Hidden Talents

When I was a little girl, my Russian grandmother was an enigma to me. She never (and I mean never) cracked a smile. She spoke with a thick accent. She would walk--in the middle of summer--MILES to the grocery store down the sides of highways and lug back groceries rather than wait for a ride. She wasn't touchy-feely. And, frankly, she was a terrible cook. When she would babysit me, she would make (!!) me drink bitter tea with milk in it. INSIST on it. And she would tell me horrible stories about the Communists that murdered people she cared about.

We never talked. Not really. She was too different. Too much a Russian--brooding and usually very unhappy and pessimistic. EVERYTHING was gonna kill you. But one night, after I was showered and in my pajamas, she asked me if I wanted her to curl my hair. Like all girls with straight hair, I wanted curls. Ringlets. And so I of course agreed. She ended up ripping up a New York Times magazine section and wrapping my hair with magazines. And WRAPPING does not do this process justice. It was torture. I swear I thought huge clumps of my hair were going to be pulled out by the roots. In the end, there I was, like Medusa, with MAGAZINE pages all wrapped around my hair. They hurt, pressed up to my face. I had no idea how I was supposed to sleep with these things on. As usual . . . my grandmother was . . . in a word . . . as weird as ever.

Except. The next day, she unraveled all my magazines, and I had ringlets. Not just ANY ringlets either. They were PERFECT ringlets. Ringlets that, shockingly, never grew limp as the day wore on. My grandmother, taciturn, refused to tell me how she learned this trick. But my aunt told me that was how my grandmother wrapped her hair in Russia--in newspapers. And that the way she did it worked better than hot rollers even.

Lo and behold . . . my grandmother had a hidden talent.

One of my favorite ways of showing, not telling, of weaving back story, is through hidden talents. Those things characters can do--that come with a tiny story. Might be a sentence. Might be a paragraph. The character who can ink a prison tattoo--because he's been in prison once. Or, in two of my books, the Amazing Coaster Trick--learned in a bar at age 7. THAT ONE is based on me. And I really DID bring my beer coasters to second grade for show and tell and do my Amazing Coaster Trick, taught to me by Eddie the Fox. And my teacher really DID call my mother to tell her how inappropriate it was for a young girl to be hanging out in the Bowery on Sundays learning coaster tricks from men named Eddie the Fox. But hey . . . you want to win a bar bet? I'm your gal. It's a hidden talent--and one I've given a character or two of mine, like Ava in THE ROOFER and Skye in DOUBLE DOWN.

So tell me . . . what hidden talent do YOU have? And what about your character?

Nothing is an Accident

Sometimes you see a plan. These sets of circumstances that draw you to the place you are now. Maybe it's just a way of looking at misfortune with an optimist's eye, but I always think that if I had never nearly died of Crohn's disease, I never would have moved to Florida so my parents could help me when I was too sick to really be all alone. And if I had never moved to Florida, I never would have met my bestest friend, Pammie, and if I had never met my bestest friend Pammie, then I would not have been the recipient of the best cookies on the face of the planet. All right . . . so my logic gets a little . . . quirky . . . but you get the idea.

Sometimes you don't see a plan. It's all just a huge happy accident. Or unhappy accident. Or just a mess and you can't see a plan to save your life.

Not so in a novel.

In a novel, NOTHING is there that isn't planned. Not one word. It doesn't matter if you don't outline and have no plan (I rarely do). In the end, even THOSE authors go back and read every word over and over again, excising the ones that don't belong, searching for better words. Deleting scenes, adding scenes, honing dialogue.

Even our character NAMES have meaning. Settings. Clothing choices. It all belongs. My character's father is a wine snob. It's no accident he is drinking the vintage he's drinking -- a lovely 2001 from a certain region in France. I chose the restaurant. I chose the damn wine list. Of COURSE they carry that wine so he can be outed as the snob he is.

There are no accidents. It can look that way. Sometimes I don't even REALIZE the plan, but no . . . there's always a plan.

So what details have you put in your work-in-progress that are no accident? If it's all in the details, what did you choose to show us (not tell us!) about your character?

Sentence by Sentence

I was recently asked to evaluate a manuscript for an editor-pal. What I read--for 15 pages until I put it down--was an entire back story dump. It was awful. In the adage of "show don't tell," this was stupefyingly "telling." And no, the author doesn't get more than 15 pages of my time. Life's too short. This was too bad.

Very new writers often stumble at the whole back story issue. When I point out "show don't tell" sections, the usual response I have gotten has nearly always been, "But I have to tell the reader x or y because it's important." My response is almost always twofold: It might not be as important as you think. And two, there are ways to show this.

