Writing the Super Mario Way

Imagine a flat landscape of dull words -- words you wrote, words you hate, words that won't go away. You despise them. But, you need the message they convey so you don't delete them, you simply move on. Maybe the next batch will be better. You tell yourself you'll fix things... later, during edits....

I can't do that. 

I figure if I leave flat landscapes they'll eventually spread like dull beige paint covering the world, blotting it out, Sherwin-Williams style. I'll drown in dull. I'll panic at the sheer volume of flatness and stick a knitting needle through my eye. No, I can't leave 'em and move on.
Or, to quote Jack Nicholson, I'll despair: "what if this is as good as it gets?"
Forget one needle -- make it two, and I'll go whole hog right into an Oedipal bloodbath. People will find me and my gouged eyes on the floor, a perfect stand-in, or lie-in, for Suzanne Pleshette's pecked-to-death body draped on her front porch in the movie The Birds. What to do, what to do....

A couple of weeks ago, I tried something new and discovered the Super Mario method of writing. This method goes farther than simply toying with dull words and changing them. Or re-arranging them.
The Super Mario method requires quite a bit of strenuous exercise. The reward, however, could mean the difference between acceptance and rejection, fair writing and excellence. A better story arc, plot, characterization. Super Mario means if you throw caution to the wind, you'll discover gold coins. They're there, but you have to know how to find them, because they're hidden, just like in the old classic Nintendo game.


How to Play Super Mario Writing


1) First, you have to determine if your writing is actually flat and dull, or if it's just you having a bad hair day. You have to decide if the writing is bad, or if your inner critic is being overly harsh.


To determine this, you need to apply the Samuel Goldwyn principle. Goldwyn, one of Hollywood's most beloved moguls, is credited with saying (first) that he could judge a film's worth in the preview screening by the behaviour of his ass. If he never heard boo from his ass, if he sat mesmerized throughout the film, he knew, all taste aside, that he had a winner on his hands. But, if he found himself squirming in his seat, he knew at once that there was a problem with the film, and audiences wouldn't sit still -- literally --  for any of it, no matter the content's inherent worth.


So, read your work out loud. Read your work from the point of view of a total stranger, and see how squirmy, or bored you are. If you find yourself face down on your keyboard, you'll know the landscape is flat.

2) Now, push away all the work before and after this stretch of dull landscape so that all you see is white space on your screen and the errant writing.
Take each sentence, one by one and examine the creative spark in the verbs, the structure, the punctuation, the vocabulary. Now string the sentences back together and see how the meter is way off, or non-existent. Finally, ask yourself why you need these facts, this paragraph.
Now, ask yourself where the better stuff is hiding and start pounding -- seriously-- pounding on the words. Pound, pound, pound, pound!!!!!

As in:
Flounce, flounce, flounce...should it be bounce? Should it be trounce? Trounce is stupid. Should it be flirty, should it be dirty, should it be there at all? Why flounce, why is Molly wearing a flouncing skirt? Why is she wearing any skirt at all? Who made her decide to wear that skirt? Oh...she has a sister? Who knew? So, just who is this sister? Mabel? Well, hell's bells, Mabel is a person in this paragraph? Why Mabel? A sister named Mabel? How about a sister named Betty Grable? Hmm. Maybe, Mabel wishes she looked like Betty Grable, and so she keeps foisting flouncy skirts on Molly because Molly is really a whole lot more attractive than Mabel. Ahh...something new going on here. So, Molly is wearing a skirt with flounces because her sister Mabel, who's dead now (I can't actually use Mabel in my story...or should I...??) is still influencing her. Hmm, is this what I needed to know about why this landscape is so dull? Molly has to choose what to wear to an important cocktail party; it really matters. Now, instead of having her decide on the red dress with the flounces, I can enrich her actions, deepen her motivation and her characterization by way of mentioning Mabel.  Oh, the possibilities here are really endless, and interesting. Maybe I should play with this some more....

A new world opens up in the dull writing. Suddenly, it's raining gold coins. That's because you took the time and trouble to jump, jump, jump, up to the clouds above, and just like Mario, your head bumped a hidden spot and gold coins rained down, and heightened your accumulated points. Yay.


You may have stumbled on a new character, a new name, a novel way for your existing main character to think of herself -- endless nuggets, endless inspiration, and all because you didn't just punch up a passive construction to an active one, dust your mind off and congratulate yourself on the "quick fix," you literally pounded on the flat work and forced new realms to open up for you.


I have always enjoyed playing Super Mario. But never more than right now.
Give it a try.

Roach Art - Take Two

 I realized that after agonizing about my novel's roach art and how to present it properly, I never came back here to post the first draft result.

So, here it is. (And before I forget...my friend, Jack, sent me someone's blog or web page that contains a photo or two of beetle "art" -- someone in Europe, I think, attempted a small dress-up party for beetles. I liked the imaginative thinking; however, the end result, artistically speaking, was more "done on a whim" than the kind of polished art my fictional character, Graham, produces.)

Pebblestone's Dilemma

 

           Isobel smiled to herself, slipped into her office and shut the door. It was a large white square room with two windows facing an alley, jam-packed with open boxes on shelves and radiator covers containing items to be repaired, appraised or tagged. Rare costume jewelry with real coral and ivory mingled freely with estate pieces; a broken Pre-Columbian figure crouched on a tray, his arm in a Ziploc bag at his feet.

          Lydia thought the place resembled a black-market warehouse rife with serious loot, a World War II army PX loaded with Hershey bars and nylon stockings.

