narrative, so I stop to explain.  DON”T do this.  I hope you won’t  step out of the narrative either.  (Nobody said novel writing was going to be easy.)

(By the way, a few other tidbits from our workshop leader  regarding my manuscript, “This is nice.  Great line.  Another great line.  Perfect line.  Cut.  Cut.  And, what does this mean?”)

If this helps only a few writers, I will be delighted.  If you have any tips for me , I’d love to hear them. 

Cheers, Lib

www.lisbeththom.com