Okay, now suppose you've been writing for a few years. You "get" the whole "show don't tell" adage. You don't ever back story dump. Now it's time for the sentence-by-sentence edit for "show don't tell."

This is where I'm at. Weeding out single sentences of telling.

For example . . . . instead of saying my character felt cold, I will change the sentence to have them look at the sky outside, feel the wind picking up, and go in search of a sweater. Or add a blanket at night. Or kick one off. I don't have to TELL the reader my character "felt" anything. Search for the word "felt" and chances are it's a tell, not a show.

A superstitious character? I don't have to say so. Just have them knock on wood at some point in the conversation. Scared? Check the closet and under the bed. You get the idea. These are broad examples and pretty cliched, but it "shows" my point.

I would say most of this showing versus telling has become second nature, but I will still find spots where I seem to want to do both--TELL the reader my character's trait AND show it.

So now it's ruthless editing. Whereas years ago, I edited out huge chunks of back story, now it's a sentence. A word.

I suppose that's progresss.

So . . . in your quest to show not tell, where are you in the journey? What other signs do you have in your writing that you are progressing as a writer?

Silent Suitcases . . . and Who's In?

First, a word about showing not telling. I watched Infamous last night. Toby Jones was brilliant. And there's this marvelous shot where Truman Capote and Harper Lee, his best friend (did you know that, all you Mockingbird fans?), are at a train station in Kansas. He has a pile of suitcases almost as tall as he is. She has two. The shot is silent--no music, no voiceover, nothing. And I thought it was brilliant. Instead of endless talk, talk, talk about how he was vain, one shot did it all. In writing . . . I look for those silent suitcase moments.

Second, and more important, are you in?

Here's the little back story. Mary Castillo is one of the most generous-of-spirit writers I have ever had the pleasure to meet in cyberspace. One of these days, we'll meet in person, but until then, this is how we "met."She reached out to me one night a while ago to say she had written this review of "Do They Wear High Heels in Heaven?" on her blog (January 15th entry). I was touched because her review hit on aspects of the book that were personally meaningful to me--themes and thoughts I had about my own characters. She "got" it, and by extension, me. Then I read In Between Men, and I laughed, and I related . . . sometimes our inner goddess gets blurred and lost by motherhood and respectability. Of course, I'm not terribly respectable--but I related, believe me.

We wrote each other emails. I learned about Little Dude and saw pictures of that cutie. I sent her JPEGs of Demon, and the computer wires didn't even catch on fire. Mary is a hero of mine. She's Wonder Woman. She gives back to writers and to students (she's a new mentor to high school kids). She's the real deal.

AND SO, Mary is having a "Book In A Week" on Chica Lit, her blog. You can read how it works. We don't REALLY write a book in a week (though, as she says, if you want to, vaya con Díos). We set a page goal and go at it for a week, offering some support, checking in daily with our page count. On Saturday, we hoist a glass of cyber-champagne no matter how we did. It's a way to kick-start that book, or to keep up with your New Year's Resolutions. Or to just come play with me over on Mary's blog.

And I thought . . . and this may not work . . . but if enough of you all are in, and someone with FAR superior technical ability that I could somehow set up a chat room for us, or if we all shared IM names, we could set up a celebration next Saturday, or even a daily check-in. As an utter techno-failure (yes, Ewoh, I still don't know how to set the alarm clock timer on my coffee maker) . . . that's optional. But in the meantime, if you are in, I'd love to see you on Mary's blog.

Have a great Saturday, gang, and tell me . . . how do you show not tell?

What's Your Show-Me?

I have a new opening for a YA I am working on (draft #2). Throughout the whole book, astronomy weaves a web--star-crossed lovers, the rings of Saturn, shooting stars. Mystical elements of the cosmos. And my teen heroine says her mother always taught her to wish upon a star.

We've been talking on the blog recently about back story dumping . . . and I was thinking about it. There are some things that tell people a lot about someone--with a single gesture, a single sentence, a single action. As a writer, we look for those things to use in our work.

Though I don't believe you should judge the proverbial book by its cover, there are little quirks about me, or little "show me's" about others that tell a lot. At least in my world where I am always thinking about these things.

Like . . . do you wish upon a star? I still do. All the time. And you are either someone who does, or someone who doesn't. In my YA, I want the mother to be a fragile soul who believed in dreaming, whereas the heroine's father isn't. In fact he is cold and rather cruel at times. He'd never wish upon a star.

I still pick up lucky pennies. So do my kids. And if someone says something bad or talks about death or something horrible happening, I knock wood and insist they "take it back."

Even though long-stemmed red roses are extravagent, I like daisies, lilies of the valley, and I put the dandelions my baby son picks me in a tiny vase that I got as a wedding gift from one of my dearest writer pals. I don't "sometimes" put the dandelions there. Always.