          Isobel saw it differently. It was a depot of dream remnants, romantic and sad;  a repository of fleeting time capsules, lost fortunes, or found treasures needing love and attention, like London’s Paddington Station, temporary home to a small brown bear from “darkest Peru,” who had a note pinned to the wooden toggle on his coat: ‘Please look after this bear. Thank you.’

          In short, Isobel, who spent hours reviewing her acquisitions, regarded this enclave as a museum quality lost-and-found department, and she believed, as her mother had, that objects, like people, needed homes, love, and an appreciation of their history. They represented the continuity of civilization, glorious or ignominious as the case might be.

          But this high-minded flight of fancy sailed right through the wrought-iron bars on the windows when the box of roach art caught her attention.

          Anxiety flickered. Just how well did she know Graham? What if this box was like the gory one in the movie Se7en? Or, what if it contained a thousand mammoth roaches, stinking to high heaven, broken and squashed from excessive banging by FedEx…? Oh, for Pete’s sake!

          She reached for an X-acto knife and neatly broke the seal. Her fingers scrabbled through Styrofoam peanuts and hit thick layers of bubble wrap protecting what looked like mahogany display cases which were about sixteen inches wide with brass-hinged glass tops. Odd, but there was one sealed bell jar, as well. She worried the cases might prove to be more valuable than their contents.

          Carefully, she removed them one by one and placed them on the floor. Then she sat down, braced herself,  and tore away the wrappings.

          “Good God!” was all she managed to get out before laughter erupted.

          Graham was brilliant.

          He had constructed dioramas to showcase his various scenes using the giant Australian burrowing roach – macropanesthia rhinoceros – as the torso for each of his well-known characters. The roaches stood three inches high, wingless, smoothly lacquered and striped thinly in gold so that they resembled tigers eye cabochons or humbug candies. Using an infinite variety of materials in tiny flecks and bits of string, paper, wool and other fabrics, he had painstakingly fashioned each mounted head and costume detail right down to the trademark red lacquered heels of the Christian Louboutin shoes on Bernadette Peters’ feet in a scene called “Roach Clips.”

          Peters was seated on a bench in Central Park alongside fight promoter Don King, Andy Warhol, singer Tiny Tim, and Donald Trump. A blue troll doll sat on a nearby path. Everyone’s hair streamed on an angle, caught in an imaginary wind.

          So much to absorb and admire, she took her time.

          Later, Lydia knocked. “Izz?”

          “Don’t bug me, I’m in roach heaven.”

          “Arr-arr-arr. I brought lunch. Sandwiches. May I come in?”

          “At your own risk.”

          “Well, what are you looking at?”

          “ Right now? ‘Hal Roach Presents Our Gang.’ ”

          “This I gotta see.”

          Lydia entered gingerly, stepped over the wrappings scattered willy-nilly, and came to squat next to a few of the cases. She was tall and skinny, and her legs folded like a grasshopper’s into sharp right angles. “Oh-my-god!” She chirped. “Sooo cute! Did you see Porky’s hat, and the striped sweater on – is it Farina?—Holy crap, the roaches are big. Ha! He really nailed Alfalfa – your friend is amazing…what’s in the bell jar?”

          “A three dimensional view of ‘The Roachy Stones.’ He also sent ‘The Bug Sleep’ with Buggy and Bugall, and ‘Dracula starring Bella Bugosi’ –I’m putting that one in the permanent exhibit. If these do well, there’s a lot more to order, and they’re originals which is really cool.”

          Lydia was studying the purple moiré brushwork of the Dracula backdrop. “You know, this guy is one seriously weird, super-talented dude. Tell him I’m in love and want to have his zombie child.”

          “You tell him. Graham Gould – it’s in the Rolodex. Call him in a few hours and let him know everything arrived safe and sound. Tell him I’ll be in touch over the weekend.”

Copyright 2012 Carol Krenz All rights reserved

Endings lead to Beginnings

I thought I'd get a wee jump on the New Year by wishing one and all a very Happy and Prosperous 2012.                                                                

I noticed this morning that Samoa has decided to become the first country to welcome in 2012, instead of the last -- a pre-historic construct that was set in accord with the US well over a hundred years ago. On first reading, I fancied a slew of islanders literally lifting up the island and moving it westward in order to cross the International Dateline etc. My math is weak, and my assumptions about changing cartography and longitude and latitude and time zones is wobbly. Most I can manage is springing forward and falling back one hour -- but whole days?? For a moment, I thought time travel had become a reality.

The year sped by for me. When you are rapidly aging, it does this. And when major world events seemingly flow one into another, you don't notice time, you only notice the heartbreak, devastation and exasperation that most of these events engender.

The writing year has been peppered with more and more discussion  about electronic publishing. I see its future role, I see the many benefits, but I still look at it as the last resort, not the first, for gifted writers. Yes, I am a snob. I don't pretend to hide the reality that in our current cultural dross, dumb and dumber rules. I think Margaret Atwood means well when she says the internet is wonderful in that it basically forces people to be literate. I don't quite agree. The semi-literates outnumber the literates. And they want cheap, accessible books that are badly written, thin in language arts, bereft of depth and characters, top heavy in plot. Thing is, they don't notice -- or care -- that they are reading a lot of junk. Electronic readers are the big thing. Anyone at Amazon can be read. Some great books, yes, but also, thousands and thousands of bad ones.

So...will legitimate tree-killing publishers prevail in the coming years? I'm counting on it. I'm praying for it. If I had a magnificent pocket watch and a striped vest and fob, I'd wear 'em with pride! Real books with book smells, real books with paper and glue and bindings and face plates and heft -- those are the stuff of my dreams.

Some naysayers this past year have complained that new writers won't get the breaks they deserve because of bonafide publishing woes -- and the mid-list may dry up altogether.