I save my kids' baby teeth, letters to Santa, and notes they write me. I also have the dog collar of my most beloved dog who died a few years ago on the shelf in my office. All of these little "show me's" will tell you that I am sentimental. I've dated men who arrived in Porsches or BMWs and were rude to the waiters and though one even wanted to buy me a fur coat (okay--as an aside here, if you read this blog you would know that was a SURE way to make sure I NEVER wanted to see him again) . . . 99% of the time I never went out with them again. Unsentimental men to a fault. But the electrician who arrived in the rusted and battered blue station wagon and remembered my dog's name (different dog), and who offered to fix the wiring on my father's house, well, him I wanted to see again. Which is not to equate wealth with being bad or manual labor with being good. It's just a gesture of a fur coat says one thing. A gesture of remembering this obnoxious little dog and being willing to help my parents is another.

Most of us have something that . . . well, that's the line in the sand for us. The ONE thing if you discover about someone that will tell you that you likely won't be good friends with them. For me, it's people who talk snidely to children. It's okay to tell me you don't like kids, but be rude to them . . . hmmm. Be rude to a waitress and I'll be downright uncomfortable. I've been that waitress. And I learned more from people's "show me's" than probably anything else I've ever done. I worked at a country club in New York where the members were so God awfully inhuman to the staff, and to all you people who ate there, I can assure you the waitstaff (not me . . . but those waiters know who they are) were spitting in your food. And I can honestly say that the members sort of deserved it (I was a teen at the time--different perspective on life, but even in hindsight, members were abusive in language and demeanor to staff). No, they didn't deserve their food being spit in, but they did deserve a wake-up call as to what it means to be a decent human being.

"Show me's" in my books are the little "tell's." Like in poker. When my father bets big--he has NOTHING. I mean not even a friggin' pair. It's his tell. And since he is blind and can't read this blog, I can reveal that I know it. We're going to have to get cards with BIG, GIANT numbers now . . . I think he will be able make them out. But his tell? It will be the same.

So what "show me's" do you use in life? In your books? Wish upon a star? Pick dandelions? Tell me.

Show and Tell . . .

When I was in second grade, one of the regulars of a NYC dive bar my dad took me to on Sundays taught me a trick you do with coasters--beer-soaked Schlitz coasters, if memory serves me (could only find Miller ones online for the picture, but you get the idea). I took them to Show and Tell to show my class what I learned--the Amazing Coaster Trick. And my mom promptly got a phone call about the "appropriateness" of my Show and Tell selection. Yes, that story made it into THE ROOFER. And yes, it's true. But that's not the Show and Tell I'm talking about.

You are always hearing about "Show, don't tell." But what's the practicality of it?

Yesterday, I blogged about single word choices that take you OUT of a story. Today . . . I'm posting about one word choice that drove readers of The Roofer insane. And it was precisely what I wanted to happen.

There's a scene when Tom is in the bar with Ava early on, and they are talking about his least favorite subject--that being their father. And Tom is jittery, since he is a drug addict, and he calls Ava, "Baby." As in "Please, Baby." Yeah, baby, baby, baby. As in, yeah, there is definitely something odd about this brother and sister.

It isn't long before you realize an aura of a love affair hangs over Ava and Tom. Something is "off," but you don't know what, yet. But I can't SAY that. I can't TELL you, "Here, reader . . . something's wrong here." I have to SHOW you. And so that one word does it. And I heard about it in my critique group. And I heard about it from squeamish readers.

In my Billie Quinn mysteries, they are told in first person. And Billie is a genius. But in first person, it would have been clunky to come right out and have her say, "My name is Billie Quinn, and I am a genius." And it would have been OBVIOUS to have it come up in conversation. To have someone else bring it up. But it's important to know. So . . . how to show it?

Billie best friend is Lewis LeBarge. He is an eccentric among eccentrics. Head of the crime lab, he collects blood spatter photos and frames them as art. He has a pet tarantula--that he perpetually loses. He has a collection of brains in formaldehyde. And he is a genius of the kind that are 1 in a million--if that. And he is impatient with anyone who is not as smart as he is. Even "high average" people annoy him. He, in fact, mostly plays chess online until the wee hours since most human beings irritate the sh*t out of him. Who is Lewis's best friend? Billie. She's beyond his best friend. They are as close as two people can be without sleeping together. Thus what does that SHOW you about Billie? If he puts up with her, she must be a genius who is his equal or nearly so.

Showing, not telling, for me, is about making PRECISE choices. VERY carefully choosing what you reveal, sometimes even single word choices, that show what you need to know.

Thoughts? How do you show, not tell?