And yet, The New York Times' list of "notable" books for 2011 included five or six first-time authors in their list of about 45 books. That's more than last year's crop. Hope springs eternal.

Are enough people reading important books? Seems to me that books and essays and "deep thoughts" are the last refuge intelligent people have -- 

And is writing itself the last refuge for the curious mind wishing to create new worlds, searing characters that leap off the page into the collective consciousness? Are serious writers becoming hermits, dumping the media wasteland into the trash? Maybe it's a good idea. Maybe it's time to stop obsessing about social media and web presence until it's actually time to consider it.

Maybe it's time to stop putting the cart before the horse. Maybe it's time to sit down and roll up the sleeves, and stare at a blank screen and then...write.

And keep on writing until a goal is met.

Maybe that's all that really matters. Everything else is probably an excuse to avoid the inevitable. A writer writes.

I plan to. I hope you (writers out there) will, too.

Do you have any goals to share? I'd love to hear them!

Happy Writing!

Toothsome Prospects?

Oh, dear. I think I am writing what I know. Or, worse, writing what I want the reader to know. About me.

Since February, I have been consumed with dentists and dental appointments, trying to fix a slew of problems that are so expensive, I've been avoiding them as much as possible.
But, when push eventually shoves you, it becomes a matter of painful necessity.

And so, I've been a dutiful patient, trying my best to open wide and let the various experts fiddle, inject, drill, x-ray, chide, cluck, threaten root canals, suggest implants (oh,sure...anyone have about five thousand dollars per tooth handy? -- my email is listed), and generally fix my teeth -- again. Soon, my mouth will contain more crowns than a box of checkers. I only hope they won't be black or red. But, whatever shade, you can't bleach crowns. Once they're done, they're done.

I guess I've always been fascinated by teeth. I know I've read much about them -- evil and chipped, pearly and porn-ish in all manner of books throughout my life, as far back as Little Red Riding Hood. Thinking I might unearth a few gems to apply here, I conducted a light search -- emphasis on light -- and came up with next to nothing. Mostly, quotes about taking bites out of life, sinking teeth into bottom lines, bites in the ass -- not even an al dente description in the bunch.

I was rewarded with the following, however:

My fictitious characters will take the bit between their teeth and gallop off and do something that I hadn't counted on. However, I always insist on dragging them back to the straight and narrow.
Colleen McCullough

My mouth is full of decayed teeth and my soul of decayed ambitions.
James Joyce

Writers, like teeth, are divided into incisors and grinders.
Walter Bagehot

Writing a novel is a terrible experience, during which the hair often falls out and the teeth decay.
Flannery O'Connor 

Well, it's something. Writers do talk teeth.

As to my initial lament, I've paid lot of attention to the humble tooth in my novel. Inadvertently? Absolutely. The recognition penny only dropped yesterday.


Here:

He never knew this because his was a walk-on part in her play; it was, however, a pivotal role that set off an unexpected chain of events the way a spoon of Breakstone’s cottage cheese sent her running for root canal. Her endodontist  said that a hair-line fracture could live undetected above or below the gum line for years until one day –  when you least expected it – bam.

And here:

She flashed a smile and peeled off her gloves. Her teeth were large and even – except for a pointy cuspid on the lower jaw which was crooked and crowding its neighbour. Lydia called it ‘The Ripper’ –  the infamous devourer of Porterhouse steaks, feared by herds of Black Angus the world over, and wanted in all five boroughs, especially Brooklyn, at Peter Luger’s Steakhouse.

I am fine with this, I think. I do wonder if I'd have written the same things without those dental visits. Probably. I always enjoy looking at Melanie Mayron's grin. She played Melissa Steadman in 'Thirtysomething' - all teeth (crooked and otherwise) and heart. I even remember her as Sandy in 'Rhoda'.

Maybe it's Melanie I'm channeling. I hope so. I have an appointment with a gynecologist coming up soon....

Looking on the Bright Side

In the writer's world, nothing goes to waste -- or, it shouldn't.

Even if minds change or projects get cancelled, there is still the work itself, and the way it makes us feel as we approach new ideas, and different ways to express ourselves. We learn from our writing experiences and I count all of them -- good and bad -- as a chance to view my work as the proverbial glass. It it half empty or half full? I always look carefully because I know there is something to take away from it, something I may well use later on. Inevitably, then, the glass is half full, waiting for me to sip. Oddly enough, the more I sip, the fuller the glass becomes.



One of my projects -- Lessons I Learned From My Mother, an anthology of essays, was to be co-written and co-produced...well, it's been cancelled.

If you were one of the many contributors who generously offered your time and essays, I thank you most sincerely, and wish you the best of luck with all your current projects.
And, please feel free to post your essay on this blog.


I thought I'd serve up one of mine because it touches on not only who I am as a writer but how this came to be.

“So shut your eyes while mother sings

   Of wonderful sights that be,

And you shall see the beautiful things

   As you rock in the misty sea”

                               -- Eugene Field, (Wynken, Blynken and Nod)

In The Beginning Was The Word….

         

          For me there was no sweeter gift, no greater warmth or comfort than the sound of my mother’s voice reading aloud to me. A thousand kisses paled beneath this joy because they quickly evaporated into memory. But her musical words and phrases remained firmly in my head where they reverberate to this day.

          Mummy began her nightly reading ritual when I was three years old. We had come into possession of the well-reputed children’s anthology, My Book House, edited by Olive Beaupré Miller. Ours was the twelve-volume ‘rainbow’ edition and one of the last in a series of reprints that included literary works later considered either obsolete or politically incorrect. In 1953, however, such restrictions did not exist and I was able to enjoy the beauty of stories like Little Black Sambo  who was dressed in his ‘fine suit of clothes and purple shoes with crimson soles and crimson linings.’

          Mummy would sit on a simple wooden chair and read to my sister and me for a long time as we were a most demanding audience who quickly developed an addiction to this entertainment as some do with alcohol. One story was far too many and a thousand not nearly enough.

           She began at the beginning, which is to say, with Mother Goose and Walter de la Mare, and quickly progressed to folk tales, and the works of Hans Christian Andersen, Charles Perrault and the Brothers Grimm. She read as a seasoned actor in impeccable voice with a flair for both drama and humour, and even supplied sound effects. Stories and rhymes paraded into my brain with simple images of a cat frightening a little mouse under a Queen’s chair, or with deeper, more foreboding pictures of Rapunzel’s mother craving a dish of rampion that grew in a forbidden garden surrounded by thorns and nettles.

          When she read, my little corner of the world – an upstairs bedroom with twin beds and pale green walls – shrank to the size of a mouse hole where nothing stirred; sheets never rustled in boredom. Two daughters held still, eyes fixed on the book on my mother’s lap. With bated breath we waited to learn if the lion was going to eat Androcles after he removed a thorn from its paw. Would Sleeping Beauty ever be rescued, was Snow White really dead, and would the goblins really get us if we didn’t watch out?  

          I treasured the stories – even the very sad ones. I also favoured stories that mentioned food and there were hundreds of those. Tom, the Piper’s son, must have been very hungry because he stole a pig and was beaten for it. Jack Spratt and his wife ate fat and lean; in later years I envied them because they had worked out a perfect marriage. Then there was the Queen of Hearts who saw her tarts ripped off by the Knave! It seemed people the world over were eating bread and honey, roasting meats on spits, selling pies, and pulling plums out of them. And how amazing that Carl Sandburg’s Rutabaga stories included a Village of Cream Puffs. Had I been a resident, I know I would have consumed the entire town.

          My mother’s tastes in literature were as broad and eclectic as Ms. Miller’s; happily she read almost every selection from the anthology. There were great American and international writers, assorted fables from the near and far east, Indian folklore, biblical verses, Greek myths – a feast of  magical adventures and whimsical ditties.

          Progress on the books was steady, and as Mummy made her way through Book Four, both my sister and I were right there with her, our comprehension sharp, our eagerness the very catalyst she required. After all, she gave a grand performance every night, and even provided matinées. As her repertoire increased so did the demand for repeat performances. Wynken, Blynken and Nod, The Nutcracker and Sugardolly, The Owl and the Pussycat and The Selfish Giant were as popular in our bedroom as butterscotch lollipops. (We tended to avoid Chicken Little. Chicken Little was as unwelcome as licorice.)

          After a year of this listening, I had absorbed and retained a wealth of knowledge that would stand me in good stead when it came to studying the literary arts. But what mattered then were the stories and books alive with various drawings and pictures.

          And then, something changed.

          It was by now, a summer filled with sunny days and my sister, being two years older than I, had permission to stay outdoors longer while I was still sent early packing to the land of Nod. Mummy, however, continued her reading – and she decided to do something radical. She picked up James M. Barrie’s novel, Peter Pan, and announced her intention to take me to Neverland.

          “But, Mummy, there are no pictures,” I complained.

          “You won’t need any, I promise. Just lie back and listen like you always do.”

          And so the journey began. At first I balked when she read about hidden kisses lurking on the side of Mrs. Darling’s mouth. I began to squirm at references to stocks and shares and Mr. Darling’s concerns about the cost of having children. And then suddenly, Peter Pan’s shadow made its entrance and soon after my mother read the word “perambulator” and I shot straight up.

          “What’s a perambulator?”

          “A very fancy baby carriage.”

          “What is Kensington Garden like?”

          “It has a large fountain and green leafy trees in summer just like now and the flowers are white and purple and pink. There even is a statue of Peter Pan in the garden.”

          “Can I see it?”

          “Yes. When you go to London, you’ll see it.”

          The reading continued. I squeezed my eyes shut and smelled lilacs; I heard Mummy reading that the Lost Boys fell out of their perambulators. I heard Wendy ask if there were girls in Neverland, and Peter said: “Oh, no; girls, you know, are much too clever to fall out of their prams.”

          I was captivated by a boy who could teach you to fly, a naughty, jealous faerie named Tinker Bell, and the entire notion that anyone could follow Peter to Neverland.

          The secret to getting there lay in the book. But my mother closed it for the evening and promised to continue the next night.

          She kissed me goodnight and encouraged me to lie back once more, gaze out the window beside my bed and see if I could find the evening star. As dusk was scarcely upon us, I did as she suggested and watched the light fade gradually until I saw a twinkling in the sky.

          I fell asleep on a cloud of lilac and honeysuckle and the sweet damp odour of grass filtering into the bedroom.

I had entered a new realm – that of a real imagination which was as much in me as it was in Mummy and James Barrie. Surely there was a Peter Pan. After all, his statue was in a London park.

          If only I could read the book myself! If only! I could go away with Peter and Wendy and Michael and John and…and…oh, if only!

          My mother could not have known she had just sown the writing seeds of my future. Nor could she have realized how far reaching they’d be. Perhaps she had an inkling that I would come to regard reading as breathing itself, and a haven for the mind when one’s own reality is dreadful.

          I, of course, had no idea that the reason for all this literary entertainment was because she was living one of the darkest chapters in her life and escaping it by leaping into books.

          How ironic that what was brightest in my childhood – her gift of magic and the power of an imagination – came from such misery.

          My father was a handsome itinerate salesman, gone for weeks on end without a word. We were living in a remote corner of the country, far from family and home in Montreal. There was not enough money for food or coal in the furnace. Our future in doubt, Mummy was frightened and lonely. She never hinted at it.

          I missed Daddy, too, but this fell away completely when Mummy sat on a chair and opened a book.

          “Tonight,” she announced, “we’re going to meet Tiger Lily who lives in a lagoon.”

          “What’s a lagoon?”

          I rolled the delicious word over my tongue in the dark.

          She was right. I didn’t need to see pictures, I could imagine them without any more help. And very soon, I would read for myself and write my own words, too. I would never feel alone as long as a book stood nearby. And I would never feel as alive as I do right now when writing.

DRUG WITHDRAWAL -- When The Writing Stops

I've been away tending to sick eyes -- infections and cuts and all kinds of "gah!" conditions that forced me to wear a weak, old prescription pair of glasses.
Reading and writing scooted away -- indeed, light hitting my eyes was for a time, unbearable.

I am about to try my new contacts this weekend and see how it goes. In the meantime, I have been well aware of the sensation that leaves me drained, itchy, skittish, irritable and depressed -- writing withdrawal.

I have no idea how other people react to weeks without creating words, but I can tell you in my case, it's all tied to the condition of the psyche. For me, the three demons -- fear, dread, and anxiety --  find a good nesting place in the void, slowly and determinedly eating away at any resolve, direction, self-confidence I have. They bore holes into my creative thought processes.

Writing is a drug -- my drug of choice. And while writing may seem similar to bike riding, with the old adage about how you never really forget how to do it, I find it painful on the re-entry.

Things pop into my head like:

What was I thinking when I said I could write?
Will I ever find my way back to the land of Oz?
If I look at some of my manuscript lying fallow, will I read with horror and discover I never had any talent at all? 
I better not look at my work...

The more I think about these self-destructive thought processes, the worse it gets. I wonder...do other writers feel this way? And, my hunch is yes...yes, they do.


The thing is this -- the entire act of writing is a very solitary affair involving a mind and a blank screen or sheet of paper. And the very act of putting words on that blank universe is a task undertaken by the writer willfully.
Now, what kind of crazy person would even put him or herself in such a position to begin with?


Well, that's just it -- you do have to be some kind of particularly crazy sort of person, if you want to write.
And, you have to understand at the get-go that other normals in the corporate, 9-5 world, may look squinty-eyed at you and pity you, and decide you are wholly delusional.


Writers really need to hang out in one way or another with other writers or artists because theirs is a world which lies at the polar opposite of the mainstream.


All art is based on acts of blind faith. And the funny thing is, without this kind of art invading the solidity of the workaday world, there would be nothing to entertain us, or stimulate us. There'd be no jokes, no drama, no splashes of colour and whimsy; certainly, there would be no fantasy worlds in which to escape. And no civilization has ever endured without all manner of flights of the fantastical -- be it architecture or the realms of the spiritual.


Knowing this, I, once again, wobbly as a a newborn, giddy as a schoolgirl with an age-old crush, take my seat in front of my personal dream spinner, hit my acceleration pedal and push off from the dingy curb.


When it comes to writing and to the sound of words, I am an addict and shall remain so to my last breath.

The New Year -- On a Note of Hope

Granted, the concept of a Waterford crystal ball dropping in Times Square is widely observed and thought to be the be-all and end-all to our state of mind, mood and year -- but, it's not everyone's cup of tea or even everyone's idea of  a new year.
For Jews, the year is 5771 and it was celebrated in September 2010; for the Chinese, this year is about the rabbit -- but not until February 3rd.


Now, the Year of the Rabbit sounds wonderful.


It's considered a lucky year -- rabbits are in favour of the arts and all things beautiful. They are non-confrontational, nest-building, endowed with quiet reassurance, calm and thoughtful nurturing. They are communicators, peaceable, teachers, negotiators. Rabbits like privacy. Rabbits take care of home and hearth, and care about women and children. Rabbits are, on the whole, approachable and friendly -- but, famously introverted.

(I'll bet you've already forgotten about Times Square and that ball.)

Regardless of how you woke up today, January 1, 2011, chances are the Gregorian calendar rules your technology, so in essence, we are all on a clean slate, a fresh abacus, a new page.

Happy New Year -- Now Go Be A Cwazy Wabbit!




  Carol's Annual Wisdom and Guidelines For Writers


1) You cannot keep saying you are a writer if you don't write.


2) Bad writing can improve. Good writing can get better. Best writing is a question of taste, but it will never sink to bad writing regardless of who passes judgment.


3) Successful writing doesn't always mean good writing.


4) Never write what you know. Always write what you need to know or want to know or suspect you know.


5) There are no tricky 'how-to' rules to writing. Not one. Except that you must hold an audience and write comprehensively.

6) Never confuse talking down to your readership (by spoon feeding them too much information) with assuming your readership knows the world you have created as intimately as you do. They don't. Let them in, little by little. Make 'em beg for more.


7) Read good writers. Avoid reading bad writers. Steal from good writers. Like, what? Like techniques, or structure, or their ability to paint in broad strokes with a wider vocabulary than you possess.
Absorb good writers' assuredness. They have every reason to write confidently because they write well. Make that your goal, too.


8) Obey the rules about crossing the street: STOP, LOOK, LISTEN.
Good writing comes from keen observers who question everything, wonder at what might have been or could be, and who pay strict attention to the tiniest details.
Then, they bring those details to their writing. 
Smells, tastes, sounds, colour.
 - Lazy writing equals blah: "He bought her flowers"
 - Lively writing equals interest: "He bought her purple wildflowers because she lived year round in jeans in the Village and he figured they'd look perfect on her windowsill."


9) Don't confuse inner editor with inner critic. The former is your best friend who helps you elevate first drafts to final drafts; the latter is your enemy. You must kill him or her.


10) BE FEARLESS. The "mouse that roared" is achieved because you take risks, you wade right in, you learn to ignore disapproving voices, you find strength in the impact of one well chosen word rather than five. You write from the heart not the head, and you write with honesty.


Happy New Year, yes. Happy Writing, even if it kills you, absolutely!

No, No, NA-NO -- A "new" Broadway Hit!

Friday dawns in a streak of icy roads (not good) and the promise of holiday ambiance (good) for the weekend.

A frantic week, marked by interruptions, apartment intrusions, doctor appointments, and all 'round general madness as the "man" in my life tried to unravel a contract he's working on, to see where and when he's leaving town.
Writing has been in fits and starts -- and so, it is, as far as I am concerned, NO-NO NA-NO. I took down my widget, as there is no point in seeing me move up to ten thousand words. That being said, I am very grateful for the lovely push this gave me -- and I will continue to post that one section in SFD of the book about Anna's journey to her debut recital in Berlin, as soon as I can!

After all, I can't just leave things dangling!

Today I will be writing, baking some shortbread, and plotting activities for next week. With "the Man" (Maybe I should call him Mr. Big -- my shortbread and other goodies do that to him -- ) gone all week, it will be quiet here. Writing and eating and sleeping etc. when I want to sounds good. So does the thought of a movie break.


I was so looking forward to the opening of THE KING'S SPEECH today, but I guess it's not going to happen for a couple of weeks.
I adore Colin Firth and period movies hold a fascination for me.

Speaking of period movies, I am working on an essay for LESSONS I LEARNED FROM MY MOTHER -- hope to receive more submissions! -- and it deals with teenage angst, feelings of ingratitude, and how my mother made me feel spoiled at a pivotal Dr. Zhivago moment.

Hope my American cousins are having a lovely Thanksgiving weekend!

Before I forget, my play on words has to do with the Broadway show, No, No, Nanette -- it debuted in the 1920s and there was a revival in the '70s.
The most well-known song from the show is "Tea For Two."


And speaking of tea...maybe scones would be a tasty addition to today. I love to make them using white chocolate and dried cranberries.

I have grandiose dreams of baking. That's because I still haven't eaten breakfast!

TURNING CORNERS - Monsters Out From Under The Bed

 So, where have I been? Right here. Trying to work. Lots of distractions- like they're filming right in front of my apartment -- Coppola's production of On The Road - Jack Kerouac. The interior courtyard was packed with spiffy coupes and whitewalls and all kinds of 1940s and '50s automobiles. Totally cool.

And then there was a lengthy "what is that thingum called, actually, and what's the name of the church and shoot, did I spell that right" The thingum was the octagonal domed roof of a famous church in Florence...the landmark you see in all the photos. I needed to know more because that shape is used as the roof for the solarium in the Garber home.

Then there was a tussle with the Hydro electric bill and why the power company decided I owed them a late fee. Two dollars -- and unreasonably so. But, bureaucrats are like that. They want me to write a letter and mail it to complain. Take it to the Supreme Court if necessary, but, no, they "can't override the computer error" because after all, they are...bureaucrats.

I took time out to read all the various posts of my fellow Nanos who will be reaching 50,000 in a matter of hours. Pffft! It was a gift to me , this reading. A good break. I am hoping to maybe squeeze up to 30,000 if I write fast and if no hair balls, hairy men, or hairy situations get in my way.

I spent a lovely hour talking to my mother about Toots Shor -- I caught the documentary on him and was blown away by the nostalgic look at New York in its heyday -- the 1940s and '50s. Toots was quite a guy. It was another world then. Film stars, DiMaggio, politicians, mobsters, heavy belters like Jackie Gleason -- all and sundry rubbing up together at the huge bar. Riveting.

My mother and I also talked about something very near and dear to me -- her famous homemade macaroni and cheese casserole with the toasted bread crumbs and the tomato-kissed cheddar sauce. She gave me the recipe. I got fat just listening, and am planning to make this sucker on the very first day of a heavy snowfall.

All in all, my procrastination period was thoroughly enjoyable. And now, it is back to the book. I am starting to get excited again.

I was thinking to myself that I ought to change my blog title to read NANO I'M NOT, but decided against it.

 I am now ready to burn rubber, I have written a part of the chapter that seemed at times impossible to do, especially because I know what happens next and the reader doesn't, and I had to find a way to allow Anna to glom onto some sense of youthful optimism or hope.

I said I would post my drafts for one section -- the events leading Anna to her debut recital and its immediate aftermath. And, so, here is the next rough-draft installment.

THE SCARF DANCE Copyright Carol Krenz 2010

Monday evenings at home on the Bellevue Strasse were, in Anna’s estimation, as bland and easy to digest as the blanc mange puddings she ate as a child. Papa chaired department meetings at the university until nine and afterward, dined with colleagues. This meant his seat was now occupied by her cat, Tybalt, who regarded Papa with as much wariness and disdain as any Montague. He therefore delighted at every opportunity to curl up on the brocade upholstery where he freely licked his paws and shed inordinate amounts of white hair.

Without Papa to interrupt, Anna usually chattered excitedly to Mama and Mimi; but she was silent now, caught in a daydream.

“Annaleh? You feel all right?”

“Yes, Mama. I’m just tired.”

“You are working too hard, maybe?”

 “No. The hard work begins tomorrow.”

“Well, get a good night’s sleep. Don’t practice too late.”

Rachel Garber pushed her girth away from the table and retired to her room to write her nightly letter to her sister, Sarah.

Mimi lingered over her tea and asked about Liszt. “Is that what you start tomorrow? Has the Kapellmeister narrowed it down, yet?”

“He says he is still deliberating over three of the Rhapsodies.”

“Well, good luck. And listen to your mother. Get some sleep.” Mimi, who was working meticulously on the embroidery repair of monogrammed linens, left for the sewing room.

Alone in the airy green salon on the main floor, Anna sat at the Bechstein grand, closed her eyes and envisioned herself playing Chopin’s Nocturnes. How unfair Papa was – this piano was meant for Chopin. Her fingers caressed the ebony lyre of the music rack and the gleaming lacquer on the fall. Impulsively, she jumped up and laid her cheek on the cool lid, stretching her arms wide to embrace it. If she loved one thing more than anything else, it was this piano.

It had taken both Frau Gruber and Frau Steiner to convince Papa that an upright was insufficient to her talents and requirements. When he had finally relented, and taken the time necessary to ensure the new grand was properly delivered and tuned, she knew he was pleased with his decision and for a time told herself it was because he agreed with her teachers’ assessments.

But when he mentioned the Bechstein in conversations, it was to boast about how his professional achievements had made such luxuries possible. He never praised the young virtuoso who brought this miracle of artisanship to life.

And yet, according to the Kapellmeister, Papa was thrilled for her and wanted her to make her debut. Papa was a complicated puzzle and no matter how many times she tried to arrange his pieces together, they did not fit.

He entered the salon at eleven and was startled to find her waiting for him. “Anna, up so late? What has happened?”

“Nothing, Papa. I just don’t feel sleepy. How was your evening?”

“The same, Anna, the same as always. Arguments about special endowments and how they should be spent.” His tone was flat, his mind, obviously preoccupied. He did not even look at her, he was striding, like a sailor drawn to a siren’s song, towards the glass doors that opened onto the solarium, lush and inviting beneath its octagonal domed roof.

Papa was a handsome figure in black, wrapping a leather apron about his waist, swinging a copper watering can and a hose as he strolled the tiled paths of his exotic garden. Gas light, in stark relief against the night, suffused the flowering trees and plants in a faint phosphorous yellow. Was he actually humming to himself, or was it the hissing of the lamps she heard?

In the dark, lying against the warmth of her pillow, she closed her eyes, pressed her face into it, and recalled the scent of Ariel’s cheeks. His eyes and lips came to her and she kissed them, kissed every inch of his face, sinking deeply into a fantasy. When she could stand no more, she shifted onto her back and stretched her arms toward the ceiling as if to welcome him, to gather him to her bosom. She whispered his name repeatedly until tears trickled into her mouth and ears.

Finally, she reached under her nightgown and allowed her left hand to touch her naked skin. How smooth and taut her belly was, how soft her left breast, how--! Nausea rose in her throat when she neared her right breast, tracing its diminutive outline, her fingers hovering, as if repulsed, before coming to rest on the unnatural whorls of flesh above her nipple. From there, her hand edged upward to the misshapen craters digging into her chest as though it had been scooped out by a blunt instrument. Higher still, she was finally touching the ropey ridge of twisted scar tissue that ran from the top of her shoulder down the length of her withered arm. Its presence was so unnerving, like discovering a mutation wherein human flesh had become a pebbled braided coxcomb.

 More flesh was missing under her armpit.

What the boiling oil had not destroyed, the doctors had, cutting away every trace of gangrene caused by debris that had worked its way into her wounds during the fitful carriage ride home.

Her scalded body was spattered with angry red and purple stains echoing every splash that had doused her, starting at the side of her neck, and finishing just above her wrist. Of particular cruelty, purple streaks shaped like the pointed beaks of carrion birds slashed at her breast and covered her nipple.

She rolled onto her stomach and sobbed into her pillow, trying to muffle her grief.

Passionate love –  gut-wrenching, heart-stopping, intoxicating love was what she longed for, but how would she ever truly know it? She was ugly, so ugly that could not look at herself. Mimi had bathed her since the age of five, and when Mimi was not around, she washed herself hurriedly and in darkness.

God was laughing at her.

Mama said she had a beautiful complexion, Mimi said her long chestnut hair had streaks of sunshine running through it and that her figure was like a young filly’s with a marvelous rump at no extra charge. But Papa had stopped kissing her years ago, and that had to mean something. Oh, yes, God was laughing at her! Papa, who had once adored her, and fussed over her, had completely withdrawn. Maybe this concert would bring his love back. Maybe that was the key to winning his affection once more.

Her piteous sobs continued until she exhausted herself  and found herself drifting in and out of the morning’s hoarfrost and Ariel’s kiss. It seemed so long ago.

Then, she heard a voice. It was Mama’s.

She sat bolt upright and dangled her legs over the bed, listening. A small word whispered at her –  bashert – destiny. Mama’s favourite word.

It was bashert she had gone to Wannsee, bashert she walked into that kitchen with the large pot on the stove, bashert she tiptoed up to touch its blue rooster handle. Yes, bashert she toppled it and was burned and bashert the doctors insisted she play the piano to save her ligaments and muscles.

Mama had said, “not for nothing” to her on more occasions than she could count. Mama even insisted she get over her fear of the kitchen by rolling dough flat and cutting it into cookie shapes for baking. No boiling oil, only the smell of butter, vanilla and cinnamon. Mama had always said “from bad comes good, you’ll see.”

And so, Ariel had come. And maybe he genuinely liked her. Maybe she could learn to trust him and let him love her – if he really wanted to. Maybe. But, what if he did not love her at all? She was not going to try to win him or try to pretend she was beautiful when inside she felt so ugly. No, she would not do it.

 If Ariel truly loved her, he would say so in time. And whatever happened after that – well, it was bashert.

NANO NINE -- Blood, Sweat and Tears -- Mostly Sweat

It was a very strange way to wake up this morning, especially at five. But, there I was, lying on my left side, coming to consciousness with the strains of Chopin in my ears -- so distinct that I had to get out of bed, walk over to my computer, hit YouTube and track down Arthur Rubinstein's interpretation of Waltz No, 2 in C-sharp minor, Op. 64.

All in all, not a bad way to enjoy a first cup of coffee -- indeed, not a bad way to enjoy anything.

I knew I had to rework the kiss in the last section, I had to work delicately, lay it down as soundly as I could, because it is pivotal and after this scene, a momentum of a different kind builds.

Dipping into the Compuserve Writers Forum at the end of the day was gratifying -- if for no other reason than to be with fellow Nanos who had loads on their minds. There is a strong sense of world-building incubating amongst the members, and all the tea and sympathy one could desire.

I think the most important quality emerging from this November exercise, is the momentum it's established. No matter how much or how little is accomplished in the number of words, the story -- and the determination to tell it, is key.

On that note, I now lay down the musical tracks of my day -- a total of 845 new words.

-----------------------------

Snip THE SCARF DANCE Copyright Carol Krenz 2010

“Yes,” he whispered. He wiped away her tears, stroked her cheeks, then leaned closer as if memorizing every freckle on the bridge of her nose, every fleck of gold in her eyes, every eyelash.      Finally, he kissed her, the swell of his lips gently pressing on hers, his breath so warm, she felt the frost melting above them. It was a fleeting kiss – too soon over.

When he straightened up he said, “Come, it’s time we went back.”

He took her basket again, and held her hand as they walked in easy silence. She was thankful for the nip in the air cooling what she knew must be a flame on her cheeks.

When they reached the Kapellmeister’s house, he placed the basket over her arm. “I will say goodbye now.”

“Goodbye?”

“Yes, I’m running late – I’m taking the afternoon train to Weimar.”

“But, why?”

“A previous commitment. I am to give a small concert at the Amalia Library and now it would seem there’s to be an informal party for Liszt as well. He’s been in poor health and refused to celebrate his birthday some weeks ago. So, a group of us will do him honor—”

“But—”

“Don’t look so worried, Anna. The timing couldn’t be better. I’ll be gone for two weeks during which you will be working very closely with Hermann. If you think I am a taskmaster, wait until he gets hold of you.” He smiled. “I am only half jesting. I know you’ve been studying with him for years, but that was different – now, you are making a debut. He will work you hard – very, very hard, and you will need to practice until you literally have no strength left to lift a fork. I went through the same rigors. In a way, I am glad I won’t have to see you…” his voice trailed off and he glanced down.

“Ya,” he murmured to himself, as if trying to remember something. Then he faced her again. “Anna, when you go upstairs, find Chopin’s Fantaisie-Impromptu. We can communicate to each other in the notes, because I shall play it in Weimar, as well.”

She knew in that instance she was throwing caution to the wind, that she would regret her impulses because they could only lead her nowhere. She tried, but could not stop herself, so she dropped her basket, threw her arms around his neck and buried her face in the warmth of his muffler. “Ariel, Ariel!”

He held her for brief spell, rocking her. But, when he released her, he said, “You know this is maybe a good thing, our break in schedules. It’s good to have distance sometimes. I shall write to let you know when I am returning.”

Already he was sounding regretful, already his tone had changed. She felt foolish and refused to look at him.

His glove nudged her under the chin.
          “Anna,” he whispered, “you have rarely spoken my name in these last weeks. It feels good to hear it, now.”

And then he walked away, presumably in the direction of the Bahnhof but she didn’t wait to watch him disappear. Instead, she raced up the narrow staircase, and hurried to the piano.

An hour later, the Kapellmeister burst into the music room, smoking a cigar, carrying a tray of oysters on the half shell.

She nodded at him but continued playing feverishly, her hands working the keyboard like a concertina, her head nodding, her heart throbbing, her eyes streaming.

He sat at the table and listened as the Fantaisie furled and unfurled in chorded pleats. He smoked the last of his cigar. He sat back in his chair and folded his hands. He leaned forward and studied his oysters. He squeezed lemons over them. He sprinkled capers onto them.

She finally shuddered to a stop, weeping profusely, her chest rising and falling as though a small bird were trying to escape its cage.

“An-nah!” The Kapellmeister erupted, as he reached for a small jar of horseradish. “We have to make one thing clear…” He lifted an oyster to his mouth and held it there, torturing himself. “If you continue to weep like this, you will ruin my piano. Every time I am about to congratulate you on a wonderful performance, I find you in tears. You are entirely too damp.” He swallowed his oyster at last, his eyes lighting up with immense satisfaction. He turned toward her.

“Simply delicious. You must have one.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Herr Kapellmeister, I may weep buckets of salt water, it’s true, but you know that as much as I do not follow all the dietary laws, I never eat shellfish.”

“Quite right, how forgetful of me.”

Desperately, he glanced about the room, scanning the empty nut trays, the empty mint jar, the empty cigarette case, until he seized on the basket of rugelach. He got up and pounced on it.

“Marvellous treats,” he said, peeling away the white linen. “Come here, Anna, you simply have to try the chocolate ones. They’re my favourite.”

end snip